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

“You’re welcome.”

“That was sarcasm.”

“I know. Doesn’t suit you, but I digress.”

I eat a mouthful of food and stare at him. “Why do you think you’re an expert on what suits me and what doesn’t?”

“I wouldn’t call myself an expert, but I notice telltale signs and patterns. It’s what I do best.”

“Because you’re in the mafia?”

“Because I had to in order to predict the behavior of someone.”

“Someone?”

He raises a brow. “Aren’t you full of questions today? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re interested in me.”

“As if.” I push the empty plate away. “I just want to know who I’m dealing with.”

“You know, you don’t have to make this unpleasant, Cecily. You and I are compatible and share a very specific kink. I can make you feel alive and desired in ways no one else is capable of. I can take away the burden of being socially accepted. It’s all in the palm of your hand if you quit being standoffish and stop fighting me every step of the way.”

“We’re not compatible, Jeremy.”

“How so?”

“You think of me as your toy, someone you can dish out orders to and expect to fall in line, and I just refuse to be that way. You don’t even give me a fair chance to make my own choices.”

“I gave you that and you chose wrong.” His voice darkens to a frightening edge.

“What? When?”

He doesn’t answer, as usual, and I’m left with the worst case of bemusement.

Ever since I became acquainted with Jeremy, he’s never given me a choice. Not even once.

So how the hell can he say I chose wrong?

He stands up with the lethargy of a big black cat and I push back against the banquette.

There’s been a shift in the air. I’m not sure why, but it’s there, and it’s rippling with suffocating tension.

“Are you done eating?”

“Why?” My voice is barely a murmur, despite how much of a pep talk I internally give myself.

“Didn’t you ask what we’ll do after we eat? The answer is a game.”

“What type of game?”

“My favorite. Russian roulette.”





20





CECILY





“Did you just say Russian roulette?”

“If you know the game, it doesn’t need any introduction.” A cruel smirk lifts the corner of Jeremy’s lips as he marches to a side cupboard and retrieves a small metal suitcase.

Like the ones you see in action films.

He slides it on the table between us and opens it, pulling out a revolver.

Not a toy gun, not a prop, but a real one.

His long fingers slide around the metal with expert ease as he rolls the rotating cylinder open and dumps all the bullets on the table.

They scatter and bounce in a haunting sound that strikes straight through to my bones.

For a moment, I wish this was one of those nightmares where my subconscious has a field day with bringing all my fears and weaknesses to the surface.

I wish the scene in front of me was nothing more than a cruel joke.

But the more I blink, the realer it gets.

Jeremy actually has a gun and he said he’s going to play a game with it.

Russian roulette.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” I whisper, my heart thundering so hard in my chest, I’m surprised I don’t faint.

He doesn’t spare me a glance, continuing his task, erasing me from his immediate surroundings.

“Jeremy!” My voice quakes and chokes.

Finally, he slides his intense gaze to me, and it’s…dead.

Gone is the person who made me food and even smiled while talking earlier. A demon has taken his place and transformed him into a soulless monster, who’s hungry for flesh.

My flesh.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I try and fail to control the quivering in my voice.

“I told you. Russian roulette.” He pushes a bullet into one of the gruesome holes of the rotating cylinder and slams it shut, then rolls it with a blurry speed. “But let’s make it truth time. We’ll ask two questions each and when the other answers, he has to shoot. It might be the last thing we say, so lying is prohibited. There are five empty shots and we’ll play four rounds. You go first.”

I shake my head frantically and jump up. I’m not staying here or taking part in this madness.

His earlier threat about what he’ll do if I run away pales in comparison to actually shooting ourselves.

I’m one step away when a strong arm wraps around my wrist and I’m tugged back with a force that knocks the breath out of my lungs.

He forces me down onto something hard. His lap. To keep me in place, he wraps an arm around my middle, forbidding me from moving an inch.

A deep sense of terror grips hold of me and I push at his arm, scratching, clawing, hitting.

I pour all my energy in the struggle, but I might as well be remaining still. Not only does he not budge, but his grip has tightened until I can barely breathe.

“Are you done?” His hot breath draws shivers against the skin of my ear.

I cast a glance at him behind me, at his chiseled face and handsome features. At the beautiful creature who might as well be cut from the darkness.