God of Pain (Legacy of Gods #2)(7)

His brown hair that’s short on the sides and long at the top is messy, finger-raked, and the most beautiful hairstyle I’ve ever seen. I’ve always wondered what those longer strands would feel like.

Wondered.

That’s all I’ve done since I met this enigma. I’ve wondered and imagined and dreamed.

But they all came crashing down into one bleak reality.

He wants nothing to do with me. Or at least, that’s what I thought.

Point is, his disinterest should make me happy. It’s for the best, considering my fate was already sealed the day I was born.

I certainly don’t want him to get hurt because of me.

But at moments like these, I find myself inching closer, reaching to ease that crease between his thick brows.

Make it go away.

In a flash, a hand grabs my own and I swallow as he slowly opens his eyes.

Rich blue, rimmed with black.

The same eyes of the masked man who paid me a visit last night.





3





ANNIKA





I can’t breathe properly.

I can’t even think properly.

I’ve been imagining this moment ever since I recognized those eyes. Chameleon, ocean eyes with rare heterochromia that I’ve never seen on anyone but him.

That’s what the black rings surrounding his blue eyes are called. Heterochromia. A perfect imperfection that’s part of who he is.

It was the first thing that tugged on my attention. And while many would say my attention is easy to get, no one knows it’s impossible to keep.

Yes, I continue to treat people nicely, remember their names and ask about their last social media post, but it’s all part of a feigned behavior. Whatever drew me to them in the first place has long since shriveled and died.

Creighton is the exception to that phenomenon. My interest in him started like with anyone else—mild, normal. Impersonal.

Little by little, it’s expanded into this boundless powerful interest that’s swept through me from the inside out.

My attention to him hasn’t waned. If anything, it’s grown more potent with every encounter, every stolen glance. Every touch.

Though they’ve never been sensual in nature.

As opposed to right now.

My hand tingles in Creighton’s, or more like my finger that I reached out. That’s all he’s holding—or crushing in his palm. A mere finger.

He slides it away from his face and then drops it as if it’s an insignificant object. Beneath the apparent detachment, a much worse feeling lingers in his gaze—disgust.

A familiar clamping clenches my chest, followed by a subtle ache behind my rib cage.

Oblivious to the tremble in the finger he just threw, Creighton springs up to a sitting position. I have to step back to keep from colliding with him.

My Tchaikovsky.

He really needs to stop moving so suddenly.

Or maybe I’m the one who should move less jerkily.

Hugging my bag, I sit beside him and put on my best smile. “Hi! I didn’t see you at lunch, so I thought maybe you’d be hungry?”

He doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t need to. As much as I’ve tried to pull words out of him in the few weeks I’ve known him, I’ve come to the bitter realization that he just isn’t the talkative type.

Worse, he takes the silent treatment game to the next level that makes you feel less than the dirt on his designer shoes.

For the record, my pride is wounded. Usually, I’m able to befriend anyone. I tell them witty stories and smile and they fall for me, just like that.

The only exception is this six-foot-four wall of muscle.

But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I give up.

So I dig into my bag and retrieve the purple container—not the one I ate from—and place it on his lap. “I made extra lunch, not salad; I know you don’t like those. Jer was starving this morning, so I fixed him some shrimp and there were leftovers.”

It’s actually the other way around, and my brother has the smallest portion—sorry, Jer—but Creighton doesn’t need to know that.

He stares at the container with that edge of his usual disapproval. Creighton has this permanent blank stare that makes it impossible to figure out what he’s feeling. It’s worse than any mask and more effective than any camouflage.

And whenever he looks at something, you never know if he’s considering touching it or flat-out murdering it with his bare hands.

My gaze strays to those hands that are hanging nonchalantly on his knees. So the thing is, Creighton made me unlock a new fetish—hands.

Or maybe I had that before and it just became more prominent when he came into the picture.

He has these big hands, long fingers, and veins. Lots of veins snake over the backs of his hands with the promise of something sinister.

I quickly derail my attention from them or else there will be an embarrassing event where I’ll start drooling.

Creighton is still staring at the container, serious lines etched in his forehead, and I think he’ll throw it away like he did my finger.

He doesn’t.

But he doesn’t open it either.

Just stares at it blankly. Then he grabs it, those veiny hands flexing on the lid, and starts to get up.

“You could’ve told me you were paying me a visit last night and I would’ve dressed up for the occasion. Unless…you wanted to see me half naked?”