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

On my way.





I’ll be there in an hour or so. I have some shit to do here first.





Should you be doing anything if you’re not okay?





Love it when you worry about me, baby. See you.





I want to tell him I’m not worried, but even I don’t want to send that lie.

The drive to the penthouse is only fifteen minutes. I wait on the sofa as usual and turn on the telly, then settle on one of the late-night reruns of Agatha Christie’s adaptations.

Unable to stay still, I stand up to fetch a bottle of beer from the fridge. He started stocking it up and ordering groceries that he knows nothing about. I told him to stop after the first time and began to buy my own groceries. I usually make him something before I leave. Breakfast or dinner, depending on how late it is.

I guess a part of me is trying to make up for how I leave every night when he doesn’t seem like he wants me to.

He doesn’t say that out loud, but I can feel the crushing disappointment in his voice whenever he asks, “You leaving?”

Every night. Every time. As if he expects the answer to change.

And every night, it gets harder to say “Yeah” or “You know I am.” So I just nod now. And even that is excruciatingly difficult.

Watching the murder mystery that I’ve learned by heart at this point, I give up on the beer and prepare a quiche in case he’s hungry.

I’ve always loved cooking and used to do it with Dad all the time. Mum isn’t much of a cook and neither are Glyn and Lan.

Dad and I bonded over cooking. He often told me it’s an art and he only learned it to ensure his place in Mum’s heart.

“She’ll eat other people's food and be like, nah. No one can cook like my Levi. Watch and learn, son. The best way to chain someone to you for life is to own their stomach.”

I smile to myself as I methodically mix the ingredients and do everything just right. I guess part of the reason why I love cooking is because it suits my meticulous personality. And it’s one of the few things I do better than Lan.

After I put the quiche in the oven, I set a timer and clean the kitchen. Nikolai always insists that he has someone who comes over for cleaning, but I just can’t stay in a place that’s not spotless.

He calls me a clean freak, but he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he’ll usually be sitting on the sofa and watching me with a stupid grin.

Other times, he tries to help, and that turns into a disaster. He’s just too chaotic. Whenever I tell him to do something, he takes a shortcut. He’s the type who mixes white and colored clothes and then says, “Well, they’re all clothes. Who cares?”

He drinks milk from the bottle and eats tuna from the can. Like a savage. Good grief. I get twitchy eyes just thinking about it.

But I guess he does mean well. He asked what my shampoo and body wash are and then bought them for me, although, really, I love his body wash. It makes me smell like him.

But then again, that’s not ideal when I’m trying to keep this whole thing a secret.

He also got my hair products and loves watching me get into my ‘Prince Charming’ look, as he calls it.

And he even taught me how to perform an enema. So…eh, that’s a thing for gay sex apparently.

The first time he did it for me, and that was…interesting.

He teased me the whole time while I was face down on the bed, arse in the air, and I might have come.

I later found out there’s actually another position, and when I confronted him about that, he wasn’t apologetic in the least and said, “But I like that one better.”

Twat.

By the time I finish cleaning, the oven dings and I turn it off, then sit down in front of the telly, watching the happenings of “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.”

I must fall asleep, because when I open my eyes, my head is lying on a muscled thigh and long fingers are stroking my hair.

My heart thumps loud in my chest as I look up at Nikolai’s masculine face, his eyes focused on the telly. I can hear the actors speaking, but I can’t make out a word. I just know it’s still the same murder mystery, which means I haven’t been out for long.

A part of me is fighting to get up. I hate it when he treats me so delicately like I’m some girl. It’s enough that he fucks me. I’m still not fully comfortable with the fact that I like being fucked by a man. It makes me feel less manly, less…normal.

But at least I can tune those thoughts out during sex. I can give in to his dominance and relinquish control for a while.

It’s different when he kisses my nose and eyelids and strokes my hair. It’s different when he lays me on his thigh, like now, with one hand resting on the middle of my chest and the other lost in my hair. There’s no sex involved and I don’t like how horrifyingly comfortable it feels.

Still, I don’t attempt to move.

I clear my throat. “When did you get here?”

He smiles even before his eyes meet mine. “About twenty minutes ago. Your snoring reached me from the elevator.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Christ. You should see your offended face.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“If you say so.” His fingers continue the same soothing rhythm in my hair, lulling me back toward sleep.