God of Pain (Legacy of Gods #2) by Rina Kent

He’s both day and night and I have no escape from his orbit.

“Creighton…” I moan, shoving a hand against his chest. “Slow down…I can’t take this.”

“You can. You always did.”

“This is too much.”

“You know what’s too much? Thinking you can marry some sorry fuck after I’ve claimed you. After I put my fucking mark on you.” He slides his hand up to cup my jaw, tilts it back, then bites on my throat. Hard. So hard that I gasp. “It’s believing I’d ever let you go.”

“But you hate my family,” I sob the words that have been plaguing me, the words that make this pleasure so screwed up.

“I can still fuck you.” His tongue darts out and he licks my tears as he whispers, “Remember this, Annika. There’s never been a day where you haven’t been mine.”

Then he drives so deep that he hits my sensitive spot over and over.

And over.

The moment his teeth find the sensitive flesh of my throat again, a powerful orgasm hits me and I release enough noises to disturb any living creature around.

Creighton doesn’t slow down, doesn’t take it easy, and he certainly doesn’t stop.

He goes on and on like a machine that’s bent on destruction. He fucks and spanks my ass. He pulls my hair and bites my neck, my shoulder, the top of my creamy breasts, anywhere he can reach.

By the time he stiffens and spills inside me, I’m spent.

Completely and utterly done.

“Mine,” he growls against my lips as he devours them again, rips them with his teeth, and fucks them with his tongue.

It’s a possessive kiss.

A declaration of a savage claim.

I can’t help the fresh tears that slide down my cheeks.

I hate myself for wanting the man who only sees me as a form of revenge.

I hate myself for not trying harder to run.

But I will.

Sooner or later, I will end this ill-fated relationship. This time, without getting my family involved.





35





CREIGHTON





Annika has been silent ever since I carried her to the house.

She didn’t release a sound when I put her down in front of the shower, but she did close the door in my face.

The chances of me breaking that door and claiming her against the floor like a savage animal were close to one hundred percent, but I repressed the compulsion.

One, I didn’t like the sad look in her eyes.

Two, I’m spiraling out of control.

I feel it, smell it in the air, and can sense it crashing against my rib cage.

When I first came up with this plan, I thought of owning her, making her pay. Taking my vengeance while keeping her.

And while that plan is still up and running, something’s changed.

I didn’t count on seeing her again. Really seeing her.

In her purple dress, dainty shoes, and looking like sunshine and unicorns. I was blindsided by her violet perfume. Always violets.

Violets. Violets. And more bloody violets.

They seep beneath my skin, ripping the tendons apart and settling in the marrow of my bones.

I didn’t count on hearing her soft voice, moaning, begging me to slow down.

To let her go.

That won’t be fucking happening.

I strip and step into the downstairs shower, letting the icy cold water wash over me.

Every nook of my body vibrates with the feel of her soft skin, the sound of her whimpers that might as well be singing lullabies to my beast.

And violets.

Fucking violets permeate the air, clashing with the smell of the sea.

I’ve been imagining her naked and sometimes bound to my bed ever since I woke up in the hospital.

One fantasy turned to a hundred, then a thousand, overlapping and spiraling out of control until I became unhinged.

Which is probably why I acted in pure caveman fashion when I fucked her so mercilessly just now.

But she’s the one who wouldn’t shut up and kept talking about leaving and entertained the thought of another man.

Another. Fucking. Man.

I slam my fist against the wall, the cold water doing nothing to dissipate my blazing libido or simmering rage.

After a few more futile attempts to calm the fuck down, I step out of the shower, put on some shorts, and storm upstairs.

I turn the knob to the bedroom, only to find it locked.

My fist clenches around the damn object, but I force myself to sound neutral. “Open the door.”

Nothing.

I bang on the wooden surface. “I know you can hear me, Annika. Open up.”

No answer.

“If you think a door can stop me…”

“Leave me alone!” she shouts, her voice on the edge before it turns brittle. “Please.”

I don’t like how she sounds.

It’s pulling on that corner in my heart that has her name splashed all over it.

I’ve never heard Annika so broken, but ever since she pointed that gun at me, she’s been slowly but surely losing her spark, her cheerfulness, and what made her who she is.

She doesn’t even post on social media anymore, and when she does, they’re no longer those happy, sunshiny, life-filled photos. They’re more about ballet practice, shelters, and others.

She’s more interested in posting about the homeless and the people who volunteer with her—including an older-looking fucker who’s often super-glued to her side.