Page 11 of Her Wicked Promise (The Devil’s Plaything #2)

Eva

T he day seems more overcast as we leave the cemetery, heavy clouds pressing down like a suffocating shroud.

My mind still churns from saying those final words to my father—from letting Robin witness me in that raw, unguarded moment.

The scent of rain hangs in the air, promising a storm to match the tempest in my chest.

I hadn’t intended for her to see me like that. Exposed. Vulnerable.

Robin walks beside me in silence until we reach the car. Then, with that small smile that never fails to unsettle me, she says, “You should come with me to the tavern in the village.”

I pause, studying her face. “Excuse me?”

“Show them you can walk in the day,” she continues, her blue eyes bright with something that might be mischief.

I blink, confused. “Walk in the day?”

Behind us, Leon makes a sound that sounds suspiciously like suppressed laughter. Robin rolls her eyes and shakes her head at both of us with a small smile. “Come on.”

Why am I letting her lead me like this? The question echoes through my mind as Robin sets off down the winding path toward the village, her strawberry-blonde hair the one bright thing in this gray day.

I should return to the castle. I have calls to make, reports to review, an empire to run.

Instead, I follow her. My boots crunch on the gravel path while Leon falls into step behind us, his presence a familiar comfort. But for once, his protection feels unnecessary. Robin’s warmth seems to create its own shield against the world’s darkness.

As we enter the village square, I feel the shift immediately. Conversations halt mid-sentence. Shopkeepers peer out from doorways like cautious woodland creatures. An old man crossing himself mutters what sounds like a prayer under his breath.

My sharp hearing catches fragments of whispered words in the local dialect: “Novak,” “protection,” “daughter.” The reverence in their voices is something I’ve grown accustomed to over the years, but today it sits differently on my shoulders. Heavier somehow.

“They’re afraid of you,” Robin observes, but without judgment.

“They should be,” I reply automatically. It’s what my father would have said. What he taught me to say.

But then Robin does something that surprises me.

She smiles at every person we pass—genuine, warm smiles accompanied by small waves and nods.

And to my absolute shock, several of them smile back.

An elderly woman hanging laundry calls out, “Good morning, Robin,” in accented English.

A young mother with a toddler on her hip offers a shy wave.

They know her name. They know her.

“How?” I ask, the single word sharper than I intended.

Robin glances at me, her expression innocent. “How what?”

“They know you.”

Her shoulders lift in a casual shrug. “I made friends with some of the kids one day. Which meant their parents had to talk to me too—even if we don’t speak the same language.”

The simple explanation shouldn’t affect me the way it does. But watching Robin navigate what is supposed to be my domain with an ease I’ve never possessed makes something uncomfortable twist in my chest. She belongs here in a way I never have, despite being born to rule this place.

“You lied to me,” she says casually as we reach the village square. “There’s no religious holiday today.”

“Do you want an apology?” I scoff.

“No,” she tells me. “I get why you did it.”

She “gets” it? Does she really? I want to argue, but it would be worse if she really did understand, if she knew that I didn’t want to chance her seeing me in that unguarded moment.

So I say no more about that and continue to dog her footsteps.

“What about here?” I ask, pointing to a pub. I’m getting tired of the whispers and stares.

Robin hesitates. “Maybe not that one. When I went in there once, they warned me that you abducted women from the village.”

I laugh. “Perhaps they need to ask themselves why those women were so anxious to disappear.”

“Let’s go in here,” Robin says diplomatically, suggesting another tavern. It sits at the heart of the village, its timber and stone construction weathered by centuries of mountain storms. The wooden sign above the door depicts a rampant wolf—the old symbol of protection in these parts.

Robin pushes open the heavy oak door, and I follow her into warmth scented with woodsmoke, roasted meat, and something that might be home-brewed ale. The interior is exactly what I expected—low wooden beams, rough-hewn tables, a crackling fire.

What I didn’t expect is the way conversation falters when the patrons see me. Not with fear this time, but with something deeper. Recognition. Respect. And underneath it all, genuine sorrow.

Before I can process what’s happening, an elderly woman approaches our table. Her weathered hands are gentle as she lays one over my gloved fingers, her eyes kind but tired.

“Your father was a hard man,” she tells me in our region’s dialect. “But he kept us safe. He kept us protected.”

My throat tightens unexpectedly, and for a moment I can’t breathe around the sudden ache in my chest.

“Thank you,” I manage.

But the woman isn’t the last of them. One by one, other villagers approach our table. A man with arms like tree trunks clasps my shoulder briefly. A young woman offers stammered condolences. An old man removes his cap and bows his head respectfully from the bar.

Their words are simple, honest, emotional: “He was great man.” “We will remember him.” “He will be much missed.”

I pull myself together and thank each of them with the same cool dignity my father would have expected. Their respect for Zoltan Novak—genuine, uncomplicated respect—settles over me like the warmth from the tavern fire.

It’s…comforting.

Robin, Leon, and I have settled at a table in the back near the fireplace, where the heat chases away the chill.

The innkeeper—who turns out to be the same elderly woman who first approached me—bustles over, before we’ve even ordered, with steaming bowls of stew, thick slices of dark bread, and mugs of ale that smell like herbs and honey.

