God of Fury (Legacy of Gods, #5)

by Rina Kent

You really okay? I know I’m huge. Bran Arrogant much? You know I am. And you didn’t answer my question. Are you really okay? Tell me the truth. A little sore, but I’m fine. Pictures or it didn’t happen. Nikolai, no.

To keep you company. You

By the way, I noticed you had no food in your place, so I ordered you some Italian pastries for breakfast. I grin. He loves me. I just know he does. Okay, he doesn’t, but he cares, and that’s a good start.

FUCKING ADORABLE

I lift my head and my gaze clashes with none other than Bran’s. He stands at the cashier with his cousin Creighton and friend Remington. The latter is talking animatedly. Creighton doesn’t seem to be listening, but Bran… Bran’s entire attention is on me. Fuck me.

Either that or I will actually hunt my Prince Not-Fucking-Charming down. And I’m not that desperate.

“You’ll kiss me?” he asks cautiously, hopefully, even. “I’ll always kiss you, baby.” I fall on top of him, my lips crushing to his, my chest pressing on his muscles, and our limbs entangling.

Day in and day out, I manage to lie to myself for a few hours, only to relapse to daunting bad habits again.

The blood and the penthouse. Both are dangerous addictions of different proportions. Both are pulling me apart and leaving me completely desolate and unable to look at the distorted face in the mirror anymore. Only one addiction can actually lead to my decimation. One addiction forces me to forget everything else whenever he’s in my vicinity. Whenever he touches me, kisses me, fucks me. I pretend my outer skin doesn’t exist.

I’m not Brandon King. I’m not the broken entity who sees black ink instead of his reflection in the mirror. Not the weak man who’s more often than not swallowed by disgusting ...

I’m just me. His lotus flower. His Prince Cha...

“If it weren’t for Nikolai and Creigh, I don’t know what would’ve happened to him,” Annika says with a sniffle. “Nikolai helped?” I take an obscene amount of pride in how collected I sound. “Yeah, he barged in with these smoke masks and stuff like a bull.” She smiles, but it soon drops. “I don’t like that he beat up Creigh, though.”

I suppress a smile. “I thought you said you didn’t want to see, and I quote, ‘my fucking face.’” “I lied. I always want to see your face.” “I lied, too,” I whisper, then clear my throat. “Can

“Agatha Christie is not dumb.” “Who’s that? An ancient actress?” “Nikolai, please tell me you know who Agatha Christie is.” “Your godmother?” “Crikey. Seriously? She’s a famous novelist.” “Did she write any of the Marvel movies?” “No.” “DC?” “Of course not.” “Tarantino, then?” “No.” “Never heard of her.” “You’re seriously an anomaly.”

LMAO

A fire erupts at the base of my stomach and spreads all over my body. I stare at his moist mouth and gulp. “You’re going to kiss me, aren’t you?” “I’m starving for your lips.” He dips his head and steals my lips and I just give in. It’s impossible to fight the pull he has on me, and at this moment, I don’t want to.

Once we break apart, we don’t go to the bedroom. We don’t tear each other’s clothes off. We just stay in that position, with my head on his lap as we watch Agatha Christie. And it feels peaceful. Right. At least, until my demons demand that I leave. For now, I just soak in his presence and do what I excel at. Pretend that everything is okay.

“Oh? Didn’t know you had the ability to be secretive, dear cousin. My, my. I’m officially intrigued.” “Un-intrigue yourself.”

“Let me search for the fucks I have to give.” I pretend to check my pockets and then produce two middle fingers. “Oh, here you go.”

I see an opportunity and I sure as fuck take it. Since the lovebirds are busy, I plant my hand on Bran’s and he goes still, his hand slightly trembling beneath mine. He’s so fucking warm that I can’t help threading my fingers through his, digging the pads in his thigh. Bran goes still, and here’s the thing; he doesn’t try to push me away. So I go further, stroking his skin with my thumb, trying and failing not to get turned on by a mere stolen touch in public. I really love how his hand is big but still slightly smaller than mine. It’s perfect size. He is perfect in every physical aspect. Anyone who says otherwise is clearly a blind fucking idiot. Glyn looks up and Bran subtly pulls his hand free and shoves mine away then grabs his phone, building that wall around himself. Not so fast. I pull out my phone and text him. Me You’re not paying me any attention, baby. I’m jealous of Kill and Glyn.

I thought you were the baby, baby. He covers his mouth with a palm, but it’s too late, I can see him smiling. It takes everything in me not to lean over and feast on that smile and pull on his lip with my teeth just the way he loves it. Me You smell so good, I want to lick you up. Bran Nikolai!

restroom. I find Bran standing in front of a sink, his face twisted and his fingers holding his phone in a death grip. I slip behind him and whisper in his ear, “Careful, if you glare at it hard enough, it might break.” He flinches and whirls around so fast, he nearly falls. I wrap an arm around his waist. “Easy, baby.” His wild eyes search our surroundings with tendrils of panic. “What are you doing, Nikolai?”

