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God of Fury – Chapter 9


This is definitely not what it looks like.

I didn’t hang out around the area of the pub, chain-smoking and contemplating how to pick a fight and punch some motherfuckers.

Okay, I did.

But the next part is definitely not what it looks like.

I didn’t beat these people up because a cunt happened to grab Brandon by his shirt or attempt to punch him.

Hurt him.

Right in front of me.

Yeah, so I did drive my fist in Brandon’s face the last time I saw him, but only I get to do that.

Anyway, this bunch of assholes ended up being victims of my sour mood because they happened to be here.

Not because I followed Brandon like a creepy stalker or anything equally stupid.

Okay, maybe I did, but it was only for two blocks. Maybe three.

Fine. Five.

But none of that matters.

The fact that I get to decorate my hand with their deplorable blood does. Fucker who caught Brandon by the shirt is now spluttering blood on the ground, half conscious, while I humble his friends.

One of them ran away, but oh well, I have my hands completely full with the other two. I punch and kick them, reveling in the sound of bones cracking beneath my fingers.

There’s nothing I love more than having power over some cunts who happened to be in the wrong place at the very fucking wrong time.

A red haze covers my vision as I go on and on and fucking on until they realize I might actually kill them—great possibility—then grab each other and flee the scene.

They’re limping, grunting, and cursing on their way to what can only be the hospital. Probably the police, too, but I don’t give a fuck at this point.

In fact, maybe I shouldn’t have let them go and introduced them to their maker instead.

Red still covers my vision as I catch a glimpse of onlookers gathered around, eyes agape, and some of them were probably filming the whole thing, considering the phones.

I flash them my signature ‘back the fuck off’ look and they slowly disperse, lowering their heads and continuing with their debauchery.

Now I have nothing to distract me from the actual cause of this damn ruse. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t instigated violence before just because, but this time, it definitely wasn’t random.

It’s because of the asshole I’ve been tracking in my peripheral vision, even while I was having my fingers soaked with blood.

Usually, I don’t see anything through the satisfying red. But this time, I was more focused on Brandon and if he’d faint or escape.

He did neither.

The whole time, he stood rooted in place, his eyes wide, pupils dilated and lips parted.

His gaze meets mine and remains there, not attempting to avoid me like he usually does.

He must be so fucking drunk, because he stares at me, mouth hanging open, without his dash of uptight disdain.

Fuck this guy, seriously.

I’m so over him and his perfectly pressed pants, tucked-in shirts, and leather shoes. I’m over the way he looks to be in control but still appears hopelessly clueless at times.

Like right now.

His flawless golden-boy image is cracked at the seams—totally because of the alcohol he kept chugging the entire time I was there—and a pink flush covers his cheeks.

A few strands have escaped his styled hair, giving him a rugged edge. Rebellious. It’s safe to say he’s not caught under the rigid spell of his steel-like control.

At least, temporarily.


I would’ve been all over that shit a few weeks ago, but now, I have to remove myself from his vicinity before I finish off the night by punching him.

He got on my nerves enough by doing everything wrong earlier in the pub. From the way he pretended I was invisible, to saying he’d been in love, to denying we ever did anything.

Every. Fucking. Thing.

Now, I have to leave so I won’t throttle the fuck out of him.

This is why I’ve stayed away. Why I’ve removed myself from any situation he’s in or any environment where he can exist.

I see him, and I’m burning.

The harder I’ve tried to stay away, the wilder my obsession with him has grown.

I just can’t fucking help it.

When I brush past him, I stop and swipe two fingers beneath his jaw and subtly lift up, causing his mouth to finally close. “Might want to stop staring or I’ll think you have a crush on me or something equally crazy.”

I expect him to push me away, but the alcohol must’ve numbed his brain, because he just stares. Unblinking. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down with a swallow, and did his breathing pick up just now?

It takes me considerable energy to pull my fingers away, and that’s when I notice I’ve left smudges of blood near his jaw. I have to suppress a groan at the sight, so I camouflage it with a smirk. “Oops, got blood all over your shiny image. My bad.”

I don’t even attempt to apologize as I wrench my eyes from him and continue on my way. I need to punch a few other things. Here’s an idea, force Jeremy to give me a mission where I can torture some people and put the fear of the devil in their souls—

Something pulls on my T-shirt and I frown. If one of those sorry fucks came back for round two…

My thoughts trail off when I see two long fingers curled in the material so firmly, it stretches beneath the pressure.

