Page 7 of Her Cruel Empire (The Devil’s Plaything #1)

Robin

I follow the giant—his name is Leon, Eva told me—up the metal stairs into the private jet and am met with the blank eyes of a cluster of men in dark suits already seated in the forward cabin. There are at least six of them, all broad-shouldered, all silent, all dangerous.

“Keep going,” Eva’s voice behind me says, and I walk obediently through into the next section.

A heavy curtain separates their section from ours, and for a while I can hear them through the thin barrier.

They were speaking in what sounded like Russian to my untrained ear, their voices a low rumble.

Occasionally one of them laughs—harsh, unfunny sounds that make me flinch.

I catch fragments of other languages too, but not anything I recognize, though once or twice I identify some rapid-fire Italian.

Eva acts like they don’t exist. She’s settled across from me, completely absorbed in her phone, making calls, tapping out texts.

I’m so terrified I could die. But somehow, as soon as Eva Novak’s private jet takes off, I pass out right there in my seat.

I come to hours later in what feels like a gilded cage floating through the clouds. I stretch out my stiff neck and see Eva still conducting her business calls like she owns the world—which, judging by the deference in every voice that crackles through her phone, she might.

She hasn’t spoken to me once since takeoff. Not once.

I study her profile as she fires off instructions in what sounds like three different languages.

One is French, and another is Russian, I’m pretty sure.

I take in the sensual line of her jaw that tightens when she spits out words in yet a new language.

I watch the way her amber eyes narrow when someone displeases her.

Those clouds of dark hair that swallow the cabin lights like a black hole…

What have I done?

The question pounds through me. I sold myself to save my family, but watching Eva—really watching her—I’m starting to understand the magnitude of my mistake.

This isn’t some eccentric rich woman looking for companionship. This is a predator who bought herself a plaything. She’s a lot better looking than those men at the auction, and a lot wealthier, judging by the coin she dropped on me, but she’s not much different from them at heart.

And those men in the front of the plane? They’re her soldiers. Her personal army, men she can command and control with the flick of a finger.

Despite my fear, part of me is desperate to earn her attention.

“We’re beginning our descent,” the pilot announces, and Eva finally glances my way.

“You look green.” Her accent—not quite English, but not French or Russian, either—makes even casual observations sound like a judgment. “Don’t vomit on my upholstery.”

“I’m fine,” I lie, gripping the armrest as we bank sharply left.

She returns to her phone without another word.

We arrive at what I assume is another private airfield, because it looks like something from a spy movie—several sleek hangars and more men in dark suits who appear from nowhere to handle Eva’s luggage.

I take off my heels as a precaution before I make my way down the stairs on shaking legs, squinting in what seems to be late afternoon sun.

It was dark when we left Vegas. I have no idea how long I was sleeping on the plane.

Where are we?

“But what about customs?” I ask weakly as Eva beckons me toward a waiting car. “My passport?—”

She laughs. “Customs? Darling, you don’t officially exist. Enjoy the freedom. In you get.” She gestures at the car, and the driver steps forward to open the door for me.

The limo—because of course it’s another limo—is armor-plated and tinted so dark I’m surprised I can see out when I climb inside. Leon sits in the front again, but Eva slides in right beside me, her thigh brushing mine. I catch her scent: something expensive and heady.

It’s very…her.

“How long is the drive?” I venture as we pull away from the airfield.

“An hour. Maybe more.” She doesn’t look up from her phone. “Try to enjoy the scenery.”

But there isn’t much to see—just rolling hills that grow wilder and more desolate as we climb into dark and forested terrain. The sun begins to set behind us, painting everything in shades of blood and shadows.

Then we reach a village.

It’s like stepping into a fairy tale. Not the Disney kind, but the original Brothers Grimm version, where children get eaten or disappear in the woods.

Narrow streets wind between ancient stone houses with pointed roofs and dark windows.

Laundry flutters like ghosts from balconies.

The limo has to slow right down as it passes through, so that I get a good look at everything.

And the people...

They turn to watch as our convoy passes, faces pale in the twilight. An old woman dressed in black from foot to shawled head clutches a rosary to her chest. A man pushes his daughter behind him, shielding her with his body. Another woman actually crosses herself as we drive by.

“Why are they doing that?” I whisper.

Eva’s smile is sharp. “They still believe in monsters.”

