God of Fury (Legacy of Gods, #5)

by Rina Kent

My finger is unsteady as I exit my texts with Clara and scroll down for some time until I find the name that I hate more than baby. I click on the conversation that I started two days after he called me that, touched me in ways he had absolutely no right to, then proceeded to punch my face. Me Hey. I wanted to apologize for what I said the other time. I really meant no disrespect and I’m sorry if you got offended. This is Brandon King, by the way. He read the texts but never replied. That was over two weeks ago. Two weeks and I still find myself checking in case I missed a text. Like now. What on earth is wrong with me?

But the most embarrassing moment was when he had his lips on my jaw and throat, licking and exploring. My skin caught fire and I was on the edge of something nefarious. My heart has never beat as fast as when he bit down on my throat. And I groaned. Me. Brandon fucking King groaned because a guy was biting me. It was like existing in the skin of an entirely different person. As if I broke apart from my physical being and morphed into an alien entity. I hate that version of myself. I fucking despise it.

Then I realized maybe he thought I said he was disgusting for being gay. I really didn’t mean that. People being straight, gay, or anything else has never mattered to me. Hell, Eli, Creigh, and Remi’s granddads are the oldest gay people I know, and I’ve always found their bickering with Grandpa Jonathan amusing. I have nothing against gay people. But the truth remains, I’m straight. I can only be straight.

The reason I said Nikolai was disgusting was because he kept touching me when I repeatedly told him not to.

It was because I felt strange, on fire, and completely out of my skin. It was because he can effortlessly rip at my control and tear it to shreds as if it was never there in the first place. He clear...

“This is…fucking brilliant.” He whistles. My chest squeezes until it nearly topples me over. Lan hasn’t praised anything I’ve done in…eight years.

in my mind. “If that’s a fluke, do it all the time, Bran. Seriously, this is your best work in a long time.” He squeezes my shoulder. “I told you everything would get better if you stopped shackling yourself.” I tense. No. I am still shackling myself. I can’t stop doing that. I’m in control. Control.

Control. Control.

he’s gone. His words sounded like he cared, or like he was doing it for me, but no. Lan has always seen me as an extension of himself, so the reason he’d take revenge against Clara isn’t for me. It’s for him, so he won’t look weak. My eyes land on the canvas and I groan. I’m so glad Lan didn’t see a certain silhouette. But I do. Clearly.

In the middle of the volcanic chaos stands a figure—tall, muscular, and furious. My hand shakes as I run it over my face. Fuck. What the hell is happening to me? And how can I stop this?

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and while I can’t see the entirety of him, I can make out Nikolai’s frame standing close to Killian. His hair is loose, falling thick and smooth to his shoulders. This time, he’s wearing a black tee and jeans that hang low on his hips. Although it’s not exactly summer, he has no jacket. Full sleeves of tattoos extend from beneath his shirt to the backs of his hands. I can’t stop looking at him. And the more I do, the faster my throat fills with that different nausea. The one that’s overwhelming but doesn’t make me want to hit my head against the wall. It’s pushing me to nefarious ends. Down unknown roads. Stop looking. Stop looking.

Tick. He looks murderous. Tick. He’s not looking at me. Tick. He is not looking at me.

Nikolai shrugs and knocks down a shot. My fingers tighten around my glass. Of course he’s done something illegal. His existence itself should be illegal. He’s so fucking infuriating.

being watched stabs me in the chest. I lift my head, and for the first time in weeks, my eyes lock with the violent twat who has no business looking at me with…a challenge.

What the hell is that supposed to mean? The way I saw it, you got hard when you had your eyes on me. Not her. Those are the words that sent me into an epic loss of control, and for some reason, that foreign feeling is returning again.

My muscles tighten and I snatch a shot, then down it in one go and suppress a wince against the burn. Nikolai’s eyes explode in a myriad of violent intensity, and rage radiates from him in waves. It’s suddenly hard to swallow and I have to force down the need to clear my throat. Unfamiliar anger ripples through me as he continues g...

“We need to take this game to the next level.” Nikolai holds out a shot and I stare at him, my heart pounding so hard, I think I’ll have a heart attack. “Never have I ever fucked or experimented with someone of the same sex.” He steals a peek at me and then drinks his shot. My heart thunders behind my rib cage and my fingers turn clammy around my glass. Breaths whoosh out of my lungs in fractured intervals. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

my skin until I can’t breathe. I drink two more shots, but I’m not entirely numb. It’s not enough. Nothing is enough. I can’t breathe. Please stop. I shake my head,

person I am and then mutter, “Fuck you.” He lifts his fist and I close my eyes. Maybe I need this so I’ll either pass out or finally snap the fuck out of it. I wait for the punch, but it never comes. The fingers disappear from around my throat and I watch in complete horror as Nikolai drives his fist into the guy’s face, sending him flying.

