Empire of Hate (Empire #3) by Rina Kent

A whole-body tremor goes through me, and I don’t know if it’s because of that, or my begging, but Daniel eases off me.

As soon as he releases my wrists, I crawl backward on my elbows and then jerk up so fast, I trip.

A strong hand keeps me upright, but I flinch away, my heart beating in my throat.

“Nicole—”

“You want to know what my wish is?” I jerk my chin up even as a tear clings to it. “Don’t touch me, Daniel.”

And then, I run out of the bathroom, my heart bleeding and my soul in flames.





Our relationship has never been the same after the running-post-blowjob incident last week.

We still have the same routine of my cooking in his chef’s kitchen with Jay and Lolli as company. We even spent three out of four nights there this week.

But other than that, it’s been strained.

Don’t get me wrong, Daniel is still the worst boss-devil anyone can ask for with a diploma from the king of Hell himself, but it’s robotic.

Almost as if he needs to be mean. As if not being mean will cost him a position on Satan’s lap.

And I don’t know how to fix it, save for going back in time and not agreeing to that challenge.

I should’ve forfeited and taken a hit like so many other hits.

Better yet, I should’ve never gone into his room in the first place.

If I hadn’t, we could’ve had our weirdly domesticated life and just coexisted peacefully.

But maybe I’m tired of forfeiting and turning the other cheek. Maybe I wanted a challenge after so long.

Besides, who am I kidding? Daniel would’ve eventually seen my ugly side anyway.

He of all people would’ve witnessed it.

And I can’t look him in the eye after that night. I don’t even talk back like I usually would in response to his ludicrous commands. That would mean staring at him, and that energy is currently out of stock.

I can tell he’s upping his icy cold behavior and adding some frost on top to get a kick out of me and make me talk, but I haven’t taken the bait.

He’ll eventually tire of demanding an answer out of me and move on.

Or at least, I hope so.

In the meantime, I try not to be in his vicinity unless absolutely necessary. The fact that we’re practically in his house all the time doesn’t help, though. I tried putting my foot down, but Daniel is surprisingly adamant about not letting us go back most days. He even made it a requirement to continue working.

My traitor brother is on his side, too. No surprise there. Jay hated our neighborhood and always said he’ll become rich and buy us a house to get us out of that hellhole. A part of me is happy that his asthma has gotten significantly better since we don’t spend much time in the humid flat, but the other part is both anxious and completely perturbed at being around Daniel.

I’m wearing a cracked professional mask, and I’m sure he sees right through it.

How the hell am I supposed to be professional after I sucked his cock like a first-class whore?

Then had an epic meltdown when he touched you. Don’t forget about that part, Nicole.

Releasing a sigh, I step out of the lift on the managing partners’ floor. It’s lunchtime and I usually spend that with Aspen—when she doesn’t have work outside the office, which is as rare as peaceful days in my life.

She’s the only person I consider a friend around here. And I think I’m also her only actual friend.

Most people, including her assistant, are either intimidated by her or scared of her.

She’s even lonelier than me. At least I have Jay and Lolli—and, yes, Lolli counts. Aspen is a true lone she-wolf through and through. Despite her senior partner status and tough bitch persona, she has no one on her side. Aside from Nathaniel Weaver, maybe.

And because she’s not particularly close to anyone but me, I’m surprised to find a young intern standing in front of her office. From what I’ve learned during my time here, her name is Gwyneth Shaw Weaver, daughter of the Kingsley Shaw and wife of the Nathaniel Weaver.

She’s tucked into her father’s side, her face red as Aspen stares at her with an expression I’ve never seen her wear.

Vulnerability.

She says something, but Gwyneth lowers her head and Kingsley smirks as he guides his daughter away.

Once they’re out of view, I approach a stiff Aspen slowly. “Are you okay?”

She goes inside with rigid steps and I follow after her, closing the door.

Aspen grabs her glass nameplate and throws it against the wall. “That motherfucker!”

Then she straightens and puts her navy blue jacket in order, composing herself as fast as she had lost her cool.

“Sorry.” She smiles at me as she picks up her nameplate, which is surprisingly still in one piece, and puts it back on her desk. “I had to get that off my chest or I would’ve had a stroke.”

“No judgment here.” I place the lunch boxes on the table and sit down. “I hope you like lasagna.”

“I like anything you cook. No one’s ever made me homemade meals.”

“Well, I’m your girl in that department.”

She slides onto the chair opposite me and we eat in silence for a few moments. Despite her small fit of rage, she doesn’t seem relaxed. Just…uptight.

It’s so unlike her to be agitated for long. Yes, she’s in a sour mood after every fight with Kingsley, but she usually forgets about it soon after.