Page 8 of Her Cruel Empire (The Devil’s Plaything #1)

Eva

T his is my favorite part. The tour. The reveal.

Watching their faces transform as they realize the magnitude of what they’ve stumbled into.

Most women I bring here are used to luxury, but even they are left impressed by the grandeur of Castle Blacklake.

But Robin? Robin still has that wide-eyed innocence that tells me she’s going to be left speechless.

Robin stands in the Great Hall like a lost angel, those impossibly blue eyes taking in the centuries of Novak power that surrounds her. The storm outside is black and furious, and she actually jumps at a crack of lightning overhead.

After I’ve explained the Great Hall to her—my preferred sitting place in the evenings—I lead her straight to the forbidden wing.

“You must never come in here,” I tell her.

She bites her lower lip and nods with serious eyes.

“This door here—” I show her. “—is always locked. You will not attempt to open it. But just about everywhere else in the castle is open to you, if you want to explore.”

Then I take her away from that wing and lead her instead through corridors lined with portraits of my ancestors—men and women whose names are whispered in equal measures of fear and respect.

“This is Katarina Novak,” I say, stopping before a portrait of a raven-haired woman in red silk. “She eliminated a family of Russian aristocrats in 1847. All of them. Even the children.”

Robin’s sharp intake of breath is sweet. “Why?”

“They poisoned her husband at a dinner party.” I smile, letting the family resemblance show. “Katarina believed in comprehensive responses to disrespect.”

We walk on.

“This is Erszebet Novak,” I say, stopping before a portrait much more stylized than that of Katarina.

Her pale skin seems to glow against the dark paint, and her severe face suggests secrets that have been buried for centuries.

“She was a Hungarian noblewoman who married into the family but ruled our ancestral lands alone after her husband’s death in 1578. They called her the Blood Rose.”

Robin’s eyebrows twitch together. “Dare I ask why?”

“There were many rumors about her. Beautiful young women from the village would come to serve here at Castle Blacklake, and were never seen again. The Church accused her of witchcraft, of bathing in the blood of virgins—but her noble title saved her from the stake.” I smile, letting the family resemblance show in the curve of my lips.

“So…what happened to her?”

“They were transporting her to a more remote castle where she was to live out her life in solitary confinement. But when the procession passed through the village below—the same one we drove through—the villagers attacked the carriage.” I trace the ornate frame with one finger.

“The villagers had their own ideas about justice. They tore her apart with their bare hands.”

Robin’s face pales. “That’s horrible.”

“That was life back then. Though some say she cursed the bloodline of every man who touched her as she died. The village below is still slightly over-populated by women, even now.”

I don’t mention the fact that it’s really the various wars that have depleted the area of men. It’s too much fun watching her eyes go wide and her mouth make that perfect little “o” of fear.

We continue on, and the ancestral museum also makes Robin’s lips part in shock.

Behind glass, weapons and artefacts from different times and places gleam.

A dagger with a ruby-encrusted hilt. A golden chalice stolen from a rival family’s estate before it was burned to the ground.

The signet ring of a Romanian prince who thought he could cheat us in a territorial agreement.

“This is incredible,” she breathes, stopping before a display case containing a collection of ornate pistols.

“These are from the Kozlov collection. Before we acquired their territory in 1923.” I step close enough that she shivers. “My great-grandfather was particularly fond of irony. He used their own weapons to eliminate them.”

She glances at me, then around the room once more, and there’s something in her expression—not fear, exactly, but a dawning awareness. “There are a lot of weapons in here.”

“Naturally. It is our family business, making and distributing arms.”

The library makes her gasp in the most satisfying manner.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with first editions and manuscripts and books bound in suspect material.

But it’s not just literature—there are ledgers detailing arms deals that shaped wars, correspondence with heads of state, historic contracts sealed in blood. Literally.

I watch her process this information, see the questions she wants to ask—and doesn’t. In the billiard room, I take a casual shot. The balls scatter in calculated chaos, a demonstration of my control. “Do you play?” I ask.