“With our thanks,” she says. “For Zoltan’s daughter.”

I watch Robin thank the woman with that radiant smile, engaging her in a halting English conversation that involves more gestures than words but somehow conveys perfect understanding. The sight makes something in my chest squeeze tight.

“How do they know?” Robin asks quietly, once the woman has gone.

“About your father, I mean? I noticed when we came back from—” She cuts herself off and goes on instead, “After he died, the village was in mourning, too. Black ribbons and banners. But I thought no one knew he was, well…” She looks around guiltily as though someone might overhear.

“They knew,” Leon says simply. “And they will never speak of it to outsiders.”

The exchange should irritate me, with Leon’s inference that the villagers speak freely in front of Robin because she is not considered an outsider.

But she doesn’t even seem to pick it up, and so to avoid responding, I take a long drink of the ale.

I faintly taste the wildflowers of the region, familiar and welcome.

“Tell me more about these friends you made in the village,” I ask her instead.

Robin shrugs, tearing off a piece of bread.

“I met a girl called Mira up at the castle. She wanted to practice English with me. But down here in the village—I mean, they were kids. Kids don’t care about language barriers.

They just want someone to play with them.

And once the children like you, their parents usually at least try to be polite. ”

The casual explanation makes it sound so simple. Make friends with children. Smile at their parents. Show kindness without expecting anything in return.

It’s a completely alien worldview.

“You know, the village school is kind of run-down,” Robin continues conversationally. “Could use some new paint, maybe a weekend project to clean up the playground area a little.”

I scoff, the sound automatic. “You think I’m going to perform manual labor in a schoolyard?”

“Of course not,” Robin says, but there’s something in her tone that suggests she thinks I should consider it anyway.

“I just meant someone should look into it. These kids deserve better than crumbling walls and rusted swing sets. The wooden seesaw is rotted through. I think it must be as old as the village itself.”

Her words stick with me through the rest of our meal. Long after we’ve returned to the castle, after I’ve dismissed Leon and retreated to my study, I find myself staring into the fire and thinking about paint and playgrounds and children who smile at strangers.

The village school. The Novak family has always donated to it. A small thing in the grand scheme of Consortium business. Insignificant compared to arms deals and territorial disputes and the constant chess game of criminal enterprise.

But Robin’s voice echoes in my mind: “These kids deserve better.”

I’ve never in my life even thought about the village children. My own childhood was spent in education abroad, boarding schools and finishing schools and Oxford University…

When Leon knocks on my study door an hour later, I’m still just staring at the reports spread across my desk. “Come in.”

“You told me you were going to make a decision on the Swiss?” His voice carries the patient tone of a man who’s weathered decades of my mercurial moods.

“Get me a report on the village school,” I say. I need to feel like I’ve dealt with that once and for all, so I can clear my mind to make a decision about the wretched Swiss. “Find out what it needs. What it would cost to…improve it.”

Silence stretches between us. When I finally look up, Leon is regarding me closely. The corner of his mouth twitches in what could be a smirk, if he didn’t know better than to smirk at me.

“What?” I demand.

“Nothing,” he says, but the not-smirk lingers. “I’ll have the report on your desk by tomorrow morning.” He turns to leave, but pauses at the door. “She’s good for you,” he says quietly.

I bristle. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you don’t.” Leon’s tone is dry as desert sand. “Will that be all?”

I wave him away with more force than necessary, but he’s already closing the door behind him with that infuriating knowing expression.

Alone again, I turn back to my work, but the reports on my desk might as well be blank pages.

All I can think about is Robin’s smile when the villagers greeted her.

The way she spoke about children deserving better.

The casual assumption that someone should care about paint and playgrounds simply because they could .

My hand moves automatically, hovering over the buttons that will bring up the cameras. Allow me to find Robin.

To spy on her.

I snatch my hand back, then go to sit by the fire instead, settling deep into my chair. Outside, rain begins to patter against the windows, the promised storm finally arriving to wash the mountains clean.

Robin Rivers, I think, staring at my reflection in the dark glass. What are you doing to me?

I’m not supposed to worry about village schools or smile at children or care what ordinary people think of me beyond the healthy fear that keeps them in line.

Yes, I have my responsibilities to the villagers—I have a duty to protect them—but that’s for times of war . Our way of life is secure for the moment. The mountains are peaceful. I’ve executed my responsibilities to make sure things stay that way. I don’t owe them more than that.

But with Robin’s voice echoing in my memory, I can’t help wondering if she’s right. If showing kindness isn’t the weakness I’ve always despised it as.

Maybe it’s a strength.

The thought terrifies me. Because if Robin is right about this—about the villagers, about caring, about the possibility of connection beyond fear and power—then what else might she be right about?

What else might I have been wrong about all these years?

Somewhere in the castle, Robin might be wandering, or sleeping, or reading by fire, her hair catching the golden glow of the flames, even the thought of her gentle presence a warmth against the cold stone walls.

Mine .

But this time my possessive certainty comes with something else, something that feels a little too much like hope.

And hope, I’ve learned the hard way, is the most deceptive emotion of all.