Empire of Lust

KINGSLEY

The truth remains. Kingsley and I are the personifications of water and fire. Coexisting is impossible. A healthy relationship is mythical. Nate told me Kingsley is acting this way because he’s overprotective of Gwen and doesn’t want me to take her away from him. But if the asshole had any logical brain cells, he’d know I would never attempt that. He was her only parent for twenty years, and no one could take his place in her life, least of all, the mother who just came into the picture. “Good luck trying, Kingsley. Curious to see how that works out for you.” “You might want to sharpen that armor of yours, witch. You’ll need it when you job hunt at a second-rate law firm.” “What’s that?” I cup my ear, pretending to strain. “I can’t hear bullshit.” I smile again, so sweetly that his eye twitches. It’s a cringe reaction, or an anger reaction—I don’t know, and I don’t care as I turn around and leave. My lungs fill with air after being suffocated by his smell for longer than should be considered healthy. The asshole really needs to stop talking to me and using up eighty percent of my energy reserves. And could he look less physically intimidating in the process? Though I think it’s about his presence and charisma more than anything else. I’ve never considered good-looking men intimidating. Obviously, he’s the damn exception. I’m about to mentally prepare myself for my brief meeting with Gwen when my phone vibrates in my bag. I retrieve it with the intention of silencing it, but the name flashing on the screen makes me pause. It’s from Attica Correctional Facility. My pulse skyrockets as I answer, “Leblanc is speaking.” A long pause stretches between us and if it weren’t for the static, I would think we’d been disconnected. The old male guard’s voice reached me in a low tone. “I have unfortunate news, Ms. Leblanc. The court has decided to grant Mr. Locatelli a parole hearing. This time, your father will probably win it.” My hand that’s grasping my phone drops to my side, and the tears I’ve been holding in the entire ceremony gather in my lids. And just like that, the nightmare restarts.

I'm going to kill someone. Preferably my ex-best friend, who’s currently living on borrowed time. With a sledgehammer. Or better yet, I could drown him in a pool of acid. All the guests have slowly left my property after consuming my food and alcohol and nearly throwing a coup d’état to get into my infamous wine cellar. Try again in a century, cunts. There’s a short list of the people who have gotten to taste my decadesold wine that goes back to the first generation of the Shaws. Nate, but only when he had the privilege of being my friend. Now, he’s just a fucker who stole my daughter. Said daughter when she celebrated her twentieth birthday. And me. Now, the whole list is just down to me. And the devil is currently doing kinky s**t to the mute angel on my shoulder. Some of the staff buzz around, tidying up the reception area with the diligence of worker bees, nonverbally announcing that the dreaded day is over. Or maybe not really. I yank my bowtie free, throw it on the nearest chair, and pull out my Zippo from the pocket of my jacket. The urge to have a cigarette is almost stronger than my compulsion to bash Nate’s head against the nearest object. I’m not a quitter. In fact, quitting and I don’t share the same universe. So even though I haven’t smoked in twenty years, since a tiny infant with rainbow eyes showed up at my door, smoking still feels like a part of me. A large body falls on the chair opposite me, looking as silly as a clown with a vanilla orchid in his breast pocket that Gwen most definitely stuck there. Nate is a tall man and an inch taller than me, as he likes to remind me, but he’s leaner. What he lacks in muscle, he makes up for in brains and boring diplomacy. This motherfucker has never lost a case in his life, holds the unbreakable record of a one hundred percent success rate, and apparently, also holds my daughter’s heart when he had no business to. He watches me with that blank stare of his that could compete with that of an eighty-year-old monk. Nate smells of spice, woods, and Gwen’s f*****g vanilla perfume. And no, I don’t like sniffing people for fun, but I’ve had an overly sensitive nose since I was thirteen and was hit by a rotten stench. It’s how I would know if this bastard needs a new one ripped the moment he starts smelling of anything that’s not Gwen. “Bad mood?” “Bad timing. Don’t speak to me unless you want to suffer enough body harm to cancel your honeymoon.” Nate doesn’t even react to my crass tone, remaining as unmovable as a rock. “Charming as usual, King. Better tone down the psychosis a notch or else Gwyneth will suspect something is wrong. You can be crazy anytime you like, except on her big day.” “I am toning it down, considering the fact that you’re still breathing… for now.” “I thought you’d already accepted me as a son-in-law.” Because my angel was getting depressed and proved with actions more than words that she can’t live without this f*****g bastard. And fine, I know he loves her, too, which would’ve been blasphemy in his life plans not so long ago. Still doesn’t change the fact that he’s a thief who’s snatching my little miracle. For good. I vehemently refuse to admit that there’s any form of codependency between me and Gwen or that losing her is similar to backpedaling into the brooding, lost version of myself that I was before she came into my life. “You’re in a trial period, so you should start counting your days and revising your will—which better have everything in your name left to Gwen.” “Ever thought she doesn’t want me for my money? Maybe it’s something else she’s after—” “Don’t even finish that f*****g sentence.” “I meant my affection and company, asshole. As if I would ever discuss with you or anyone else what my wife and I do. Get your mind out of the gutter.” “It wouldn’t have been there in the first place if you hadn’t put us all in this motherfucking situation. Just why did it have to be her?” “If I answer that, will you tell me why it had to be Aspen?” I flip my Zippo open, then shut it and press my thumb against the metal. “Why did she have to be what?” “The woman who gave birth to your only offspring.” “That was a drunken mistake I made when I was clueless, debauched, and lacked common sense. As thankful as I am for Gwen, I wouldn’t remember that night if it smacked me in the face.” “Allow me to call bullshit on your and her nonsense.” A smug smirk covers his awfully symmetrical face that he could’ve used to become president if he’d chosen his family’s political route. “I might have allowed you and Aspen to claim amnesia in front of Gwyneth, but I know for a fact that no amount of alcohol would cause you to forget everything. Besides, if there was f*****g involved, neither of you was that hammered.” “Didn’t know you were an expert on the resident witch’s s****l flavors and drunk attitude. You f****d her, didn’t you?” “And that’s any of your concern because…” “You’re Gwen’s husband, who, according to a DNA test, happens to be that witch’s daughter. I’m under a moral obligation to stop whatever shitty mother-daughter kink you’re trying to satisfy.” “The word moral has never existed in your vocabulary, so once again, I’m calling bullshit on that and your well-crafted but still flimsy excuses. Why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re so terribly interested in Aspen when you loathe the ground she walks on?”