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

Anyway, this bunch of assholes ended up being victims of my sour mood because they happened to be here.

Not because I followed Brandon like a creepy stalker or anything equally stupid.

Okay, maybe I did, but it was only for two blocks. Maybe three.

Fine. Five.

But none of that matters.

The fact that I get to decorate my hand with their deplorable blood does. Fucker who caught Brandon by the shirt is now spluttering blood on the ground, half conscious, while I humble his friends.

One of them ran away, but oh well, I have my hands completely full with the other two. I punch and kick them, reveling in the sound of bones cracking beneath my fingers.

There’s nothing I love more than having power over some cunts who happened to be in the wrong place at the very fucking wrong time.

A red haze covers my vision as I go on and on and fucking on until they realize I might actually kill them—great possibility—then grab each other and flee the scene.

They’re limping, grunting, and cursing on their way to what can only be the hospital. Probably the police, too, but I don’t give a fuck at this point.

In fact, maybe I shouldn’t have let them go and introduced them to their maker instead.

Red still covers my vision as I catch a glimpse of onlookers gathered around, eyes agape, and some of them were probably filming the whole thing, considering the phones.

I flash them my signature ‘back the fuck off’ look and they slowly disperse, lowering their heads and continuing with their debauchery.

Now I have nothing to distract me from the actual cause of this damn ruse. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t instigated violence before just because, but this time, it definitely wasn’t random.

It’s because of the asshole I’ve been tracking in my peripheral vision, even while I was having my fingers soaked with blood.

Usually, I don’t see anything through the satisfying red. But this time, I was more focused on Brandon and if he’d faint or escape.

He did neither.

The whole time, he stood rooted in place, his eyes wide, pupils dilated and lips parted.

His gaze meets mine and remains there, not attempting to avoid me like he usually does.

He must be so fucking drunk, because he stares at me, mouth hanging open, without his dash of uptight disdain.

Fuck this guy, seriously.

I’m so over him and his perfectly pressed pants, tucked-in shirts, and leather shoes. I’m over the way he looks to be in control but still appears hopelessly clueless at times.

Like right now.

His flawless golden-boy image is cracked at the seams—totally because of the alcohol he kept chugging the entire time I was there—and a pink flush covers his cheeks.

A few strands have escaped his styled hair, giving him a rugged edge. Rebellious. It’s safe to say he’s not caught under the rigid spell of his steel-like control.

At least, temporarily.

Momentarily.

I would’ve been all over that shit a few weeks ago, but now, I have to remove myself from his vicinity before I finish off the night by punching him.

He got on my nerves enough by doing everything wrong earlier in the pub. From the way he pretended I was invisible, to saying he’d been in love, to denying we ever did anything.

Every. Fucking. Thing.

Now, I have to leave so I won’t throttle the fuck out of him.

This is why I’ve stayed away. Why I’ve removed myself from any situation he’s in or any environment where he can exist.

I see him, and I’m burning.

The harder I’ve tried to stay away, the wilder my obsession with him has grown.

I just can’t fucking help it.

When I brush past him, I stop and swipe two fingers beneath his jaw and subtly lift up, causing his mouth to finally close. “Might want to stop staring or I’ll think you have a crush on me or something equally crazy.”

I expect him to push me away, but the alcohol must’ve numbed his brain, because he just stares. Unblinking. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down with a swallow, and did his breathing pick up just now?

It takes me considerable energy to pull my fingers away, and that’s when I notice I’ve left smudges of blood near his jaw. I have to suppress a groan at the sight, so I camouflage it with a smirk. “Oops, got blood all over your shiny image. My bad.”

I don’t even attempt to apologize as I wrench my eyes from him and continue on my way. I need to punch a few other things. Here’s an idea, force Jeremy to give me a mission where I can torture some people and put the fear of the devil in their souls—

Something pulls on my T-shirt and I frown. If one of those sorry fucks came back for round two…

My thoughts trail off when I see two long fingers curled in the material so firmly, it stretches beneath the pressure.

I stare up at Brandon, and the way he looks at me does shit I definitely do not approve of. He’s like a kicked fucking puppy, which is miles apart from his usual condescending asshole image.

“Thank you,” he whispers softly, almost airily.

Fuck this asshole and that deep voice of his.

I have to get out of here.

No. Not have. It’s a fucking need at this point or I might really do shit I’ll regret.

And Jer isn’t here to stop me.

“I didn’t do it for you. I just wanted someone to punch and they happened to be there.” I start to move again, but he tugs harder on my T-shirt.