Reborn From Ashes: The King's Ruthless Queen

The heat wasn't just around her; it was inside her, a living thing devouring the air in her lungs.

She looked down at the bundle in her arms. Emily. Her beautiful, five-year-old Emily. She was heavy, dead weight against her chest, her skin already cooling even as the room turned into an inferno. The smoke stung her eyes, blinding her, but she didn't need to see to know Emily was gone.

A beam crashed down, sending a shower of sparks onto the rug. Through the haze of orange and black, she saw him.

Kenney.

He was crawling toward the door, a wet handkerchief pressed to his face. He hadn't looked back. Not once. He hadn't checked the crib. He hadn't called her name.

"Kenney!" she screamed, but the sound was just a rasp of ash.

She lunged forward. Her legs were burning, her nightgown catching fire, but she didn't feel the pain. She only felt the rage. It was colder than death.

She grabbed his ankle.

He kicked back, wild panic in his eyes as he turned. When he saw her-saw the fire eating her hair, saw the dead child in her arms-he didn't reach for her. He recoiled.

"Let go!" he shrieked.

She clawed her way up his leg, ignoring the flames licking at her back. She reached for his throat. She wanted to take him with her. If she was going to hell, he was driving the carriage.

"See you there," she whispered, her voice cracking. "See you in hell, my love."

The ceiling groaned. A massive timber, wreathed in fire, snapped free directly above them.

Pain. Absolute, white-hot, shattering pain.

And then, silence.

The burning stopped. Instantly.

It was replaced by a cold so sharp it made her teeth ache.

She gasped, her body jerking upright. Her hands flailed in the air, grasping for a throat that wasn't there. Her chest heaved, sucking in greedy gulps of air that tasted of lavender and stale dust, not smoke.

"Emily!" The name tore out of her throat, raw and terrified.

She wasn't in the fire. She was sitting on her bed. The velvet duvet was cool under her sweating palms. The curtains were intact, heavy and blue, blocking out the winter morning light.

The door creaked open. Sophie, her maid, stood there, a basin of water in her hands. Sophie's eyes went wide.

"Madam?" Sophie took a step back, water sloshing over the rim of the basin. "You look... are you ill?"

She didn't answer. She threw the covers off and scrambled out of bed. Her bare feet hit the cold floorboards, and the sensation was so grounding, so real, she almost sobbed.

She grabbed Sophie by the shoulders. Her grip was bruising. "Where is she? Where is Emily?"

"Miss Emily?" Sophie stammered, flinching at her intensity. "She's in the nursery. Asleep. It's barely seven, Madam."

She shoved past her. She didn't run; she stumbled, her legs feeling like jelly, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She burst into the nursery.

The room was quiet. The rocking horse stood still in the corner. And there, in the crib, was a mound under a pink blanket.

She fell to her knees beside the crib. Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely control them. She reached out, terrified that her touch would turn to ash, and placed a finger under Emily's nose.

Warmth. A tiny, rhythmic puff of air.

Emily shifted in her sleep, her little hand curling into a fist.

A sound escaped her-a broken, animal whimper. She clamped her hand over her mouth, biting down on her knuckles until she tasted copper. Emily was alive. She was warm.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Heavy. Confident.

She froze. She knew those footsteps. She had heard them walk away from her while she burned.

Kenney Lloyd appeared in the doorway. He was already dressed in his morning suit, looking crisp and respectable. His face wore a mask of concern that she once would have called love.

"My dear?" He stepped into the room. "Sophie said you were screaming. A nightmare?"

She whipped her head around.

For a second, she couldn't hide it. The pure, unadulterated hatred must have flashed in her eyes, because Kenney paused. He blinked, looking confused, as if he'd seen a ghost.

"Imogene?" He took a step closer, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

Her body reacted before her brain could. She flinched, shrinking away from his hand as if it were a branding iron. Bile rose in her throat.

"Don't," she croaked.

