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God of Ruin: Chapter 12


My fear of the dark is a tale of missed opportunities and a different life whose ultimate development I’ll never know.

It tastes of bitterness and hollow emotions. It reeks of piss, vomit, and the promise of a horrifying death.

Despite having a determined, no-bullshit personality, I’m terrified of death. For me, death is the look in the monster’s eyes when he silenced me forever.

Death is living in the dark for eternity.

I’ve been holding on to life with broken fingernails and desperate, cracked hope, just to assure myself that I’m still alive.

And yet every night, when I’m alone in my room, the rancid breath of death rasps at the back of my neck to announce the presence of the monster. His groans and growls echo from the corner like a trapped animal that’s waiting for me to go to the bathroom so he can ambush me.

It’s why I don’t like being alone for long. One problem, though. I’m not exactly a social person. I don’t get off on nightlife or drunk crowds who are just ‘out to have fun.’ I’m never out to have fun. I’m usually out to survive.

That’s why I visit my brother and cousins, go out with them, or cling to poor Maya like an annoying second skin.

I did all of the above today, but none of it managed to push away the darkness of the night or scare the monster back into its hideous cave.

I ended up performing a thousand routines just so I’d be able to fall asleep peacefully.

It started with meditation and a foot bath to help blood circulation, and then it was playing online chess, followed by finishing my entire school project.

It’s one in the morning, and there’s no sign of drowsiness. Not that my method is bulletproof, but I can only hope that when I do fall asleep, I won’t have a nightmare about his hideous face.

I lie on my back and stare at the artificial stars adorning the ceiling. They’d look better in the dark, but I’d rather lock myself up in an asylum than turn off the lights at night.

My options are to toss and turn all night or go ruin Maya’s beauty sleep again. But considering I’ve been overdoing that the past week, I go with the former.

Flipping to my right, I retrieve my phone, and my finger hovers over Mom’s number, but then I think better of it and shake my head.

She’s still asking me about the real reason I called the last time and if there’s anything she can do to help.

If I do that again, Dad will definitely fly here to ship my ass back to New York.

So I open Instagram and check the comments from my last post.

the.maya.sokolov: Slay, queen.

killian.carson: Superior genes show.

gareth-carson: I’m here for Kill and Niko making fools out of themselves.

nikolai_sokolov: The scary guy in the pic who looks ready to snap some necks is me. Think about that before touching my baby sisters.

I smile to myself. He’s extra as hell and the worst part is that he doesn’t think he is.

I also spot comments from Bran and my recent friend from the Elites, Remi. Despite being a certified clown, he’s fun to talk to. It helps that he turns everything into a joke.

lord-remington-astor: Pretty lady with an even more beautiful personality.

brandon-king: Beautiful.

I like Bran’s comment and hit the little icon of his profile. My stomach clenches in uncomfortable intervals when I see the last picture Bran posted captioned Chelsea, anyone?

It’s a group picture in the Elites’ mansion, where they seem to be watching European football and enjoying some food. I recognize the familiar faces, namely Glyn, Killian’s girlfriend, Cecily, whom I met once when Maya was being unreasonable, and, of course, Bran and Remi.

I’m not familiar with the blonde girl who’s scowling at her food as a tall, dark, and handsome guy stands beside her, smiling at the camera.

The reason for my stomach acting out is none other than Landon, who’s grabbing Remi by the shoulder and pointing at the TV.

I zoom in on the picture to get a better look at him. He’s laughing, seeming to almost match Remi’s enthusiasm.


Because where Remi seems genuinely excited, Landon is merely mirroring him. I’ve seen Killian do that often in the past, especially when he was younger. Since emotions don’t come from inside him, he’s perfected the art of emulating those around him, namely Gareth and Nikolai.

Landon is the same.

Maybe it has to do with the fact that I grew up in the presence of someone with antisocial behavior, but I can see the show he’s putting on so clearly.

It might also have to do with the fact that I haven’t been able to purge the asshole out of my thoughts ever since he flung through my walls and touched a part of me that’s been dormant.

I don’t know what came over me that day. I blame it on the haunted gothic vibe of the art studio dedicated to imperfections. But most of all, I blame it on the man himself.

