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

Her ears redden again and she rubs the side of her nose. “What makes you think I’m nervous? Maybe I’m disgusted.”

I know this aggressiveness is a reply to how much coercion I put her through, and usually, I don’t rise to provocations. But then again, my system has never been the same since she came into the picture.

I reach a hand out and she flinches, but I’ve already grabbed her hair and slid her across the old leather sofa that creaks underneath her weight.

Cecily’s eyes widen as I glare down at her. “You seem to have a misconception about certain terms. Should I give you a real reason to be disgusted?”

She purses her lips.

“Answer the fucking question, Cecily. Should I?”

“No.”

“That’s right. No. Don’t ask for something you can’t handle.” I release her for the sole reason that touching her, having her shiver against me, is enough to make me want to fuck her.

And I actually don’t want to hurt her when she must be sore.

Cecily clutches her towel so tight that her knuckles whiten, then she rushes back to sit against the other end of the sofa.

The sound of the burning logs fills the living room and mixes with her quickening breaths before she releases a sigh.

“And what am I supposed to do now? Drown in your broody, emotionless company?”

“Here’s what you’re not supposed to do. Sarcasm. Didn’t I tell you to drop it? If I repeat myself again, it won’t be with words.”

Silence, fidgeting, and more silence. Then she abruptly stands up. “I’m going to look for some clothes.”

“You look fine the way you are.”

“I’m sure you’d think that,” she starts to mock, but then clears her throat. “Do you have to rip my clothes?”

“No, but it’s more thrilling when I do.”

“Wow. Okay. That was direct.”

“I’m nothing less than direct.”

A weird expression covers her features, almost like resignation, or understanding.

Or maybe I’m imagining both.

“I can see that,” she says with revering calm. “But you’re not impulsive or reckless, so why did you make us play that game earlier? It’s out of character for you to put your life in danger. You don’t seem suicidal.”

“I’m not.”

“What if one of us died?”

“We wouldn’t have. I removed the bullet before you started.”

Her lips part and she stares at me as if I’m Lucifer himself. “You…you…”

“No rush. Take your time in finding the words.”

“I really thought I was going to die!”

“Which made you more honest. Aren’t you glad I was creative to find a way to make you open up?”

“Screw you,” she mutters, then trudges to the stairs and disappears at the top.

She must’ve taken a discovery tour around here the last time. I’m not worried that she’ll escape since the balconies and windows are high.

I remove my jacket, throw it on a nearby chair, and text back and forth with Ilya about security details.

Preferably, this should’ve been done in person, and I should’ve also plotted to inflict more damage on the Serpents. But the thought of leaving this place to do all of those chores holds no appeal.

No, not this place. Someone in this place.

“Why…do you have these?”

I lift my head from my phone to stare at Cecily. She’s wearing a pair of jeans and a black tee that molds against her tits.

The items in question are a few mangas she probably found on the nightstand. Even as she holds them, her hands aren’t completely steady.

I raise a brow. “Don’t you love reading about boys' love? I did some research and that’s apparently a thing a lot of women do. Reading and watching gay men material.”

Her face turns a deep shade of crimson. “So what? We’re not hurting anyone by cheering on gay men to get together. I won’t allow you to shame me.”

It takes everything in me not to smile at the spikiness in her voice or how she hugs the mangas as if protecting them from me.

“Who says I’m shaming you?”

Her defensive stance turns into that of careful bemusement. “You’re…not?”

“Why would I buy you those if I were?”

She narrows her eyes. “Why did you buy these, anyway?”

“So you can read them here.”

“How do you know I’ve gotten this far in all the volumes?”

“I was in your room the other time, remember?”

“Stalker,” she mutters, but she sits down opposite me and strokes the covers of the mangas.

“I know.”

She whips her head up, her slowly drying strands swishing with the motion. “It doesn’t bother you to be called that?”

“If that label makes you feel at ease, go right ahead. I have no fucks to give.”

Cecily watches me peculiarly. “It’s not normal that you stalk me, buy the mangas I read, do some research on them, and even buy clothes that are exactly my size. Did you go through my wardrobe?”

“I did, but I didn’t need that to know your size.” I lift a hand and trace an imaginary outline. “I remember every nook of your body and can guess the size.”