God of Pain: A Grumpy Sunshine College Romance (Legacy of Gods Book 2)

I can’t breathe properly.

I can’t even think properly.

I’ve been imagining this moment ever since I recognized those eyes. Chameleon, ocean eyes with rare heterochromia that I’ve never seen on anyone but him.

That’s what the black rings surrounding his blue eyes are called. Heterochromia. A perfect imperfection that’s part of who he is.

It was the first thing that tugged on my attention. And while many would say my attention is easy to get, no one knows it’s impossible to keep.

Yes, I continue to treat people nicely, remember their names and ask about their last social media post, but it’s all part of a feigned behavior. Whatever drew me to them in the first place has long since shriveled and died.

Creighton is the exception to that phenomenon. My interest in him started like with anyone else—mild, normal. Impersonal.

Little by little, it’s expanded into this boundless powerful interest that’s swept through me from the inside out.

My attention to him hasn’t waned. If anything, it’s grown more potent with every encounter, every stolen glance. Every touch.

Though they’ve never been sensual in nature.

As opposed to right now.

My hand tingles in Creighton’s, or more like my finger that I reached out. That’s all he’s holding—or crushing in his palm. A mere finger.

He slides it away from his face and then drops it as if it’s an insignificant object. Beneath the apparent detachment, a much worse feeling lingers in his gaze—disgust.

A familiar clamping clenches my chest, followed by a subtle ache behind my rib cage.

Oblivious to the tremble in the finger he just threw, Creighton springs up to a sitting position. I have to step back to keep from colliding with him.

My Tchaikovsky.

He really needs to stop moving so suddenly.

Or maybe I’m the one who should move less jerkily.

Hugging my bag, I sit beside him and put on my best smile. “Hi! I didn’t see you at lunch, so I thought maybe you’d be hungry?”

He doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t need to. As much as I’ve tried to pull words out of him in the few weeks I’ve known him, I’ve come to the bitter realization that he just isn’t the talkative type.

Worse, he takes the silent treatment game to the next level that makes you feel less than the dirt on his designer shoes.

For the record, my pride is wounded. Usually, I’m able to befriend anyone. I tell them witty stories and smile and they fall for me, just like that.

The only exception is this six-foot-four wall of muscle.

But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I give up.

So I dig into my bag and retrieve the purple container—not the one I ate from—and place it on his lap. “I made extra lunch, not salad; I know you don’t like those. Jer was starving this morning, so I fixed him some shrimp and there were leftovers.”

It’s actually the other way around, and my brother has the smallest portion—sorry, Jer—but Creighton doesn’t need to know that.

He stares at the container with that edge of his usual disapproval. Creighton has this permanent blank stare that makes it impossible to figure out what he’s feeling. It’s worse than any mask and more effective than any camouflage.

And whenever he looks at something, you never know if he’s considering touching it or flat-out murdering it with his bare hands.

My gaze strays to those hands that are hanging nonchalantly on his knees. So the thing is, Creighton made me unlock a new fetish—hands.

Or maybe I had that before and it just became more prominent when he came into the picture.

He has these big hands, long fingers, and veins. Lots of veins snake over the backs of his hands with the promise of something sinister.

I quickly derail my attention from them or else there will be an embarrassing event where I’ll start drooling.

Creighton is still staring at the container, serious lines etched in his forehead, and I think he’ll throw it away like he did my finger.

He doesn’t.

But he doesn’t open it either.

Just stares at it blankly. Then he grabs it, those veiny hands flexing on the lid, and starts to get up.

“You could’ve told me you were paying me a visit last night and I would’ve dressed up for the occasion. Unless…you wanted to see me half naked?”

He stops mid-rise, sits back down, and tilts his head in my direction. The blue of his eyes has subtly darkened and sharpened with a haunting edge.

I’m not used to this type of expression from Creighton. Indifference is the most I get from him, but this?

It’s like he’s picturing the best way to snap my neck.

Heat rises up my neck and to my ears, and I push down the tinge of fear that’s gnawing on my insides.