I stare up at Brandon, and the way he looks at me does shit I definitely do not approve of. He’s like a kicked fucking puppy, which is miles apart from his usual condescending asshole image.

“Thank you,” he whispers softly, almost airily.

Fuck this asshole and that deep voice of his.

I have to get out of here.

No. Not have. It’s a fucking need at this point or I might really do shit I’ll regret.

And Jer isn’t here to stop me.

“I didn’t do it for you. I just wanted someone to punch and they happened to be there.” I start to move again, but he tugs harder on my T-shirt.

“Now what?” I snap.

He needs to get his hand off me, because it’s giving me fucked-up ideas.

And none of them are things he approves of.

Brandon swallows and my gaze goes straight to his Adam’s apple. He does it again as if giving me the show I want, then clears his throat. “Did…you get the texts I sent you?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Why didn’t you reply?”

“Why would I? Should I have rejoiced and thrown a party because the almighty Brandon King finally recognized my existence, decided I’m not disgusting anymore, and texted me? Get over your useless fucking self.”

His jaw tightens and he releases me. “Don’t be a dick. I apologized for what I think is a misunderstanding. I…don’t believe you’re disgusting because of your sexuality. I would never think that.”

“Thanks for nothing.” This time, I’m hell-bent on leaving.

Because unlike fucker Brandon who can lie through his teeth during a useless game and keep his control in check, I have zero chill.

And I need to go before I do something I’ll regret come morning. I didn’t even do regrets before the ill-fated meeting with this complete fucking charmer.

Brandon steps in front of me, or more like sways since he’s as drunk as a sailor. There’s only a subtle slur to his words, though, as if he can keep control despite being pumped full of liquor.

“What the fuck do you want now?” I sneer. “You’re uncharacteristically clingy tonight.”

“I want to ask you something.”

“Why would I answer? We’re not friends or anything are we, Lotus—” I cut myself off before I call him that.

Of course the bastard noticed the miscalculation despite being wasted, because his lips twitch.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I know I’m supposed to be mad—or keep up with the image, anyway—but it’s impossible to hold on to the anger I’ve left to fester when he’s smiling.

He is actually smiling without faking anything, his lips curving and his eyes softening. He looks happy when I could’ve sworn the asshole doesn’t know the emotion.

It’s because of the alcohol, isn’t it?

Also, why the fuck does it ache behind my rib cage?

Maybe I should have myself checked, because this shit is seriously disturbing.

His smile disappears as soon as it appeared and I want to shove my hand inside his throat and drag it out. Take a picture this time and keep it forever.

“Are you going to say something or are you just going to stand there and stare at me like a creep?” I ask, using the words he’s often thrown my way.

He purses his lips. Doesn’t feel so good, does it, prick?

“Just tell me…did you have a thing with Annika?”

“What the fuck? She’s like a fetus.” I narrow my eyes. “Why are you asking? You better not involve her in your stupid games or I’ll personally help Jeremy annihilate you.”

My blood roars at the mere thought of that. I still haven’t even forgotten about Clara, and now he wants Annika.

Nah, hell no.

Fuck that.

I’ll strangle the fuck out of him.

“No, no,” he says in a bit of a rush. “She’s too young and I don’t… I don’t like anyone who’s barely legal.”

His eyes shine brightly and I get closer, trying to read him. “You know I’m going to be twenty soon, right?”

That smile nearly makes another breakthrough and I catch myself sucking in my breath to see it, but he suppresses it in a typical asshole move. “You’re still way younger than me.”

Way? It’s only three years.”

“And a half.”

“And a half. Jesus. We’re still in the same damn generation. You need to chill for a bit, my dude.”

He frowns, his lips pushing forward—fucking adorable. “I’m not your dude.”

“Aaand the grouchy Brandon King makes a stunning comeback!” I shake my head. “You just never disappoint, do you?”

“Well, maybe you should stop giving me all these nicknames.”

“Which one is your favorite?” I step closer until I can inhale the whiskey from his mouth. But alcohol isn’t the only thing I smell. I’m smothered by the musk emanating from his flushed fair skin and the notes of clover and citrus in his damn hair. Fuck, his hair smells so good.

