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

“Holy fuck.” Gareth retrieves his phone and storms toward the door. “I’m on it.”

“Where’s Kill?” Jeremy shouts, but Gareth has already left.

“A nightmare,” I murmur, half conscious, half trapped in a loop. “It’s just a nightmare. It can only be a nightmare.”

“Looking for me?” Killian appears at the top of the stairs, tilting his head to the side, narrowing his eyes on me. “Did you really shoot Creighton?”

My murmurs come to a halt and I stare, dumbfounded. Could Killian also have been in my nightmare?

“How did you know so fast?” Jeremy asks.

“Glyndon just called me, crying because her cousin is about to die. I don’t really appreciate it when someone makes my little rabbit cry, Annika.”

“I didn’t.” I shake my head frantically. “It’s only a nightmare. Jer was stabbed and it was also a nightmare.”

My brother releases a long breath. “She’s not herself. You go strengthen security. I’ll take care of her and join you.”

“I’m fine. Totally fine, and it was only a nightmare.”

Jeremy practically drags me up the stairs and into my room. The room Creighton came into that first night.

The night after which we got close.

The night I recognized him by the look in his eyes only because he was a god. My god. And I reached for him anyway.

I knew it was forbidden, but I touched that god, and now I’m being punished for it.

“Annika…Annika? Annika!”

I jerk out of my daze at my brother’s harsh voice, and the nightmare that just refuses to end filters back into the immediate reality.

Jeremy’s grabbing my shoulders, his eyes searching mine. “Will you be okay?”

My gaze flits to the blood on his T-shirt. It’s not as red as the pool from earlier, but it’s there. I touch it with my dirty hand, my fingers clenching and unclenching.

“This is a nightmare, too. You’re not bleeding, Jer.”

He winces, and then removes my hold. “I’ll survive. I don’t think he really wanted to hurt me.”

A sob tears from my throat as reality comes crashing down on me in all vivid red.

“He…he didn’t?” My voice breaks as wetness soaks my cheeks and neck.

Jer shakes his head.

“Then…then…then why…why did I pull that trigger? Tell me, Jer! If I wasn’t going to save you, if I didn’t have to, why did I pull it?”

“Because he wanted you to, Anoushka.” Jeremy’s voice softens, and my brother’s voice doesn’t soften. “He looked to be in pain and resolved to see it all…end.”

“No…” I sob, hitting my brother’s chest. “Ah…ah… This…hurts. Why does it hurt? Ah…make it stop hurting. There was a lot of blood, Jer. What if he…? What if… What…”

The word knots and chokes me, refusing to be said out loud.

My brother pulls me close to his chest with his good arm and I cry.

I just cry and cry until I think I have no tears left. Until I think I’m going to faint from the amount of pain that’s wrecking my chest.

The image of red and his pale face haunts me.

The face that might never get life back because I ended it.

With my own hands, I fucking ended it.

When my tears turn into hiccups, Jer takes me to the bathroom, by my hand, like when I was a toddler and fell down and dirtied myself.

He turns on the faucet and patiently scrubs my hands of all the blood.

Scrub.

Scrub.

Scrub.

All the red washes down the drain in a haunting symphony of crimson against white. But the evidence remains beneath my nails, clinging to my fingers, refusing to vanish.

Then Jeremy washes my face and combs his fingers through my tangled, dirty hair. After he’s done, he leads me back to my room.

I’m lifeless, half moving, half dead. I don’t protest as he sits me on the foot of the bed and brings out my first aid kit.

He starts to clean the cuts on my fingers, on my palms.

I touch his shoulder and the tears I thought were no longer there gather in my lids and stream down my cheek.

My voice comes out too hoarse, too raw. “He stabbed you… I thought…I thought he was going to kill you… I couldn’t…I couldn’t let him do that. I couldn’t lose you. I didn’t think when I pulled the trigger. Why did I go for his chest? I tried to miss, but it was too late. It’s too late.”

Jeremy strokes my arm. “It’s okay, Anoushka.”

“It’s not! It’s not okay! He wasn’t going to kill you, but I killed him… I killed the man I love, Jer. I k-killed him… I…I…”

“He’s not dead,” he speaks slowly, patiently. “You’re not a killer. You just love me, and that’s okay, Anoushka. Choosing is okay.”

That only makes me cry harder even as I try to clean his wound. I end up hurting him more and he says he’ll just have Kill stitch him up.

Jeremy doesn’t leave my side. Not when I finally pass out.

Not when I wake up crying.

Not even when I hit him and blame him for interrupting us that night in the grocery store.

For taking me back home.

I blame him for being the reason I found out the truth about my ill-fated relationship.