Empire of Desire by Rina Kent

“I think I found it, Dad. The source. It’s agreeing to marry Nate. I’m not supposed to do that, right? Even if it means protecting your legacy and what you left me. I’m not supposed to latch onto him like a pest. I don’t want to be a burden, Dad. I don’t want Nate to baby me or treat me like a delicate flower just because I’m your daughter.”

I lick my lips, tasting the saltiness that seeps into my mouth. “So please wake up. If you do, I won’t have to feel shitty because I’m using him. I won’t have to force his hand and make him do something he dislikes. I did that before and he reacted badly to it. I don’t think you noticed it, but he was avoiding me, plastering me to the background as if I never existed. And that hurts, but it’s okay because I’m over him now. I think. So please open your eyes and come back. Please don’t let me be a burden, Dad.”

I drop my head to his hand as if that will make him move or acknowledge me. As if that will hasten the process of bringing him back.

Because what I said? Yeah, I’ve been thinking about it for five days, letting it fester inside me until it’s killed all the good words and left only negative ones. Like the red list that I have trouble with.

I’m torn between a sense of duty and common sense—that includes not being a pain in the ass.

“Who said you’re a burden?”

My head whips up fast. So fast that I’m a bit disoriented and a sudden sound slips from my lips. It’s small, but it’s there, like a squeal.

It’s him.

My dad’s best friend and my future husband.

The man I had a hopeless crush on for years before I destroyed it all on my birthday and then got over him because my pride is a thing.

I’m definitely over him.

And yet, I can’t help noticing the way his muscular chest stretches the jacket of his suit or how his eyes darken with each second he watches me. I can’t stop myself from looking at that damn stubborn jaw of his and the way it’s currently tightening until a muscle tics. Or the way his long legs eat up the distance between us in no time, injecting some sort of a thrilling potion into my bloodstream with each powerful stride.

When he stops beside me, I have to crane my neck to stare up at him because he’s so big. Big and strong and a god.

And I don’t want to miss a second of witnessing it firsthand. That’s why religion exists, right? Because a god is so dazzling, he automatically gains followers and prayers and sacrifices.

Lots of sacrifices.

“Get up.”

I want to close my eyes and memorize that voice, the deep tenor of it, the slight humming in it. All of it. But something stops me—the continuous ticking in his jaw. He’s mad about something.

Or maybe it’s some things. Plural. Because he’s glaring at me with those darkened eyes that almost look black right now.

“I said, get up from the floor, Gwyneth.” This time, he doesn’t wait for me to comply and grabs me by the elbow, hauling me to my feet.

I let out a small sound again, a gasp mixed with that stupid juvenile squeal. But that’s not important right now. His skin on mine is. His hot skin and his large, veiny hand that’s fit for a god.

The place where he’s touching me burns and then tingles in rapid succession, and no amount of deep breathing drives it away. Maybe touching should be on the negative list, too, because I totally need to desensitize myself to it.

Or maybe just limit it to touching Nate.

He tilts his head to the side, watching me in that harsh, critical way that befits a criminal. Am I one now because I chose the wrong god?

“Did you hear what I said?”

“About what?” I totally wasn’t listening, because he’s still touching me. He still has his warm hand on my elbow. Nate doesn’t do that, you know. He doesn’t touch me. Ever. I’m the one who tries it and fails miserably every time.

But he’s doing it right now.

And it’s hard to focus when I’m floating in the clouds.

“About how you’re not a burden.”

My heart jolts and I can’t control the tremor that shoots through my limbs. It’s a knee-jerk reaction that gives away my emotions and I hate it. Especially in front of him. The man who’s the reason behind it every damn time.

“I am.” I lower my head, staring at my white sneakers, and that automatically makes me look at his prim leather shoes. And the difference between his and mine is so striking that it helps to anchor me in the moment, even if temporarily. “I know you’re marrying me because you want to protect Dad’s assets and that’s okay, but it still makes me a burden. Because I’m not old enough to take care of things myself and I didn’t even graduate or pass the bar yet, so I can’t practice law or stand against Susan in court and—”

“Look at me.”

I shake my head, swallowing after all the rambling I’ve done. What if he sees the shame on my face—or worse, the things I’m trying to hide? That would be a disaster no one needs.

“Gwyneth.”

I flinch, my heart hammering in my chest, but it’s not because I’m scared. Not even close. It’s due to how he just spoke.

How can someone pack so much command in one single word? In the simple way he says my name? And is it creepy that I want him to keep talking to me in that tone?