Page 20 of Her Cruel Empire
“Now, then,” she murmurs, as she leads me toward the door. “Let me show you my domain, little bird. All the places you’re allowed to flutter…and the one place you’re not.”
Chapter 7
Eva
This is my favorite part. The tour. The reveal. Watching their faces transform as they realize the magnitude of what they’ve stumbled into. Most women I bring here are used to luxury, but even they are left impressed by the grandeur of Castle Blacklake. But Robin? Robin still has that wide-eyed innocence that tells me she’s going to be left speechless.
Robin stands in the Great Hall like a lost angel, those impossibly blue eyes taking in the centuries of Novak power that surrounds her. The storm outside is black and furious, and she actually jumps at a crack of lightning overhead.
After I’ve explained the Great Hall to her—my preferred sitting place in the evenings—I lead her straight to the forbidden wing. “You must never come in here,” I tell her. She bites her lower lip and nods with serious eyes. “This door here—” I show her. “—is always locked. You will not attempt to open it. But just about everywhere else in the castle is open to you, if you want to explore.”
Then I take her away from that wing and lead her instead through corridors lined with portraits of my ancestors—men andwomen whose names are whispered in equal measures of fear and respect.
“This is Katarina Novak,” I say, stopping before a portrait of a raven-haired woman in red silk. “She eliminated a family of Russian aristocrats in 1847. All of them. Even the children.”
Robin’s sharp intake of breath is sweet. “Why?”
“They poisoned her husband at a dinner party.” I smile, letting the family resemblance show. “Katarina believed in comprehensive responses to disrespect.”
We walk on.
“This is Erszebet Novak,” I say, stopping before a portrait much more stylized than that of Katarina. Her pale skin seems to glow against the dark paint, and her severe face suggests secrets that have been buried for centuries. “She was a Hungarian noblewoman who married into the family but ruled our ancestral lands alone after her husband’s death in 1578. They called her the Blood Rose.”
Robin’s eyebrows twitch together. “Dare I ask why?”
“There were many rumors about her. Beautiful young women from the village would come to serve here at Castle Blacklake, and were never seen again. The Church accused her of witchcraft, of bathing in the blood of virgins—but her noble title saved her from the stake.” I smile, letting the family resemblance show in the curve of my lips.
“So…what happened to her?”
“They were transporting her to a more remote castle where she was to live out her life in solitary confinement. But when the procession passed through the village below—the same one wedrove through—the villagers attacked the carriage.” I trace the ornate frame with one finger. “The villagers had their own ideas about justice. They tore her apart with their bare hands.”
Robin’s face pales. “That’s horrible.”
“That was life back then. Though some say she cursed the bloodline of every man who touched her as she died. The village below is still slightly over-populated by women, even now.”
I don’t mention the fact that it’s really the various wars that have depleted the area of men. It’s too much fun watching her eyes go wide and her mouth make that perfect little “o” of fear.
We continue on, and the ancestral museum also makes Robin’s lips part in shock. Behind glass, weapons and artefacts from different times and places gleam. A dagger with a ruby-encrusted hilt. A golden chalice stolen from a rival family’s estate before it was burned to the ground. The signet ring of a Romanian prince who thought he could cheat us in a territorial agreement.
“This is incredible,” she breathes, stopping before a display case containing a collection of ornate pistols.
“These are from the Kozlov collection. Before we acquired their territory in 1923.” I step close enough that she shivers. “My great-grandfather was particularly fond of irony. He used their own weapons to eliminate them.”
She glances at me, then around the room once more, and there’s something in her expression—not fear, exactly, but a dawning awareness. “There are alotof weapons in here.”
“Naturally. It is our family business, making and distributing arms.”
The library makes her gasp in the most satisfying manner. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with first editions and manuscripts and books bound in suspect material. But it’s not just literature—there are ledgers detailing arms deals that shaped wars, correspondence with heads of state, historic contracts sealed in blood. Literally.
I watch her process this information, see the questions she wants to ask—and doesn’t. In the billiard room, I take a casual shot. The balls scatter in calculated chaos, a demonstration of my control. “Do you play?” I ask.
“Not really. I hung around a few pool halls when I was a kid, but…” She shrugs, and her voice carries that apologetic tone that makes me want to teach her confidence along with everything else.
“Billiards is about reading angles, understanding the force required, predicting outcomes. Essential skills in my world.”
And still she doesn’t ask those questions milling around behind her eyes.
The rest of the games room showcases centuries of entertainment and strategy. A chess set carved from ivory and obsidian, their pieces representing a real battle fought by my ancestors. A roulette wheel that’s seen fortunes won and lost, lives traded like poker chips. Even card hands that have decided the fate of territories.