“Not really. I hung around a few pool halls when I was a kid, but…” She shrugs, and her voice carries that apologetic tone that makes me want to teach her confidence along with everything else.

“Billiards is about reading angles, understanding the force required, predicting outcomes. Essential skills in my world.”

And still she doesn’t ask those questions milling around behind her eyes.

The rest of the games room showcases centuries of entertainment and strategy.

A chess set carved from ivory and obsidian, their pieces representing a real battle fought by my ancestors.

A roulette wheel that’s seen fortunes won and lost, lives traded like poker chips.

Even card hands that have decided the fate of territories.

“My father once won control of a trade port with this single hand of poker,” I tell her as she looks at the cards displayed in a glass box. “The losing family’s patriarch put a gun to his head rather than honor the debt.”

Robin’s eyes widen. “That’s awful.”

“That’s business. Honor your debts, or face the consequences.” I wait a beat before adding, “We took the port anyway, of course.”

“Your father,” she says, and I stiffen instinctively. I shouldn’t have mentioned him. “Where?—”

I cut her off neatly. “My father is dead. He was shot in Paris some years ago. Killed in a hit.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says, because of course she does.

“It’s not your place to be sorry. You didn’t know him. Nor do you know me.”

“I don’t know you yet ,” she corrects me gently. “And I’m sorry, all the same. My mother died a few years ago, so I?—”

“My mother died giving birth to me. So I win the Dead Parent competition, unless your father is dead, too.”

She doesn’t flinch at my acerbic tone. She just studies me for a moment with those big blue eyes and then gives a slightly bitter smile. “My dad isn’t dead, just a deadbeat. Ran out on his wife and kids a long time ago. So yeah. I guess you do win.”

I let that hollow victory hang between as I guide her back to the Great Hall.

The fire crackles in the massive stone hearth, casting dancing shadows across walls that have seen celebrations and executions, negotiations and seductions.

Tonight, it will be the scene of Robin’s initiation into my world.

The huge window overlooks the lake, and the storm has died down now, allowing the moon to peek out here and there behind scudding clouds. The black water of the lake that gave the castle its name stretches toward the forest beyond. Robin moves to the window, studying the view.

“It’s beautiful,” she says softly. “Kind of scary, but beautiful.” And she glances over her shoulder, clearly adding a mental, Like you .

I settle into my usual armchair. “Beauty and terror often go hand in hand.”

At last the question comes out. “Who are you?” she asks.

“I told you. I am Eva Novak. I am the head of my family’s business. We are an ancient family, as you have seen.”

“Right. And where are we?”

“We are at Castle Blacklake. Of course, that’s an English translation. But it’s close enough.”

“But which country are we in?”

I give a lazy shrug. “Countries, nations, borders…these are trivialities that change with the whim of politics. The villagers below simply call themselves ‘the people of the black lake.’ And this is the castle of the black lake. Geographically, we are nestled into the foot of the Carpathian mountain range.” I watch her closely without seeming to and, as I expected, her face stays blank.

“Simply put, little bird, you are in my world now. You don’t need to worry about anything else.

And all you are required to do is what I tell you. Can you do that?”

“I…yes?” She nervously turns back to the view, though I can tell she’s watching my reflection in the dark window.

“Robin.”

“Yes?” She turns back, blue eyes already darkening with something that makes my pulse quicken. She knows. Somehow, she already knows what’s coming.

“Take off your clothes.”

Even from across the room I can hear her breath catching, and her hands instinctively move to wrap around her own waist. But she doesn’t flee. Doesn’t protest. Instead, she stands there, trembling like a deer that’s caught the scent of a predator.

“Right here?” Her voice is barely a whisper.

“Right here.” I take a slow sip of wine, savoring both the vintage and the moment. “Come over by the fire. I want to see you properly, and you will be warmer.”

She walks over with more resolve than I expected. She’s nervous, yes, but not paralyzed by it. And as her fingers play with her hem, I can tell she’s just hesitant. It’s not for erotic effect.

