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

What he doesn’t know is that I refuse to go down without a fight.

“Fuck me first,” I whisper, my voice so low that I barely hear it.

His entire being pauses, like when I slapped his hand earlier.

“Fuck you first?” he repeats slowly, almost as if he’s tasting the words on his tongue.

I nod.

He releases my hair, hand snaking down the pulse point in my throat, leaving shivers in its wake before he cups a breast through my shirt. His touch is savage, almost punishing as he digs his fingers into the skin. “Why?”

It takes everything in me to remain collected despite the throbbing and the dull ache in the sensitive flesh of my breast. “I don’t want to die a virgin.”

For the first time since I saw the man in the orange mask, light flashes in his eyes, but it’s not interest. More like sadism.

A thrill for something.

What, I don’t know.

“I don’t fuck virgins. They aren’t a good fuck. No offense.” He says it meaning every offense behind the words. Then he releases my breast, but only so he can reach beneath my shirt, shove the top of my bra down, and pinch my nipple.

The leather of the glove is so harsh that I whimper, but he takes that as an invitation and rolls it between his gloved fingers in a disturbing, calm rhythm, then squeezes brutally.

I topple over as the pressure against my neck makes the sensation worse. Or better. I honestly have no clue.

This is the first time I’ve gone through something like this after that experience I buried in the black depths of my soul.

Ever since then, I’ve been the prude Cecily, the ‘why is everyone obsessed with sex’ Cecily, the ‘nerd who’s only at university because she wants to study’ Cecily.

The only exception is him. The one I’m doing a favor for and because of whom I’m in this predicament.

Being groped and touched by a stranger in a mask after I brazenly told him to fuck me and freely divulged that I’m a virgin, when everyone has thought I wasn’t since secondary school.

I said it to bring his guard down so I could escape, but I might as well have done the opposite.

He wasn’t interested in me at the beginning, which is why he eliminated me like he did every other participant, but I went ahead and provoked him multiple times unknowingly, and now, he won’t let me go.

“Tell me.” He squeezes my nipple again, and the harshness of the leather against my tender skin makes me gasp. “What’s a posh kid from REU doing at the Heathens’ initiation?”

How did he catch on after I put so much effort into disguising my accent?

“I asked a question. Where’s your answer?”

I glare at him and his eyes light up again.

“Stop looking at me like that, or I might fuck you, after all, just to see those eyes fill with tears.”

Sick bastard.

I have no doubt that he’ll do all of that and more. He’s been this unpredictable ever since I first noticed him following those guys.

Just when I’m about to think of a method of escape that doesn’t land me in even deeper trouble, a commotion comes from the other side of the property.

We look in that direction and see White Mask and Yellow Mask chasing a group of people and Yellow Mask laughing maniacally.

I don’t think about it as I step on Orange Mask’s foot. The moment his grip loosens from around me, I duck and run.

I don’t look behind. I don’t wait for him to catch up. I run and run and run.

My heart gets stuck in my throat and the only thing I think about is how the hell did I not have a panic attack like I do whenever I’m in any sexual situation.

Most importantly, why are my thighs clenching, throbbing, and demanding I go back to that merciless stranger?





3





CECILY





It’s a miracle that I manage to reach the dorm and sneak into the flat I share with my childhood friends without getting caught.

No lights are on and the only sound is the melancholic cello coming from Ava’s room.

If she sees me like this, covered in scratches, with a hole in my jeans and a frantic look in my eyes, she’ll definitely start a questionnaire that’s filled with drama.

Lots of drama.

I remove my shoes at the door and tiptoe across the length of the living room, wincing every time the cut on my knee and lacerations in my hand throb.

Once I’m in my room, I close the door, lean against it and then slide to the ground, hugging my legs to my chest.

My nails clink against each other as I stare at the walls entirely covered by pages from my favorite mangas. The figures appear shadowy under the dim lighting, looking as if they might become real and jump down beside me.

That’s what I take solace in—the images of fictional characters.

I’ve never been the type who asked my friends for help or told them about what I struggled with. Everyone sees me as the mother figure, the problem solver, and the listener.

Whenever I yearn to be listened to instead, nails dig into my chest, forbidding me from moving. From finding refuge in anyone but myself and fictional characters that don’t exist and have little chance of offering practical advice.

My fingers hover over the injury to my knee and I groan in pain when I touch the ripped skin.

But that’s not the only sensation tearing through me. No. It’s something much more potent and damning.