Empire of Desire by Rina Kent

A voice that I’ve started to dream about despite my damn self.

And now, he’s behind me.

And that means he can see my phone.

I jolt, hugging it to my chest, and in hindsight, that’s such a bad idea, because now I’m thinking about him between my breasts, and my heart kind of explodes all over the place.

My reaction goes downhill from there and there’s no way to stop it. My lips part, and my expression must be frozen like a deer caught in the headlights.

But instead of commenting on his picture on my phone, he steps in front of my swing, towering over me like a fucking god.

One with Adonis looks and as cold as the statue.

That’s what one of the magazines compared him to. They called Senator Brian Weaver’s son—that’s Nate, by the way—one of the most sought-after bachelors and the most apathetic of them all.

But I’ve never received the frigid treatment everyone talks about. For me, he has always been warm. Well, somewhat warm. Because Uncle Nate is too businesslike to ever be warm in the traditional sense.

Nate. I chastise myself. It’s Nate.

“Don’t worry. I won’t peek at your conversations with your boyfriend.”

My heart does that flippy thing that makes me feel as if I’m going to vomit or faint or maybe both.

While it does have something to do with his presence when I thought he wouldn’t come, it’s more about what he said.

Boyfriend.

As in, he’s my boyfriend since I was staring at him. Well, that’s not exactly what he meant, but in my twisted brain, it sure as hell counts.

I tilt my head back to see the entirety of him. Though I doubt there’s any picture frame that can contain him.

His face is all sharp lines and defined cheekbones, which become shadowed depending on where the light is coming from. He has the type of features that communicate with the slightest twitch and the merest of movements. Nate has always had immaculate control over his body language and facial expressions, and it shows in each of his movements.

The older I’ve gotten, the more aware I’ve become of his imposing, silent character that speaks through actions more than words. I’ve also begun to see why he’s the perfect partner for Dad. They’re alike in a way, but Nate is still harder to read. Due to his rigid demeanor, I have to be extra careful in deciphering any change in his facial expressions.

It’s blank now, which could mean a lot of things. Is he angry, disapproving?

Or maybe he’s just indifferent as he is most of the time.

I can’t stop looking at him, studying him, getting my fill of his face as if I won’t see him for a while. I’m engraving everything into my memory, like how he fills his suit or how he appears majestic in it.

I can’t stop staring at his thick brows and lashes, at the slight stubble covering his jaw, and at how a few strays of dark blond hair kiss his forehead with each gust of wind.

And for a tiny moment, I wish I was a stray hair or the air. Either would do.

But what I really can’t stop staring at are his dark eyes that appear almost black right now. Those eyes have a language of their own that no one is allowed to learn, no matter how much they attempt to.

A language that I’ve been desperately trying to speak for a while now.

I grip the phone harder, needing the courage it provides as I speak, “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“One less thing for King to worry about.”

I bite my lower lip, unable to hide the disappointment at how he blatantly ignores my statement and pushes it all to Dad.

It’d be better if I stopped.

Usually, I would.

Nate isn’t the type of man anyone likes to push—and I’m no exception.

But if I did, how would I accomplish what I’ve strived for? I waited for my eighteenth birthday to shout that I’m a woman now.

That I want him to see me as one.

That’s probably why I ask, “Do you think I should have a boyfriend?”

“That’s none of my business, kiddo.”

“I-I’m not a kiddo.”

His lips twitch. “You just pouted like one.”

Damn it. I knew he still thought of me as if I were a little girl. Can’t he see I’m all grown up now? That I’m looking at him?

That I can’t stop looking at him?

“I’m making it your business,” I insist. “So what do you think?”

“About?”

“Should I get a boyfriend?”

“No.”

My heart nearly rips my ribcage open and hops out to dance at his feet. He said I shouldn’t get a boyfriend. That can’t be meaningless, right?

“Why not?” I try to sound cool, but I can’t control the tremor at the end.

“King wouldn’t like it.”

Oh.

So it’s back to my dad again.

Seems I’m out for blood, though, because I still refuse to drop it. “How about you?”

“How about me?”

“Would you like it if I had a boyfriend?”

He pauses, then says, “I would be neutral.”

Right.

Of course, he would.

Why would the king of the jungle look in the direction of a stray cub when he has countless lionesses by his side?

The breaking sound in my chest that I felt when I thought he didn’t show up returns and I dig the edge of my phone into my ribcage as I struggle to maintain a neutral façade.