Empire of Lust (Empire, #4)

by Rina Kent

Why search for a man to give you a glass slipper when you could get it yourself?

There’s no pattern to his madness and that’s the most dangerous thing about this stranger.

Gwyneth Shaw. That’s my baby’s name. The baby I couldn’t name when I thought I lost her twenty years ago.

The truth remains. Kingsley and I are the personifications of water and fire. Coexisting is impossible. A healthy relationship is mythical.

Being dashing, rich, and having a “fuck you” attitude has put me on numerous lists, such as “Daddy I want to fuck.” Not sure if that applies to my parenthood or means I’m daddy material or both.

You’re like a painting of a battle, but whoever said war and art should be watched from afar didn’t have the audacity to come close, touch, breathe, and taste.”

I hate this woman with more passion than should be allowed, but I still want to fuck her anyway. Hate-fuck her, to be more specific.

And she’s still smiling, brighter now, like a much younger version of herself. A version that’s engraved deep inside me. A version that I intend to bring out.

Bad neighborhoods taste of bitter tears, expired food, and human waste. Bad neighborhoods have a dangerous soul, a black heart, and the mercy of a tyrant god.

I’ve always loved violence, but this is the first time I’ve revered it. Fuck the law. Sometimes justice can only be achieved with old-fashioned eye for an eye.

“W-hore. I’m no one’s whore.” “No one’s but mine, because I’ll eat your pussy like you are one.”

If crazy is a territory, I’ve already cut through its wires and breached it with bloodied hands.

“Oh…God.” “Stop praising him when I’m doing all the work,” he speaks against my jaw, then flexes his fingers around my neck to nibble on the skin between them.

I’m not a virgin or inexperienced, or a prude, but I’ve always been vanilla. The “wham, bam, thank you, ma’am” kind. The “I get to run this show” type. The “I fuck only behind closed doors and on a bed” kind. And yet, all of my rules seem to be null and void when it comes to this man.

Still buried deep inside me, he walks with purpose to God knows where. While kissing me. And all I can think about is that maybe he’s the yin to my yang.

“The only monstrous thing about me is between my legs, sweetheart.”

“And you expect me to believe you? You have the sex drive of a bull.” “My dick is honored.”

“The past is in the past. I fail to see the reason why this should be made into an argument.” “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe the tiny fact that the last time you put your dick in me, Gwen came out of it.”

“I don’t know…Nietzsche.” “Fuck that asshole.”

Wildfire covers her features as she gingerly gets on her knees with the elegance of an angel. An angel that I’m transforming into my custom-made devil.

“Dad! It is Aspen’s car. It has the same plate—Holy shit!” Kingsley and I stare at each other with “holy shit” expressions, too. I bury my face in his torso to hide my nakedness as all hell breaks loose.

“That’s true. We’re not friends, sweetheart. You’re my fucking woman.”

“Other people mean fuck to me as they should mean fuck to you. The only thing that matters is that you’re mine, body and fucking soul, Aspen. I was your first and I’ll make sure to be your last.”

A rotten mouse from the ghetto will always, without a doubt, be eaten by the suburban cat. And I guess I’m in the middle of that process now.

Whoever said drugs are the new killing machine didn’t try fucking celibacy.

Nietzsche said that there’s always some madness in love, but there’s also always some reason in madness. And this infuriating man is my reason and my madness.