Page 13 of Her Cruel Empire (The Devil’s Plaything #1)

Robin

I watch Eva’s car leaving the castle and winding down the road to the village as long as I can before I lose sight of it in the forest. After that, I shower, and then, when anxious thoughts of home get too much, I spend most of the morning wandering around the castle, drawn back to the rooms filled with artefacts that suggest the long and bloody history of Eva’s family.

I find no clues to tell me anything more about her, however.

When I get back to my room, I stop dead and stare at the mountain of packages piled up in one corner, and the clothing bags spread across the chaise longue in the corner of the bedroom.

Boxes from designers whose names I can barely pronounce.

Tissue paper that whispers when I touch it. Labels in French and Italian.

My heart does a little skip. Eva made this happen. In mere hours. She actually listened to me…

I lift a sweater from its nest of tissue paper and nearly gasp.

It’s cashmere, the color of fresh cream, so soft it feels like touching a cloud.

And the cut is perfect, designed for someone with curves and whose height is that of a mere mortal.

When I hold it up to myself in the mirror, it actually looks like it belongs on my body.

There’s more. Jeans that feel like butter against my palms and hug my thighs and hips lovingly. A wool coat in deep burgundy with a silk lining. Boots that are wide enough to fit my calves.

Everything fits. Everything is beautiful.

Everything is right .

I’m sorting through it all—holding up a dress that makes me feel elegant just looking at it—when I realize what’s missing.

Where’s all the fancy underwear? I search through the boxes and finally find something with a familiar red and white logo on it.

Surely not.

But when I open it, I find plain white cotton underpants and bras, the exact same kind I’m wearing now.

I check every box twice through. No other bras or panties. Nothing but the Target collection, as though…

As though my body underneath all the pretty packaging of couture doesn’t deserve the expense of fine lace or satin.

My cheeks burn. Was it intended an insult?

I can’t figure it out. But I also can’t demand an answer. Eva’s not here, and this is the only underwear that fits me. So it will have to do.

As I get dressed in my new clothes, I catch myself in the mirror. The top flatters my cleavage perfectly. The jeans make my legs look longer, somehow. I look…expensive. Curated.

But underneath it all, I’m still just me in my Target underwear.

The contradiction unsettles me more than it should.

With Eva gone, the castle feels different. Emptier. The silence presses against my ears like cotton balls, broken only by the distant sounds of staff moving through corridors that are empty by the time I get there.

I wander the halls aimlessly, my new boots loud against stone and hardwood floors. Every portrait seems to stare at me. Judge me. Ask what a kindergarten teacher-wannabe from Vegas is doing playing dress-up in a real-life castle.

I dine alone, my meals appearing in my bedroom as though whoever brings them has timed it so they don’t have to interact with me. The next morning, after I’m shooed out of the kitchen after being fed breakfast, my feet carry me toward the door Eva told me never to enter.

I don’t mean to go there. But that forbidden corridor draws me in like gravity.

The hallway stretches before me, lined with heavy wooden doors that look like they could withstand a siege, and possibly have in times past. This is the oldest part of the castle, maybe built back in the Dark Ages, if what Eva told me on the tour was true.

I’ve investigated the first room at the top of the corridor—the door is open, and inside is a disappointingly empty storage room—and I’m about to leave and go back to my room when I hear it.

A click.

One of the doors down the hallway has opened.

I duck back into the storage room, leaving the door slightly ajar so I can see out.

The woman with the silver braid emerges first. She moves like a ghost, silent and controlled. Behind her comes the man, equally quiet, equally dangerous.

The man carries a tray.

On it: bloodied bandages. Crimson stains dark against white fabric.

I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle my gasp and press myself deeper into the room, not breathing, not moving.

When I peek out again, they’re gone. The door has clicked shut behind them, and when I try the handle, just to see, just to make sure…

It’s locked.

Back in my room, I pace the floor. Eva has been gone for about thirty hours, and when I’m not worrying about Adrian and Dane and Alicia and Maisie, I’m going out of my mind with boredom, so I fixate on the one interesting thing that’s happened.

The door.

What’s behind that door? A prisoner? Someone Eva is torturing for information? A victim of her business dealings?

What if…what if I’m going to find myself behind that door when these thirty days are up?

The walls feel like they’re closing in. I need air. Space . Somewhere that doesn’t smell like Eva’s perfume and ancient secrets. I grab the burgundy coat—it’s gorgeous and fits perfectly—and head outside before I can talk myself out of it.

The castle grounds stretch before me, all muddy paths and half-frozen gardens.

The air is crisp and clean, tasting of pine and coming snow.

Winter was never much of a season back in Vegas, but here it lies deep and thorough over the land.

I don’t mind it, snuggling into my warm coat.

I breathe deeply, feeling the knot in my chest loosen a little.

That’s when I see them: the side gates, standing slightly ajar. That’s where Mira, the village girl on the dirt bike, came through the other morning.

Through the bars, I can see a winding dirt track. It disappears into the forest, but beyond the treeline, I catch glimpses of rooftops. Woodsmoke rising into the gray sky.

The village.

Eva said to stay inside. But she’s gone, and I’m not her prisoner. Am I?

Besides, I can’t stand the idea of going back inside the castle and wandering those lonely halls like a ghost. So before I can second-guess myself, I’m walking through the gates and down the muddy path.

