God of Ruin: A Dark College Romance (Legacy of Gods Book 4)
God of Ruin: Chapter 17

Hope is the worst emotion to experience when there’s no light at the end of the tunnel.

You wait.

You pray.

You even try to delude yourself that it’s not happening to you. That it just can’t be you.

But that’s the problem with hope.

The false positive. The feeling that the horrible situation can end any moment, when that’s far from the truth.

It’s the falsification of reality.

The yearning for a different dream.

A feeling of being on the cloud that can’t be reached in real time.

Once again, I’m back in the pitch-darkness. Tendrils of black slither across my hands and feet, swallowing me deeper into the clutches of nothingness.

My lungs choke on the dying hope of ever seeing light again.

“Mom…Dad…” My haunted whisper echoes in the dark silence like an eerie lullaby.

My limbs tremble and my heart shrivels. Tears sting my eyes again and I sniffle as quietly as possible.

If I trigger the monster’s wrath, he’ll throw me against the wall and laugh at my loud crying.

He laughs when I say Mom and Dad will come to get me.

He laughs the hardest when he unleashes the weight of his wrath on me. When he kicks and throws me against the wall as if I’m the punching bag in our home gym.

Again and again.

And again.

Until I wish it would end already.

It doesn’t, though.

The monster is here again, his fangs visible through his sardonic smile. His eyes are as dead as the boogeyman from Dad’s bedtime stories.

I crouch further, eyes squeezed shut, and I cover my ears with my sweaty palms.

Don’t touch me.

Please.

Daddy! Mommy! Help!

“You’ll never escape me, you little rascal.”

No!

I startle awake, sweat soaking my whole body and my hair sticking to my neck. My breathing comes in long, chopped inhales and my heart palpitates in my chest.

No, no, I can’t be back there, I can’t—

“Welcome back to the world of the living, sleepyhead.”

My attention swings to the source of the voice, and it’s none other than the second monster in my life.

The one who barged in without knocking or even announcing his presence.

Landon sits on the half-torn chair opposite me, working on a medium-sized statue. Only, it’s not made of stone. Judging by the dark material that’s seeping between his fingers like butter, he’s using clay.

The scene slowly comes into focus. We’re in the haunted house that could be used to scare misbehaving children. Some of the candles have gone out, and the remaining ones surround me as if I were the object of a satanic ritual.

Considering Landon’s extremely unhinged nature, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Earlier, he showed me a part of myself I didn’t know existed. Yes, I suspected it, but I never dared to try it. And maybe, if the psycho hadn’t forced me, I never would have.

All I know is that I enjoyed it more than I’d like to admit. I enjoyed it to the point that I’m completely ashamed.

But another part of me, the part that fell apart due to his rough touch and psychopathic tendencies, is still humming at the recent memory of his and my fingers inside me.

As if that wasn’t crazy enough, Landon pushed me to the edge of the fragile stairs and fucked my throat. The fact that we could have fallen at any second did nothing to diminish the pure animalistic way he touched me.

In fact, the louder the wood creaked, the harder he thrust in and out of my mouth. It didn’t matter that I’d already come twice, seeing Landon’s lusty gaze under the moonlight made me hot and bothered again.

I can still smell him—a fatal combination of cedarwood and male musk.

After he came down my throat and made me swallow every drop, he helped me down the dangerous stairs. I should’ve gone down myself, but I was too lethargic to do anything.

It’s probably why I must’ve fallen asleep after I put my dress back on. I remember thinking the sofa looked nice and mindlessly walking toward it.

Something must really be wrong with me, because I felt safe enough to fall asleep around the bastard.

A bastard who’s the definition of a life hazard.

Said bastard is now half naked as he watches me from beneath his lashes with that smirk of je ne sais quoi and blows a cloud of smoke in the air. Smudges of clay cling to his muscular abs dusted with fine hairs that lead to a place I prefer not to think about.

It doesn’t help that his pants hang low on his lithe hips, revealing the defined V-line and leaving practically nothing to the imagination.

I catch glimpses of snake tattoos slithering up his side, one of them is shaped into an infinity symbol, eating its own tail. It’s an ouroboros, I realize—dark, striking, and gives off deadly vibes.

A third nipple would’ve been so nice, but no, the asshole had to be physical perfection.

His middle finger that’s all gray with clay wraps around his belt’s loop and pulls. “Want a closer look? My cock would certainly appreciate a second round. Maybe make the acquaintance with your cunt this time?”

My gaze snaps back to his sardonic face I suspect has never known what happiness looks like. And I don’t mean his makeshift joy or the feeling of accomplishment that he fakes so well. But real happiness that the likes of him can probably never feel in this lifetime.

