Chapter One: The Untamed Flame

The first thing Estella noticed was how fucking soft the bed was.

Too soft. Too warm. Too… not hers.

Her eyes snapped open, and the sight made her stomach twist. Velvet drapes hung from towering windows, spilling golden light across polished marble floors. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine and something richer—power, maybe. Opulence clung to every surface, and it made her want to spit.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet meeting cold stone. Her dress was gone—replaced with silk far too fine for a girl who used to scrub floors. The fabric clung to her curves in ways that would make her stepmother foam at the mouth.

Where the hell am I?

The last thing she remembered was dinner—stale bread, weak broth, and her stepmother's shrill voice. Then the bitter taste of wine that wasn't supposed to be hers.

They'd drugged her. Those bastards.

The door creaked open, and a tall, severe-looking man stepped inside. His face was as stiff as the gold trim on his robe. "You are in the Imperial Palace, Lady Estella."

Her laugh came out rough and bitter. "Yeah? And who the fuck decided that?"

His brow twitched. "His Imperial Majesty. You are to be his wife."

Silence hung heavy in the room. Estella blinked, letting the words sink in. Then, of course, she laughed. Loud and sharp and a little unhinged. "His wife? Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me."

The man didn't flinch. "The emperor awaits your presence."

"And what if I say no?" she drawled, tilting her head. "What if I tell your emperor to shove his crown up his royal ass?"

His lips pressed into a thin line. "Refusal is not an option."

"Of course, it isn't," she muttered, shoving to her feet. "Lead the way, asshole."

The throne room was colder. Colder, darker, and heavier—like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Estella barely cared. She marched through it like she belonged there, chin up, every ounce of fear drowned beneath the heat of her rage.

And then she saw him.

The emperor.

Lucien Valerius.

He was draped across his throne, the picture of icy perfection—broad shoulders clad in black, long legs stretched out like the whole fucking empire bent to his will. His face was all sharp angles and harder edges, framed by dark hair that fell just past his collar. But his eyes—cold, silver, and unforgiving—locked onto her like she was already a problem.

Good.

"So," she said, dragging out the word as she crossed her arms. "You're the bastard who thinks he owns me."

The silence cracked like a whip.

Lucien didn't move. Didn't blink. But the air changed—thick and dangerous as his gaze dragged over her. "Watch your mouth," he said, voice low and smooth. "Unless you want me to show you exactly who owns you now."

Estella snorted. "Please. I've taken worse threats from my stepmother, and that bitch doesn't even have a crown."

A spark of something—curiosity, maybe—flickered in his eyes. But his tone remained cold. "You're as wild as they said."

"And you're as much of a cold-hearted prick as I imagined," she shot back, a wicked smile curling her lips.

His jaw ticked. "I could have you on your knees with a word."

"You could try," she purred. "But I bite."

The room seemed to hold its breath. One of the courtiers shifted awkwardly. The silence stretched long enough for most people to break. But Estella wasn't most people.

She stood there, chin up, arms crossed over her chest, like she wasn't in front of the most feared man in the empire. Like she hadn't just called him a cold-hearted prick to his face.

Lucien didn't move. Didn't speak. But the weight of his gaze dragged over her—slow and deliberate—like he was imagining all the ways he could tear her apart.

And not just with his hands.

"You're bold," he said at last, his voice low and smooth—too smooth. The kind of calm that came right before a storm. "Or stupid. Maybe both."

Estella arched a brow. "I get that a lot. Usually from people who are scared they can't handle me."

The corner of his mouth curved—not a smile. No, this was something darker. More dangerous. "You think I can't handle you, little rebel?"

"I know you can't." She tilted her head, letting a slow, wicked smile curl her lips. "What's wrong, Your Majesty? Afraid a girl from the gutters might be too much for your fragile ego?"

A ripple of shock swept through the room. One of the concubines choked on a gasp. A pale-haired woman—elegant and venomous, definitely a snake—let out a soft, knowing laugh.

Estella barely noticed. She only had eyes for him.

Lucien didn't flinch. But there was something new in his silver gaze—something sharper. Hungrier.

"You must enjoy pain," he said, pushing off the throne in one smooth motion. "Because your mouth is going to get you into a lot of trouble here."

She shrugged. "I've been in trouble since the day I was born."

He took one step toward her, and the air in the room shifted—thicker, heavier. Her heart kicked up, but she refused to back down. Not now. Not ever.

"I don't tolerate disobedience," he said, his voice softer . More intimate. "And I never tolerate disrespect."

Estella rolled her eyes. "Yeah? Well, I don't tolerate arrogant bastards who think they own me."

He was in front of her in an instant—too fast, too close. She should've been afraid. Any sane person would've been. But all she felt was fire—scalding, reckless fire curling low in her belly.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing the edge of her jaw—not gentle. Not rough. Just enough to make her pulse hammer. "I could break you, little rebel," he murmured, eyes locked on hers. "And you'd beg me for it."

A sharp, dangerous thrill raced down her spine. She hated how good his touch felt—how easily he got under her skin. But she'd be damned if she let him win.

"You'd have to try harder, Your Majesty," she shot back, voice dripping with mock sweetness. "I've had rougher hands on me from people who actually work for a living."

A sharp intake of breath from the courtiers. Someone dropped a goblet.

Lucien's jaw clenched, but his hand didn't move. If anything, his grip tightened—just enough to send heat curling through her veins. "You're testing my patience."

"Oh, I'd hate to break your delicate nerves," she purred, tilting her chin up until their mouths were almost touching. "But maybe you should've picked a bride with fewer opinions."

His lips curved—dangerous and cold. "You think this is a game?"

"Aren't you the one playing with me?"

His thumb brushed over her bottom lip, slow and deliberate. It should've been a warning. Maybe it was. "Careful," he murmured. "I don't play fair."