The village is smaller than I expected. Stone buildings with steep roofs cluster around a tiny square. Laundry lines stretch between windows. A church bell tower rises above it all, dark against the cloudy sky.

Some villagers nod when they see me. Others turn their backs.

Children playing in the square stop their soccer game to stare. They whisper to each other in their language, pointing at my coat, my boots, my obvious foreignness.

I smile and wave. “Hello.”

The youngest—a girl of maybe six years old with pigtails—approaches cautiously. She says something I don’t understand, but her tone is curious, not afraid.

I crouch down to her level. “Hello. I’m Robin.”

She giggles and pats my coat. She says a word that might mean soft , or maybe pretty .

Soon the other children gather around. Language barriers dissolve when kids are involved. We play a clapping game that transcends words. I French braid one girl’s hair. I help a boy tie his shoe.

Some adults watch approvingly. A woman brings me a cup of hot tea from her doorstep. An old man tips his hat on what seems to be his regular morning walk.

But others keep their distance. Cross themselves when they think I’m not looking. Whisper behind hands.

The division is clear: those who see me as just another person, and those who see me as something dangerous.

Something connected to the castle.

I ask the kids about Mira, the girl who came up to the castle and who wanted to practice her English, but all they do is make a noise that I think is supposed to indicate she’s gone somewhere on her dirt bike.

And when the children are called away for lunch, I duck into a small pub at the edge of the square.

It’s warm and dim inside, with low beams and a fire crackling in a stone hearth.

The smell of bread and garlic in the air makes my stomach growl.

The bartender is an older man with suspicious eyes. He speaks in halting English when I order.

“Soup. Bread. Cheese,” he says, when I point at items on the handwritten menu. I order it all, and he nods but doesn’t smile. Five minutes later, when he sets down my bowl, he asks, “You live in the castle?”

I hesitate. “Just visiting. For a little while.”

His expression darkens. He mutters something in his language that doesn’t sound friendly.

The soup is delicious—rich and warming. I’m halfway through when a middle-aged woman approaches my table. She sets down my bread and cheese, then leans closer.

“You should not be here,” she whispers in accented English.

Startled, I begin to stand. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know?—”

“No.” She glances around, then sits across from me. “You should not be at the castle. Other girls went there before you. Girls from here. Pretty girls like you.”

My stomach, which had welcomed the food, turns over. “What happened to them?”

She makes a gesture with her hands, flicking her fingers apart. “Gone. They never come back to the village. Never write to their mamas. Nothing.” She touches the cross at her throat. “Novak—the woman with gold in her eyes—she is to blame.”

The woman with gold in her eyes. What an apt way to describe Eva Novak, I think. “What do you mean? How is she to blame?”

The woman’s eyes dart to the bartender, who’s pretending not to listen. She lowers her voice further.

“She takes a price. For protection.”

“I’m sorry, I just—I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

The woman’s fingers worry her cross. “My grandmother told stories. About those who live in the castle. They make deals with dark things. They keep the people of the black lake safe, but the price is always paid in blood.”

A chill runs down my spine.

“You should leave,” the woman continues. “While you can.”

She stands abruptly and hurries away, leaving me alone with my soup and a growing sense of dread.

The walk back to the castle feels endless. Every step up the muddy road feels like I’m walking toward my doom.

The beautiful coat that felt like a precious gift this morning now feels like a shroud. The clothes Eva bought me—they’re not meant as a kindness. They’re ownership. Pretty packaging for a possession.

I forgot that. And I should never forget that.

The woman’s warnings echo in my head. Other girls went there before you .

What if Eva never intends to let me go? What if the thirty days is just a comfortable lie, and I’m going to disappear like all the others?

What if the blood on those bandages I saw this morning belongs to the last girl who tried to leave?

By the time I reach the castle gates, I’m shaking. I slip through the garden entrance, hoping to make it back to my room without being seen.

I’m brushing leaves off my coat in the side hallway when I hear it.

Footsteps. Unmistakably expensive heels on stone.

My blood turns to ice.

“Did I not tell you to stay inside?” The voice is sharp, low, dangerous. Each word cuts through the air like a blade.

I turn slowly, trying to steady my thundering heartbeat.

Eva stands in the shadows at the end of the hall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. She’s dressed all in black—leather pants, silk blouse, knee-high boots with heels like knives. She looks like she could kill someone with her bare hands.

She looks like she wants to kill me .

“You’re back,” I stammer, trying to sound casual. “I didn’t expect?—”

“You,” she interrupts, stepping into the light, “disobeyed me.” Her amber eyes are cold as the weather outside.

“I just needed some air. I didn’t go far?—”

“You went to the village.” It’s not a question. “I can smell the woodsmoke on your coat. See the mud on your boots. And yet I told you to not even go into the castle grounds while I was away.”

“Eva, I can explain?—”

“No.” She moves closer, each step deliberate. “You can’t. Because no explanation makes disobedience acceptable.”

The ambient temperature seems to drop to match the forbidden grounds I just walked through. This isn’t the Eva who touched me with careful hands and gave sexy commands.

This is the head of the Novak family, which I am beginning to believe is a criminal empire.

This is the woman the villagers cross themselves against.

“I’m not your prisoner,” I say, but my voice shakes.

Eva’s smile is as cold as her words. “No. You’re my property. And obviously I need to remind you of that fact.”