The absolute enigma of a man who’s merely projecting an image onto the world, and they gobble it all up. It makes sense that he thinks of himself as an arrogant god. If they can love him for a personality he specifically created for them, why wouldn’t he become conceited and prideful?

The asshole probably thinks of his existence as a gift to humans.

I click on the tags and then go to his profile. landon-king. He actually has over a million followers. Wow.

Part of that must be due to his flourishing art career, and the other part is because he’s one of those annoying people who’s effortlessly popular.

His pictures are a translation of his posh rich boy/genius artist status. Some are taken at parties, others are with what I assume are family members. He has one picture where he’s kissing a statue on the mouth.

Jesus. The man is a lost cause.

And yet I can’t help but look at his expression, the euphoria in his mystic eyes, as if he could breathe a soul into the cold stone.

Which is ironic since he obviously lacks a soul.

He has pictures with what appear to be world-renowned artists, professors, mentors, business people, and half of the British aristocracy.

It’s like he has a hundred hours in a day.

The devil works fast, but Landon King works faster.

I scroll to the top of his profile and read the caption.

Landon King. The Prince Charming your nana told you fairy tales about.

More like the monster.

I wonder if he’s always been in control of the image he projects onto the world and what gave him the incentive to invent this image.

If he was born this way, like my cousin was, then there must be some form of a process that led him to where he is.

Not that I’m interested in his story. I am not.

I’m about to click the link to his website, but I accidentally follow him back.


Jumping up into a sitting position, I unfollow him, hoping he doesn’t notice. Then again, an account like his must receive thousands of notifications, so he probably won’t pay attention.

With a sigh, I fall back against the bed and exit Instagram altogether. My phone lights up with a text and my breath catches.

Devil Lord: Playing hard to get?

What the hell is he doing up this late? But monsters don’t really sleep. What’s worse is that he actually noticed.

My cheeks heat and I curse internally. There goes my attempt to escape this shameful situation.

My phone lights up again.

Devil Lord: You make a cute stalker.

I lose my grip on the phone and it falls on my face. Pain throbs in my forehead and nose and I groan.

I can’t believe I’m being chastised by none other than Landon.

When I look at my phone again, there’s already another text from him.

Devil Lord: Stalker is a better and more decadent description than a coward.

Mia: Who are you calling a coward?

Devil Lord: Why, hello there. Here I thought my texts were for some reason being written with invisible ink.

Devil Lord: But I digress. Good to know you’re still awake. I planned a little something.

Mia: I’m not going anywhere with you.

Devil Lord: There’s no need.

I narrow my eyes. He’s surprisingly not threatening me with my sister or offering ultimatums, and while that should be good news, it actually isn’t.

From my unfortunate interactions with him, I’ve come to the conclusion that he’s the type who’ll go the extra mile to make sure he gets what he wants, come hell or high water.

So the fact that he gave up so easily is suspicious at best.

I continue staring at the screen, expecting him to bombard me with another series of texts, but none come.

Maybe his body finally gave out on his evil brain and he fell asleep or—

The lights go out.

My heartbeat skyrockets and I grab my phone in a tight grip as I study my surroundings.

All I find is black and more black.

Pitch-black darkness spreads around me, smothering my skin with a coat of the monster’s sticky scale-like skin.



This can’t be happening. Why would the lights go off?

Don’t tell me the monster has finally come for me…?

I will my leg to move. My best option is to run to Maya’s room, but I can’t even stand up.

Terror comes in different shades. Mine has always manifested in turning completely frozen.

Maybe I don’t want to leave the room, because I’d go to Maya first. A part of me vehemently refuses to get my sister involved in this.

What if he targets her this time and scars her for life like he did me?

No. I’d kill him before he touches her, or I’d die trying.

Still, I can’t move.

So I screw my eyes shut. If I pretend not to see anything, maybe this will pass. Like the thousands of nightmares I’ve survived over the past decade.

His breath reverberates in the corners of the room and wraps an invisible noose around my neck.

My fingers tighten on the phone. I can’t call the police, because this isn’t real. And I can’t call Mom, Dad, or Niko, because I’ll look like the unhinged, paranoid version of myself and they’ll be the ones to lock me in an asylum.

