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

And he’s half naked.

Fuck. Me.

I’ve always thought he had a firm, toned body, with all the feeling up I’ve practiced like a religion whenever he’s within arm’s reach. But I didn’t think I’d be fucking foaming at the mouth just because I’m seeing him wearing only shorts.

He’s lean, but well-fucking-built. A smooth plane of chest muscles and protruding abs that end in a delicious V-line that’s unfortunately half hidden by the shorts.

Not a single blemish or tattoo in sight. He’s all smooth skin and marble-like in his beauty, my lotus flower.

His fingers uncurl from around Clara’s elbow when he gets her to a small corner to the side.

I tiptoe toward them in an epic show of stalkerish tendencies until I’m standing by the corner, close enough to hear and see them in full fucking HD.

“I told you not to come to the changing room, Clara. It’s not a place for a woman.”

She pouts like a fucking child and runs her hands, which will soon be broken, up his chest. “I was just so stoked for your win. I wanted to take a victory pic, babe.”

He is not your fucking babe.

I want to drill that into her head and watch as her skull splinters to pieces.

She takes out her phone and wraps her arm around his waist, and they both fake-smile at the camera.

Once the photo is taken, his smile vanishes and he looks bored out of his fucking mind.

It’s supposed to make me happy, but I can’t stop glaring at her claws all over him.

“You’re so handsome.” She slides her fingers through his hair and gets on her tiptoes to kiss him.

Bran turns his head at the last second and her lips touch his cheek.

I can’t describe the level of satisfaction that rushes through me at the sight.

He doesn’t want her to kiss him.

His so-called girlfriend can’t even kiss him.

She doesn’t seem to be surprised or hurt by the rejection as she smiles and pulls back. “Will help you wind down later, okay, babe?”

He gives a noncommittal nod and she leaves hesitantly, her eyes scanning over him before she finally removes her irritating presence from the situation.

Lotus flower releases an exasperated sound and turns to go back to the locker room.

But before he takes another step, my hand shoots out and I grab him by the throat, slamming him against the wall.

He releases the most delicious startled sound, similar to the one he rewarded my ears with that night he finally lost control. I’d appreciate it more if I wasn’t in the mood to punch him in his handsome face.

His eyes widen and a mixture of emotions rush to his features. Confusion, anger, fear, but also lust. Fucking bright and buzzing beneath the wall of his wavering control.

Even his words are careful, unsure, and tense. “What…are you doing here?”

“Came to watch you play, but I got to watch something entirely different just now. I clearly remember that I told you to lose her, didn’t I?”

He tries to push my hand away, but at this point, it’d be much easier to kill me than make me release him. I steal a look at the fingers of his left hand, and all five of them are covered in Band-Aids. He wouldn’t tell me how he hurt them, no matter how many times I asked, but it’s good they’re healing.

“Nikolai…” His tone isn’t as biting as usual. If anything, it’s imploring, begging, frightened. “You need to go. The manager will have a meeting with us in a few and I can’t…”

“You can’t what? You can’t have him see you being crowded into a corner by another guy? Does that scare you, almighty King?”

“Fuck you,” he sneers, the words rolling off my skin like an aphrodisiac.

“You know it turns me on when you talk like that.”

His eyes widen just the slightest and he pushes at my chest. This time, the roles are reversed and I’m wearing a T-shirt while he’s half naked.

When I make no move to give him an inch, he releases a long, tortured exhale. “Just…go.”

“Tell me why you’re still with the bimbo and I might.”

A frown appears between his thick brows and I can see the rage burning hot behind his usually cold eyes.

Brandon King is the epitome of a nice guy. All prim, proper, and kind. He smiles at everyone’s jokes, no matter how corny they are. Checks on the people around him to make sure they’re okay.

He plays lacrosse. Loves his afternoon tea. Volunteers at a fucking animal shelter on the weekends. Donates his paintings to various charities. Participates in marathons for multiple causes. Runs for women's rights. Runs for cancer. Runs for mental health awareness. Runs for abused animals. Runs for climate change.

Let’s say he runs for everything. Tell him to run for a poor worm trapped underground and he’ll be all over that shit.

But here’s the thing that I’ve suspected for some time. It’s an image. I’m not saying he doesn’t care about all of those causes, but he’s using his goody-two-shoes personality as camouflage. A crutch.

He’s repressing, fighting, and struggling.

Against what? I’m not sure.

It’s why I go fucking feral whenever he slips out of his self-imposed shackles and lets his true self show through.

He’s still an asshole, but at least he’s not putting on a fake front.