Blood explodes all over his nose and mouth as he splutters on the ground. And then he lifts him up by his T-shirt and punches him again. And again. Then kicks him. When the others try to interfere, he drives his fists in their faces in a long succession of punches. He’s in a frenzy. A craze. He is crazy. And yet as I stand here, the only feeling that goes through me is resounding relief. He didn’t leave. He came back.

This is definitely not what it looks like. I didn’t hang out around the area of the pub, chain-smoking and contemplating how to pick a fight and punch some motherfuckers. Okay, I did. But the next part is definitely not what it looks like. I didn’t beat these people up because a cunt happened to grab Brandon by his shirt or attempt to punch him. Hurt him. Right in front of me.

Yeah, so I did drive my fist in Brandon’s face the last time I saw him, but only I get to do that.

Not because I followed Brandon like a creepy stalker or anything equally stupid. Okay, maybe I did, but it was only for two blocks. Maybe three. Fine. Five. But none of that matters.

The fact that I get to decorate my hand with their deplorable blood does. Fucker who caught Brandon by the shirt is now spluttering blood on the ground, half conscious, while I humble his friends.

Usually, I don’t see anything through the satisfying red. But this time, I was more focused on Brandon and if he’d faint or escape. He did neither. The whole time, he stood rooted in place, his eyes wide, pupils dilated and lips parted. His gaze meets mine and remains there, not attempting to avoid me like he usually does. He must be so fucking drunk, because he stares at me, mouth hanging open, without his dash of uptight disdain. Fuck this guy, seriously.

He got on my nerves enough by doing everything wrong earlier in the pub. From the way he pretended I was invisible, to saying he’d been in love, to denying we ever did anything. Every. Fucking. Thing.

When I brush past him, I stop and swipe two fingers beneath his jaw and subtly lift up, causing his mouth to finally close. “Might want to stop staring or I’ll think you have a crush on me or something equally crazy.” I expect him to push me away, but the alcohol must’ve numbed his brain, because he just stares. Unblinking. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down with a swallow, and did his breathing pick up just now?

Something pulls on my T-shirt and I frown. If one of those sorry fucks came back for round two… My thoughts trail off when I see two long fingers curled in the material so firmly, it stretches beneath the pressure. I stare up at Brandon, and the way he looks at me does shit I definitely do not approve of. He’s like a kicked fucking puppy, which is miles apart from his usual condescending asshole image. “Thank you,” he whispers softly, almost airily. Fuck this asshole and that deep voice of his. I have to get out of here.

“Did…you get the texts I sent you?” “Yeah, so?” “Why didn’t you reply?” “Why would I? Should I have rejoiced and thrown a party because the almighty Brandon King finally recognized my existence, decided I’m not disgusting anymore, and texted me? Get over your useless fucking self.” His jaw tightens and he releases me. “Don’t be a dick. I apologized for what I think is a misunderstanding. I…don’t believe you’re disgusting because of your sexuality. I would never think that.” “Thanks for nothing.” This time, I’m hell-bent on leaving.

this complete fucking charmer. Brandon steps in front of me, or more like sways since he’s as drunk as a sailor. There’s only a subtle slur to his words, though, as if he can keep control despite being pumped full of liquor. “What the fuck do you want now?” I sneer. “You’re uncharacteristically clingy tonight.” “I want to ask you something.”

“Why would I answer? We’re not friends or anything are we, Lotus—” I cut myself off before I call him that. Of course the bastard noticed the miscalculation despite being wasted, because his lips twitch. Jesus fucking Christ. I know I’m supposed to be mad—or keep up with the image, anyway—but it’s impossible to hold on to the anger I’ve left to fester when he’s smiling. He is actually smiling without faking anything, his lips curving and his eyes softening. He looks happy when I could’ve sworn the asshole doesn’t know the emotion. It’s because of the alcohol, isn’t it? Also, why the fuck does it ache behind my rib cage? Maybe I should have myself checked, because this shit is seriously disturbing. His smile disappears as soon as it appeared and I want to shove my hand inside his throat and drag it out. Take a picture this time and keep it forever.

he’s often thrown my way. He purses his lips. Doesn’t feel so good, does it, prick? “Just tell me…did you have a thing with Annika?” “What the fuck? She’s like a fetus.” I narrow my eyes. “Why are you asking? You better not involve her in your stupid games or I’ll personally help Jeremy annihilate you.” My blood roars at the mere thought of that. I still haven’t even forgotten about Clara, and now he wants Annika. Nah, hell no. Fuck that. I’ll strangle the fuck out of him. “No, no,” he says in a bit of a rush. “She’s too young and I don’t… I don’t like anyone who’s barely legal.”

