Empire of Desire(Empire #1)(29)

However, I also thought that the right thing was Dad being safe until he’s old and gray. But he isn’t, and everything I’ve taken for granted is changing, evolving, and spiraling out of control.

So I don’t follow Nate’s order.

I stand there in the path of his hurricane, under the scrutiny of those dark eyes and in the shadow of his body.

I stay.

I stare.

And I remind myself to breathe.

“Gwyneth, I told you to step back.”

“And I’m obviously refusing to.”

“Did you just say you refuse to?”

“Yeah. Why? Are you scared of something?”

He steps forward and I startle, jumping away so suddenly that my back hits hard metal. It’s the car, I realize. I’m plastered against the door, and I mean glued to it, like it’s my lifeline, because it suddenly feels like it now that he’s close.

Like as close as when I kissed him. When I got on my tiptoes and just went for it. And now, I’m staring at his sinfully-proportioned lips. At how they’re only a breath away because he’s hovering—looming over me and blocking the sun and the air and every natural element.

He’s a god, after all. And gods can totally control the elements and leave me gasping on nonexistent oxygen.

He’s not touching me, but I’m full of those little tingles, those sharp needle-like stings, and I can’t help it. Just like I can’t help the blood that came out after that prick from the glass. It’s natural.

It’s chemical.

It’s how it’s supposed to be.

“Do you truly think that, Gwyneth? That I’m scared?”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“Do I look scared to you?”

I study him then, like really look at him and the strong lines of his face and how lethally handsome he is, because he takes his god image seriously. He’s always groomed to perfection, beautiful to the point it hurts in my non-desensitized heart. Because I didn’t add that word to the negative notebook.

Heart.

But yeah, he definitely doesn’t look scared. I’ve never seen Nate scared or anxious or any of the things that we humans are plagued with. But his face isn’t stuck in that rigid aloof expression either.

There’s a tightness in his body, a tic in his jaw, and a look in his eyes that I don’t recognize. I’ve never seen it before. I’ve never seen that lowering of his lids or the dilating of his pupils.

And it’s a bit scary.

Or maybe a lot scary, because I’m shivering uncontrollably. Is he trying to scare me? Trying to make me out as some sort of a criminal that he has to break down just because I talked back?

“Answer the question, Gwyneth.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, you don’t look scared.”

“Then how do I look?”

Scary. But I don’t say that, because that would mean I can’t hold my own, and I can totally do that. Hold my own. Now, I just need to convince my unreliable brain of that fact.

“I don’t know,” I say instead.

“You don’t, huh?”

I shake my head once.

“Let me enlighten you then. This is what I look like when I’m holding back. When I’m not acting on what I’m thinking and dragging you to a corner where no one will see you flinch or hear you release those small noises you do when you’re out of your element. So you should be the one who’s scared, not me.”

I don’t think I’m breathing anymore.

Otherwise, why am I wheezing and why is the back of my throat so dry that it feels like I’m stuck in the desert?

I swallow.

I inhale deeply.

But it still doesn’t give me my sanity back. The sanity he confiscated with his hot, strong words.

“Why should I be scared?” I can’t help it, okay? I want to know why, because maybe that will give me back the air I lost as collateral damage from being near him.

There’s a bang when he hits the top of the car next to my head, and I jump, my heart doing a strange jolt that freezes me in place.

That and the way he hardens his jaw and darkens his eyes, then directs them at me like daggers.

Holy shit. Why does he get to be so damn hot when he’s angry? Doesn’t that defy the whole purpose behind it?

“Were you listening to a word I said?”

“Yeah, and that’s why I asked. Why should I be scared?”

His hand reaches for me—well, not for me, but for my hair, for a stubborn rusty strand that’s been flying in my face for the past twenty years. I can’t tame it into submission, no matter what I try.

Nate has a hold of that strand now, and my throat pulses, then something between my thighs pulses, too, because they’re jealous of that strand. But they’ll never admit it.

I’m jealous of that strand, of the way it has the sole attention of his dark eyes. But I don’t have to be jealous for long, because he tucks it behind my ear, slowly but not sensually. That cold edge is still covering his face, still tightening his jaw and turning the veins in his neck rigid.

“You should be scared, because…” his thumb slides from behind my ear to the hollow of my throat, to the insane pulse that’s currently self-destructing me. “If you don’t stop flaunting yourself around, if you keep provoking me and don’t stay in your lane, I’ll be inclined to take action. I’ll swallow you down so fast, there’ll be nothing left of you, let alone your sarcasm and na?veté. You’ll stare in the mirror and not recognize yourself anymore. This is my last warning and the only courtesy I will give you. Stop, Gwyneth. You don’t know what the fuck you’re dealing with. So go back to college, to your safe boys and vanilla milkshakes and boring little life.”