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

“That’s not true!”

He reaches me in two steps and I try to crawl back, but I only end up pressed further against the tree as he stands in front of me and wraps his fingers around my jaw.

His touch is callous, untrained. He’s a beast of a man, a savage who probably doesn’t know how to touch anything without the ruthless energy that emanates off him in waves.

I brace myself for whatever violent threats or acts he’ll commit, but he hauls me to a standing position then releases me. “Follow me.”

“To where?” I stare at the stiff muscles of his back through his shirt.

“Do you know the way back to the house?”

“No.”

“Then walk.”

Oh.

I don’t know why a part of me thought he’d leave me in the middle of nowhere to fend for myself.

Once again, I wait for the panic attack that doesn’t come.

But I know I screwed up tonight.

I didn’t only trespass on private property. I might have trespassed into the devil’s lair.

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.”





6





JEREMY





I don’t believe in people.

They’re fickle, prone to mistakes, and have no clue what the fuck they’re doing most of the time.

They’re useless, tasteless, and shouldn’t pollute the air with their breaths.

This disdain I have for people has been inherent in me ever since I grew out of my child phase and gradually found out what the world is all about.

I also don’t believe in the strikes system. People don’t get two or three chances with me. One mistake and they’re out.

For good.

Anyone who crosses the line once will do it again if given the chance. It’s forbidden fruit, delayed gratification, and sought-after glorification. If they get one taste, they’ll be compelled to have another.

Then another.

And another.

Until they’re reduced to animals chasing their basic needs.

Giving them a chance to get close to the line, let alone cross it, is the personification of foolishness.

My zero-tolerance policy might paint me as cold-blooded and heartless, but that’s better than being labeled soft.

I’ve seen what that does to people. How caring too much can tear someone open from the inside out. I had no control over it back then—couldn’t stop it or prevent it from happening.

But I’m older now, wiser, harder, and I vowed to never let a variation of those circumstances repeat.

Ever.

The fact that I’m standing in a pool of blood—mine and someone else’s—is a manifestation of the person I’ve become to get to this stage in my life.

The guy in my grip is barely breathing, his eyes are swollen shut and his face is covered with mucus and blood from how much I’ve punched him. This fucker thought he could ambush me on my afternoon ride. He also hit me with a barb-wired baseball bat, knocking me off my Ducati Panigale, but that was the extent of it.

I grab him by the collar and shake him a few times, breathing in the stench of his bodily fluids. Under dusk’s light, he appears monstrous with his face all bloodied and unrecognizable.

“Oy! Look who I found!” Nikolai reemerges from between the trees, dragging a struggling blond guy behind him like a sack of potatoes.

The blond has some muscles on him and he claws and kicks to escape, but he might as well be an ant wrestling an elephant. Not only does he barely land any punches, but the ones he does are completely ignored by Niko.

Our evening bike ride was interrupted by these two. The one he’s currently dragging escaped earlier, but Nikolai is no different from a hunting dog. He can smell anyone, then track them down and trap them.

My friend all but sits on the guy’s back and when he struggles, Nikolai punches him in the face, causing his head to bump against the ground.

He’s shirtless, again. Like me, he was wearing a leather jacket when we went out on the ride, but he threw it down somewhere. The guy is allergic to clothes—it’s a miracle he at least has pants on. It’s also his way of displaying the extravagant tattoos that cover his chest and arms.

Some of his long black hair escapes its binding and flies in the air as he taps his pocket, punches the guy he’s using as a chair again, and retrieves a smoke. He strokes the surface twice as if petting it, then shoves the cigarette between his lips and lights it.

“How’s it going with that cockroach?” He jerks his chin at the beaten-up guy in my hold.

With his face, lips, and eyes swollen, baseball cap and shirt bloodied, all the noise he can release is muffled groans.

I shake him again by my grip on his collar. “Last chance before I bury you where no one will find you.”

He mumbles something and I lean closer to hear him better.

“Fuck…you…”

“I see.” I swing the bat he hit me with earlier and drive it straight into the side of his head.

He falls to the ground, motionless, his body sprawled out at an awkward angle.

“Hey, kid.” Nikolai, who was watching the whole scene with unabashed excitement, flicks the ashes of his cig on the other guy’s bleeding face. “Do you know what your friend did wrong? No? Let me try and simplify it for you. One does not refuse a chance Jer offers. See, he doesn’t do that a lot, so when he says it’s your last, he actually means it. I say, you should do better or your fate will be worse.”