Empire of Desire(Empire #1)(12)

Chris: Can I come to your house or will your father rearrange my features?

I smile, remembering Dad’s actual threats when Chris thought it was a good idea to pick me up on his bike.

Me: He’s working over the weekend and won’t be home until late. We’re safe.

Chris: Can’t wait to see you, beautiful.

My heart shrinks at that word.

Beautiful.

Why does it hurt so much to hear Chris say it? Probably because he’s not the one I want to hear it from.

Yeah, no. I’m not going there.

I go back to picking up the shards of glass when movement outside catches in my peripheral vision.

It can’t be.

I lift my head so fast, I’m surprised I don’t snap a tendon. My eyes track him as he makes his way from the garden to the front door.

It’s him.

It’s really him.

Nate.

My fingers falter and something stings my skin. I must’ve cut myself on the glass, but I don’t pay attention to it as I stare at the man whose long legs eat up the distance in no time.

Even the way he walks is unique. Only, he doesn’t walk, he strides, always with some sort of purpose. His movements are purposeful, confident, and so damn masculine. Everything about him is manly, hard, and tenacious. It’s present in every line of his face, every flutter of his lashes.

It’s in the way his broad shoulders stretch his tailored black jacket. The put-together look doesn’t fool me, though, because I’m well aware of what lurks beneath it.

Muscles. Whether it’s his chest, abdomen, biceps, or strong thighs. I know because I’ve watched him box with Dad many times, half-naked, and he gave me my first view of male beauty. I’ve seen his cut abdomen and bulging muscles. I’ve seen his fluid movements and quick reflexes.

Young girls my age only have eyes for teenage boys and jocks, but I’ve seen better.

I’ve seen grown-up beauty that only comes with a lot of physical activity and age. And unfortunately for me, nothing can top that anymore. Not the jocks back in high school and definitely not college boys.

Because that’s what they will always be in my eyes. Boys.

The man who’s approaching my house, however, is the definition of masculinity. It’s what those romance novels I read behind Dad’s back talk about.

“Alexa, stop,” I say, putting a halt to my favorite playlist, and slowly turn around, ignoring the droplets of blood streaming from my forefinger. I need to see him when he walks in through the door. I’m not doing anything wrong, okay? I just want to watch him up close.

It’s not a crime.

And I’m totally over him.

I don’t even want to think about why he’s here in the middle of a workday. Nate rarely comes to our house since the kiss two years ago, and when he does, it’s only when I’m not around, and then I have to hear about it from Martha and wallow in misery by eating a shitload of vanilla ice cream.

Yeah, I’m boring that way.

Anyhow, Nate shouldn’t be here when Dad isn’t, and definitely not alone. Is this a trap?

Oh, maybe he knows I’m planning Dad’s birthday and wants to help.

“Where’s Gwyneth?”

My heart jumps at hearing my name in that deep voice of his that always gets me tingly and a bit warm.

He’s asking Martha about me. Me, not my dad. So that means he’s here for me.

Oh, God.

This is bad for my fragile heart. I want to scream that I’m in here, but my voice refuses to come out. Turns out, I don’t need to, because Martha directs him to the kitchen.

I remind myself to breathe as the sound of his strong footsteps echoes through the hall.

You need air, Gwen. Freaking breathe.

It doesn’t work. The breathing part, I mean. Because the moment he steps into the kitchen, he sucks up all the oxygen and leaves me floundering for a taste of air.

Even if it is intoxicated with him.

But the expression on his face makes me pause. Whether it’s my gulping for air or anything really.

I just stop.

Nate has always been a hard man of a few words and a no-nonsense personality. I felt it—breathed it, actually—when I made that reckless decision to kiss him.

But this is the first time I’ve seen his face darkened and his fists clenched. Fists with bruised knuckles as if he hit something solid. That’s rarely happened in all the years he’s boxed with Dad since they’re careful about safety. Or at least, Nate is.

Are you hurt? I want to ask, but the words are stuck in my dry throat, unable to find a way out.

I lost my air and now, my voice, and apparently my motor activity, too, because I’m stuck in place, powerless to move.

“You need to come with me, Gwyneth.”

It’s one sentence. One single sentence, yet I know something is terribly wrong. Nate doesn’t take me anywhere with him.

Ever.

I grab a piece of glass and press it against my cut forefinger, causing droplets of blood to stain the kitchen floor.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I focus on that and the sting of pain instead of the ominous feeling lurking in the space surrounding us.

“W-where are we going?” I hate the stammer in my voice, but I can’t help it.

Something’s wrong, and I just want to run and hide in a closet.