God of Wrath (Legacy of Gods #3) by Rina Kent

Mum always makes sure we do mother-daughter activities together. We cook, do yoga, watch movies, and shop. Though I’m not a big fan of the latter. She also plays the perfect role of my solicitor whenever Papa kicks up the overprotectiveness a notch and forbids me from doing things because they’re ‘dangerous’ for me.

It means a lot to me that we’ve always been so close, but not when she can read me. I really hate that part.

“Is everything okay back there?” she asks, glancing at me over her shoulder.

“Grand, yeah.”

“Is there anything you want to tell me, hon?”

“What? No, of course not.” I certainly don’t want to tell her about a certain guy who’s flipping my world upside down while I’m along for the ride.

I last saw Jeremy yesterday after I got embarrassingly drunk, kissed him, and told him I’d miss him, then crashed in his bed. I snuck out of his room like a thief, then mistakenly walked in on Killian and Glyn making out in the game room and on Nikolai floating in the pool wearing nothing but boxers. I thought he was dead, so I frantically called Ilya, but it turns out, the incident was normal for the guy.

All in all, my sneaking-out session ended up with me seeing almost everyone in the Heathens’ compound before leaving. But hey, at least Jeremy didn’t catch me.

Now, I’m not sure if that was such a great idea. Because what I said is true. I do miss him. And I only got here yesterday.

“Cecy!”

“W-what?” I jump up and wince when I realize I’ve cut myself, and blood is dripping on the cutting board and some of the vegetables.

Mum snatches a tissue and presses it on my bleeding finger, her hand shaking. She’s always had this overboard reaction whenever I’m bleeding, even if it’s a minor cut. Papa, too. I think it has to do with the scars on her wrists, which is why I’ve never blamed them for being too overprotective.

“I’m fine, Mum.” I remove the tissue, showing her that the bleeding has stopped. “See? It’s nothing.”

She flips my hand back and forth and only releases a breath when she ensures the cut is minor. “You need to be careful with the knife, hon.”

She’d faint if she found out what Jeremy does to me with the knife, and that I actually enjoy it.

Mum gets me a plaster from the cupboard and puts it on my finger. After she’s done, I throw away the dirtied vegetables and get new ones, then I climb on the chair to start anew. Mum puts the stove on the lowest temperature, gets her own knife, and settles across from me.

“I can do it on my own,” I tell her.

“It’ll get done faster if I help. At least I’m not distracted.”

“Who says I am?”

“You’ve zoned out a few times and you keep checking your phone in an unhealthy way. Are you waiting for a text or a call?”

“No,” I say with an awkward smile that she must read right through.

“Uh-huh.” She fixates me with that ‘I’m your mother, and I know everything about you’ look. “Your aunt Silver was here the other day and told me something interesting.”

“And what is that?”

“Ava told her you were seeing some American boy, and she asked Silver to start picking her bridesmaid dress.”

That little snitch.

I know Ava is tight with her mum and basically tells her everything, but this is different. She knows I haven’t come to terms with this. According to her, I’m just delaying the inevitable, but semantics.

“Is it true?” Mum stares at me.

I place the knife on the table to avoid accidentally cutting myself again. “It’s…complicated.”

“How complicated?” Her voice softens. “You know you can tell me anything, right? I’m always on your side.”

“Even if he…he’s not the conventional type?”

“You’re a very responsible girl, Cecy. You always were, even as a child. So much so that I was worried you wanted to get older prematurely without living your life. But that’s also why I trust you to make the right choice.”

My chest twists, and I stare at the cutting board, at the half-slaughtered vegetables, and everywhere else but at Mum’s face.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s completely fine.” She pats my hand. “Just know I’m here for you whenever you’re ready.”

She releases me and stands up to check on the food. She often does that whenever she feels like she’s pushed too much or shoved me out of my comfort zone.

Mum knows when she’s started to poke my demons and always, without doubt, steps back and gives me time to recuperate.

She hopes I’ll come to her when I’m ready, but I’ve always used that time to escape from her, to drown further into myself, and try to fix my fuck-ups on my own.

This is the first time I’ve gathered the courage so that I can use the chance she’s given me.

“I haven’t always made the right choice, Mum.” My voice is so low, lower than the water boiling on the stove and the sound of stirring she makes.

She starts to turn around, and I blurt, “Please don’t look at me. I can’t say this if you’re looking at me.”

I’m too ashamed to meet her eyes.

“Okay,” she says in an affectionate tone and remains in place.