Empire of Desire(Empire #1)(14)

She bangs her fists against the glass with an increasing strength that shakes her slim shoulders.

Her voice turns hoarse and bitter the longer she calls for King. The denial is evident in each of her screams and bangs.

I walk up to her and reach out but then pause. I’m not supposed to be touching Gwyneth. Not for any reason.

But if I don’t stop her, she’ll break her hands or slip into a hole in which no one will be able to find her.

That’s what she does when she’s overwhelmed. She hides. And she does it so well that it’s impossible to get through to her unless she’s the one who makes herself visible again.

I don’t allow myself to think as I grab her by the shoulder. “You need to stop, Gwyneth.”

“Let me go. I’m fine.” She rotates her shoulder in an attempt to loosen my grip on her, but I only tighten it.

“Your father is in a coma. You’re allowed to not be fine.”

“He’s not in a coma. He will wake up.” She bangs her palm on the window again. “Wake up, Dad. This isn’t true. Wake up!”

She starts flailing her arms, and I recognize the signs of a panic attack as they slowly materialize in her. The shortness of her breath, the beads of sweat on her forehead, and the trembling of her lips. She probably doesn’t even realize that her psyche is hanging off the edge.

I grab her other shoulder and jerk her around to face me. “Gwyneth, stop.”

She flinches, a tremor seizing her whole body. I probably shouldn’t have been that stern, but it worked.

Her hands fall to her sides, but the shaking doesn’t stop. If anything, it’s stronger, more subconscious and without any apparent pattern. She stares up at me with those mesmerizing eyes that are stuck in the blue-gray mode, suffocating all the green that’s trying to peek through.

Fuck the way she looks at me.

As if I'm a god with all the answers and solutions. As if I’m the only one who can make everything right.

I’ve always hated the way Gwyneth looks at me. Correction, I’ve loathed it since her eighteenth birthday party when she demolished the brick wall that separated us.

Because the god she sees in me? That one is most definitely a demon in disguise.

“It’s not true. Tell me it’s not true, Nate.”

I should reprimand her for not calling me Uncle like I usually do, but this is neither the time nor the place.

“Denial won’t help you. The sooner you accept reality, the faster you can deal with it.”

“No.” She grits her teeth, then lets out another haunted, “No…”

“Let go, Gwyneth.” I try to soften my tone, as much as I’m able to, but it still comes out firm. Like an order.

She shakes her head again, but it’s meek, weak, just like she is beneath my touch. Until now, I’ve never noticed how small she actually is compared to me.

How fragile.

Actually, I did once. When she was pressed up against me with her lips on mine.

But I shouldn’t be thinking about that. I shouldn’t be thinking about how small my best friend’s daughter is or how she feels in my hold when we’re in front of his hospital room.

A muscle clenches in my jaw and I loosen my hold on her shoulders, starting to step away from her.

I’m unprepared for what she does, though.

Completely and utterly taken off guard.

Just like two fucking years ago.

Gwyneth lunges at me and wraps both arms around my waist. And as if that isn’t enough, she stuffs her face in my chest—her damp face.

I can feel the moisture clinging to my shirt and seeping onto my skin. But it doesn’t stop there, no. It’s like acid, melting away the flesh and bones and reaching for an organ I thought only functioned to pump blood.

If my jaw was clenching earlier, I now feel like it’s going to dislocate from how hard I’m gritting my teeth.

“Gwyneth, let go of me.”

She sinks her nails into the material of my jacket, grazing my back, and shakes her head against my shirt. More moisture, more shaking.

She’s like a leaf that’s about to be blown away and destroyed into pieces.

“One minute…” she whispers against my chest.

“Gwyneth,” I warn, my voice guttural and strong, and I can tell she feels it coming from where her face is hiding.

“Please…I have no one but you.”

Her statement makes me pause. The truth behind her words strikes me deep in that little nook she’s been digging for herself since she was eighteen.

Fuck. It’s true.

With Kingsley gone, she has no one but me.

I let that information sink in, recalling his last words to me over the phone. The fact that I should take care of her.

Take care of his fucking daughter.

I forget that I should be pushing her away, throwing her off me. So Gwyneth interprets my silence as approval and does what Gwyneth does best.

Takes liberties.

She presses her body against mine, sniffling into my chest. And the scent of vanilla hits me in my bones. The sound of her weeping is low, haunted, and I know it’s not every day that she shows this side of her to anyone. Especially me.

I let her grieve, I let her get the excess energy off her chest, because if she doesn’t, she’ll explode.

But I don’t touch her, don’t hug her back, and I sure as fuck don’t comfort her. I keep my hands on either side of me, and my body is stiff, giving off unwelcoming vibes.