Empire of Sin (Empire #2) by Rina Kent

In return, I find myself telling her about the friends and family I left in London or my antics with Dad, Ronan, and everyone else.

It’s so easy to talk to her, so easy to spend hours in her company without having to do anything.

It’s even better when she’s the one who talks about herself. Sometimes, she slips and mentions her cousin, her father, and her family. It’s in passing, though, and whenever she mentions them, her shoulders hunch and she changes the subject.

She talks more about Gwen, Chris, and Sandra than her actual past, and sometimes, it feels like she’s stuck in the middle.

Not fully Jane and not fully Anastasia either.

I’m along for the ride, enjoying every bit of her contradictions and letting it seep beneath my skin.

Not last night or this morning, though.

It’s like a barrier has materialized between us. The fact that I have no clue where it came from has been driving me bloody insane.

She’s also been busy today and can’t go to the supply room. I call bullshit on that, because she’s the most efficient member of the IT department and often finishes her tasks in the first half of the workday.

Stepping out of my car, I stare at the text message she sent me a few hours ago when I asked her what she wanted for dinner.

Anastasia: I’m going out with Gwen and Chris, so I won’t be home for dinner.

If there’s anything I’ve learned about her, it’s that she dislikes being in public, so going out is not the norm for her.

Either Gwen is corrupting her—and I wouldn’t be surprised if that were to be the case—or more logically, she’s avoiding me.

Which I will not have.

So I called Chris and made him tell me where they are.

“We’re at a club!” he shouted over the music, then texted me the address.

That’s where I am right now. At the fucking club.

Loud music nearly punctures my eardrums as I make my way through the crowd of writhing bodies. Blue light flashes in sync with trendy music and people go crazy when the beat drops.

Usually, this is my scene.

I live for the rush of adrenaline, alcohol, and sex. It’s what distracts me from my head and keeps my shadows at bay.

But that stopped being the norm ever since I met her. Ever since I owned her and inserted myself in her life as deeply as she invaded mine.

It’s been several weeks since the last time I was in a place like this, despite Dan’s constant bitching and the group chat’s eternal teasing.

The club feels a bit foreign now.

Maybe because my idea of fun has strangely switched from a loud nightclub to a small, quiet flat.

At first, I spot Gwen and Chris because they’re loud as fuck. Both of them are chugging drinks while dancing sporadically. Another guy, about their age, moves with them, and the three laugh in unison.

Gwen is barely staying on her feet, but that’s not my job to worry about.

I scan their surroundings, knowing Anastasia can’t be far if she came with them. Sure enough, I find her sitting alone at a secluded booth.

In my head, I’m forging ahead and grabbing her by the throat, but my feet don’t move. I’m stunned and rooted in place by her appearance.

Anastasia owns three types of clothes—baggy trousers, oversized shirts, and hoodies. Oh, and sexy-as-fuck lace panties.

Those are the only things in her closet.

So where the fuck did she get that dress from?

A tight black one that reveals her curves in silhouette form. Its straps might as well be nonexistent; not only are they thin and barely cover anything, but one of them also falls down her shoulder constantly. Although the dress isn’t too short, it reveals her pale legs and fuck-me heels. She’s also released her black hair, letting it fall in waves to her shoulders.

She seems to be wearing some makeup, too, even though she still has those thick glasses on.

My dick instantly twitches to life and I have to adjust the sorry fuck with teenage fantasies.

Or maybe they’re not teenage-level, after all, because the only thought running through my head is to rip that dress off her and fuck her on its shreds. With those heels on.

I don’t really care what she looks like, but this appearance is eerily similar to the first time I saw her in that bar.

Though she’s not a blonde and she doesn’t have those enchanting blue eyes, the aura is similar.

And for some reason, that Anastasia seems more real than the Jane persona she’s hiding behind.

A straw hangs in her mouth as she drinks from a sparkly blue glass and frantically checks her surroundings.

She looks a little bit lost, unfocused, almost like all the external stimuli are about to crush her in their clutches. I can taste her anxiety in the air with every step I take toward her.

Not only is she gripping her drink tight, but she also adjusts her glasses every second and lowers her head whenever she makes random eye contact with someone.

Inexplicably, that makes me want to reach out to people’s eyeballs and blind them for causing her to feel such distress.

For being the cause of her discomfort.

And that’s wrong, isn’t it?

I’m not supposed to be on the verge of losing it only because she’s staring at people and hates it. I’m not supposed to be this worked up about a girl who’s so secretive about who she is that it drives me bloody insane sometimes.

Upon seeing me approaching, her posture stiffens and she’s about to stand up, but before she does, I sit beside her and grab her by the thigh. “Where do you think you’re going, beautiful?”