Reborn Princess: Burning Her Scornful Crown

The chains rattled with a deafening clank as Demian lunged against them.

"Get out!"

His voice was a shredded roar, barely human. The force of his shout hit Fiona like a physical blow.

She didn't flinch. She didn't step back.

She raised her hands, palms open. "I can help you."

He laughed, a wet, choking sound. "Help? I'll tear your throat out."

The heat radiating from him was intense, battling with the freezing air of the room. He was burning up from the inside out.

"Your heart rate is over two hundred," Fiona said, walking closer. Her boots crunched on the frost covering the floor. "The ice isn't working. The toxin has reached your marrow."

Demian stilled. His head cocked to the side, a predator assessing prey. "Who are you?"

"Does it matter?" Fiona stopped just out of his reach. "I'm the only one who knows how to stop the boiling."

"You're Bradley's wife," he rasped. The recognition flickered in his eyes, cutting through the madness. "The vase. The ornament."

"The ornament is broken," Fiona said flatly. "I'm here to make a deal."

He pulled against the chains again, the metal groaning. "I don't make deals with corpses."

"If you don't let me treat you, you'll be a cripple by morning. Or dead."

Fiona took a step forward. Into the kill zone.

Demian moved faster than she expected. His hand shot out, grabbing her neck.

His fingers were scorching hot. They clamped around her windpipe, lifting her off her feet.

Fiona choked, clawing at his wrist. Her vision spotted.

"Give me one reason," he hissed, pulling her close to his face. She could feel the heat radiating from his skin. "One reason not to snap your pretty little neck."

"Because..." Fiona wheezed, staring straight into those black voids. "Because I hate him... more than you do."

His grip loosened. Just a fraction.

"And," Fiona gasped, "I have the antidote."

She didn't wait for permission. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a silver needle. Before he could react, she jammed it into a pressure point at the base of his skull.

Demian stiffened. His eyes widened.

The tension in his arm vanished. He dropped her.

Fiona fell to the floor, coughing, massaging her bruised throat.

"That will only hold the pain back for five minutes," Fiona said, her voice raspy. "We need to flush the blood."

"How?" He was slumped back on the bed now, breathing heavily. The redness in his skin was pulsing.

Fiona pulled out the scalpel.

"My blood," she said.

It sounded insane. But her grandmother, a practitioner of old medicine, had insisted Fiona take a daily tonic since childhood. A family secret, derived from the rare Blue Lotus, meant to 'strengthen the Orozco bloodline.' Fiona never understood it. But in her past life, after years of research in the palace's forgotten archives, she found a text describing its true purpose: it was the only known natural neutralizer for Pyro-Toxin. Bradley thought her blood was merely blue; he had no idea it was also the cure.

She didn't explain the science. She just sliced.

She drew the blade across her left wrist. A line of crimson welled up, dark and rich.

"Drink," she ordered.

She shoved her bleeding wrist against his mouth.

The smell of blood hit him. His pupils dilated. The beast took over.

He grabbed her arm, his grip bruising, and pulled it to his lips.

He drank.

It was a violation. A somatic, visceral intimacy that made her stomach flip. She could feel his tongue against the wound, the suction, the desperate hunger.

Her head spun. The room tilted.

"Easy," Fiona whispered, her free hand finding its way into his sweat-drenched hair. "Easy, Demian."

She was feeding a monster. She was saving the devil to kill a demon.

Slowly, the heat in the room began to dissipate. The unnatural flush faded from his skin, leaving it pale and clammy.

He stopped.

He pulled back, his chest heaving. There was blood on his lips. Her blood.

His eyes were clearing. The black receded, revealing irises of piercing, icy gray.

He looked at her. Really looked at her.

Fiona was swaying on her feet. The blood loss, combined with the adrenaline crash, was too much.

"You..." he murmured. His voice was deep, resonant. Dangerous.

She collapsed forward.

He caught her. His arms were no longer burning hot; they were just warm. Strong.

"You owe me," Fiona whispered, her cheek pressed against his bare chest. She could hear his heartbeat slowing down. "A life for a life."

Demian's thumb brushed the corner of her mouth.

"Done," he said.

Darkness took her again. But this time, it wasn't the cold darkness of the ocean. It was warm. And safe.