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.

Fiona woke up to the smell of coffee.

She shot up in bed, panic seizing her chest. The sheets were gray silk, not the gold of her room.

Where am I?

Then she saw her wrist. It was neatly bandaged with professional gauze.

The memories rushed back. The infiltration. The blood. The deal.

The door opened. A tall man with a scar running through his eyebrow walked in. Vane. Demian's head of security.

He didn't look like he wanted to kill her, which was an improvement from last night.

"Good morning, Your Highness," Vane said. He set a tray down on the bedside table. "The Prince sends his regards."

"What time is it?" Fiona asked, swinging her legs out of bed.

"Seven a.m. We have established a cover story. You were at the Royal Library late last night researching ancient prayers for your husband's success. You fainted from exhaustion and were brought to the nearest medical wing-ours."

Fiona let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. It was a solid lie. Bradley would buy it because it stroked his ego.

Vane handed her a small black velvet box.

"From the Prince."

Fiona opened it. Inside sat a heavy silver ring with a black onyx stone, engraved with a hawk. And a tiny, almost invisible earpiece.

"Put the ring on," Vane said. "It's a signal to my men. If they see it, they protect you. The earpiece is a direct line. Encrypted. The microphone is woven into the setting of the ring's stone. Orozco tech. It's undetectable by standard security sweeps. The Prince insists on discretion."

Fiona slid the ring onto her right ring finger. It was a little loose, but it felt heavy. Like armor.

"Thank you," she said.

She dressed quickly in the clothes Yana had packed-her "library" outfit.

As she walked down the long corridor toward the exit, she saw him.

Demian was sitting in a wheelchair by the window, looking out at the rain-washed garden. He was wearing a black turtleneck that hid the needle mark on his neck.

He didn't turn around. But as she passed, he raised a crystal tumbler of whiskey slightly in the air.

Fiona paused. She touched the ring on her finger.

He saw her reflection in the glass. His lips curved into a smirk.

She kept walking.

The car ride back to the Palace was smooth. Too smooth.

When she walked into the grand foyer, the atmosphere was suffocating.

Yana rushed to her, her face pale. "He's in the dining room. He's furious."

Fiona took a deep breath. She pinched her cheeks to bring some color to them, then let her shoulders slump. She transformed from the woman who fed blood to a vampire into the meek, exhausted wife.

She walked into the dining room.

Bradley was eating eggs benedict. He didn't look up.

"Where were you?" he asked. The fork scraped against the china. Scrape. Scrape.

"I... I was at the library, Bradley," Fiona stammered, pulling out the forged medical report Vane had given her. "I wanted to find that prayer for the gala. I guess I forgot to eat."

She placed the paper on the table.

Bradley picked it up. He scanned it, his eyes narrowing. Anemia. Exhaustion. Stress.

He scoffed. "You're so fragile, Fiona. It's embarrassing. The press is asking questions."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, looking at her shoes.

"Daddy!"

Jimmie ran into the room. He was wearing his school uniform. He ran straight past Fiona and jumped onto Bradley's lap.

"Hey, champ," Bradley's face transformed. He smiled, kissing the top of Jimmie's head. "Ready for school?"

"Yeah! Can we take the sports car?"

"Anything for you."

Neither of them looked at Fiona. She was a ghost in her own house.

She watched them leave, Bradley's arm draped protectively around the boy who had bitten her. The boy who would kill her.

She went to her room and locked the door.

She put the earpiece in.

"Testing," she whispered.

Static crackled, then a voice. Low, smooth, and amused.

"Academy Award performance, Princess."

Her heart hammered. "You were listening?"

"I have eyes and ears everywhere," Demian said. "Especially on my investments."

Fiona looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were hard.

"I'm not an investment, Demian. I'm a partner."

"We'll see," he replied. "Seven days. I need another dose. Don't be late."

The line went dead.

Fiona touched the bandage on her wrist.

Let the game begin.

Breakfast the next morning was a battlefield disguised as a meal.

Fiona sat across from Jimmie. He was swinging his legs, kicking the table leg rhythmically. Thump. Thump. Thump.

He reached for the pitcher of milk. As he poured it into his cereal, his hand "slipped."

The pitcher tipped. White liquid flooded across the table, cascading onto Fiona's lap, soaking her silk skirt.

"Oops," Jimmie said. He didn't look sorry. He looked bored. "Slippery."

