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

“Hi there, Devlin. Ready to meet your maker?” I kick him in the stomach, letting the useless arm swing at my side.

He oomphs, but he regains his footing and aims for my broken arm again.

This time, I dodge, and he laughs. “Does this scene mean you got my gift? I used special care to wrap her up in beautiful bruises for you. She looked exquisite.”

This time, I’m the one who bursts out laughing so loudly and maniacally that he pauses. It goes on for so long that he gets angry and starts aiming at me without a strategy.

“Such a weak little boy.” I dodge. “Mommy didn’t love you, did she? Abandoned you while you were small and helpless, so now, you’ve turned into a man-child.”

“Shut the fuck up.” His anger rises and rises, and he falls straight into my lap.

“What a shame. She’d take a rope to her throat if she saw your current state. Oh, right. She already did.”

“I said to shut the fuck up!” He swings and I catch the bat with my good arm, wrench it from his hold, and swiftly hit him in the head.

He releases a haunted, pained sound as he drops to the ground. He crawls, then rises to his feet, but the moment he’s up, I slam the wood against his legs over and over until gurgles are the only sounds he can make.

I slowly remove his mask, making him cough and choke on the tear gas, then I peer down on him. “Don’t faint on me yet. We’re only just getting started. You’re going to bleed and scream and beg for every mark you left on her skin. You’ll be cut for every lie you told her and for having the audacity to use her good nature. You’ll pray to every deity on earth, but I’ll be your custom-made merciless god. I might not process emotions normally, but if you hurt what’s mine, I’ll be the one to spit on your fucking grave.”

I have not a shadow of a doubt that the little rabbit is flipping my world upside down.

And I’ll let her.

Because she’s mine.

And I’ll set the whole fucking world on fire to make sure she remains safe.





39





GLYNDON





It hurts.

That’s the first thought that comes to mind when I open my eyes—or more accurately, my eye.

The other one feels swollen and remains half-shut.

It isn’t only my flesh that aches. The pain has ripped through tendons and reached the marrow of my bones.

My tongue stays glued to the roof of my mouth, feeling big, heavy, and absolutely foreign.

I expect to find myself on the top of that cliff, but soft light greets me, followed by the very distinctive scent of amber wood. Sure enough, the impersonal wallpaper from Killian’s room slowly comes into focus.

“Glyn?” Bran’s concerned face comes into view. “How are you feeling?”

“In pain,” I groan.

“Here, have some painkillers.” He fetches a pill from the nightstand and helps me sit up to take it.

My head throbs as I swallow down the medication. Bran sits down on the bed and his movements are foggy, disconnected almost.

“I was so worried about you.” He carefully touches my arm. “Do you need anything?”

I shake my head, feeling the discomfort subside a little. “Where’s Killian?”

His expression loses all softness. “He went after the one who did this to you.”

“No…” I let out in a breath.

“Unfortunately, yes. Lan went with him, and all his club’s leaders, naturally.”

I throw off the cover and attempt to stand. Obviously, I overestimate my ability to move because I fall right back down.

Bran catches me before I hit the floor and forces me back on the bed. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“I have to stop them. They’re playing right into his hands. He did this to lure both Killian and Lan out, to start a war and instigate chaos. I don’t want to be the reason for that, Bran.”

“I think it’s already too late, little princess.”

A lump catches at the back of my throat and I don’t know if I want to scream or cry.

The door opens and we both turn to find Killian standing there, one arm limp by his side. Splashes of blood cover his hand, neck, and the collar of his shirt, but his face appears clean, ethereal.

Twisted.

This is how I imagine serial killers look when they go home, completely detached, probably even elated due to satisfying their bloodlust.

He slides his bloodied fingers through his hair as if affirming the image I just had.

This is the part where I should feel scared, terrified, but my heart breaks instead.

Without the rose-colored glasses, I can clearly see where this is headed. Or maybe I did see it, but I kept lying to myself.

Upon catching sight of me, he pauses in his tracks, and a light shines in his eyes as he reaches me in a few steps.

I’ll never get used to how all-encompassing Killian’s presence is. How he’s able to eat up my attention without even trying.

When he’s close, I lose sense of anything else. My whole being flocks to him the way ravens congregate to ominous places.

Bran makes way for him and mouths that he’ll be right outside.

Killian doesn’t even seem to notice that my brother has left the room and closed the door as he sits on the bed, taking my hand in his. His thumb—bloodied thumb—strokes the back of it. His other hand remains unmoving, hanging by his side. “Do you feel better? Have you taken painkillers?”