I let the phone fall to the side of the bed so I’m not tempted to do that and pull my knees to my chest, then hide my face in my crossed arms.

This isn’t real. It’s only my mind playing tricks on me.

I chant even as tears sting the corners of my eyes and sweat covers my brow and upper lip.

My entire body trembles under the sheer pressure of my own thoughts. My mind chooses this moment to tune in on memories I’ve tried to erase, to no avail.

I’m trapped in a small dark and humid place. Blood drips through the cracks like a haunting song, and empty eyes stare at me the whole time.

A distorted voice whispers in my ear, “This isn’t over.”

I can still feel his rancid breath against my nape, shoulder, and ears. Like a deadly lullaby, he keeps whispering those words again and again.

And again…

“I clearly warned you to keep your windows closed, no?”

The overpowering emotions of terror slowly wither into colorful bursts of…confusion? Excitement?


I slowly lift my head and stare at the dark figure standing by my bed like the Big Bad Wolf. It’s a monster, all right, but it’s far from being the terror of my life.

Landon’s face is barely visible through the shadows, but I know it’s him.

The new monster who won’t leave me the hell alone.

“Though perhaps you did it on purpose because you wanted me to jump inside.” He runs his fingers through my hair and pulls on the only ribbon I wear at night, then uses it to wipe beneath my eyes. “Are these tears, muse?”

I slap his hand away, ashamed of my weakness and the fact that none other than Landon is witnessing it.

“Is that a challenge?” He grabs both my wrists in one of his hands. “Because I love those.”

I don’t know what comes over me next. Maybe I’m still on a high from the emotions I experienced just now or I always wanted to give this asshole an actual taste of my temper.

I kick him the hardest I can. I aim for his dick, but I think I only hit his thigh. He jerks back, but he doesn’t release my wrists.

I pull and push him with my leg, but it’s like he’s securing them in stone.

“Well, well, looks like I got myself a fighter. I love it when they fight.” His amused voice is laced with subtle sadism as he pushes me down on the mattress.

My back bounces, but before I can sit up again, he’s on me. Landon slams my wrists on the pillow above my head, still securing them with his hand. His knees rest on either side of my stomach, locking me in place.

“There, much better.” He hovers over me like a tyrant king who’s expecting all his demands to be met.

I snarl up at him and wiggle. My wrists hurt from how much I’ve tried to pull them from his grip.

“It’s utterly pointless to fight against me, so how about you relax and enjoy the process?”

I still kick my legs in the air and try to hit his back or anywhere where it’ll hurt. Badly.

“But then again, you did punch me after I made you cum. Do you get off on violence?”

My cheeks heat and I sneer at him.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” I can hear the grin in his voice. “What am I if not a good sport? I’ll let you fight me before you return the favor for the orgasm.”

As soon as he releases my wrists, I headbutt him and punch him in the chest, then I kick him, not sure where, but it sure feels so damn good.

He’s the one who falls on the mattress this time, and I mount his hard body and punch him in the shoulder, collarbone, anywhere my hands can reach.

Fuck you fuck you fuck you.

I chant in my head as I take out all the frustration, fear, and completely unhinged emotions on him.

It isn’t until I’m partially spent that I realize he hasn’t even attempted to stop me or hit back.

So I direct my fist at his face. This time, he grabs it in midair and tuts. “Not the face. It’s actual real estate that’s worth more than you reincarnated a hundred times.”

All of a sudden, he flips us back so that I’m beneath him and he’s on top of me. He does it so effortlessly, as if he’s mocking my earlier enthusiasm and the short-lived feelings of victory I experienced.

“Now that you got your violence kink out of the way…” He slides up so his knees are on either side of my head and unbuckles his belt. “It’s time for my kink.”

My eyes widen as he pulls out his hard cock, which looks huge despite the lack of light. And for some reason, my inner thighs tingle at the sight.

“Your fight is such a turn-on.” He slides his fingers from my forehead over the slope of my cheek and then down to my mouth before he pulls on my lower lip. “As expected of my little muse.”

