Page 25 of Her Cruel Empire (The Devil’s Plaything #1)

Eva

I wake suddenly, from deep sleep to awareness, and find Robin curled into me in my own bed, one hand splayed across my chest, her strawberry blonde hair all over her face. Our late night encounter comes back to me and I suppress a groan as my clit gives a valiant, suggestive throb.

No. Even I will need more than a few hours’ sleep to recover from the force of that orgasm. After seeing Dimi flirting so outrageously with Robin yesterday morning, I have been determined to make her remember who she belonged to.

And that, I suppose, is why I took her into my own bed again last night.

I’ve never slept next to another person before.

I always assumed I wouldn’t be able to, that I’d lie awake all night waiting for the knife, for the pillow over the face.

But with Robin, I slept deeply and soundly and even dreamlessly, which is a blessing.

My dreams are never pleasant.

I run my hand lazily over her bare shoulder, marveling at the softness of her skin. She doesn’t stir—Robin sleeps like the innocent she is, deeply and without fear. Perhaps her example was what let me sleep so heavily.

When did I last sleep peacefully? I can’t remember.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I reach for it carefully, not wanting to wake her.

A text from Leon: Your meeting with the Marseille contacts is due to begin in ten minutes.

I type back: Move it. Move all of them.

His reply comes immediately: Are you unwell?

No , I respond. I am busy.

And then I turn off the phone and set it down. Let them wait. Let them sweat. That’s negotiation 101—never appear too eager, never let them think they have the upper hand. The Marseille crew needs our weapons more than we need their money.

And I need to stay here with Robin sleeping beside me more than I need anything.

She shifts beside me, her breathing still deep and even. Asleep, she looks impossibly young, impossibly pure. What is she doing in my world? What am I doing letting her stay?

But I know the answer. It’s always the same: I’m being selfish. I’m taking something I want. This is not unusual behavior for me. But blowing off work? Twice in a row?

I’ve never done that before.

Ever.

An hour later, Leon enters the suite’s sitting room while Robin showers. His expression is thunderous.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says without preamble.

I don’t look up from my coffee. “Making buyers sweat is a valid tactic, Leon. You know this.”

“It’s not the buyers I’m worried about.” His tone sharpens with something approaching insubordination. “It’s you.”

“Then let me assure you, you have nothing to worry about on my behalf.”

“You’re being reckless.”

That gets my attention. I straighten, meeting his gaze with the full force of my authority. “I have it under control.”

“Do you?” He steps closer, lowering his voice.

“You are purposely riling up the very people you came here to calm. What if Robin gets caught in the crossfire? What if whoever tried to kill your father decides to finish what they started, and remove the Novak Consortium from consideration altogether?”

My fingers tighten on my coffee cup, but I can’t dismiss his concern entirely. Leon has taken bullets for me. He’s earned the right to speak plainly, more than anyone else in this world. But still?—

“What are you suggesting?” I ask coolly. “And watch your tone,” I add.

“I am suggesting you remember who you are. What you are.” His eyes are hard as granite. “This girl…she’s making you soft.”

“Soft?” I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. “I’ve postponed a few meetings, Leon. I’m hardly abandoning the empire.”

He crosses his arms. “You are choosing her over everything else. But worse, you are pretending not to. Yesterday, you ran around Paris as though you had no cares in the world, and you refused to let your security detail come with you up the Tower. All of this is unwise behavior, and I would not be doing my duty to you—to the Consortium—if I did not point this out.”

From deep in the suite, I hear the shower stop running, because I’ve been attuned to it the whole time. Robin will emerge soon, with flushed skin and damp hair, smelling like expensive hotel soap. The thought makes my pulse quicken.

“Fine,” I say quickly. “You’ll accompany us today, wherever I choose to go. But go and wait downstairs.”

Leon nods, satisfied at last, and leaves the room.

I try to brush off the feeling that I’ve been chastised like some naughty schoolgirl.

I take Robin to the Paris I love—not the tourist’s version with its crowded monuments and overpriced cafes, but my own carefully curated world.

We start at the Galerie Privée, a converted mansion where rare artworks hang in climate-controlled silence. The owner, Monsieur Dubois, opens the gallery exclusively for us—another perk of unlimited wealth and carefully cultivated connections.

Robin and I wander through rooms of luminous paintings, past Monet and Degas and Renoir and Cezanne. I find myself talking more than usual, explaining the art to her—impressionism’s softness, cubism’s beautiful chaos, the raw emotion of abstract expressionism.

And she soaks it all up like a sponge. She doesn’t belong in my world, and yet she fits.

She moves through the gallery with genuine appreciation, asking thoughtful questions, making connections I wouldn’t have expected.

