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

“And me.” Killian points a thumb at himself. “We can turn mere trouble into a tornado.”

She signs an “Okay,” then they finally part ways.

Thankfully, Killian and Nikolai go in the opposite direction, while Mia continues toward me as she slurps her drink.

She reaches into her dress pocket and retrieves her phone, completely oblivious to the trap she’s walking right into.

I don’t make myself noticeable when she’s near. No.

I wait and bide my time for the right moment.

Once she passes me, I stand behind her and whisper, “So you do use your phone, and yet you left me on Read. Where are your manners, little muse?”





9





MIA





My carefully built illusion shatters into a million pieces all around me. The shards prick my skin with the deliberate precision of a thousand cuts.

The straw falls from my lips and I sluggishly swallow the liquid trapped in my mouth as if it’s poison.

A part of me is urging myself to run, hide, bury this episode in the tortured abyss of my soul where all fucked-up creatures reside.

And as much as I’d love to put up a brave façade, I recognize how careful I need to be instead. I’ve witnessed firsthand what it looks like to be in the middle of Landon King’s orbit, and to say I didn’t survive would be the mother of all understatements.

However, I abandon the flight option.

People like Landon get off on the act of chasing more than the finality of catching. If I run, I’ll only provoke the insatiable and completely sadistic side of him.

So, against my better judgment, I gather what remains of my courage and turn around.

I’m not even fully facing him when he grabs me by the shoulders, his fingers digging into the flesh before he shoves me against the wall.

My back hits the brick and I swallow a wince as my Frappuccino shakes and swirls, almost asking for help on my behalf.

His marble-like body presses against mine as a stark reminder of last night.

Of the terror.

The helplessness.

The strange arousal.

All of it.

He’s in an uncharacteristic hoodie today and his eyes are hidden by aviator sunglasses that give him a mysterious edge.

“I should’ve done this sooner.” He tilts his head to the side, studying the length of me as if he’s seeing me for the first time.

Why is he wearing the damn sunglasses? It’s already hard to read his eyes without the added camouflage.

I search our surroundings for anyone who might be able to help, but I realize we’re in a small nook in the corner that most people don’t even notice.

Landon releases my shoulder and reaches a hand to my face. I tense, my body getting ready to fight, claw his eyes out and drink his brain through the sockets if he as much as hits me—

He strokes my cheek and I freeze, all my murderous thoughts coming to a sudden halt.

My breath catches and my lips part.

That’s about the last thing I expected the psycho to do.

His long, lean fingers glide from my forehead to my brows, over my eyelashes, then swipe down the bridge of my nose. As I watch with a completely stupefied expression, his exploration continues under my eyes, over my cheeks, and down my jaw before lifting my chin.

Every stroke leaves a burning fire in its wake. No, it's an avalanche of tingles, goosebumps, and pent-up euphoria.

Like a blind person trying to discern someone’s features, he lingers and strokes gently. Too gently, even.

My thoughts scatter when he slides his fingers over my upper lip, his middle finger swiping down my Cupid’s bow, then moves to my bottom lip. This time, his thumb presses on the flesh with a breathtaking firmness.

I’m entranced, absolutely taken aback by the sight in front of me and the overwhelming feelings blazing through me.

It’s like I’ve been transported to a different dimension where everything is bizarre and the merest touch provokes an extreme reaction.

“Stunning.” His deep voice, the sound of dark lullabies, chains me further to the alien feelings.

I’m no different than a fly caught in the web of a spider, completely paralyzed as life is sucked out of my limbs.

“Five out of five,” he whispers in words that have no business being so destabilizing. “As expected of my little muse.”

He flexes his hand into an open palm and swipes it down my throat. The touch is intimately explorative and breathtakingly stimulating. His fingers latch onto the leather choker and he uses it to pull me flush against him.

I have to keep the Frappuccino to the side or he’d crush it between us.

A sly smirk lifts his sinfully gorgeous lips as he toys with the leather, his fingers skimming my skin as if he has every right to.

As if he claimed me in a different lifetime and is currently taking me back.

“I knew there was a wild side to you. Tell me. Do you fancy being strangled while a cock rams inside your soaking wet cunt? Or do you prefer having a cock choke your pretty little throat and fill it with cum?”

His crude words, delivered in the most sophisticated manner, snap me out of my drug-like haze.

And the worst realization is that another part of my body mourns the loss of that haze. There must be something freakishly wrong with me. How could I go so still when he touched me with the sensuality of a lover?

I push against him with my free hand, my face heating and my mind thinking of a thousand curses I can use to send him to the afterlife.