Page 19 of Her Cruel Empire (The Devil’s Plaything #1)

Eva

T he door clicks shut behind Robin with a soft finality that sends relief flooding through my chest.

The kind of cold, functional relief I feel when a difficult negotiation concludes or when a problem has been resolved.

I needed her to leave. It was too disorienting to be soft and open with her, and then have Uncle Stefan show up on my literal doorstep.

I settle back into my chair and take a deep breath now that the stress is receding.

The fire crackles in the grate, casting light across the rug where Robin lay spread beneath me not twenty minutes ago.

And God help me, the scent of her still lingers in the air—synthetic strawberry and something even sweeter, the faint musk of her sex.

I need to keep her at a distance.

I’ve revealed far too much about my father and my hunt for vengeance. Even the sex felt different. Less about control, more about…fascination. The way her body responded to mine, the little sounds she made, the way she looked at me.

But Robin is nothing more than a distraction. A purchase. A convenience to smooth the edges of my life for thirty days. Nothing else.

And so I was cool to her when Stefan arrived.

Better she understands her place now than later.

I made sure my dismissal was crystal clear, showed Stefan, too, that she’s no one important.

A pet to be stroked when I’m in the mood but put away in its crate when I have real business to attend to—as I’m sure I must now, since Stefan has just come back from Consortium meetings of his own.

But the memory of her face as she excused herself flickers through my mind—that flash of hurt in her blue eyes, the way her voice trembled slightly when she said she would let us talk. The flush on her cheeks that had nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with humiliation.

Christ, why can’t I stop thinking about her? She’s nothing. A warm body. Easily replaceable. I shove the memory aside with the talent of someone who’s spent years compartmentalizing inconvenient emotions, and focus on what matters.

“You look troubled, little wildcat.”

Stefan sits across from me, expression both warm and shrewd. The pet name makes me smile despite myself—my father and he both called me that since I was seven years old and bit the ankle of a business associate of theirs who tried to pinch my cheek.

He looks so much like Papa sometimes that it makes my heart hurt. Same noble jawline, same thoughtful pause before speaking, same way of tilting his head when he’s studying a problem. The same silver threads through his dark hair, though my father is now much more salt than pepper.

Stefan has been a rock for me all these years. My uncle, my ally, my only family since Papa fell into that twilight sleep between life and death.

“I’m just thinking about business,” I lie smoothly.

“As always,” he says, and I smile mechanically.

A maid slips into the room carrying a silver tray laden with delicate pastries, another bone china tea service, and a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid.

She sets it on the low table between us with practiced silence, her movements careful and respectful.

When she retreats, Stefan leans forward with genuine pleasure.

“Still keeping the old customs alive, I see.”

The aniseed liqueur in the decanter is a family tradition, distilled right here in the castle. The recipe is older than the castle it’s now made in, passed down through generations who understood that some rituals anchor you when the world tries to sweep you away.

I pour us both a measure, the familiar scent of licorice and herbs rising on the warm air from the fireplace. The crystal glasses catch the light, fracturing it into amber sparks.

“Some things shouldn’t change,” I say, handing him his glass.

Stefan raises it in a small salute before taking a sip, his eyes closing briefly in appreciation. When he opens them again, the warmth there shifts to something more serious.

“How is my brother?”

The question I’ve been dreading. The one I can never answer with anything approaching satisfaction.

“No change.”

Two words that encompass months of waiting, of sitting beside his bed listening to the rhythmic hiss of machines, of watching for any flicker of consciousness behind his closed eyelids.

No change means he’s neither better nor worse.

Suspended in that gray space between life and death, beyond my reach.

Stefan nods slowly, his fingers turning the crystal glass in small circles. “And how close are you to avenging his death?”

The correction comes automatically, sharp and steely. “He’s not dead.”

But even as I say it, I know it’s unfair. Stefan doesn’t flinch at my tone. He simply waits, patiently, for me to continue.

I sigh and take a larger sip of the liqueur, letting the burn ground me.

“I haven’t yet found the person who ordered the hit.

My meetings with our various clients have yielded no new leads.

” Another year of hunting, of following hints and suggestions down dark alleys and into darker rooms. I look at Stefan, that unwelcome hope struggling into my heart as it always does, no matter how much I try to flatten it. “You?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing, Eva. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve pursued every avenue I can think of,” I continue, my voice flat with frustration. “The Bratva connection led nowhere. The Sicilians claim ignorance. And none of the Americans have the connections needed to carry out a hit like that in Paris.”

“The Irish?” he asks. I shake my head. “What about the new players? The ones moving in from Asia?”

I shake my head. “ Too new. No. Whoever did this, they are an old acquaintance. This hit was done by someone who has been watching us for a long time, who knew exactly when and where we would be.”

Stefan is quiet for a long moment, studying the flames dancing in the grate. When he speaks, his voice is grave. “Then we start again. Because we’ll never stop looking.”

The promise might as well be a blood oath. We clink our glasses together, the crystal singing softly.

“To his awakening,” Stefan says.

“And to vengeance,” I add, draining my glass in one burning swallow.

The liqueur spreads warmth through my chest, but it’s nothing compared to the cold fire that lives there permanently now—the promise I made to my father as he lay bleeding on a Paris street that I would find who did this and make them pay in ways they can’t imagine.

Stefan leans back in his chair, and I catch something shifting in his expression. A glint of amusement creeping into his eyes. “So. Tell me about the girl?”

“The girl?” I ask guiltily. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Not your usual type, is she?”

He’s not wrong. My usual companions are sophisticates who understand the rules of engagement—temporary pleasure with no messy emotions attached.

