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.
