Page 50 of Her Cruel Empire
The foreign words wash over me, sharp consonants and rolling vowels that might as well be another world. Occasionally, Stefan glances at me, but Eva doesn’t. She’s forgotten I exist.
But my body still responds to her voice. That familiar flutter in my stomach, the way my pulse quickens when she speaks in that low, authoritative tone. My clit doesn’t care that she’s talking over my head like I’m part of the furniture.
“I—excuse me,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Eva doesn’t even look at me. She waves a hand in my direction, still speaking to Stefan, her voice dropping to that commanding register that makes my knees weak.
“I’ll have lunch sent up to you,” she says in English, barely glancing over her shoulder. “Stefan and I have much to discuss.” The casual dismissal in her tone makes something twist painfully in my chest, even as my traitorous body responds to the authority in her voice.
I slip out quietly, keeping my steps light on the marble. The door closes behind me with a soft click. And in the silence of the hallway, my mind spins.
Twenty minutes ago, her hands were gentle on my skin, her voice soft and encouraging. She touched me like I was precious to her.
And a moment later, I’m nothing. Forgotten. A non-consideration.
But it was always going to be like this, wasn’t it? I remind myself, as I mount the stairs. Thirty days. Catch and release. Nothing more.
I let myself forget. For a moment, I thought I mattered. But I’m not a lover, I’m an arrangement.
This isherworld. I’m just a toy she bought at auction.
Back in my room, I strip off the sweater and press it to my face, inhaling deeply. Eva’s scent lingers there. It’s intoxicating, dangerous, and I’m pathetic and needy.
I drag a fresh set of clothes from the wardrobe and shower, trying to scrub her from my skin, from my thoughts. Then I dress in new clothes and sit down to enjoy lunch on my lonesome, since it appeared while I was in the bathroom.
I’ll enjoy this for as long as it lasts.
But I won’t mistake it for more.
I can’t afford to.
Chapter 18
Eva
The door clicks shut behind Robin with a soft finality that sends relief flooding through my chest.
The kind of cold, functional relief I feel when a difficult negotiation concludes or when a problem has been resolved.
Ineededher to leave. It was too disorienting to be soft and open with her, and then have Uncle Stefan show up on my literal doorstep.
I settle back into my chair and take a deep breath now that the stress is receding. The fire crackles in the grate, casting light across the rug where Robin lay spread beneath me not twenty minutes ago. And God help me, the scent of her still lingers in the air—synthetic strawberry and something even sweeter, the faint musk of her sex.
I need to keep her at a distance.
I’ve revealed far too much about my father and my hunt for vengeance. Even the sex felt different. Less about control, more about…fascination. The way her body responded to mine, the little sounds she made, the way she looked at me.
But Robin is nothing more than a distraction. A purchase. A convenience to smooth the edges of my life for thirty days. Nothing else.
And so I was cool to her when Stefan arrived. Better she understands her place now than later. I made sure my dismissal was crystal clear, showed Stefan, too, that she’s no one important. A pet to be stroked when I’m in the mood but put away in its crate when I have real business to attend to—as I’m sure I must now, since Stefan has just come back from Consortium meetings of his own.
But the memory of her face as she excused herself flickers through my mind—that flash of hurt in her blue eyes, the way her voice trembled slightly when she said she would let us talk. The flush on her cheeks that had nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with humiliation.
Christ, why can’t I stop thinking about her? She’s nothing. A warm body. Easily replaceable. I shove the memory aside with the talent of someone who’s spent years compartmentalizing inconvenient emotions, and focus on what matters.
“You look troubled, little wildcat.”
Stefan sits across from me, expression both warm and shrewd. The pet name makes me smile despite myself—my father and he both called me that since I was seven years old and bit the ankle of a business associate of theirs who tried to pinch my cheek.
