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

He is a sadist.

I’m just an animal.

A man in a tux smiles with the shrewdness of a pimp. “There are two members who I believe will be to your liking. Room nine.” He hands the key to my cousin, who slips him enough cash to make the man’s beady eyes glow in the darkness.

We walk down the dark red halls, our steps making little to no noise on the carpet.

My blood pumps with the promise of inflicting pain.

Lots of pain.

Enough to drown the pain festering inside me.

Landon opens the door and we slide inside a red-lit room.

Two naked girls kneel on the carpet, collared in black leather, heads bowed, arms bound with black cuffs, a gag hanging around each of their necks, waiting to be shoved in place.

Whips, canes, and chains decorate both sides of the room, shining in the red light, all available for our use.

“Evening, ladies.” Landon goes to the brunette and strokes a thumb under her jaw. “Are you ready for some fun?”

“Yes, please,” she purrs.

Her friend, a leggy blonde who’s at least five years older than me, licks her lips when she looks at me.

She’s beautiful and will be even more exquisite when I engrave my welts in her pale skin.

She’ll be enough for a little fun, like Landon said. Enough to stop the nightmares for one more sleep.

I start to approach her, then stop. Her face, older, mature, and a little sharp, morphs into a completely different one.

Just like in some fucked-up fantasy, her hair turns a rich brown. Her features soften, becoming smaller, more lively, more…irritating.

Her pouty lips are parted, begging to be stuffed with cock, and a pink hue covers her cheeks. Big blue-gray eyes glitter with life, happiness, and breakable innocence.

An innocence I want to tarnish with my darkness.

I shake my head with the sole purpose of ensuring I’m not going insane.

Sure enough, the blonde comes back into focus, staring between me and her friend, who’s getting acquainted with Landon’s ruthless cane.

I didn’t even notice when he got the brunette on the floor and started his session. I didn’t hear her muffled cries or see her tears—usually, those are the highlight of my nights of cravings.

The blonde arches her back, thrusting her big tits in my direction, an invitation for me to give her the same treatment as her friend. She doesn’t move or crawl toward me, though, probably having been told by the waiter that I loathe disobedience.

Her face starts to blur again, changing, morphing into one that has no business being here.

I curse beneath my breath, turn around, and leave.

Not only the room but also the club and the street.

I walk all the way to the rocky side of the beach where a few people and couples are mingling about. I hop on a faraway rock and sit there, leaning back on my palms.

My gaze gets lost in the waves that slam against the jagged rocks in a symphony of violence.

I have always had an inclination toward brutality. Whether it’s underground fighting or inflicting sexual pain. It’s why I get along with morally black people such as Eli and Landon.

It’s also why I usually participate in any adrenaline-induced mayhem they plot. I need that deranged energy and the pure unhingedness that comes with it. It’s how I survive day-to-day.

I remain in the same position for over half an hour, but the pesky reason that I rushed out of the club is still plaguing my mind.

I fetch my phone and type a text to the one person who'd be able to explain the fuckery that just happened.

Creighton: What does it mean when you see another girl’s face on the one you’re about to fuck?

I say ‘fuck’ so I don’t have to mention the whipping and caning part. He wouldn’t judge, but he’d publish it in the Daily Mail for the world to see.

My cousin from my mother’s side replies almost immediately.

Remington: It means you should’ve fucked the other girl. The one whose face you saw, because your dick wants her and we always let our dicks decide who they fancy. That’s like the easiest and most logical explanation ever. Come on, spawn, my lordship taught you as much.

Creighton: I’m not even attracted to the other girl. She’s not my type.

Remington: Types are overrated. They can change.

My jaw clenches and I refuse to take Remi’s words as fact. After all, I’m the only one who considers him wise. Everyone else just seeks him out for fun times, not advice.

He’s probably the most balanced out of us all, but then again, he’s the only one in the house whose last name isn’t King.

Remington: And rude, btw, you left me on Read last night.

I exit the chat, leaving him on Read again.

But before I close the app, I go to someone else I’ve been leaving on Read for the last couple of weeks.

Annika.

My finger hovers over her endless texts. Some are telling me about her favorite music—classical. Her favorite film—Pride and Prejudice, all versions. Her favorite food—pizza—that she doesn’t get to eat a lot because of her disciplined routine. Some are selfies of her.

Those stopped after I ignored the first few.

Her last text was prior to the deliberate loss of control on my part.

Deliberate because I meant to push her away. So far away that she’d stop looking at me with those glittery eyes and parted lips.

It was my last bit of courtesy for someone who gave me food and didn’t hand me over to her brother on a silver platter.