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

Seeming to notice my struggle, he subtly pushes my hand away and glides my bra over my breasts.

“I must say, I prefer undressing you.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Because you’re starting to know me better.”

“You say that as if it’s a privilege.”

“It’s not?”

“No. I’m only learning about you to know how to deal with you.”

“Smart little rabbit.” He lets the straps snap against my shoulders, his voice lowering. “Fucking red.”

My stomach tightens, instantly reacting to the change of his tone.

I stare at him from beneath my lashes as he continues putting my clothes together. But no matter how much I look, I can’t really read his expression. He’s the worst enigma to ever walk the earth, and I find myself wondering about what he’s thinking at times like these.

He definitely isn’t thinking about whatever emotional implications of his actions, considering he lacks emotions, and seems happy with the fact.

He owns that part of him, takes pride in it, and uses it to do depraved acts like the hunt tonight.

Like knocking out those people and tracking me as if I were an animal.

Would I ever feel like more than an animal in his presence? And what can I do to make him lose interest? If Eli and Lan are any indication, then his type has a short attention span for everything.

Unless we’re talking about Eli when it comes to Ava.

Or Lan when it comes to sculpting.

But those obsessions started fairly young for both Eli and Lan. They basically grew with their personalities, so they can’t be compared to Killian’s sudden fixation on me.

He’ll eventually get bored and move on to some other unfortunate soul.

He has to.

Or else I’m completely and utterly doomed.

“What are you thinking about?” His smooth voice swirls around me as he hooks his fingers against the edge of my top and tugs me against him. I’m starting to realize he likes to constantly touch me in some way.

“An effect Cecily once mentioned.”

“And what is that?”

“Have you ever heard of the suspension bridge effect? It’s when people experience psychological responses related to fear, but they mislabel them as romantic arousal. The actual term is called misattribution of arousal, I think.”

His fingers stroke the skin of my stomach in a circular motion, and he hums, “Let me guess. Your busy little brain was thinking of that as a way out of actually wanting me?”

“I’m pretty sure I don’t want you. I told you. My reaction to you is probably me misjudging fear and anxiety as arousal. Think about it. Every time you touched me, I was scared in some way.”

The more I talk about it, the more it makes sense. There’s no way I’d willingly want this bastard who lacks a human bone in his body.

“Aren’t you the smart one?” He pulls on my top and I crash against his chest with a yelp. He lifts his other hand and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture seems to be doting but feels threatening. “So what if it is fear? The point is that you want me.”

“It’s not real. It’s an illusion.”

“If that makes you sleep better at night, let’s say it is.”

“I could want someone else if I feel scared in their presence or see them after being scared.”

“Believe me, little rabbit, that won’t be happening. Not unless you want some splashes of his blood on this flawless skin. Though I’m sure it’d look pretty, don’t you think?”

I shudder, trying and failing to prevent that image from forming in my head. This wanker knows all the right buttons to push.

“You really don’t care that I don’t want you for you as a person?” I realize that I’m provoking him, and I don’t know what’s come over me. I just know that a weird sense of courage has grabbed hold of me today.

I’m no longer the scaredy-cat Glyn—that didn’t get me anywhere—so I might as well embrace the change.

“You don’t want me as a person, huh?”

“No. You’re not my type.”

He pauses before stroking my stomach again. “And what’s your type?”

“Someone nice.”

“I can be nice.”

“Yeah, right.”

His voice lowers to a shiver-inducing range. “I gave you time like you asked, and it was a stretch on my part since, and I repeat, I am not a giver. So if that’s not considered nice, maybe I should retract my promise and be the opposite of nice.”

“Don’t…” This arsehole is a major headache. I can never win against him.

“Does that mean I’m nice?”

“You can be,” I mutter.

“Look at that. I’m suddenly your type.” I glare up him and I’m met with a low chuckle. “You’re so adorable, I could eat you up.”

“I’m not edible.”

“Judging by the taste of your sweet little cunt, you most definitely are.”

Heat rises to my neck and ears and it takes everything in me to keep staring into his gleaming eyes. The bastard is enjoying this. Probably way too much.

“I’m surprised you haven’t gotten yourself killed due to how infuriating you are.” I huff.