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

My face heats and my fists ball again until my nails dig into my palms.

“Is that what you want?” Her words come out as a purr. “Me on my knees?”

“Not particularity, but if you’re in the mood to bow down to me, by all means. Don’t let me stop you.”

My foot falls back and I slip behind the open door and onto the balcony. My steps are silent and careful despite the red-hot fire that blows through me.

I have to leave, because if I stay, I’ll definitely jump in the middle of the room and punch them both in the face.

It’s me who I should punch. Why have I thought that I’m the only one he plays with for sport?

Of course he has side pieces like Nila to tend to his stupid kinks all day, every day.

I breathe heavily as I climb over the railing of the balcony and jump to the next one—Brandon’s.

Another factor that I forgot about in my attempts to spy on his psycho brother.

I have to make an excuse to Bran and leave, because if I see Landon again, I might accidentally kill him.

And I don’t like these strong emotions I have because of the bastard.

More importantly, I want my chest to stop aching.





18





LANDON





I’m dreadfully, exceptionally, and categorically bored out of my fucking mind.

It’s no secret that I’m prone to lose interest in all objects, people, and concepts. The world, by definition, is a dull place that’s shackled by economic and political expectations and run by societal standards. Once I perfected the art of fitting in, existence turned into splashes of black on gray.

Sometimes, the gray is more prominent and I thrive on the prospect of injecting chaos into the world’s bloodstream.

Other times, like now, black ink dots overflow from my brain cells and invade every inch of my sporadic, hazardous existence.

The party blares in full swing around me, doing a fantastic emulation of a world I don’t belong to by any stretch of the imagination. Ironically, I reign over it.

Loud music shrieks from the speakers, bathing our mansion in tacky, mindless mayhem. Students from REU jump and move to the beat like drunken ants. Despite the designer clothes and the stench of old money, they all blur into one tedious existence.

Once upon a time, when I was young and senseless, I wondered why I couldn’t be bothered to fake joy or pretend like I gave two fucks about people.

Turns out, I actually don’t, and that allows me to make use of their miserable emotions. The world would be much better with fewer people getting in touch with their feelings.

Just saying.

The members of the Elites, whose names I couldn’t be bothered to remember, sit on the sofas on either side of me or join the crowd.

We have our signature Venetian masquerade masks on, which my members use like a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Nila and her imaginary rival, Bethany, have been hanging on either of my arms, begging for my nonexistent attention.

Rory has been glaring at me from beneath his half-mask for the past hour as if I suffocated his nana with a pillow. Fact is, I merely told him that if he doesn’t stop getting high and sabotaging my work, I’ll discard him faster than a used condom.

He said he’s trying to quit, but apparently, not hard enough, judging by his bloodshot eyes. Truth is, I score high on the apathy scale and can’t be arsed about his addiction habits. I just despise wiping up after anyone’s mess.

Nila brushes her half-naked tits against my arm and Bethany does the same. They’re starting to piss me off, or more like, I’ve been pissed off since they each took an arm.

I refuse the mere notion that this black state of mind has anything to do with a certain muse. It’s been exactly four days since I last saw her—three if we count the day she snooped into my room and ran away like her tiny arse was on fire.

Mia’s been doing a spectacular job of avoiding my vicinity. It’s a whole ritual that started with ignoring my texts and ended with avoiding our cocoon of mayhem.

She also hasn’t met up with Bran and, instead, has been making a point of being surrounded by Jeremy, Nikolai, and Killian—often at the same time. And while I’m open to suicidal missions, I can’t exactly hate-fuck her when I’m nursing broken limbs.

Seems that I underestimated Mia’s ability to play dirty. She’s anything but docile, which is my cock’s flavor of fucked up, but it’s difficult to tame the wild-horse spirit that’s hidden behind cute ribbons and fake smiles.

But then again, I’ve never shied away from a challenge.

I pull out my phone for the third time in the span of five minutes and stare at the texts she hasn’t graced with a reply.

Running late tonight?

I’m not the punctuality police, but you’re over an hour late. My cock is developing a serious case of blue balls that can be easily fixed with your pretty little lips.

If you weren’t coming, you could’ve sent a text. Your manners are 404 not found.

Then the next day.

Are you in the mood to witness blood spilling on your edgy boots? Because I don’t mind some petty knife crime with your Heathens.

Your ghosting efforts are proving to be both vexing and irritating. Believe me, you don’t want to push me. Come over tonight and I won’t hurt you.

Okay, I lied. I won’t hurt you much while I punish you for the insolence.