HE WAITED 1,095 DAYS TO CLAIM ME

Chapter 2

The moment the plane touched down in Denver, a suffocating weight settled over my chest.

It wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t sudden. It was just a cold, crushing reality that made it impossible to breathe properly.

I sat completely paralyzed in my leather seat.

My mind was trapped in a loop, echoing the words Silas had delivered through the phone right before my world shattered: “He’s gone. Your father is dead. They’re coming for the throne.”

I swallowed hard, my fingernails digging into my palms until the skin nearly split. The official story sent out by the family’s inner circle was clean, sanitized, and perfectly legal. “A sudden heart attack.”

That is what Ronald, my father's oldest advisor, had told the press.

But it didn’t sit right with me. It was a blatant lie.

My father wasn’t the kind of man who just died quietly in his sleep. He lived in a world where death always carried a receipt. He had too many enemies, too many blood debts, and a throne that everyone coveted. Men like him didn't get taken out by a failing heart. They were betrayed. They were ambushed.

A wave of nausea hit me as another thought clawed its way to the surface: the missed call on my phone from the night before. The one I had ignored while lost in a phantom nightmare of my ex. My father had tried to reach me right before the ambush. What if he had been trying to warn me? What if he needed me, and I had simply let the phone ring? Guilt settled heavily in my gut, hot and agonizing. I should have answered.

"Nyra."

Marcus voice broke through the fog. His hand slid over mine, warm, steady, and grounding. "We’re here, formatting the transition. I've got you."

I forced a tight nod, wrapping my trembling fingers around his. He had spent the entire flight trying to comfort me, whispering sweet promises of safety. But there was a vast, dangerous ocean of secrets between us. Magnus didn't know who my father really was. He didn't know that the "import-export business" was a front for a ruthless syndicate. He thought he was accompanying his grieving, civilian fiancée to a normal family funeral.

He didn't know I was dragging him straight into a den of wolves. And he certainly didn't know that this was a world you don't just walk away from.

The heavy iron gates of the family compound loomed ahead, looking exactly as they had 1,095 days ago. The same towering stone walls, the same blacked-out SUVs, and that unmistakable, heavy tension in the air that forced your spine to straighten.

The moment I stepped out of the car, something inside me violently shifted. Three years of trying to be normal evaporated in a single breath. My childhood training took over before I could stop it. I scanned the perimeter without even trying. I clocked the placement of the guards. I noted the subtle twitch of their hands resting near their jackets, hiding concealed weapons.

I wasn't just raised in this world; I was built by it. My father had ensured I knew how to fight, how to read a room, and how to spot a threat before it struck. Standing on the gravel driveway, a chilling realization washed over me: I hadn't forgotten a single thing.And the syndicate knew it.

The moment I walked through the heavy double doors of the main house, the ambient noise dropped. People didn't completely stop talking, but their eyes shifted. I could feel the weight of a hundred stares tracking my movement, measuring me, calculating what the return of the sole heir meant for their own survival.

Marcus placed a protective hand on the small of my back, leaning down to whisper, "Stay close to me."

A bitter, dark urge to laugh bubbled up in my throat. “If only he knew.”

When we entered the main viewing room and I saw the massive, polished mahogany casket, everything slowed to a crawl. The finality of it hit me like a physical blow. My steps felt like lead as I approached the altar, where Ronald stood. He looked ten years older, his face etched with exhaustion, carrying the weight of a collapsing empire.

For a second, Ronald just stared at me, his eyes glassy. Then, his professional stoicism broke. "Nyra..."

That was all it took. The armor I had built over the last three years cracked wide open. I threw my arms around his neck, and the tears came fast and violent.

I had left them. I had run away to escape the blood and the crime, but the terrifying truth was that I had never stopped loving my father. Now, he was gone, and the last shield protecting me had died with him.

The actual burial service passed in a surreal blur. Elegies were spoken, prayers were whispered, but I couldn't process any of it. My attention was entirely locked onto the crowd gathered around the open grave.

As people began clinking glasses of expensive scotch, low conversations turned into hushed chuckles. I saw genuine, relaxed smiles on the faces of several prominent captains. My stomach turned completely over. It wasn't grief filling the courtyard—it was relief. They were glad he was dead. And the moment the dirt settled, their eyes turned back to me. I wasn't a grieving daughter to them; I was a target.

Marcus leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss to my temple, but the comfort was instantly shattered by a familiar, violent shift in the air.

My body reacted before my eyes even found him. A sudden, electric heat flared deep within my core. I looked across the manicured lawn, and my breath caught in my throat.

Raze.

He was standing beneath the shadow of a sprawling oak tree, completely detached from the rest of the mourners. He wasn't looking at the casket. He wasn't looking at the priest. His piercing, predatory gaze was locked entirely on me, exactly like the visceral nightmare I had experienced in my bed. The memory of it made my skin flush. He was looking at me like I was still his property. Like I had never left.

This wasn't a dream. He was actually here, and he was walking toward me.

Every survival instinct screamed at me to turn, but my feet remained rooted to the grass. Raze closed the distance with a slow, deliberate stride until he stopped a mere breath away. The air between us practically crackled with heavy, suffocating possessiveness.

"Nyra," he murmured. The way his dark, velvety cadence of his voice dragged over my name made something dangerous twist in my chest.

I forced my expression into a mask of pure ice, desperately trying to steady my racing pulse. "Raze," I replied.

Marcus immediately shifted beside me, stepping slightly forward to block Raze’s path.

The air grew dangerously cold as their eyes met. A silent, lethal promise of violence passed between the two men in a fraction of a second.

Raze glanced at Marcus briefly, his eyes dismissive, before flicking right back to me. "Who's this?"

"This is Marcus," I said, deliberately stepping into Marcus space to anchor myself. "My fiancé."

I watched for the reaction. It was microscopic, but it was there. Raze's jaw tightened so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek, and his dark eyes turned pitch black. But then, a slow, terrifying smile spread across his face—the look of a man who welcomed a challenge.

"Raze Calder," he said, extending a hand.

Marcus took it, his grip visibly firm, his knuckles turning white. "Marcus."

Neither man let go immediately. The silent power struggle was dizzying, and the entire time, Raze’s eyes never left mine. He wasn't sizing up Marcus; he was issuing a warning directly to me.

"We grew up together," I added quickly, my voice sounding small, as if I could minimize the history between us with a simple sentence. But what Raze and I had shared wasn't simple. It was an obsessive, chaotic fire—nights of reckless passion where he claimed me until the sun came up.

A flash of pure, unadulterated anger sparked in Raze's eyes at my dismissal, but he kept his composure perfectly. The look he gave me spoke volumes: “You can play this game, princess, but you belong to me.”

"I'm sorry about your dad, Nyra," Raze finally said, releasing Marcus hand and stepping back just an inch. "It's a dangerous world out there. Shadows have a way of catching up to you."

I nodded, unable to find my voice. As I looked past him toward the fresh dirt covering my father's grave, an old memory flashed unbidden in my mind. I was seven years old, struggling to balance on a bicycle that was far too large for me. My father had been standing behind me, holding the seat steady.

“I’m going to fall, Papa,” I cried.

“You won’t,” he replied calmly.

“Promise you won't let go?”

He hadn't promised. He had simply whispered, “Keep moving forward, Nyra. Never look back.” And then, without warning, he had let go. I hadn't realized it until I turned around to look for him, lost my balance, and crashed into the concrete.

I blinked, the memory fading as the cold wind whipped against my face. My father was gone. He had let go of the world, and I was entirely on my own.