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

He doesn’t move, not even one inch, as if his brute fingers are now an extension of my nape.

“Let go,” I say or, more accurately, order. I’m nice and pleasant until someone oversteps, which Nikolai has been doing with flying colors since he surprised the shit out of me.

“In a hurry to go somewhere?”

“More like, I don’t appreciate being touched, especially if the hands are filthy.”

He stares at his free palm under the slowly setting sun that casts an orange glow on his haphazard jet-black hair. He glances at the dried blood as if he forgot it was there and lifts a casual shoulder. “You’ll get used to it.”

Get used to what?

Is this freak high or something?

I wouldn’t be surprised if he snorted coke like a nineties rock star and smoked more weed than Bob Marley’s fan club before this damned initiation.

“Let. Go,” I repeat in a firm voice and push at his arm with all my strength.

He loosens his grip but doesn’t release me.

An appreciative hum falls from somewhere in his throat. “Bossy. I like it. But you know what I like more? Your posh little accent. Question. Does it sound the same when you say crude things?”

I narrow my eyes. What on earth is wrong with this twat? Did someone hit him upside the head?

“This is the third and final time I’m telling you this. Let. Go.”

“Why?” He strokes his fingers near my hairline and that wave of something that’s not nausea courses through my veins in flashes of bright yellow. “I rather like it here.”

“I don’t.” I tighten my muscles against the morbid unease flooding my bloodstream. “You disgust me.”

“Yeah?” His eyes, the color of midnight-blue sky, twinkle with pure sadism as he leans closer and murmurs, “Even better.”

His warm breaths skim the side of my neck. My jaw clenches and it takes everything in me to ward off the discomfort that’s still not nausea.

Not in the least.

The sensation spreads from where his fingers glide over my nape and ends at my earlobe, where he whispered.

I need out of here. Now.

I reach to the ground behind me and grab the first object I find and then haul it square against his face.

He loses his hold on my neck and I don’t wait to see his reaction as I jump up and sprint behind the bushes.

Fast.

Not looking behind.

I run as if we’re in overtime during a game and the team depends on me passing the ball to the attackers.

It’s me against the screwed-up notion of time. It’s always been that way.

The sense of apprehension is replaced by a shot of adrenaline and the inherent need to escape.

Far.

So far.

A dark figure nearly slams into me and we both skid to a halt right before we crash into one another.

Red Mask.

He’s carrying his bloody baseball bat and watches me as if I’m an insect that crossed his path.

The rush of adrenaline slowly dissipates and a tremor spreads in my limbs like wildfire.

Stop shaking.

Stop shaking, you damn weakling.

Stop!

I nearly manage to crack the sudden sporadic emotions, but disgust lurches from my stomach to my throat faster than I can blink.

The distinctive smell of alcohol, cigarettes, bergamot, and the stench of metallic blood envelops me.

No.

No.

No.

I glance behind me and my eyes clash with Nikolai’s darker ones. They’re more unhinged than a witch during a pagan funeral, bloodshot and filled with a promise of drawing blood.

My blood.

Not allowing myself to think about it, I walk in Red Mask’s direction. He can hit me with that bat, for all I care. Maybe I’ll be lucky and will lose consciousness and, therefore, can remove my brain from this situation.

“Look, I caught a stray cat.” Nikolai’s rough voice sounds like the trigger for nightmares. “He just wouldn’t stop running, you know, and has a temper. Threw a whole fucking branch at my face and nearly knocked me out. Gotta love the motherfucking feisty ones. They’re so fun to break into pieces.”

I stride to Red Mask, who studies me up and down and then lifts the bat.

Finally.

It’s done.

It’s over.

I’ll go back to a world where I don’t cross paths with these wastes of human—

A heavy weight lands on my back, and I flinch as a strong arm wraps around my neck and nearly crushes my windpipe.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t—

Survival instinct kicks in and I elbow Nikolai with every ounce of energy I have left. He might as well be a wall because not only does he not release me, but he also tightens his grip.

Panic stiffens my muscles and I push with feral strength and bite him at some point, but Nikolai doesn’t flinch. He drags me behind the trees, my feet scraping the ground, and I open my mouth to call for help, even if it’s from another damned Heathen.

Nikolai slams another hand on my mouth, digging the mask against my lips. “Shhh. I’m going to need you to shut the fuck up.”

My words come in mumbled, haunted sounds, like in those creepy horror movies where the nerd dies first.

That’s me. I’m the nerd.

In a last-ditch attempt, I throw the entirety of my weight back. My muscle mass doesn’t compare to his, but I work out a lot.