Am I sure I’m not the drunk one?

Apparently, I don’t give a fuck about my resolve, because I whisper, “Do you prefer lotus flower? My dude? Oh, Prince Charming?”

“None,” he says slowly, his eyes light and hooded as he stares up at me.

“Oh, right.” I stand toe-to-toe with him and line my lips with the shell of his ear. “You like being called baby.”

He trembles against me. Fucking trembles. Or maybe it’s the alcohol and he’s swaying, but I couldn’t care less. I choose to believe it’s because I’ve destabilized him.

I choose to think he’s not immune to my presence and I’m getting under his skin as deep as he’s penetrated mine.

He better be or I swear to fuck I’ll personally amputate Kolya for the inhumane abstinence he’s been forcing on me for a whole damn month.

I tighten my chest muscles for the punch or shove I know is coming and wait.

Then wait some more.

But it doesn’t happen.

I step back to find Brandon pulling at the hairs at his nape. Otherwise, he’s completely still. Like a robot. Eyes staring at his feet.

Not blinking.

Not moving.

Okay, I’ve seen my fair share of fucked up, but this vacant look in his eyes is fucking disturbing.

What the fuck did I do now…?

Bran shakes his head and backs away, rocking on his feet, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s drunk on the alcohol or something else. His hand flops to his side as he swallows. “I…better go.”

“Sure thing, Prince Charming. Go back to your favorite hobby of running away. If you do that fast enough, you might reach your second favorite hobby—denial—in record time.”

His eyes shoot to mine. “Seriously, what the hell is your problem?”

“What’s your problem?” I invade his space again, my chest grazing his, and we both inhale at the same time. “Why the fuck do you act as if me calling you baby is the end of the world?”

“Because you’re not supposed to,” he whispers, his eyes blinking slowly, but he doesn’t stop running them over my face.

“You need to stop looking at me like that if you don’t want me to fucking devour you.”

He shakes his head once, but, surprisingly, no words come out of his antagonizing mouth.

But here’s the thing.

Brandon doesn’t look away and, instead, keeps staring, eyes hooded and lips slightly parted.

Fuck this asshole. He’s the most infuriating man I’ve ever gotten to know, but he’s still the only one who’s started a fire at the pit of my stomach, the flames so wild, they spread to my chest and fan my dick back to life.

I’m so hard, it’s fucking painful at this point, and I have to do something.

I’m back to that hopeless stage of wanting a taste.

A nip.

A lick.


I’ll take anything he allows me to have. Even if small, I’ll fucking gobble it all down and store it in that nook inside me that’s disturbingly filled with him.

My hand bunches in his shirt and I growl as I tug and slam him against my chest.

I can feel that loud thump of his heartbeat as his eyes widen, panic glittering in their depths like wildfire, similar to mine.

But there’s something else a lot more potent.

Now that his control has wavered, I sense an avalanche of impulsiveness rushing to the surface.

And I just have to seize it. Trap it. Leave him no fucking way out.

Just once.

“D-don’t,” he stammers, both his hands landing on my chest as he searches our surroundings, which are full of drunk people, before he focuses on me again, his eyes a myriad of confusion. “Please.

“Too late, baby.”

Using my hold on his shirt, I drag him into a tight alley and shove him against a grimy brick wall.

He releases the most delicious startled sound I’ve ever heard and I’m done for.


Absolutely jumping off a cliff, rolling and cracking a few bones and not giving a flying fuck, because I have my prize at the bottom.


My hand slides to his throat and wraps around his chiseled jaw, my fingers digging into his smooth skin. Brandon’s eyes widen to a dark, hypnotizing blue, and he rewards me with another noise, low and fucking needy.

I slam my lips to his, devouring that sound and swallowing it deep inside me.


Fuck me.

Fucking fucker of all motherfucking fucks.

He tastes like sweet surrender, all wound up and ripe for the taking.

I can’t believe I didn’t do this sooner. I think I’ve found my new favorite drug in the form of his lips. I suck the lower one into my mouth, biting down on the cushion so he feels the pain as deep as I do.

Bran shakes against me, his fingers fisting in my shirt, and I’m not sure if he’s pulling me closer or pushing me away.

I don’t give a fuck.

Tonight, I’m taking what I should’ve stolen that night I met him at the initiation.

Whether his delusional brain likes it or not.


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