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

And then they’re out the door, leaving the three of us alone.

“Were you left out, Gaz?” Maya asks with a dejected tone as she stabs her salad over and over again.

“I opted out. I have exams coming up.” He chews leisurely, not even bothering to check his phone.

I have a bad feeling about this.

We put on Maya’s favorite movie, Clueless, but I barely focus on it. I contemplate going to the haunted house, but Lan is probably entertaining his band of posh Elites.

Wait. What the hell?

Since when did I start to call him Lan?

This is so hopelessly disturbing.

By the time the movie ends, Maya is already fast asleep on the couch. Gareth offers to carry her to one of the guest rooms, but I shake my head.

She’ll wake up and will find it hard to fall back asleep.

So I cover her, sit on the floor, and continue staring at my phone.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Lan, it’s that he doesn’t know how to take no for an answer. It’s not in his DNA, vocabulary, or code of conduct.

The fact that he didn’t send any other texts or threaten to barge in doesn’t sit well with me.

He won’t do anything stupid, right?





22





LANDON





Due to the noticeable absence of my newest favorite toy, I had to content myself with beating up her brother.

What?

It’s not my fault she’s exceptionally bad at reading the room and keeping my beast satiated. It’s no secret that the situation morphs into absolute carnage whenever he’s left to his own devices.

His weapon for the night is undiluted violence. While it’s not particularly my favorite method, it does get the job done, and for a long time, it could’ve been compared to the physical climax shagging holes provided.

Small problem, though. I’ve been going at this for about ten minutes, and I’m closer to dozing off than any form of climax.

I’m being beaten up all right since, well, Nikolai is this huge motherfucker with a grudge about a certain incident that I might have caused.

Don’t expect me to keep track of all the chaos my superior brain conjures. I’m under the obligation to archive those files to allow my neurons space to create worse anarchy.

Nikolai Sokolov, the eldest in the Sokolov family, that fucker Killian’s cousin, and, most importantly, Mia’s older brother. They look nothing alike except for a faint resemblance due to their sibling blood. They do, however, share some aspects of a brute persona, the need for violence, and the thirst to cause trouble.

Must be because of the Russian mafia blood running through their veins.

There’s one major difference, though. Nikolai has the type of face that’s begging to be beaten. Mia’s face, on the other hand, is the definition of an aphrodisiac.

Lately, the situation has become so dire that just imagining her naturally pouty lips and the blue wildflower color of her eyes is enough to make my cock jump like a fanboy.

Ah, fuck. I’m getting a hard-on in the middle of a fight. Well, the referee just called a break, but I still glare down at myself.

Way to read the room, dick.

My gaze strays to Nikolai, who’s on the opposite side of the ring being prepped by none other than Jeremy—the recent president of my anti-fan club.

The mere look at the brute is enough to kill any erotic thoughts. I definitely have no qualms about destroying his features and giving him the incentive to go through a desperate reparative surgery.

“You okay, Lan?” Remi asks from outside the ring and passes me a bottle of water.

He’s the only one of the guys who loves accompanying me on these bursts of violence. There’s also Ava, who loves to come cheer for me. She must be in the crowd somewhere as the president of Fighter Landon Club.

Ava and I have an easygoing relationship. I help her in bringing Eli down and then she helps me with all my gossip needs. What she doesn’t know is that I also help Eli sometimes. What? He’s still my cousin. The King men might fight and see the world through different lenses, but we’ll always be family.

Or that’s what Grandfather Jonathan says.

At any rate, I’ve been taking part in underground fighting since Eli first took me to one—behind our parents’ backs, naturally.

After his first years in uni, my cousin gradually pulled out from these scenes, but I found a much-needed venting outlet in the adrenaline this provides.

The crowd.

The screams.

The fuck fest that usually takes place after.

REU’s students' shouts surround me in a halo, a drug that shoots through my bloodstream and shoves me toward the sky.

I grab the bottle from Remi, down half of it and pour the other half on my head, then shake it out like a dog. Girls swoon and I offer them my usual charming grins that would make them drop their knickers if I as much as asked. The only difference now is that I couldn’t give a fuck about their attention.

I don’t even have the right motivation to finish this fight.

“Do you have to do this?” my clone asks from the side of the ring.

Brandon is about the last person one would expect to attend fight clubs. He’s more squeamish than a sheltered prince and he looks the part of an upper-class, preppy boy with his groomed hair and snobbish face. He came dressed in a white shirt, a beige cardigan, pressed trousers, and classic Prada loafers.