Page 2 of Her Cruel Empire (The Devil’s Plaything #1)

“I could be working right now,” he announces without preamble. “My friend’s dad said he’d hire me at the garage. I could be making actual money instead of sitting in stupid algebra class learning about X and Y like it matters.”

“It does matter.” I fix him with a stare that I can only hope has half of Mrs. Henderson’s power. “Education is the only way out of this, Dane. You’re not dropping out.”

“Out of what? This?” He gestures around the cramped apartment. “At least if I worked, I could help pay for shit instead of being useless.”

“You’re not useless. You’re a normal fifteen-year-old. You’re supposed to worry about homework and girls and whether you’ll make varsity next year. And watch your mouth,” I add hastily, seeing Maisie’s eyes have widened at his use of the S-word.

“Wake up, Robin!” Dane snaps. “Normal fifteen-year-olds have parents.”

Silence fills the small room after his outburst. Maisie’s eyes fill with tears, and Alicia looks like she wants to disappear into the furniture.

“Dane.” My voice is quiet, but he hears the warning in it. “Go and help Alicia with her homework. Please.”

He stares at me for a moment, jaw working like he wants to say more. Then his shoulders slump, and he looks every inch the scared kid he is underneath all that anger.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I just…”

“I know.” And I do. I understand the frustration, the helplessness, the rage at a world that seems determined to kick you when you’re already down. “But we’re family. We stick together.”

He nods and settles beside Alicia at the dining table, who is hastily pulling out her textbook. “Okay, what’s this essay about?”

I retreat to the kitchen, ostensibly to start heating up dinner but really to give myself a moment to breathe.

I pull the casserole dish from the refrigerator, plus a side of garlic bread because we all love it.

It’s not glamorous, but it’s food, and it’s made with love.

I slide the casserole into the oven at a low heat and set the timer.

The apartment is small enough that I can hear everything, from Dane patiently explaining thesis statements to Alicia, to the upstairs neighbor’s baby crying. It’s chaotic and stressful and sometimes overwhelming, but it’s a roof over our heads.

I pull out my phone and check the time. Adrian should be home from his job at the grocery store soon, and we’ll have an early dinner.

Then I’ll need to get ready for my shift at Murphy’s Bar.

The thought makes my stomach clench. I hate that job—hate the way some of the customers look at me, hate the outfit I have to wear to get decent tips, hate that I have to pretend to be straight for the drooling men.

Most of all, I hate that I’m good at it, because desperation has made me an expert at swallowing my pride.

But the tips I get tonight will mean I can pay for Maisie’s medication, and groceries for the week, and maybe, if I’m really lucky, keep the lights on for another month.

The oven timer goes off just as Adrian walks through the door.

At eighteen, he’s tall and lean, with the same strawberry blonde hair as me.

He works an afternoon shift at SaveMart, restocking shelves and corralling shopping carts, and he’s never once complained about having to grow up before he was ready.

“Hey.” He drops his backpack by the door and asks softly, “How’s our girl?”

“Tired but okay,” I report, pulling the hot casserole from the oven. “She ate up the lunch that you made her.”

“Good.” He settles on the couch beside her, and she sits up to curl into his side. At the table, Alicia is finally making some headway on her essay, and Dane has finished his math sheet.

We’ll make it. Somehow, if we all stick fiercely together, we’ll make it if we all stick together.

Dinner is a family affair around that table.

The conversation flows around homework and weekend plans and Alicia’s upcoming school project.

For forty-five minutes, we’re just a normal family sharing a meal, and this is my favorite time of day.

It’s only when I start clearing the dishes that reality creeps back in.

“I better get ready.” I rinse plates in the sink, not looking at any of them. “Adrian, can you handle bedtime?”

“Of course.” He’s already checking homework and herding everyone toward the sofa to watch TV. “Maisie’s meds are set out, and I’ll make sure everyone’s asleep by ten.”

I head to my bedroom, where my work clothes hang in the closet like a costume for a role I hate playing. The shiny black pants are too tight, the pink top too low-cut, but they’re what my boss expects his female staff to wear. Sex sells, especially in a dive bar on the wrong side of Vegas.

I change quickly, avoiding my reflection in the mirror.

I know from experience that the woman staring back at me will look older than twenty-six.

I pin my strawberry blonde hair up, apply makeup that makes my eyes look bigger and bluer, my lips inviting, and try to transform myself into someone who smiles easily and doesn’t mind being called “sweetheart” by drunks.

But the transformation never gets easier.

“You look pretty, Robin.” Maisie’s voice makes me turn. She’s standing in my doorway, wrapped in her blanket like a tiny ghost.

“Thank you, baby. But you should be resting.”

“I know. I just wanted to say goodnight.” She hugs me carefully, and I breathe in the scent of her hair, the strawberry shampoo that we all use simply because it’s Maisie’s favorite, and we can’t afford more than one bottle. “I love you.”

“I love you too. More than all the stars in the sky.”

It’s our usual ritual, the thing I’ve said to each of them since they were small. She smiles and shuffles back toward her room, and I finish getting ready with tears threatening at the corners of my eyes.

I dab them away carefully, trying not to disturb my mascara. Rent’s due in five days and we’re already three weeks behind. So I better make tonight a good one if I want to keep my family together.

Murphy’s Bar squats between a pawn shop and a check-cashing place, its neon sign flickering erratically in the night. The parking lot is full of pickup trucks and beat-up sedans, and I take a deep breath before pushing through the heavy wooden door.

Inside, the bar is exactly what you’d expect—dim lighting, sticky floors, and the kind of atmosphere that makes everything feel slightly desperate. The jukebox plays classic rock at a volume just loud enough to make conversation pointless, and the air is thick with smoke despite the supposed ban.

“Shirley!” Logan waves from behind the bar, his familiar grin making me feel marginally better about being here.

Twenty-four years old and openly gay, Logan is the closest thing I have to a best friend.

He’s got bright blue hair that he styles with more product than I use in a month and a sharp tongue that he uses to deflect anything that might actually hurt.

He always keeps an eye out for me, calling over the bouncer if any of our customers get too handsy.

He calls me “Shirley” because he says I’m as innocent as Shirley Temple.

He’s not entirely wrong—he’s a lot more street-smart than I am, although I’ve learned a lot in a short time working at Murphy’s.

But there are some days, like today, when I feel I’ve lived a hundred lives already, trying to be all things for all people.

“Hey, gorgeous.” I stow my purse behind the bar. “Busy night?”

“The usual suspects.” He glances toward the pool table where a group of construction workers are arguing over a shot. “Plus some new faces.”

He gives a subtle nod and I glance toward the corner booth, immediately wishing I hadn’t. The man sitting alone there is probably in his fifties, with the kind of predatory stare that makes my skin crawl. He raises his beer bottle in a mock toast when he catches me looking.

“Great.” I paste on my customer service smile. “Another charmer. Hope he tips well.”

Time to get to work. I tug my top down a little so my boobs pop to their best advantage, and remind myself why I’m doing this.

For Adrian. For Alicia. For Dane and Maisie.

For my family. They’re more important than anything else in the world.

Including my dignity.