God of Ruin (Legacy of Gods #4) by Rina Kent

“Since you have a memory lapse.” He wraps his fingers around the bishop’s neck and meets my gaze. “I don’t suppose you’ve been around my place lately, no?”

“I don’t even know where your place is,” I type.

“Funny.” He leans forward. “Because I saw footage of my brother inviting you over.”

Shit.

“Oh! I didn’t know it was your place.” I smile sweetly as I show him my phone.

“Just like you didn’t possibly suspect that my identical twin—who literally looks like a copy of me—might be, I don’t know, my twin?”

“I did suspect it when I met you just now, but it’s rude to talk about someone’s family, don’t you think?” I smile again as I knock off his knight.

Guess someone will be right after me today, not the other way around.

“It is, which is why I prefer not to show footage of your twin sister making a fool of herself with one of my guards that night.”

I freeze, my cheeks turning into hot flames.

“That’s right, mouse. I know both of you trespassed on my property and bathed me in pig blood. Now that we’ve gotten the dull pleasantries out of the way, shall we discuss that further?”





5





LANDON





I’ve never played well with others.

Yes, I might use my charm, but it’s only so I can gain a favor here, a connection there, and a shag everywhere.

It’s by no means to gather superfans and dreamy-eyed girls.

In fact, I’ve only ever played with others so they’d fall into the exact spot on the chessboard where I want them to be.

Force is for brutes who don’t have the capacity to use their head. And while I relish the occasional bursts of violence, it’s not truly my modus operandi.

Trapping a certain mouse in a corner, however, definitely is.

The insolent, insignificant little troublemaker who managed to bathe me in blood in my own house sits opposite me in a position that’s an excellent imitation of a Greek statue.

Or, on second thought, maybe a Roman one. Those are more stilted and pack more of a punch in the details.

One difference, though—her eyes. They tell a different story from her posture. The muted blue is worlds apart from mine, nearly explosive in its color. Fierce, too, like a volcano that’s buried in the depths of the ocean.

While it might remain dormant for years, it’ll bring on a deadly tsunami the moment it erupts.

Or maybe they’re the color of deep-blue wildflowers. Crushed by harsh nature but defiant. Proud and pretty yet temporary.

Her skintight dress offers a modest view of the curved slope of her round tits. Add the illegal amount of ribbons and the glasses on top of her heads, and she looks like one of Satan’s favorite fangirls.

A goth Barbie without the pretentious makeup.

The rook remains suspended in midair as if the world has hit Pause.

Only, it hasn’t. And I get to watch the intriguing change in her expression from arrogance to absolute horror.

Taking my time to fully investigate the incident these past couple of days was worth it. I could’ve gone a completely different route with this—which would have included violence and newsworthy mayhem. And while the thrill would’ve been enjoyable for a few seconds, it wouldn’t have lasted. And it certainly wouldn’t compare to the picturesque scene in front of me.

Plump pink lips, slightly parted, revealing a hint of perfectly white teeth. Rosy cheeks and neck. Eyes so stunned, I’m wondering if she can even still see me.

In conclusion, this round is a checkmate to yours truly.

“Hello?” I wave a casual hand in front of her face. “Are you still there, mouse?”

She blinks once…

Twice…

I see the exact moment she goes in for the attack. It’s like when she had the audacity to hit me under my own roof. The only difference is that she’s less guarded now and doesn’t seem to be contemplating the option of amateurish seduction.

She balls her fist, but before she can punch me, I grab it in my palm and effortlessly twist it to the side.

“That’s not very wise, now, is it? We both know I’m stronger than you and could squash you like an insignificant insect if I choose to, so don’t let me choose to.”

Her face contorts with either pain or rage—I’m not sure which. Hopefully, it’s both.

I love watching people flounder in a pool of their spineless emotions before they wither and drown.

As rumor has it, I’m nothing less than a gorgeous anarchist with a penchant for sadism.

“We’ll negotiate my terms now, shall we?” I drop her hand and it’s only after I release her that I register how small that hand is. In fact, all of her is, from her tiny nose to her petite features. She’s not short, but she’s not that tall either.

A height that can comfortably fit in a casket.

Crikey. I’ve done it again.

Imagining people dead. If I get to witness her funeral, I vote for her eyes to be kept open. So what if it creeps everyone else out? As long as I get to enjoy it, the world can piss off.

The softness doesn’t fool me, though. Despite her delicate appearance, this girl has over-the-top tendencies and has proven to possess balls bigger than some men.

The moment the little mouse is free, she signs furiously, her cheeks turning red with unmistakable rage. One of the perks of my genius neurons is being proficient in languages and picking them up from a very young age. I speak five fluently and a dozen more at different levels. Sign language, however, never really crossed my radar.