Empire of Lust: An Enemies with Benefits Romance, page 1
EMPIRE OF LUST
EMPIRE SERIES BOOK 4
RINA KENT
Empire of Lust Copyright © 2022 by Rina Kent
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
ALSO BY RINA KENT
ROYAL ELITE SERIES
Cruel King
Deviant King
Steel Princess
Twisted Kingdom
Black Knight
Vicious Prince
Ruthless Empire
Royal Elite Epilogue
EMPIRE SERIES
Empire of Desire
Empire of Sin
Empire of Hate
Empire of Lust
LIES & TRUTHS DUET
All The Lies
All The Truths
THORNS DUET
Yellow Thorns (Free Prequel)
Red Thorns
Black Thorns
KINGDOM DUET
Rule of a Kingdom (Free Prequel)
Reign of a King
Rise of a Queen
THRONE DUET
Throne of Power
Throne of Vengeance
DECEPTION TRILOGY
Dark Deception (Free Prequel)
Vow of Deception
Tempted by Deception
Consumed by Deception
To my parents
who will never read this book
or any of my books lest they get a stroke
Thank you for creating this oddball of human being
and supporting me when I dropped academics for writing.
AUTHOR NOTE
Hello reader friend,
This book isn’t as dark as the rest of my books, but it contains an anti-hero and lots of enemies to lovers goodness.
Empire of Lust is a complete STANDALONE.
Sign up to Rina Kent’s Newsletter for news about future releases and an exclusive gift.
BLURB
My boss. My hell.
When I slept with a faceless jock as a teen, I didn’t think I would become pregnant.
I also didn’t think I would lose that child.
Several years later, I find out that my daughter is alive and I’m given a second chance.
One problem, though.
The faceless jock isn’t so faceless anymore.
He has a name everyone fears; Kingsley Shaw.
A ruthless bastard. A heartless devil. And most importantly, my daughter’s father.
Oh, and he hates me as much as I hate him.
We’re out to destroy one another with all methods available.
Including a dangerous game of lust that might lead to our downfall.
PLAYLIST
Gone Are The Days – Kygo & James Gillespie
Hurricane – Halsey
Nothing’s Impossible – Walking on Cars
The Enemy – Andrew Belle
Animals – Maroon 5
Outside – Hollywood Undead
Enemy – Tommee Profitt, Beacon Light & Sam Tinnesz
Iris – DIAMANTE & Breaking Benjamin
Tequila Sunrise – Maw Barskih
Rolling Stone – Hurts
Blind – Hurts
Stay – Hurts
You can find the complete playlist on Spotify.
PROLOGUE - ASPEN
AGE FOURTEEN
It’s the night of mischief.
Commonly known as Devil’s Night.
My mother used to tell me that the gates of hell open tonight and the demons are allowed to roam the earth and spread their evil.
It was one of the few occasions I saw my mother excited, smiling, humming a happy tune.
She made it a habit to hand-sew me a costume and take me trick-or-treating while wearing a huge grin on her face.
That was my mother in a nutshell—innocently childish, irrevocably naïve, and stupidly in love.
And that love? It cost her her life.
And mine, in retrospect.
Because ever since she died four years ago, I’ve turned into the cynical little monster she tried to save me from becoming.
Maybe she didn’t try hard enough.
Maybe she didn’t care enough.
Because nothing she could’ve done would’ve made a difference. I have my father’s genes, after all.
The chilly autumn air penetrates my skin and embraces my bones with ominous persistence. As if that’s not enough, it blows my hair and jams it against my eyes.
Thanks to Mom, I was born with naturally bright, excruciatingly attention-grabbing red hair. At times, it resembles the horns of the devil.
Extremely fitting for this night, if you ask me.
“You stand out, and not in a good way, Aspen,” the blonde angel to my right says. Clearly fake, unless wearing a costume with wings makes you one.
Caroline is a friend I met in middle school when I first moved to her neighborhood after my mother’s death and Dad’s disappearance. We’ve been close ever since because her abusive household mirrors mine. We often find refuge in each other’s company, despite having extremely different personalities.
She’s the bubbly type who likes being at every party.
For instance, this one.
I didn’t really want to come. Not only am I an exemplary student who spends every free moment studying so I can get out of the custom-made hellhole my aunt and uncle have made for me, but I’m also not good with people.
However, after having a pan thrown at my back because I didn’t heat dinner to my drunken uncle’s liking, I was like “fuck it” and asked Caroline to give me the address to the party.
Obviously, I had to sneak out of the house by climbing down a tree from the attic I use as a bedroom.
