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

15





NIKOLAI





Today is the perfect recipe for violence.

It started with Jer and me riding our bikes into the wind and beating up a few Serpents, doing some old-fashioned house cleaning on the island and teaching them a few valuable lessons. Naturally, that included drawing blood and breaking bones.

While I felt a rush at the time, and Jeremy had to stop me from beating a fuckwit to death, the intoxication disappeared as soon as we got back to the mansion.

I slept in the pool—sorry, I mean meditated—but that didn’t stop me from spiraling down that chaos-driven hole.

There are these times when I’m in the mood to destroy everything—myself included. A high without the drugs. Insanity without the straight jacket.

And it is some form of a mental illness—at least, according to the hotshot psychiatrists my parents took me to the first time I beat a kid to near death for calling Mia a mute. At the age of ten.

Apparently, it’s normal to feel offended on my sister’s behalf and want to rip the other kid a new one. Everyone feels anger. It’s okay, it’s normal.

What’s abnormal, however, is me insisting that the kid should die, have his tongue cut out and shoved down his throat.

Yeah, that one didn’t go over well with any of the people dressed in white in that spotless room. Even my mom, who’s a goddamn leader in the Russian mafia, was concerned about my violent tendencies that manifested early.

More concerned than the time I used my wiener as a gun.

I seem to do that a lot to my dear mama. I worry her to no end and probably keep her up at night thinking about my shenanigans. She’s supportive, though, and often softens her voice when she tells me to be careful when I’m in this mood.

The destructive mood. The red haze mood.

The mood in which the world is full of featureless people with black plastic bags strapped around their heads, waiting to be punched to death.

A mood where everyone and everything grates on my last fucking nerve and I’m better off staying away from the people I love, namely my sisters, my cousins, and Jeremy.

But Kill insisted on fighting me tonight. He’s the only one without enough brain cells to avoid me when I’m like this, but then again, he always says I’m much more fun when I’m exhaling chaotic violence into the world.

It’s the only time he can relate since he’s a bit of a psycho himself.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love this mode, especially this morning when Jeremy gave me the chance to embark on that thrill of hunting down slimy cunts and teaching them a lesson. Jeremy knows what I need, which is why he’s like the best bro ever.

The only friend who can tolerate my crazy and gives me methods to counter the way my chaotic brain presses on my sanity.

I’m not a docile kitten outside this state of hyper mania—I’ll always want to beat up things for sport. However, at least then I can tell my thoughts apart. I can see the world in colors other than red.

I can see people’s features.

Having had manic episodes since puberty, I’m used to it. I’m so used to it that I have it completely under control.

Today is different.

Today, I jumped off a tree, rolled down a cliff, and fell from my bike. I swam until I nearly had a heart attack.

But that’s the problem. My heart rate hasn’t gone down. Not once. Not when I tried to inhale and exhale slowly. Not when I forced myself to remain still for…five minutes.

I haven’t been able to fucking breathe properly, and whenever I do, my lungs fill with the same fucking red mist that’s blinding my eyes.

Every second of every minute, I’m itching and burning to erase it. And for years, the only way I’ve been able to do that is to beat people the fuck up.

There are also pills, but fuck those right the fuck off. They kill my mind, take away my inhibitions, and nearly drowned me in the pool the last time I took them.

I know how to keep myself in check without their unwanted help. They’re not helping anyway. They just turn me into a fucking zombie, and no one likes that fucked-up guy.

I pace the length of the locker room back and forth, back and forth like a caged gladiator in Roman times.

The crowd’s cheers reach me from outside, buzzing on my skin as if I’m being stung by a thousand bees.

People love the adrenaline of seeing violence. They love the crunching of bones and the spilling of blood. There’s something intoxicating about watching two people shred each other a new one.

And I get off on the screams. The chants. The enchanted look in their eyes. It’s why I usually take a few of them home for a fuck fest that always takes place afterward.

Sex and violence go hand in hand with me. A high. A release. A perfect synergy of fucked-up energy.

Tonight, however, I have absolutely no intention of continuing this tradition. I haven’t for several weeks.

Fucking Kolya and his stupid imaginary chastity belt.

Though he’s not chaste—it’s blasphemy to call him that. He’s just become selective and is only into a certain reluctant asshole.

At the mere thought of my lotus flower, my cock twitches to life, tenting against my shorts.

See. He’s still a dick, just not for everyone.

Pacing the length of the dimly lit locker room, I stare at my phone that’s been gripped in my hand for the past…fuck knows how long.