Page 20 of Her Wicked Promise (The Devil’s Plaything #2)

Robin

T he sound of rustling fabric pulls me from sleep. My heart lurches as I crack open one eye to see a maid folding clothes into a suitcase. My suitcase.

Fear clutches at my heart. Not again. Please, not again.

I bolt upright, my pulse hammering. “What the hell?—”

The bedroom door swings open, and Eva glides in wearing that cat-that-got-the-cream smile. She’s already dressed in a sleek black blazer and dark jeans, her hair twisted into an elegant knot.

She looks like she’s planning something.

“Good morning, little bird,” she purrs, settling on the edge of the bed.

I eye her warily. “What’s going on?”

Eva’s brows lift at my sharp tone. “I have a surprise for you.”

Suspicious doesn’t begin to cover what I’m feeling. My last “surprise” from Eva that began this way involved a private jet back to Vegas nursing a broken heart. “What the hell is going on?” I repeat, this time with more bite.

Eva actually looks taken aback. “We’re going to Rome.”

Relief floods through me so fast I feel dizzy. Not getting kicked out. Not being sent away like damaged goods. Just…Rome.

I grab a pillow and hurl it at her. “Stop scaring me to death, woman!”

Eva catches it easily, looking genuinely confused. “Scaring you?”

“The last time I woke up to a maid packing my suitcase, you shipped me back home like I was being returned to sender,” I snap, my heart still racing.

Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed by something that looks almost like guilt. She sets the pillow aside and reaches for my hand. “Robin?—”

“And the time before that,” I continue, rolling my eyes, “we went to Paris!”

“Exactly!” Eva’s smile returns, brilliant and devastating. “See? Good precedent. You enjoyed Paris!”

“Yeah, up until you almost got shot.”

Her smile falters. “I promise that won’t happen this time.” Her voice turns serious, almost tender. “We’re going incognito. Complete secrecy. And Robin…I need to…apologize.”

She sounds like she’s forcing the words out, though I think it’s more from lack of familiarity with the words than because she doesn’t mean them.

“Apologize?” I prompt after a moment. “For…?”

“I lashed out at you after my father died. I shouldn’t have done that. I regret it…so much more than I can say.”

“You called me a whore,” I point out. I’m not going to let her get away with anything. If she wants to apologize, she needs to own it first.

She flushes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her flush. “I did,” she says. “And it was an appalling thing to say. I was—I was trying to hurt you. But I should never have spoken to you in that manner.”

I study her face, looking for lies or hidden motives. Finding none, I cock my head. “Apology accepted.”

Her face brightens. “You forgive me?”

“I understand you were acting out of pain,” I say slowly.

“But I need you to understand, I won’t be your punching bag, Eva.

Not even for ten million dollars.” She nods rapidly, and I can’t help smiling at her eagerness.

“So we’re sneaking off to Rome, huh? What about filing a flight plan? Won’t the pilot need to?—”

Eva’s grin turns wicked. “I’ll be flying us myself.”

I stare at her, waiting for the punchline. When none comes, my mouth falls open. “You’re joking.”

“Not even a little.” Her eyes glitter with mischief.

“You can fly a plane?”

“Among other things,” she says with mock modesty. “Why, don’t you trust me?”

I let out a huff of laughter despite myself. “Not really. But I’m up for an adventure.” I pause, letting my gaze drift over her perfect features. “So let’s go.”

An hour later, I’m gripping the leather seat of Eva’s red Ferrari as she takes the winding mountain roads at speeds that would make a Formula One driver nervous. I can’t decide if I’m terrified or exhilarated.

“You know there are speed limits, right?”

Eva’s laughter is rich and unrestrained. “Not for me, there aren’t.”

Leon is waiting at the private airfield beside a small white plane, his frame rigid with disapproval. Even from a distance, I can see the tension in his shoulders.

“You’re really not telling me where you’re going?” he asks tightly as we approach, and then adds something in Russian.

Eva waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t fuss, Leon,” she replies in English. “I’m allowed to have a secret or two.”

He continues in Russian, even as he helps unload our luggage from the back of the car.

“Nothing will happen,” Eva insists with the kind of absolute confidence that only comes from having the power to make reality bend to your will. “And if it does, you’ll figure out how to find me. You always do.”

Leon’s scowl deepens, but he doesn’t argue further. He knows better than to push Eva when she’s made up her mind about something.

And as Eva pilots the plane into the sky with casual expertise, my stomach performs acrobatics that have nothing to do with the altitude.

This feels like a metaphor for my entire time with her—the constant bubbly feeling in my stomach, the sudden ups and downs, the way she can make me feel like I’m flying one moment and falling the next.

“Hold on,” Eva says with a wicked grin, and suddenly we’re banking sharply to the left, the world tilting at an impossible angle outside the window.

I shriek, gripping my armrests so hard my knuckles go white. “Eva!”

She throws the plane into a series of loops and spirals that would probably be illegal in commercial airspace, laughing with pure delight as I alternate between screaming and laughing hysterically.

I’ve never heard her laugh along with me like this—so free and unguarded, like she’s forgotten who she’s supposed to be and remembered who she actually is underneath all the ice.

“You’re insane!” I gasp as we level out again, my heart pounding with equal parts terror and exhilaration.

