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

It’s so entertaining to provoke or rile her up just to see the noticeable change in her face.

We eat in silence for a beat, or more like I eat, then drink water almost at the same time.

Still, I wait for the peaceful phase to end in three, two, and one—

“I thought this would be a date, but apparently, I just set you up with food. Maybe I shouldn’t include anything to eat in the future.”

You shouldn’t cook anything in the future.

But I don’t say that and, instead, move on to the meatballs after I finish the first dish.

Annika’s still holding on to her salad for dear life.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, why do you enjoy food so much? Actually, I don’t know if you really enjoy it or if you just like the act of eating.”

I swallow the mouthful of the equally horrific meatballs and lift my head. “Why are you asking?”

“I want to get to know you better.”

What’s there to know?

Having been acquainted with her personality, I have no doubt she’ll bolt at the first sign of darkness.

She didn’t run from your fucked-up side yesterday. Or the time before that.

I ignore that small voice and mutter, “There’s no need to.”

“Uh, no. That’s not up to you to decide. Although I’m not sure what we are exactly, I am sure we’re something, and the rules say we have to open up to each other. So you might want to tell me or I’ll bug you.”

I raise a brow. “You’ll bug me, huh?”

“To death, mister. You can count on it. I’m nothing short of persistent. In fact, persistent should probably be my middle name.

“Pretty sure it should be brat,” I grumble. She grins and I narrow my eyes. “What?”

“Nothing. I like that you have a sense of humor, as dry as it is.”

“Did you just call me dry, brat?”

She slaps a hand to her chest in pure mock reaction. “Did you just call me a brat?”

“Watch it or I might start counting.”

She purses her lips, and a slight jerk lifts her shoulders. At least the promise of pain has an effect on her.

For now.

I take a sip of water and stare at the buildings in the distance. “There was a time in my childhood when I nearly starved to death. Ever since then, it’s always felt as if there’s a black hole in my stomach that can’t be filled or satiated, so whenever there’s food, I have this need to just…consume it all.”

Her hold weakens around her fork and she stares at me with puppy eyes.

Innocent eyes.

That I’m tempted to fill with tears all over again.

“Are your parents aware of this?”

“They saved me from that eternal starvation.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t pity me or this will be the last time I share anything with you.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I had no business pitying you, and I didn’t really mean to. Empathizing just comes naturally to me. But I swear to Tchaikovsky, I won’t do it again.”

I have known a lot of people. Some are secretive as fuck, others are fake, some are real, but all of them, without a doubt, hide a piece of themselves.

Annika is the only one who’s been this upfront about herself. What you see is literally what you get—most of the time.

I have a feeling that I can pull out the darkness lurking beneath the surface if I dig deeper and tug harder.

The fact remains, she’s the only one who’d admit to doing wrong without bothering to offer excuses.

And I might like that a bit too much.

She pushes the third dish, pasta, in front of me.

I take it, swallow a salty-as-fuck bite, then lean back on a hand with the plate on my lap. “What’s with you and Tchaikovsky?”

She beams, her face brightening as if she’s meeting her idol. “He’s my god. You know how people worship Jesus, Allah, and Buddha? I listen to Tchaikovsky’s ballets, concertos, and symphonies. They give me the same spirituality that religions strive for. It started when I was maybe four and Mom took me to my first ballet. I legit cried watching Swan Lake and got lost in Tchaikovsky’s brilliance. As soon as we got home, I told her, ‘We need to talk, Mom. I decided that I’m totally gonna be a swan when I grow up, so convince Papa and make it happen. Pretty please.’”

I glide my fork on the plate without eating. It’s not that I hate the saltiness so much, but her storytelling in that soft, energetic voice is more entertaining than food.

That’s a first.

“I assume she did make it happen?” I ask for no other reason than to keep her talking.

“At the beginning? She was totally against it. So, the thing is, and I found out more about this as I grew up from Mom’s favorite guard and best friend, Yan—he happens to be Papa’s least fave, by the way, because Papa can be petty and jealous. Anyway, Mom was like an iconic prima ballerina in the New York City Ballet, but her career ended abruptly. After that, she kind of hated the whole scene and only began coming to terms with her career ending when I was young, which is why she took me to that show in the first place. She has friends there—big-name directors, choreographers, and ballerinas. Still, she didn’t want me to experience that life. So instead of helping me convince Papa, he had to be the one to convince her. Shocker, I know. Couldn’t believe it myself. In the end, it all worked out and she agreed to let me start taking classes a few months after my first trip to ballet.” She sighs and sips on her juice. “I was so sure I wanted to be a ballerina. I even managed to get into several shows in high school and did so well, but Mom convinced me to try college for a year, study art from an academic perspective and see if maybe I like it better than ballet. I agreed more for the adventure than anything, and the chance to leave Papa’s watchful gaze, even temporarily. I’m not sure which one I like the best. I’ll just decide at the end of the year.” She lifts her head, eyes widening. “Sorry about that. I got carried away, I guess.”