The way she says it—like she’s proud of their fear—makes ice crawl up my spine.

Then the castle comes into view, and my breath catches.

It rises against the mountainside like something from a nightmare, black stones and soaring towers silhouetted against the darkening sky. A lake stretches below it, so still it looks like a dark mirror reflecting the castle’s tormented spires. Gothic windows stare down like hollow eyes.

“Welcome to my home,” Eva says softly, and for the first time since the plane, she’s looking at me. Really looking. “What do you think?”

I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. It’s beautiful and terrible and completely wrong , like a poison apple that gleams too bright.

“It’s...” I swallow hard. “It’s very big.”

“Indeed it is.”

The gates swing open with a groan of metal on stone, and I notice that for all its antiquity, the gates are electric. We pull into a courtyard with walls high enough to feel claustrophobic despite the size of the space. It’s like driving into the Middle Ages.

We all get out, and I stand there in my bare feet again, not wanting to risk my heels on the flagstones. Eva sends one last text and then looks at me. “Come on.”

A woman emerges from the main entrance as we head towards it, and she’s tall, severe-looking, dressed in a slim-fitting black dress. She exchanges rapid words with Eva in that language I can’t identify, then turns to me with eyes like winter.

“This is Mrs. Kovacs,” Eva says. “She’ll show you to your room.”

“My room?” I blink at her. “Aren’t we—I mean, I thought?—”

“I’ll see you at dinner later on.”

She’s already walking away, heels clicking on stone, Leon and her other shadows trailing behind her like a dark tide.

Mrs. Kovacs gestures for me to follow her, and I do—because what choice do I have? Through corridors lined with oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors, up a staircase that belongs in a cathedral, past suits of armor that make me glance back in case I catch them moving.

My room is at the end of a long hallway. After the darkness of the castle so far—for it is a castle, there’s no other word for it—I’m almost expecting a dungeon. But Mrs. Kovacs pushes open heavy wooden doors to reveal luxury beyond my wildest dreams.

A four-poster bed draped in midnight-blue silk dominates the space. Soft rugs cover gleaming hardwood floors. A fireplace tall enough to stand in burns with real logs, and French doors lead to a balcony overlooking that impossibly still lake.

“Dinner is at eight,” Mrs. Kovacs says in heavily accented English. “You will dress appropriately.”

Then she’s gone, closing the doors with a soft click that somehow sounds like a cell door locking.

I stand in the middle of all that opulence, shivering despite the fire’s warmth. My reflection stares back from a mirror framed in what looks like actual gold, a small-town girl caught in a fairy tale that’s turning darker by the minute.

And then, despite the fact that I slept so much on the plane, exhaustion hits me like a Mack truck. The fear, the adrenaline, the sheer unreality of the last twenty-four hours crashes down all at once. I collapse onto the bed, sink into silk and down, and close my eyes.

Just for a minute.

Just to gather my strength.

I dream of her—amber eyes glowing in the firelight, her mouth cruel and tender, her hands reaching for me. In my dream, Eva touches my face with fingers that burn like brands, whispers words in languages I don’t understand, but somehow know mean danger.

I startle awake to darkness and the sound of rain against the windows.

A clock somewhere in the hallway outside chimes—nine times.

Shit. I slept through dinner.

But as I sit up, blinking in the firelight, I realize something else. The smell of food. Rich, savory, making my stomach clench with hunger.

A tray sits on the table by the window—roasted meat, vegetables in butter, bread that’s still warm. And wine. A whole bottle of wine that looks very expensive.

There’s a note beside the tray, written in Eva’s bold handwriting:

You missed dinner. Don’t make a habit of disappointing me.

– E

I should be afraid. I am. But I also find myself smiling. Because even with the little I know about the woman who bought me, I’m sure she would simply have woken me if she really expected me at dinner.

She saw I was exhausted. She let me sleep, and made sure I was still fed. And the idea that she was thinking of me at all makes me warmer inside.

Maybe Eva Novak isn’t just a beautiful billionaire predator.

Maybe things will be better than I thought. They can’t be worse . I expected pain and misery, not…this. Whatever this is.

I eat slowly, savoring the flavors even as I struggle to identify them, watching the rain streak down the windows. A half glass of wine makes me warm and drowsy, but I force myself to stay alert. To think.

