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

“Beauty sleep, remember?”

He ruffles my hair, a rare smile grazing his lips. I can’t help but grin in return, knowing full well that my brother is a hard man and I shouldn’t take his warmth for granted.

I’m lucky enough to be on the short list of people Jeremy cares for.

“Sorry for interrupting your beauty sleep, Anoushka.”

That’s what he and Papa call me. Anoushka. A Russian endearment derived from my name, Annika.

“Apology accepted, but stop messing up my hair. I’m not a kid anymore.”

“You’re a cute little baby to me.”

“Jer!”

“What?”

“I’m really old enough to take care of myself.”

“Not hearing that.”

I snort. “Okay, but can I go back to the dorm tomorrow?”

Jeremy studies at The King’s U, one of the two titan universities on Brighton Island, which is fueled by mafia money. The other university, Royal Elite University, was founded and is funded by old British money.

The two universities and their students can’t stand each other. That animosity bleeds into sports and secret club rivalries.

To say they’re at each other’s throats would be the understatement of the century.

So the fact that I study at the art school at Royal Elite University—or REU—and stay in their dorm doesn’t sit right with my brother.

Which is why he sometimes insists that I stay here—in the Heathens’ mansion that he shares with his three friends.

He says it’s to protect me, but it’s more to keep an eye on me.

“Not yet,” he says, confirming my thoughts. “Stay here for a few more days.”

“But, Jer—”

“It’s for your safety.”

I want to groan in frustration, but I’m interrupted when a gruff voice comes from the other side of the door.

“The fucking fuck is wrong with people in the middle of the night? Can’t anyone get some sleep in this godforsaken hole?”

A tall, muscular, half-naked guy waltzes inside my room, kicks away a fluffy pen, and peers through his bloodshot eyes at us.

Or more like at Jeremy.

My status and last name erased me from Nikolai’s eyes a long time ago.

Thank you, Tchaikovsky.

He’s a scary mofo, has a mafia princehood, and belongs to the New York Bratva just like us. His body is inked with more tattoos than can be counted, and he’s always shirtless. Seriously, I wonder if he wears more than shorts to classes or if he bestows them with his half-nakedness status, too.

He lets his heavy body lean against the wall. “The fuck is going on?”

“Fire.” My brother tilts his head in his friend’s direction. “And put a shirt on.”

“Shirts are overrated. And did you say fire? Why didn’t anyone wake me up?”

“You were nowhere to be found.”

“You sure? Because I was sleeping at the bottom of the stairs. Or maybe behind the stairs. Can’t fucking remember.”

“That’s if you were asleep.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Jeremy ruffles my hair one more time and gets out of my room with Nikolai in tow. Despite the fact that Nikolai is younger than Jeremy by a few years, they’ve been close friends for as long as they’ve known each other.

My brother is the silent strategist who only uses violence when absolutely necessary, while Nikolai is the unhinged, bloodthirsty monster.

As I watch their backs, I can’t help feeling a tinge of discomfort at knowing the type of future that awaits them.

One filled with blood, mafia wars, and brutal encounters. While Nikolai fits that image perfectly, and even strives for it, I don’t want to imagine Jeremy in that light.

Even if I know he can be much worse.

“Who was the fucker?” Nikolai asks Jeremy on their way out. “I’m going to fuck up his life, burn his corpse, and spread the ashes in blood.”

“I have a hunch.”

I subconsciously step to the door, but Jeremy flashes me a glance I can’t quite decipher, then closes it behind him.

Cutting off any chance I had to hear his hunch.

He couldn’t have possibly figured out it’s him.

Right?





Hushed whispers float around me with the perseverance of buzzing bees.

My name and Jeremy’s, as well as our last name, have been murmured a dozen times.

I still smile at whoever meets my eyes and even ask them how they’re doing. I comment on their fashion and tell them I loved their last TikTok or Instagram.

Every last one of them smiles back, and even if they still murmur about me, it’s all along the lines of:

I can’t believe she’s the Jeremy Volkov’s sister. She’s such a darling.

A doll.

A sweetheart.

A good sport.

I’m the people person, the PR of Jer’s reputation, and the number one candidate to be the family’s spokesperson.

They say the only way to be popular or loved is to stomp on others and be mean, but I believe in being nice.

I believe in being social for the greater good.

Now, if I could just not let other people’s opinions eat me up from the inside, that would be perfect.

I come to a halt when an arm wraps around my shoulder. “Oh. Em. Gee. You’re alive, thank the gods and all religions.”