I try to maintain my smile. “I know it was you. See, I might not have great attention to detail, but your eyes kind of gave you away. Don’t worry, Jeremy is none the wiser. He did suspect that someone came into my room, but I was able to derail his attention and—”

One moment I’m talking, the next a hand slams against my mouth.

Like last night.

He physically jerks me sideways so that my back hits the wooden pillar of the gazebo.

Only, this time, it’s his bare hand on my mouth and I’m breathing straight through his fingers. Gone is the scent of soot and leather. Right now, he smells like clean clothes out of the dryer mixed with his natural spicy scent.

“What do you want?”

His question takes me off guard. Not just because he spoke in that gravelly, deep, and hot British accent, but also due to the fact that he thinks I’m telling him all this because I want something.

“Mmm,” I mumble against his hand.

“I’ll only let you talk if you tell me what you want. If you chatter on, I’m going to shut you up again.”

I nod once and he releases my mouth slowly. Though instead of stepping back, he remains so close, it’s hard to breathe properly.

Sometimes, I think he knows exactly what type of effect he has on people—and me—and still does this on purpose.

He still barges in uninvited with the sole intention of leaving a trail of devastation behind.

“Why did you come to the Heathens’ mansion last night? Why did you burn the annex house? I didn’t think you had a problem with the club or its members. You’re not even part of the Elites, so it doesn’t make sense that you would want to do that, right?”

He reaches his palm out again, but I put both my hands up. “Okay, okay. There’s no need to shut me up, but I can’t tell you what I want unless you confess the reason.”

He stares at me. Blankly. His ‘no’ is obvious.

I sigh. “Then I guess I’ll tell Jeremy about how you not only burned his property but also snuck into his sister’s room. Le sigh. I can’t guarantee he won’t be all savage.”

“If you wanted to tell him, you would’ve already.” The calm, rich timbre of his voice echoes around me like a song.

The one that haunts my waking and sleeping moments.

“I only wanted to give you a chance, and I did, but you chose not to take it. That’s just sad. One last chance to change your mind?”

“Tell him.”

“You…you’re bluffing.”

“You are.”

“W-what?”

“You hate conflict so much that you hide from it like Little Miss Ostrich. That’s also why you didn’t let that guard come in last night, then covered for me. It’s completely out of character for you to personally create conflict, so yes, you’re bluffing, Annika.”

My lips fall open.

Oh. My. Tchaikovsky.

Please tell me I’m not dreaming and that he actually said a whole paragraph. Oh, and he knows this much about me.

I didn’t think he really knew anything about me, let alone my character.

Maybe I underestimated just how attuned to details he is.

“Okay, okay, you don’t have to tell me the reason yet. We’ll get to that someday.” I link and unlink my fingers on my lap. “But you asked me what I want, right?”

He raises his brows, and why the hell is such a simple gesture enough to trigger a flutter in my stomach?

As if that’s not enough, a little part of me is whispering, whining, and absolutely grouching about where I’m going with this.

It’s wrong and you know it.

You’ll only get him in trouble and regret it.

But I can’t just ignore the other part, the one that’s yearning, living on borrowed air and needing to feel what it’s like to be alive.

To not just pretend I’m living, popular, and loved, but to actually breathe life into my sheltered existence.

Still, my voice comes out small, unsure. “I want you to spend an hour with me every day. Alone.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know, anything. Talking, just sitting here, reading, eating, maybe go shopping…” He scowls and I backtrack. “No shopping, got it. We can watch a movie.”

“A movie lasts for more than an hour.”

“Uh, okay. No movies either. But we can do everything else.”

“No.”

My heart shrinks behind my rib cage, but I force a smile. “Why not?”

“I will not date you.”

“I…I’m not asking you to date me.”

Okay, so maybe I was? But why the hell is he such a stone-cold asshole? Can’t he hurt people more gently or something?

“All the better then.” His face, expression, and tone are all caught in the freaking Arctic Ocean. “No dating will happen.”

“Hypothetically speaking, and only hypothetically, because this isn’t a real situation, why do you not want to date me?”

He reaches a hand to my face again and I freeze as he lifts my chin with two fingers. A charge of electricity rushes through me like a slowly brewing storm.

