God of Malice (Legacy of Gods #1)(2)
A disgrace to the King name.
It’s why I’m here—a last attempt to expel the charge building in my body.
The air frizzles my honey-colored hair that’s streaked with natural blonde balayage and stuffs it in my eyes. I flip it back and rub my palm on the side of my shorts as I stare down.
Down.
Down…
My rubbing heightens in intensity and so does the sound of the wind and the waves in my ear.
The pebbles crush under my tennis shoes as I take a step closer to the edge. The first one is the hardest, but then it’s like I’m floating on air.
My arms open wide and I close my eyes. As if I’m possessed by an alternate power, I don’t recognize that I remain standing in place or how my fingers itch to spray paint on something.
Anything.
I hope Mum won’t see the last painting I did.
I hope she won’t remember me as the least talented of her kids. The disgrace who couldn’t even reach the tip of her genius.
The weirdo whose artistic sense is screwed up in all the wrong ways.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper the words I think Devlin told me before he flew to nowhere.
Light slips past the corner of my closed lids and I startle, thinking that maybe his ghost has risen from the water and is coming after me.
He’ll tell me the words he snarled in every nightmare. “You’re a coward, Glyn. Always were and always will be.”
That thought spurs those images from the nightmares. I spin around so fast, my right foot slips, and I shriek as I tumble back.
Back…
Toward the deadly cliff.
A strong hand wraps around my wrist and tugs with a force that steals the breath from my lungs.
My hair flies behind me in a symphony of chaos, but my vision still zeroes in on the person holding me effortlessly with one hand. He doesn’t pull me from the edge, though, and instead, keeps me at a dangerous angle that could get me killed in a fraction of a second.
My legs shake, slipping against the tiny rocks and sharpening the angle I’m standing at—and the possibility of a fall.
The person’s eyes—a man, judging by his muscular frame—are covered by a camera that’s slung around his neck. Once again, blinding light flashes directly on my face. So that’s the reason behind the startling flash a moment ago. He’s been photographing me.
It’s only then I realize that moisture has gathered in my eyes, my hair is a tragic mess of the wind’s making, and the dark circles beneath my eyes could probably be seen from outer space.
I’m about to tell him to pull me, because my position is literally on the edge and I’m scared that if I try to do it myself, I’ll just fall.
But then something happens.
He slides the camera from his eyes, and my words get caught at the back of my throat.
Since it’s night and only the moon offers any type of light, I shouldn’t be able to see him so clearly. But I can. It’s like I’m seated at the premiere of a film. A thriller.
Or maybe a horror.
People’s eyes usually brighten with emotions, any type. Even grief makes them shine with tears, unsaid words, and irrevocable regrets.
His, however, are as dim as the night and just as dark. And the weirdest part is that they’re still indistinguishable from their surroundings. If I wasn’t staring straight at him, I’d think he was a creature of the wilderness.
A predator.
A monster, maybe.
His face is sharp, angular—the type that demands undivided attention, as if he were created for the purpose of luring people into a carefully-crafted trap.
No, not people.
Prey.
There’s a masculine quality to his physique that can’t be hidden by his black trousers and a short-sleeved T-shirt.
In the middle of this freezing spring night.
His arm muscles bulge from the material with no hint of goosebumps or discomfort, as if he were born with cold blood. The hand he’s currently holding my wrist hostage with—and effectively stopping my fall to death—is taut, but there’s no sign of exertion whatsoever.
Effortless. That’s the word to be used for him.
His whole demeanor drips with utter ease. It’s too cool…too blank, so that he appears a bit bored, even.
A bit…absent, despite being right here in the flesh.
His full, symmetrical lips are set in a line as an unlit cigarette hangs from between them. Instead of looking at me, he stares at his camera, and for the first time since I noticed him, a spark of light simmers behind his irises. It’s fast, fleeting, and almost imperceptible. But I catch it.
The single moment in time where his bored façade shimmers, darkens, rears from the background before eventually disappearing.
“Stunning.”
I swallow the unease creeping up my throat, and it has little to do with the word he said and more to do with how he said it.
His deep voice sounds laced with honey but is actually fogged with black smoke.
It has to do with how the word vibrated from his vocal cords before rippling in the space between us with the lethality of poison.
Also, did he just speak in an American accent?
My doubts are confirmed when his eyes slide to me with deadly confidence that locks my shaking muscles. For some reason, it feels as if I shouldn’t breathe the wrong way or else I’ll meet my downfall sooner rather than later.