God of Wrath (Legacy of Gods #3) by Rina Kent

Usually, I wouldn’t want to be involved in any violent situations, or at least, I would look and see before considering any physical retaliation.

Not this time.

It could be the adrenaline or my need for survival. It could be the suppressed emotions of my helplessness. Whatever it is, I hold onto it and I claw at his fingers that are forcing me forward.

I kick and buck my whole body as an animal-like growl echoes in the air.

It’s mine, I realize as he successfully knocks me to the ground. I try to fall on my hands and knees, but I fail to release his fingers at the last second and I end up flat on my stomach.

The rough dirt smashes my breasts and whooshes the breath from my lungs. I still try to buck so I can turn over and somehow knee him in the balls.

I fight so hard that I forget this scene is my doing.

I fight so hard that I believe every molecule of survival instinct in me. Perhaps it’s because he’s using savage strength to grip me.

He’s not taking it easy.

No, he probably came here without any plans to be soft or politically correct.

He came here to invade and conquer.

This is the real thing. Him, uncut and with the sole purpose of inflicting pain.

His calm, deep breathing reverberates in the air and strikes me across the skin. His merciless grip is a promise, a preview of what he has in store for me.

The more I fight, the tighter he pulls on my hair, until I think he’ll rip it from the roots.

I arch my back, using the remnants of my energy to try and twist.

Then something heavy and unmovable lands on the middle of my back.

His knee.

I catch a glimpse of his black trousers in my peripheral vision, one knee on the ground and the other pushing against my back.

It’s enough to make me pause. The pressure is so strong that I think he’ll break a bone or a few.

Maybe I should’ve said that bodily injury is a hard limit, too, but I thought that was a given.

Perhaps it’s not.

He pins my face to the ground with his crippling grip on my hair. I smell the dirt and taste the small pebbles on my tongue.

Unlike earlier, I remain still, considering the threat of his knee.

My limbs shake as the reality of the situation rushes into me.

This is a lot more intense than what I signed up for. Yes, I wanted the possible freedom this could provide, but the unknown territory, the complete helplessness, claws at my mental strings.

My breathing shatters and each of my inhales choke me with the smell of the earth and him.

Leather.

That’s what he smells like.

He’s a combination of leather and wood. Maybe a hint of bergamot? I’ve never associated these scents with Lan, but I’ve also never heard him speak in that gravelly voice from earlier, so maybe he has a persona for nights like these.

Nights where he sheds his slick, elegant façade and fully embraces the beast inside him.

The brash ruthlessness of his touch, scent, and whole existence flares and ripples in the air around me.

Silence shimmers in the calm. Only my shattered breaths and his deep ones linger.

It’s a minute, no, possibly a second, before everything crashes down.

The sequence of his movements roughens as his free hand pulls on my jeans. He doesn’t undo the buttons—he all but shoves them down, creating a violent friction against my core and thighs.

The chilling air assaults my underwear-covered arse.

Something happens then.

Aside from my gasp and open mouth.

I come to focus on my pussy that’s aching, pulsing, and absolutely shivering with the need for any sort of stimulation.

Did I become turned on just now? Or maybe it started during the marathonic hunt?

I thought I could like this, but I wasn’t ready to actually be so into it that being chased would bring me to this state.

No, it’s not only about being chased.

I had to be caught, too.

The beast at my back must also feel it when he pulls my underwear aside and presses his fingers against my needy core.

A deep groan spills from his throat, and that sound, coupled with his callous fingers against my most intimate part, triggers a bizarre sensation.

My back arches again, but it’s for a completely different reason than a fight. I’m reaching for that raw power flowing from him, but a mere shove of his knee pins me back in place.

He strokes my folds roughly, brutally, until my lower half is floundering, begging, nearly dissolving for more.

But he doesn’t give me more.

His middle finger ghosts near my opening, hovering, flickering, lingering, but never slides inside.

I can feel the warmth emanating off his skin, the reprieve from the cold air, and the promise of forming a shield against it.

The more he touches me everywhere except for where I need it the most, the messier I become.

I don’t recognize the incoherent mix of noises that spill out of me. Every time I buck my hips, he stiffens his grip on my hair, warning me without words to stay in place.

That he’s the one who’s running the show.

The one who’s in control.

The one who can both hurt me and please me if he chooses to.

A shiver goes through me at that thought, but I remember that I have the power, too.

Smoke.

The word has been hovering at the tip of my tongue ever since I made a run for it. If I say it, everything will end.

But I don’t.

Despite the torture, I choose to alternate between breathing through my nose and mouth, then focus on the moment.