God of Malice (Legacy of Gods #1)(3)

The resemblance of light has long since disappeared from his eyes and I’m face to face with that shadowy version from earlier—muted, dull, and absolutely lifeless.

“Not you. The photograph.”

That sounded American.

But what would he be doing in such a desolate place that even the locals don’t tread near?

His hand loosens from around my wrist and when my feet slip back, several rocks fall and meet their demise. A haunted shriek echoes in the air.

Mine.

I don’t even think about it as I grab hold of his forearm with both hands.

“What the… What the hell are you doing?” I pant through my choked breaths, my heart stammering. A sense of terror rips through my rib cage, and I haven’t felt anything like it in weeks.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” He still speaks with utter ease, as if he’s discussing breakfast options with friends. “I’m finishing the job you started, so when you fall to your death, I can commemorate the moment. I have a feeling you’ll be a good addition to my collection, but if you’re not…” He shrugs. “I’ll just burn it.”

My mouth hangs open as an influx of thoughts invade my mind. Did he just say he’ll add a picture of me falling to my death to his collection? I have too many questions, but the most important of all is, what type of collection does this lunatic keep?

No, scratch that—the ultimate question is, who the hell is this guy? He looks about my age, would be considered handsome by societal standards, and he’s an outsider.

Oh, and he gives off a criminal vibe, but not the petty, ordinary kind. He’s in a league of his own.

A dangerous criminal vibe.

The mastermind controlling countless thugs, who usually lurks behind the scenes.

And somehow, I happened to appear in his path.

Having lived my life surrounded by men who eat the world for breakfast, I can recognize danger.

I can also recognize people I should stay away from.

And this American stranger is the epitome of those two options.

I need to get out of here.

Now.

Despite the nerves attacking my already fragile mental state, I force myself to speak in my no-nonsense tone. “I wasn’t planning to die.”

He raises an eyebrow and the cigarette in his mouth twitches with a slight movement of his lips. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. So can you…pull me up?”

I could use his forearm to do that myself, but any sudden movement will probably have the exact opposite effect and he could release me to meet my maker.

Still grabbing my wrist with a nonchalant hand, he retrieves a lighter with his free one and lights the cigarette. The tip burns like rich orange dusk and he takes his time before he throws the lighter back into his pocket and blows out a cloud of smoke in my face.

I usually gag on the smell of cigarettes, but that’s the least of my problems now.

“And what do I get in return for helping you?”

“My thanks?”

“I have no use for that.”

My lips purse and I force myself to remain calm. “Then why did you grab hold of me in the first place?”

He taps the edge of his camera, then caresses it with the sensuality of a man touching a woman he can’t stay away from.

For some reason that causes my temperature to rise.

He looks like the type who does that a lot.

Often.

And with the same intensity he exudes.

“To take a picture. So how about you finish what you started and give me the masterpiece I came here for?”

“Are you seriously saying that your masterpiece is my death?”

“Not your death, no. It’d look too bloody and displeasingly gory when your skull is smashed against the rocks below. Not to mention that the current lighting won’t be able to capture a good picture. It’s your fall that I’m interested in. Your pale skin will have a wonderful contrast against the water.”

“You’re…sick.”

He lifts a shoulder and blows more toxic fog. Even the way he slides his fingers against the cigarette and smokes appears effortless, when it’s shackled with tension. “Is that a no?”

“Of course it’s a no, you psycho. You think I’d die just so you can take a picture?”

“A masterpiece, not a picture. And you don’t really have a choice. If I decide you’ll die…” His upper body leans forward and he loosens his fingers from around my wrist, his voice lowering to a frightening whisper. “You’ll die.”

I scream when my foot nearly gives way and my nails dig into his arm with a ferocious need for life bubbling in my veins with the desperation of a caged animal. A prisoner that’s been in solitary confinement for bloody years.

I’m pretty sure I scratched him, but if he’s hurt, he shows no signs of discomfort.

“This isn’t funny,” I pant, my voice choked.

“Do you see me laughing?” His long fingers wrap around the cigarette and he takes a drag before pulling it away from his mouth. “You have until my smoke ends to give me something.”

“Something?”

“Whatever you’re willing to do in exchange for my chivalrous act of saving a damsel in distress.”

I don’t miss the way he stresses the word chivalrous, or the provocative way he uses words in general. As if they’re weapons in his arsenal.