Bradley didn't even look up from his tablet. " accidents happen. Go change, Fiona."

In the past, Fiona would have apologized. She would have run upstairs, crying, blaming her own clumsiness for upsetting the child.

Not today.

She didn't move. The cold milk seeped into her skin.

"Apologize," Fiona said.

The room went silent. The servants froze.

Jimmie blinked. He looked at Fiona, confused by the tone. "What?"

"You heard me," Fiona said, her voice steady and sharp as a scalpel. "Apologize. Now."

Jimmie looked at Bradley. "Dad?"

Bradley sighed, putting down his tablet. "Fiona, don't be dramatic. He's just a boy."

"He is a Prince of the Blood," Fiona said, standing up. "If he cannot handle a milk pitcher, how will he handle the Crown? The media is already calling him spoiled. Do you want them to call him feral?"

Bradley flinched. The media. His achilles heel.

He looked at Jimmie. "Say sorry to your mother, Jimmie."

Jimmie's face turned red. He glared at Fiona with pure venom.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Look at me when you say it," Fiona commanded.

Jimmie's hands curled into fists. He looked up, his eyes burning. "Sorry."

"Better." Fiona dabbed at her skirt with a napkin. "Lee, bring me the household accounts for the last quarter. Immediately."

The butler, Lee, a man who had been in Bradley's pocket for years, hesitated. "The... accounts, Your Highness? They are with the auditor."

"I am the Crown Princess," Fiona said, walking past him. "If those books aren't on my desk in ten minutes, I'm calling the police to report embezzlement."

Lee paled. "Yes, Your Highness."

An hour later, Fiona had the ledger. It didn't take long to find it.

Ice Lily Foundation.

Monthly transfers of fifty thousand dollars. Labeled as "Consulting Fees."

Fiona snapped a photo of the page and sent it to the encrypted email Vane had provided.

Proof, she typed. He's using state funds to keep his mistress.

Later that afternoon, Fiona heard shouting from the garden.

She walked out to the terrace.

Jimmie was standing by the rose bushes. He had a slingshot. He was aiming at a stray cat that had wandered onto the grounds.

Thwack.

The stone hit the cat's flank. The animal yowled in pain, trying to limp away.

Jimmie laughed. He loaded another stone.

Fiona's vision went red. In her last life, he had blinded that cat.

Her hand was already moving, pulling her phone from her pocket. She pressed the record button, the screen's reflection shielded by the shadows of the veranda. She captured it all: the cruel laugh, the cat's cry, the second stone being loaded. Only then did she move.

She crossed the lawn in seconds. She grabbed the slingshot from his hand and threw it into the fountain.

"Hey!" Jimmie screamed. "That was mine! Dad gave me that!"

"Your father gave you a weapon to torture helpless animals?" Fiona grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around. "That is psychopathic behavior, Jimmie."

"Let me go!" He tried to bite her again.

Fiona was ready this time. She slapped his hand away.

"Stand there," she ordered, pointing to a spot on the pavement under the direct sun. "Two hours. No moving. No water."

"You can't do that! I'm telling Dad!"

"Tell him," Fiona said. "Tell him I have a video of you torturing a cat. Tell him I'm ready to send it to PETA."

Jimmie froze. He was only seven, but he already understood what bad press meant. Bradley had drilled it into him.

"What is going on here?"

Bradley came striding out of the French doors, his face thunderous. "Fiona! Unhand him!"

Jimmie ran to him, sobbing fake tears. "She threw my toy away! She's being mean!"

Bradley scooped him up, glaring at Fiona. "Have you lost your mind?"

Fiona held up her phone. She pressed play.

The video showed Jimmie laughing as the cat screamed.

"Animal cruelty," Fiona said calmly. "It's a felony in some states. Imagine the headlines, Bradley. 'Future King Raises Sadist.'"

Bradley watched the video. His face went gray.

He looked down at Jimmie. The adoration in his eyes flickered, replaced by calculation.

He set the boy down.

"Do as your mother says, Jimmie," Bradley said coldly.

"Dad?" Jimmie gasped, betrayed.

"Stand there," Bradley ordered. Then he looked at Fiona. There was a new emotion in his eyes. Fear. "Delete the video."

"When he learns empathy," Fiona said. "I'll consider it."

She walked back into the house, leaving them both in the sun.