Kenney frowned, his hand hovering in the air. "You're trembling. You're soaked in sweat."

She lowered her head, staring at the floorboards, forcing her lungs to expand and contract slowly. She had to hide it. If he knew what she knew, she lost her advantage.

"Yes," she whispered, her voice trembling. "A nightmare. A terrible one. I... I dreamt of fire."

Kenney's face relaxed. The concern returned, smooth and practiced. "Oh, my poor darling." He moved to the nightstand and poured a glass of water from the pitcher. "Here. Drink."

He handed her the glass. His fingers brushed against hers.

It took every ounce of willpower not to throw the water in his face. She took the glass, gripping it so tightly she thought the crystal might shatter. The water was cool, washing away the phantom taste of smoke.

"You need to calm down," Kenney said, his voice dropping to that soothing, patronizing tone he used when he wanted something. "We have a big night ahead of us. The Winter Masquerade."

Her head snapped up.

The Winter Masquerade.

The date crashed into her mind. It was two years ago. The night it all began. The night he finalized the deal that would lead to their ruin.

"Tonight?" she asked, her voice hollow.

"Yes, tonight." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "It's crucial for my promotion, Imogene. I need you to be perfect. I need you to charm them."

She looked at him. Really looked at him. She saw the ambition rotting him from the inside out. She saw the man who would leave his wife and child to burn if it meant saving his own skin.

"I will be," she said softly.

Kenney patted her shoulder, satisfied. "Good girl. Sophie is preparing your dress. Try to rest."

He turned and walked out, already thinking about his career, about the people he would impress.

She stayed on the floor for a long time. She watched Emily sleep. The terror of the fire was fading, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

She stood up and walked to the mirror on the nursery wall.

The woman staring back at her was young. Her skin was unblemished. Her eyes were wide and haunted. But underneath the fear, there was something else. Something sharp.

She wasn't the victim anymore. She was the one who knew the ending of the story.

She practiced a smile. It was stiff at first, a grimace. But she adjusted it. She softened the eyes. She relaxed the jaw.

"Perfect," she whispered to her reflection.

Tonight, she wouldn't just attend the masquerade. She would turn it into a hunting ground.

The dining room was silent, save for the scrape of silver against china.

She wore blue. A pale, powder blue morning dress that Kenney had always claimed was his favorite. It made her look docile. Harmless. Like the perfect accessory he believed her to be.

Across the table, her mother-in-law, Lady Lloyd, was inspecting a strip of bacon as if it were a personal insult.

"Burnt," she muttered, dropping the fork with a clatter. She looked at Imogene, her eyes narrowing. "You're late, Imogene. A proper mistress of the house is seated before the tea is poured. Sloth is not a virtue."

In her past life, she would have apologized. She would have stammered about the nightmare, about checking on Emily.

Today, she didn't.

She pulled out her chair and sat down. Her movements were fluid, deliberate. She didn't look at Lady Lloyd. She looked straight ahead.

"Good morning, Mother," she said. Her tone was polite, but flat.

Kenney was hidden behind his newspaper. He didn't even lower it. "Jam," he commanded, extending a hand without looking.

She stared at his hand. It was soft, manicured. The hand of a bureaucrat who had never done a day of hard labor in his life. The urge to grab the heavy jar of strawberry preserves and smash it down on his fingers was so strong her arm twitched.

She took a breath. Inhale. Exhale.

She picked up the jar and placed it gently near his fingers.

"Thank you," he mumbled, finally folding the paper. He looked at her, his gaze critical. "You look pale. Put on some rouge tonight. We can't have you looking like a corpse at the ball."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said, picking up her knife. She sliced into a sausage. The serrated edge cut through the meat with a satisfying resistance.

"And wear the sapphire set," Kenney added, spreading jam on his toast. "The big one."

She paused. The sapphires. She knew for a fact they were paste. The real stones, part of her dowry from her merchant father, had been sold by Kenney months ago to cover gambling debts, replaced with glass. Her father taught her to spot a fake at ten paces. Kenney never realized. But he needed the illusion of wealth.