When I’m done, I explore. The bathroom is made up of marble and gold, with a tub deep enough to swim in and bronze-tinted mirrors that must be very kind to me, because I know I’m a mess but I look decent in their reflections.

The towels are softer than clouds. The soaps smell like fresh garden flowers.

I go back into the main bedroom to explore, and then I open the door to the walk-in closet.

It’s full. Completely full. Dresses in silk and velvet, shoes in every style imaginable, and in drawer after drawer, lingerie that makes me flush just looking at it.

But before I can explore further, there’s a knock at the bedroom door. “Come in,” I call, expecting Mrs. Kovacs.

But it’s Eva who enters, and the sight of her steals my breath all over again.

She’s changed into something that manages to be both relaxed and devastating at the same time: a dark red wrap made for lounging in, but that clings in all the right places, and her hair is swept up to show the elegant line of her neck.

Her amber eyes travel from my bare feet, over my auction dress, to my face, all with an intensity that makes me shiver.

“I wanted to make sure you had settled in,” she says at last.

“I’m sorry I missed dinner. I was more tired than I realized.”

“Jet lag.” She moves closer, circling me. “It affects everyone differently.”

She stops in front of me, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her eyes. Close enough to smell that dangerous perfume.

She almost reaches for me, fingers twitching—then pulls back.

“Do you have any questions about your…situation?” she asks.

My situation. Such a delicate way to put it.

“Why me?” The question tumbles out before I can stop it. “I’m not exactly your type.”

“And what do you think my type is?”

“Beautiful. Sophisticated. Like—like you. The kind of woman who belongs in a place like this.” I gesture around the room. “Not a kindergarten teacher-wannabe from Nevada who’s never been out of the country.”

“You’re right,” she says. “You’re not my usual flavor.” My heart sinks, but she reaches out, traces the line of my jaw with one finger. “But sometimes a palate cleanser is exactly what’s needed. Something simple after too much rich food.”

Is that what I am? A palate cleanser?

“Have you ever been with a woman, Robin?”

The question catches me off guard, heat flooding my cheeks. “I mean—yeah. What they said at the auction, that I was a virgin, it was just?—”

“I wasn’t at the auction. I sent Leon in to buy you.” She says it so casually that I can’t be offended. “But you’re not widely experienced?”

“No. I’ve been too busy to have time for relationships.”

Something flickers in her eyes. Something that might be surprise, or interest, or hunger. “Busy doing what?”

The question seems innocent enough, but something in her voice makes me wary. Still, I answer honestly.

“Working. Two jobs. My sister Maisie needs a lot of medical care, which I need to pay for, and…” I trail off, feeling like I’ve said way too much as Eva’s face goes completely still.

Arctic, in fact.

“How admirable.”

She sounds so cold compared to before that I take an involuntary step back. “Did I say something wrong?”

She almost speaks. Almost explains. But instead, she walks to the French doors that lead to the balcony.

“There are rules here,” she says without looking at me. Her voice is flat, empty of the playful heat that was there moments before. “One rule, actually. Only one that matters.”

She turns back to me, and I see once more the ice queen I glimpsed in Vegas. Beautiful. Untouchable.

Dangerous.

“There is a door in this castle that is locked,” she says. “You are never— never —to open it. Never try to unlock it. Never even consider it. Do you understand?”

I nod mutely.

“Say it.”

“I won’t open the locked door.”

“Good.” She moves toward the door, then pauses. “Of course, you’re not a prisoner here, Robin. You can go anywhere in the castle, explore the grounds, take a boat out on the lake if you like. But that door must remain unopened.”

“Why?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

Eva’s eyebrow raise is sharp as a knife.

“Because I said so. And in my house, my word is law.” She studies me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in those amber eyes.

“Come. I’ll give you a tour of the castle so you won’t get lost. You don’t want to wander into the wrong place by accident. That would be…inconvenient.”

The way she says “inconvenient” makes my blood run cold and hot at the same time.

She extends her hand—an invitation or a command, I can’t tell which. When I hesitate, her smile turns predatory.

“Unless you prefer to stumble around in the dark alone?”

I take her hand. Her fingers are warm, strong, and they close around mine like a velvet trap.

“Now, then,” she murmurs, as she leads me toward the door. “Let me show you my domain, little bird. All the places you’re allowed to flutter…and the one place you’re not.”