And yet, it’s having a very erotic effect on me.

When was the last time someone undressed for me without worrying about angles and poses? When was the last time someone looked at me through their lashes with genuine anticipation instead of performed submission?

And then she pulls up that trashy dress and peels off the world she came from, revealing the goddess underneath. A goddess in simple white cotton underwear that is sexier than any lace frippery could possibly be. She takes off the bra next. And then, at last, the panties.

By the time she’s naked, my mouth has gone dry.

Christ. She’s perfect. Soft and luscious, strawberry blonde hair tumbling around her shoulders, the color perfectly matched by the curls between ample thighs. She’s…she’s real. Real in a way that makes every other woman I’ve ever looked at feel like a pale imitation.

I clear my throat. “Lie down.” I gesture to the thick rug before the fireplace.

She sinks down, curling up on herself, and I have to grip my wine glass tighter to keep from reaching for her immediately. The firelight plays across her skin, adorning her in shades of gold and brandy. She’s art. She’s sin. She’s mine .

“Lie down. On your back.”

She seems to have to force herself to let go of her knees, let her legs straighten out, and then rolls onto her back, staring at the ceiling.

But I don’t want her so stiff. I give her a few moments until the warmth from the fire and the dreamy softness of the rug do their work, and I see her muscles relax.

“You’re very beautiful, Robin,” I say softly. She makes a face, a scoffing expression that I catch before she wipes it away. “You don’t believe it?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Touch yourself.”

Robin’s cheeks flush, but her hand drifts down. And I want to see what she likes, how she pleasures herself when no one’s watching.

“Show me,” I murmur, settling deeper into my chair. “Show me what you do when you’re alone in bed, or in the shower, thinking about the things that make your sweet little clit throb. And take your time, little bird. We have all the time in the world. I want you dripping for me.”

She’s clearly unused to displaying herself so intimately, so it takes a while for her to relax once more.

But eventually her fingers begin to find the places that make her breath catch.

She’s giving away her secrets, and the intimacy of it, the hint of unwilling reveal, sends sparks through me.

It’s that heady sensation of conquest. Dominion.

Power .

“Slower,” I tell her, watching as her back arches slightly. “And open your legs. I want to see everything.”

She follows my guidance, her breathing growing shallow as her touches become more deliberate. The soft sounds she makes, little gasps and whimpers, are genuine, unperformed. This is not a show for my benefit. Or at least, not entirely. I can see her pink cunt glistening as she moves.

“Circle higher,” I suggest, and watch as she adjusts her technique. “Now press down…yes, like that.”

Her eyes flutter closed, lost in sensation. But I want her attention.

“Look at me,” I command, and her gaze snaps to mine.

She’s close now—I can see it in the flush spreading across her chest, in the way her breathing has turned ragged. And every muscle in my own body is coiled tight too as I watch her spiral toward the edge.

But I’m not ready for this to end.

“Stop.”

Robin’s hand freezes, her body trembling with need. The frustrated whimper that escapes her throat is music to my ears.

I stand and walk to where she lies sprawled on the rug. Looking down, I let my gaze caress her where my fingers want to follow, and enjoy the way she shivers under my view.

“Your pleasure belongs to me now,” I tell her. “I decide when you receive it. I decide how much. I decide everything.”

Her eyes are dark with need and confusion, but she nods. A quick learner.

I wonder if she has any idea how badly I want to taste her. She’s beautiful, desperate, and completely at my mercy.

I return to my chair and take up my wine glass again.

Then I slide off my shoe and extend my foot slowly, placing my toes directly over her slippery folds. “You’re mine, little bird.”

I curl my toes, just slightly, and Robin gives a soft, shuddering sigh.

Everything about her makes me want to break her. Destroy her completely. Show her how foolish her innocence is.

But for now I simply pause, my toes pleasantly warmed by her hot, wet cunt, as I let her feel how vulnerable she really is.