God of Malice (Legacy of Gods #1) by Rina Kent

“Fair enough.”

Silence prevails for a beat before he says in a quiet tone, “You’re seriously worried about him?”

“You aren’t?”

The air vibrates with the length of his sigh. “No. He made sure to kill that part of me a decade ago when he used my concern to put the blame on me for things he’d done. Spoiler alert, though not really, that’s exactly what he’ll do to you eventually. Any noble feelings you have for him will be twisted, vilified, falsified until they become as dark as his.”

“That won’t be happening.”

“I said that, too, once upon a time.”

“You said, but you didn’t take action, Gareth. I’m not going to pretend that I understand what it’s like growing up with him, but I have a brother who’s similar to him. He tried to destroy everything beautiful in my and Bran’s lives so that we only depended on him and were at his beck and call, but do you see us being like him? Do you see us manipulating, hurting, absolutely discarding our morals just to adapt to him?”

He raises a brow. “Is that supposed to be a jab at me?”

“It’s concern.” My voice softens. “Killian, Landon, and my cousin, Eli, were born different. They don’t have the luxury of feeling emotions like we do, and yes, they’re prone to hurt others without batting an eye because of that, but it’s who they are. It’s not who you are, Gareth. You’re choosing to be like them, and if you see nothing wrong with that, then I feel sorry for you.”

“So you’re saying I should take Killian’s manipulations, blows, and pure fucking hatred and do nothing about it, is that it?”

“No. But you could talk about it. He has beef with you because he feels lesser than you.”

He laughs with a deranged edge. “Are you maybe talking about a different Killer than the one sleeping on that bed?”

“He heard your dad tell your mum that they should’ve only had you. That would automatically make him hold a grudge against you.”

A line appears between Gareth’s brows. “He could be lying to get your sympathy.”

“He’s always been honest to me. The brutal kind.”

“Or maybe that’s what he wants you to believe.” He pushes off the wall and heads to the door.

“Gareth,” I call after him.

“Yeah?”

“Our deal is off. I’m not going to stab him in the back so you can hurt him. Deep down, I know you don’t want that either.”

“I saw this coming a mile away. This is a piece of genuine advice, Glyndon. Be careful. You might think you care for him now, but there will be times where you’ll want to kill him, and you won’t think about his nature or that he’s different. You’ll only think that he’s a motherfucking asshole who shouldn’t exist. And when you want to leave? He’ll break your legs so you never consider the option. And if you heal and attempt it again? He’ll cut them off.” He smiles, but it’s fake as he steps out and lets the door close behind him.

My focus slides back to Killian and I narrow my eyes on him. “Bastard. When did you get me on your defense team?”

I blame the sense of peace I feel in his company. Even when he’s choking me, throwing me down, and fucking me like a madman.

I blame it more on when he pulls me to sleep on top of him after, or when he takes me to watch fireflies because he knows how much they bring me joy.

Unable to ignore the onslaught of feelings running rampant in my chest, I borrow his notebook and a charcoal pencil—that Killian started to keep around—then I place the chair opposite the bed. I don’t look at the paper. My whole attention is on him while my fingers stroke line after line until I’m transported into a different zone.

It’s like my physical body ceases to exist and I’m a burst of emotions, swishes, and a manifestation of an extremely unpredictable muse.

I think it only takes me ten minutes from start to finish, but when I look at the time, it’s already two in the morning.

Thank God it’s a weekend and I can sleep in tomorrow.

Yawning, I strip down to my underwear. Then I borrow one of Killian’s T-shirts that basically serves as a nightgown.

It’s crazy how normal and familiar this feels, especially when I compare it to how I was ready to stab him to death only a few weeks ago.

I slip under the covers and pause when I feel his hot skin. The doctor said the fever would go down in a while, but how long is a while?

Shouldn’t it be now?

I lay my head on his shoulder and yelp when he turns completely in my direction and wraps both arms around me, then places me on top of him. Even while his eyes are closed.

Pleasure pools in my knickers and I clench my thighs.

I think the bastard has orgasm-trained me or something. Being on top of him only happens after he fucks my brains out. When sex isn’t the main focus, he sits me between his legs or on his lap. So now that the fucking hasn’t happened and I’m on top, my body is acting up because of it.

I rub myself against his semi-hard erection, then stop.

What the hell am I doing? He’s sleeping and feverish and I should go to hell for this.

Forcing myself to calm down, I close my eyes and let sleep whisk me away.





A moan slips from my throat.