Page 111 of Emperor of Lust

I frown, following her out the bedroom and into the open concept living area of the penthouse.

“What came up?”

She pauses and grabs her purse off the back of a chair. “Just…work stuff.’

My eyes take her in—the short black dress. The makeup and hair. The heels.

Work stuff?

“Hana,” I growl, watching her walk to the door. “Where are you going?”

She turns, defensive. “Just…just something to take care of.”

“What?” I press, trying to make sense of the situation, the tension that suddenly fills the space between us.

She shrugs it off. “It’s nothing. I just…have to go out, okay?” She drops her gaze, like she can’t look at me.

She’s gone before I can question her more. And then I’m alone, wondering what the fuck just happened and what the hell is going on.

I scowl as I slump onto the couch in front of the TV, mindlessly scrolling movie options. I try to rationalize it: we’ve been cooped up inside for weeks, and it’s only been three days since we got our freedom with this ceasefire, at least for now.

I mean,I’dprobably want to get away from me too if I’d spent three fucking weeks alone with me.

Facts.

But as the hours tick by, my mood darkens. I send Hana a text, but she doesn’t reply. I send another one, like a pathetic douchebag, which gets the same non-reply. Eventually, as it gets later, I try calling. No answer.

It’s one in the freaking morning when she finally gets home. My gaze jerks up from the couch, my brow furrowing when I see how disheveled she is—cheeks flushed, hair a little out of place. My heart twists as I approach her. “Where the hell were you?”

She barely meets my eyes. “Just…out.” She brushes past me, dropping her purse on the kitchen island. “I told you: it was nothing.”

She can’t even look at me when she says it. The ice in her voice, the closed-off look in her eyes—she might as well have put a twenty-foot wall up between us.

She showers as I stand in the bedroom. She even puts pajamas on in there before she comes out, still not looking at me as she crawls into bed.

Okay?

I change into sweats and a t-shirt and slide in next to her, reaching for her, needing some answers, some warmth from her. She pulls away, her voice cracking as she whispers, “Not tonight.”

I lie there, wide awake, sensing the distance growing between us. Her breathing evens out, but I’m too wired to sleep, suspicion gnawing at me.

You’re going crazy. Reaching for shit that isn’t there.

Just the same, I get out of bed, quietly moving to the kitchen. Her purse is still lying there, its contents spilled ontothe counter. Instinctively, I start to push things back inside—makeup, her wallet, a stick of lip balm?—

Something odd catches my eye: a business card for a club. I pick it up, turning it in my hands. Then I freeze.

There’s a phone number scrawled on the back of it.

For a second, I’m stock-still, trying to process this. But then a flash of anger hits me. I feel crazy for even going there in my head, but I can’t shake the unease twisting in my gut. I grab my phone, tap the number, bring it to my ear.

Two rings later, someone picks up.

“Hai?” a deep male voice grunts on the other end.

My eyes narrow.

“Who is this?” I growl, my grip on the phone tightening.

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