Jilted By Prince, Claimed By King

Edris Mcclure sucked in a breath so sharp it felt like swallowing broken glass. Her lungs expanded, screaming against the sudden influx of freezing air, expecting the suffocating burn of salt water. Her hands flew to her throat, clawing at the skin, anticipating the rough bite of a hemp rope, the finality of the weight dragging her down.

But there was no rope.

Her fingers met the soft, expensive weave of a cashmere scarf.

Edris's eyes snapped open. The world spun, a kaleidoscope of blurred lights and shadows, before snapping into a terrifyingly crisp focus.

She wasn't beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. The roar in her ears wasn't the ocean crashing against steel pylons; it was the muffled thrum of a bass line from a distant ballroom. And falling from the sky wasn't the mist of the bay, but fat, silent flakes of snow.

She looked down at her hands. They weren't swollen or blue. Her manicure was perfect-a soft, iridescent pearl shade she hadn't worn in years.

A wave of nausea rolled through her, so violent she stumbled, her hip colliding with the stone balustrade. The cold bite of the snow-covered stone against her palm was a shock, a physical tether to a reality that shouldn't exist.

Pain exploded in her temples. With it came the memories, not as a fade-in, but as a violent crash. The headlines. The viral videos. The sneer on Prince Clement's face. The signature on the disownment papers. The wind whipping her hair as she stepped off the ledge.

She gripped the railing, her knuckles turning white. She pulled her phone from her clutch with trembling fingers. The screen lit up, the brightness stabbing at her retinas.

December 12th.

Three years ago.

The date was branded into her soul. This was the night of the Winter Chalet Gala. The night her life had officially ended before she had even died.

A sudden, unnatural heat bloomed in her lower belly. It wasn't the warmth of life; it was an inferno, chemical and cloying, spreading through her veins like liquid fire. Her knees buckled. She gasped, the sound wet and desperate in the quiet night.

She knew this heat.

The champagne.

Bailee had handed it to her twenty minutes ago. "Just a sip for luck, big sister."

In her past life-or her future memory-Edris had stumbled back into the hallway, disoriented by the drug. There, a "homeless" man, planted by the tabloids and paid for by someone she trusted, had grabbed her. The photos of her disheveled, seemingly drunk and intimate with a stranger, had been the first nail in her coffin.

Edris bit down on the tip of her tongue. The sharp, copper taste of blood flooded her mouth, a grounding anchor against the drug threatening to dissolve her consciousness.

She whipped her head around toward the floor-to-ceiling glass doors leading back to the gala. Shadows moved behind the sheer curtains. She saw the glint of a camera lens. They were waiting. The vultures were already circling, waiting for the carcass to stumble into view.

No.

The word didn't make it past her lips, but it screamed in her mind. She would not go back in there. Going back meant death. It meant the slow, agonizing dismantling of her dignity until suicide looked like mercy.

She turned her back on the warmth of the party and looked over the other side of the balcony. Below lay a drop that would break legs. To the left, separated by a precarious stone partition, was the terrace of the Royal Wing.

The Royal Wing.

Strictly off-limits. Guarded by the elite. And tonight, occupied by the one man whose power eclipsed even the Mcclure family's political clout.

King Ignatius Fisher.

The drug surged again, a pink haze creeping into the edges of her vision. Her skin felt too tight for her body. The cold air, which should have been freezing, felt like a lover's caress against her feverish skin.

She kicked off her heels. The snow bit into her bare soles, a shocking, necessary pain. She grabbed her shoes, hooking her fingers through the straps.

She didn't look back. She couldn't. The sound of the latch clicking on the balcony door behind her was the starting gun.

Edris hiked up her gown, the heavy silk bunching in her fist, and climbed onto the stone railing. The wind howled, threatening to tip her over, but desperation was a center of gravity all its own. Her muscles screamed in protest, weakened by the poison coursing through her. The stone was slick with ice beneath her trembling hands. She swung one leg over the abyss, the heavy fabric of her dress catching on a rough edge, nearly pulling her off balance. Her heart hammered against her ribs. This wasn't a graceful leap; it was a clumsy, desperate fall.

