God of Ruin (Legacy of Gods, #4)(5)

My father’s words echo in my head as I stare back at the monster of the day.

What? There have been so many of them in my life that I’ve stopped counting.

“I asked you a question.” He squeezes again until pain pulses all over my arm. “Where’s your answer?”

Fuck you, asshole.

But since I can’t say that, or anything, actually, I just continue staring.

I could sign, but he’d figure out my identity immediately. Besides, it’s not like he can understand me anyway.

So I purse my lips further and attempt to shake my arm from his grip.

Huge mistake.

His fingers dig in so hard, it’s like he’s attempting to break the bone.

My eyes widen. Wait…is that what he wants to do?

All of a sudden, he becomes taller and broader, nearly eating up the horizon with his build.

It’s clear he has more height than me, but at this particular moment, he seems like a wall.

One that’s covered by wires and glass shards. Was he always this muscular? Did his shoulders strain against his tailored tuxedo jacket a minute ago?

Or maybe I’m just becoming super aware of his presence to the point of hyperfixation.

Landon is a tall man, at least six-foot-four, with a lean, muscled body and a perfectly straight posture. To make things worse, those superior physical traits are topped by his natural charisma.

He carries himself with frightening assurance and a blinding ego. He’s frustratingly confident, antagonistic to the point of bagging enemies everywhere he goes, and has an arrogance that could bring Narcissus to tears.

But there’s another side of him I’m currently discovering.

He's…frightening.

And I don’t mean in the way some wannabes try to look scary. He doesn’t puff his chest out or raise his voice. He doesn’t try to be terrifying by modifying anything in his demeanor.

All he has to do is let his true colors show through. The long fingers of his free hand wrap around his mask and he casually lifts it.

The moment I see the entirety of his face, my theory becomes fact. All Landon had to do was remove the mask so the real him could shine through.

His face is logically gorgeous, model-like in its symmetry. He has a high, straight nose, defined cheekbones, and a jaw so sharp, it could cut through stone.

Illogically, however, he didn’t reveal his face to charm me into anything. It’s a weapon he’s using with the purpose of pure intimidation.

He willingly revealed his identity so that it’s clear who has the upper hand here—him, the leader of the Elites and the host of the event at which I’m a mere invitee.

“Let’s try again. Who are you and what are you doing in the men’s room?”

My gaze meets his. Unwavering. Unblinking.

No fear, and certainly no change in demeanor, just because his face—that he doesn’t deserve, I might add—is in view.

“You refuse to speak, is that it?”

I nod once.

“I see,” he muses and eases his grip on my arm.

Is he letting me go?

I cast him a doubtful glance, but there doesn’t seem to be any malicious intent in his eyes.

They’re neutral. Amicable, even.

My heartbeat slowly returns to normal despite my alerted state.

Then, all of a sudden, something happens.

It’s so fast and fleeting, I would’ve missed it if I’d believed in the fake safety he offered and dropped my guard.

In a heartbeat, he reaches for my mask, openhanded, as if he’s about to suffocate me.

I don’t think as I push his palm at the last second and it ends up on my breast.

My chest heaves and the weight of his hand on my breast makes it worse.

Instead of backing off, a smirk tugs on the corner of his lips and he squeezes the flesh over my dress. “So this whole charade was an invitation? You girls sure come up with the most creative ways to get my attention. Are you up for it here, where anyone can walk in and see you getting fucked senseless like a dirty, dirty girl?”

For a moment, I’m stunned into silence. Partly because no one’s talked to me like that in the past.

No one’s dared to.

I’m Mia Sokolov. The daughter of Kyle Hunter and Rai Sokolov. If anyone ever dared touch me and say those words to me, I would punch them to another planet. My parents would find them and have their balls for breakfast.

Don’t even get me started on my brother. He’d resurrect them and slaughter them all over again.

In my stupefaction, his hand slides down my hip and over my ass cheek before he squeezes it and slams me against his front.

A wordless gasp falls from my lips as my stomach rubs against his semi-hard erection.

My temperature rises with pure fucking rage.

How dare he…? How fucking…

I don’t think about it as I try to lift my knee and kick him in the balls.

Before I can do that, however, he tightens his grip on my ass, giving me no wiggle room whatsoever.

“Easy there, mouse. While I’m rather open to wrestling, I’m not sure you can take me on.”

I’m going to take you to meet your fucking maker, asshole.

I attempt to slip sideways, but it’s impossible to get rid of his fingers that are digging into my ass.

“You’re a silent little thing.” He grabs my other ass cheek with the hand he’s holding his mask in. “You did your research, didn’t you? I love them mute.”