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

“Don’t be ridiculous and quit the dramatics. They don’t suit you.”

“So now you know what suits me and what doesn’t?”

“For the most part.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Are you going to come down?”

“No.”

We stare at each other for a beat.

Two.

Three.

I stride toward her and she shrieks when I lift her lithe body and effortlessly throw her over my shoulder.

This will be a long fucking night.

And I’ll enjoy every second of it.





19





CECILY





What the actual hell?

In the beginning, I’m stunned into silence, completely caught off guard by the sudden change of events. Soon after, everything explodes into focus and I’m assaulted by sensory overload.

My middle easily bends on Jeremy’s rock-hard shoulder as he imprisons me in place with a mere arm around my legs.

Blood rushes to my head, both due to the position and the way he’s manhandling me.

I ball my hands into fists and bang at his back. “Let me down!”

The more I hit, the farther he marches into the cottage as if I’m banging on a wall and not his physical body.

“Jeremy!” I scream his name, hoping someone will hear and save me from his barbaric clutches.

No one does.

No one will.

Instead of taking me to the Heathens’ mansion or a public place, he strategically chose this secluded gothic cottage where no one will be able to stop him.

Like two weeks ago, it’s just me, him, and the creepy night animals outside.

Unlike back then, however, I didn’t come of my own accord. He forced me and threatened to expose me in front of everyone I care about.

He twisted my arm and crossed a line that should never be crossed.

The moment I start to forget his monstrous nature, his devil peeks out his head, ready to destroy every normal thought I had about him.

Jeremy hits the light switch on the way inside the cottage’s living room. His measured steps fall with a thudding sound on the wood flooring.

With every move, every breath, and every squeeze of his large, powerful hand on my thighs, he’s engraving his presence deep in my chest.

It’s like I’m being carried by a giant.

He oozes masculinity, whether it’s his height, enormous build, harsh features, or skin-chilling scent.

He’s toxic masculinity, though.

When he reaches the middle of the room, he places me on my feet with a softness that startles me. I don’t know why I expected him to throw me on the nearest object just to prove a point.

I take a few steps back, scanning the space for an escape. Aside from the front door, there’s the stairs and another door that leads to the kitchen.

I know because I actually took a tour of the cottage the last time he abandoned me here. But I was foolishly trying to find him, not explore.

“Don’t.”

There’s that word again, a little bit low and very much commanding. It’s like he’s reading my mind without me needing to express my thoughts.

“I’m not doing anything.”

He slides his finger on his jeans, up and down, like a fucked-up lullaby. “But you’re thinking of escaping, which is both impossible and futile. The moment you run, I will chase you, Cecily. I don’t have to tell you what I’ll do if—when—I catch you, do I?”

I purse my lips, hating how images and sounds from the last time slaughter my consciousness.

Slapping, moaning, groaning, sucking, gasping, whimpering.

Falling.

I dig my nails in my palm to put a halt to those erotic memories and glare at him.

“Just because I let you do it once doesn’t mean I’ll allow it again.” Screw him if he thinks I’ll give him that power over me when he’s prone to not only stomp on it, but also falsify, vilify, and threaten me with it.

He eats the distance between us in two large steps and it takes everything in me not to push back and show him exactly how much he intimidates me.

Because he does. Frighteningly so.

And it’s not only because of his huge physique or how brutal he can get, it’s that emotionless look in his cloudy eyes—the undeniable proof that he couldn’t care less if he trampled all over me and left me for parts.

That, after he’s done tormenting me, he’ll grow bored and move on to his next victim.

Jeremy stares down his nose at me as if I’m nothing more than a nuisance in his path of criminal greatness. “You say that as if you can stop me. If I want to, I can squash you as if you never existed. So don’t make me choose that option. Be smart, pick your battles, and quit the infuriating habit of going for my throat for the fun of it.”

The apathy behind his words shoots a chill down my spine. He means it, doesn’t he? It’s not just a flex of power. This man is capable of robbing my humanity and leaving me for dead.

“So I don’t have a choice in this? Whatever this is?”

“Of course you do.” He cocks his head toward the door. “You can always leave.”

“I can?”

“As long as you remember the consequences of running.”

“How the hell is that a choice? If I stay, I’m doomed, and if I leave, I’m also doomed.”