"Of course," she said. "Whatever you wish."

Kenney took a bite of toast, chewing thoughtfully. Then, he dropped the bait.

"Rumor has it," he said, feigning nonchalance, "that King Alaric might make an appearance tonight. Incognito, of course."

He watched her out of the corner of his eye. He was testing her. He wanted to see if she would swoon, if she would show the appropriate amount of awe.

She kept cutting her meat. Scrape. Scrape.

"The King?" she asked, keeping her voice bored. "Why would a man like that care about a party like this?"

Kenney smiled. It was a predatory smile. "Because he gets bored, my dear. And when a King gets bored, he looks for... entertainment. If we could just catch his eye, Imogene. Just for a moment. Think of what it would do for us."

"For us," she repeated.

"Your waist looks thick," Lady Lloyd interrupted, pointing a crust of bread at her. "Lace that corset tighter tonight. Don't embarrass us."

She looked from Lady Lloyd to Kenney. They were discussing her like she was a prize heifer at a county fair. Check the teeth, check the hips, polish the coat.

Kenney reached across the table and covered her hand with his. His palm was warm and slightly damp.

"Imogene," he said, his voice dripping with fake sincerity. "You are my most precious treasure. You know that, don't you? You would do anything for our future. For Emily's future."

Her stomach turned over. It was a physical lurch, a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the food.

She didn't pull away. Instead, she turned her hand over and gripped his. She squeezed his hand, her grip surprisingly firm. She let her nails press just enough to leave a faint crescent mark, a promise he wouldn't understand until it was too late.

"Anything, Kenney," she said, locking eyes with him. "For our future."

He flinched, surprised by the sharpness of her nails, but he didn't pull away. He took it as passion. The fool.

Sophie entered the room, bobbing a curtsy. "Mr. Lloyd, the dress has arrived. The one you ordered."

"Excellent." Kenney wiped his mouth. "Go try it on, Imogene. It's the latest Parisian style. Off the shoulder."

"Off the shoulder?" Lady Lloyd sniffed. "Scandalous."

"Fashionable," Kenney corrected. "Go on."

She stood up. As she walked past Kenney, a scent hit her. It was faint, clinging to his jacket. Rosewater and musk.

It wasn't her perfume.

It was hers. The mistress he kept in an apartment in Chelsea. She hadn't known about her until years later in her first life. Now, the smell was like a neon sign.

She walked out of the dining room, her spine straight.

Upstairs, the dress was laid out on the bed. It was a deep, rich velvet, the color of a bruised plum. The neckline was low. Too low. It was designed to display, not to cover.

"It's beautiful, Madam," Sophie said uncertainly.

"It's a sales pitch," she muttered.

She walked over to the sewing table and picked up a pair of shears. The cold steel felt heavy and good in her hand.

"Madam?" Sophie gasped as she approached the dress. "What are you doing?"

"Making improvements," she said.

She didn't destroy it. She wasn't a child throwing a tantrum. She was a soldier preparing her armor.

She carefully snipped away the excessive lace around the bust. She altered the line of the shoulder, making it cleaner, more severe. She remembered the portrait she had seen once in the Royal Gallery-the portrait of Adella Lynn. Adella wore her dresses simple, letting her skin do the work.

If Kenney wanted to sell her, she would make sure she fetched the highest price. But the payment wouldn't go to him.

She looked at herself in the mirror, holding the altered dress against her body.

"Sophie," she said, her voice steady. "Pack the sewing kit away. We have work to do."

The Royal Opera House was a cavern of gold leaf and red velvet, humming with the murmur of London's elite.

Outside, the snow was falling in thick, silent sheets. Inside, the air was hot, perfumed, and heavy with secrets.

She adjusted her mask. It was silver, covering the upper half of her face, leaving her mouth exposed. It felt like a shield.

