Chapter 11: Empire of Desire: Chapter 10

The getting married part didn’t make me want to throw my guts up.

I mean, it should’ve been simple, but it really wasn’t.

Probably because I was half-dazed and half-fuming at Aspen’s presence. Yes, I knew she was going to be there. She’s close to Nate’s age and works with him, after all. Gag.

But yeah, seeing her there might’ve brought out the temper I usually try to bury inside. It’s toxic, you know. Like, super toxic, and I don’t want to be that person in front of Nate on our wedding day.

Aspen didn’t do anything either. Her mere existence is enough to push me to my limit.

Anyway, it’s over. We’re married. We put on rings in front of the judge, but we removed them as soon as the ceremony ended because Nate made it clear that this whole marriage is a secret and no one but the four of us, and Susan, will know about it. He has those rings now, in his pocket, and he’ll probably throw them away the minute he’s out of view.

We’ll have our certificate soon and then everything will fall into place like a domino effect. And yeah, I still can’t believe it, but I’ll get used to it. I guess.

After we get home—without Aspen—and I pinch myself a few times, I’ll add her name to the A section of negative words.

Because why is she so close to him? And only him? Dad can’t stand her—same, Dad, same—and it’s mutual. She’s not interested in the social game, so why is she interested in Nate of all people? Why is she relaxed around him and why does she talk to him when she’s usually stuck up and mean and witchy?

Then it hits me when we’re leaving City Hall. Does she…love him? Or maybe they’re sleeping together.

I steal a peek at them since they went out first and are now descending the stairs in front of me. They’re talking in hushed whispers because the world can’t know their secrets. They’re so in tune, so comfortable with each other that I think I’m really going to throw up now.

Shit. They’re definitely sleeping together, aren’t they?

My hand finds my bracelet and I squeeze it so tight, I nearly rip it off.

“You okay?”

I slowly break eye contact with the scene to focus on Sebastian, Nate’s much more approachable nephew whom I might be following all over social media just to see glimpses of his uncle in his updates.

Since Sebastian’s parents died when he was young, his grandparents adopted him, but it was Nate who basically brought him up. They have an easy-going, heartwarming relationship in which Sebastian basically tries to annoy his uncle and usually fails. He can be a stone, that way, Nate. But when his nephew chose to follow in his footsteps by becoming a lawyer, Nate looked the proudest I’ve ever seen him.

Sebastian is probably the only person I’ve witnessed Nate care for closely and monitor every chance he got.

And I might have been a tiny bit jealous about that.

Anyway, Sebastian is the heartthrob of the media and has been since he was a star quarterback in college. The Weavers are kind of a big deal around here.

Brian Weaver is a successful senator. His wife, Debra, is an influential woman, and together, they’re a famous couple.

Sebastian is the intelligent grandson who was an athlete and is now one of the youngest people to acquire a junior partner position in a law firm.

And Nathaniel Weaver, well, he’s the cold Greek god who rebelled against his parents but is still the most eligible bachelor. Aside from my dad.

Not anymore. He’s married now, even if no one will actually know about it.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I tell Sebastian. He’s watching me with light green eyes that are nothing like his uncle’s darker ones. His hair is too blond, too bright.

But he’s beautiful. Like, “superhot” as Jenny always says. And I see his charm, I really do. But I don’t feel it.

I don’t feel tingly and hot, with a need to control my damn face and emotions for just being in his presence.

“Are you sure, Gwen?”

“Yeah.”

He stares at Nate, who’s still busy talking to Aspen, still plotting whatever those two plot when they’re together, then lowers his voice. “If you have a hard time with him, let me know.”

My attention shifts to Sebastian and I watch him closely. “And what are you going to do?”

“Stop him, of course.”

“He’s your uncle.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ll blindly take his side.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“So you’re, like, my ally now?”

“If you need one.”

Warmth floods me and I let a smile break on my lips as I touch his arm. “Thanks, Bastian.”

He’s about to say something when a shadow falls over us. Or me, to be more specific, because Sebastian is tall enough to escape it.

Me, though? I’m caught right underneath it, in the center of Nate’s overwhelming scrutiny. His gaze is so hard and sharp that I unconsciously squirm.

