Page 11 of Her Cruel Empire (The Devil’s Plaything #1)

Robin

W hen I wake, I’m not sure where I am for a moment. It takes a while for the memories to click into place. The auction. The plane flight. The castle.

Eva’s toes pressing into my softest flesh…

I shudder all over and stretch out, trying to ignore the delicious tingling between my legs. But soon enough, I feel energized, ready to face the day—and whatever else Eva Novak has planned for me.

I bounce out of bed to shower, and then I’m drawn back to the massive wardrobe I didn’t get a chance to explore last night. The clothes are just as gorgeous as I remember: sleek, luxurious…

And designed for someone with a very different body shape than mine.

I pull out a slim-fit blouse first with a label reading D&G . The material is soft and creamy in my hands, but there’s no way this is going to button over my boobs, and I definitely don’t want to yank at the delicate mother-of-pearl buttons to test it.

Next, I pull out a Valentino dress in deep blue.

It’s stretchy, at least. But after I struggle into it, it clings unflatteringly to my hips and thighs and bunches under my arms. Frustrated, I start pulling out whatever comes to hand.

A Chanel blazer I can’t even pull on, it’s so tight in the shoulders.

Designer jeans that I can tell at a glance won’t get over my thighs, let alone my hips.

Everything is beautiful.

And everything is wrong .

Eventually I find a pair of black leggings that will stretch enough to accommodate my ass, and a soft charcoal-gray cashmere sweater that I’m pretty sure is supposed to be oversized, but fits me just right and ends just above my knees because I’m so short.

So is Eva, I suppose. She just seems a lot taller.

The underwear is a lost cause. There’s nothing bigger than a C-cup in here, and I am not a C-cup at any band size. I forget about panties altogether, and pull on my own bra from yesterday, the cheap cotton kind that’s laughable next to Eva’s silk and lace collection.

But I don’t care.

For the first time, seeing these clothes meant for the cookie-cutter women she must usually bring here, I feel a spark of rebellion. She can buy me, but she doesn’t get to erase me.

I’ve just finished pulling back my hair into a ponytail when I hear a soft knock at the door.

It creaks open and a young maid slips inside, her eyes downcast. She carries a silver tray with a steaming pot and two covered dishes. She sets it down on the table like she’s trying not to make a sound.

When I say thank you, she just nods and turns to leave.

I hesitate for a second. Then I follow.

Because I have no idea where Eva is. Because I’m not going to just sit around like some forgotten doll until she’s ready to play with me again. Because curiosity is clawing at my ribs, and the alternative is dwelling on what’s going on at home with Adrian and the kids.

I pad down the hall in socked feet, keeping a distance so the maid won’t notice. She descends a narrow staircase tucked behind a heavy wooden door and slips through another into a warmer corridor filled with clattering sounds and the delicious scent of bread baking.

I push through just far enough to confirm my suspicions. This is the kitchen.

And it’s everything the rest of the castle isn’t. Lively. Loud. Human.

There’s a fire roaring in a wide stone hearth, copper pots hanging from ancient wooden beams, baskets overflowing with root vegetables, and a long, scarred table where half a dozen staff are prepping food or eating breakfast. Steam rises from multiple pots, and someone is kneading dough with rhythmic precision.

I hover in the doorway for a second, unsure. The warmth hits my face and draws me in as much as the delicious scents. But the moment they see me, everything stops.

Knives pause mid-chop. Conversation halts. Hands freeze over cutting boards.

Six pairs of eyes flick to me, then away just as fast.

I swallow hard. “Hi. I—sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just…” I trail off, realizing how stupid I sound. “I was curious.”

No one answers.

The maid I followed is staring at me with wide-eyed trepidation. Two younger girls whisper to each other behind cupped hands. One older woman narrows her eyes at me—not cruelly, just suspicious. Like I’m something she’s not sure is safe to touch.

And then, from the back, a woman I hadn’t noticed speaks. Her tone is low and commanding, her words sharp and unfamiliar. I don’t understand the language, but everyone else seems to. The tension breaks. People return to their tasks, though I catch them sneaking glances at me.

