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

Sometimes, that happens during the process of making food.

If I’m trying to practice ballet to keep in shape, he sits across from me, watching my every move like a hawk. Then he tears at my tights and mounts me on the floor.

That one ends up being the most animalistic, with my cute purple tulle shredded and scattered on the floor.

I have no clue how he got my stuff here, but he definitely had them from back in England. When I left Brighton Island, I didn’t pack everything.

A part of me hoped I’d go back.

That part never counted on this depravity.

I swear this isn’t what I meant when I told the girls that my fantasy was to be kidnapped.

Or maybe it is.

But his reasons have left a bitter taste at the back of my mouth.

I place lamb soup and fish and chips Creighton made on the patio table that faces the bright sea and he brings my salad.

We’ve fallen into this domesticated routine that would be a dream under different circumstances.

We do our morning jogs or swims together, sometimes fully naked. He fishes by the rock and I try to help but end up making it worse. Then we shower together. He watches me practice, makes lunch, and then we hike on the island's mountains to the point that every day is an adventure. We talk about everything, or more like I do and he reciprocates. We discuss school, life, art, like when we were on good terms, but he completely closes off when I ask him if we’re going back.

“I can cook sometime, you know.” I sit across from him and wince at the discomfort in my ass.

It’s impossible to move without feeling him inside me anymore.

A fact he notices and appreciates, considering the slight twitch of his upper lip. “I’ll do the cooking.”

“I thought you didn’t know how.”

“That was a month ago. I learned how.”

I nod and take a bite of my salad. “Can I have some fries?”

“Chips?”

“Chips. Fries, whatever.”

“You don’t have to ask.” He pushes the whole plate in front of me.

“Wow. You actually gave up your food. The first time we met, you almost killed me because I asked for a taste.”

That event feels like ages ago. I was infatuated with Creighton at first sight. He was silent, stoic, and the perfect recipe to pull on my heartstrings. Despite his broodiness, I yearned to bring out the man that lurked inside him.

I yearned to sink my claws into his skin and yank the secret part free.

But maybe I should’ve heeded his and everyone else’s warning and stayed away. Maybe I wouldn’t be in the situation I’m currently in.

“You were a stranger back then,” he says, scooping up a handful of fries and practically mounding them on top of my salad. “You’re not now, so you can have my food any day.”

I try and fail not to be touched, especially knowing how much he loves food and that he certainly doesn’t give it up, even to the people closest to him, including his brother and Remi.

Clearing my throat, I say, “I can’t eat all of that. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you want to make me fat.”

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Not since I got here.” I release a long sigh. “How come we never run out of stuff?”

He remains silent, seeming preoccupied with eating, but he just doesn’t want to answer me.

“Does someone bring supplies? When?”

Silence.

“When I’m asleep?”

More silence.

“Creighton!”

Still clutching both his fork and knife, he lifts his head while chewing slowly. His look is unnerving, so absolutely blank sometimes that I’m terrified of the depths it hides.

Sometimes, he looks at me like he won’t let me leave his side, ever, and if I try to, things will get ugly.

A secret part of me likes that. Too much. It scares me.

“Yes?”

“Do you have someone who comes over?”

“Not yet. I have a stock full of food that will last us for a few months. But even if we run out, you don’t have to worry about it. Needless to say, if you have any plans to escape, you might want to abandon them.”

My lungs deflate with a long breath as I let my fork stab into the salad without bringing anything to my mouth.

“Can I at least call my mom and tell her I’m okay?”

“So your father can track the call?”

“I’ll just text her then.”

“No. There are no phones here.”

I release a groan of frustration. “What if one of us gets injured or sick and we have to call for help?”

“I’ll think about that when it happens.” He pours himself a glass of wine. No kidding, he drinks wine. At fucking twenty.

He’s like an old man sometimes, I swear.

But I don’t say no to a drink, so when he pours me a glass, I take a sip, too.

The bland stuff is starting to grow on me. Or maybe his family only keeps premium wine, because I never thought I would like it until now.

Creighton leans back in his chair twirling the glass of wine and watching me with a little smile.

I stuff my face with salad. “Why do you look so pleased with yourself?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Because you kidnapped me?”

“You like it here.”