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God of Ruin: Chapter 11


“Are you kicking me out of my own house?” Remi exclaims like the drama king he is.

Rumor has it he got dropped on his head as an infant and never recovered the lost neurons.

He’s chaotic, and not in the good, anarchy-filled sense. But more like a caricature with nothing inside his skull but the need to shag and serve as the group’s comedic relief.

He’s a good support in certain situations, but this one definitely doesn’t belong on the list.

He, Bran, and I are in the living room where they’re waiting for Match of the Day and a much-anticipated premier league game.

My brother occupies the sofa, wearing Chelsea colors and a matching bandana. Our family members are traditional gunners, and my father used to play for Arsenal a long time ago, but Bran chose to root for a rival club. Out of all the important things he could choose to rebel on, he ended up with such a lousy one. And Dad actually chooses to be slightly offended, as if this whole thing means a fuck. Pretty sure King Enterprises owns shares in both clubs.

“You can’t do that!” Remi jumps from his chair and points a finger at me, despite the fact that I dropped the subject ever so peacefully.

“What’s with all the parties you keep throwing in the mansion?” Bran asks as if he’s my designated keeper. I happen to be fifteen whole minutes older than him and should assume that role if it were to exist, thank you very much.

“This is complete rubbish!” Remi throws his head back dramatically. “Back me up on this, Bran! We have to stop this overlord from occupying our space all the time.”

Bran, who’s definitely not as obnoxious as Remi, merely nods. Unfortunately for my childhood friend, he’s missing his other ally.

A certain vexing presence who everyone else calls Eli. He’s not around today, probably having fucked off to make other people’s lives miserable.

Which is why I chose this perfect time to hold this type of meeting. If he were here, the state of affairs would be bumpy and unnecessarily draining.

“Give me a better reaction than that, Bran!” Remi calls out with his hurt, over-the-top voice that’s begging for a few snips to his vocal cords.

Seems that tonight, they don’t really have plans except for being a pain in the arse.

“Whether you agree or not,” I say. “If I decide to throw a party, I’ll just do it, so you better go ahead and cut your losses. You guys are invited if you’d like to join the mayhem.”

“No, thanks.” Remi gives me a look of disgust. “I become invisible to the ladies whenever you’re around.”

“Don’t be jealous of my charm, Rems.” I walk up to him and catch him by the shoulder. “To make it up to you, I can put you in a Jacuzzi with a flavor of your type.”

He lifts a brow. “How many?”

“How many do you want?”


“They’ll be there.”

“Then you’ll disappear so they won’t throw themselves on your dick instead?”

“Of course. What are bros for?”

“You got yourself a deal, Lan.” He shakes my hand.

“Seriously?” Bran asks. “You were just whining about how he’s always occupying our space, Remi.”

“I just remembered his parties are fun. My lordship inhales fun.”

“Which is why your lordship is such a good sport,” I say with a straight face, despite internally cringing at how he calls himself that.

Mum also has an aristocratic title, but you don’t see me flashing it and calling myself a lord for anyone to hear. I wouldn’t shy away from using it as a plug in front of the right people, though.

At any rate, the mission is complete. There will be another mindless party, where I can invite the scum of the scum and crown myself as their leader.

It’s one of my countless attempts to not get stuck in my head for longer than absolutely necessary. It’s good for the art but usually bad news for everyone else. Especially for those who will be the target of my anarchy and their closest circle.

Lately, that’s been a certain goth blonde Barbie that so inexplicably happens to be the only form of a muse I’ve ever had.

She’s been trying to avoid me ever since she shattered all over my fingers a week ago, but I know how to smoke a mouse out of its hideout.

I’m about to go back upstairs, not really caring about football, when Bran catches up to me and grabs my arm.

I stare at his hand and then at his face. “Something on your mind, little brother?”


I pretend to be unaffected and suppress the instinct to narrow my eyes at him. I know she’s somewhat friends with my brother. That didn’t particularly bother me before and that shouldn’t change now if I’m being logical. But for some reason, I don’t like it.

“Who’s that?” I ask while tapping an index finger on my mouth.

“You know exactly who she is, considering you’ve been going after her.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“I don’t need her to tell me anything. I’ve known you all my life, and I can recognize when you’re up to no good, which is, unfortunately, more often than not lately.” He releases a long, frustrated breath. “Haven’t you done her brother enough damage already?”

“She’s not her brother, now, is she?”

“No, but he’ll kill you if he finds out you’re targeting his sister.”