“Why are you half naked, pervert?” I sign.

“You were shivering.”

I look down at myself and sure enough, I’m wearing his shirt and it has nothing to do with an action I’ve taken.

No wonder I’ve been smelling him on me. I chalked it up to earlier, but turns out, he’s actually on me. Well, his shirt is.

“And they say chivalry is dead.” He grins like a hedonistic lord. “You should thank your lucky stars for ending up with a well-mannered gentleman like yours truly.”

“More like cursed stars.”

“Don’t be so negative. Life has brighter sides—namely me.”

I physically roll my eyes, and I don’t usually do that. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“For all the right reasons.” He stubs his cigarette in the ashtray, letting it join a dozen others lying about, and motions at the coffee table where there’s a takeout box. “Eat.”

I lick my lips. “How did you know I was hungry?”

I didn’t get to eat earlier because of this same bastard, so the sight of food makes my stomach growl.

“Because of that. Your stomach was making itself noticeable, even when you were slumbering away.” He chuckles and I inhale deeply, but I smell him more than the food.

He’s all around me, and even metaphorically inside me. It’s a mismatch of colors and emotions that leaves me hopelessly chaotic. I’m unable to process anything when he’s everything I see, hear, and breathe.

I can even taste his cologne on my tongue.

So I choose to focus on something I understand. Food.

It’s Italian—my favorite. But it’s not really that weird that he got it since most people love Italian.

I dig into my pasta without bothering to glance in his direction.

“Your manners must’ve left the building.” His voice echoes around me like the Grim Reaper’s favorite lullaby. “The least you can do is express gratitude for my thoughtful behavior.”

I swallow the mouthful of pasta, put the fork down, and sign, “People who have thoughtful behavior don’t expect gratitude.”

“I do.”

“Thank you.”

A grin lifts his lips. “You’re welcome, little muse.”

“This doesn’t negate the fact that you interrupted my actual dinner.”

“It was totally worth it, and if you weren’t drowning in absolute nonsense, you’d admit it as well.”

I lift my hand to give him the middle finger and he raises a brow. “Just think about where that finger will be if you flip me off.”

I snarl, because I know he absolutely delivers when it comes to threats, and choose to dive back into my pasta.

At least this makes sense.

He definitely doesn’t.

Silence stretches in the living room, minus the sound of the fork against the cardboard plate. It’s strange that he didn’t grace me with one of his over-the-top mocking replies.

I chance a glance in his direction only to replace him studying me so closely and coldly, I feel as if I’m being dissected by a mad scientist.

“What?” I sign after I gulp loudly.

“I was just thinking that you look edible in my shirt, possibly more than the food you’re consuming. Want to consummate your push-pull relationship with my cock?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t hurt to ask.” He lifts a nonchalant shoulder. “But mark my words, Mia. You’ll welcome my cock in your tight little cunt, whether by choice or after we do another discovery journey of your kinks. One thing’s for certain, though. He’ll be your favorite flavor.”

I really can’t believe him.

He could easily bag an award for the most arrogant and impossibly unbearable man.

“What about your kinks?” I ask in an attempt to turn the tables on him.

He uses a tool to sculpt the face of the clay statue, his movements smooth and elegant. The discarded pieces fall on the floor, forgotten and without purpose, probably like everyone in Landon’s life.

“What about them?” he asks.

“What are they?”

“My, muse. I know you like me, but you might want to tone it down a bit. Here’s a tip, don’t be obvious.”

“Here’s a tip. Don’t be ridiculous. I asked you about your kinks just like you asked about mine.”

“That’s the thing. I didn’t ask for your kinks, I took you on a discovery journey. You’re welcome, by the way. There’s only one fair way to tell you about my kinks.” His lips curl in a sardonic smile. “Demonstrate them.”

“No, thanks.”

“You sure? Mine are a lot more colorful and fun.”

My lips part. He got hard as he chased me earlier; I felt it, and he didn’t attempt to hide it, so that means he enjoyed that. The whole scene was already too far out of my comfort zone. What could he possibly mean by more colorful?

But then again, why am I interested?

The ‘like what?’ question lingers on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back down and focus on the food that I’ve been pushing around on the plate.

“Not interested,” I sign.

Landon abandons his statue and I stiffen as he walks toward me. Or more like waltzes, like a large cat who appears lazy but would snap you in half if given the chance. As he approaches, I notice a scar at the bottom of his stomach. I wonder what happened to cause that then curse myself for being interested.

It was so easy to just hate him to death a few weeks ago, but that’s, unfortunately, not the only feeling I have anymore.