“You know I’m going to be twenty soon, right?”

That smile nearly makes another breakthrough and I catch myself sucking in my breath to see it, but he suppresses it in a typical asshole move. “You’re still way younger than me.” “Way? It’s only three years.” “And a half.” “And a half. Jesus. We’re still...

“Which one is your favorite?” I step closer until I can inhale the whiskey from his mouth. But alcohol isn’t the only thing I smell. I’m smothered by the musk emanating from his flushed fair skin and the notes of clover and citrus in his damn hair. Fuck, his hair smells so good. Am I sure I’m not the drunk one?

“Oh, right.” I stand toe-to-toe with him and line my lips with the shell of his ear. “You like being called baby.” He trembles against me. Fucking trembles. Or maybe it’s the alcohol and he’s swaying, but I couldn’t care less. I choose to believe it’s because I’ve destabilized him.

“Why the fuck do you act as if me calling you baby is the end of the world?” “Because you’re not supposed to,” he whispers, his eyes blinking slowly, but he doesn’t stop running them over my face. “You need to stop looking at me like that if you don’t want me to fucking devour you.” He shakes his head once, but, surprisingly, no words come out of his antagonizing mouth. But here’s the thing. Brandon doesn’t look away and, instead, keeps staring, eyes hooded and lips slightly parted. Fuck this asshole. He’s the most infuriating man I’ve ever gotten to know, but he’s still the only one who’s started a fire at the pit of my stomach, the flames so wild, they spread to my chest and fan my dick back to life. I’m so hard, it’s fucking painful at this point, and I have to do something.

I’m back to that hopeless stage of wanting a taste. A nip. A lick. Anything. I’ll take anything he allows me to have. Even if small, I’ll fucking gobble it all down and store it in that nook inside me that’s disturbingly filled with him. My hand bunches in his shirt and I growl as I tug and slam him against my chest.

can feel that loud thump of his heartbeat as his eyes widen, panic glittering in their depths like wildfire, similar to mine. But there’s something else a lot more potent. Now that his control has wavered, I sense an avalanche of impulsiveness rushing to the surface. And I...

“Please.” “Too late, baby.” Using my hold on his shirt, I drag him into a tight alley and shove him against a grimy brick wall. He releases the most delicious startled sound I’ve ever heard and I’m done for. Finished.

Absolutely jumping off a cliff, rolling and cracking a few bones and not giving a flying fuck, because I have my prize at the bottom. Him.

My hand slides to his throat and wraps around his chiseled jaw, my fingers digging into his smooth skin. Brandon’s eyes widen to a dark, hypnotizing blue, and he rewards me with another noise, low and fucking needy. I slam my lips to his, devo...

can’t believe I didn’t do this sooner. I think I’ve found my new favorite drug in the form of his lips. I suck

Bran shakes against me, his fingers fisting in my shirt, and I’m not sure if he’s pulling me closer or pushing me away. I don’t give a fuck. Tonight, I’m taking what I should’ve stolen that night I met him at the initiation. Whether his delusional brain likes it or not.

He tastes like my custom-made damnation.

But my hand wraps around his nape and I free fall headfirst into dangerous chaos, completely in the dark about what waits for me at the bottom. My tongue curls around his and I fight him for control. For the sanity that he’s been stripping from me one layer at a time. His hand drops from my collar and he slides it to my side, feeling and exploring my chest and back, and I can’t help the hiss that escapes when he bites down on my tongue. It’s like being kissed by a savage—a vicious barbarian whose sole purpose is to drag out the worst in me.

My eyes flutter open and that’s when I realize I’ve had them closed since his lips claimed mine.

I blink up at him, watching his own closed eyes and feeling that pit grow at the bottom of my stomach. Fuck. Fuck me. I’m not sober enough to resist, and, hell, I don’t think I’m only drunk on the alcohol. My nostrils flare and I inhale sharply, filling my lungs with his mint scent. It mixes and swirls with the taste of alcohol, cigarettes, and something else that’s entirely him. Masculine and strange… I want to think it’s bad strange, but I’m far from being revolted. If anything, I’ve never felt trapped in a pleasure haze like I am right now. He slides his tongue out of my mouth and bites the corner of my lip, then whispers in ho...

“You like that, baby?” He speaks so close to my mouth, he kisses me with every word. “Don’t call me that,” I breathe out, shuffling and searching through the mess in my head, but for the life of me, I can’t grasp at the strings of my MIA sanity. “Don’t call you what? Baby?” “Nikolai!” “Fuck me. I love the way you growl my name, baby.” “Don’t.” “Why? Does it hit a nerve?” He rolls his hips and shoves his groin against mine, and my wide eyes meet his lust-filled

“Correction, it definitely hit more than one nerve, because you’re fucking hard. This time, it’s definitely for me.”