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

“You’ll have to trust your instinct to make the better choice. Here’s a tip, don’t use emotions.” He heads in the direction of the kitchen and doesn’t turn around when he says, “Follow me.”

The moment he disappears inside, I peek at the front door, so tempted to sprint outside.

But where would I go? And for how long can I run before he eventually finds me?

I have no doubt that he’ll keep his word about what he’ll do if he catches me. The first time was different because I actually wanted it, but I won’t be able to handle an actual burst of violence.

My old wounds are barely stitched beneath the surface and if I undergo a similar episode, I’ll go insane.

With a sigh, I trudge to the kitchen, stop at the threshold to get myself together—something I have to do often in this wanker’s presence—then step inside.

Like the rest of the property, the kitchen gives a gothic vibe similar to Dracula tales and paranormal activities.

The wood is chipped in places, probably not having been maintained for years. There are two built-in banquettes with an old-looking table in between. They face the window and a glass door that leads to the patio outside.

The opposite side of the kitchen area isn’t any better. The bar-style counter looks greasy, the stainless-steel equipment is gathering dust, and the fridge might as well be out of a nineties film.

Jeremy fetches some canned tuna from the overhead cupboard and dumps it in a frying pan on a surprisingly functional stove.

I remain in place, refusing to take another step forward as long as I don’t have to.

Jeremy adds some eggs and vegetables from the fridge and mixes them up with expert moves.

It’s kind of weird to see him do mundane things such as cooking. He looks like the type who was served his entire life and wouldn’t know what a kitchen looks like from the inside.

“Instead of watching like a creep, how about you set the table?”

I flinch at the sudden flow of his voice. There’s something about it, a depth or a gruff inflection that gets me every time. Even when he’s being casual. Jeremy has the type of voice that’s made to command, a voice I imagine generals and warlords had in ancient times.

After gathering my bearings, I cross my arms. “That’s funny. I thought you were the creep.”

“I’m open to sharing.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “The word creep, not something else. Can you help out?”

“And if I don’t want to?” I ask slowly.

“Remember the part about picking your battles? This is a perfect example. Don’t provoke me for trivial reasons or you’ll be the one who suffers the fallout.”

I’m so tempted to grab the nearest object and throw it at his head, but he’s right. I’ll only make the situation harder on myself if he decides to put on his arsehole hat.

With a sigh, I head to the cupboard and start searching for utensils and dishes. It takes me more time than if I’d asked him about their whereabouts, but screw that. I’d rather waste time than talk to him. It’s my form of rebellion.

As if seeing straight through my plan, Jeremy doesn’t offer to help and continues with his cooking.

By the time I find two plates—one chipped on the edge—two glasses, and utensils, I feel somewhat victorious.

It takes me longer to clean the surface of the table with some detergent I find. I only loosen up when it’s not so greasy anymore. Just to make sure, I scrub the pesky marks on the corners.

On and on, I rub on those spots, refusing to admit defeat.

“Do you have a cleaning OCD?”

I flinch at the sound near my back. I’d be lying if I said that I forgot he was there, but I thought he was still at the stove and I had a bit more time to try to forget his presence.

“It’s…greasy.” I let out in a breath as he places the pan on the surface. “How can you even eat in a place like this? It’s a hygiene hazard.”

He flings open one of the cupboards and retrieves a bottle of vodka. I eye the thing so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter into pieces.

Whenever I see that drink, I recall that time at the restaurant, his punishing touch, his pliant lips, the commanding way he held me on his lap.

It’s strange how Jeremy can show different sides depending on the situation. He can be weirdly caring like in that club or after he carried me to the cottage, but he can also transform into a beast in a fraction of a second.

“It’s not that bad.” He slides onto the sofa.

“It’s a disaster.” I take the spot opposite him and stare at the ominous lake through the dirty window and glass door. “What is this place, anyway?”

He scoops what looks like a weird omelet onto my plate—the non-chipped one. “Let’s call it a vacation house.”

“More like a horror house.”

He lifts a shoulder. “Name it whatever you want.”

I wipe the glass with a paper napkin, and after I make sure it’s all clean, I pour some water into it. “How did you access it?”

“I bought it.”

“Really?”

“It was on the market for a bargain price, and I needed a place of my own outside of the mansion, so I bought this one.”

“You couldn’t buy a flat or something? Surely your family could afford it.”