God of Wrath (Legacy of Gods, #3)

by Rina Kent

Red Mask’s fingers circle a baseball bat that’s resting nonchalantly on his shoulder. Green Mask is holding a bow and has arrows with rubber points in a quiver that’s slung over his back. White Mask strokes a huge chain that’s draped around his hands like a snake. Orange Mask’s gloved hand rests on top of a metal golf club that’s propped on the ground. Yellow Mask has no weapon at all, but his fists are balled.

Orange Mask rises to his impressive height that nearly eats up the horizon, then slowly, too slowly, his head tilts in my direction. The neon stitches glow in the near darkness as eerie silence stakes its claim. My spine jerks when his rough, deep voice echoes in the air. “I know you’re hiding. Come out and I promise not to hurt you. Much.”

“Fuck me first,” I whisper, my voice so low that I barely hear it. His entire being pauses, like when I slapped his hand earlier. “Fuck you first?” he repeats slowly, almost as if he’s tasting the words on his tongue. I nod. He releases my hair, hand snaking down to the pulse point in my throat, leaving shivers in its wake before he cups a breast through my shirt. His touch is savage, almost punishing as he digs his fingers into the skin. “Why?” It takes everything in me to remain collected despite the throbbing and the dull ache in the sensitive flesh of my breast. “I don’t want to die a virgin.”

“So this is how good girls like you get off. Does being used in the middle of the night like a worthless fuckable hole turn you on, Lisichka?”

My thoughts are confirmed when he stares at me over his shoulder, his eyes still in tune with the night, tapering and shimmering with that mystic darkness. If anything, they appear more unhinged. “Come back when you’re ready to be fucked properly.”

That dull, maybe not so dull, person has gotten herself the worst type of attention. Mine.

“No wonder you like to be chased when you touch yourself this gently. How about I show you how it’s properly done, Lisichka?”

“You look so innocent, but that head of yours is a fucked-up place, Lisichka. My fucked-up place.”

“I’m not your property, Jeremy. I’m a person.” “My person,” he nearly growls the words. “Next time you let anyone touch you, I’ll fuck you in their blood and make you come all over their corpse.”

“I’m not a nice man, Cecily. I won’t pretend otherwise, or I’d be doing you and myself a disservice. What I am, however, is someone who’ll slaughter your demons one by one until you’re finally free of them. I’ll touch your scars until you normalize them and can live with them, because they’re part of what makes you who you are.”