I grab on to his thigh over the lowered pants, my chest squeezing, as is the case whenever he calls me that. His muse.


Just why did he pick me as his muse?

Is this my curse?

“What’s the meaning of this? Playing hard to get again?” He wraps his fingers around my throat and squeezes. “We both know you want me. You’re shuddering at the prospect of sucking my cock. Deep down, you’re begging for all the cum I will spill down your throat.

I dig my nails into his thigh and shake my head. I refuse to think that I’m by any means attracted to this enigma of a man whom I barely know.

A man who’s only tormented me.

But it hits me then.

The reason why my panties are slick with arousal even as he chokes me.

I’m in pitch-darkness and I’m not thinking about the monster. I’m surrounded by black, and yet I’m not scared for my life.

I’ve never felt like this, not even when I invaded Maya’s room and hugged her to sleep.

“Just for your information, I have girls falling arse over tits and begging to choke on my cock like seasoned pros. I’m not interested in your reluctance.” His voice turns deeper, more menacing.

“And yet you’re here instead of going to those girls,” I sign, not sure if he sees much of it in the dark.

But even if he doesn’t see it, he must sense it from my tightening grip on his thigh. I’m no one’s second or third choice.

I’m the first. The one and only.

“Touché.” He squeezes my throat one last time before he releases me. “So how about you do us both a favor and open those lips.”

I don’t. Instead, I wrap my hands around his cock. And yes, I need both of them to be able to take all of him.

After two jerks, I slowly slide it into my mouth. I’m completely relying on instinct here, having no clue what the hell I’m doing.

I’ve never found the prospect of sucking cock appealing, but I do want to give him the feeling he gave me that day.

I hope he’s as confused and mind-blown as I was. I hope he thinks about me for days to come.

Darting my tongue, I take tentative licks. He tastes the same way he smells—like an edge of danger and forbidden fantasies.

He groans, the sound sexually raw. I clench my thighs as if his vocal cords are vibrating against my most intimate part. Landon is the only person I know who oozes such powerful erotic energy without even trying.

“I knew you were a creature of the dark.” He slides his fingers over my hair. “Just like me.”

I’m in no way like him.

“But enough foreplay.” He pulls on the ribbon, releasing my hair just so he can grip it in a merciless hold. “This is about my kink, after all.”

Keeping my head in place, he thrusts all the way in. It’s sudden and brutally mesmerizing.

Everything about Landon is enchantingly dark and effortlessly gripping.

His rhythm escalates until I can hardly keep up. All I can do is let go and feel his feral strength. I’m like a doll, an object he uses to get off without caring whether he hurts me or not.

And for some demented reason, I’m entirely captivated.

“Your mouth is made to be fucked.” He thrusts all the way in and I gag. Tears fill my eyes and I gasp, grappling for nonexistent air.

Does that stop Landon? Deter him?

Not even a little.

Not even close.

If anything, he goes harder, faster, as if he’s on a high and I’m a mere vessel to get him there.

Once I think I’ll faint, he pulls out. His sadistic eyes remain on mine as I suck much-needed air into my starved lungs. Barely a few seconds pass before he grabs my chin and thrusts in again. “That’s it. Choke on my cock. Show me how much you love this.”

His grip on my hair sends throbs of pain to my skull. Not to mention the manhandling that should revolt me to the core, and yet my clit throbs and my panties are soaking wet.

If I could just touch myself for a second…

My thoughts come to a halt when he thrusts with unprecedented intensity. I grab on to his thighs for dear life as he—there’s no other expression for it—uses me to get off.

It’s fast, ferocious, and completely vicious.

I’ve never been this turned on in my whole life.

Finally, he slides his dick out of my achy mouth and I feel a warm liquid on my face. Did this asshole just come on my face?

I’m still reeling from the throat-fucking and delirious with my own arousal, so my reaction is delayed and all I can do is watch.

Landon smears his cum on my face, massaging it on my lips before he whispers, “My own piece of art.”

I blink, still unable to believe the sight in front of me. He definitely looks elated, but there’s also a dangerous purse in his lips.

“You really shouldn’t have caught my interest. Now, I’ll have to swallow you alive, little muse.”


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