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

Stop. Stop coming closer, stop…

“Why are you so frozen?” The monster pulls a hand from his pocket and reaches for my face.

My feet tremble, and every particle of my survival instinct demands I bolt out of here, but I can’t.

Not when my mind has already checked out, leaving me as a defenseless eight-year-old. I’m thrown back ten years in time, with only myself as solace and company.

The moment his skin touches mine, I stop breathing altogether. Maybe if I pretend to be dead, he’ll leave.

Maybe this is another nightmare.

Please let it be another nightmare—

He pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilts his head to the side, watching me closely, explicitly. Intimately, even.

His eyes grow behind the mask, no longer bottomless holes with a direct view of hell. But what greets me is worse.

A dash of sadistic blue stares me down, like my own custom-made curse.

My face doesn’t feel like my own as he rotates it from one side to the other. “You look…positively stunning. A doll. No, a statue.”

The ringing in my ears slowly subsides and reality settles in small but noticeable increments.

It’s not the monster.

At least, not the monster from the past.

Now that I’m out of my self-inflicted panic, I can see the golden details on his Venetian masquerade mask. I can recognize the tall, broad build, the characteristically tailored slacks, and the tucked-in button-down.

I suck in a deep breath, but I only manage to inhale his head-turning masculine cologne.

“Where did you go?” He taps my cheek as if he’s summoning another version of me. “Don’t leave just yet. I haven’t had my fill.”

I finally snap out of it and push his hand away, my breathing shallow and fast.

The man in the mask, the asshole Landon, stares at his hand that I just knocked off with disturbing calm, then directs the same stare at me. He rubs his forefinger against his thumb. Once.

Twice.

As if he’s reliving a dear memory.

“Hey.” He advances all of a sudden, until his marble-like chest crushes my breasts. “Bring back the version from just now. I’m not done.”

I place my hands on his shoulders and push, but I might as well be facing a wall. The power with which he preoccupies my space is nothing short of a barbaric invasion.

What in the ever-loving hell is this bastard’s problem?

He wraps his fingers around my throat and squeezes hard enough to force all my movements to a halt.

My windpipe closes and all I can see is the shadowy side of his mask. “I said. Bring it back. Now.”

My survival instinct kicks in again, and I claw and hit his arm with everything I have.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t…breathe.

I slap a hand against his mask in an attempt to deter his attention, even if momentarily.

“Don’t be shy. Come out.” His fingers tighten further until I think I’m dying.

No. I most definitely am dying.

I go still, my hands falling to either side of me, and I attempt to go into last-resort survival mode.

His grip slowly loosens and a wolfish grin lifts his lips and a striking light twinkles the deep blue of his eyes. It’s like when the sun is kissing the surface of an ocean, light on the surface but will never reach any of the darkness beneath.

I slowly suck in a fractured breath but remain still so as not to encourage his choke-happy fingers.

“There,” he marvels, his thumb stroking the pulse point in my neck. “Perfectly statuesque. Absolutely stunning.”

There’s something seriously wrong with this guy and he could use urgent professional help.

I don’t like the shivers that cover my skin at his touch or the sensual intimacy in every stroke.

My body temperature rises and that can only be because I want to kick him in the nuts.

I contemplate doing that. I just need to push back—

“Don’t even think about it.” The rare light slowly fades from his eyes. “I’m on a high and that means I will react drastically to any provocation. Chivalry and I don’t coexist and, therefore, I don’t give two flying fucks that you’re a woman. If you attack me, I’ll choke the fuck out of you.”

I try to reach for my phone so I can type a few choice words for the asshole despite being deeply disturbed and slightly terrified.

Okay, maybe more than slightly.

He shakes his head again. “I mean it, Mia. Stay like a statue before I snuff out your life.”

“You need help, you sick psycho bastard. Go fuck yourself,” I sign, even though he doesn’t understand a thing. I just needed to get that off my chest.

He releases my throat, grabs both my arms and glues them to either side of me, then squeezes my wrists. “A statue doesn’t move, now, does it?”

Then he steps back and removes his mask.

I nearly forgot how attractive Landon is. Probably because, weirdly, I don’t see Bran as attractive. Well, he is, but I view it in a detached sense.

Landon, on the other hand, drips with charm and beauty. Both are muddied by his beastly nature.

He’s definitely on the spectrum of either a sociopath or, worse, a psychopath.

My cousin Kill has antisocial tendencies as well, and if he’s anything to go by, then Landon is a worse menace than I predicted.

I realize now that he’s never really shown me his monstrous side before. Now that I’ve gotten a mere glimpse at it, I can’t help feeling the need to turn around and run.