Tension rises, clings to my skin, and rips through my bones. I shiver, but I still can’t tear my gaze away from those ocean eyes.

They’re dark again, a manifestation of their owner’s changing mood.

I don’t know if the change is due to me or the fact that he’s touched me more in the span of twelve hours than he has in all the weeks I’ve known him.

But I’m caught in his web.

Unable to move.

Absolutely trapped under the calloused touch of his lean fingers that dig into my sensitive skin with the lethality of a whip.

When he speaks, the low, deep words nearly paralyze me.

“Hypothetically speaking, I have deviant tastes and violent tendencies for the opposite sex. You’re so fucking breakable, I’d crush you in no time.”

“How are you, baby angel?”

I internally shake my head to focus on my mother’s radiating features.

We’re FaceTiming like the coolest mother-daughter pair because that’s a thing.

If Jeremy counts as Papa’s clone, I’m Mom’s successful attempt at a 2.0. I’d like to point out that I would never be able to pull off her elegance, but we share the same petite features, the brown hair—though mine is longer—and the round eye shape. Though mine have a lot of gray—like Papa’s.

Hers are more haunting, as if they’re harboring a tragic story. And I know they are. A long time ago, before I was born, Mom wasn’t as happy as she’s been during my life.

Another thing Mom will always beat me at is ballet. Lia Volkov was one of New York City Ballet’s most renowned prima ballerinas. I spent my childhood watching her performances—secretly, because she wouldn’t have liked it—and being spellbound. I wanted to be like her at any price, to fly into the sky and know exactly where to fall.

Am I at that point? Not really. I’m at that crossroad where I have no clue whether I should focus on college or aim to be a professional ballerina instead. I fell in love with ballet at first sight at four years old, but I still find myself gravitating more toward academics. Since ballerinas have a short professional life, I don’t want to be caught with nothing to do later on.

That is, if my future isn’t already decided.

“Oh, you know. Same old, same old.” I throw a hand in the general direction of my room in the Heathens’ mansion. “Playing Jer’s prisoner for shits and giggles. Ivory tower and gilded cage are taking their turns with me.”

She does a horrible job of suppressing her smile.

“This isn’t funny.”

“I know, I know. You just look so adorable when you lash out all that sarcasm.”

“Thanks, but I prefer beautiful instead of adorable. Considering my college status and my attempts to act older. And seriously, Mom, can’t you talk to Jer so he’ll give me some freedom? At this rate, I’ll die young and my ghost will start posting inspirational videos on TikTok.”

Laugh lines still linger on her face. “I did and his response was that he’s just looking out for you.”

“That’s just an excuse to lock me up.”

“One that your father wholeheartedly agrees with. You know he didn’t want you out of his sight.”

“Because I’m a girl?”

Her eyes soften to the lightest blue. “Because he has too many enemies and he’s worried about your security.”

My lip pushes forward, exaggeratingly pouty. “So I’m his weakness?”

“The three of us are, but we’re his strength, too, Anni. You know that, right?”

“I do. But this still sucks.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault, and I get it. This is how it’s supposed to be. I’m just being grouchy. Enough about me. How are things at home? Are you guys okay? Do you miss me?”

“Like crazy. I’m currently convincing your father to find us a home on Brighton Island so we can live right beside you.”

“Please don’t. Papa will just bring an entire army along.”

“You think?”

“Duh. Remember the last time we went to Russia for Christmas? I get chills thinking about all that security. And when I asked him, don’t you think it’s too much? He was like absolutely not.” I mimic Papa’s deadpan voice and Mom bursts out laughing. Even her laughter is as regal as she is.

“You’re such a naughty hellion.”

“You still love me.”

“Oh, I do.” She sighs, then I sigh, too.

The thought that’s been plaguing my every waking and sleeping moment pushes to the forefront and I pause, measuring my words.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Yes, baby angel?”

“Is Papa looking into possible suitors for me?”

A delicate frown appears between her brows. “What makes you think that?”

“Isn’t that my destiny?”

“You’re still young. Your father won’t marry you off when you’re just seventeen.”

“Going on eighteen. And does it really matter if he does it now or a few years from now?”