“And you love it,” she says, glancing at me with sparkling eyes.

She’s right. Good or bad, sane or crazy, I really am up for anything with her.

Rome unfolds below us like a golden dream, ancient stones and terracotta roofs baking in the afternoon sun. Eva lands the plane with the same casual confidence she does everything else, as if piloting an aircraft is just another common skill, like ordering wine with perfect French pronunciation.

Within an hour, we’re strolling hand-in-hand through cobblestone streets that have existed since before America was even a concept. The weight of history presses down around us, but Eva moves through it all like she belongs here, like she’s walked these streets a thousand times before.

And I bet she has.

“This way,” she says, tugging me down a narrow alley that looks questionable at best.

“Are you sure we won’t get mugged?”

“Trust me.”

The alley opens into a tiny piazza where a hole-in-the-wall trattoria sits tucked between ancient buildings. The scent of garlic and basil drifts from the open kitchen, making my mouth water instantly.

“Best gnocchi in all of Italy,” Eva promises, guiding me to a small table outside.

She’s right. The pasta is like eating clouds made of cheese and butter, so perfect that I actually moan out loud. Eva watches me with amused fondness, like I’m the most entertaining thing she’s ever seen.

“You’re so easy to please,” she murmurs, reaching across to brush a smear of something from my bottom lip.

The gentle touch sends heat racing through me, and for a moment I forget we’re sitting in public. There’s a rare softness in her voice that makes my heart squeeze with affection. She’s trying so hard to make me happy, to give me beautiful things and perfect moments.

The effort she’s putting in should probably worry me—Eva Novak doesn’t usually go to this much trouble for anyone—but right now, I’m too grateful to question it.

That evening, after dinner at a restaurant so exclusive it doesn’t even have a sign, we walk through Rome as the ancient city transforms at night. Streetlamps cast warm pools of light across smooth stone roads, and the tourist crowds thin to leave the city to lovers and locals.

The Colosseum rises before us like a monument to both human greatness and human cruelty, its ancient arches glowing under carefully positioned spotlights.

I stand there staring up at it, trying to wrap my mind around the fact that gladiators actually fought here, that thousands of people cheered for blood and death in these very stones.

“It’s incredible,” I breathe, and immediately feel stupid for such an inadequate response.

But Eva just nods, understanding. “Two thousand years of history, and it’s still standing.”

“I wish I could show this to Dane,” I say without thinking. “He loves history; it’s the only class I don’t have to threaten him to attend regularly. All of them, actually—I wish I could give them a piece of this magic.”

The words hang in the air between us, and I realize I’ve broken the spell of our perfect day. Eva’s face shifts slightly, something closing off behind her eyes.

“It’s not working, is it?” she says quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“You still miss them.” Her voice is soft, almost wistful.

I wrinkle my nose, wondering how she can sound surprised. “Well, of course I do. They’re my family.”

“Of course you do,” Eva echoes, and there’s something almost lost in the way she says it.

We stand in silence for a moment, and I hope she really does understand.

Because no matter how beautiful this is, no matter how much I care about her, part of my heart will always be three thousand miles away with four kids who need me more than they need money or protection or any of the things Eva can provide.

Eva takes my hands, her amber eyes serious in the streetlight. “I have another surprise for you, Robin.”

My pulse quickens. “What kind of surprise?”

“I need to go back to Las Vegas for business,” she says. “I might…be there for some time.”

The words hit me like lightning. Vegas. Home. Family . The possibility of gathering them together again, of hugging Maisie and helping Alicia with homework and making sure Dane isn’t skipping school makes my eyes prick with sudden tears.

“It was supposed to be a nice surprise,” Eva says, worry creeping into her voice when she sees my eyes well up.

I squeeze her hands, probably tighter than necessary. “It is. Oh, it is. When?” I ask, afraid to hope too hard.

“Tomorrow morning,” she says. “Private jet—I’ll call Leon to have it brought to Rome.”

It hits me then, looking at her face in the soft light, that this wasn’t planned.

This whole trip to Rome, the dress, the perfect dinner—it was supposed to make me happy.

But when Eva saw how much I still missed my family, she decided to take me home, even though Vegas probably represents everything complicated and dangerous in her world.

She’s doing this just to make me happy.

The realization makes my chest feel too tight, too full of emotions I don’t know how to name. “Eva?—”

“Don’t,” she says quietly. “Don’t make it more than it is. I have business in Vegas, like I said.”

But I can see the lie in her eyes, the way she’s trying to downplay the gesture. This is Eva Novak choosing my happiness over her own convenience, her own safety, her own carefully maintained distance.

“Thank you,” I whisper, and I mean it for so much more than just the trip home.

Back in our hotel room—a suite so opulent it probably costs more per night than the monthly rent I could never quite afford back in Vegas—and after another passionate encounter, I lie awake watching Eva’s sleeping face in the soft light from the city outside.

For a moment, even surrounded by Italian marble and Egyptian cotton, it feels like this could be ordinary. Normal .

If normal included private planes and mafia connections and the constant underlying knowledge that Eva’s world is built on violence and fear.

But lying here in the dark, listening to her breathe, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest, I let myself pretend for just a moment that normal is possible.

I let myself hope , despite it all.