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

And she actually smiles at him.

And she called him her sanctuary in one of her posts.

I contemplated killing him before I flew her out of the US, but that would have hindered this plan, so I went with a priority concept.

The wanker is still at the top of my shit list, though.

“You have until the count of three to open the door before I break it down.” My voice sounds harsh, cold, and nonnegotiable.

The type of voice I had before I let her in, before I allowed her to have a piece of me that she conveniently decimated.

“I just need time alone,” her muffled voice comes from the other side.

“One, two—”

I’m about to ram my shoulder against the door when it opens and she appears at the threshold.

All small and broken. All sad and fucking petite.

She’s wearing a bathrobe, her face makeup-free, which makes her look younger, and her half-damp hair falls over her covered round breasts.

And my necklace.

She’s still wearing the necklace I gave her for her birthday. When I saw it back on the plane, I nearly lost it. For some reason, I thought she’d try to erase every memory of me, but maybe that’s not the case.

I expect rage at worst and annoyance at best, but when her bright blue-gray eyes meet mine, there’s nothing there. They’re aimless, dim, and absolutely muted.

They look creepily similar to my eyes when I first escaped that hellhole as a kid.

Back then, I didn’t look in the mirror for months, because the reflection I saw in there was no different than a monster and it rattled the fuck out of me.

“Shouldn’t you try to not hurt your shoulder…?” Her dispassionate words trail off when her vision zeroes in on the souvenir she gave me.

Her lips part, trembling as she studies the gash on my chest. It’s a red, ugly hole that Mum and my nan suggested I get plastic surgery for.

A suggestion I promptly dismissed.

I’m glad I did, if not for anything else, then for the whirlwind of emotions that dance in Annika’s eyes.

She’s no longer numb, dull, and lifeless now that her feelings pour out in a splash of colors.

Her shaking hand reaches out for the wound, but I grab her wrist, stopping her halfway.

“Who gave you permission to touch me?”

She jerks, lips pushing and falling in an O as she trembles. “I…”

“You’re what? Trying to finish what you started by actually killing me this time?”

“I never wanted to kill you. If I did, you’d be dead already. I told you I don’t miss, but I tried to, even when I wasn’t thinking straight.” A sob tears out of her throat. “I only wanted to stop you.”

Using my hold on her wrist, I push her back, my chest rising and falling in harsh breaths.

Annika stumbles backward and winces, her face scrunching as she lifts her foot off the ground.

I pause, and all the anger I’d planned to unleash on her dissipates into a much more prominent feeling.

The need to protect her.

The fuck is wrong with me? She shot me and all I want is to remove anything that hurts her. All I want is to keep her safe from the world.

But not from myself.

I inspect her foot that she’s resting on her calf. “What is it?”

“N-nothing.”

“Annika, don’t fuck with me. What’s wrong?”

She stares up at me with those round eyes, so big and tormented. “I think I cut my foot earlier, but it’s not a big deal—”

Her words end in a yelp when I carry her bridal style to the bed. The moment I drop her on the mattress, she stands up again.

“I-I’m really fine.”

“Sit the fuck down.”

At my order, she flops down on the bed and that’s when I go to the bathroom and retrieve a first aid kit.

A strange feeling grips hold of me when I find her in the exact position I left her in, her eyes focused on the bathroom door.

I kneel in front of her and place her leg on my thigh to inspect the sole of her feet. Sure enough, there are some bloodied cuts, and while they’re not too deep, they would definitely be a hindrance.

Due to her ballet passion, Annika never, and I mean never, allows her feet to get hurt. She told me I could flog and spank her anywhere, but her feet were off-limits. The closest I could get to them was binding her ankles.

So to see her this fucking careless about them makes me murderous.

I retrieve a bottle of oxygenated water and clean the cuts on both her feet and then start to apply ointment.

“Next time you hurt yourself, I swear to fucking God…” I trail off at the strained sound of my voice.

The more I touch her, the faster pain and fucking rage consume me.

I feel the tremor in her body before her soft voice fills my ears. “I didn’t mean to. I only wanted to…”

“Escape,” I finish for her. “That won’t be fucking possible.”

“My dad will come for me,” she murmurs, but it doesn’t sound like a threat, more like she’s informing me of facts. “He’ll find me and you, and when he does, this will end badly.”

“This island isn’t on the map, and I left all your belongings back in the States. He won’t be able to locate you.”

Silence stakes claim as I continue lathering the cream on her cuts without looking at her.