Irina’s POV

My body floated in darkness.

No direction. No up or down. Just complete blackness—the kind that swallowed you whole and didn’t even bother giving you the strength to struggle.

Then pain hit. Sharp. Vicious.

Memories lined up like soldiers. One after another.

Like a documentary. But only the worst clips. Only the parts that hurt.

I saw Maxim. I saw Alexei. Saw my father and every single person in the pack.

My stomach turned.

I saw myself curled in the corner of a bathroom. Water scalding hot. Scrubbing my skin raw, trying to wash away the feeling of hands on my body.

It wouldn’t come off.

Never came off.

That feeling clung to my skin like a parasite. Like a brand. No matter how hot the water, no matter how hard I scrubbed, it stayed.

Maxim’s laughter echoed in my ears. Not angry laughter. Casual. Mocking. Like even hurting me bored him.

Like my pain was just entertainment.

Another wave of agony pulled me somewhere else.

I jolted upright.

Soaked in sweat. Gasping.

A bedroom.

I was in a bedroom.

I stared for several seconds, brain like scattered sand that wouldn’t come back together. I tried to grab at memories—

The dull ache in my neck found me first.

Right.

The underground trading post. Sex slave.

The King had marked me in front of everyone.

Why would he do that?

"I..."

I heard myself speak. My voice came out hoarse, stuttering. The words broke off halfway.

Because I saw him.

Nicolas sat on the edge of the bed.

And god, he was... overwhelming.

Even sitting still, he commanded the entire space. Took up all the oxygen. Made everything else fade to background noise.

He wore a black shirt—sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle. The top buttons were undone, exposing a triangle of skin at his throat. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, like he’d been running his hands through it.

But it was his face that made my breath catch.

Sharp cheekbones. Strong jaw covered in dark stubble. A mouth that should have been cruel but somehow wasn’t—not quite. And those eyes.

Forest green. Intense. Burning with something I couldn’t name.

They locked onto me like a physical touch.

My heart stuttered.

This was the Mad King. The monster everyone feared. The man who’d killed his own brothers.

And he was *beautiful.*

The thought came unbidden, unwanted. Made heat crawl up my neck.

He sat completely still. Like something carved from black marble. No expression. No movement. Just staring at me with that predator’s gaze—measuring, calculating, deciding where to bite first.

The mate bond hummed between us. Hot. Insistent. Demanding.

My wolf stirred for the first time since the rejection. Weak. Damaged. But *aware.*

My skin felt too tight. Too hot. Every point where the thin dress touched me burned. And the mark on my neck—god, the mark *throbbed* with awareness of him.

His scent hit me suddenly. Pine and smoke and something darker. Something that made my wolf whimper and my thighs clench involuntarily.

I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to act around this man who made me feel terrified and drawn in equal measure.

He showed no reaction, not even the smallest shift in expression. But his eyes—his eyes burned. Tracked every breath I took. Every tiny movement.

Like he was memorizing me. Learning me.

Claiming me all over again without even touching.

Everything I wanted to say lost its target under that stare.

I pushed myself up straighter against the pillows. The movement made the blanket slip down slightly, exposing more of my throat.

His eyes followed the movement. Fixed on the mark.

Something flickered across his face—dark and possessive and hungry.

My breath caught.

The air between us felt electric. Charged. Like a storm about to break.

I felt pinned by his gaze. Small and vulnerable and hyper-aware of every inch of space between us. Of how easily he could close that distance. Of how his hands would feel on my skin—

This was insane. He was dangerous. Possibly more dangerous than Maxim had ever been.

But when I opened my eyes again, he was still there. Still watching. Still making my entire body hum with unwanted awareness.

"I..." I tried again.

My voice came out breathier than I wanted. Shakier.

His eyes sharpened. Like he could hear my heartbeat. Smell my confusion and fear and that traitorous hint of arousal.

Of course he could. He was an alpha. A king.

He could probably read me like a book.

The thought made shame burn through me. Made me want to pull the blanket over my head and hide.

But I forced myself to hold his gaze. To not back down.

I cleared my throat.

"What happened before..." I managed to start. "The marking..."

I raised my hand to touch the side of my neck. My fingers found the mark—two crescent-shaped indentations where his teeth had broken skin.

His eyes followed my hand. Watched my fingers trace the mark he’d left. His pupils dilated. His nostrils flared slightly.

I jerked my hand away from the mark. Pressed it against my chest instead.

I glanced at him from under my lashes.

He still hadn’t moved. But every line of his body screamed tension. Control barely maintained.

His hands gripped the mattress hard enough that his knuckles had gone white.

He sat there silent. Looming over me. Like some emotion was being held down, compressed, ready to explode.

Did he regret it?

The thought tasted bitter.

But it would make sense. He’d marked me on impulse. Claimed an omega he didn’t know. And now he was stuck with me.

With someone everyone said was dirty. Used. Worthless.

I spoke again. My voice came out calmer than I expected—maybe because I was already too used to waiting for the worst outcome.

"Are you..." I swallowed hard. "Are you going to reject me?"

The question hung in the air between us.

For one long moment, he didn’t react. Didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

Then something flashed across his face.

Not regret. Not uncertainty.

Rage.

Pure, absolute, terrifying rage.

His eyes went dark—not just figuratively. The green actually darkened until they were almost black. His jaw clenched so hard I heard his teeth grind.

The temperature in the room plummeted.

I shrank back against the headboard instinctively. Every survival instinct screaming at me to run. To hide. To get away from the predator about to strike.

His voice, when it came, was low. Controlled. But with something dangerous coiled underneath—like a bow pulled taut, ready to snap.

"So you can go back," he said, each word dropping like stones into still water, "and keep being your alpha’s whore?"