Page 30 of Her Cruel Empire
I think of our cramped apartment, the stack of unpaid bills on the kitchen counter, the way I have to choose between groceries and Maisie’s medication. “The city I live in is a lot bigger than your village,” I say finally. “But that doesn’t mean it’s better.”
She tilts her head, processing this with the intense focus of someone who believes knowledge is power. “Still, you have seen things. Done things. Not just…this.” She gestures dismissively at the stone walls around us. “If you come down to the village,” she continues, and there’s no hesitation in her voice now, just certainty, “you will practice English with me.” Her green eyes bore into mine. “You will help me.”
Something about her fierce determination, her absolute refusal to accept the limitations around her, lifts my heart. “I’d like that.”
Her smile is triumphant. She gathers up her empty satchel, tosses a casual wave at the kitchen staff—pointedly ignoring the cook’s glare—and strides back out the door. Through the window, I watch her mount her dirt bike, tug the helmet back on her head, and roar back into the forest, feathers streaming from her hair like a battle flag.
I can’t help smiling, and the other staff, except for the cook, seem a little lighter too after Mira’s visit. One of the girls starts saying words to me in her language. Pointing to things.Cup. Knife. Fork. No. Yes. I mimic back the words she supplies. She giggles, the sound reminding me of Alicia. Even the cook smirks once at my terrible pronunciation.
But all at once, the energy in the room changes again when a side door opens and two people enter. A man and a woman. Both tall. And the woman looks surprisingly sturdy, her arms corded and muscled despite her slim build. She has a long silver braid down her back and carries a bundle of sheets that she hands off to one of the kitchen staff, who heads at once to another door—the laundry, maybe.
I could swear I saw blood stains on those sheets.
I try not to react, but I can’t help but glance at the man and woman again. The woman accepts a cup of the same coffee the cook poured for me, but the man shakes his head. His hands are rough and scarred, and there’s the unmistakable outline of a shoulder holster beneath his jacket.
Whoever he is, he’s one of Eva’s men. Even in the short time I’ve been here, I know enough to recognize the vibe. The woman, though…I don’t understand her. She seems more peaceful, more interior.
But whatever she was doing before she came in here, it involved blood.
No one speaks to them. No one acknowledges them. In fact, the staff suddenly seems smaller, fewer in number, like they’re trying to disappear.
The girl who reminded me of Alicia hurriedly prepares a tray of food on two plates, two meals made up of the bread, tomatoes and cheese she offered me, and shoves it toward the woman across the table. Then she hurries back to the other side of the kitchen.
I don’t know why I do it—maybe because I’m an idiot, or maybe because I still believe people deserve kindness—but I raise a hand in greeting to the newcomers. “Good morning.”
The woman’s eyes flick to mine. No smile. No nod. Nothing.
The cook hisses something under her breath that sounds like a warning. One of the guys nudges me hard in the ribs and I drop my hand.
The woman takes up the tray of food and, followed by the man, vanishes back through the separate door, never speaking.
“What was that?” I say to no one in particular.
The cook just shakes her head and mutters something that might be telling me to mind my own business.
Arethey part of Eva’s business, those two? Connected to the forbidden door that I’m not supposed to even think about? Are they hired muscle? The woman certainly looked strong, but her eyes were calm.
I think about the young girl who prepared their meal before scurrying away, and the way the cook’s shoulders tensed. How no one made eye contact. This is the first time I’ve really felt scared since arriving. Not because of anything that strange pair did, but because of how everyone else reacted.
I sip my second cup of coffee, mind racing. The sweet liquid doesn’t taste as good now. Nothing does.
A phone mounted on the kitchen wall suddenly rings, shrill and jarring. Everyone freezes. The cook wipes her hands on her apron and answers it with obvious reluctance, using the word I’ve now come to recognize asYes.
The voice on the other end is muffled, but I catch the cadence. Clipped. Commanding. Female. Oh, yeah. It’s Eva, and she soundsdispleased.
The cook’s eyes dart to me, then away. Her face goes carefully blank. She saysyesin her own language again, and then she hangs up.
For a moment, no one moves. Then the cook looks at me with something that might be pity, and the other staff suddenly become very busy with their tasks. The boy who let me wash and dry dishes won’t meet my eyes. The girl who was teaching me words has found urgent business at the far end of the table.
My heart starts to hammer even before I hear the footsteps echoing in the corridor beyond. Slow. Deliberate. Expensive heels on ancient stone.
The temperature in the kitchen seems to drop ten degrees. I focus very closely on my coffee. Maybe if I stay still enough, she won’t?—
“Robin.”
I jump, coffee sloshing over the rim of my mug, and spin around on my stool.
Eva stands in the doorway, dressed in dark red from throat to boots, her eyes unreadable. But there’s something in the way she scans the kitchen that suggests she’s noting everyone who dared show me kindness. The cook, who seemed so formidable moments ago, now looks like a child caught stealing cookies.