“Not before I kill him.” I pat his head. “Don’t worry about me, little bro.”

“That’s the last thing on my mind,” he mutters, his face harder than usual.

Hmm. Does he really care for Mia? Maybe in that sense?

Too bad she was soaking wet for me, not you, Bran.


Three girls with different hair colors—blonde, white, and chestnut—swarm through the front entrance, carrying what looks like takeaway boxes.

Ava, the one who announced the unbearable surprise, grins as she dumps the armful of what I assume is Indian food, judging by the smell, on the coffee table.

She’s blonde, loud, and has little to no concept of personal space. In short, a mellowed-out version of Remi but nineteen.

The white-haired one, Cecily, is more like the mother hen of the group, a position that she’s been fighting Bran for.

But considering the repressing shit my brother is into, I’d give her the crown any day. Where Ava is too loud for anyone’s liking, Cecily is soft-spoken and likes to baby everyone around her.

She carefully places the contents in her arms on the table and nods at us.

The third girl abandons some drinks beside all the Indian food and walks in my and Bran’s direction. Her chestnut hair with natural blonde highlights falls to her mid-waist.

Glyndon is the only one in our family who got some of Dad’s glorious blond Viking hair, as Mum calls it. She’s over four years younger than me and likes to pretend that I barely exist.

She hugs Bran and he wraps his arms around her in a sweet, mushy, and absolutely unnecessary show of affection.

I don’t understand why neurotypical people vie so much for validation and find it vital to display care and love. It’s not that they can’t possibly survive without the tedious emotions.

“What a nice surprise,” he says when they break apart. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“Ava said she needed to confirm something first.”

As in, she had to make sure Eli wasn’t within the perimeter before she decided whether or not to come over. Don’t ask how I know that. One, it’s far from being a secret at this point—even the gardener and his extended family probably know about their strange foreplay. Two, I happen to hold everyone’s lives and secrets in the palm of my hand in case of possible future use.

Glyn nods at me as if we’re colleagues in a stuck-up law firm. “Lan.”

I nod back with the same energy. “Little princess.”

Since Dad calls Mum a princess, Glyn has assumed the title of ‘little princess’.

My sister stiffens, probably thinking I’m up to no good, including, but not limited to, eradicating her boyfriend from the face of the earth.

I laugh and ruffle her hair. “Relax. You’re too uptight.”

Bran shakes his head, more in resignation than anything else, but Glyn releases a breath. She likes to pretend that her unhinged boyfriend is different from me just because she fell for him harder than a moth to a flame. But oh well. I did cause her some minor discomfort. By minor, I mean I never really showed her affection like Bran does and, instead, preferred to watch over her.

One of us had to be the symbol of austerity, and Bran definitely can’t be stern to save his life.

Besides, she never really needed that from me, and I prefer not to pretend when it comes to my family. It’s exhausting and feels empty enough as it is with the rest of the world, and they certainly don’t belong to the same category as my family.

“What do you mean there’s no fish and chips?” Remi asks Ava, then pokes her. “Are you even British? Bring out the imposter in you.”

“You brought it the other time. We wanted a change. Besides, Indian food is delish!” She pushes him away. “And stop poking me.”

“You should be honored that my lordship is even touching you, peasant.”

“I’m going to bite your head off.”

“I would like to see you try.”

I walk to them and nod at Cecily, who’s bringing out the takeout boxes. She nods back and focuses squarely on her task. She used to be in love with me—like everyone who’s had the honor to meet me. Well, not in love, but she had a major crush on my unmeasurable charm, but like every girl with a brain, she soon realized I have nothing inside me she can reach.

It’s no secret that I’m an empty entity of anarchy and destruction. A vessel for uncharacteristically violent tendencies and artistic genius.

In fact, when those personality traits disappear, I’m nothing more than odorless air. It’s part of the reason why I’ve made mayhem the purpose of my existence. Without that, I’m an endless void.

I don’t delude myself about those facts. Some girls—including the old Cecily—do. They like to think they can fix me, and I let them hold the illusion while I break them into irreparable pieces.

What? I’m a no-strings-attached type of man who likes the adventure of new holes. It’s not my fault they think of baby names after I fuck them into oblivion.

I didn’t fuck Cecily, though. I contemplated it once but then thought of her super strict father, Uncle Xander, who would dismember me and drink my blood as the soup of the day if I were to ever go near his precious princess.

And while I possess the moral compass of a shark, I don’t like stirring the waters too close to home. My folks have been friends with Ava’s, Cecily’s, and Remi’s parents since way before we were conceived, and I supposed it wouldn’t be practical to be chased with a golf club by their parents during family dinners.

