God of Fury (Legacy of Gods #5) by Rina Kent



What am I doing here?

Deep in the hollow corner of my heart, I know the answer. I know it so well that I can taste the nausea that slithered down my throat and hooked onto my bones the moment I got that godforsaken text.

A text I should’ve very well ignored, deleted, and then blocked the number.

A text I shouldn’t have dignified with a look, let alone given it enough weight to intervene with my decision-making.

I did.

And that’s the reason I’m here.

I did.

And now, I’ve put myself in an irreversible position.

I did.

And I’m not sure I can shove this lapse of judgment on to the possibility of having no choice.

In reality, I do.

I’ve just never been good with choices. Don’t appreciate them. Don’t care for them. Would rather not be presented with one.

The text was an obligation or, more accurately, a pertinent piece of information.

It was not a choice and certainly not a situation I could’ve escaped.

The reason I’m here is sorely due to my sense of responsibility that I’ve carried like excess baggage since I started learning what life is all about.

I’m at what looks like an indoctrination center. Other students stand on either side of me, forming parallel lines and wearing white rabbit masks that cover their features.

We’re facing a huge three-story mansion with old-looking stone walls and an ancient tower on the far right.

The longer I remain unmoving, the more unsteady my breathing becomes.

My inhales and exhales flow in a fast, fractured rhythm, forming condensation on the plastic and forcing me to breathe my own air.


The sound is low, but it slams into my brain like a fatal crash. My mouth starts to fill with saliva and I gulp it down, forcing my stomach to settle.


I lift my hand, about to pull at my skull. Sometimes, I wish I could smash it against the nearest wall and watch as everything spills and shatters. Once and for fucking all.


My fingers curl in midair, but I lower my hand and force it to hang limp at my side.

It’s fine. I can do this.


You’re in control.

My soothing words of affirmation splinter and crack as the scene around me comes back into focus.

No matter how much I attempt to delude myself, the reality is that I’m in the last place I should be.

And I’m not one to challenge fate or go places I’m not supposed to.

In my twenty-three years of life, I’ve always been the type of man who follows the rules. I’ve never deviated from what’s expected of me and I’m creeped out at the notion of being different.

In any sense.

For whatever reason.

And yet here I am at the Heathens’ mansion because I received a text and made the conscious decision not to ignore it.

I made the decision to attend the initiation of the most notorious club on Brighton Island—a secluded place near the UK’s southwest coast.

For a university I’m not even enrolled in.

The Heathens are the leading club of The King’s U college. A uni that reeks of mafia money and la nouveau bourgeoisie, where all American students flock like birds of a feather.

We have our own malicious club at Royal Elite University—or REU—where I’m working on my master’s degree in art. It’s called the Elites and is led by none other than my headache of a twin brother, Landon.

However, The King’s U’s clubs—the Heathens and the Serpents—are much more nefarious since they come from real mafia families and are using the uni experience to sharpen their fangs for the leading roles awaiting them back in the States.

If a week ago someone had told me I’d be standing here wearing a creepy rabbit mask and waiting for the entitled, violence-thirsty Americans to make their appearance, I would’ve laughed.

I’m certainly not laughing now. A lot of variables have changed in the span of a week and I find myself under the obligation to be here.

As part of the herd.

And it has everything to do with that headache of a brother I mentioned earlier.

Though they took my phone at the entrance, I can still recall the text I received yesterday word for word.


Congratulations! You are invited to the Heathens’ initiation ceremony. Please show the attached QR code upon arrival at the club’s compound at four p.m. sharp.

While I’d heard of their nefarious initiations, I had absolutely no interest in them or the clubs. If I did, I would’ve joined the Elites since Lan has been asking for years.

So I ignored that text and was about to block the number, but then I got another one.

Unknown Number

If you want to see your twin brother breathing instead of being shoved in a casket and showcased to all participants, be at the initiation.

That’s the reason I came here, even though every fiber of my being revolted against the idea of taking part in this madness. I called and texted Lan, but he didn’t reply, so I had to save him from himself as usual.

My brother has always been the reason I’ve deviated from the core of my existence, though he’d argue this is my true character, and what I consider normal is a product of repressing.


Shackling my real self.