Page 26 of Her Cruel Empire (The Devil’s Plaything #1)

Eva

I wake with the Paris dawn to the sound of Robin’s soft breathing, her body warm and pliant against mine. Once again, she sleeps like a child—completely trusting, completely unguarded. In the dim light, she looks impossibly young, impossibly innocent.

Too innocent for this world.

And definitely too good for someone like me.

I slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her. As I dress for the day’s meetings—I can’t blow them off again, unfortunately; even I can see that would be unreasonable—I feel a simmering warmth in my chest whenever I look at her.

It’s dangerous to want her like this. Dangerous to keep her so close, to let her sleep in my bed, to pretend could be anything more than a temporary arrangement.

But when Robin appears in the doorway, tousled and smiling, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and those white cotton panties that drive me crazy, I wonder what it would be like to see this every morning.

“No more playing hooky?” she asks, her voice husky with sleep.

“Just a quick meeting,” I say, adjusting my cufflinks. “Nothing exciting.”

She pouts theatrically. “All work and no play makes Eva a very boring billionaire.”

I smirk, moving toward her. “We’ve been playing for two days straight. You’re spoilt, little bird.”

“Maybe. But you’re the one who’s spoiling me.” She reaches up to straighten my collar, her fingers gentle against my throat. “Can I come with you? I promise I’ll be good.”

The word ‘good’ on her lips does things to me that I’m not ready to examine. “I suppose you can wait in the car,” I concede. “But you’re not coming into the meeting. We could have coffee and pastries somewhere afterwards.”

Her face lights up like I’ve just given her the world. And my heart lights up along with it.

In the car, Robin chatters lightly—the pastries she still has to try, the museums she’d like to visit, the way the light hits the Seine in the morning. I listen, half-amused by her enthusiasm, half-distracted by a growing sense of unease.

Because something feels off today. The streets seem quieter than usual, the shadows deeper. And in the front seat, Leon keeps checking his phone, his jaw tight with tension.

“This afternoon,” I tell Robin, trying to push away the anxiety, “we’ll do something fun. Anything you want.”

Robin grins. “You in a theme park? That I’d pay to see.”

The image is so absurd—me, Eva Novak, standing in line for a roller coaster—that I actually laugh. The sound surprises even me.

“I don’t do theme parks,” I say. “But I’m sure we can find something more civilized.”

“We’ll see about that.” Robin’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “I’m very persuasive.”

Yes, she is. That’s the problem.

The car pulls up outside a nondescript office building in the 8th arrondissement. The meeting should be straightforward. A quick discussion to confirm last year’s rates plus inflation, a handshake, and we’ll be done.

Leon steps out first and comes around to open my door, looking up and down the street. He gives me a nod and I step out of the car, lift my face to take in the sunshine.

The crack of gunfire splits the morning air.

“Down!” Leon roars, suddenly filling the doorway as he shoves me back inside. A bullet grazes the doorframe where my head was a split second ago, leaving a smoking gouge in the metal.

Leon grunts as another shot takes him in the shoulder, blood blooming across his shirt. He slams the door shut and pounds on the partition.

“Drive! Now!”

The driver floors it, tires screeching against asphalt as we rocket away from the curb. Robin screams and grabs me, her nails biting into my sleeve.

Adrenaline is flooding my system, but I take the time to breathe, to look back, take in the details that are disappearing so quickly. And out the back window, I catch a glimpse of figures in dark clothing melting back into the shadows.

Not a sniper this time. Up close and personal.

The car races through the twisting streets of Paris, the driver taking corners at speeds that would make a Formula One racer nervous. Robin clings to me, her body trembling with shock and fear as she begs me over and over again to tell her I’m alright.

“I’m fine,” I tell her, though I’m not sure I believe it myself. “And we’re safe now.”

But we’re not safe. We’ll never be safe. That’s the reality of my world, and I was a damn fool to think otherwise.

Back at the hotel, Leon waves off the doctor I call, insisting the bullet only grazed him. But I can see the pain in his eyes, the way he favors his left arm. He could have died protecting me.

And Robin could have been caught in the crossfire, just as he warned me.

I pace the suite, my mind a whirlwind. Who knew about the meeting? Who had access to my schedule? The list of possibilities is too long. Was the shooter the same person who tried to kill my father, or was this attempt on my life orchestrated by someone else?

I have too many enemies to even make a guess.

Robin sits on the edge of the bed, watching me with those blue eyes full of concern. “I’m so relieved you’re alright,” she says softly.

I spin around, my composure finally cracking. “You don’t understand. You can’t possibly understand how dangerous my world is. You shouldn’t even be here.”

“Eva—”

“This is what I am!” I snap, my voice rising. “This is what my life looks like. Bullets and blood and people who want me dead. And you—” I gesture at her, this soft, beautiful woman who has no place in my darkness. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

It’s not fair, not at all. I am the one who’s going to get her killed. But even now, I can’t admit that out loud.

