Empire of Hate (Empire #3) by Rina Kent

“I’ll bring you justice and make sure this crazy jerk is locked up for life.” She stares at King. “If you do us all a favor and commit a homicide in, say, Florida or Alabama, I’ll even sit on the front row as they electrocute you.”

“Maybe I’ll be the one in the front row when your witch blood pushes you to commit first-degree murder. Now, can you grace us with the reason behind your unwanted presence?”

“Jefferson invited me for golf.”

“You?”

“A senior partner last time everyone checked.”

“You’re late,” Nate says amicably.

“Probably couldn’t be bothered for the first hour?” I ask.

“You knew?” King stares at us as if we beheaded his favorite puppy à la guillotine style.

“The question is, why don’t you? Jefferson invited the partners. Aspen is high on that list.” Nate checks his watch, probably eager to go back home. The only reason he agreed to be here is because Gwen is studying for her exams.

“His sexist dick hates the idea so much that he forgets about it. Often.”

“You happen to be the forgettable type, sweetheart.”

She glares at him as if he jammed his feet against her ribs and crushed her nonexistent heart, but she soon smooths out her expression. “Not more than you, babe.”

It’s his turn to regard her like she’s a wild stallion he wants to tame. Flipping her hair, she faces me and Nate. “How do we go from here?”

King laughs. “You wouldn’t know how to play golf if you were spoon-fed, amateur.”

“You’re on.” She starts to follow my and Nate’s instructions.

By the time we’re done with golf, King and Aspen are seconds away from slitting each other’s throats or fucking on the grass. Not sure which one is more pressing.

Nate wears the expression of “what have I done to deserve this?” and I’m more than ready to go home.

Usually, I don’t. Go home, I mean. Except to sleep or pretend I have some semblance of a nice life.

But today, I can’t stop thinking about who I left back at the flat.

And I might have bought a shitload of unnecessary shit on my way home. Like a Minions jacket, a cat toy, and a premium fish.

When I get there, I’m greeted by so many fucking colors, they explode in my face.

Some pop song is playing and there’s dancing. By Nicole and Jayden, to be specific. They’re jumping with the energy of a stripper on a pole. Lolli is joining in on the fun, too, running from one end of the room to the other, seeming to search for her own dose of whatever these two are on.

Ignoring my knee-jerk reaction of pissing all over their fun, I lean against the doorway and cross my legs at the ankles. The scene in front of me plays out like a clichéd scene from a Disney film. Nicole twirls a giggling Jayden, her own laughter echoing in the air with the grace of a fucking angel.

No, Daniel. You’re not thinking about throwing a nine-year-old out the window so you can take his place.

“Dan!” The same person I’ve been having serial killer thoughts about calls for me, a grin showing his missing teeth.

Nicole’s attention finally slides to me and she pales, then flushes like a virgin. Correction, she didn’t flush when she was a virgin.

She was an angel with a devil’s appearance. Now, she just looks like a broken angel. A devil on his second try of “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,” the Guns N’ Roses version.

Her movements are flustered as she turns down the music from the speaker. “Sorry, I…thought you weren’t returning until later in the evening.”

That was the plan until I came to a perturbing realization that the outside world doesn’t have what I want.

My boring—ex-boring—flat does.

I don’t offer that explanation, though. Instead, I toss Jayden the Minions jacket that he oohs and aahs over and even hugs me.

The blasphemy.

I pat his back anyway, because spawn or not, children kind of need all that affection shit. He might be smart, but he’s as lonely as his sister.

They’ve been each other’s world for so long that it feels intrusive to even be in the middle of them.

But they let me in anyway, Minions, Lolli, and all.

“I’m going to take a picture of it with my other collection,” he announces, then runs to his room as if his arse is on fire.

His room.

The little rascal has a room in my flat. It’s actually a guest room that no guest has used before him.

Nicole has the second guest room that she doesn’t sleep in, because the fucking happens in my bedroom.

“You should stop getting him stuff,” she tells me when I’m in the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of water.

I lean against the counter and face her. “Is that your way of saying, ‘thank you for taking care of me and my brother. Let me suck your dick to show how grateful I am’?”

Her cheeks turn a deep shade of red, but to her credit, the haughty expression doesn’t disappear. I guess having aristocratic blood in your veins never changes, even if your mother turns out to be a psycho on steroids.

“You’re spoiling him.” She completely ignores my “suck my dick” suggestion. “He’ll find it hard to adjust when this whole thing is over.”