Empire of Desire(Empire #1)(31)

“What do you think will happen?” I’m treading on dangerously thin ice, but I can’t ignore the light shining through the greenish part of her eyes, the playfulness in it. But even that is darkening now as she gulps audibly, the sound carrying through the air.

“I…don’t know.”

“You don’t, huh?”

“No.”

“That should mean nothing will happen.”

“But you said something about me being fucked. I heard it. And I also heard the other thing.”

“The other thing?”

She bites her lower lip. Hard. I’m surprised it doesn’t start bleeding. “You know.”

“Say it.”

“I…can’t.”

“See. This is why I told you to go back to safe and boring.”

“I said I don’t want that. If I did, I wouldn’t have kissed you two years ago.”

At the mention of that, memories of her lips against mine rush back in. It’s a myriad of hazy things, like her body against mine and her scent bleeding beneath my flesh.

I don’t even like kissing, but now, I can’t stop staring at her fucking lips. The lips that started it all when they shouldn’t have.

“That’s not a moment to be proud of, Gwyneth.”

“I know. I should’ve grabbed you harder so you wouldn’t have been able to push me away. But you’re strong. I’ve seen the way you work out with Dad, so I don’t think I stood a chance either way.”

I can feel the muscles clenching in my jaw and upper chest. With every word out of her mouth, she’s digging a knife into places that shouldn’t be disturbed.

“For once, you said something accurate.”

“Which part?”

“The part where you wouldn’t have stood a chance. You didn’t. You don’t. So stop playing with fire.”

“Or…what?”

I approach her predatory-like, deliberately taking my time. At first, she stands her ground, looking up at me with those ever-changing eyes. Eyes that the longer I stare into them, the stronger I’m pulled closer. It’s a fucking trance that I have no chance of warding off.

When I’m within touching distance, she steps back, one foot behind the other, matching my pace, but she’s not fast enough and trips. I catch her by the elbow and pull her toward me.

She crashes into my chest. And it’s a full-body fucking crash, where her soft curves are molded to me, her thighs touch mine, and her head is nestled against my shirt.

And is that her heartbeat or mine that’s about to rip flesh and bone?

She stares up at me as if hearing the same rhythm—the pulsing, the pulling, the tugging—and her lips are parted again. There’s a blush in her cheeks, a pink color that extends to the hollow of her throat and the shells of her ears.

And because I can’t fucking help it, I lift her chin with my thumb and forefinger, angling her head back. I do it because I want to watch her mystic eyes, the changing in them, the mixture of emotions swirling in them. But maybe I also do it because I want to touch her.

Put my hands on her.

She’s soft and small and that does fucked-up shit to me.

It shouldn’t.

It can’t happen.

But fuck if I understand that right now.

Because this, right here, this moment suspended in the middle of nowhere feels like the truest thing I’ve experienced in a very long fucking time.

But then something happens.

A full body shake takes hold of her.

And it’s not just one of the side effects of her insomnia; it’s a violent type, as if she’s about to combust. Her chin trembles, too, like when she’s scared.

Like right before she goes to hide.

What the fuck am I doing?

I release her and step back. I need to get away from her before I do something I’ll regret.

Under King’s own fucking roof.





12





Gwyneth





Two weeks later, I’m forced back to reality.

I’m forced to let go of the hope I held on to so tightly when Dad had his accident. Because the truth is, he’s not waking up and probably won’t. The doctor said that the more time he spends in a coma, the slimmer his chances are of coming out of it.

And even though I’ve been visiting him every day, I can feel the gloomy cloud that hovers over his hospital bed. I can tell that my dad is probably not there anymore, no matter how much I talk to him and read to him and everything in between.

And that’s just been too painful to think about, so I distracted myself with school before the summer break. And cleaning. I do that a lot when I’m anxious or stressed. I scrub floors and counters and dishes and the bathroom.

In my head, I’m scrubbing my mind clean. Does it work? For a while, maybe, but not in the long term. Because the problems far outweigh the solutions. I thought myself strong enough to take it all—let it soak in and then vanish—but maybe it’s been disintegrating me from the inside out.

The thought of the D-word happening to Dad makes me shake uncontrollably in my closet.

That’s why I need to be distracted. Summer vacation has officially started, and if I don’t keep myself occupied, I’ll go mad. I’ll live in my closet, scrubbing the floor and eating ice cream until I have some sort of a crisis.