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

“Okay, Mom,” I mock.

He yanks the clothes from my hands with an exasperated sigh and puts them in with his—except the white shirt that he has on the rack near the balcony door. No whites with colors is apparently a rule when doing laundry.

He reaches into the cabinet above him and brings out the detergent, softener, and some other thing that’s apparently good for the skin. Once he’s done with that useless routine, he sets the washing machine program.

Then he walks to the kitchen, puts the kettle on—that he bought, because I couldn’t care less for tea—and retrieves some herbal tea infusions that have remained untouched since he stopped coming here.

I can’t help standing there and watching him move around the area as if he never left. His movements are easier now, and he no longer looks like he’s walking on thin ice around me.

“You don’t have milk?” he asks, head shoved in the fridge.

“No, Grandma,” I mock again.

He glares at me. “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?”

“Completely unorganized. You’re no different than a savage.”

I throw my weight on the sofa and splay my arm on the back. “More like you’re neurotically organized.”

“I just like things in order.”

“Isn’t that a thing called OCD?”

“No, it’s not. Don’t throw those terms around if you don’t understand them.”

“Yes, sir.”

He grabs the kettle and gives me the side-eye. “Are you done being sarcastic?”

“Are you done nitpicking?”

He shakes his head with clear displeasure.

Usually, I’d grin and even get in his space, but I’m trying to be cold, so I just watch him.

I missed having him here, even if he’s always being an asshole about everything. It was like a fucking prison without him.

Right now, it feels as if he never left.

He pours the hot water in a transparent pot over the herbs, then he puts it on a tray with two cups and brings it over.

Bran sits across from me with the tray on the coffee table between us. The sound of the thunderstorm and pouring rain is the only noise for a while.

“What’s the stupid herbal tea name this time?”

“Lemon and ginger,” he says and then looks at his watch to measure the time.

If it were the past, I would’ve filled the silence and pounced on any opportunity to talk to him, be near him. I would’ve been right beside him by now, either coaxing his head on my thigh or using his as a pillow.

Right now, however, I force myself to remain both still and silent, my fingers digging into the back of the sofa to stop them from doing something stupid and ruining my plan.

Bran stares at his watch for what seems like forever before he finally looks up and releases a long sigh. “Why did you bring me here?”

“To hear your answer to my question earlier. Do you want us to be over?”

His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows. Lightning strikes, casting a harsh glow on his handsome face as thunder rumbles in the distance. The silence stretches for a few heavy seconds before he bows his head and shakes it once.

I have to suppress a smile because, fuck me, he’s so damn hot.

Can I just fuck him?

No, Kolya. Control your fucking libido for once and stay on standby.

“Use your words. And look at me.”

He slowly lifts his head, his eyes plunging into mine. Rain beating down on the roof lingers for a few agonizing beats before he speaks in a strained voice. “Do I have to say it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t want to end it.” His voice is so low, I can barely hear him. “Happy now?”

“No.”

“What… Why?”

“I won’t go back to the way things were.”

His lips part and he pulls on his stupid hair as his voice comes out strained, choked, even. “Then why did you ask? Why did you bring me here? Is this…a game?”

“Maybe.”

“If you think you can play me—”

“Why the fuck can’t I? Didn’t you play me enough?”

“I…did not.”

“We have different opinions about that.” I lean closer in my seat. “Here’s how it will go, Brandon. I don’t give a fuck if you come out or not. That’s your decision. But you will not leave after every time either.”

“But everyone at home—”

“I’m not hearing it. If you want me, this is how you’ll get me.”

“And if I can’t?”

“The door is right there. Don’t let it hit you on the way out.”

The veins in his neck nearly pop and he grabs his hair tighter, pulling, tugging. I can see the war in his eyes and I don’t like it. I don’t like that he’s hurting himself, and part of me wants to stop it.

But I don’t. Because Bran is the type who needs to be pushed off his high fucking horse.

He’s teetering on the edge, I can feel it and taste his conflict in the air.

One more shove.

I take out my phone. “What’s it going to be, posh boy? Let me know if you’re leaving so I can call someone else.”

His eyes flash in terrifying rage and he drops his hand as his muscles tighten. No more conflict or anxiety rolls off him in waves. The only thing that remains is the coiling anger that hardens his eyes.