After he destroyed my defenses and stomped over my limits, there are other morbid feelings lurking through me. I don’t understand most of them, but I definitely recognize the curiosity and the need for more.

Not to mention that I have to spy on this bastard for a long time if I want to gather anything about him.

My fingers tighten on the fork as he approaches. The light of the candles casts ominous shadows over his ethereal face.

His abs flex with every step, adding another edge to his cutthroat presence.

He stops in front of me and chucks me under the chin, then lifts it with a thumb and a forefinger. “Too bad you don’t get to decide, little muse. I’ll enjoy every second of discovering all of your kinks. Don’t try to run, you know exactly how much I enjoy the chase.”

I’ve fallen deep into a version of myself I don’t recognize.

It’s been two weeks since the day Landon unleashed a side of me whose existence I never imagined the magnitude of.

Since then, he’s shown me exactly how far I can go. How much I can do. How hard I can take it.

He started by threatening to show up while I’m with Maya or Niko, then he kidnaps me to the haunted house. So lately, I just text him that I’ll be there, which is usually met by Landon’s over-the-top gloating response.

You like me even more, don’t you?

Are you that excited about reuniting with my mouth and fingers?

My cock got in touch recently and he’d like to have a go. If you’d leave the prude nun act at home, that would be great.

Every time, he hints or tries to go further, but I either shove him, punch him, or simply say no.

Surprisingly, Landon doesn’t push after that.

He’s fine with the word no. He doesn’t get threatened or provoked by it. He’s definitely toxic and has red flags galore, but while he toys with the line of consent, he never crosses it.

He does like to play with me, though. He likes to chase me and see how far I’ll go into the cursed forest. I’ve been getting farther every day, despite the darkness. It has to do with the fact that I know he’s right behind me.

After all, only a monster can crush another monster.

We sometimes wrestle and I hit him. He doesn’t hit me back for some reason, but he does trap me beneath him, disable my movements and show me that his power will always be superior to mine, and if he chooses to, he could easily smash me to smithereens.

He loves playing with me, baiting me, making me think I’ll win (whether in chase or chess), then he pulls the carpet from beneath my feet with a sardonic smirk on his face.

It’s insane how intense the pleasure he gives me is and how it keeps getting worse, not better. I’m scared that one of these days, my heart will jump out of my chest or completely give out on me.

Still, I love the lustful, glorious look on his face when I wrap my lips around his cock and suck the life out of him. I’m a fast learner and have been training my gag reflex so that I can take him as far as possible. The more I make the effort, the harder he comes down my throat or decorates my face.

But most importantly, after we’re done, he wraps me in his shirt, hoodie, or jacket and buys me food, namely Italian and Turkish since he discovered they’re my favorites. He likes to sculpt while I’m munching on my food or working on my new mini garden opposite his art studio.

Landon is definitely a sight to behold when he’s working on art. A heart-stopping image no one could look away from—least of all, me.

The other day, after I was spent from wrestling with the asshole just so I’d lose and suck him off, he got out a brush and used a watercolor—blue, like my favorite color—to paint all over my face.

Then he stared at me for over a minute and nodded to himself.

He went to sketch something in his notebook, so I looked at the mirror and was horrified beyond measure. It looked like the kind of lines someone would make on the face of a patient for reconstructive surgery.

But then again, I shouldn’t be surprised anymore about anything that’s related to Landon. The more time I spend with him, the more I realize he truly is a narcissistic sadist and an insatiable anarchist.

I haven’t been able to get more information about the Elites, because we often meet here and he’s not the type to be milked unless his dick is involved.

Jeremy, who’s in a ‘we’ll murder Landon’ phase, told me he’s up to something, but I can’t figure out what exactly that something is.

So, my other option is going into the lion’s den.

Yes, I’ve been in the Elites’ mansion before, but only for Bran, and aside from doing some thorough research to pull off that blood bath episode, I didn’t snoop much when it came to Landon.

Time to change that.

So here’s the thing. My plan is fairly simple, but it requires a certain level of cunning behavior—without my actually looking the part.

I got Bran to invite me over—sorry for using your good hospitality so shamelessly, Bran—and we spent the last hour playing, but I said that I need to use the bathroom.

Obviously, that’s a blatant lie.

Because I’m heading to Landon’s room.

Snooping much? Absolutely. This is the only chance I’ll have since his studio is locked with his thumbprint and I’m not in the mood for dismemberment today—might change my mind the moment I see him, though.

Apparently, there’s a spare key for the studio somewhere, but neither Remi nor Bran is willing to disclose that information. Besides, I don’t think there’s anything different in his home studio compared to the haunted house one.