My friend jacks up a hand on her tiny waist that serves as the wings’ belt holder. “When you said you were coming, I thought you’d be in a costume.”
“I don’t have one.” Nor do I want to hide behind anything. I already have a mask I wear in public; I don’t need another one.
“It’s Halloween. Everyone has a costume.” She throws her hands around, motioning at all the high school kids slipping into the mansion clad in their Halloween outfits. A myriad of colors, clichés, and the ultimate American fairy tale—or in this case, a nightmare.
It’s a hilarious parody of vampires, monsters, and the latest popular horror movies.
As for me, I’m wearing a simple black dress, my old sneakers, and a denim jacket my aunt got me from the local church donations.
Definitely not a costume. Unless dressing poor has become a trend, which wouldn’t be a surprise in circles like these.
Circles that Caroline does her best to cram herself into. She only befriends those of higher status, class, and definitely have a trust fund. It’s how she managed to get herself invited to this party at a preppy boy’s house.
Callie and I don’t attend the same high school as the owner of this place—no surprise there. He’s from the other side of town—the Upper East Side—and goes to a private school whose tuition could send me to college.
I don’t know him personally. Being from Harlem’s ghetto, we don’t usually get to mingle with people like them.
Caroline does, though. People have dreams of becoming doctors, lawyers, and astronauts. She has dreams of dating and marrying rich.
It’s a legitimate goal for those of us who’ve lived on scraps all our lives, go home at night looking over our shoulders, and never ever go out without pepper spray.
It’s the Cinderella complex of it all that doesn’t sit right with me. Why search for a man to give you a glass slipper when you could get it yourself?
Mom was completely and utterly into that fairy tale, and see where that got her.
“Look, Callie. I don’t have a costume, so if that’s a problem, I can just leave.” It’s an ego thing. I don’t like being belittled or mocked for who I am. That’s what’s landed me in trouble since I was little and often gets me a beating from my aunt or uncle.
They’re Mom’s brother and his wife who got custody of me after Dad was sent to prison.
But they might be worse than him.
However, I never lower my head, never let them make me feel small. I stare into their beady, vicious eyes, even as they hit me.
Which naturally makes them angrier and they beat me harder. Often with a belt or the nearest object.
“No, you’re my ride or die. You have to stay.” Callie rummages in her fur bag. “Besides, you’re beautiful as shit. It’ll be their loss if they don’t have you at their party.”
She pulls out a black feather mask, straps it on my head, and fixes my hair so it’s framing my face. Then she removes my denim jacket and throws it behind one of the decorated bushes.
“Hey! It’s cold.” And that’s actually the only good jacket I have.
“You can handle some cold for fashion. Also, that thing makes you look like a hillbilly.” She fusses in her wonder bag again and brings out some cheap red gloss, then takes extra care to apply it to my lips. After she’s done, she studies her creation with the critical eye of an amateur artist. “Perfect. You look like a bad bitch.”
“Really, Callie? Red?”
“It goes with the hair. If anyone asks, you’re a witch.”
Hell no.
But I don’t tell her that as she grabs me by the hand and drags me toward the house. She stops before the entrance and stares at me over her shoulder. “Remember, we’re sixteen or seventeen. Almost everyone here is a senior and we can’t be considered too young. Besides, we look the part anyway.”
That, we do. Caroline and I hit puberty two years ago, and ever since, we’ve been developing breasts and asses that earn us creepy looks from grown men—including our male teachers.
In school, she’s the blonde bombshell. I’m the hellion redhead.
She slips the strap of my dress off my shoulder so that it teases more of my cleavage, then interlinks her arm with mine. “Let’s snatch some rich boys.”
“You do realize they’ll throw us out the moment they find out we’re from Harlem, right?”
“Shhh.” She inspects our surroundings. “There’s no reason for them to know.”
“They will eventually.”
“Maybe by then, it’ll be too late.” She gives me a sly smirk and flips her hair.
I drop the subject, partly because we arrived at the entrance. But mainly because there’s no speaking logic to Caroline when it comes to her boy-hunting endeavors.
A sullen-faced doorman gives us a once-over before allowing us in.
Caroline is like a kid on Christmas morning, running from one place to another—with me in tow. She fawns over the black and orange decorated grand hall, the waiters in every corner, the upbeat music, the high-end costumes.
Everything.
She’s practically drugged with all the luxury and is currently reaching cloud nine.
To say I’m not intimidated myself would be a lie. I’ve always disliked places that make me feel out of my depth. Places where I hold the importance of an insignificant insect that can be crushed at any time and won’t be remembered.
That’s the prominent emotion coursing through me right now.
I want to go back.
Or disappear somewhere where I’m not under a microscope.
