Empire of Hate (Empire #3) by Rina Kent

She’s hitting anywhere and everywhere she can reach, her face a mess of snot and tears and sweat.

The worst part is, I don’t think she knows what she’s saying or doing anymore. Her eyes have turned glassy and she seems numb, like that time she begged me not to hurt her while I was fucking her.

“Nicole,” I call calmly, but she might as well be deaf.

I clasp both her wrists in one hand and push her until her back hits the door. “Nicole!”

“No, no, no…” she chants, her eyes staring right through me, and for the second time, I see fear in her gaze.

Raw, pure fear.

I’m about to let her go but think better of it. I’m such a lowlife for taking advantage of her weak moment, and God will probably call up Satan to dig me a lower hole in hell, but if I don’t do this, I’ll never know.

“Please…please…” she begs.

I tighten my hold on her wrists, grabbing her throat with my other hand. “Please what?”

“Don’t hurt me…I didn’t mean to.”

“Didn’t mean to what?”

“Be a cock-tease, I didn’t mean to! Please, please…I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

My jaw clenches and my hand trembles with rage. “What’s going to happen now?”

Her glassy eyes turn into a waterfall of tears as she murmurs, “You’ll hurt me…”

I know I’m the one who came up with this fucked-up idea and Satan is taking notes in the corner, but I wish the earth would crack and swallow me into its hell right this moment.

“Who am I?”

Her lips shake and tears stream inside her mouth.

“Who the fuck am I, Nicole?” I roar.

The name she whispers back smashes my world into bloody pieces.





21





NICOLE





AGE EIGHTEEN





What are the signs of “almost” losing it, discarding the “lucky” badge, and galloping to the sun on a faulty unicorn?

For weeks, I’ve been hanging on the edge that separates sanity from its more destructive antonym. Maybe years.

Is it too late to sign up for therapy?

On second thought, Mum will probably disown me, so that’s not an option for…a lifetime.

Unless I do end up revolving around the sun on my unicorn, after all, and get roasted alive.

Do they have a therapist in hell?

I have no doubt that I’m heading there on the expressway considering all the voodoo I’ve been doing in my head.

Every single imaginary spell is directed at the girls who keep hanging on to Daniel’s arm as if it’s made of gold.

It’s not.

He’s just a manwhore, and I hate that and him, and every girl who gets to touch him when I can’t.

Jealous much?

No, it’s way worse. I’m bordering on extremely obsessive.

It’s unhealthy, toxic, and all the other terms my imaginary therapist will have a field day with.

I did my research and it said that the best way to get rid of an unhealthy obsession is to stay away, exercise, and keep my mind preoccupied.

Done, done, and done.

Now, best of luck telling that to my wet dreams about Daniel.


Ever since he expressed being disgusted with wanting me, he’s made it a point to flaunt all the girls in my face as if they were Prada bags.

I never gave him a reaction, always staring down my nose at him and his tool for the hour as if the dirt beneath my shoes was more precious than them.

I’m many things, but an emotional mess was never one of them. Always composed, always elegant.

Always…detached.

Sometimes, I stared at my doll and talked to it as if it were Papa. If his soul happens to be there, we’re all doomed.

But anyway, I asked Papa if I stopped being lucky, would Daniel have me?

The doll stared at me with its droopy eyes and remained silent. Which is my sign of a “no.”

But my faulty brain didn’t understand the concept. It doesn’t relate to words like “giving up” and “letting go.” It’s just not in me.

Maybe it’s because I usually got what I wanted, whether by working for it, asking for it, or manipulating my way to have it. It’s not arrogance, it’s pure determination.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m too fixated on Daniel because I can’t have him. But I did have him during the night of the fire, and it only made my emotions flare to a dangerous level.

I didn’t know it before, but turns out, I’m the type who correlates sexual and emotional intimacy together. They’re one, undivided entity.

Which is why everything he’s done afterward hurt more than I’ll ever admit.

One thing’s for certain, though. Daniel isn’t the only one who gets to play this “you mean nothing to me” game.

I got into his circle of friends and got close to the football players. Not only that, but I also allowed them to touch me and get handsy with me.

While he watched.

Daniel isn’t as good as I am at controlling his emotions. They usually spill like ink on paper and he glares or flares his nostrils.

The other day, Daniel saw me laughing with Chris on a mini date in the school’s garden. When we got back inside, Daniel waited for him to approach the classroom, then slammed the door as he was walking in, hitting him in the nose.