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

Not only is he one of my father’s closest guards, but he’s also been my mother’s best friend for as long as I’ve been alive. A fact Dad isn’t so keen on.

“I suppose you wouldn’t call if you didn’t have information for me,” I say in a businesslike tone.

“You are so much like your father, it’s revolting.” He speaks in a Russian-accented voice, then sighs. “And here I thought the years we spent together would enable you to pick up my superior character.”

“Yan.”

“Fine, fine. Though I’m not sure what your beef is with a preppy kid, I was able to identify and locate the motherfucker. It was a lot easier than you advertised, which is also another word for boring.”

I slide my forefinger against my thigh, back and forth. “Send me everything you have.”

“No thank you, Yan. I’ll get you a souvenir from England?”

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

“That’s more like it.” He pauses. “I’m sure I don’t need to worry about you, but you’re not getting yourself in trouble, are you? And if you do end up in trouble, you’ll be sure to let me know so I can join, right?”

“This is my fight. Nothing you should concern yourself with.”

“That’s my boy. But don’t get yourself hurt. Your mother is worried, thinking that you’re growing up into this heartless man who’s like a younger version of your father. Spoiler alert, she wasn’t his biggest fan back then.”

I know all about it.

Just because I was a kid, my parents and even Yan think that I don’t remember things, that I was too happy-go-lucky to notice how my mother’s ghosts ate her from the inside out and left nothing for Dad and me.

How, instead of sleeping, I did everything I could to sneak into their bedroom and lie beside my unmoving mother’s side.

Sometimes, she didn’t even know I was there.

Other times, she looked at me and didn’t see me.

Oftentimes, she forgot about me.

“Tell her all is well and that she doesn’t need to worry. I have everything under control.”

“Don’t say that. It’s a sure way for everything to spiral out of control. Promise to be careful, kid.”

“I will. Thanks again.”

I end the call with Yan and go through the files he sent me. My father has the best intelligence, not only in the Bratva but in all criminal organizations. He has a web of hackers and informants that he uses to make himself untouchable and maintain the Bratva as a force to be reckoned with in New York.

Yes, I could’ve found the fucker myself, but that would’ve taken longer considering that Cecily erased every trace of him from her electronic devices and social media and vehemently refuses to talk about the experience after that Russian roulette game.

I could’ve interrogated her friends, but the chances that she’s disclosed anything is slim to none and they’d also grow suspicious. Despite my utter annoyance with the lack of information, I respect her need to tell them in her own time. That is, if she does choose to divulge that part about her past.

There’s also Annika, but when I tested the waters and veered a conversation toward her friends’ exes, she admitted that she doesn’t even know if Cecily has a boyfriend, and if she does, she never talks about it.

So asking Yan for help was the most efficient way to go about this.

I scroll through every picture, every file, every folder. I study the motherfucker for what seems like hours, until I feel him materializing right in front of me. I learn every tick, every rotten memory of his past. Every weakness.

I’m going to make his life hell. It won’t be easy or fast. It won’t end with torture or fucking death.

It’ll be slow and infinite, until he loses his damn mind.

After planning what I’ll do with him, I step into the house. The first thing my eyes track is the unmoving, rigid body on the sofa.

Fuck.

I stride to where Cecily sleeps, and when I touch her shoulder, sure enough, it’s as stiff and heavy as stone.

Her face is pale and tense, but her features look neutral. From the outside looking in, this might appear normal, but I know better.

I crouch beside her and grab her heavy hand that barely moves.

Calling her name is futile. She doesn’t hear me when she’s in this state. Probably caught in the nightmare from the past. The one she can’t get over, no matter how much she tries.

And she does try.

In her journal, she often has entries about how she wants to get past that version of herself. How much she hates it. How weak she feels for not being able to erase it.

In one entry, she wrote ‘Get over it, Cecily’ a hundred times, and those words were splashed with tear marks.

That fucker will cry tears of blood instead.

I stroke the back of her hand once, twice, and while that doesn’t dissipate the stiffness, it makes her arm less heavy.

It’s not much, but it’s a start.

I caress her arm, her collarbone, and then her throat, pausing at the fading mark at the side. Note to self: make a new one.

No matter how much I massage her skin and touch her gently, she barely shows any response. I know she’s in there somewhere, and I need to pull her out of whatever nightmare she’s trapped in.

Usually, I’d eat her pussy, and the orgasm would be enough to snap her out of this state. And while I’m game for that, I want to find other methods that I can use in public.