The woman at the back—she’s the head cook, I think—nods toward a stool tucked against the long table. She jerks her chin.

Sit .

I obey.

She pours me a mug of something rich and dark and hands it over. I take a cautious sip and blink. It’s coffee, but it’s strong and sweet. Like molasses and lightning mixed together. It hits me like a jolt, and it’s exactly what I needed.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

She grunts and turns back to her work.

More people enter the room, and some leave, going about their duties. One of the younger girls slides a plate in front of me—fresh bread still warm from the oven, sliced tomato, something that looks like soft cheese. I dig in, the sounds of the room and the food settling over me like a blanket.

Afterward, I move to take my plate to the sink, but a boy—maybe seventeen—tries to take it from me. I shake my head and insist, gesturing toward the dish tub.

He stares. Then nods.

I wash. I dry. It feels good to do something normal, something useful. But for a moment, I feel a long, horrible pang as I miss home again. Miss my family.

I’m drying the last of the plates when I hear the rumble of an engine outside. Through the kitchen window, I catch a glimpse of someone on a dirt bike weaving between the trees, heading straight for the back door. The rider dismounts, pulls off a helmet, and shakes out a cascade of long black hair.

It’s a young woman, maybe eighteen or nineteen.

Her green eyes are striking against her pale skin, and there are actual feathers and small twigs woven through her dark hair.

She’s wearing a faded Taylor Swift t-shirt over ripped jeans, the combination of wildness and pop culture so unexpected it makes me smile.

She pushes through the back door carrying a leather satchel and something wrapped in brown paper that makes my stomach lurch when I realize it’s a freshly killed duck, complete with feathers.

The kitchen staff barely glance up as she tosses both the duck and a handful of mail onto the table—clearly this is routine—but she spots me immediately.

“Hi,” I say uncertainly. “I’m Robin.”

Her eyes light up. “Hello! I am Mira. How are you today?”

The careful way she pronounces each word tells me she’s concentrating hard on getting it right. “I’m very well, thank you,” I reply.

She beams. “I am learning English,” she explains. “I will master it soon.”

The cook makes a dismissive scoff from across the room, muttering something under her breath that sounds decidedly unflattering.

Mira’s head snaps around, and she fires back something rapid and sharp in their language, her chin lifted defiantly.

The cook shakes her head and turns away, but Mira just turns back to me with a satisfied smirk.

“Everyone here, they want to stay the same,” she says, her voice carrying just loud enough for the cook to hear. “But I am not like them. I will get out, see the big wide world.” Her accent makes the words musical, but there’s steel underneath. “You are from America? What is it like?”

I think of our cramped apartment, the stack of unpaid bills on the kitchen counter, the way I have to choose between groceries and Maisie’s medication. “The city I live in is a lot bigger than your village,” I say finally. “But that doesn’t mean it’s better.”

She tilts her head, processing this with the intense focus of someone who believes knowledge is power.

“Still, you have seen things. Done things. Not just…this.” She gestures dismissively at the stone walls around us.

“If you come down to the village,” she continues, and there’s no hesitation in her voice now, just certainty, “you will practice English with me.” Her green eyes bore into mine. “You will help me.”

Something about her fierce determination, her absolute refusal to accept the limitations around her, lifts my heart. “I’d like that.”

Her smile is triumphant. She gathers up her empty satchel, tosses a casual wave at the kitchen staff—pointedly ignoring the cook’s glare—and strides back out the door.

Through the window, I watch her mount her dirt bike, tug the helmet back on her head, and roar back into the forest, feathers streaming from her hair like a battle flag.

I can’t help smiling, and the other staff, except for the cook, seem a little lighter too after Mira’s visit.

One of the girls starts saying words to me in her language.

Pointing to things. Cup. Knife. Fork. No.

Yes . I mimic back the words she supplies.

She giggles, the sound reminding me of Alicia.

Even the cook smirks once at my terrible pronunciation.

But all at once, the energy in the room changes again when a side door opens and two people enter.

A man and a woman. Both tall. And the woman looks surprisingly sturdy, her arms corded and muscled despite her slim build.