That doesn’t mean I can’t mess with them, though.

Keeping Bran and Glyn in my peripheral vision as they catch up on their cringeworthy relationship, I lean against a pillar and smirk at Ava. She pauses her childish back and forth with Remi and narrows her eyes on me.

“And what do you want?” She huffs. “Going to bitch about fish and chips, too?”

“Nah. I couldn’t care less what type of food I consume.” After all, its only purpose is to keep the machine going on and on and fucking on.

Until I inevitably drop, that is.

“Then why are you grinning like Satan’s wannabe?” Ava asks, completely oblivious to Remi, who’s already digging into the food, despite starting drama about it two seconds ago.

“You wound me. I thought Satan wanted to be me.”

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms, the long mermaid sleeves of her pink camisole a whole character on their own.

“You came because you thought Eli wasn’t here, no?”

Her gloating expression falters. “Eli who? I couldn’t care less about his presence or the lack thereof.”

“In that case, you’d be okay knowing he’s coming back home in about…” I trail off and check my watch that’s worth more than a dozen of her Louboutin heels. “Fifteen minutes.”

Her face pales and she clears her throat. “You’re bluffing just to fuck with me.”

“Am I?” I fetch my phone and send a quick text to my cousin.

Landon: Ava is here with delicious food. Yum.

He doesn’t disappoint and his reply comes in a matter of seconds.

Eli: Be there in fifteen. You better make the earth swallow your hedonistic form before I arrive.

I tap the last text so it blurs the background, then show it to Ava.

She swallows and narrows her eyes. “Did you tell him I was here?”

“Whatever makes you think that?”

“You being a twat, maybe?”

“Is that another word for Cupid?”

She growls like a cornered animal and I grin, contemplating how to play with them further before he actually arrives.

That is, if Ava doesn’t run away or disappear like a ghost since she happens to be a coward.

Speaking of cowards, I re-check some of the texts I sent to Mia over the past week that she had the audacity to leave on Read.

If you weren’t in such a hurry just now, I would’ve given you a ride as soon as I was done licking your taste off my fingers. I never thought of pussy as a five-star meal, but I’m quickly changing my mind.

Text me back when you’re done trying to bury your head in the sand. If I were you, I’d save myself the trouble. It won’t work.

If you stop running away, we might have a redo and I’ll let you suck my cock.

I’m curious. Do you usually make that expression when you come? If you don’t answer, I might track down your ex-lovers and confirm a theory. Are you interested to know what it is?

Apparently not, because you’re into this weird hard-to-get foreplay. I’m sure you figured out by now that I’m not exactly normal and these tactics don’t work on me.

Patience isn’t my forte, little muse. Don’t make me come after you.

That was my last text and it met the same fate as its predecessors. Mia doesn’t know this yet, but she’s playing a dangerous game. The more I’m tempted, the more drastic the reaction.

Ignoring the rampant chaos around me, I open my Instagram app. Her profile appears on my home screen before I even attempt to search her name.

Usually, it’s Remi’s antics that greet me first. Looks like my algorithm has found me a new source of entertainment. It might also have to do with the fact that I’ve been checking her socials like a seasoned stalker.

The picture that appears on the feed is a carousel captioned They Call Me Baby Satan.

The first one shows her staring down, wearing her brother’s yellow stitch mask. The look is enhanced by her tulle black dress, boots with chains slithered like snakes, and her platinum blonde hair that’s held in ribboned pigtails.

In the second picture, there’s no mask as she leans an elbow against Nikolai’s heavily tattooed naked shoulder while they both glare at the camera.

The third includes her and her flashy twin sister, who seems to be seducing the camera while Mia makes peace signs from the side.

The fourth is of the three of them, both girls hanging on Nikolai’s arms.

In the fifth, she headlocks both Nikolai and Killian and laughs. Gareth is in the background, head thrown back in laughter. The image is blurry and seems to have been taken on a whim, probably by Maya.

I zoom in on the so-called Baby Satan, studying her free expression. I’ve never seen her laugh, not even during my admittedly limited stalking sessions. I wonder how she sounds when laughing.

She does gasp and groan when overwhelmed by pleasure. My fingers twitch in remembrance of her welcoming cunt swallowing me whole.

I suppose there are other sounds she can make, and I will pull them out one by one.

Seems that Eli and Ava are safe for the day because I prefer a much better target for my dose of mayhem.


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