Empire of Hate (Empire #3) by Rina Kent

“Not really. It felt peaceful.”

I narrow my eyes. “It felt peaceful to lose everything you ever owned?”

“It was never mine. I only enjoyed what I was given.”

“Am I supposed to applaud you now? Be fooled by your “I’m a changed woman” speech?”

“I don’t want anything from you, Daniel.”

“Not even your job? Because the door is right there.”

“Aside from my job.” She focuses back on the papers, fingers digging into the edges as if she’s stopping herself from ripping them to shreds.

It’s then that I realize I finished the pasta, the first meal I’ve enjoyed in…forever. I don’t even remember liking food all that much prior to the “Dad fucks with food” episode.

“What’s the name of the restaurant?”

Nicole’s head whips up so fast, I’m surprised it doesn’t roll on the floor post-decapitation style. “W-why?”

“Give me a name.”

“They’re…nobodies. I mean, they’re small. If you didn’t like it, I promise not to get you anything from there anymore.”

“On the contrary, I need all my future meals from there. What are they called?”

“Lolli’s,” she blurts, then winces.

“Bit weird name for a restaurant. Sounds like a stripper’s stage identity.”

“It is what it is.” She pauses, then asks suspiciously. “You really liked the pasta?”

“It’s fine.” It’s the best meal I’ve had since I was a teen, but she doesn’t need to know that. “Just tell them to have more variety and I’ll pay handsomely.”

“Got it.” She has a shit-eating grin on her face, and it makes her features happier, shinier—almost too girly.

Ever since she came back to my life, I’ve been so angry and pissed off, and a million other indefinable emotions, that I failed to notice just how much she’s grown up.

In a way, she’s still the same Nicole who made every male’s head turn in her direction. The Nicole who left a cloud of cherry perfume behind her—the scent boys jerked off to in their lonely showers.

The Nicole who called every one of those sorry cunts gross, and other colorful synonyms for even attempting to breathe near her.

But then again, she’s not the same. She’s more reserved now, more introverted than extroverted.

And she’s ten times prettier than she was eleven years ago. Her curves are that of a woman and her face has matured with age.

She stopped hiding the tiny beauty mole above the left corner of her lip with makeup. Every fashion magazine considers that a sign of beauty, but for Nicole, it was an unwelcome disturbance of her flawless face.

I always liked it, though. That small distinction made her perfectly imperfect. Prior to when she hid it like her life depended on the fact.

Before I realize it, I’m reaching out for her face, for that small imperfection that she’s finally embracing.

The moment my fingers connect with it, she jerks, her wide eyes meeting mine.

“Why do you no longer hide this?” I ask, ignoring her disgust with me and the squeezing in my chest that I’m promptly chalking up to being half-drunk.

“Why…why are you touching me?”

I don’t know either. Could be the alcohol or the way she grinned or the fact that she’s even in my vicinity again when she shouldn’t be.

It’s over.

I erased her from my life.

I fucking got over her.

So why does she think she can walk back in and set each of my barriers on fire?

“Answer the question, Nicole. You started hiding this as soon as you hit puberty. Why do you no longer do it?”

“How do you even know that?”

“I just do. For the last time, answer the fucking question.”

“Because I used to feel self-conscious about it.”

“You don’t anymore?”

“I don’t really care now.”

A heavy silence falls between us as I glide my index finger over the tiny beauty mark and accidentally—or not really—brush against her upper lip.

My skin refuses to leave hers, refuses to part from the warmth mixed with tremors.

So I don’t.

Like an addict, I continue sniffing the forbidden powder.

Nicole inhales stuttering breaths, her lips parting.

“What happened after you left?” The question leaves me before I can stop it.

I’ll blame that on the alcohol, too, even though I usually hold my liquor like a sailor.

Her compliant albeit confused expression disappears and a fire ignites in her eyes.

“You’re eleven years too late for that question.” She jerks to a standing position and slams the documents on the table. “I’m finished. So if you have anything you want to be changed, please let me know, sir.”

“What the fuck got your knickers in a twist?”

“You and your useless questions. What do you care what happened eleven years ago when you never glanced my way?”

I never glanced her way?

What in the ever-loving fuck, and I mean this, type of crack is she on?

“Should I remind you of what you’ve done, Nicole? If I make a list, I’ll break some fucking record.”

“Just like you broke a record of being a stage-one bastard, you mean.”