“Oh, Anni. Is that why you were hell-bent on going to college? Did you think you only had a few years before your freedom was confiscated?”

“Isn’t that the case?”

“Adrian would never make you marry someone against your will. Do you have that little faith in your papa?”

“I have little faith in his world. Our world. Women are just a flashy accessory and a currency for the highest bidder. I’m aware that I’m expected to strengthen the Bratva’s alliances with anyone they deem worthy.”

“They’d have to kill me before I’d let them use you as a pawn.”

“Thanks, Mom. But I don’t want to be the reason behind our family’s misfortune. When the Pakhan orders Papa to marry me off to one of the other leader’s sons or into one of the crime organizations, the only thing he can do is agree.”

“He won’t.”

“Then he’ll just be labeled a traitor and be driven out.”

“Anni…”

“It’s okay, Mom. I made peace with this fate a long time ago. Well, not really peace. Understanding, I guess.”

“No, it’s not okay.” She inches closer to the phone, her expression serious. “Yes, the world we live in is brutal, but that doesn’t mean your papa and I won’t stand up for you. Besides, if you happen to fall in love, who would dare make you marry a stranger instead?”

My lips part.

That’s it.

How come I’ve never thought about this before? Well, I have, but I didn’t think it’d make a difference.

That is, until Mom just confirmed it.

Papa wouldn’t make me marry anyone against my will, but he’ll be more convinced if I actually have a boyfriend.

I’ve never had one before. Sure, I’ve flirted and made as many friends as possible, but I’ve never made it official. That would’ve meant putting the poor boy in direct conflict with Papa, Jeremy, and their equally ruthless guards.

Just thinking about the scowly face of Kolya, Papa’s senior guard, makes me shiver. He’d rip the poor guy to pieces before he could even introduce himself to Papa.

Yikes.

But if it means I’d get out of my predestined cruel fate, then maybe it’s worth a try.

“Anni? Are you still with me?” Mom’s voice brings me out of my thoughts.

“Uh, yeah. What’s up?”

“Don’t tell your papa what you just told me or he’ll be upset.”

“I will be upset about what?”

Mom’s face brightens with a wide grin as he comes up behind her, leans down, and kisses the top of her head.

Swoon.

I want a man like Papa. Yeah. He’s mean to everyone and you really don’t want to meet him in a dark alley—or even in broad daylight—but he’s always treated Mom like a queen.

The mecca of his world.

The person who makes his darkness go away.

He strokes her cheek. “I’ve been looking for you, Lenochka.”

“I was only gone for half an hour.”

“Still too much time.”

“Uh, hello? I’m right here, you guys. Thanks for noticing.”

Papa finally looks at the phone Mom is holding and smiles. Or as much as it could be called a smile for a badass mafia leader.

Don’t care what anyone says. Those suckers in the New York Bratva would all be done for if it weren’t for Papa’s strategic brain.

“Anoushka, isn’t it late there?”

“No, and you’re not dismissing me for alone time with Mom, Papa. Seriously, I’m wounded.”

“You’re being dramatic. You’ve been talking to her for half an hour.”

“But, Papa!”

“Night, Anoushka. We love you.”

He takes the phone from Mom’s hand and she laughs, then squeals as the line is cut off.

Great. Now, I know what my parents are doing for the night.

I flop against my bed and stare at the glittering purple objects hanging from the ceiling.

My mind fills with all sorts of thoughts. The first is that I need to find a way out of my fate.

Okay, maybe that’s not the first thing, because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Creighton’s words from yesterday.

Violent tendencies.

Deviant tastes.

I can still feel his deep voice against my ear and the furious shiver that overtook me right afterward.

That was definitely not what I expected someone like Creighton to say. He could’ve been lying, but he doesn’t have a reason to.

Besides, he’s direct to a fault.

I was so stunned that I only snapped out of it after he took the lunch I made and strolled out of the gazebo.

In truth, I’m still stunned.

That was obviously his warning to make me stay away, so why the hell am I even more intrigued with him now?

Just what does a twenty-year-old consider deviant and twisted?

I guess there’s only one way to find out.