God of Fury (Legacy of Gods #5) by Rina Kent

Or more like Landon checks on Bran in a neurotic fashion, and my lotus flower gets this little smile on his lips whenever he reads his asshole brother’s texts.

He said they’re different but they’re twins and that’s a bond for life.

I suppose he wouldn’t appreciate me punching his brother into an early grave, even if he deserves it.

“Just plan it out and let me know,” I tell Jer. “I have more important shit to do.”





“Baby, I’m home!”

Did that sound so domesticated?

Well, I do think of the penthouse as home now, which is weird. Bran also texted ‘I’ll see you at home’ earlier today, so at least I’m not the only one thinking it.

I remove my T-shirt and toss it on the floor, then, thinking about the asshole’s nagging, I pick it up and dunk it on the chair. Not ideal, but it’s a compromise.

My brow furrows when I don’t find him in the kitchen busy being a Mary Sue. He’s so anal about the meals he makes. Bran is the type of cook who’ll go out at ungodly hours just to have his perfect ingredients.

He’s an excellent cook. I just wish he’d cut himself some slack.

And not only about cooking, but also lacrosse, his gazillion charitable activities, and painting. He’s meticulous about everything, and he’s so ridiculously hard on himself, it’s starting to raise red flags. No one should be that perfect and think they’re not. Literally no one.

Sometimes, I doubt that he even likes his body, because he’s so quick about putting on clothes the moment we’re not fucking. It’s as if he doesn’t like looking at those gorgeous, perfectly toned muscles.

It’s impossible to see him half naked. The guys at the Heathens’ often parade half naked after showers or around the pool. Bran isn’t a fan of swimming, probably because he has to dress down for it.

I wish he’d talk to me more. While we often have conversations during breakfast or dinner, there’s a pattern I’ve noticed.

Whenever I ask something about him, he subtly turns the conversation so it’s about me instead.

He loves asking me questions about my parents, my siblings, my life in NYC, and even my role in the Heathens. Whenever I talk, he always listens with keen interest.

However, when I try to get to know him, he’s like a blank slate. He prefers talking about his friends and asshole brother instead of himself.

Which is annoying, to say the least.

It’s strange that he’s not in the kitchen. Is he not here yet?

I narrow my eyes. He said he was playing stupid video games with Mia earlier, so he better not have lost track of time.

And no, I’m not jealous of my baby sister.

Much.

I head to the guest room down the hall that he turned into a mini art studio. He said that since he’s spending more time here than at the Elites’ mansion, he can at least be productive and work on his art.

And seriously, that’s one of the best decisions he’s ever made. I love sneakily watching him being all concentrated as he does these bold strokes of color. I don’t understand them, but they look pretty and, most importantly, he looks hot as fuck when he’s in the zone.

He has this picturesque mountain painting that he’s been working on, but he doesn’t look pleased in the least when he does.

I open the door, ready to jump him from behind and attack his ticklish sides until he bursts out laughing. The sound is so rare that I can’t resist any chance to make it happen.

Usually, he laughs or smiles effortlessly whenever I’m telling him about my past adventures in school or with Mom and Dad, so I need to narrate more of those tonight. I even called Mom to ask about any shenanigans I might not remember…

My hand falls from the knob when I find him standing in the center of the room, in front of a canvas full of chaotic black strokes. His palette is on the floor, smudged in black as if he poured it out to murder all the other colors.

Splashes of black stain his feet and his khaki pants and even his usually spotless white shirt.

This isn’t like him. Bran is so organized and despises the idea of chaos. So to see him standing in the middle of it is not normal.

I slowly approach him and catch a glimpse of him staring at the canvas with a blank face. His hand pulls at the back of his hair so harshly, his nape is red, and his knuckles are white.

“Lotus flower?” I call, but he doesn’t make any sign of acknowledging my existence.

So I move in front of him, blocking his view of the canvas.

He looks straight through me as if his body is here, but his soul is floating somewhere else. I reach for his hand and pause when I feel how stiff he is, as if he’s hardening his body against a threat.

What the fuck is messing with you, Bran?

I have to apply pressure to peel his fingers from his hair one by one. My chest squeezes when I see brown strands in his hand.

“Brandon?”

I circle his nape, stroking the spot he abused. “Baby, look at me.”

My lips brush against his and they twitch. When I pull back, I find him watching me with bemused, lost eyes.

“Nikolai? When did you get here?”

“Just now,” I lie, my fingers still caressing his nape. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. Your skin is pale and you’re standing in the middle of a mess.”