Page 109 of Empire of Lust (Empire 4)

My fingers go lax against his chest and I hate how safe it feels with him.

How, instead of trying to find my own way and lick my wounds solo, I prefer the warmth of this place.

Where his heart beats against mine.

* * *

When I open my eyes,the sight of white walls damn near sends me into hyperventilation mode.

Not the hospital.

No.

Before I can trip on my own feet, scream bloody murder, and throw myself out the nearest window, I spring up in bed and freeze.

The rest of the room slowly comes into focus and its familiar neutral tones instantly calm me down.

Weird.

I stare down at myself and find I’m only wearing a T-shirt. Kingsley’s.

It smells like fresh laundry, cedarwood, and him. I resist the urge to sniff it like a drug addict and, instead, choose to focus on my surroundings.

It’s the first time I’ve slept on Kingsley’s bed, though. Yes, we fuck a lot, but that’s usually on any surface aside from an actual bed. Besides, I always leave soon after, refusing to spend the night, despite his continuous invitations.

A fact that Caroline has been giving me shit about, calling me a heartless seductress.

But what Caroline doesn’t know is that giving more of myself to this man scares the hell out of me. I already lose so much control around him, the least I can do is try to protect whatever’s left of my heart.

The door opens and Kingsley comes inside, carrying a plate of food. He’s in gray sweatpants and a dark T-shirt, his hair tousled in a perfectly imperfect mess.

I swallow the saliva gathered in my throat, because no matter how much I attempt to be, I’m not desensitized to this man’s physical beauty or imposing presence.

Even if a part of my brain will always consider him a rival I want to eliminate and a jerk I need to bring down for humanity’s sake.

“You’re awake,” he says with a hardness that doesn’t appear on his face as he places the tray of shrimp, and what looks like chicken broth on the side table.

“How long have I been out?”

“About three hours. The doctor said the chloroform didn’t completely take effect.”

“You didn’t take me to the hospital.”

“You begged me not to. Why?”

“They’re a hostile environment and I don’t feel safe in them.”

“Because you thought you lost your daughter in one.”

It’s not a question, because, of course, he’d put the pieces together and figure it all out. I hang my head, staring at my hands. I have no control over the words that tumble out of my mouth. “Hospitals remind me of the helplessness I felt back then. Of my inability to protect my flesh and blood. I didn’t only think I’d lost my daughter. Something inside me died on that hospital bed, so I try my hardest to never relive those moments by avoiding hospitals as much as possible.”

“You won’t have to go to one. I have a family doctor.” He drops onto the mattress beside me. “Though I did change him to a woman.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean by why? Shouldn’t you be celebrating this as a feminist who has a favorite thing called defending women and career equality?”

“But you’re the furthest thing from a feminist, so why would you willingly change the gender of your family doctor?”

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