I thought escaping Aunt Sharon and Uncle Bob’s house was all I needed, but this scene is probably not what will make me feel better.
So I take a drink—or two. Okay, maybe three.
It’s diluted alcohol anyway, but it tastes like rosemary and something exotic. Definitely better than the beer Caroline stole from her alcoholic father so we could try it.
That was no different than unsanitary water mixed with the stench of cigarettes.
Caroline smacks my hand when I reach for another drink. “Don’t look so desperate.”
“Uh, hello? I only came for the drinks and food, Callie.”
“Then do that in a corner, not where everyone can see you acting like a ghetto rat.”
I stare her square in the eye. “You’re a ghetto rat yourself.”
“I don’t act like it.”
“When was the last time you had a proper meal, Miss I Don’t Act Like It?” When she doesn’t reply, I scoop up some luxurious-looking snacks and push them against her mouth. “That’s what I thought. Now, eat before your stomach starts making embarrassing noises.”
She grumbles something, but she does eat, and then accompanies me on the mission to be full for days to come.
After a while, though, her focus returns to her previous mission, and she rakes her gaze all over the crowd.
“Maybe desperate should’ve been your costume, not an angel.”
She smiles at my dry sense of humor. “Don’t know about you, bitch, but I’m getting out of that hellhole even if it’s the last thing I do.”
“I’m getting out, too.”
“Wanna bet who’s going to do it first?”
“We can do it together.”
“Not with your ‘I’m gonna do it myself’ attitude. Now, help me hunt.”
I definitely don’t, and keep stealing food and drinks behind her back. What? I’m malnourished at home and started working part-time to pay for my meals. The drinks, however, are an extravagance I’m allowing myself in order to forget and bide my time until I can leave.
My chance comes when Caroline finds her prey for the night—a blond guy in a fallen angel costume.
As soon as she hits it off with him, I slip out of their little group before she shoves me at one of his friends.
I pull the strap of my dress over my shoulder, cradle a plate of pastries and a drink, then disappear out back.
The night’s air stabs my bare arms and I consider looking for my jacket.
Stuffing my face with some chocolate cake, I start my way through the vast, dimly lit garden.
My steps are wobbly due to the massive amount of alcohol I’ve consumed, but that doesn’t stop me from taking a sip of my drink anyway.
I feel light and free, and I don’t have the brain capacity to think about my life.
Maybe alcohol isn’t so bad, after all.
Hushed male voices catch my attention and I freeze when I hear, “…It’s Devil’s Night. They won’t suspect we burned it.”
Shit.
I was definitely not supposed to hear that.
I must hiccup, because there’s a pause before someone roars, “Who the fuck is there?”
My legs twitch and I don’t think about it as I run, causing the drink to spill all over my hand, then I hide behind the bushes.
My breathing shatters when footsteps approach my hideout. If they find me, I’ll be in huge trouble.
I’m very familiar with being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ve experienced it first-hand and have the mental and physical scars to prove it.
I also used it to my advantage and made my father disappear from my life.
Some would call me too cunning for my age; but when you come from the wrong side of the tracks, the first thing you learn is to survive.
Even if it means locking away your abusive father.
“I’m sure I heard them go this way,” one of the male voices says and I shrink into my hiding place.
My mind crowds with fight-or-flight options and just when I’m considering where to escape to, a leaf crunches right next to me.
I stare up at the larger-than-life shadow hovering not far from me. Even though I’m partially camouflaged by the decorative tree, I’m almost sure he can see me.
“No one’s here,” he says with a calm that chills me to my rattling bones.
His face is veiled by the darkness, but I’m pretty sure he’s wearing a mask. Before I can make him out, he turns around, and the sound of retreating footsteps echoes in my ears like a symphony gone wrong.
My shaky fingers release the plate and cup. They hit the grass with a muted thud, the alcohol slowly soaking into the ground.
Despite my plans to stuff myself full so that I don’t feel hunger for a few days, I abandon my haul and inch toward the back door. I have no doubt they’ll continue searching for me until they find me.
My hands are clammy as I retrieve my phone. My teeth chatter—not sure if it’s due to the cold or the haunting fear—and my vision is blurry, partly because of the alcohol, partly because of the unusual kick of adrenaline surging through me.
Bodies are special like that, they know danger, even if our minds are oblivious to it.
I retrieve my old phone that Uncle Bob got for me. To say that made me suspicious would be an understatement, but he told me they needed to know where I was at all times and that if they called and I didn’t pick up, they would kill me.
Sure enough, there are five missed calls from them. I wince at the thought of a beating, but it’s better than being in this unfamiliar place.
