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

He looked mad before he abruptly announced we were leaving. No, not mad. Possibly annoyed?

I really can’t be sure, considering his never-changing angry expression, so I have no clue if he looked that way by default or due to something I did.

I open my eyes, groan softly, then fish out my phone and open Instagram. I realize I’m letting him get under my skin, but I can’t help it.

Jeremy has an account, but he seldom posts on it, and most of his pictures are blurred and unintelligible. A mass of black and white and mysterious.

A day ago, I scrolled through all of his posts twice. This is the third time.

What? I need to know the enemy.

Though is he really an enemy if he’s actually left you alone?

I ignore that voice and start at the top.

Jeremyvolkov. That’s what his account is called. He doesn’t have a bio or anything.

His profile picture is a black and white side shot of him on his bike, wearing a leather jacket. From this angle, his hair flopped by the wind, his square jaw appears ready to cut someone in half.

In most of the pictures, he’s on the bike, with Nikolai, who’s usually half naked on his own bike, or with the other guys. There are no family pictures. Not even any with Annika.

She, however, posts religiously, and some of them do include Jeremy. He’s an unwilling participant in all of them since she usually catches him in the background.

My favorite picture of them is one she posted a few weeks back. It’s from when she was young, maybe about four years old while Jeremy is no older than ten. She was laughing through her tears while he wiped them. Her caption was even more heartwarming.

Do I have the best brother ever? Yes, yes, I totally do. Thank you for being my anchor, Jer *purple hearts*

But even Annika doesn’t have a full family picture. The closest one to a family photo is one of her hugging her mum, with Jeremy standing behind them.

She captioned it: My favorite people.

There’s no trace of their father and I guess that makes sense, considering his leadership position in the mafia.

After scrolling through Jeremy’s profile for longer than needed, I groan and hit the home screen.

What the hell am I doing?

The first post that appears is of Landon kissing a statue on the mouth.

landon-king: If you know what agalmatophilia means, be mine?

I know Lan has been a highly sexualized person since we were teens. He’s had weird sexual adventures, which is different from, say, his twin, Bran.

He’s on the same level as Remi, but not really. Remington genuinely loves chasing after skirt, a playboy through and through.

Lan only wants the bizarre experiences, the things that are frowned upon by society, the kinks that most people are afraid to try.

It’s like he’s challenging himself to go further and further.

Until he’s out of reach.

It’s downright paraphilia at times. Sexual deviation and attraction to atypical individuals, situations, objects, and behaviors.

The type most serial killers have.

It’s funny how these types of posts used to tug at my heart, but now, I just smile and like his picture. I guess it means I’m emotionally mature enough to understand him better.

I don’t even mind the thousands of thirsty comments from girls—and boys—volunteering to be his object of perversion.

They probably wouldn’t feel the same if he actually acted on his kinks. Plural. I know I wouldn’t let him tie me up me in a room and let random strangers watch.

I always thought we were sexually compatible, but maybe that was just vain hope.

I scroll through to read the comments from the friends we have in common.

lord-remington-astor: Picture was taken by yours truly. No need to thank me, ladies.

eli-king: No tongue?

ariella-jailbait-nash: *heart eyes*

the-ava-nash: What the hell are you doing here, Ari? You’re only 16. Get out of 18+ space!

ariella-jailbait-nash: No.

annika-volkov: So beautiful.

glyndon-king: The statue *heart eyes*

brandon-king: Poor statue.

I comment beneath them.

cecily-knight: *hearts emoji*

I’m about to scroll some more, but a commotion in the flat steals my attention.

Since I’m not studying anyway, I roll out of my chair, do some stretches, and then smooth my fluffy pajamas.

Definitely not something I’d buy myself. Although I’m all for anything comfy and casual. This was a gift from Ava, and I wear them because the shirt has the quote Nerd? I prefer intellectually superior.

As soon as I open my door, I’m slammed with endless noise and chatter.

No surprise, Remi has decided to invade our space just because he’s bored and probably has no shags scheduled for tonight. As usual, Creighton and Bran are with him.

He waltzes into our living room carrying bottles of beer and starts to kick, push, and rearrange our furniture.

“Stop doing that!” Ava runs toward him and effortlessly tries to put an end to his chaos. “This is our space!”

“I’m not hearing you over my lordship’s creative ideas.” He tells Creighton to help him, which he does without a word.

When he reaches the sofa on which Annika sits like a doll, slurping from her purple cup and glittery straw, he fixates her with a stare.

That’s enough to have her stand up and head to Ava’s side.

Remi, who’s having his way as usual, grins, opens a bottle of beer, and gives one to Bran. “Cheers, mate!”