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?

“What are you supposed to be tonight? A witch?” “Femme fatale.” I can’t see his face that’s hidden behind the stupid mask, but there’s a pause and I swear his eyes gleam in the dim light. They look dark blue, like the mystical depths of a merciless ocean.

“I have no interest in what I heard and I value my life enough not to tattle on you. So give me my phone and we can be out of each other’s hair.” “I like your hair, so I don’t mind staying in it.”

He’s in front of me in a second and I’m slammed face-first with his smell. It’s a mixture of cedarwood, smoke, and premium cigarettes. European cigarettes that my father used to get specifically from Italy.

His fingers brush through my hair and I’m pretty sure it’s about to catch fire and we’ll have an actual witch accident on our hands.

“Is it natural?” he asks whimsically, sounding utterly fascinated with the mere act of having his fingers in my hair.

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

I refuse to show that scum or any other jerk weakness.” “Even if you get hurt for it?” “Especially then. I’d rather swallow my poison.”

He laughs and either the sound has some black magic or I’m too drunk, or both. Because the tingles it causes escape the confines of my ears and flow in my blood.

He laughs, the sound equal measures easy and haunting in the silent darkness. And for some reason, I think I could listen to that tenor of his voice all night long.

“Your predator mentality is revolting.” “And your blush is cute.” He motions at my neck with a smirk in his voice. “It’s visible even in the darkness.” I touch my nape, feeling more heated than when he said the words. “Stop looking.” “On the contrary, now is when I’ll keep looking. I’m bored and you’re interesting, so this should be a fun night, don’t you think?”

“What are you doing?” I ask, mortified, as the blood rushes to my head. “I told you, sweetheart. You’re spending time with me tonight.”

Kingsley Shaw. The co-owner of Weaver & Shaw. With Nate married, he’s now the most eligible bachelor in the States. The heir of the notorious Benjamin Shaw’s countless billion-dollar Wall Street portfolios. And most importantly, a devil who’s campaigning for Lucifer’s position in hell. He has the type of beauty that matches his reputation. Savage, cold, with a discreet touch of danger.

I smell him before I see him. His cologne has strong notes of cedarwood, pepper, and musk. As loud as he is, but not gutting. It’s subtle enough to announce his presence without him having to speak a word.

It’s no secret that Kingsley and I never got along before, but ever since he found out I’m Gwen’s mother, he’s been sprinkling my path with mines, trip wires, and an unhealthy dose of sabotage.

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

I’ve never considered good-looking men intimidating. Obviously, he’s the damn exception.

I pause with the glass halfway to my mouth when I spot an infuriatingly familiar mane of red hair. It’s the color of erupting volcanos, furious embers, and Satan’s favorite wallpaper.

Aspen might have inherited her ancestors’ wickedness, but she also got their soul-shattering beauty. The type they used to lure men and feast on their livers, hearts, and dicks.

It’s her confidence, her finesse, and her infuriating determination. She’s a hellion and the worst part—she knows it and wears it like a crown.

Being accepted as Gwen’s mother is my new goal in life and might as well be my calling, meaning, and what gives me the power to wake up every day.

Damn this asshole and whatever voodoo he possesses to strip my energy. Whenever I’m in his orbit, it takes everything in me to hold on to the control I’ve cultivated for decades. He’s unnerving and destabilizing, and there’s no cure in sight.

He stares down at me with an arched brow, channeling a gorgeous villain with black morals.

“You can make everyone believe you’ve forgotten about it, but here’s the thing. I don’t belong on the effortlessly fooled list, sweetheart.” “Don’t call me that. I am not your sweetheart.” And I hate that my heart is beating so loud, I can hear the thumps in my ear.

“Did you just quote Nietzsche?” “Did you just prove you’re still a nerd?” “And you still refuse to admit you’re a fan.”

He steps toward me and the air automatically vanishes. The space is stilled, intensified, and has enough tension to slaughter someone. I’m so in the habit of bickering and fighting with this man that I tend to be taken off guard when he invades my space.

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 flip my hair to suppress a smile. I’m supposed to be mad at this jerk, and I am, but at the same time, I can’t resist gravitating toward bantering whenever I’m with him. He brings out the worst, the twisted, and the fucked up in me. All at the same time.

“I don’t usually wish people good luck when I intend on breaking them, but you need lots of it, sweetheart.”

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.

Her eyes shine in a mixture of forbidden earth and mysterious forest.

I pause, running my gaze over her face that has no business being so fucking attractive.

Despite her big personality, she’s so small in my hold, so fragile and breakable, and that shouldn’t give my dick more ideas to get harder.

I lower my head farther with the intention of feasting on her lips and biting them until either I make her bleed or she does.

My lips nearly skim the dusting of freckles underneath her eyes. They’re like stars in an island’s night sky, so small and bright, and give her an edge sharper than her high cheekbones.

She tastes like exotic fruit and the purest patchouli. Not exactly sweet, but it’s as intoxicating, earthy, and spicy as the woman herself.

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.

“He is not my Kingsley.” “Oh, I’m sorry. Your baby daddy and the man who stole your fourteen-year-old heart. Maybe we should add villain of your soul to the list?”

My lips pull in a smile at the remembrance of how she said hi. My daughter told her asshole father to tell me hi. Not to exaggerate, but I didn’t sleep at all that night.

His hard face stares down at me with a frown that’s as dark as a demon lord. And it shouldn’t make me feel safe. Or peaceful. Or fucking right. But it does.

There’s no rhyme or reason to the raging possessiveness I feel toward this woman.

This woman is stronger than the universe and its aliens, a fact that has always infuriated me yet fascinated me in equal measure, so to see her battered is weird. Forget weird. It’s rage-inducing in a way that I’ve never experienced before.

I chuckle and that takes her aback since she stares at me as if I’ve grown a third red horn. Fuck me. Or her. I don’t care which at this point.

I can’t help being trapped in his orbit with no chances of ever wrenching myself out of this trance. I’ve never felt so drawn to a person before, so caught up in someone that I want to hear their voice and stay in their presence for as long as possible.

His pace slows and I suddenly become the sole subject of his previously scattered attention. The shift is subtle, but it’s so intense that I swallow.

“Why would you want to know about me?” “Because you interest me. Which, by the way, is an emotion hardly stirred within me.” “Should I be honored?” “Yes.

His chuckle echoes in the air like the most haunting piece of music. And the worst part is that I can’t stop being drawn to it. I can’t stop staring at him and his height and broad shoulders.

The reason I took you, or kidnapped you as you prefer to label it, is as I previously mentioned, I’m bored and you’re interesting. In a nerdy kind of way, which is unusual for me.

I stare up at him, dumbfounded. “You might want to stop looking at me as if I’m the holy messiah. There’s nothing remotely sin-free about me.”

“Seems you and I have more in common than I initially thought. Maybe that’s why you stood out to me in the first place.” “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” “If you’re lucky, neither. If not, both.” “And how do I know whether or not I’m lucky?” “You’ll know when it’s time.”