Reborn From Ashes: The King's Ruthless Queen

The Royal Opera House was a cavern of gold leaf and red velvet, humming with the murmur of London's elite.

Outside, the snow was falling in thick, silent sheets. Inside, the air was hot, perfumed, and heavy with secrets.

She adjusted her mask. It was silver, covering the upper half of her face, leaving her mouth exposed. It felt like a shield.

Kenney gripped her elbow. His fingers were digging in nervously. "Remember," he hissed in her ear. "Smile. Look lively. And if you see anyone of importance... well, the King's men are said to favor simple, dark masks to blend in. Stay sharp."

"I thought the King was incognito," she said dryly.

"People talk, Imogene. Just listen to me."

He steered her toward the edge of the ballroom floor, positioning her like a vase he wanted to show off. The altered dress did its job. She could feel eyes sliding over her exposed shoulders, lingering on the curve of her neck.

"Stay here," Kenney said abruptly. "I see Lord Halloway. I need a word."

He abandoned her. Just like he had two years ago.

She didn't wait. As soon as his back was turned, she moved.

She didn't stay in the light. She headed for the shadows. She knew exactly where to go. The east stairwell. It was drafty, poorly lit, and led to the private boxes. It was where he went when he wanted to escape the suffocating adoration of the court.

She slipped through the heavy velvet curtains and into the quiet of the stairwell.

The noise of the party faded to a dull roar. Here, the air was cooler. A single gas lamp flickered on the wall, casting long, dancing shadows.

She waited. She counted the seconds in her head.

One. Two. Three.

Above her, a door opened. Heavy footsteps descended the stone stairs. The sound of a velvet cape dragging against the floor.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. This was it.

A figure emerged from the gloom above. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed entirely in black. He wore a simple black domino mask that did nothing to hide the intensity of his presence.

King Alaric.

He stopped when he saw her.

She stood at the turn of the staircase, the light catching the silver of her mask and the pale expanse of her throat.

He looked annoyed at first. Another sycophant trying to corner him. His jaw tightened.

"I didn't realize this stairwell was occupied," he said. His voice was deep, rougher than she remembered. It vibrated in the stone space.

She didn't curtsy. She didn't speak.

She slowly lifted her head. She turned her face just slightly to the left, angling her chin down.

It was her angle. Adella Lynn's angle. She had practiced it in the mirror until her neck cramped.

Alaric froze.

His hand, which had been reaching for the railing, stopped in mid-air. She saw his pupils dilate behind the mask. The annoyance vanished, replaced by a shock so profound it looked like pain.

He took a step down. Then another. Faster this time.

"Who are you?" he demanded. The command was there, but beneath it was a thread of desperation.

She held his gaze for one heartbeat. Two. She let him see the fear in her eyes-not feigned, but repurposed.

Then, she ran.

She gathered her skirts and bolted down the stairs, past him.

"Wait!" he shouted.

She heard him lunge, but the stairs were narrow. She was smaller, faster. She burst through the curtain back into the ballroom.

The wall of heat and noise hit her. She didn't stop. She wove through the crowd, using the bodies of dancers as a barrier.

She glanced back.

Alaric had stopped at the edge of the curtain. He couldn't chase her. Not here. Not in front of everyone. A King does not run after women in public.

He stood there, a dark monolith against the gold, his chest heaving. His eyes were scanning the crowd, frantic, searching for the silver mask.

He raised a hand and snapped his fingers.

Instantly, a man appeared at his side. Sterling. The King's shadow.

She was far enough away to be safe, but close enough to see Alaric point in her direction. She couldn't hear the words, but she could read the lips.

Find her.

A shiver went down her spine. It wasn't fear. It was the thrill of the gambler who had just bet everything on a single card.

"There you are!"

Kenney grabbed her arm, spinning her around. "I told you to stay put. I've been looking everywhere."

She looked at her husband. He was sweating. He looked small. Pathetic.

"I needed air," she lied smoothly. "It's stifling in here."

"Well, fix your hair," Kenney snapped. "I think the King is leaving early. There's a commotion near the royal box. We missed our chance."

She looked over Kenney's shoulder. Up on the balcony, Alaric was still standing there. He wasn't leaving. He was hunting.

And she was the prey.

"I don't think we missed anything, Kenney," she said softly. "I think the night is just beginning."