God of Malice (Legacy of Gods #1)(8)

Did this bastard just take a picture of me in this position?

Yes. Yes, he did.

But before I can try to snatch away his camera, he pulls his fingers from my mouth, then uses them to tuck my hair behind my ears and pats the top of my head.

“You were a good sport, Glyndon.”

And then he effortlessly tugs me away from the edge, turns, and leaves.

I remain in a frozen state, unable to wrap my head around everything that just happened.

The most important of all is, how the hell does that psycho know my name?





3





GLYNDON





I don’t know how I drive home.

There’s definitely crying and some blurry vision as I strangle the steering wheel. But the persistent feeling is the constant need to follow in Devlin’s footsteps and just hit the gas to the nearest cliff.

I shake my head.

Thinking about Devlin under the current situation is about the worst step I can take.

The best step I take, however, is stopping across from a police station with the intention to report what just happened.

One thing stops me from opening my car’s door. What evidence do I have?

Besides, I’d rather die than have my family battle a media war for my sake. Yes, Dad and Grandpa, and even my mum, would probably shred the stranger to pieces and be willing to battle all types of wars for me if they knew.

But I’m not like them.

I’m not antagonistic and I sure as hell don’t want them to be in the spotlight because of me.

I just can’t do that.

And I’m so damn tired. I’ve been tired for months, and this will only add to the weight that has been perching on my shoulders.

Mum will be so disappointed in me if she hears that her little girl is covering for a predator. She raised me with the motto of holding my head up. She raised me to be a strong woman like herself and my late grandma.

But she doesn’t need to know about this.

It’s not that I’m covering up for him. I’m not. I won’t make any excuses for him. I won’t consider it anything less than what it is.

However, it’ll remain buried between me and myself. Just like everything about Devlin.

Is justice that important? Not when I have to sacrifice my peace of mind for it.

I’ve already dealt with a lot of things on my own. What’s another thing to add to the list?

I finally arrive at my family home with a heavy soul and a shredded heart. The blue hues of early dusk start descending over the vast property as the huge gate closes behind me. The door creaks with a haunting sound, and the fog forming in the distance doesn’t help in diminishing the spookiness of the scene.

I step out of my car and freeze, staring behind me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and my limbs start shaking uncontrollably.

What if that crazy bastard followed me here?

What if he hurts my family?

If he so much as poses a threat to them, I’ll become homicidal. No doubt about it.

I might be ready to move past what he did to me, but it’s different when my loved ones are involved. I swear I’ll go mental.

Long moments tick by as I inspect my surroundings with my fists clenched by my sides. Only after I’ve made sure I didn’t actually bring a rabid dog with me do I start heading inside.

Mum and Dad made this house so big, imposing, but with enough warmth to feel like a home.

The building stretches over a large piece of land on the outskirts of London. The wooden gazebo that sits in the middle of the garden is filled with multiple paintings from our childhood.

The stars I drew when I was around three appear grotesque and absolutely appalling compared to the ones my brothers painted. I don’t want to look at them or be hit with that inferiority complex.

Not now.

So I remove my shoes and sneak down to the basement. It’s where our art studios are.

Right next to a world-renowned artist’s.

Anyone in the art circuit knows the name Astrid Clifford King, or they’d recognize her signature, Astrid C. King. Her sketches have captured the hearts of critics and galleries all over the world, and she’s often asked to attend as a guest of honor at an opening here and an exclusive event there.

My mum was the reason behind my and my brothers’ artistic tendencies. Landon is damn effortless about it. Brandon is meticulous.

Me?

I’m chaotic to the point that I don’t understand it sometimes.

I don’t belong to their inner circle.

My hand trembles as I open the door leading to the studios Dad had built for us when the twins were ten.

Lan and Bran share the big one, and I have a much smaller one. I used to hang with them in my early teens, but their talent crushed my soul and I spent months unable to paint anything.

So my mum asked Dad to build me a separate one so I could have more privacy. No clue if she figured that out by herself or if Bran confided in her, but it didn’t make much of a difference. At least I didn’t have to be slammed by their genius and feel smaller every day.

In reality, I shouldn’t even compare myself to them. Not only are they older than me, but we’re also so different. Lan is a sculptor, a hardcore sadist who can and will make his subjects into stones if he gets a chance.

Bran, on the other hand, is a painter of landscapes and anything that doesn’t include humans, animals, or whatever has eyes.