Robin is their complete antithesis.

But I laugh, the sound light and dismissive. “She was a whim in Vegas. A passing fancy.”

Stefan studies me with the careful attention he usually reserves for business negotiations. “Is that really true?”

“Of course. She’s a bit of fun for a few weeks. That’s all. No different than all the rest.”

But even as I say it, something in me rebels against the words.

The way Robin looks at me when I touch her—like I’m capable of tenderness instead of just taking what I want.

The way she melts under my hands but still challenges me with those earnest questions about my father, about my past, about things that are none of her business.

The way she’s made me feel less alone for the first time in months. Years.

I wave my hand dismissively, shoving those inconvenient thoughts back into the dark corner where they belong. “Enough about pleasure. Talk to me about business.”

Stefan sighs, and I can see him reluctantly shifting into business mode. The warmth in his expression doesn’t disappear entirely, but it’s overlaid now with the careful control that’s kept our family alive and thriving for generations.

“I’d like you to have a chat with some of them yourself. The organizations in Europe are restless. The old loyalties are fracturing.”

Frustration flares in my chest. “I just got back from America. I thought you were taking care of Europe—as we agreed,” I add coolly.

Stefan might be older than me, and he might be my uncle, but the Consortium comes before everything, and I am its leader. If he can’t do his job, then we have a problem.

“I know,” he says calmly. “And I’m sorry to have to suggest it. But the world is changing, Eva. No one trusts anyone anymore. The old ways are dying. And the Consortium clients want to have the assurances of the Boss, not her underling.”

There’s not a trace of bitterness in his voice, but it makes me uncomfortable to hear him put it that way.

Besides, he’s right, and I know it. The careful balance of power that’s kept the European underworld stable for decades is shifting.

Old alliances are fracturing under pressure from new players, new technologies, new ways of moving money and weapons and information.

The Americans are throwing their weight around more aggressively, the Russians are the same, and everyone in between is scrambling to maintain their piece of the pie.

My lips tighten as I consider the implications. “Change also brings opportunity. Those who adapt will dominate.”

“Exactly. Which is why they need to see you . In person. Your presence reminds them why it’s better to work with the Novak Consortium than against it.”

I know he’s right. There’s something about face-to-face meetings that video calls and encrypted messages can’t replicate.

When people see me across a negotiating table, they remember that I’m not just Zoltan’s daughter—I’m a force in my own right.

Someone who can make their lives very profitable or very unpleasant, depending on how cooperative they choose to be.

But the thought of leaving again makes something twist uncomfortably in my stomach. I don’t want to leave Robin behind. Not yet. The days left in our arrangement are dwindling, and I’m nowhere near getting her out of my system.

The realization should alarm me more than it does.

“How long would I need to be gone?” I ask, though I already know the answer won’t satisfy me.

“Three weeks. Maybe four. Berlin, Prague, Vienna, Rome. The full circuit.”

Four weeks. More than the time I have left with Robin.

It shouldn’t even be a consideration. She’s a temporary acquisition. A month of purchased companionship. When the time is up, I’ll send her back to whatever mundane existence she came from with her million dollars and the memories of what it feels like to be properly fucked.

Nothing more.

So why does the thought of cutting that time short feel like agony?

“Eva,” Stefan says, and I shake out of my thoughts.

“Yes?”

“You should start in Paris.”

I stare at him. I haven’t been to Paris since…well, since the day my father was shot. “I don’t care for Paris,” I say coldly.

“Think it over.” Stefan drains his glass and sets it back on the tray with a soft clink. “I should go.”

“Go?” Startled, I stand with him. “You just got here!”

“It was a flying visit,” he says apologetically. “A stopover on my way through. The plane is waiting for me at the airfield. Is Leon around? Perhaps he can take me over. I’d like to catch up with him, too.”

“Of course,” I say, pushing aside my melancholy. I signal to a nearby maid, who runs off at once in search of Leon. He lives on the grounds in his own cottage. “I know he would like to see you, too. But we’ve barely had a chance to catch up ourselves. How’s Dimitri?”

Uncle Stefan smiles, even though my cousin Dimitri has always been something of a black sheep in the family. Dimi is more of a wastrel than a weapons expert, but we all love him dearly.

“He’s in Paris, having an ill-advised affair. If you go, you could see him while you’re there.”

I give a knowing smile. “I have picked up on your subtle urgings, Uncle. I will go to Paris.”

“I’m glad,” he says sincerely. “And Dimi will be glad to see you, too.” His smile is warm but pointed. “Perhaps you can talk him into settling down. You might think about it, too. This life…it’s easier when you have something to come home to.”

The suggestion makes me bristle, though I’m careful not to let it show. I don’t need an anchor weighing me down. I don’t need anything soft or domestic cluttering up my existence. I’m not interested in that kind of weakness.

But before I can respond to Stefan’s loaded observation, he’s kissing my cheeks and striding over to meet Leon, who has come up from his cottage. I see them off, and then I stand in the doorway long after the elevator doors close, his words echoing in my head.

It’s easier when you have something to come home to.

Ridiculous. Robin is a transaction. A temporary pleasure. A distraction from the weight of responsibility that sits on my shoulders every day.

But as I go back into the Great Hall, my eyes land on the couch where she sat earlier, and I think about going up to her room, giving her an unnecessary apology told in pleasure and climax rather than words.

No. Business comes first. The Novak Consortium’s dominance in Europe can’t be allowed to slip because I’m distracted by a soft American girl with trusting eyes and responsive skin. I need to make plans for Paris.

Robin, and my hunger for her, is far down the list of priorities. I need to remember that.