There’s an intelligence in her that has nothing to do with formal education and everything to do with natural curiosity.

When she lingers before a particularly violent Picasso, I find myself sharing the story of how I acquired a Picasso of my own, involving a hand of cards in Monaco and the previous owner’s desperation. But as I end on a laugh, I see she doesn’t find the story as amusing as I do.

“Don’t you ever feel guilty?” she asks quietly. “Taking beautiful things from people who can’t afford to keep them?”

The question annoys me. “I preserve them. Without collectors like me, half these paintings would be rotting in attics or destroyed in wars.”

She turns away with a sad smile, but I hear her murmur, not intended for my ears, “Is that what you tell yourself?”

The words sting, but she’s already moved on. Still, those words follow me as we leave the gallery, a small splinter of doubt I can’t quite shake.

For lunch, I take her to Le Jardin Caché, a restaurant hidden behind unmarked doors in the Marais. The ma?tre d’ leads us to a private courtyard where ivy climbs ancient stone walls and the air is perfumed with roses.

Robin sips wine with her meal that stains her lips berry-red. Her laughter bubbles up like the champagne we began with, bright and effervescent.

“You’re staring,” she says, catching me watching her.

“I’m appreciating,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”

“And what exactly are you appreciating?”

Everything. The way you laugh. The way you see beauty in simple things. The way you make me feel human again.

Even the way you question and confront me.

“You look very beautiful today,” I say instead. “You are smiling at me like you mean it.”

She reaches across the table, her fingers brushing mine. “I do mean it. With you, I always mean it.”

In the afternoon, I take her to the best patisserie in Paris, and in the evening, we stroll along the Seine again. The water reflects the lights of the city, creating a second, secret Paris that shimmers and dances with each ripple.

Robin walks close beside me, her hand tucked into the crook of my arm. Leon and the other guards maintain their distance, but I still feel their presence like shadows. Until Robin, I never really noticed them.

“Can I ask you something?” Robin says softly.

“You can ask anything.”

“What’s your favorite memory of your father?”

The question catches me off guard. I rarely talk about Papa with anyone—the memories are too precious, too painful. But something about Robin’s voice, the way she asks, makes the words come easily.

“Budapest,” I hear myself saying. “I was eleven, maybe twelve. He took me with him on a business trip, and we stayed at this grand old hotel. After his meetings, he taught me chess in this smoky lounge filled with old men puffing on cigars and arguing century-old politics.”

I can still see it clearly—the worn leather chairs, the amber light swirling through the smoke of the cigars, my father’s hands moving pieces across the board.

“He told me strategy could win any war,” I continue. “That it wasn’t about being the strongest or the loudest, but about thinking three, four moves ahead of everyone else.”

Robin listens without interrupting, her attention complete and focused. When I finish, she rests her head on my shoulder, her hair soft against my cheek.

“He’d be proud of you now,” she whispers.

“I hope so,” I reply quietly.

“I know so.”

Back at the hotel, everything changes. The softness turns sharp as I think about what I want to do to Robin when I have her alone and in private once more. The elevator ride up is charged with electricity, Robin’s presence beside me all I can think about.

In the suite, I kiss her slowly, taste the beauty of the day on her lips.

They are soft and warm, tinged with wine.

I undress her in silence, hands gentle and exploring.

When I trace the curve of her waist, she shivers.

When she runs her fingers through my hair, I feel myself arching into her touch.

This isn’t about power or control or the terms of our arrangement. This is about connection, about the way she looks at me, the way her body fits against mine like we were made for each other.

Afterwards, we lie tangled in each other, Robin’s breathing already evening out toward sleep. I should send her back to her own room, maintain the boundaries I’ve spent years perfecting. Instead, I pull her closer, breathing in the scent of her hair.

For the first time in years, I allow myself to believe that maybe—just maybe—things will turn out okay.

Maybe my father will recover, his eyes will open, and he’ll smile at me one more time.

Maybe the person who tried to kill him will make a mistake, reveal themselves, give me the justice I’ve been hunting.

And maybe—even after thirty days—Robin might consider staying longer. Not as a purchased companion, but as something more. Something real.

Robin shifts, her hand finding mine beneath the covers. Her fingers intertwine with mine, and I feel something sharp and painful bloom in my chest, something that makes me want to cry out, though I suppress it.

This is dangerous. Yes.

But I don’t care anymore.

I’ve toppled kingdoms, held the world in my hands. I’ve made grown men weep and powerful women kneel. But none of it feels as terrifying—or as precious—as holding Robin in my arms.

And for the first time in years, I let myself hope. Not desire. Not need. Not want.

Simply hope .