Jilted By Prince, Claimed By King

The impact jarred her teeth.

Edris landed on the Royal Wing's terrace, her knees hitting the stone hard. Pain shot up her shins, sharp and bright, momentarily cutting through the chemical haze of the drug. She bit back a cry, forcing the sound into a shallow whimper.

She rolled instantly, pressing her body into the shadows cast by a large stone planter. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, the rhythm frantic and uneven.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Boots on stone. Heavy. Disciplined.

Through the gaps in the decorative railing, she saw the silhouette of a Royal Guard passing the interior window. He paused, adjusting his rifle, his gaze sweeping the snowy expanse of the garden below. He didn't look at the terrace floor.

Edris held her breath until her lungs burned. The guard moved on.

She tried to stand, but her legs were water. The heat in her body was intensifying, turning her blood into molten lead. The snow beneath her bare feet was melting, creating a puddle of freezing slush, but she barely felt the cold anymore. All she felt was the agonizing, clawing need to peel off her skin.

She dragged herself toward the French doors. The handle was cold brass. Locked? No. It turned with a silent, well-oiled glide.

She slipped inside, closing the door softly behind her and engaging the lock.

The silence of the room was heavy, smelling of cedarwood, expensive scotch, and the distinct, metallic scent of ozone. It was a masculine scent, overpowering and intoxicating.

Edris leaned back against the door, her legs finally giving out. She slid down to the floor, the silk of her dress pooling around her. The room was dark, lit only by the dying embers in a massive stone fireplace across the vast living area.

She needed water. She needed ice. She needed to stop the fire consuming her from the inside out.

Her fingers fumbled with the neckline of her dress. The fabric felt abrasive, like sandpaper against raw nerves. She tugged at it, a small sob escaping her throat.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't put a bullet in your head."

The voice came from the shadows-low, textured like gravel grinding over velvet. It wasn't a question; it was a death sentence delivered with bored indifference.

Edris froze. She felt the cold circle of steel press against the base of her skull before she even processed the movement.

She knew that voice. It was the voice that commanded armies. The voice that had declared war and signed peace treaties with the same impassive tone.

King Ignatius Fisher.

In her past life, she had only seen him from afar-a distant, terrifying figure of absolute authority. Now, he was inches away, holding her life in his hands.

Fear should have paralyzed her. But the drug twisted the fear, braiding it with the frantic, chemical need for touch. The cold metal of the gun barrel wasn't a threat; it was a sensation. And right now, sensation was the only thing keeping her anchored.

She didn't beg. She didn't freeze.

Edris turned.

It was a reckless, insane move. The gun barrel skidded off her skull as she spun around, throwing her weight forward. She collided with a wall of solid muscle.

Ignatius didn't stumble. He was like a statue, immovable and hard.

Edris's hands flew up, seeking purchase, landing on the crisp cotton of a dress shirt. Beneath it, she felt the heat of his body, the steady, slow beat of his heart. It was a stark contrast to her own frantic pulse.

She buried her face in his chest, inhaling the scent of him. It was overwhelming. It was safety.

"Get off," he growled, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into her cheek. His hand came up, gripping her shoulder with bruising force, preparing to shove her away.

Edris looked up. Her hair was a wild curtain around her face, her lipstick smudged, her eyes swimming with a desperate, drugged haze.

"Help me," she whispered. Her voice was wrecked, a rasp of sandpaper.

The grip on her shoulder tightened, but he didn't push. Not yet.

In the dim light of the fireplace, she saw his eyes. They were gold-predatory, cold, and utterly devoid of mercy. But as they locked onto hers, something flickered in their depths. Not pity. Recognition.

He recognized the look of a trapped animal.

"You're drugged," he stated, his tone clinical. He didn't lower the gun, but he shifted his stance, his body tense, ready to snap her neck or catch her, she couldn't tell which.

Edris stood on her tiptoes, her bare feet numb on the plush carpet. She pressed closer, seeking the friction, seeking the coldness of him to douse her heat.

"Please," she breathed, her lips brushing the rough stubble of his jaw. "I'm burning."