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

“Did you…” he trails off. “Forget it.”

“If you have something to ask me, just ask.”

His hands land on my hips, his face appearing a bit fragile, vulnerable, even. “Have you thought about your future within the mafia? What your uncle said makes sense and it’s not like you aren’t attracted to women, so you could do it for the image—”

“Don’t finish that or I’ll be pissed at you. Do you think I’d get married or do shit just for the mafia’s sake or an image? Is that what you really think of me?”

His throat works up and down with a gulp. “No, but don’t you need to have kids?”

“I don’t if I don’t want to. It’s my decision and none of anyone else’s business.”

“But wouldn’t being with a guy hurt your position? I know how much you love the thrill of that life, so I’d hate to see you lose it.”

“I won’t. Jeremy, Vaughn, and I will rule over that empire. The two of them are the most important heirs to the Bratva and they don’t give a fuck about my sexuality, so neither will anyone who wants to keep his head in place.”

“Vaughn?”

“The Pakhan’s son. You might have seen him at the initiation. He wore the white mask.”

“Oh, right. But I’ve never seen him around.”

“And you never will—at least, not on the island. He lives in the States and just comes around for the initiations.” I cup his jaw. “Point is, don’t worry your pretty head about my position. I’ll fight tooth and nail for what I want. Is that understood?”

He nods.

I cock my head in the direction of the dining room. “You going to do what you want and ignore the hag?”

“After Mum’s exhibition. And, Nikolai?”

“Hmm?”

“Promise me you won’t talk to Grace.”

“Why not?”

His palms tremble as he wraps them around my cheeks. The agitation in his voice sends my hackles rising in a fraction of a second. “Promise me. Please.”

“Okay, I promise.”

He expels a long breath and then brushes his lips against mine. “Thanks.”

When he releases me, his movements are fluid and he even smiles. “Want to model for me?”

“Always.”

“Wait for me in the studio. I just need to speak to my dad and I’ll be there.” He starts to go but turns around and kisses me again, hard and fast, then whispers against my lips, “I can’t get enough of you, baby.”

And then he leaves as if he didn’t just rip my heart out and take it with him.

Fuck me.

I need to chill the fuck out before I actually kidnap him to a deserted island where I don’t have to share him with anyone else.

I go to wash my hands in the bathroom and as I leave, I catch a glimpse of Grace walking down the hall in my direction.

So I know I promised Bran I wouldn’t talk to her, but she’s the one who stops in front of me. Technically, I’m not the one who broke the promise.

She gives me a once-over as if I’m a cockroach stuck beneath her heel, then lifts her chin with an air of simmering arrogance.

Arms crossed, her witchy long red nails tap impatiently on the arm of her black jacket. “What’s your name again?”

“If you don’t remember it, that could be an early sign of dementia. I suggest you call your doctor.”

“You believe yourself to be funny?”

“Not intentionally.”

“I just don’t see it.”

“Your dementia? No one does at early stages.”

“I don’t see how someone like you”—she does that condescending once-over again—“can be with a gracious man like Bran. It just doesn’t add up.”

“And that’s any of your business because?”

“I don’t like seeing him wasting his talents or time on delinquents such as yourself. You must’ve threatened him with something.”

I lean back against the wall. “Again, I really don’t see why this concerns you. Hate to say it, but you’re starting to sound and look like an annoying Karen. What Bran and I do with our relationship has nothing to do with you. Pick up whatever dignity you have left and walk away.”

“Relationship?” She laughs, the sound throaty and evil. “Relationship, you say. You’re delusional, boy. Bran doesn’t do those.”

“He does with me.”

“You think you know him better than me?” Her voice and face become stone-cold. “You’re nothing in the grand scheme of things.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

She uncrosses her arms and points a finger at me. “It means you should back off and leave him alone.”

“Or what?”

“You don’t want the answer to that.”

“No, I do.”

A wicked look passes through her beady eyes, then she flips her hair. “Give me your number. I’ll send you a goodbye gift.”

After I do just that to mess with her, she walks away with a sway to her hips and a flick of her hair.

Forget about Bran being uncomfortable around her. I don’t like the bitch one bit. There’s a sinister edge that she hides so well in public and shows so readily in private, and that in and of itself is a red flag.