Page 18 of Her Wicked Promise (The Devil’s Plaything #2)
Eva
F or a few days, I experience something I barely recognize: happiness.
Not the sharp satisfaction of a successful arms deal or the cold pleasure of watching an enemy fall. This is something softer, warmer—a foreign lightness in my chest that makes me feel almost human.
Robin and I spend time together without the undercurrent of power games that usually defines my relationships.
We walk through the castle gardens as spring begins to adorn trees in leafy finery.
We share quiet meals where conversation flows easily, punctuated by Robin’s laughter—and sometimes mine.
In the evenings, we sit by the fire in the Great Hall, or retreat to my study, her reading curled up against my chair while I pretend to work, both of us simply existing in the same space.
And sex has become much more than a weapon or a release or a biological urge to be dealt with and forgotten. It’s become a comfort . I hunger for her as much as ever, and our lovemaking is no less wild.
But losing myself in her is not about revenge or control anymore. It’s about delight .
If I’d known how easy it could be to feel so good, I might have… Well. I might have made different choices. Especially after my father’s death, when I shoved Robin away from me.
I still wonder what will happen once the thirty days are up.
We have only fifteen of them left to us now, halfway through the allotted time.
I can’t live in Las Vegas. And I can hardly ask Robin to forget her brothers and sisters and move here to be with me—although even a month ago, I might have considered that an entirely reasonable request.
She is having an effect on me. Uncle Stefan was right about that, even if I didn’t like hearing him say it.
“You should visit the school,” Robin says this morning over breakfast with enthusiasm. “See the progress for yourself.”
“I hardly think that’s necessary. I’ve received reports from the contractors.”
“It’s not about reports.” Robin reaches across the table to touch my hand, and the simple contact sends warmth shooting up my arm. “The children would love to see you. The villagers would too. They’re so grateful, Eva.”
“Grateful peasants are hardly a priority for me,” I point out, drawing a frown from her at what she keeps calling my classist attitudes .
But even as I say it, I find myself curious. I’ve ruled through fear for so long that the concept of genuine gratitude is almost foreign. What would it feel like to be thanked instead of feared?
“Just five minutes,” she pleads. “I promise they won’t bite.”
And against my better judgment, I find myself agreeing.
The village school sits on a small rise beyond the town square, transformed from the shabby building I glimpsed weeks ago.
Fresh white paint gleams, new windows sparkle like crystal, and the sound of children’s laughter drifts from the playground where bright equipment has replaced rusted swings and broken seesaws.
Robin practically bounces beside me as we approach, her excitement infectious despite my attempts to maintain my usual composure.
Several villagers noticed our arrival—Robin insisted on walking down—and whisper among themselves as we pass by, but I’m surprised to see there’s none of the usual fear in their faces. Instead, they look…hopeful.
A young teacher emerges from the building—a woman with kind eyes who can’t be much older than Robin. She approaches us with obvious nervousness but also determination.
“Madam Novak,” she says in our dialect. “Thank you. The children…they will remember this.”
That simple statement hits me unexpectedly hard. I’ve spent years building a legacy of fear, ensuring the Novak name would continue to be whispered in shadows and spoken with trembling voices. But this woman speaks of memory without terror, of an impact that extends beyond intimidation.
“It was nothing,” I say automatically.
Children’s voices rise from the playground, and I find myself drawn to the fence surrounding the yard.
They’re playing on the new equipment—slides and swings and climbing structures that gleam with fresh paint and safety features.
A little girl with pigtails catches sight of me and waves enthusiastically before running to tell her friends.
Soon, half a dozen children are pressed against the fence, chattering and smiling.
One small boy—he can’t be more than six—pushes a crumpled flower through the chain link. It’s a dandelion, but he offers it to me with such solemnity that I find myself accepting it.
“Pretty,” he says shyly.
I stare down at this wilted flower—worthless by any measure I’ve ever used—and feel an emotion I can’t name. These children don’t know who I am, what I’ve done, the blood on my hands. They only know that I fixed their school. I gave them safety. Beauty.
What if it’s really this simple? What if I don’t have to make everyone terrified of me to be respected?
