God of Pain (Legacy of Gods #2)(108)

I mull their words over in my head as a crazy and utterly twisted idea forms. One that I’m sure Dad will help with.

Because he cares about me.

And so does Mum.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “And I’m sorry if I made you doubt how important you are to me. I’m lucky to be your son.”

Mum holds both hands to her chest, tears glistening in her eyes. “Now you went and made me emotional. Be right back. I’ll bring biscuits; they must be ready.”

She passes by Dad, kisses him on the cheek, then disappears to get more of her creations.

Dad takes her place and grabs one of the weird-looking things she brought earlier.

“Mum made those,” I warn.

“And some of them have to be eaten or she’ll be sad.” He doesn’t even wince as he crunches on what should be a muffin. “She never wanted to learn to cook until she found out you love food so much. She tried hard to be accepted by you.” I grab a muffin, but Dad shakes his head. “You’re sick. I’ll eat them.”

“Don’t even try to be cool. I’m not that sick and I can handle these. After all, she made them for me.” I wince at the overly-cooked thing. “Have you heard the part where she fell in love with me at first sight? Something that didn’t happen with you or Eli?”

He narrows his eyes. “You get a pass for being sick.”

“That means I’m more important than you two.”

“Don’t push it. And quit channeling Eli or I’ll smack you. Sick or not.”

“I brought biscuits.” Mum rushes back in with half-burnt biscuits that look like murdered Smurfs.

Dad and I groan, but we eat every last bite.

And that idea from earlier? It’s becoming more of a reality with every passing second.





33





ANNIKA





It’s weird how time can go on while simultaneously remaining stuck in the same place.

That’s exactly how it’s felt ever since I was hauled back to the States.

It’s been a whole month.

A month of convincing myself to get out of bed every day. I push myself, speak to my reflection in the mirror and try so hard not to wallow in the darkest parts of me.

I’d try so hard not to think about what I left on Brighton Island and how desperately I’ve been yearning to go back.

Even if it’s impossible. Even if I’ll get hurt.

Creighton and I are meant to be dots that never overlapped. We wouldn’t have if it weren’t for my loathsome character.

If it weren’t for my persistence, chattering, and attempting to be liked by everyone.

If it weren’t for my toxic curiosity and stupid determination.

It’s all on me, myself, and I.

Which is why I have to be the one who fixes it and moves on.

I wouldn’t say I’ve succeeded, but being here with my parents, Yan, and the others certainly helps. I picked up ballet again and religiously go to practice, then I volunteered at the shelter Mom supervises.

That way I’ll be too beat when I come home and I’ll have no choice but to sleep, right?

Wrong.

Nighttime is the worst. That’s when my demons come out and I turn into a ball of jagged edges and suppressed emotions.

When the longing and impossible feelings I successfully manage to keep under wraps all day long transform into bats and explode in the cave of my chest.

Like right now.

Usually, I’d take a pill and force myself to sleep. Not tonight.

Tonight I want to let the pain seep inside me so that I can feel every lash, every whip, and every strike.

It’s only fair after what I’ve done.

I roll onto my back and stare at the glittery ceiling, and it takes everything in me to keep the tears at bay.

Sleeping alone never gets easier or feels normal, no matter how much time passes. I don’t recall how I used to sleep before Creighton came along, but now?

All I can picture is his muscular arms cocooning me in his tight embrace and shielding me from the world. He’d bury his nose in my hair and inhale deeply, and his strong hands would be on my hip, my waist, my breasts, my ass, my neck.

Everywhere.

Now they’re nowhere. Only a cold chill rips through my body, hooking against what remains of my soul to freeze it to death.

Instead of focusing on that and driving myself crazy, I grab my phone and open Instagram. During the first week home, I actually deleted all my social media apps.

The pain was too raw, so much so that not even my obsession with biographing my life could’ve lessened the blow.

But then I became greedy for any sliver of an update about him.

Remi texted me back and forth, though secretly, as he told me. He’s the only one I offered excuses to. The only one who knows I couldn’t just let my brother die and that pulling that trigger killed me inside.

He still hated me at the beginning for hurting his cousin, but I think he soon forgot about it.

Though we don’t really talk about Creighton anymore. It feels weird to ask about him, knowing full well he and his entire entourage hate me.

I expected him to come after me for shooting him. Hell, reporting me to the police would be his perfect revenge against my family. Sure, Papa wouldn’t allow anyone to arrest me, but that was a valid option he could’ve gone for.