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.

The door handle began to turn.

Edris's eyes flew open. Panic, cold and sober, washed over her. If she was found here-naked, in the King's suite, after escaping her own engagement party-the scandal wouldn't just ruin her; it would incinerate her family.

Ignatius moved with a speed that blurred. He shoved Edris down into the deep pile of the rug and threw the rest of the blanket over her head, completely concealing her.

The door burst open.

"Stay where you are!" Clemente Hendrix, the Head of Royal Security, stepped in, weapon drawn, sweeping the room.

Ignatius was sitting on the edge of the sofa, shirtless, a glass of whiskey in his hand that he must have poured in the split second before the door opened. He looked bored, annoyed, and utterly composed.

"Hendrix," Ignatius said. His voice was a low rumble, dangerous and calm. "Do you make it a habit to burst into my private quarters?"

Clemente lowered his weapon slightly, his eyes darting around the room. He saw the torn dress on the floor. He saw the lump under the blanket at the King's feet. He saw the scratches on the King's chest.

The color drained from the security chief's face.

"Apologies, Sir. The perimeter alarm... we thought it was an assassin."

Ignatius took a slow sip of his drink. "There is no assassin. Just a guest. Leaving now."

His gaze was ice, a silent command that pinned Hendrix in place. "The matter is handled. You will erase the last five minutes of sensor data and forget you were here. Is that understood?"

He kicked the pile of clothes toward the blanket.

"Get out, Hendrix. And close the door."

Clemente hesitated for a fraction of a second, his training warring with the absolute authority of his King. Then, he bowed his head, averted his eyes from the blanket, and backed out. "My apologies, Your Majesty."

The door clicked shut. The lock engaged.

Edris threw the blanket off, gasping for air. She scrambled for her dress, her hands shaking so hard she could barely hold the fabric. It was ruined. The zipper was busted, the hem torn.

"You have three minutes before he checks the perimeter cameras anyway," Ignatius said. He wasn't looking at her; he was staring into his glass. "Who are you?"

Edris pulled the dress on, holding the bodice together with a trembling hand. She found her cashmere scarf on the floor, snatching it up and wrapping it around her shoulders to hide the worst of the damage.

"It doesn't matter," she said, her voice hoarse.

Ignatius stood up. He loomed over her, blocking the path to the balcony. "It matters to me. You break into my room, use me, and think you can just leave?"

Edris found her shoes. She stood up, forcing her spine straight despite the trembling in her legs. She grabbed a safety pin from a sewing kit on the side table-something the housekeeping staff must have left-and pinned the dress together.

"I didn't use you," she said, meeting his gold eyes. "We used each other."

Ignatius stepped closer. He reached out, his hand hovering near her face. "Name."

Edris flinched back. She couldn't give him her name. Edris Mcclure was the poised, perfect fiancée of Prince Clement. This woman-this wild, desperate creature with bruised lips and tangled hair-could not be her.

She glanced at the coffee table. A fashion magazine lay there. The cover model stared back with bold text: GIGI.

"Gigi," she lied. "My name is Gigi."

Ignatius raised an eyebrow. "Gigi. Sounds like a stripper."

Edris let out a sharp, breathless laugh. "I was your only remedy tonight, Your Majesty. And remedies, as you know, are priceless."

Something sparked in his eyes. Amusement? Respect?

"Go," he said, stepping aside. "Before I change my mind and have you arrested."

Edris didn't wait. She bolted for the terrace doors. The cold wind hit her again, but this time it felt like freedom.

"Wait."

She paused at the railing, one leg already over.

"You forgot this."

She looked back. Ignatius was holding up a pearl earring. It dangled from his fingers, catching the firelight.

Edris touched her earlobe. It was bare.

"Keep it," she called out over the wind. "Consider it a tip."

She jumped.

Ignatius walked to the balcony, watching the small figure disappear into the swirling snow. He closed his fist around the pearl, the metal post digging into his palm.

"Gigi," he whispered, testing the name on his tongue. He didn't believe it for a second.

"I will find you."

The staff bathroom in the Guest Lodge smelled of bleach and lemon cleaner. It was the only sanctuary Edris could find.

She locked the door and collapsed against the sink, staring at her reflection in the spotted mirror. She looked like a wreck. Her lips were swollen and bitten, her neck mottled with red marks, her hair a bird's nest.

"Pull it together, Edris," she hissed at herself.

She turned on the tap, splashing freezing water onto her face until her skin was numb. She dug into her clutch-miraculously still with her-and pulled out her emergency makeup kit. Concealer went on thick over the marks on her neck. She blended it until her skin looked flawless again. She brushed her hair, pulling it into a severe, sleek bun that hid the tangles.

She adjusted the safety pin on her dress, draping her cashmere scarf over her shoulders to hide the tear.

Ten minutes later, the woman in the mirror was Edris Mcclure again. Cold. Perfect. Untouchable. Only her eyes betrayed her-they were older, harder than they had been yesterday.

She slipped out, blending in with the early morning shift of maids, and made it back to her suite.

"Miss Edris!" Molly, her assistant, nearly dropped a steaming steamer. "Where have you been? The Senator has been calling every ten minutes!"

"I fell asleep in the library," Edris lied smoothly. "The snow blocked the doors."

She didn't wait for Molly to question the logic. "Get my ski gear. The white set."

Twenty minutes later, dressed in pristine white thermal gear that cost more than most people's cars, Edris walked into the central Courtyard.

The resort was waking up. Guests were milling about with coffees, prepping for the slopes.

Edris scanned the crowd. Her eyes landed on a couple near the fire pit.

Prince Clement. And Bailee.

They stood close. Too close. Bailee was wearing a pink puffer jacket that was a size too big-Clement's jacket. She was holding a cup of hot cocoa with both hands, looking up at him with wide, adoring eyes. Clement was smiling, a soft, genuine smile Edris hadn't seen directed at her in months. He reached out and tapped Bailee's nose, laughing at something she said.

In her past life, Edris had seen scenes like this and told herself it was just sibling affection. They grew up together, she used to say. They are close.

Now, looking through the lens of betrayal, it was nauseating.

Edris pulled out her phone. She didn't open the camera app immediately. She pretended to check her messages, angling the phone just right.

Click.

She took three photos in rapid succession. The hand on the waist. The nose tap. The way Bailee leaned into him.

Clement turned his head, his smile vanishing instantly as he spotted her.

Bailee jumped back as if burned, spilling cocoa on the snow. "Edris! Oh my god, you scared me!"

Edris pocketed her phone and walked over, her boots crunching softly on the snow.

"Good morning, Your Highness. Bailee." Her voice was level, devoid of warmth.

Clement cleared his throat, adjusting his scarf. "Edris. We were worried. You vanished last night."

"Did you?" Edris asked, her gaze flicking to Bailee and then back to him. "It looks like you found plenty of comfort."

Bailee's eyes welled up instantly. "Sister, don't be like that. Clement was just keeping me company while we waited for news of you."

"Is that why you're wearing his jacket?" Edris asked.

Bailee looked down, clutching the lapels. "I was cold..."

"Of course you were." Edris smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You're always cold, aren't you, Bailee? Especially when someone else's fiancé is around to warm you up."

Clement stepped forward, his face darkening. "That's enough, Edris. You're tired. You're imagining things."

"Am I?" Edris tilted her head. "I suppose I imagined the way your hand was on her waist, too?"

Clement froze.

"Go get changed, Clement," she said, dismissing him like a servant. "We have the Vogue shoot in an hour. Unless you want the world to see you wearing guilt instead of Armani."