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

“Don’t ever do that again.” He pants against my lips, his fingers pulling on my hair until it’s painful. “Don’t you fucking dare walk away from me or ghost me. I don’t give a fuck if you’re on a high or a murder spree. I couldn’t care less if you hurt me. You don’t come to me when you’re only okay, you come to me at all times. Am I fucking understood?”

I lick his bottom lip then bite down. “You don’t hide from me, either. I want you raw. Am I fucking clear?”

His hot breath whooshes out in harsh pants against my mouth. “What if you don’t like what you see?”

“Not sure if you noticed it, but I like everything about you—your control-freak tendencies and nagging included.”

I’m about to seal that with another kiss when I register commotion behind me.

While I don’t usually stop when there’s an audience, this isn’t just anyone. It’s my Bran.

It takes me a godly amount of effort to release him and step back.

Bran looks at me with unconcealed disappointment as he’s forced to let me go. I quickly wipe his mouth with the sleeve of my jacket, but I’m afraid nothing can hide his swollen lips.

Or mine.

Christ.

I’m thinking of the best way to deal with that, but it’s too late.

Bran’s eyes grow in size as an older male voice booms in the air. “Morning, Princess.”

“More like night,” a feminine voice says, followed by a yawn.

I turn around so that I’m standing beside Bran as I watch an older version of him with blond hair wrapping an arm around the waist of a smaller woman who creepily resembles Glyn.

He smiles at her as they walk to the kitchen. “Son, are you up—”

His voice is cut off when he lifts his head and notices me standing beside his son.

When I took the first flight from the States, I hadn’t had much sleep. My only thought was to get Bran back, so don’t expect me to have had the foresight to realize I’d actually see his parents.

And judging by his father’s hardening features, I would say it’s not going well.

An idea pops into my head and I’m actually goddamn proud of how quick-witted I am.

“Hi, good morning,” I say with my most welcoming smile that I only show my parents. “I’m Bran’s friend from school.”

His mom smiles. “Are you, by any chance, Nikolai?”

I steal a glance at Bran. Did he mention me?

Jesus Christ. Am I supposed to be this happy that he said my name in front of his parents?

And why is he not freaking out like whenever we’re in the same public place?

If anything, his expression is peaceful.

This is starting to creep me the fuck out.

So imagine my fucking surprise when he threads his fingers through mine and smiles at his parents. “Yeah, Mum. This is Nikolai and he’s more than just a friend.”





32





LEVI





He can’t possibly be worse than Killian.

Anyone is better than Killian.

It was an exaggeration on Bran’s part to emotionally prepare me.

Again, no one can be worse than Killian.

Those were the thoughts I had before I went to bed last night, and I woke up today in a proper fantastic mood.

Until now.

Or, more accurately, since I walked into the kitchen and saw the motherfucking gangster who’s built like a fucking wall, standing beside my son.

I knew it was the little fucker Nikolai before Bran even introduced him. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out when Bran’s lips were all swollen and the bastard’s long hair was finger-raked.

Dear fucking God, I know you’re out there somewhere and I beg you, take this arsehole and give my son a normal lover. Just once, I want fucking normal.

First I get a psycho son. Okay, fine. Love that. Best challenge of my life and pretty sure I passed it. I didn’t need to have my daughter with a psycho boyfriend.

And now, it’s the psycho’s psycho fucking cousin.

What the fuck have I done to deserve that? Was I a mass murderer in a past life or something?

“Levi!” My wife pulls on my shirt’s sleeve from her position on the table beside me. “You’re staring.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was supposed to be fucking glaring,” I say loud enough for everyone to hear.

We’re sitting around the dining table for breakfast. We had to order takeout from the local bakery because I’m not in the right headspace to cook anything.

And it’s all because of the fucking wanker on my left, right beside my son. I narrow my eyes at the full sleeves of tattoos decorating both his arms. Motherfucking gangster. A delinquent bastard who’s in no way fit to be with my well-mannered, completely selfless son.

My son who’s hidden himself so as not to bother us—his own parents. His closest flesh and blood.

Why would he end up with Killian’s more unruly cousin? At least that waste of space is presentable. This one looks like he was chewed up in a tattoo gun, broke the fucking thing, and got spit right out.

Don’t get me wrong. I have tattoos and so does Lan, but we’re not covered in them like damn mafiosos.

Astrid clears her throat and smiles at Nikolai, who had the decency to put his fork and knife down when I spoke.