With a silent prayer to a God she thought had abandoned her, she pushed off.

For a second, there was only the sickening lurch of gravity reclaiming her, the wind a shriek in her ears.

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."

Ignatius's free hand moved from her shoulder to her throat. His fingers were long, calloused, and cool. He traced the line of her jugular, his thumb pressing lightly against the frantic pulse point.

It felt like he was testing the ripeness of a fruit before crushing it.

Edris let out a sound that was half-whimper, half-moan. She arched her neck, exposing the vulnerable column of her throat to him, to the gun, to anything that would stop the ache.

The sound seemed to snap something in the room's atmosphere. The air grew heavy, charged with static.

Ignatius lowered the gun, tossing it onto a nearby armchair with a careless thud. He grabbed her waist, his hands spanning nearly the entire width of it, and slammed her back against the thick glass of the window.

The impact knocked the breath out of her. The glass was freezing against her bare back where the dress had slipped, a shocking contrast to the fever radiating from her skin.

"Do you know who I am?" he demanded, leaning in. His face was inches from hers, his breath smelling of mint and tobacco.

Edris blinked, trying to focus on his features. The sharp jawline, the cruel mouth, the scar cutting through his left eyebrow. He was death. He was the devil.

"You're..." She struggled to form the words, her mind a slush of desire and panic. "You're the ice."

It wasn't the answer he expected. His eyes narrowed.

"And you are a mistake," he murmured.

Edris reached for his belt. Her fingers were clumsy, desperate. She needed skin. She needed weight.

"Stop," he said, but his voice lacked the command from before. It was thicker, darker.

"Make it stop," she begged, tugging at his shirt. "Make the burning stop."

Ignatius watched her, his expression unreadable. He was a man of absolute control. He ruled a kingdom, he controlled markets, he dictated lives. But this woman-this unknown, disheveled, desperate creature-was unraveling his restraint with terrifying speed.

He captured her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head against the glass. "You will regret this when you wake up."

"I won't wake up," Edris whispered, a tear slipping from the corner of her eye. "I'm already dead."

The despair in her voice was the catalyst. Ignatius crashed his mouth down on hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a claiming. It was violent and hungry, tasting of blood from her bitten tongue. Edris met him with equal force, her body seeking his like a magnet.

The dress tore. The sound of ripping silk was loud in the quiet room, but neither of them paused. His hands were everywhere-rough, demanding, grounding. Every touch was a brand, searing away the chemical itch of the drug and replacing it with a different kind of fire.

They moved blindly, stumbling toward the center of the room. They didn't make it to the bedroom. They collapsed onto the thick fur rug in front of the fireplace.

The heat of the fire licked at her skin, but it was nothing compared to the friction of his body against hers. It was a blur of sensation-teeth, skin, sweat, the rough wool of the rug, the hard lines of his muscles.

Edris wasn't Edris Mcclure in that moment. She wasn't the disgraced daughter or the rejected fiancée. She was just a body on fire, and he was the rain.

For hours, or maybe minutes, time ceased to exist. There was only the rhythm of their breathing and the silent, desperate language of survival.

Eventually, the wave crested. Edris collapsed against him, her body limp, the drug's hold finally broken by exhaustion. Darkness crept into the edges of her vision, soft and welcoming.

She felt Ignatius pull away slightly. The loss of contact made her shiver.

"Stay," she mumbled, her eyes heavy.

He didn't answer. He reached out, grabbing a heavy velvet throw from the sofa and tossing it over her. He tucked it around her shoulders with a strange, rough gentleness.

Edris's eyes fluttered closed.

Suddenly, a sharp noise cut through the haze.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Your Majesty?" A voice from the hallway. "Sensors indicated a breach on the terrace."

Ignatius went rigid. The predator was back.