Empire of Desire by Rina Kent

This entire situation must be too much. Sometimes, I fail to see that other people aren’t made for pressure-filled situations. That, unlike me, their feelings are in the forefront, not forgotten somewhere no one can find—or reach.

If Susan hadn’t shown her vicious face, I would’ve attempted to prepare Gwyneth for the decision I made while I was talking to Aspen. I probably wouldn’t have announced it the way I did, like some sort of a bomb whose fallout she’s currently unable to process.

Susan, the stepmother from hell, as King sometimes calls her, stares me down, even though she’s way shorter than me. Her lips twitch and twist and I don’t think she’s even aware of it.

“What are you talking about?” she asks in that condescending manner that’s always pissed King off. He used to say her voice alone put him in the mood to commit a crime, and I’m starting to see why. She has a general grating existence that you can’t wait to get rid of and disinfect it from the air.

“Exactly what I just said. Gwyneth and I are getting married.”

Two pairs of eyes stare at me blankly, coldly even. I don’t focus on Gwyneth’s, not fully at least. If I do, I’ll lose sight of the reason why I dropped the news now—to get rid of Susan, once and for all.

“You can’t possibly mean that. Aren’t you twice her age or something? She’s only twenty.”

As if I don’t know her age. I do, very well. Perfectly so. I’ve been there since she was born.

But instead of giving Susan the opening she’s looking for, I squeeze Gwyneth’s shoulder. “That makes her an adult, capable of making her own decisions. One of which being that she’ll marry me, we’ll have joint property, and she’ll grant me power of attorney. So you might want to call your lawyer and tell him that any legal—or illegal—fight you have with her will go through me.”

The twitching in Susan’s lips increases as she glares at me, but she doesn’t maintain eye contact for too long. My nephew tells me I have a look that makes people uncomfortable in their own skin even without my having to glare.

And like any weakling who can’t stand up to those stronger than her, she latches onto those she believes are weaker and steps toward Gwyneth, jamming a finger at her shoulder. “Is this what you’ve been plotting all along, you devil’s spawn?”

I’m about to break her fucking hand and risk an assault charge, but I don’t need to. Gwyneth grabs her step-grandmother's finger and throws it away as if it’s disgusting. “I told you I’ll protect Dad’s assets until my last breath. Now, leave and don’t show your face here again. I’m filing a restraining order for reasons of aggressive, threatening behavior so you can never get near Dad.”

Susan jerks back as if she’s been burned. For someone who practically lives in court and pays a fortune to her lawyer, she has a poor sense of knowing when she should stop.

Which should’ve been after her husband died.

Or better yet, a few decades ago when she decided to kick King’s mother out and thought he’d forget about it.

But she doesn’t matter now, or ever, because I can’t help feeling a sensation of pride at how Gwyneth put the woman in her place. She’s King’s daughter, after all, even if she is more empathetic than he’s ever been.

“This isn’t over.” Susan clicks her tongue and turns and leaves in a swish of blinding, annoying pink and loud clicks of her shoes.

I track her movements, making sure she doesn’t try anything funny. Aspen is with the doctor in case Susan goes there to attempt to get a legal document out of him. Not that he’d hand over anything if he doesn’t want to risk losing his license. But I don’t trust people like Susan.

They might use the law to fight, but they wouldn’t hesitate to resort to illegal, immoral methods to get what they want.

“Is it true? Do you want to marry me?”

My attention slides back to the woman who’s snuggled to my side, looking up at me in that fucking way that stabs my guts and twists my damn insides.

Her eyes spark in a myriad of blue, gray, and green. Bright fucking green that I thought wouldn’t make an appearance again after King’s accident.

I hate the way she looks at me. I fucking loathe it.

Because it’s not just a gaze, it’s not mere eye contact. It’s words and phrases I don’t want to decipher.

I let her go and she staggers a little, as if she’s been floating on air and her feet are finally touching the ground. It’s where she’s supposed to always be—on the ground—not in the clouds she sometimes ascends to.

But even though I’m not touching her anymore, she’s still touching a part of me. My jacket is held snugly to her chest as if it’s some sort of armor—one she won’t let go of.

And I need to stop thinking about what that jacket is touching, because that’s just fucked up.

“It’s not that I want to marry you.”

A swallow, a clink of nails, a slight jump in her shoulders. I’ve always hated how expressive she is but that she can still hide more than she shows.

“Then why did you say that to Susan? Oh, was it a lie? A smokescreen to scare her away?”

“It was to scare her away and it is a smokescreen in a way, but it’s not a lie.”