“Leave,” Bran whispers. “Shut your fucking mouth.” “Niko—” I crash my lips to his and he groans into my mouth, the sound small but enough to make me hot and bothered. The kiss is hard and fast, meant to make him stop talking. I don’t want to hear his grating words right now. “I’m going to need you to be real quiet for me, baby.” I unzip his pants and pull out his hard cock. “Seems you really get off on this, don’t you?”

“The answer is no, Nikolai,” he says with a note of panic, and I want to reach inside him and drag out whatever demon is making him feel this way, then beat it to death. What the fuck happened to him? Why does he go into this mode sometimes, as if he’s being chased by a monster?

Sometimes, the pain and nausea get too much and I’m smothered by the black ink and have to purge it out. Somehow. Anyhow. I’ve seen my blood more often than not in the past two weeks. The other day, I let it flow and flow until I lost consciousness in the bathroom. A part of me wished I’d never wake up.

oh baby

A part of me prayed for it as I lay on the bathroom floor, my eyes blurred with moisture and my heart too tired to keep pumping life into my useless body.

My brain checked out and my thoughts came to terms with how utterly fucking tired I am. Of myself...

just don’t have the energy to deal with anyone or anything at the moment. But more alone time only pushes me toward bad habits. Cutting and blood and fucking self-loathing. I’m spiraling and I can’t stop it. I’m falling and can’t hit the bottom.

I open the drawer to my right and grab my Swiss Army knife almost on autopilot. If I just open it one more time, no one will know. If I just purge the black ink surrounding me, I won’t feel trapped in my own skin and it’ll be over. Except that I repeated those same words the last five fucking times I did this. Five times in the span of two weeks. Five. Bloody hell. I’m losing control. And yet my fingers wrap around the handle and I remove my watch and then place it on the table. I peel off the plaster and stare at the dark-red skin. The last time I did this, the cut was so deep, I lost a lot of blood. I thought it’d never heal and I’d need stitches.

The first time I cut myself was by accident when I was shaving at seventeen. I watched the tiny droplet of blood rolling down my jaw and neck and felt an immense sense of relief. It was the first time I looked at myself for a solid minute without feeling the need to smash the mirror. So I became a bit careless with my shaving and cut myself here and there just to see more of my blood. The harder the blood flowed, the more the black ink receded.

face and neck. I started shaving down there and cutting between my thighs where no one could see. I would sit in the bathtub and watch the blood trickling out of me, close my eyes and suck in clean air. After I started uni, I began cutting my wrist, but only in the exact same spot, drawing over the three lines that could be hidden by a watch. But I didn’t let myself do that often, either. No more than once a month, maybe. When the nausea constricted my throat and I couldn’t breathe without gagging on the black ink. When it hurts to the point I can’t exist within my own fucking skin. The frequency hiked up in the past couple of weeks to the point that I can’t control it anymore. When I was with Nikolai, I didn’t do it, because he was awfully perceptive. He could sense something was wrong with my hand and arm and kept asking about it for weeks. I kid you not, he would be like, “By the way, how did you hurt your hand? It looks serious.” Considering all the sex, I didn’t dare cut my thighs, and the weird part is that I wasn’t really overwhelmed by the urge to see my blood. It was manageable, until it wasn’t. Until now, where I’m fantasizing about cutting my fucking wrist off.

I hate myself. Why don’t you hate me, too?

was about to throw down my phone and indulge in my self-destructive hobby, but it vibrated in my hand. He was calling me. I swear I never felt so shaken up as when I swiped up and placed the phone to my ear. “Why the fuck—” He inhaled sharply and I felt the vibration of his voice in my ear. Then I stopped breathing altogether as if that would make me hear him better.

“Liar. You can’t stay away from me, Niko.” I used another one of his sentences. “You know you want me. No matter what I do, you come crawling back to me.”

CRAWLING BACK TO YOUUU

Bran, listen. Society’s perception of normal is a learned concept. It’s an opinion that was passed down through generations until it eventually became a tradition. It’s rooted in people’s minds because it’s been taught for a long time, but fundamentally, it’s just an opinion. It means nothing just because people conform to it. You being different is fucking fantastic, son. You’ve risen above their sheep mentality and you can choose to be proud of your difference instead of hating it. It might take time to shake off society’s perceptions, but that’s okay. I’m here. Your mum is here. Your whole family is here to help you. All you have to do is say the words.

