God of Ruin (Legacy of Gods, #4)(23)

“Nonsense. You have them as well, but as I’ve mentioned a million times, you’re shackling them to the best of your abilities.” I prop an elbow on his shoulder and grin. “Want my help to bring out the side you buried so deep, you almost forgot it existed?”

“If by help, you mean to drown me in your blood-flavored activities, then no thanks.”

“One day, you’ll take me up on my offer.”

“Not even if you’re reincarnated as a saint.”

“Bloody hell, Bran. Don’t go manifesting pure torture over a small disagreement.” I pat his cheek with the back of my hand.

It’s a gesture he used to like when we were growing up. Now, however, he drops his shoulder, making me lose my balance, and steps out of the way.

“No disagreement with you has ever been small, Lan.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Is this one of those times when you turn sappy on me as if I’m your imaginary therapist? If that’s going to be the case, I get paid by the hour and in advance, thank you.”

He releases a long breath and shakes his head with the surrender of an old man in the last stages of cancer.

“Just call Mum when you get the chance. She asked about you when I talked to her earlier.”

Saint Bran.

The peacemaker who thinks he’s holding our family together by a thread Bran.

Sometimes I wonder if the fact that he of all people happens to be my twin is some form of a calamity.

After one last lingering look at the miniatures, he leaves the studio as if his arse is on fire.

It’s no secret that Bran doesn’t like me. Might have to do with the number of treacherous, elicit activities I’ve been conducting over the years.

As Mum likes to say, we’re like night and day, and while she means that as a compliment, the truth remains, it’s impossible for us to meet halfway.

But Bran and his righteous shenanigans can wait another day.

I’ve already missed half a day in my attempts to retain the vision from last night. I don’t have enough time or inspiration to resurrect it.

One thing’s for sure. My next course of action starts with a certain little muse who’s gotten herself into the deepest clusterfuck of her life.





To say I’m entering unfriendly territory would be an understatement.

Let’s say The King’s U college and I share the same level of disagreement of right-and left-wing politics.

In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Heathens have put a bounty on my head and a wanted poster at the entrance of every class.

My track record with Killian, Nikolai, and even Jeremy doesn’t help. The only member I haven’t harmed, at least not directly, is Gareth, but I doubt he’d be interested in having a cheeky drink and smuggling me onto their grounds.

Which is why I came in partial disguise.

The saving grace of being among the unpolished, rowdy Americans is that there are so many of them. Definitely more than the students at REU. Therefore, wearing sunglasses and a hoodie is enough to conceal me from the unholy masses.

According to my extensive research on the Heathens and, after the blood episode, on Mia Sokolov herself, I know she’s studying business.

So I make my way to that school and wait by the corner outside her classroom like a perfect gentleman. Thankfully, her clone studies law, so they don’t take the same classes.

I check my watch and count the seconds until she’s out. After this, Mia still has one more class, but she’s going to have to take a rain check on that.

The students buzz around me, their chatter clashing with the seconds on my watch.

I don’t mind the wait. In fact, a sensation of calm overtakes me at the prospect of catching prey.

I’m good at camouflaging myself when need be and waiting for the right moment.

Like the night, I’m silent, overpowering, and—under the right circumstances—deadly.

Students start flowing like ants in a disorganized colony, but I’m not concerned about missing Mia in the crowd.

That won’t be possible after the alien sensation I experienced during last night’s meeting.

Sure enough, I catch a glimpse of her blonde hair and blue ribbons flying in the wind as she checks her cat-themed backpack.

She’s wearing another black dress that’s fit for a luxurious funeral, and a certain detail stands out. The upper half has a few straps that stop at a choker around her delicate throat.

My, my.

She even dressed for the auspicious occasion.

Mia Sokolov is a beautiful goddess without putting in any effort. She barely wears any makeup or tries to doll up like most girls. She also adopts a troublemaking personality that’s designed to put a damper on her physical superiority.

I’ve barely seen her offer a genuine smile, and that includes all the footage I’ve gathered on her in my attempts to dig her a hole she’ll never get out of.

However, she excels at offering fake socially accepted smiles and pretending to be a naive cute girl to draw the right people’s attention.

And while she might argue that we’re different, she’s wearing the same version of the mask I do. Which means she might have a beast inside her, too.

And I will have to murder and cut it into pieces because I only need her as a statue.

Not flesh and bones. Thoughts and opinions. Words and existence.