Empire of Hate (Empire #3) by Rina Kent

But he wants you.

I don’t say that, because I doubt it will have a positive effect. I’m sure his whole mother-and-daughter fucked-up fetish is only that, a fetish. The one he actually wanted was Nicole, not her mother. She’s the one he used force to have, and she’s the one he’s been trying to keep a link to whether through her mother or her brother.

If he was actually after Victoria, he would’ve kept the last memory she left behind, Jayden, and raised him well. But he let Nicole have him just so he’d have an excuse to bulldoze into her life again.

That motherfucker is using his own son as a tool.

We arrive at the building’s parking garage, followed by a gloomy cloud, but thankfully no accident happened during the ride.

Nicole’s movements are mechanical and stiff. She looks so broken, so distressed, that I wish I could make it better.

Somehow.

Someway.

Once we reach the lift, she wipes at her face. “I don’t want Jay to see me like this.”

I lift her up in my arms and she gasps. “W-what…”

“I’ll tell him you’re asleep. Close your eyes.”

She blinks once, twice, and then her body goes slack against mine and she closes her eyes.

Her hands are snuggled in her lap and she looks so vulnerable, like a child. And I can’t resist the urge to smell her hair and breathe her in. To hold on to the reality that she survived.

That she found her way back to me.

Sure enough, Jayden and Lolli come running to the lift as soon as it opens.

He watches his sister, then narrows his eyes on me. “What’s wrong with Nikki?”

“She’s tired.”

“She’s never tired.”

“She is, brat. Go watch your Minions.”

He continues to eye me suspiciously even as I carry Nicole to her room.

“We’re alone,” I tell her.

She doesn’t stir, probably has fallen asleep for real. I place her on the bed, remove her heels and cover her to the chin.

My lips meet her forehead and I whisper a promise against them, “I’ll fix this.”

Or whatever is left of this.

I step out to get water and find Jayden standing there statue-like in a trainee demon’s stance.

“A word, Daniel.”

He never calls me by my full name anymore. That, and the fact that he’s not annoying Lolli to compete for the dick award should be a warning sign.

“Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Sighing, I close the door behind me and follow him to the living area, where he has a basket full of Minions merch.

He sits on the sofa, crossing his arms. “You can have these back.”

“Are you sure?”

“No…I mean yes. I like them, and you, but I don’t need both if you hurt my sister.”

I would’ve smiled if I weren’t two seconds away from exploding. “I’m not hurting her.”

He swallows. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

“If you do hurt her, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“I’m sure you will.” I ruffle his hair. “Now, go to sleep.”

“Can I have my things back?” he asks sheepishly.

“Never took them away from you.”

“Thanks, Dan!” He drags the basket and a whining Lolli with him.

I head to the kitchen and resist the urge to get drunk. That’s not a solution. Instead, I down a cup of water and dial Knox.

“Bit of a bad timing, mate,” he says, breathless.

“I need a favor.”

“Of what kind?” His voice sobers up. I’m never the type who asks for a favor.

Never.

“I need you to hook me up with a member of Anastasia’s family.”

“The fuck you need the mafia for when you’re an attorney?”

“I need them to tie up some loose ends the law couldn’t.”

When I’m done with Christopher Vans, he’ll wish for the fucking Grim Reaper.

He’ll wish he’d never touched what’s fucking mine.





23





NICOLE





“We’re going to London.”

I choke on the orange juice I’ve been obsessing over like a fangirl with her idol for the sole reason of avoiding Daniel.

Until he dropped this bomb, of course.

We’re sitting at the kitchen counter on a Friday morning, having breakfast in a setting as strained as the Cold War.

The only one speaking is Jay with his hyper energy and endless stories. Even Lolli has chosen the silent treatment.

“We’re going where?” I echo Daniel’s words, needing double confirmation.

Clutching an iPad in hand, he stares at me over the rim of his coffee cup with that cold streak that he wears as a badge around me.

One part of me is glad he doesn’t pity me after the mess I was in last night, but a bigger part wants to rip open his exterior and see what he’s thinking about.

Maybe he does pity me.

Maybe he’s even more repulsed by me than ever before.

While he said it wasn’t my fault, he was angry that I didn’t file the report. He was angry that I didn’t ask for help, forgetting that when I showed up at his door, he cut me open so deep, the wound is still unable to heal.