Empire of Desire(Empire #1)(41)

I hug him back. “Now I’m feeling like I’m using you.”

“I’m the one who’s using you so that you’ll give me a permanent job when you own W&S.”

I push back, laughing. “They’ll be lucky to have you.”

“I’m holding you to that.” He ruffles my hair before he hops on his bike. The sound of the revving engine echoes in the air as he leaves, and I remain there, waving, until he disappears out of sight.

Then I tiptoe to the entrance because Dad will totally have my ass for being late and riding on a bike.

My shoulders hunch when I open the front door.

Right. Dad isn’t here anymore. I think I’m still in denial about it all, because every day, I wake up thinking I’ll find him in the kitchen or that he’ll be banging on my door, telling me I’m late for school.

In my mind, my dad’s still here. He’ll come back, because that’s what dads do. They stay.

They don’t leave like moms do.

My dad won’t abandon me like she did.

“What time is it?”

I jump, letting the bags fall from my fingers and hit the ground with a resounding thud.

The entry hall is dark aside from the garden lights slipping through the windows. But some of it is camouflaged by a tall, broad figure who’s standing there, blocking the soft hues, massacring and turning them into a shadow.

I can’t see his features clearly, but I can feel the harshness in them. It’s hanging in the air and shooting imaginary daggers at my chest.

“I asked what time is it, Gwyneth.”

My spine jerks in a line at the cold edge of his voice and the blunt authority in it. He’s always been firm, stern, but this is the first time it’s sounded so angry, and that pushes me to talk.

“Uh, eleven, I think.”

“You think? Is that the best reply you can come up with after disappearing, not answering your phone, and returning on the back of a fucking bike?”

“You called me?” I reach into my bag that’s in the middle of all the shopping items and rummage through it until I find my phone.

Sure enough, there are three missed calls from Nate.

“It was on silent mode,” I say slowly, and it sounds like a lame excuse.

“What did I say about answering your phone?”

“I was working and forgot to turn it back on…”

“Answer the fucking question, Gwyneth.”

The force of his anger slams straight into mine, dragging it out in all of its chaotic glory.

You know what? Fuck him.

He doesn’t get to talk to me this way after he was the one who hurt me. So what if I wanted to forget about him for a few hours by hanging out with a friend? Why is he trying to make me feel guilty about that?

I raise my chin. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, okay? I can choose not to answer my phone and to go out on a bike and come back late and you have no say in it. You’re not my dad, Nate!”

The silence that falls between us is deafening and that makes me hyperaware of the sound of my own breathing, of the pulsing in my neck and the thundering in my chest.

The pause stretches for so long that I don’t think it’ll ever end. Or maybe I’m just imagining things and it’s only been a few seconds.

Nate strides toward me, the sound of his footsteps is sure and strong and I can almost hear them stomping on something inside me. I don’t realize I’m moving back until my sneakers skid on the floor, because holy shit, how can I be so equally terrified and excited at the same time?

I think the fear part wins, because the shadows on his face keep multiplying with each passing second.

I squeal when my back hits something. It’s only a wall, but I’m so rattled that I’m sucking in air through my nostrils, which makes me breathe in his spicy, woodsy scent.

He’s close.

So close that I have to stare up at his punishing dark eyes.

“W-what are you doing?” I don’t mean to stutter or speak in such an airy voice, I really don’t, but he’s kind of robbed something from me.

Because he’s a thief. All he does is steal things from me.

First, my respect.

Then my girlhood dreams.

And now, he’s coming after my body.

“From now on, I’ll have a say in it.”

“In…what?”

“The curfew. Answering your damn phone. Not getting on the back of a fucking kid’s bike.”

“You…can’t. You’re not my dad.”

“No, but I am your husband.”

“On paper, remember? No touching, remember? It’ll be all over when I’m twenty-one. Do you remember all of those? Because I do. And this marriage means nothing.”

There’s a tic in his jaw. It’s small and barely-there, but I notice it because I notice everything about him. It’s my only superpower.

“It means nothing, huh?” He draws out the words, speaking slowly, but it’s downright menacing.

“Yeah, nothing.”

“Is that why you pulled up your skirt and hopped on the back of a bike with a kid? Because it means nothing?”

“Chris is not a kid, okay? And he can drive that Harley like nobody’s business. That’s what it’s called, by the way, a Harley, not some normal bike.”