She has a long silver braid down her back and carries a bundle of sheets that she hands off to one of the kitchen staff, who heads at once to another door—the laundry, maybe.

I could swear I saw blood stains on those sheets.

I try not to react, but I can’t help but glance at the man and woman again. The woman accepts a cup of the same coffee the cook poured for me, but the man shakes his head. His hands are rough and scarred, and there’s the unmistakable outline of a shoulder holster beneath his jacket.

Whoever he is, he’s one of Eva’s men. Even in the short time I’ve been here, I know enough to recognize the vibe. The woman, though…I don’t understand her. She seems more peaceful, more interior.

But whatever she was doing before she came in here, it involved blood.

No one speaks to them. No one acknowledges them. In fact, the staff suddenly seems smaller, fewer in number, like they’re trying to disappear.

The girl who reminded me of Alicia hurriedly prepares a tray of food on two plates, two meals made up of the bread, tomatoes and cheese she offered me, and shoves it toward the woman across the table. Then she hurries back to the other side of the kitchen.

I don’t know why I do it—maybe because I’m an idiot, or maybe because I still believe people deserve kindness—but I raise a hand in greeting to the newcomers. “Good morning.”

The woman’s eyes flick to mine. No smile. No nod. Nothing.

The cook hisses something under her breath that sounds like a warning. One of the guys nudges me hard in the ribs and I drop my hand.

The woman takes up the tray of food and, followed by the man, vanishes back through the separate door, never speaking.

“What was that?” I say to no one in particular.

The cook just shakes her head and mutters something that might be telling me to mind my own business.

Are they part of Eva’s business, those two? Connected to the forbidden door that I’m not supposed to even think about? Are they hired muscle? The woman certainly looked strong, but her eyes were calm.

I think about the young girl who prepared their meal before scurrying away, and the way the cook’s shoulders tensed. How no one made eye contact. This is the first time I’ve really felt scared since arriving. Not because of anything that strange pair did, but because of how everyone else reacted.

I sip my second cup of coffee, mind racing. The sweet liquid doesn’t taste as good now. Nothing does.

A phone mounted on the kitchen wall suddenly rings, shrill and jarring. Everyone freezes. The cook wipes her hands on her apron and answers it with obvious reluctance, using the word I’ve now come to recognize as Yes .

The voice on the other end is muffled, but I catch the cadence. Clipped. Commanding. Female. Oh, yeah. It’s Eva, and she sounds displeased .

The cook’s eyes dart to me, then away. Her face goes carefully blank. She says yes in her own language again, and then she hangs up.

For a moment, no one moves. Then the cook looks at me with something that might be pity, and the other staff suddenly become very busy with their tasks.

The boy who let me wash and dry dishes won’t meet my eyes.

The girl who was teaching me words has found urgent business at the far end of the table.

My heart starts to hammer even before I hear the footsteps echoing in the corridor beyond. Slow. Deliberate. Expensive heels on ancient stone.

The temperature in the kitchen seems to drop ten degrees. I focus very closely on my coffee. Maybe if I stay still enough, she won’t?—

“Robin.”

I jump, coffee sloshing over the rim of my mug, and spin around on my stool.

Eva stands in the doorway, dressed in dark red from throat to boots, her eyes unreadable.

But there’s something in the way she scans the kitchen that suggests she’s noting everyone who dared show me kindness.

The cook, who seemed so formidable moments ago, now looks like a child caught stealing cookies.

“Come,” Eva says.

My body responds before my brain catches up. Heat floods my core despite the fear. Despite everything, my pulse quickens not just with terror but with want. The ache between my thighs intensifies, and I hate myself for it.

That’s not what she meant , I tell myself. Not…that . But my clit won’t be dissuaded, tingling as Eva Novak’s amber eyes meet mine. I freeze. Then I rise slowly, feeling like I’ve been caught somewhere off-limits, even though she specifically said I could explore the castle.

She turns without another word and walks away, and I hurry after her. The warmth of the kitchen evaporates behind me. But even as I follow her out, my eyes flick back to the side hallway where the woman and man vanished.

There’s something in this castle I don’t understand.

And now fear instead of desire floods me as questions start to multiply in my mind.