Eva
For a few days, I experience something I barely recognize: happiness.
Not the sharp satisfaction of a successful arms deal or the cold pleasure of watching an enemy fall. This is something softer, warmer—a foreign lightness in my chest that makes me feel almost human.
Robin and I spend time together without the undercurrent of power games that usually defines my relationships. We walk through the castle gardens as spring begins to adorn trees in leafy finery. We share quiet meals where conversation flows easily, punctuated by Robin’s laughter—and sometimes mine. In the evenings, we sit by the fire in the Great Hall, or retreat to my study, her reading curled up against my chair while I pretend to work, both of us simply existing in the same space.
And sex has become much more than a weapon or a release or a biological urge to be dealt with and forgotten. It’s become acomfort. I hunger for her as much as ever, and our lovemaking is no less wild.
But losing myself in her is not about revenge or control anymore. It’s aboutdelight.
If I’d known how easy it could be to feel so good, I might have… Well. I might have made different choices. Especially after my father’s death, when I shoved Robin away from me.
I still wonder what will happen once the thirty days are up. We have only fifteen of them left to us now, halfway through the allotted time. I can’t live in Las Vegas. And I can hardly ask Robin to forget her brothers and sisters and move here to be with me—although even a month ago, I might have considered that an entirely reasonable request.
Sheishaving an effect on me. Uncle Stefan was right about that, even if I didn’t like hearing him say it.
“You should visit the school,” Robin says this morning over breakfast with enthusiasm. “See the progress for yourself.”
“I hardly think that’s necessary. I’ve received reports from the contractors.”
“It’s not about reports.” Robin reaches across the table to touch my hand, and the simple contact sends warmth shooting up my arm. “The children would love to see you. The villagers would too. They’re so grateful, Eva.”
“Grateful peasants are hardly a priority for me,” I point out, drawing a frown from her at what she keeps calling myclassist attitudes.
But even as I say it, I find myself curious. I’ve ruled through fear for so long that the concept of genuine gratitude is almost foreign. What would it feel like to be thanked instead of feared?
“Just five minutes,” she pleads. “I promise they won’t bite.”
And against my better judgment, I find myself agreeing.
The village school sits on a small rise beyond the town square, transformed from the shabby building I glimpsed weeks ago. Fresh white paint gleams, new windows sparkle like crystal, and the sound of children’s laughter drifts from the playground where bright equipment has replaced rusted swings and broken seesaws.
Robin practically bounces beside me as we approach, her excitement infectious despite my attempts to maintain my usual composure. Several villagers noticed our arrival—Robin insisted on walking down—and whisper among themselves as we pass by, but I’m surprised to see there’s none of the usual fear in their faces. Instead, they look…hopeful.
A young teacher emerges from the building—a woman with kind eyes who can’t be much older than Robin. She approaches us with obvious nervousness but also determination.
“Madam Novak,” she says in our dialect. “Thank you. The children…they will remember this.”
That simple statement hits me unexpectedly hard. I’ve spent years building a legacy of fear, ensuring the Novak name would continue to be whispered in shadows and spoken with trembling voices. But this woman speaks of memory without terror, of an impact that extends beyond intimidation.
“It was nothing,” I say automatically.
Children’s voices rise from the playground, and I find myself drawn to the fence surrounding the yard. They’re playing onthe new equipment—slides and swings and climbing structures that gleam with fresh paint and safety features. A little girl with pigtails catches sight of me and waves enthusiastically before running to tell her friends. Soon, half a dozen children are pressed against the fence, chattering and smiling.
One small boy—he can’t be more than six—pushes a crumpled flower through the chain link. It’s a dandelion, but he offers it to me with such solemnity that I find myself accepting it.
“Pretty,” he says shyly.
I stare down at this wilted flower—worthless by any measure I’ve ever used—and feel an emotion I can’t name. These children don’t know who I am, what I’ve done, the blood on my hands. They only know that I fixed their school. I gave them safety. Beauty.
What if it’s really this simple? What if I don’t have to make everyone terrified of me to be respected?
Everything I’ve been taught, everything my father showed me, suggested that kindness is weakness. That people only respect strength, only obey through fear. But watching these children play on equipment I provided, seeing the genuine gratitude in their teacher’s eyes, I wonder if I’ve been wrong about everything.
Back at the castle, Robin comments that I seem quiet during dinner, but I just smile and change the subject. I enjoy seeing her joy at the upgrades to the school. After dinner we retire togetherto my study. She curls up by the fireplace to read, while I work through some logistics plans sent through from Spain.
It’s peaceful and pleasant, but the spell is broken by my phone ringing. Brie Colombo’s name flashes on the screen.