Kenney gripped her elbow. His fingers were digging in nervously. "Remember," he hissed in her ear. "Smile. Look lively. And if you see anyone of importance... well, the King's men are said to favor simple, dark masks to blend in. Stay sharp."

"I thought the King was incognito," she said dryly.

"People talk, Imogene. Just listen to me."

He steered her toward the edge of the ballroom floor, positioning her like a vase he wanted to show off. The altered dress did its job. She could feel eyes sliding over her exposed shoulders, lingering on the curve of her neck.

"Stay here," Kenney said abruptly. "I see Lord Halloway. I need a word."

He abandoned her. Just like he had two years ago.

She didn't wait. As soon as his back was turned, she moved.

She didn't stay in the light. She headed for the shadows. She knew exactly where to go. The east stairwell. It was drafty, poorly lit, and led to the private boxes. It was where he went when he wanted to escape the suffocating adoration of the court.

She slipped through the heavy velvet curtains and into the quiet of the stairwell.

The noise of the party faded to a dull roar. Here, the air was cooler. A single gas lamp flickered on the wall, casting long, dancing shadows.

She waited. She counted the seconds in her head.

One. Two. Three.

Above her, a door opened. Heavy footsteps descended the stone stairs. The sound of a velvet cape dragging against the floor.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. This was it.

A figure emerged from the gloom above. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed entirely in black. He wore a simple black domino mask that did nothing to hide the intensity of his presence.

King Alaric.

He stopped when he saw her.

She stood at the turn of the staircase, the light catching the silver of her mask and the pale expanse of her throat.

He looked annoyed at first. Another sycophant trying to corner him. His jaw tightened.

"I didn't realize this stairwell was occupied," he said. His voice was deep, rougher than she remembered. It vibrated in the stone space.

She didn't curtsy. She didn't speak.

She slowly lifted her head. She turned her face just slightly to the left, angling her chin down.

It was her angle. Adella Lynn's angle. She had practiced it in the mirror until her neck cramped.

Alaric froze.

His hand, which had been reaching for the railing, stopped in mid-air. She saw his pupils dilate behind the mask. The annoyance vanished, replaced by a shock so profound it looked like pain.

He took a step down. Then another. Faster this time.

"Who are you?" he demanded. The command was there, but beneath it was a thread of desperation.

She held his gaze for one heartbeat. Two. She let him see the fear in her eyes-not feigned, but repurposed.

Then, she ran.

She gathered her skirts and bolted down the stairs, past him.

"Wait!" he shouted.

She heard him lunge, but the stairs were narrow. She was smaller, faster. She burst through the curtain back into the ballroom.

The wall of heat and noise hit her. She didn't stop. She wove through the crowd, using the bodies of dancers as a barrier.

She glanced back.

Alaric had stopped at the edge of the curtain. He couldn't chase her. Not here. Not in front of everyone. A King does not run after women in public.

He stood there, a dark monolith against the gold, his chest heaving. His eyes were scanning the crowd, frantic, searching for the silver mask.

He raised a hand and snapped his fingers.

Instantly, a man appeared at his side. Sterling. The King's shadow.

She was far enough away to be safe, but close enough to see Alaric point in her direction. She couldn't hear the words, but she could read the lips.

Find her.

A shiver went down her spine. It wasn't fear. It was the thrill of the gambler who had just bet everything on a single card.

"There you are!"

Kenney grabbed her arm, spinning her around. "I told you to stay put. I've been looking everywhere."

She looked at her husband. He was sweating. He looked small. Pathetic.

"I needed air," she lied smoothly. "It's stifling in here."

"Well, fix your hair," Kenney snapped. "I think the King is leaving early. There's a commotion near the royal box. We missed our chance."

She looked over Kenney's shoulder. Up on the balcony, Alaric was still standing there. He wasn't leaving. He was hunting.

And she was the prey.

"I don't think we missed anything, Kenney," she said softly. "I think the night is just beginning."