God of Pain (Legacy of Gods #2)(121)

“Wow. I thought he might be unhinged from the time we talked, but now I’m sure.”

One of his brows rises. “You talked?”

“More like he threatened me, but Papa threatened him, too, almost killed him, actually, so I pretended to faint and Papa had no choice but to take me back. He totally didn’t believe my performance, though.” I sigh. “I’m afraid some sort of a world war will happen if they meet again.”

“Which is one more reason not to go back.”

“Then we’d just be running.”

“So what?”

I release a frustrated breath. “We can’t just do that, Creighton. We have a life back at home. People waiting for us. People who love us.”

He eats in silence and I think he’s dismissed me, which is his modus operandi whenever he wants to change the subject.

I eat, too, feeling my heart shriveling up and dying inside my chest.

He really won’t look past the grudge. It’s already shaped who he is, and the more I try to make him get rid of it, the harder he holds on to it.

“What’s his name?” The question he asks in a low tone catches me off guard.

“Who?”

“The man in black who’s by your side all the time, looks twice your age, and whom you smile at. Constantly.”

I frown. “Yan?”

Full-blown calculation covers his features. “Yan. Russian, I assume?”

“Yeah, didn’t I mention him before? We’re so close and he's a badass. A former member of the elite Russian Special Forces, ranked among the first, and one of the most merciless assassins in the Bratva.”

“We will see how strong he is when I pummel him to death.”

My lips part as the realization dawns on me and I burst out laughing.

He’s jealous of him.

Creighton is jealous of Yan.

A dark look shutters in his unique ocean eyes. “What are you laughing at?”

“I’m sorry, but this is just too funny,” I say, still fighting the remnants of my laughter. “Yan is Papa’s second-in-command.”

“And? Why is that information funny? If anything, it makes me hate your father even more for bringing this Yan into your life.”

“My Tchaikovsky, are you for real?”

“I told you to quit worshiping that dead man.”

I suppress a smile. “Yan is like my favorite uncle, totally more approachable than Kolya and Boris.”

“There are more of them?”

“We have an entire army of guards. But don’t worry, I was never interested in them in that sense. One, they’re way older. Two, Papa would skin them alive. Also, he hates Yan with a passion.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s Mom’s best friend and he kind of doesn’t like that. Yan won’t stop provoking him about it, though, so the whole situation is fun to watch.”

“If your father dislikes him so much, why doesn’t he get rid of him?”

“Because Papa knows how much Mom needs a friend.” I grin. “I’m telling you, Yan will have a field day when he knows both you and Papa are jealous of him.”

“I am not jealous.”

“Yeah, right. Wait a minute, how did you see the picture I posted with Yan?”

He remains silent and flat-out ignores me by drinking from his wine.

“You don’t have social media. Did you stalk me through Remi’s account or something?”

“I tried, but he found out about it and exposed me in front of everyone in his super dramatic way.”

I laugh. “I can imagine that. It must’ve been entertaining.”

“No, it wasn’t. And Remi is not that funny.”

“He’s hilarious. Don’t be jealous.”

He narrows his eyes on me but says nothing.

“Then how did you stalk me? The only alternative is through the others' accounts, but I doubt they would give you their phones unless…you made an account yourself?”

Silence.

I jump up from my seat and round the table to come to his side. “You did!”

“Sit down and finish your food.”

“No, this is way more important. Does everyone else know you have a form of social media? What’s the handle? Your profile picture? Your first post? Bio? I want to know all the things—”

My words die in my throat when he grabs me by the wrist and forces me to sit down. This time on one of his thighs so that I’m practically riding it.

Heat blossoms where my panties meet his jeans and spreads all over my skin.

His slightly stubbled chin rubs against my cheek as he whispers in dark words, “I said, sit down and eat.”

“If I do, will you tell me your handle?” I don’t recognize the thickness in my voice.

“That’s not important anymore, considering we’re not leaving.”

“Or that’s what you think.”

His eyes, those gorgeous eyes that I’m sure once belonged to a fallen angel, turn to slits. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Annika.” I feel the vibration of his warning before I hear it and help me, Tchaikovsky, his authoritative voice is such a turn-on.