I’m thrown back to the first and only time Lan ever begged as he held me close while I cried in his chest. “Please, Bran, please! Tell me what’s fucking wrong.” Though that happened during the darkest time in my life, his words and his hug are my favorite memories. That was almost eight years ago, and no matter how we change, whenever I look at Lan, I see his face from when we were fifteen as he kept me together. So I always want to keep him together as well, even if he puts himself in the worst fucking situations.

My hand moves of its own accord as I sink my unsteady fingers in his hair and glide it back. The moment I see his face again this close, I want to throw away my pride, fall between his knees, and beg him to take me back. I want to kiss his lips and feast on his tongue.

Two weeks without him has been a fucking eternity. I didn’t care before him, but after him, it’s torture to go day in and day out without his touch. Survive without his presence, his flirtatious nature, and his clingy texts. Without his grins and his daft jokes. Without…him. I stroke my fingers in his hair and contemplate kissing him. Just once. No one will know⁠—

My heart thunders so hard behind my chest, I’m surprised he doesn’t hear it. “Lotus flower…? What are you doing here?”

let my hand fall from my nape and fetch my knife, then start cutting the rope, trying to remain composed, to not actually stroke every slope of his muscles as I speak in my signature detached tone. “You’re the one who came into my house. You just couldn’t stay away?” I feel the rumble of Nikolai’s chest against my hands and make out his grin from the corner of my eye as he drops his voice. “How else would I see you so adorably worried about me?” “I am not worried about you, and don’t fucking call me adorable again.”

“If I’d known I’d see this side of you, I would’ve gotten myself kidnapped long ago.” I stare at him, my chest aching and my heart begging for something. Anything. “Are you insane?” Nikolai rolls a shoulder. “Probably.” I puff out a long sigh. “I’ll release you and leave the back door open, and you’ll have to find your own way out.”

I turn toward Nikolai and I feel like I’m melting when I find him looking at me with those hooded eyes. I’m sorry, I say with mine. For everything. I grab the ropes, but a blow lands at the back of my head, and the world is pulled from beneath my feet. The last thing I see is Nikolai’s wide eyes as I fall on top of him. But I manage to slip the knife between his thighs so he can save himself.

Or at least, I think I do. My last thought is just how much I’ve missed his smell. Maybe losing consciousness isn’t so bad after all if I get to hug him.

You’re the one who fucked with me first. You texted me and were talking big on the phone and even came to save me. Maybe you’re the one who can’t stay away from me. You’re right. I can’t. I tried and it’s not working. My jaw hits the floor as I read and reread his text to make sure this isn’t another one of my delusional episodes. Fuck. I can’t believe he admitted that out loud. Through text. But it still counts.

His head whips up and then he looks at me with that adorable stupefied expression. I wave at him and he searches his surroundings before he texts me. Bran What are you doing here? Me Come out. I have a helmet and I’m fully dressed. No one will know it’s me. Go first. I’ll follow in my car. You have two minutes to come outside or I’ll go in there and it won’t be pretty since I might actually break that girl’s hand for touching you. Don’t. I’ll be right out.

“What on earth are you doing here? Are you a stalker?” he snaps. “Maybe.” “You could’ve told me to come over.” “And you would’ve?” “I am now, aren’t I?” He releases a long sigh. “Let’s just go.” “Hop on.”

I throw my leg over the seat and rev the engine as Bran climbs on behind me and grabs the back of the seat for balance. Like he did the first time he was on my bike, which was coincidentally the first and only time anyone has ever been on my Harley. No matter how many times others expressed their desire to ride it—and then me—I didn’t like the idea of anyone else but me touching this baby.

“Okay. I don’t bite when I’m riding.”

at least not when you’re riding a motorcycle 😉

Bran’s white T-shirt has turned transparent, sticking to his muscles and flashing his nipples in a striptease show. My dick twitches and I have to look up so I don’t get an unwanted and entirely embarrassing erection. I’m trying to prove a point, damn it. Be cold. Stay cool. Don’t fucking give in.

I push his hand away and do it for him, then remove the helmet. “I could’ve done it myself,” he grumbles “Or you could say thank you.” “Thanks.” Fuck me.

A frown appears between his brows. “Why wouldn’t I?” “Why would you?” “Think what you will of me, but I don’t like seeing you hurt.” “If that were true, you would’ve visited me at the hospital.” “I did—” He cuts himself off and looks away. “Doesn’t matter.” “It does matter. Look at me.” He slowly does, and an uncharacteristic sheen of pain covers his face. “You visited? How come I never saw you?” “You were sleeping.” He rubs the back of his head. “I managed to sneak past Jeremy and Gareth when they were speaking to the doctor. But I had to leave soon after since Lan came looking for me and was about to start more drama.” So he was there. I wasn’t imagining him sitting beside me and stroking my hair. Is that tidbit supposed to make me feel this fucking giddy?

“No, it’s not. Don’t throw those terms around if you don’t understand them.”

fucking real