“Didn’t you say you were going back home?” Nate asks in that voice specifically designed to make people feel uncomfortable.

I did say that I wanted to sleep a little before I go back to see Dad. I’m skipping classes at this point because, what if something happens to him while I’m studying and I can’t get there fast enough? What if he stops sleeping and decides to go into that D-word phase?

“What’s the rush?” It’s Sebastian who asks with a shiny glint in his eyes. “Gwen and I were going to have coffee and catch up.”

We were? Not that I mind, but I’m really about to collapse. Insomnia and copious amounts of stress and anxiety and overthinking will do that to you. I’d go out with Sebastian under different circumstances, but I don’t think that’s physically possible right now.

“Gwyneth needs to rest and you have work to do.” Is it just me or is his voice harsher, stronger, almost like a whip?

Also, how does he know I’m at my physical limits? Does he see it in my sickly pale skin or my unfocused eyes? It’s the dark circles, isn’t it? Those suckers appear with a vengeance after white nights.

“In that case, I’ll take a rain check.” Sebastian pats my hand, which is still on his arm because I got distracted by Nate.

“Give me a ride, Sebastian,” Aspen says from the bottom of the stairs. I almost forgot she was there. Almost.

Nate grabs me by the elbow and pulls me back from his nephew. The act is so effortless that I feel like I’m floating on air as we leave the scene without another word.

Aspen gives me a look that I don’t know how to perceive. Is it pity? An apology? But why would she pity me or apologize to me? She’s not the type. She’s a witch.

Right, Dad?

“Where are we going?” I ask Nate once I’m a bit out of my daze. Only a bit, though, because I think those pills I crunched on like candy are starting to take effect.

“I’ll drive you home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a few minutes away from collapsing.”

So he did know about my exhaustion. Yikes. Am I that obvious to everyone else?

“I can take a cab. You said you were going back to the firm.”

“Since you were late, I rescheduled my morning meetings, so I don’t have anything until the afternoon.” He unlocks his car and steps to the driver’s side.

I roll my eyes. “Sorry for messing up your morning meetings, husband.”

He pauses with his hand on his door’s handle. “What did you just call me?”

“Husband. You know, when people get married, they become husband and wife.”

“Lose it.”

“Lose what?”

“That word. Lose it.”

“No.” I cross my arms over my chest. “What I call you is up to me. Besides, we need to keep things authentic if we want Susan to believe it. She’s cunning, you know. It’s not by coincidence that Dad has been battling a lifetime of court cases against her.”

“Gwyneth,” he warns.

“You need to start calling me Gwen or something else for this whole thing to work.”

A cold smile paints his lips and I know I won’t like his next words even before he says them. He’s cruel that way, with absolutely no regard for others’ feelings. “How about kiddo?”

“I’m not a kid.”

“If you say so.”

“Is that what you still see me as? A kid?” I storm from my side of the car to stand in front of him. “Would a kid be able to marry you?”

“It’s a fake marriage.”

“Fake is an illusion, but this is real, tangible, touchable.”

I don’t miss the way his jaw clenches at that word. Touchable. One he made so clear that he doesn’t want to be part of this relationship.

“Step back.”

My cheeks must be hot crimson, because it’s only then that I realize I’m close to him. So close that I taste him on my tongue, so close that his warmth is wrapping around me like a blanket. Or, more accurately, a noose, because it’s suffocating me with each passing second.

Ordinarily, I’d give him back his safe space and go hide in mine, because isn’t that the right thing to do?

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 naïveté. 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.”

Is it possible for a heart to leave the ribcage and still beat? Because it feels like it’s spilling out of my chest with each word from his mouth.

I should probably listen. He does look terrifying, and I don’t know if I can really handle it when he takes action while in this mode.

But what’s the point if I don’t find out for myself? If I don’t take the step and see it personally. All of it.

So even though I’m having some sort of a heart attack and I still can’t breathe properly, I say, “But I don’t want safe and boring.”

I want you.

I almost say that. Almost, but I don’t get to, because his next words knock the living breath out of my lungs.

“You’re well and truly fucked, baby girl.”