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

Sure enough, Maya is pulled away from my side and a slender, pretty guy sits on my lap, batting his lashes. “Missed you, Daddy.”

“Eww. You’re so cringe,” Kill says.

“Can’t believe I’m agreeing with Kill, but you so are.” Maya jams her finger in her mouth and makes a vomiting sound.

Simon holds out a palm without looking at them. “Talk to the hand, bitches.”

“Get off. And don’t call my sister a bitch or I’ll choke the fuck out of you.”

“Love it when you choke me, Daddy.”

Jesus. I’m getting flashbacks. Do I sound this desperate when I talk to Bran?

“You’re, like, a year younger than him,” Maya says. “In what world is he your daddy?”

“Daddy is a state of mind, ignorant.”

“Simon, stand up before I knock you off,” I say.

“But I missed you. You haven’t been replying to my texts. I’m so lonely without you.” He leans in to whisper in my ear, “I can’t wait to have your monster cock rail me all the way to heaven, Daddy.”

I swear this used to do something for me.

Now, he’s just annoying and clingy.

You’re annoying and clingy, too, in someone else’s eyes.

I start to push him away but pause when I sense eyes digging holes into my skull.

Who has the audacity to glare at me—

I lift my head and my gaze clashes with none other than Bran’s.

He stands at the cashier with his cousin Creighton and friend Remington. The latter is talking animatedly. Creighton doesn’t seem to be listening, but Bran…

Bran’s entire attention is on me.

Fuck me.

He’s watching me, openly, his body turned in my direction as he narrows his eyes on me. And for a second, I think he’ll come over here and remove Simon or something.

I think he’ll stake a public claim on me.

Instead, his walls build around him one by one. That stupid fucking fake smile curves his lips as he turns to his friends, grabs his drink, and walks out of the coffee shop as if nothing happened.

As if he didn’t even see me.

That fucking—

Rage swirls inside me and I knock Simon over, needing to peel his fingers from my clothes before he finally lets go.

I’m thankful to Maya and Mia, who stop him from following me, because I can’t be responsible for his safety if he gets in the middle of the hurricane coiling inside me.

By the time I get outside, there’s no trace of Bran.

Motherfucking fucker.

I pull out my phone to send him a text and then stop. What the fuck will I say? Offer excuses?

Why the fuck would I when he obviously doesn’t give a fuck?

Jesus fucking Christ.

I feel myself spiraling down that black hole.

Fuck this.

I need to find Jeremy and go on a goddamn hunt. Either that or I will actually hunt my Prince Not-Fucking-Charming down.

And I’m not that desperate.





18





NIKOLAI





At the end of the day, I’m spent.

Violence might be frowned upon by a bunch of ethical elites, but it’s actually the only method that manages to calm me down.

But that’s not exactly the case right now.

I should’ve stayed at the mansion and bugged Jeremy for another mission, to give myself something to do, but I found myself driving my Harley to the penthouse.

The moment I step out of the elevator, I sense something different.

No—I smell it or, more accurately, him. Clover, citrus, and a fucking conundrum.

Sure enough, Bran is sitting on the sofa, legs wide apart, elbows on his knees, and his fingers forming a steeple at his chin.

God-fucking-damn-it. He’s hot.

I can barely stop myself from reaching over and messing up his perfectly styled hair and put-together dark-blue polo shirt and khaki pants.

Mr. GQ reporting for fucking duty.

Upon seeing me, however, he doesn’t seem to be here for round two. His expression is calm and composed, but I can sense the waves of a malicious storm whirling beneath.

Still, I take an immense amount of pride in the fact that he let himself in for the second night in a row.

“I got you something.” He reaches into his pants and throws something at my chest.

I catch it and then frown. “A pack of condoms?”

“Figured you’d need it so you don’t give people STIs.”

“What…?”

He stands up with the same infuriating calm. “Good night, then.”

“Wait—”

The moment I touch his wrist, he whirls around fast and slams me against the wall with an elbow on my throat.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he grits out, his lips so close to mine, he almost kisses me with every word.

I suppress a groan at how fucking sexy he looks when he’s enraged. I take a shit ton of pride in the fact that I’m the only one who sees this side of him—rugged at the edges and different from the golden-boy image he wears in public.

He’s perfect to the outside world but himself with me.

So what do I do? What I do best, of course.

Provoke him more.

“Are you mad about something, my lotus flower? Maybe a certain scene you saw earlier today?”

“Who the fuck do you think you are that I would notice you?”