He probably doesn’t like having others look at his creations before he’s done with them, which is why he has all those half-finished statues in an unsuspecting place.

He didn’t seem to mind when I watched him, though. So who knows? Maybe, like with everything else, it’s up to his ever-changing mood.

At any rate, this is the perfect place to launch an investigation. Figuring out which one is Landon’s room is easy. The other day when I came over, Bran said he’d pick up something from upstairs and I followed. As we were passing by, he pointed at this room, “Stay away from that one. It’s where the evil twin hibernates before plotting everyone’s demise.”

Apparently, I’m blind to red flags, because I slip inside and slowly close the door behind me.

Landon’s room is as meticulous as his haunted house art studio. There’s an air of great detail put into the positioning of the furniture and the elegant masculine color scheme.

One corner is occupied by a tall platform bed with a leather headboard that’s as black as his soul. In the center, there’s a matching sofa and two elegant standing lamps.

What catches my attention, however, is the desk in another corner topped by a few books.

I tiptoe in its direction and read the titles of books mostly written by artists and professionals in the sculpting scene.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a notepad. After casting a fleeting glance on either side of me, I open it.

The pictures that greet me rob my lungs of their last breaths.

3D statues lie in front of me, glorious in their details and absolutely stunning in their elegant disposal.

One pattern that exists throughout the notepad strikes me.

None of them have faces.

Some are half finished like the statues in the haunted house, as if he couldn’t replace the right image to draw, but most of them have been left blank.

As I go farther, I notice a few silhouettes of absolute chaos—intertwined circles, crossed lines, and meaningless figures.

The stark difference between these objects and the perfect statues is so jarring that I double- and triple-check them. It’s impossible to believe both were made by the same person.

Maybe he was in a different state of mind when he sketched these.

I run my fingers over the intertwined lines. What was he thinking of when he drew these? Usually, he’s focused to a fault during the creation process—posture erect, eyes like a hawk, and lips slightly parted.

Art mode looks brutally elegant on him.

I have no idea why I want to see him when he’s making these loops of nothingness. Maybe it’s because this is the first time I’ve noticed a break in his perfectly perfect façade.

Landon can get petty, antagonist, and absolutely insufferable, but I’ve never actually seen him angry. Maybe he doesn’t even know what anger is.

Movement comes from behind the door and I return the notebook to where I found it and frantically search the room for a place to hide.

Shoot. None of the furniture is able to camouflage me.

The door opens and I jump behind the tall curtains and catch my breath. The balcony door behind me is open and the chill seeps into my bones.

Footsteps shuffle into the room, and I don’t have to guess. It’s Landon. I couldn’t mistake him for anyone else when my lungs are filled with his delicious smell.

Other footsteps follow. “You haven’t been around.”

A feminine voice.

And it’s not Ava’s, Cecily’s, or his sister Glyn’s. I’ve heard all their voices and they don’t sound snotty like this one.

“Didn’t feel the need to be around,” Landon replies in his signature sarcastic, bored voice.

“You can’t do this. We agreed about our next hit.”

I notice that I’ve been balling my hands into fists ever since I heard the girl’s voice and slowly release them.

I need to be calm. After all, this is my chance to do what I came here for—spy on the asshole.

“Our next what?”

“We agreed we’d slash their tires this weekend.”

“We did?”

“Yes! Everyone is waiting for their orders. We need to sit down and plan this thoroughly.”

“Ever heard of free will, Nila? It’s a curious, liberating feeling that you should engage in sometime.”

“Don’t even think about pushing me to the sidelines again, Lan. You don’t want to cross me.”

“Already have, countless times, including when you were begging for it on your knees.”

My face heats and my fists ball again until my nails dig into my palms.

“Is that what you want?” Her words come out as a purr. “Me on my knees?”

“Not particularity, but if you’re in the mood to bow down to me, by all means. Don’t let me stop you.”

My foot falls back and I slip behind the open door and onto the balcony. My steps are silent and careful despite the red-hot fire that blows through me.

I have to leave, because if I stay, I’ll definitely jump in the middle of the room and punch them both in the face.

It’s me who I should punch. Why have I thought that I’m the only one he plays with for sport?

Of course he has side pieces like Nila to tend to his stupid kinks all day, every day.

I breathe heavily as I climb over the railing of the balcony and jump to the next one—Brandon’s.

Another factor that I forgot about in my attempts to spy on his psycho brother.

I have to make an excuse to Bran and leave, because if I see Landon again, I might accidentally kill him.

And I don’t like these strong emotions I have because of the bastard.

More importantly, I want my chest to stop aching.