The sensation of falling stopped.
Fiona gasped, her body jerking violently upward. Her lungs heaved, desperate for air that wasn't filled with saltwater.
"Haa... haa..."
She was sitting up. Her hands flew to her throat, then her chest, then her legs.
No pain. No broken bones. No freezing water.
She was sweating, her silk nightgown clinging to her skin. The air was warm and smelled of lavender and expensive linen.
She looked around wildly.
Pale gold wallpaper. The antique vanity table cluttered with crystal perfume bottles. The heavy velvet curtains drawn against the night.
Her bedroom. Her old bedroom in the Crown Prince's Palace.
She turned her head to the digital clock on the bedside table.
October 14th.
The year... it was three years ago.
The door creaked open.
"Your Highness?"
Fiona flinched, her heart skipping a beat.
Yana stood in the doorway, holding a silver tray with a glass of water and a pill bottle. Her face was round and worried, her dark hair pulled back in a neat bun.
Yana. Who had died shielding Fiona from the press when the scandal broke in her past life.
"Yana," Fiona choked out.
Tears welled up in her eyes, hot and fast. She scrambled out of bed and ran to her, nearly knocking the tray from her hands.
"Oh, Your Highness!" Yana set the tray down on a side table just in time to catch Fiona. "It's okay. I know the doctor's news was hard. But there are other ways... you can still be a mother."
She thought Fiona was crying about the infertility diagnosis. The fake diagnosis Bradley's doctors had given her yesterday to break her spirit.
Fiona hugged her tight, feeling the solid warmth of her body. Yana was alive. Fiona was alive.
"I'm not crying about that," Fiona whispered into her shoulder.
She pulled back. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. The tears stopped as quickly as they had come. Her breathing steadied.
The grief was still there, a heavy stone in her gut, but she pushed it down. She didn't have time for grief.
"Yana," Fiona said, her voice changing. It was lower now. Harder. "Where is Bradley?"
Yana blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in Fiona's demeanor. "He... he is at the Charity Gala, Your Highness. He won't be back until late."
"And the news?" Fiona asked. "What is happening with the Regent?"
"Prince Demian?" Yana looked confused. "The news says he is in critical condition. They say... they say he might not survive the night."
Fiona's blood ran cold.
Tonight. It was tonight.
In her past life, Demian Ballard, the Regent, the most feared man in the kingdom, had suffered a catastrophic reaction to the Pyro-Toxin in his blood tonight. He survived, but the agony cost him the use of his legs for years and drove him into isolation. His weakness allowed Bradley to seize total control of the military. After Bradley discarded Fiona, she spent two years locked away in a remote villa. Her only companions were books. She devoured the Orozco family's private library, filled with ancient texts on medicine and poisons. It was there she found it-a detailed treatise on Pyro-Toxin and its unique, organic antidote. She had studied it, memorized it, dreaming of a revenge she never got to enact. Until now.
If she wanted to win, she needed a weapon. She needed a monster who could eat Bradley alive.
She needed Demian.
"Get me my black running gear," Fiona ordered, moving toward the hidden safe behind a painting of a lily. "And the medical kit. The surgical one."
"Your Highness?" Yana stammered. "You're grounded. Prince Bradley said-"
Fiona spun around. She grabbed Yana by the shoulders.
"Look at me."
Yana stared into Fiona's eyes, trembling.
"The Fiona who listened to Bradley is dead," Fiona said. "Do exactly as I say, or we both die. Do you understand?"
Yana swallowed hard. She saw something in Fiona's face that terrified her. But she nodded. "Yes, Your Highness."
Ten minutes later, Fiona was dressed in black, a hood pulled low over her face. She had a scalpel and a set of silver acupuncture needles strapped to her thigh.
She slipped out through the balcony. She knew the blind spots of the cameras-she had spent three years memorizing them, trying to avoid Bradley's spies.
She dropped into the garden, landing softly in the wet grass. The rain was starting to fall, just like the night she died. But this time, she wasn't running away. She was hunting.
She scaled the outer wall and flagged down a taxi three blocks away.
"Regent's Estate," she told the driver.
The radio was playing. A reporter's voice filled the cab. "...Crown Prince Bradley was seen comforting the Duchess Icy Duffy today, whose husband, Duke Asher, is currently deployed with the Third Fleet, praising her tireless work for the orphans..."
Fiona stared out the window at the blurring city lights. A cold smile touched her lips.
Enjoy your applause, Bradley. It will be your last.
The Regent's Estate was a fortress. High walls, electrified fences, guards with assault rifles.
Fiona had the taxi drop her off a mile away. She walked the rest, keeping to the shadows.
A delivery truck was idling at the rear gate. Arctic Ice Supply.
Demian's condition made his blood boil. Literally. He needed tons of ice to keep his temperature down during an attack.
Fiona waited for the guard to check the driver's clipboard. As he walked to the front of the cab, she rolled under the chassis.
She clung to the metal bars, the smell of grease and exhaust filling her nose. The truck lurched forward, carrying her inside the belly of the beast.
When it parked at the loading dock, she dropped down and rolled into the shrubbery.
The air here was different. It smelled of ozone and something metallic. Burnt sugar and copper.
The smell of Pyro-Toxin.
She followed the scent. She dodged two patrols, her heart hammering against her ribs, but her hands were steady.
She reached the master wing. The windows were frosted over from the inside.
She found an unlocked service door-sloppy, or maybe the staff was too terrified to go near him.
She slipped inside.
The hallway was freezing. Mist curled along the floorboards.
She heard a sound that made the hair on her arms stand up. A low, guttural growl. Like a wounded animal.
She pushed open the heavy double doors at the end of the hall.
The room was a freezer. Blocks of ice were stacked in the corners.
And there, in the center of the room, chained to a metal bedframe, was Demian Ballard.
He was shirtless. His skin was flushed a violent, unnatural red, steam rising from his shoulders. His muscles strained against the steel cuffs.
He looked up as the door clicked shut.
His eyes were entirely black. No whites. Just pools of endless, violent darkness.
