Page 71 of Her Cruel Empire
Chapter 25
Robin
Eva sits very still at the edge of the bed. I want to reach for her, to ask what’s wrong, but something in her stillness warns me away.
Screw it. I know there’s an aching little girl under all that ice, and I know how I felt when Mom died. I sit up, wrap my arms around her. “I’m so sorry,” I murmur.
She shrugs me off and stands.
“Get dressed,” she says, her voice flat. “We’re leaving Paris.”
There’s something in her tone I’ve never heard before—not anger, not grief. Something worse. Something empty.
But this isn’t the time to be worrying about me. Eva’s father has died. I need to do whatever I can to make things easier on her. So I scramble out of bed and dress quickly in jeans and a tee, and add a blazer that she bought me herself here in Paris. Eva moves through the suite like a machine, throwing items into her bag with mechanical precision. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak.
I hear her having a quiet conversation on the phone, and I assume she’s talking to Leon, because a few minutes later he arrives at the suite, his face lined with sorrow, and says something soft to Eva in their native tongue. Her response is automatic. I think whatever they’re saying, it’s a kind of prayer or ritual.
And that’s the last time she speaks for a long time. The drive to the airstrip passes in suffocating silence. Eva stares out the window, face still as stone. I try once to speak, to offer comfort, but she holds up an irritated hand, silencing me.
On the plane, she disappears into the private quarters right at the back without a word, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the terrible fear that something between us has broken. Through the thin walls, I can hear her voice—cold, clipped, speaking in rapid bursts to what must be a dozen different people.
She’s just lost her father. I need to stop thinking about me, about us, and put her first. If I can’t do anything to make it better for her, I can at least not make things worse. So I curl up in the leather seat and watch the lights of Paris disappear, and I give her space.
We land and enter another car, heading for Castle Blacklake. I remember my first journey here, terrified and uncertain, seeing the gothic towers rise from the autumnal mists like something out of a nightmare. Now the sight of those familiar walls actually hurts, because I know Eva’s father is probably still there, in repose.
Things have changed. Even the village has changed. As we drive through the narrow streets, I notice black ribbons tied to every door, flowers laid at the base of the old stone cross in the square. The few people we pass stop what they’re doing and bow their heads as the car passes.
It’s unsettling. These are the same people who crossed themselves when they saw Eva’s car, who whispered warnings to me about the monster in the castle. Now they mourn her father like fallen royalty. And how do they even know?
I steal a glance at Eva, but she’s staring straight ahead.
The castle looms before us, its windows dark even in the day. We pull through the gates, and I feel the weight of the stone walls pressing down on me. This place that once seemed like a dark fairy tale now feels like a tomb.
Eva steps out of the car before it’s fully stopped, and strides toward the entrance. I follow once the car stops, but she’s already disappearing into the shadows of the great hall.
“Eva, please wait—” I call after her, wanting to offer help. Offersomething.
She pauses at the foot of the grand staircase, her back to me. “Is there something you need?”
The formal tone makes my stomach clench. “No, I just…is there anything I can do for you? Or just be with you?”
She turns then, and the look in her eyes freezes me in place. This is not the woman who held me in Paris, who whispered sweet words against my skin. This is the ice queen who bought me at auction, remote and untouchable.
“I don’t need anyone,” she says simply. “If you’ll excuse me, I have arrangements to make.”
She disappears up the stairs, and I’m left standing in the empty hall, my heart pounding. The silence stretches around me, broken only by the distant sound of her footsteps heading away from me.
I don’t know what to do with myself. The castle feels different now—colder, more forbidding, if that were even possible. The shadows seem deeper, the silence more oppressive. I wander through the halls until I find myself in the kitchen, drawn by the warm light spilling from the doorway.
The staff is gathered around the large wooden table, their faces drawn with grief. Several of the women are crying quietly, and the cook, who’s always been kind to me, has red-rimmed eyes.
They look up when I enter, and without words, the cook pours me a small glass of aniseed-scented liquid that burns my throat and warms my chest.
“Zoltan Novak,” she says, raising her glass.
The others echo her words, and I drink with them, accepting their ritual of grief. Even in death, he commands this kind of loyalty. No wonder Eva is so untouchable—she learned from a master.
After the toast, I sit with them in companionable silence. I can’t understand their words, but I recognize the cadence of shared memories, the way they speak of the dead. They loved him. Truly loved him.
