God of Pain (Legacy of Gods #2)(4)

Nailed that.

Seriously.

If it were anyone else, they’d leave me be, but this is Jer. President of the Heathens, dubbed a devil, and the heir to Papa’s mafia empire.

People at home are waiting for him to finish his master’s degree and go back to his awaiting position in the heart of the New York Bratva.

This whole college experience is just a stepping stone for him, a way to soak in as much power as possible before going back to where he belongs.

His hawk-like gaze flits all over my room, stopping now and again as if he can see traces of him.

As if he can smell the leather from his gloves and feel the warmth emanating off his body.

My lips tremble at the reminder of how the intruder touched them, and my ears ring. The good type of ring. The type where I can still hear his voice in my head.

His words.

My Tchaikovsky—that’s my god, by the way, because he’s the root of my spirituality.

Get it together, me.

“You haven’t heard any commotion?” Jer pushes with the persistence of a hound that’s sniffing for prey.

“Aside from the guard’s loud voice, not really. What’s going on? He said there was a breach?”

“Yes. There was an attempted arson in the annexed house.”

“A-arson?”

Holy shit on a stick. I knew that the smell of soot had something to do with a fire. Does that mean he was the one behind it?

Instead of asking that and flaring Jer’s suspicious radar, I go with, “Is everyone okay?”

The fact remains, this mansion is the compound of the Heathens, and the founding members of the club, who are my brother’s friends, use it as a home. Not to mention the live-in guards and some staff.

I’m preoccupied with the intrusion, but not enough to forget about other people. Even if they rival my brother’s savageness.

“No one was hurt and we put out the fire before it ate up the annex,” Jeremy offers.

“Phew! So glad there were no casualties.” For more reasons than one. “Do you know who did it?”

“Not yet, but I will find them.” He steps forward. “Are you sure everything’s okay? You don’t need anything?”

“Beauty sleep, remember?”

He ruffles my hair, a rare smile grazing his lips. I can’t help but grin in return, knowing full well that my brother is a hard man and I shouldn’t take his warmth for granted.

I’m lucky enough to be on the short list of people Jeremy cares for.

“Sorry for interrupting your beauty sleep, Anoushka.”

That’s what he and Papa call me. Anoushka. A Russian endearment derived from my name, Annika.

“Apology accepted, but stop messing up my hair. I’m not a kid anymore.”

“You’re a cute little baby to me.”

“Jer!”

“What?”

“I’m really old enough to take care of myself.”

“Not hearing that.”

I snort. “Okay, but can I go back to the dorm tomorrow?”

Jeremy studies at The King’s U, one of the two titan universities on Brighton Island, which is fueled by mafia money. The other university, Royal Elite University, was founded and is funded by old British money.

The two universities and their students can’t stand each other. That animosity bleeds into sports and secret club rivalries.

To say they’re at each other’s throats would be the understatement of the century.

So the fact that I study at the art school at Royal Elite University—or REU—and stay in their dorm doesn’t sit right with my brother.

Which is why he sometimes insists that I stay here—in the Heathens’ mansion that he shares with his three friends.

He says it’s to protect me, but it’s more to keep an eye on me.

“Not yet,” he says, confirming my thoughts. “Stay here for a few more days.”

“But, Jer—”

“It’s for your safety.”

I want to groan in frustration, but I’m interrupted when a gruff voice comes from the other side of the door.

“The fucking fuck is wrong with people in the middle of the night? Can’t anyone get some sleep in this godforsaken hole?”

A tall, muscular, half-naked guy waltzes inside my room, kicks away a fluffy pen, and peers through his bloodshot eyes at us.

Or more like at Jeremy.

My status and last name erased me from Nikolai’s eyes a long time ago.

Thank you, Tchaikovsky.

He’s a scary mofo, has a mafia princehood, and belongs to the New York Bratva just like us. His body is inked with more tattoos than can be counted, and he’s always shirtless. Seriously, I wonder if he wears more than shorts to classes or if he bestows them with his half-nakedness status, too.

He lets his heavy body lean against the wall. “The fuck is going on?”

“Fire.” My brother tilts his head in his friend’s direction. “And put a shirt on.”

“Shirts are overrated. And did you say fire? Why didn’t anyone wake me up?”

“You were nowhere to be found.”

“You sure? Because I was sleeping at the bottom of the stairs. Or maybe behind the stairs. Can’t fucking remember.”

“That’s if you were asleep.”