Everything I’ve been taught, everything my father showed me, suggested that kindness is weakness.
That people only respect strength, only obey through fear.
But watching these children play on equipment I provided, seeing the genuine gratitude in their teacher’s eyes, I wonder if I’ve been wrong about everything.
Back at the castle, Robin comments that I seem quiet during dinner, but I just smile and change the subject.
I enjoy seeing her joy at the upgrades to the school.
After dinner we retire together to my study.
She curls up by the fireplace to read, while I work through some logistics plans sent through from Spain.
It’s peaceful and pleasant, but the spell is broken by my phone ringing. Brie Colombo’s name flashes on the screen.
“Eva.” Brie’s voice is smooth but sharp, all business.
“Some of my associates have suggested that we need further assurances from you.” The Styx Syndicate, I assume.
They are very suspicious of me, though I suppose I can’t blame them.
“We need more than just your word that you won’t re-arm the Gattos on a whim.
We want a contract stating it—a no-competition clause, if you will. ”
“Are you questioning my word?” I ask coolly.
“No,” Brie says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Just your pragmatism. You’re the one who always says, ‘It’s just business.’“
How many times have I used those words to justify betrayals, to excuse cruelty, to maintain the cold distance that keeps me safe?
But sitting in my study with Robin curled in the chair across from me, a book in her lap and firelight turning her skin golden, the idea of reducing everything to mere business seems… insufficient.
“This isn’t business,” I hear myself say. “It’s personal. The Gattos need to go.”
Robin glances up at the mention of the Gattos, and there’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Personal? That’s not like you, Eva.”
She’s right. The old Eva Novak didn’t do personal. The old Eva treated every decision as a move on an endless chessboard. But Robin has changed something fundamental in me, shifted my perspective.
“They overstepped,” I say simply. “I won’t allow them to do it again. Draw up your contract, and I’ll have my team look over it.”
Contracts between people like us are completely unenforceable in a court of law, of course.
But we respond to a higher power: the power of reputation.
Dominika Kusek probably suggested the idea.
She knows better than most that I won’t allow the Consortium’s reputation to be sullied, and obtaining a written agreement between us gives them leverage.
But I want the Gattos destroyed more than I care about giving another organization even a slight advantage in a deal.
After I hang up, Robin looks at me. “Everything alright?”
“Just business,” I say automatically, then catch myself. The phrase feels wrong now, reductive. “Actually, no. It’s more than that. I decided after the auction where I acquired you that the Gatto Family in Las Vegas should not be allowed to run such a business.”
Robin looks troubled for a moment. But she doesn’t push for details, doesn’t demand explanations. She just goes back to her reading.
I’m not sure what I expected. Gratitude? I tamp down my ego and remind myself that I’m trying to do better.
Be better.
Robin has no reason to believe it yet. But she will. I’ll make sure of it.
But over the following days, I find myself watching Robin more carefully. Not with the obsessive assessment I once used, but with genuine attention to her moods and needs. And what I see troubles me.
While she still smiles and laughs, there’s a quietness about her that wasn’t there before.
She’ll stare out windows with a distant expression, lost in thoughts I can’t access.
I catch her sometimes with worry creasing her brow, her phone pressed to her ear as she speaks to her brother Adrian daily—sometimes twice a day.
“How is Maisie feeling?” she asks during one of these calls, and something twists in my stomach at the anxiety in her voice. “Are you sure? Did you remember to schedule her follow-up appointment?”
The conversation continues with questions about homework and chores and a dozen small details that make up a family’s daily life. Robin’s family—the people who matter most to her, who shaped her into the woman sitting across from me, who receive her love without question or condition.
I have no equivalent. Stefan is gone, driven away by my own cold words.
My father is dead. Dimitri is always off chasing tail.
The Consortium is filled with people who serve me out of fear or profit, not love.
Leon alone might be the closest thing to a friend, but even he is really more of an employee.
I am alone in a way that Robin, for all her physical isolation in my castle, will never be.
The crisis comes on a Thursday afternoon. Robin bursts into my study without knocking, her face pale and her hands shaking.