"And I don't play nice," she said, biting down softly on his thumb before she could stop herself.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The air crackled—hot and heavy and impossible to ignore.

Then, Lucien laughed. Low and dark and full of promise. "You're going to regret that."

The room spun as he turned her in a single, fluid motion—pressing her against the edge of a cold marble pillar. His body was all heat and steel against her back, and she swallowed hard, refusing to show weakness.

"I warned you," he said softly, his breath warm against her neck. "And now you'll learn what happens when you push me too far."

Her heart pounded against her ribs, but she forced a smirk. "I'm shaking."

"You will be."

The words sent a wicked shiver through her—one she hoped he didn't notice.

Too bad he noticed everything.

His hand slid down her side, rough and possessive, as if he already owned her. But Estella wasn't some delicate palace doll. And if he wanted to break her—he'd have to work a hell of a lot harder.

"Still feeling brave?" His voice was silk over steel, dragging fire over every inch of her skin.

Estella turned her head, meeting his gaze with a defiant smile. "I'm always brave, Your Majesty."

His laugh was soft. Lethal. "We'll see about that."

And as his mouth brushed the curve of her throat—hot and hungry and full of promise—she realized something dangerous.

Lucien Valerius might be the most ruthless man in the empire.

But she wasn't going down without a fight.

The air was thick—hot and heavy—like the room itself was waiting for one of them to break.

But it wouldn't be her.

Pinned against the cold marble, Estella felt Lucien's body—solid muscle and simmering heat—pressed tight against her back. Every inch of him radiated control. The kind of man who took what he wanted without asking. The kind of man who thought everyone bowed to him.

Arrogant bastard.

His hand slid lower, a rough palm dragging over the silk clinging to her waist. Not gentle. Not sweet. Possessive. Like he already thought he owned her.

"You're trembling," he murmured against her ear, his breath hot and infuriatingly calm. "I thought you were braver than that."

Estella laughed—sharp and breathless. "I'm not trembling," she snapped. "You're the one pressed against me like you can't fucking help yourself."

His grip on her hip tightened, and a wicked thrill shot through her.

"You really don't know when to shut that pretty mouth, do you?" His voice was quiet—dangerous—like he was holding himself back.

"I'm not one of your trained whores, Your Majesty." She turned her head just enough to meet his silver gaze. "And I don't kneel easy."

Something cold and lethal flickered in his expression—but there was heat, too. Raw and hungry and entirely unhidden. "Is that what you think?" His thumb brushed over her bottom lip—slow and deliberate. "That you're something special?"

Her heart hammered. She hated how easily he got under her skin. Hated the way her body reacted to his touch—like it wanted more.

"I think you're too used to obedient little toys," she said, her words dripping with venom. "And you wouldn't know what to do with a real woman if she slapped you across the face."

His eyes darkened—something dangerous sparking in the silver depths.

"Careful, Estella," he warned, dragging her name out like a promise. "Push me too far, and I won't be gentle."

"Good." She arched her back just enough to feel the full heat of him against her. "I'd hate to be bored."

His low, dangerous chuckle curled around her spine. "You've got a filthy mouth."

"And you've got grabby hands," she shot back. "If you wanted to fuck me, Your Majesty, you could've just asked."

The words hung between them, raw and reckless. She meant them to provoke—but gods, the tension in his gaze made her knees weak.

"You're playing a dangerous game," he said softly, like he was savoring the moment. "And I always win."

She turned her head, meeting his mouth with a slow, defiant smile. "Prove it."

His control snapped.

In a flash, Lucien spun her around—her back slamming against the cold marble as his mouth crashed against hers. It wasn't a kiss. It was a punishment—hard and demanding, like he was trying to silence her sharp tongue.

And fuck, it felt good.

His hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back as his lips claimed hers—hot and rough and so goddamn hungry. She bit his lower lip just to make a point, and he growled—an honest-to-gods growl—before pressing her harder against the pillar.

"You don't know when to stop, do you?" he muttered against her mouth.

"Why should I?" Her breath hitched as his teeth scraped along her jawline. "You're still here."

A dangerous sound rumbled from his chest—a mix of frustration and something darker. His hand slid lower, rough fingers skimming the curve of her thigh beneath the silk.

"You want to be treated like a rebel?" His mouth found the curve of her throat, biting down hard enough to make her gasp. "Fine. But don't expect mercy."

"Mercy is for cowards," she panted, hating how breathless she sounded.

Lucien laughed—low and cruel—as his hand drifted higher. "Good."

His fingers brushed the inside of her thigh, and she clenched her jaw to keep from making a sound. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction—no matter how much her traitorous body craved his touch.

"You're soaked," he said, his voice pure sin. "Maybe you're not as tough as you think."

"Fuck you," she hissed, refusing to squirm.

"Not yet." His lips curved against her skin. "But soon."

He pressed two fingers against her core—through the thin silk—and her breath hitched. Fire licked through her veins, her whole body burning beneath his touch. She hated how easily he unraveled her, how quickly he found the weak spots no one else had dared to touch.

But two could play this game.

"You're all talk, Your Majesty," she taunted, even as her pulse pounded in her ears. "Is this the best you've got?"

His hand moved—slow and deliberate—dragging along her soaked heat. "I'm just getting started."

His mouth claimed hers again—rough and bruising—as his fingers pressed harder, teasing her through the silk. She couldn't stop the soft, broken sound that slipped past her lips, and his low chuckle only made her burn hotter.

"You're shaking," he murmured against her mouth.

"Fuck. You."

Lucien laughed again—dark and wicked and full of promise. "Soon, little rebel," he said softly. "But first—I'm going to make you beg."

And gods help her—part of her wanted to.