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

I cover my mouth with my hand again, nails digging into the mask’s plastic material and scratching at its surface.

Blimey.

This is a lot more gruesome than I could’ve ever imagined. Yes, I’ve heard the rumors about how cutthroat the Heathens can be and how they never hold back, but witnessing them actually hitting and punching is a completely different story.

It’s not only the image of exploding blood, of hard punches against faces and bodies, or that they’ve broken a few people along the way. It’s not only the Halloween-esque visual of heartless neon masks hunting people as if they’re animals.

It’s also the sound of it. The thwacks, whips, punches, and thuds of bodies falling inert to the ground.

It’s the muffled screams, the wails, and the begging of some of the participants.

One of them said, “I’m out. Please spare me this once—”

Before his head was shoved against a tree.

The two Heathens barely acknowledge each other with a look before each goes in a different direction.

Red Mask disappears through the trees and I contemplate the best way to do that without alerting Orange Mask.

You know what? Might as well wait until he leaves before I even move.

Despite the pain that screams at my limbs or my shaking legs, I remain in a crouching position, unmoving, scared to breathe properly.

Orange Mask leans down by Five, then grabs his club. Something liquid smudges his black leather gloves and drips on the ground in bright red.

Blood red.

How can they be so…monstrous at such a young age? But then again, they’ve probably been this way since they were born, considering the world they belong to.

I’ve never liked these types of people, those who hurt just because they have the power to.

Those who ruin entire families just because they can.

Morally corrupt people.

Machiavellians with no limits or morals.

The Heathens are at the top of that list with their skewed codes of conduct and hedonistic mindsets.

Orange Mask rises to his impressive height that nearly eats up the horizon, then slowly, too slowly, his head tilts in my direction.

The neon stitches glow in the near darkness as eerie silence stakes its claim.

My spine jerks when his rough, deep voice echoes in the air. “I know you’re hiding. Come out and I promise not to hurt you. Much.”





2





CECILY





I stop breathing for a second.

It can’t be.

There’s no way in hell he’s seen me. Not only did I not make a sound, but I’m also invisible.

Unless he has access to the surveillance cameras.

No. I don’t see anything in his ears, so he can’t possibly communicate with security.

So how the hell did he figure out I was here?

I cast a slow look at my surroundings to confirm he just spoke to me and not someone else near me.

A number is announced to be eliminated, echoing in the silence like doom. An involuntary jerk lifts my shoulder, but I remain in place, watching.

Or more like, I’m trapped by Orange Mask who’s standing about thirty meters away nonchalantly holding the club that rests on his shoulder.

And he’s still staring in my direction, the neon orange of his mask becoming creepily predatory as the night stakes its claim. Though, he’s not looking directly at me, so he doesn’t know where I am exactly.

“Come out while I’m giving you the chance. If I have to pull you out, the scene won’t look pretty.”

It won’t look pretty either way, psycho.

And how can someone sound so apathetically methodical while talking? His tone is no different from that of a robot.

An evil one that’s defected and is currently plotting humanity’s demise.

“Your time is up.” The weight of his words hits me first before he starts toward me with long, purposeful strides.

I don’t think about it as I run in the opposite direction.

Inexplicable energy courses through me, bubbling with the sole purpose of survival. Of getting as far away from him as possible.

It’s not about being eliminated, but more about getting out of here in one piece.

I use the bushes as camouflage and shove my way through them. Fallen branches and stray thorns cut my hand and scratch the side of my neck in a symphony of minor violence.

The sound of his footsteps follows right after me, long, hard, and so damn persistent that my heart speeds up.

It’s like that feeling back in childhood when playing hide-and-seek with friends. When you felt someone at your heels and you released a squeal of both excitement and fear.

But this time is slightly different.

Only fear locks my muscles together and crowds my mind. My limbs shake and my pulse buzzes in my ears, despite my mental attempts to remain calm.

Because I know that if he catches me, I’m dead meat. I’ll be unconscious like all the other participants he pummeled to the ground.

Hell, maybe I’ll have to be admitted to the hospital and my parents will hear about this reckless decision I made and be disappointed in me.

No.

The closer he comes, the faster I run and run, and run.

But no matter how hard I do, I don’t lose him.

Not even close.

Hell, he’s hotter on my heels with every passing second. And for some reason, I feel he’s delaying catching me on purpose, judging by his even footsteps.