Chapter 1His Ruined Queen

The day my father died, my seven uncles died with him. Every last one of them, violently, on the same day.

Cole Matthews paid with his legs to make it happen. He waged a one-man war on the syndicate, bled them dry, and put me on the throne.

"It's okay, Sloane," he’d whispered, his body broken but his eyes fierce. "The monsters are gone. You're free now."

For years, while he was confined to a wheelchair, I searched for a cure. I chased down a thousand experimental drugs, knelt in the cold marble of a thousand chapels, praying for a miracle. I would have traded anything, done anything, to see him walk again.

When Cole found out the lengths I was going to, he swallowed a bottle of pills one night.

After they pumped his stomach and the crisis passed, he just smiled weakly, wiping the tears from my face.

"Sloane," he’d said, his voice raspy. "I don't want to be your anchor. You deserve a better life."

We held each other and cried that night, swearing that nothing, not even death, would ever make us leave the other's side.

That was seven years ago. Today, a girl who looked like she wouldn’t hurt a fly showed up at my door with a stack of a thousand private photos.

"Every month, when you were off chasing some miracle cure, groveling for God to fix him," she said, her voice dripping with venom, "Cole and I were finding new ways to sin."

She leaned in, her sweet face twisted into a sneer. "Didn't you know, Ms. Blackwood? Damaged goods hold no appeal for a man like him. No wonder he'd rather pretend to be a cripple than lay a hand on you."

I looked through every single photograph, one by one. Then I had my people deliver them to the black-market auction house.

* * *

When Cole arrived, the bidding for picture #999 was in full swing.

"Damn, she looks so innocent," a gruff voice boomed from the crowd. "But look at this last one… the things she’s doing are enough to make a dead man's blood boil."

Hearing the filthy whispers, Cole's face went dark.

And I watched him walk. He wasn't limping. He wasn't stumbling. His stride was powerful, fast, and flawless.

The stem of the wine glass in my hand snapped.

He stopped in front of me, his tall frame casting a long, oppressive shadow. Seeing the look on my face, the raw violence in his posture softened, and his voice dropped to the low timber I knew so well.

"Sloane. She's just a kid, she doesn't know what she's doing. I'll explain everything, I promise. Just call it off."

I stared at him, saying nothing.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Finally, he bent his knees and knelt before me, his handsome face lowered.

"If you let her go, I swear she will never cross your path again." He looked up, his eyes pleading. "Sloane, I'm begging you. Call off the auction."

The last time they’d tried to break him, when my uncles’ men shattered his legs, he hadn’t uttered a single plea.

Now, he was begging me. For another woman.

The sight of his desperation was unbearable.

I hurled my glass to the floor, where it shattered into a thousand pieces, and slapped him across the face, the sound cracking through the room.

He didn't even flinch. He just took it, letting me unleash my fury.

When I was done, he gently took my stinging hand and blew softly on the reddened skin.

"Sloane, you can hit me, you can scream at me, whatever you want. But Lana… she’s not like us. She can't handle this kind of punishment. It will destroy her."

I pulled my hand back, a humorless smile playing on my lips.

"Fine."

The moment the photos were withdrawn, a visible wave of relief washed over Cole.

But before he could speak, a new, more ferocious roar erupted from the crowd below.

The main event of the evening was unveiled.

Lana, the innocent little rabbit, was curled up inside a massive glass display case, wearing the same uniform from the final, most explicit photograph.

The men in the audience, who had been left wanting more, now stared with the eyes of starving wolves.

The sound of winner-takes-all private bids echoed through the hall, one after another.

I watched Cole’s eyes, saw the red creep into them, inch by inch.

But I felt nothing. No satisfaction. Nothing at all.

"Sloane, make them stop!"

"Mr. Matthews," my butler, Arthur, said from behind me, his voice firm. "It was this woman who chose to provoke the lady of the house. She knew the risks of challenging you. This punishment is merciful, all things considered."

Cole's eyes were bloodshot, his hands clenched into fists so tight they trembled.

The gavel fell.

A portly, red-faced executive eagerly claimed his prize, carrying Lana into a private room.

I held Cole’s gaze.

"Cole, if we leave right now, I can pretend none of this ever happened."

"Cole, save me—"

Lana's fragmented sobs echoed from the room.

Before I could finish my sentence, he was gone, moving like a lightning strike.

A gunshot rang out, and the chaotic auction floor fell silent.

The disheveled executive was kicked out of the room, his lower body a mess of blood.

Cole, seemingly possessed, threw himself on the man, his fists meeting flesh with sickening thuds. He beat the man until he was an unconscious, bloody heap on the floor.

After the body was dragged away, Cole emerged, carrying a tear-streaked Lana in his arms.

His gaze met mine.

The cold, familiar malice in his eyes sent a tremor through my soul.

It was the same look from the darkest moment of my life, a memory I fought every day to forget.

Cole had been my father’s most brilliant protégé.

During the syndicate's last internal war, my father had sent him overseas on a critical mission.

My seven uncles—none of them my blood, all of them hungry for power—seized the opportunity. They drugged me.

For forty hours, I was their plaything.

By the time Cole got back, I was in a hospital bed.

To maintain stability within the family, my father chose to sacrifice me.

From that day on, I was diagnosed with severe PTSD. Suicide became a familiar thought, a constant temptation.

The last time I tried, Cole held me close. He took a knife and carved seven lines over his own heart, deep enough to leave permanent scars.

His eyes then were just as they were now: terrifyingly calm.

"Sloane," he had vowed, his blood dripping onto my hands. "One day, I swear, I will make those animals pay in blood."