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

“You’ll be there, right, Bran?” Grace asks me with her posh, slightly snobbish upper-class accent.

Grace Bruckner is indeed a household name. She has three artists under her wing, all of whom are world-renowned and have bagged multiple awards. She’s about Mum’s age but couldn’t be any more different.

She dresses in red most of the time. Even now, she has on a red camisole, heels, earrings, and lipstick. The only different color is her black pencil skirt.

Her platinum blonde hair falls to her shoulders in a perfect bob, and she often wears a fake smile, probably because of the Botox.

“Sure. Anything for Mum.” I smile and my mother gives me heart eyes.

“Lan, too?” Grace pushes.

“You’ll have to ask him. He’s been…quite busy lately.”

“Apparently, he has a girlfriend who’s keeping him in line.” Mum’s words drip with glee like when I first told her about Mia and how she’s possibly taming her ‘wild child.’

“In line?” Dad scoffs. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“You have my word, Dad. I’ve never seen him dedicated to anyone like he is to her. He even asked me for lessons in empathy.”

“That seems serious.”

“Dead serious.”

“How charming.” Grace takes a sip of her wine. “What about you, Bran? Any girlfriend?”

Pain rips through me at that and I choose to remain silent as I stuff my face full of food.

“No one?” she insists.

“Forget it, Grace. Bran likes to keep his relationships to himself.” Mum laughs. “Maybe one day we’ll get to meet your special someone, hon.”

Fat chance.

“So, Bran.” Grace leans forward in her seat. “I’m sure Astrid told you, but I’m officially considering signing you. Can you make time for us to discuss this further? Preferably in the studio, where I can see your recent work.”

“How about Glyn?” I ask.

She continues sipping her rosé wine. “Glyn is still too young and is in the process of developing her style. I’ll wait a few years before I move on to her. Let’s focus on you now.”

“Isn’t that exciting?” Mum grins at me. “We can do exhibitions together in the future.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” Grace agrees. “In fact, depending on what I see, I think we might be able to slip a painting or two into your upcoming exhibition.”

“Oh my God. You can do that?”

“It’s not an easy feat, but I can make it happen for you both.”

“Bran? What do you think?” She smiles so big, it makes me sick to my stomach. “Lev, hon, we need to open a bottle of champagne.”

He gauges my expression. “Are you ready to take this step, son?”

“I…need to think about it.” I dab my lips with the napkin and stand up on slightly unsteady feet. “I have to work on an assignment. Please enjoy the rest of your dinner.”

I walk out of the dining room with a calm I don’t feel. Instead of going to the studio, I take the stairs and head to my room.

As soon as I’m inside, I fall on the bed headfirst and wish I could suffocate myself with the fucking pillow.

Black ink creeps over me, pushing weight on my back until I’m panting for air.

I reach underneath the pillow and snatch my Swiss Army knife, then yank away my watch and hold the blade against my wrist.

One cut. A small one.

I just need to breathe.

I want to fucking breathe.

My phone vibrates and I startle. When I see the name lighting the screen, I let the knife fall to the mattress.

Nikolai.

The more the phone vibrates, the harder I breathe, scrabbling, fighting for air that doesn’t exist. My trembling finger hovers over the screen like every time he calls, but like always, I don’t answer.

One missed call appears on the screen.

Then, as usual, a text follows.

Nikolai



Answer the fucking phone.





I open his texts and flip onto my back to read them, inhaling deeply, holding it in my churning stomach, then puffing out the air in a long, shaky exhale.

Little by little, I can feel the ink retreating to the shadows, even if its invisible hands are still strangling my cursed wrist.

I scroll up, reading all the texts he’s sent since I left the island after I made sure Lan’s wrist was safe.

At that time, I needed to get away from it all and figured being with my parents was the perfect solution.

I’m not so sure anymore.

It hurts everywhere, whether I’m on the island or here.

Still, I can’t help rereading his texts. They’ve gone from raging to pleading to raging again. He calls me twenty times a day like a damn stalker.

A couple of days ago, he stopped the texts and calls altogether, so I thought he’d given up, but he called me just now. What does that mean?

Am I supposed to feel hopeful because of it?

I exit the texts and open Instagram, then go to his profile like a junkie. He hasn’t posted anything for a long time, but I scroll through the old pictures. As if I don’t have every single one saved on my phone in a special folder.

A knock startles me before Mum’s voice filters through. “Bran, hon, you awake?”