I need to blame, need to rage. But Robin stands, moving toward me with that same determined walk that undid me the first night I met her. “I’m here,” she tells me. “I’m here now.”

I understand her meaning all too well. She is here, now, but won’t always be. So I should take comfort from her now, while I can.

“Robin,” I whisper, but she’s already kissing me, her lips soft and warm against mine.

It’s not soft. It’s not shy. It’s desperate. Fierce. Her mouth crushes against mine like she’s trying to hold me here, in this moment, in this life.

And I let her.

No—I need her.

I grab her waist, drag her against me, my hands already fisting in her hair.

We kiss like we’re coming back from the dead.

Like this is the only way to prove survival.

I can’t get close enough. My mouth parts hers wider, hungrier, deeper.

She moans into me and I want to make her repeat that noise over and over.

I pull back just enough to grab her shirt and pull it off over her head, yank down the plain white bra so that her breasts bounce free, flushed and soft and perfect.

I shove my hands down the back of her panties and cup her ass, lifting her into me, grinding our bodies together through layers of silk and cotton and fear.

But it’s not enough.

She reaches for my shirt, and I help her peel the silk blouse from my arms, then the bra. We pull away only long enough to strip down to bare skin, and then we kiss-stumble our way to the bed.

I climb on top and straddle her hips, pressing her down into the mattress. She gazes up at me like I’m a miracle, not a monster. Her hands come to my waist, gentle.

I bend to kiss her—slower now. Deep. She parts her lips with a sigh and lets me in like I belong there. My fingers drift over her skin, the curve of her hip, the hollow of her throat, the soft slump of her breasts.

She feels like life. Like something I didn’t even know I missed until now.

I trail kisses lower. Down her belly, her thighs. I bite the inside of her leg and she gasps, her fingers grabbing up the sheets. I spread her with both hands and just look at her for a moment, taking her in. Open. Flushed. Glorious.

And then I bend my head and taste her. She arches immediately, moaning like the sound is being torn from her lungs. I flatten my tongue and lick her from base to clit, then again, again. I don’t tease. I don’t pace myself. I devour.

Her thighs tremble. Her hips rock. I pin her down and keep going, sucking her clit into my mouth, then flicking it with the tip of my tongue until she’s babbling my name.

When I feel her getting close, I murmur, “Come for me.”

She does—so fast, so hard, it makes me dizzy just watching her fall apart. I move to climb up her body, to kiss her and hold her, but she stops me.

“Lie back,” she says, her voice low and wrecked. “Let me. Please?”

I freeze. That’s not how this goes. That’s not who I am. But something in her eyes—steady, reverent—cuts through all my armor.

So I do it.

I lie back. I open my legs. And I let her explore me, find me out.

Robin climbs over me, kissing her way down my neck, my chest. She sucks my nipple into her mouth and I moan aloud, the sound ripping out of me like it’s been waiting years to be set free.

Then she moves lower, between my thighs, and her fingers find me—wet, aching, raw. She slides two fingers inside me, slow and deep, and watches my face as she does it. I can’t look away.

She curls her fingers, and I buck. “Let go,” she whispers. “I’ve got you.”

I come with a cry, back arching, breath hitching, my pulse pounding in my ears. She kisses my thighs, then my belly, then slides back up to snuggle into me carefully.

This is more than I’ve ever allowed myself to feel before. This is what it means to be consumed by someone, to lose yourself so completely that you don’t know where you end and they begin.

We cuddle together, our heads resting on the same pillow and our arms around each other. I can feel her heartbeat slowly returning to normal, feel the way her breathing evens out. Mine does too.

So someone took a shot at me. It’s not the first time. I’ll find them and I’ll make them regret their actions. Make an example of them to everyone else. There’s no reason I can’t, after we obtain the footage—there were cameras everywhere?—

My phone buzzes on the nightstand.

I almost ignore it. Almost let it go to voicemail. But years of training are hard to break, and I reach for it with my free hand, not bothering to check the caller ID. “Yes?”

“Eva.” The voice on the other end is Stefan’s, but I’ve never heard him sound like this—broken, hollow, barely holding together. “Eva,” he says again, and I know. Before he says another word, I know.

“No,” I say softly.

“I’m so sorry.”

“No.” The word comes out sharper, more desperate, and I sit straight up in bed. Robin sits too, her hand finding mine, eyes wide and worried.

And Stefan keeps talking, keeps pushing terrible reality into my ear. “He died half an hour ago, Eva. Zoltan is gone.”

I end the call and let my hand drop to my lap, the phone slipping from my fingers.

“Eva? What’s wrong?”

I stare at the wall. “My father,” I say mechanically.

Robin’s hand tightens on mine. “Eva?”

“He’s gone.”

This is my real world. The one filled with death and destruction, where hope is just another cruelty. That’s what hurts the most. I let myself hope. I let myself believe I could keep Robin, wake my father, keep everything together. But I was wrong.

I’m always wrong about the things that matter most.