God of Fury (Legacy of Gods #5) by Rina Kent

The more I enjoy myself, the more painful the aftermath.

But it’s not as painful as forcing myself away from that damn penthouse. It’s not as painful as waking up every day and having this queasy feeling in my stomach because I know he’s waiting outside the mansion’s gate. Grinning.

Nikolai isn’t really a cheerful man. I’ve seen him outside, multiple times, even though I like to pretend I don’t. And yes, he’s loud, but not in Remi’s carefree, funny way. He’s notoriously violent and curses a lot.

Killian often kicks him so he’ll shut up, or Jeremy will whisper or speak to him calmly so he’ll stop drawing attention or rein in his infamous bursts of violence.

He doesn’t show them the version he shows me. Always smiling, grinning, and being an infuriating ray of sunshine, as if my mere presence makes him happy.

That part boggles my mind. Why would he be happy with me when I can’t stand myself most of the time?

No matter how often I ask that question, I can’t quite find an answer.

Still, I enjoy whatever I get, even if it hurts.

Even if every day, I want to watch the blood endlessly flow out of my wrist.

Today is one of those days. I didn’t go to Nikolai’s penthouse yesterday and I feel like I’m sucking breaths through a straw.

I stare at my painting and feel the urge to topple it over and light it on fire. The perfect silhouette of a mountain and a lake that I’ve been working on for weeks feels fake, completely at odds with what my fingers actually want to create. I’ve made more paintings that I don’t want to admit exist, but this perfectly manicured scenery has been a fucking struggle to work on.

Mum said maybe it’s because I’m not focused, but what she doesn’t know is that I couldn’t have been any more focused. It’s just that this thing feels wrong.

Painting landscapes has been my crutch for years. My way to avoid creating anything with eyes. But it’s not working anymore.

If anything, I’m starting to see them in the same light Lan does. Pathetic. Mediocre. Unoriginal. Boring.

Boring.

Fucking boring.

I pull out my phone and stare at the text I sent Nikolai earlier today because he didn’t join me on my run this morning.

The first time he didn’t—the day of that fight—I felt a hollowness so deep, I didn’t know how to explain it. That hole got bigger the following day and I ignored it.

Today, however, I had trouble breathing. The twat has left his mark in every corner of our running path with his endless questions and shameless flirting so that I can’t go there without feeling his shadow.

Why did he make it a habit if he wasn’t going to keep it up?

So I sent him a text.

Me



Slept in?





Nikolai



Nope.





Then why didn’t you come over?





Missed me?





You wish.





He left me on Read. The audacity of the bastard.

Me



Are you ignoring me?





Nikolai



Doesn’t feel so good when the roles are switched, huh? And to answer your question, I borrowed a page from the Brandon Asshole Dictionary and decided not to show up for the fuck of it. Just like you ghosted me last night.





We never agreed that I’ll be there every night.





Then be here every night. Just like I go to see you every day.





I can’t. You know that.





I know nothing.





You’re being ridiculous.





Me? Ridiculous? Jesus fucking Christ. Have you seen your hypocritical face in the mirror lately?





I do. Every day. I have to force myself away from him to see that fucking black hole in solitude. And his pointing it out doesn’t make me feel any better about this damn situation.

Breathe.

Fucking breathe.

Me



This is going nowhere. Let’s stop talking.





Nikolai



Aaaand you’re back to your favorite hobby. Run away, baby. You’re a champion of that bullshit.





You know what? Fuck that. If you don’t feel the need to come over every night, I also don’t need to see you every morning. In fact, don’t show me your fucking face today.





As if I want to see your fucking face.





Fucking great.





Wonderful.





Awesome.





Fantastic.





He left me on Read. Again. Nikolai never leaves me on Read.

I keep checking the exchange every half an hour like a junkie, but there’s nothing from him.

No stupid, entertaining story of the day. No memes. No dick pics that he loves to send at the most random times.

It’s late evening, around the hour when I’d usually sneak out of the house and go to him like a druggy in need of a hit, but I doubt he’s there today.

Besides, he doesn’t want to see my fucking face anyway.

Good grief.

My hand finds the back of my neck and I tug on the fine hairs until pain explodes all over my skin.