God of Malice (Legacy of Gods #1)(29)

Then, in the middle of all the noise, cheering, booing, and utter chaos, Killian reaches out for Creigh’s face and taps. Twice.

The crowd is stunned to silence, and then ours roars at the news of victory. But some release a breath of relief.

Nikolai curses, Remi curses, and even the announcer curses.

“Damn. That’s the end of that, ladies and gents. The King wins!”

Killian turns with ease, even though his whole body is bruised.

Creigh grabs him by the arm. “Don’t fucking tap out. Let’s continue.”

“If we continue, I’ll kill you.” He levels him with a glare. “Back. Off.”

Creigh seems bent on his decision, but I’m thankful for Remi, who grabs him and forces him to calm all that excessive adrenaline.

My heart hammers as Killian slips from the ring. I don’t wait for him to come and find me, so I mumble an intelligible “I gotta go” to Ava, then bolt out of there.

Creigh is fine, so that bastard has nothing to threaten me with.

And I sure as hell am not going to stick around to witness his craziness in full glory.

I wrap my sweater around my middle and hasten my footsteps out of the fighting club.

As soon as I’m above ground, I breathe in a harsh intake of air. I’m still shaking and I don’t think I can stop that reaction.

It’s not until I’m in the car park that I realize we came in Ava’s car and unless I’m ready to go back in there, I have no ride.

Whatever, I’ll call an Uber.

I’m ready to lay my head on Cecily’s lap and let her tell me all sorts of psychological shit just so I can forget.

Or maybe I can paint something.

An engine revs behind me and I step to the side to give way to the car. But it swerves in front of me and I yelp as it comes to a sudden halt.

It’s a bright red Aston Martin that appears to be a custom—something my uncle would collect in his motor collection.

The driver’s door flings open and a larger-than-life shadow staggers out of it.

My heart stops when he drags his fingers through his hair, his jaw clenching. “Last I checked, we had a ride to go on, didn't we?”





9





GLYNDON





Red drips onto the concrete.

Dark.

Ominous.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I follow the direction from which the blood is pouring and pause.

Killian still wears the red shorts and has thrown on a black T-shirt. His muscles flex, but he doesn’t appear to be cold, or in pain due to the bruise peeking from his arm or the cut on his lip.

That’s from where the blood drips, smearing his chin and collarbone.

“Get in the car,” he orders with complete assurance.

Someone honks because the crazy bastard stopped in the middle of the street, but Killian doesn’t pay them attention.

I shake my head and try to bypass him.

“I can always go back in there and pick up where I left off. The only difference is that you’ll regret the decision once your precious Creighton ends up in a body cast.”

My fists clench. “Don’t.”

“I heard he doesn’t tap out. So maybe he’ll be hooked to a machine in a hospital next time you see him.”

“Stop it!”

“Get in the fucking car, Glyndon.”

The guy honks again and while Killian doesn’t seem to hear him, the sensory overload nearly drives me up the wall.

“Get out of the way, motherfucker!” the guy screams from the window in an American accent.

Once Killian stares at him, he swallows and reverses, then hits a rubbish can on his escape route.

“You have until the count of three. If you don’t get in the car, I’m going back to Creighton.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Three.”

The bastard didn’t even count.

He slides back into his car, and I don’t let my brain think as I throw the passenger door open and get inside.

I’m breathing harshly, my skin crawling and my heart about to leap out of my skin. It isn’t normal that I’m on an emotional upheaval whenever I’m in his orbit.

One hand on the steering wheel, the other casually lying by his side, he faces me. “That wasn’t so hard.”

I glare at him and cross my arms over my chest. “For your information, I still don’t trust you. In fact, I distrust you even more now that you proved you’re not only prone to violence, but you’d also threaten my family with it.”

“All humans are prone to violence. I just have better control over it.”

“You don’t sound so convincing with blood dripping all over your face.”

“Worried about me, baby?”

“You’d be bleeding out and I wouldn’t even notice. In fact, I’d use the blood to mix colors on my palette.”

“Ouch.” His voice drops. “Though you’re such a horrible liar. You looked as pale as a ghost when I was being punched.”

“I dislike violence, so it’s not about you. I would’ve reacted that way to anyone.”

“I choose to believe that you felt especially aggravated because it’s me.”