Empire of Hate (Empire #3) by Rina Kent

“Maybe you are.”

“What?”

“Why would you ask about Nicole after eleven years of closing down any conversation I try to have about her? I thought you said she wasn’t important when I asked about that summer party. What changed, Bug?”

Something.

Everything.

I’m not even fucking sure anymore.

“I’ll tell you when I’m ready, Astrid. Now can you tell me what you know?”

She releases a long sigh. “It’s not much, really. Dad once said that he searched for Nicole and when he found her, she was carrying a baby and ran away.”

“A what?”

“A baby, Dan. You know, like my daughter, Glyndon.”

“Nicole has a child?”

“I don’t know. Even Dad was surprised by that. He tried to find her again, but it’s like she disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“How long ago was that?”

“I don’t know…our second year in university, so about nine years ago.”

My mind goes into overdrive. Nicole had a child nine years ago. That was also the same year she dropped out of Cambridge, per her résumé.

All her references after that are here in the States. Which means she probably left England after Uncle Henry found her with a baby.

A fucking baby.

My fist clenches.

“Oh, and, Bug,” Astrid says slowly. “There’s something else.”

“What?”

“When Dad saw her, he said her face was badly bruised.”





9





NICOLE





AGE EIGHTEEN





What the hell am I doing?

There must be a rule somewhere that says I’m not supposed to say things like that in front of Daniel.

I shouldn’t be calling him my kink or actually getting on my knees so I can get close and smell him. His cologne has always smothered me and clung to my lungs like smoke.

Lime and bergamot is the type of scent I search for in candles, bath bombs, and male perfume. I secretly keep a bottle, too, for when the feelings get too intense and I need to sense him beside me.

There must be a rule somewhere about how I shouldn’t be this attuned to him.

But maybe I didn’t read the fine print of that rule. Maybe rules are stupid, after all.

I’m not controlled by them.

Or the world.

Or how lucky I am.

Maybe, as Papa said, I can go after what I want with as much passion as I can conjure.

Or maybe I shouldn’t have crunched on the remaining ecstasy pill like it was a sweet.

It only made me sleepy, and I meant to do just that until Mum came to pick me up.

But when I woke up, I saw a scene I thought was a mere translation of my many dreams.

Forbidden dreams.

Fantasies.

That can’t be possible, however, because he’s within touching distance.

Because the warmth radiating off his body is bouncing off mine and rolling down in the valley between my breasts.

It’s creating a path to the bottom of my stomach and pooling between my thighs.

Just why is he so beautiful? Why did he have to steal from the stars and the sky—and me?

Why does he have the type of messy hair that falls over his forehead and begs for my fingers in it?

Why did he have the face and body of a model and the soul of a devil on his quest to win a popularity award?

And why, just why did I have to notice him?

It’s become virtually impossible to not look for him anywhere I go as if he’s bewitched me.

Maybe he has dark magic in his eyes.

Satanic rituals in his soul.

“I’m your kink?” he asks with slight bewilderment, but he’s smirking, those beautiful dimples creasing his cheeks.

Ever since I said those embarrassing words, the air has been thick with tension. Sexual, to be more specific.

The last thing I expected to exist between us.

From his side, at least.

But I see it, in his pants, the bulge that’s tenting against the fabric as a clear translation of his desire.

“I put ecstasy in that drink you had earlier,” I say instead of giving an embarrassing answer to his question.

Like you’re my only kink.

Or you’re the reason I even have kinks.

That would be soul-crushingly humiliating. More than wishing for him to touch me, then stupidly proposing to him while I was dying of an allergic reaction.

“I had one, too,” I blurt. “A drink with ecstasy, I mean.”

I expect him to be mad, to glare at me like he usually does, but his smirk widens, and it’s now laced with sadism.

“I didn’t know you were the type who shags.”

“Then what am I?”

“The bitch type with an unhealthy dose of mean-girl endorphins.”

The sting of his words breaks the surface of my fogged-up head. And despite wanting him with every molecule in my DNA, I won’t let him walk all over me.

“Then go find a goody two-shoes for your minuscule penis.” I start to get up, but the world is pulled from beneath me.

Or more like, I’m falling backward.

Daniel has pushed me, I realize, because both his palms are on my shoulders. I have too many fantasies to count, but none of them are as real as the view from beneath him.

He’s hovering over me, his chest rising and falling as hard as my heaving breasts. “Who said I want a goody two-shoes? Besides, that’s the second time you’ve mentioned my cock’s size today, so I’m under the obligation to prove you wrong, Peaches.”