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

I grab it with both hands. “This is so cute, thanks!”

“Anytime.”

The conversation goes on and on about the feuds between the three clubs, two from The King’s U—Heathens and Serpents—and one from REU—Elites.

There are talks about war, rivalry, and payback, but I’m not really paying attention to that.

My gaze keeps flitting to the entrance for a hint of that familiar tall frame. I nearly finish my food, but there’s no sign of him.

No one is talking about him either.

So I beam and ask in a casual tone, “By the way, where’s Creighton?”

“Oh, Cray Cray?” Remi speaks between inaudible slurps. “Probably sleeping somewhere. That spawn of mine said he didn’t sleep much last night.”

I wonder why.

What I also find adorable about Remi’s personality is how he calls Creighton a spawn. They’re cousins from their mothers’ side, but Remi is totally the extrovert who adopted him.

I let them go back to discussing the fire and the clubs’ shenanigans, then say I’ll be back.

I probably won’t, but there’s no harm in a little white lie.

Usually, I’d be on my way to volunteer at the local animal shelter since I don’t have afternoon classes, but I’ll do that later.

After tucking my containers back in my bag, I slip out of the cafeteria and head to the business school. On the way, I greet anyone who says hi or even looks at me.

A part of me knows all these people only want to get on my good side because of my brother’s notorious reputation and my father’s mafia status, but that’s okay.

At least Ava and the others like me for me, and not for my last name.

Despite a few attempts by some students, I don’t stop to chat.

See, I’m on a mission.

It takes me exactly ten minutes to reach the gazebo at the back of business school.

Sure enough, someone is lying on the bench, in the shadows. Hidden from passersby and onlookers.

The only reason I know about this is because Remi offers any information I ask for.

I stop and stare at the gloomy sky that blocks the sun every few seconds as if furious about its audacity to keep peeking through.

The wooden gazebo sits in a secluded area of the back garden where not many students mingle.

Exactly why I figure he likes it here.

Inhaling deeply, I walk as casually as possible. But even if the world can’t see it, I feel the stiffness in my steps. The weight on my chest. The tremor in my lips.

Get it together, me.

The boy who lies on the bench, a leg bent and a hand under his head, looks peaceful.

He’s dressed in jeans that hang low on his hips and a hoodie that’s flung up, revealing a hint of his abs and his V-line.

I swallow, forcing my gaze to focus on his face instead.

That’s totally not a better idea.

His face is nothing less than regal. He has the type of beauty that calls out to you without words. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and defined lips.

His brown hair that’s short on the sides and long at the top is messy, finger-raked, and the most beautiful hairstyle I’ve ever seen. I’ve always wondered what those longer strands would feel like.

Wondered.

That’s all I’ve done since I met this enigma. I’ve wondered and imagined and dreamed.

But they all came crashing down into one bleak reality.

He wants nothing to do with me. Or at least, that’s what I thought.

Point is, his disinterest should make me happy. It’s for the best, considering my fate was already sealed the day I was born.

I certainly don’t want him to get hurt because of me.

But at moments like these, I find myself inching closer, reaching to ease that crease between his thick brows.

Make it go away.

In a flash, a hand grabs my own and I swallow as he slowly opens his eyes.

Rich blue, rimmed with black.

The same eyes of the masked man who paid me a visit last night.





3





ANNIKA





I can’t breathe properly.

I can’t even think properly.

I’ve been imagining this moment ever since I recognized those eyes. Chameleon, ocean eyes with rare heterochromia that I’ve never seen on anyone but him.

That’s what the black rings surrounding his blue eyes are called. Heterochromia. A perfect imperfection that’s part of who he is.

It was the first thing that tugged on my attention. And while many would say my attention is easy to get, no one knows it’s impossible to keep.

Yes, I continue to treat people nicely, remember their names and ask about their last social media post, but it’s all part of a feigned behavior. Whatever drew me to them in the first place has long since shriveled and died.

Creighton is the exception to that phenomenon. My interest in him started like with anyone else—mild, normal. Impersonal.

Little by little, it’s expanded into this boundless powerful interest that’s swept through me from the inside out.

My attention to him hasn’t waned. If anything, it’s grown more potent with every encounter, every stolen glance. Every touch.

Though they’ve never been sensual in nature.

As opposed to right now.

My hand tingles in Creighton’s, or more like my finger that I reached out. That’s all he’s holding—or crushing in his palm. A mere finger.