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

Not that I’m obsessive or anything.

He nudges my thigh with his foot. “Are you mad at me or something?”

“What gave you that idea?”

“You’re not jumping my bones, for one.” He smiles, but it’s forced. “Are you losing interest?”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Hmm.”

He’s silent for a second. “What’s this about? Is it because I told you to stop fighting?”

“I won’t do that.”

“I can tell.”

“As soon as your cousin Creighton comes back to school, I’ll bloody his face, not because of what happened to me, but because he dared to punch you that day. I’ll also fight your precious psycho brother and beat him to a fucking pulp, so you better mentally prepare yourself.”

He gulps, his throat bobbing up and down. “Don’t do that…please.”

“What are you willing to do to stop me?”

“What do you want?”

“Tell me what happened when I got here, and don’t say it was an accident or it was nothing, because I don’t buy that bullshit.”

His face pales and he goes still, his chest rising and falling in a fast rhythm before he breathes slower. “It’s…really nothing.”

“We’re done here. Get the fuck out and leave me alone.”

Bran’s lips part as he blinks at me. So, no, I’ve never really spoken to him in that tone. I always clown around when he’s his grumpy, uptight self, but I’m just sick of this.

I can’t help thinking about what Jeremy said, and it’s messing with my head.

“Nikolai…” Water splashes as he scoots over so that he’s kneeling between my legs and then wraps his arms around my neck.

I meet his wide blue eyes, and for the first time, I don’t soften at the mere view of his face or the heat radiating from his body.

For the first time, I don’t melt into a puddle just because he’s saying my name or touching me.

“Get out.”

He shakes his head and tightens his grip. “I’m sorry.”

“Why the fuck do you keep apologizing as a knee-jerk reaction? It’s fucking pathetic.”

He flinches and drops his arms to either side of him. “I’ll…just leave.”

“Go right ahead. Run away like you do best.”

“What the hell do you expect from me? I try to make it up to you and you lash out. I’ve done nothing to be spoken to in that tone.”

“Nothing? You’re literally hiding me away like I’m your dirty fucking secret. Like you’re ashamed of being with me in front of your precious friends and family, and on top of that, you’re concealing yourself from me. You call that fucking nothing?”

“You said you were okay with it.”

“Maybe I’m not anymore.”

His lips tremble. “Are you…leaving me again?”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t! I wouldn’t love it!” His voice rises and his hand shakes as he looks at me with eyes so fucking sad, it pulls on the heart I’m supposed to be hardening. “Don’t leave me.”

“Then give me something. Anything. I won’t be kept outside your walls. That’s not how this fucking works.”

“Why would you want to learn about me?” He pulls on his hair, fingers tugging until his face is all red. “Just why?”

I get on my knees and shove his hand away. “Stop hurting yourself or I swear to fuck—”

My words are cut off when I catch a glimpse of a Band-Aid beneath his thick watch that he always has on—even when he sleeps. He said it was a gift from his Mom and holds sentimental value and I figured he’s a momma’s boy who loves having a memory of her at all times.

Right now, however, I realize how naive I’ve been.

I clutch his wrist and his eyes grow in size as I start to remove it. Bran goes ballistic and tries to wrench his wrist free. He even punches me in the chest and tries to kick me.

But he doesn’t have a chance. He might be an athlete, but I’m much bigger than him.

I shove him against the side of the tub, my knees on either side of his thighs, caging him in place as I snatch his wrist.

“Don’t, Nikolai. Don’t!” He speaks in a tone I’ve never heard before, all broken and full of panic before he whispers, “Please, I beg you, don’t see that part of me…”

I keep my eyes on his lost ones as I tug the watch free, sending it flying across the floor.

Sure enough, there’s a Band-Aid around his wrist.

“Please,” he begs again, his hand in mine trembling, curling, flexing, twisting away. “Please…”

I rip it off in one go and all air whooshes out of my fucking lungs.

The skin is red over a cut that slashes through the line in his wrist. A few other older cuts line his skin, horizontal to the first, methodically put so they’re never wide enough to exceed the strap of his precious watch.

His hand goes limp in my grip and I stare at his face. Only, he’s looking down at the water, his head bowed, his shoulders defeated.

Jesus fucking Christ.

All my anger disappears. On its behalf, a loathsome feeling rips through me like wildfire.