Evita's fingers were useless. They felt swollen, disconnected from her brain. She clawed at the brass chain lock, trying to slide it into the groove, but the metal kept slipping.
Her body was on fire. It started in her stomach, a molten heat that radiated outward, making her skin feel too tight. She tugged at the collar of her dress. The fabric felt like sandpaper.
The room was pitch black, save for a sliver of moonlight cutting through the heavy velvet curtains. It illuminated dust motes dancing in the air, swirling in patterns that made Evita dizzy.
She needed water. Cold water.
She pushed herself up from the floor, her knees buckling. She stumbled forward, her hands outstretched, groping the air. The silence in the room was absolute, heavy, like the air before a storm.
Her shin collided with something hard and metallic.
Evita gasped, the sound loud in the quiet room. She pitched forward, catching herself on a leather armrest.
"Get out."
The voice came from the darkness. It was low, rough, like gravel grinding together. It wasn't a question. It was a command, vibrating with a menace that cut through the fog in Evita's brain.
She froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She tried to speak, to apologize, to explain she was hiding, but her throat was paralyzed. The silence she had cultivated for years was now a prison.
A mechanical whirring sound broke the stillness. A small light on the armrest she was holding flickered to life, casting a ghostly green glow on the face of the man sitting in the chair.
He was terrifying. Even in the dim light, she could see the sharp angles of his jaw, the dark circles under his eyes, and the sheer, unadulterated rage etched into his features. He was sitting in a wheelchair that looked more like a cockpit, surrounded by controls.
Jedidiah Stone.
Evita recognized him instantly. The Broken King. The man who had disappeared from society three years ago.
"I said, get out," he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. "Did O'Connell send you? Is this his idea of a joke?"
He thought she was a prostitute. A gift.
Evita shook her head frantically. She tried to back away, but her legs gave out. She collapsed onto the thick carpet, her hands landing on his feet.
His feet were cold. Through the thin fabric of his dress socks, she could feel the chill. To her feverish skin, it was heaven.
Jedidiah flinched. A spasm of disgust crossed his face. He hated being touched. He hated the reminder of the limbs that no longer obeyed him. He reached down, his hand clamping around her jaw, forcing her to look up at him.
"What is wrong with you?" he hissed.
He saw the dilated pupils, the sweat beading on her forehead, the way her body trembled uncontrollably. He smelled it then-the cloying sweetness of the drug oozing from her pores, mixing with the scent of rain and fear.
"They drugged you," he stated. It wasn't a question anymore.
Evita nodded, tears leaking from her eyes. The heat was unbearable now. It was a physical ache, a demanding, throbbing need that the drug had artificially induced. She leaned her cheek against his knee, seeking the coolness of the metal frame of his chair.
A heavy pounding started on the door she had just locked.
"Open up! Security!" A muffled voice shouted from the hallway.
Evita whimpered. She gripped Jedidiah's pants leg, her knuckles white. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. If they took her, she was dead. Or worse.
Jedidiah looked at the door, then back at the woman clinging to his paralyzed legs. He saw the terror in her eyes. It was raw. Real.
He moved his hand to the control panel on his armrest. He pressed a red button. The sound of heavy deadbolts sliding into place echoed through the room. The entire suite was now in lockdown.
"Go away," Jedidiah shouted at the door. "Unless you want to be fired before sunrise."
The pounding stopped. Footsteps retreated.
Silence returned, but the tension in the room had shifted. It was thicker now, charged with something volatile.
Evita let out a sob of relief. The drug surged again. She felt like she was burning from the inside out. She needed to get the dress off. It was suffocating her.
She sat up on her knees and began to tear at the bodice of her gown. The fabric ripped.
"Stop that," Jedidiah warned, his voice tight.
She didn't stop. She couldn't. She pulled the dress down, exposing her shoulders, her chest. Her skin was flushed a deep, unnatural pink.
She crawled forward, climbing onto his lap. She straddled his legs, her movements clumsy and desperate. She didn't know who he was anymore. She only knew he was there, he was solid, and he was cool.
Jedidiah froze. He felt the weight of her, the heat of her thighs against his dead legs. He felt nothing in his lower body, but his mind... his mind was screaming. It had been three years. Three years of celibacy, of hating his own body, of feeling like a broken machine.
"Don't," he groaned, grabbing her wrists to stop her.
But Evita leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his. Her lips were soft, tasting of that bitter chemical and sweet champagne. She kissed him with a frantic, messy hunger.
Something inside Jedidiah snapped. The rage, the pain, the isolation-it all twisted into a dark, sudden desire. He released her wrists and tangled his hands in her hair, pulling her head back to deepen the kiss. He kissed her like he wanted to devour her, to punish her for making him feel this alive.
She made a sound in her throat, a soft mewl that vibrated against his mouth.
He hit a button on the chair, and it lowered, the back reclining until it was level with the bed beside them. He pulled her with him, rolling them onto the mattress.
The darkness swallowed them whole.
