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

Women are soft and pliant and should be worshipped. Men are to be used.

Who am I kidding? Both are to be used.

And he’s not one of my men. Jesus Christ. The fuck is wrong with my thought process?

Must be the lack of sleep. Has to be.

Only psychos wake up this early every day for a satanic ritual.

Sure enough, he retrieves his phone from his armband—of course the prick has an armband. Goes so well with his pristine clean image—and snaps a picture of the sky, then his fingers tap on the screen.

I grab my phone—from my shorts pocket like a normal human being—and check the story.

It’s an aesthetic picture containing part of the gate and the looming sun. #NewDay

That’s literally the only hashtag he uses on these posts, as if he’s planning to kill his audience with the repetitive caption.

Brandon tucks his phone back into the armband and touches the earbuds in his ears, elegantly, I might add, as if he’s handling a million-dollar painting.

All his movements are slow, unhurried. No, not slow. Controlled. His favorite uptight behavior seems to pour from him in everything he does.

I bet he doesn’t know how to have fun.

I’d feel bad for him if I weren’t itching to tackle him to the ground and pummel his beautiful face a few times.

Though beautiful isn’t quite the right word. He’s not pretty like a girl or beautiful like a colorful flower on the side of the road. He’s handsome.

Sharp jawline, hard eyes, straight nose, and a set of full lips that would look divine around a cock.

Kolya wholeheartedly agrees, considering the significant change in his moody state. I have to adjust my erection and shake my head.

Stop thinking about Brandon and dick. They obviously don’t mesh.

In fact, the logical thing to do is turn around and leave.

But then again, I was never much of a logical person.

If I don’t stay, I’ll come back tomorrow. And if I leave tomorrow, I’ll return the day after.

It’s an itch at this point.

As Brandon starts running down the road, I release a sigh, tuck my phone back in my shorts, and follow right after.

I’m just gonna find out if he’s as confused as Gareth, and if he is, I’ll help offer pointers. Consider it charity work.

That’s it.

That’s all.

I catch up to him in no time, keeping a few yards between us. His back muscles ripple beneath his shirt and his hamstrings extend and repress, causing his shorts to ride up his thighs with every step.

Hypnotic.

My gaze keeps flitting to the round globes of his ass, though, all peachy and shit.

If he’s straighter than straight, it’s such a shame to leave that ass empty.

Brandon seems lost in whatever is playing in his ears, because he doesn’t notice when I close the distance between us.

I keep running at his pace right behind him.

Now, I know I’m supposed to be on a stalkerish mission, but it’s impossible to stay away from his spellbinding pull.

Fuck it.

I pluck one of his AirPods out and whisper into his ear, “Long time no see. Miss me?”





4





BRANDON





I’m a creature of habit.

Neurotically so. In every sense of the word.

Without my carefully laid-out routine, I’d crumble and crash into a million irreparable pieces.

Without my punctual set of actions, I’m nothing.

So every day, I wake up at five. No exception—not during holidays, not after a night of drinking or partying or doing whatever is expected from a uni student. Five. Always. Every single day.

Then I put on my clothes, do a smoothie, and go for a run at five thirty. Back at seven. Shower. Breakfast. Wallow in my studio for another hour or two. Then school. Then I go to practice with the lacrosse team. More wallowing. Talking, smiling, laughing, caring, texting, liking, being.

Existing.

Day in and day out, I have to exist. To be out there and fucking stay there. In the middle of people with blurry faces and names and personalities.

All day, I tell myself that I belong with them and that I’m not in fact battling with incessant nausea that saturates my lungs with every breath. That’s what I do best.

Pretend. Swallow it all down. Smile.

Again and again and fucking again until I can crawl back to my studio, stare at my soul in the form of a blank canvas, then shower longer than necessary. I scrub myself clean, turning my skin as red as a tomato, and that’s the only way I can tune out for the day.

Then I have herbal tea and go to sleep at ten thirty.

That is, if I’m not dragged to a party by my friend Remi, who likes to have fun on an everyday basis.

Sometimes, I can shoo him away and keep to my sleeping schedule, but other times, he’ll be armed with our other friends and I can’t say no.

Rejecting invitations constantly doesn’t fit well in the pretending agenda, now, does it?

My inconsistent sleeping schedule scratches at my neurotic side like an unreachable itch, but I deal with it.

Logically.

By waking up at five the next day and resuming the cycle.

That’s why I nearly lost it after that godforsaken initiation I shouldn’t have set foot into.

That event was a major deviation from my usual habits, and it took me more than just waking up at five to get over it.