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

I place a hand in my pocket and stand beside him. “You’re in my spot.”

Landon’s head whips in my direction, sporting his slimy smirk. Although he shares Bran’s physical traits, Landon is buffer and much more loathsome. If it weren’t for the identical features, no one would think they’re siblings. Where Bran is calm and a fucking asshole behind closed doors, Landon is an asshole openly. Antagonistic and completely unhinged.

I still haven’t forgiven him for kidnapping Kill, even if my cousin let it go to keep his relationship with Glyn intact.

“Don’t see your name on it, big man,” he says with that same smirk, and the only reason I don’t punch him in the face is because it’s a mirror of Bran’s.

Can’t stand the fucking guy.

“Lan?” Bran shows up, looking not one bit flustered. As if he didn’t get on my last fucking nerve a minute ago.

He carefully slides into his seat, keeping his attention on his pretentious brother. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard you and Glyn were catching up, so I wanted to join. I didn’t think there would be unwanted company, though.”

“Watch your mouth,” Kill grits and Glyn presses on his hand as if stopping him from punching her brother, who definitely deserves to be sent to the moon with a hole in his goddamn face.

“Bran, little bro.” Landon wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Why were you sitting beside Nikolai? Stupidity can be contagious, you know.”

This fucking—

Before I can kick him, Bran pushes him away. “That’s rude. Apologize, Lan.”

“Me? Apologizing?” He bursts out laughing. “Good one, Bran. You’re effortlessly funny.”

“I apologize on my brother’s behalf,” he says, barely looking at me.

Christ. This fucking asshole, I swear. I glare at him and he ducks his head, cutting off eye contact like the coward he is.

“What’s going on here?” Lan snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Hey, you. Eyes off my brother before I fucking blind you.”

“Lan!” Glyn chastises.

Bran lifts his head and the fear I see in his gaze makes me sick to my stomach.

He’s so terrified about the notion that anyone could find out about us that he looks like he’s on the verge of throwing up.

“I’m out of here,” I announce and leave without a look behind.

Fuck the lot of them. Starting with Brandon fucking King.

I walk back to the mansion and then take my Harley on a ride along the seashore. But neither the air nor the vibrations of the bike lighten my mood.

After half an hour, I park by the beach and pull out my phone.

I find a text from the bane of my fucking existence.

Bran



Thank you and I’m sorry.





Motherfucker.

Me



What for?





Bran



I’m sorry for how I spoke. Thank you for leaving and not clashing with Lan.





Listen, I think he’s suspicious about something.





So?





It’s best I keep my distance from the penthouse for now.





Typical Brandon. Running away at the first sign of danger seems to be your modus operandi.





You don’t know Lan. He’s like a dog. If he comes sniffing around, he’ll find out everything.





And that’s such a fucking tragedy?





Nikolai, please. Don’t do this.





You know what? I am doing this. I don’t have time for spineless, indecisive assholes. I’m neither your plaything nor your booty call.





What does that mean?





Go find yourself another toy. We’re done.





Oh, wait. We were never anything in the first place. Delete my number.





21





BRANDON





I’ve never been addicted to anything, so I didn’t realize how notoriously painful it is to go through withdrawal.

It’s been two weeks since Nikolai told me we were done—in a text—and I’m still not over the bursts of loneliness.

Two weeks and it’s getting worse, not better.

It’s not your common withdrawal, after all. Or maybe I’m just a newbie at this entire thing and don’t have the foggiest clue about how to handle these types of situations.

Sometimes, the pain and nausea get too much and I’m smothered by the black ink and have to purge it out.

Somehow.

Anyhow.

I’ve seen my blood more often than not in the past two weeks. The other day, I let it flow and flow until I lost consciousness in the bathroom. A part of me wished I’d never wake up.

A part of me prayed for it as I lay on the bathroom floor, my eyes blurred with moisture and my heart too tired to keep pumping life into my useless body.

My brain checked out and my thoughts came to terms with how utterly fucking tired I am.

Of myself.

Of everything.

I still am.

My brush ghosts over the canvas, adding strokes of warm colors, intertwining and mixing them until they match my hollow insides.

Art is the only thing that keeps me grounded. I don’t even go to practice anymore after I purposefully sprained my ankle.