Chapter 16
Serenity
The day of the wedding I sleep in. Normally I’m loathe to waste away the first hours of the morning, but not today. Today I want to forget that I have to get married. To the king. I make a face in my pillow.
People have been knocking on my door for the last two hours, and up until now I’ve done a pretty good job of ignoring them. But the pounding on my door right now is louder and more insistent than the others.
When I don’t answer, the pounding stops. I smile into my pillow until I hear the click of my lock being thrown back. The door opens and footsteps cross the room.
My bed dips as someone sits down on it, and then I feel the feathery touch of fingertips on the bare skin of my shoulder. “You need to get up now.”
My eyes snap open at that voice. “I thought you were ignoring me?” I say to King Montes. He’s leaning over me, and his nearness is doing strange things to my body. I haven’t seen him since that night in the ocean.
“When it comes to you, that’s impossible.”
I bury my face in my pillow. “I want to sleep in.”
“We’re getting married in two hours.”
“Don’t care,” I say, my voice muffled.
“Fine. We’ll skip the wedding part and go straight to the honeymoon.” He pulls back the covers and begins to slide in next to me. I yelp and jump out of bed.
The king steps away and sticks his hands into his pockets. He’s wearing a uniform with a sash, and it takes me a minute to realize that’s what he’ll be wearing today when we get married.
I rub the sleep from my eyes and give him my best glare.
“Just so you know, you’re not frightening at all in the morning,” he says, smirking. “You look like a pissed-off kitten.”
“Say that again, and I’ll castrate you with a butter knife.”
His lips quirk. “Ah, lucky me to have such a blushing bride.”
“Isn’t it bad luck to see me before the wedding?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest.
“What, you think our luck can get any worse?” the king says, raising an eyebrow. He has a point.
Before I can formulate a response, he walks to the door and ushers in a group of women who carry bags of makeup and hair supplies. I grimace at the sight.
“I’ll see you in a couple of hours, Serenity,” the king says, and then he’s gone.
By the time I’m sitting in a small room waiting to be ushered down the aisle, a cold emptiness has settled in me. I’m wearing a dress I didn’t pick out, holding flowers I don’t care for, wearing makeup and hair someone else has styled, and I’m waiting to be married to a man I don’t love because of orders someone else gave.
There’s a rap on the door, and it opens after a moment. A young guard sticks his head in. “We’re ready for you.”
I shake out my arms and crack my neck. I’m supposed to be gathering my courage, not falling apart. I nod and follow him out, bringing the bouquet up to my chest.
Flashes go off, and cameras pan in on me. The photographers press against the velvet rope they’re prohibited from crossing.
All I need to do is march down this hallway, then the aisle.
Easy, I tell myself.
I’m a horrible liar. I might as well be walking the plank. I’m just as frightened as I would be if my life were on the line. I have no one to hold my arm, and even though I don’t believe in giving someone away (my current situation case in point), it’d be nice to not face this alone. That thought makes me think of my father and how unhappy he’d be if he could see me now.
Time’s up, regardless. I turn the corner and stare at two large oak doors guarded by two of the king’s men. Inside is the royal chapel, where hundreds of guests and dozens of camera crews eagerly wait. I can hear music softly playing from inside.
When the tune abruptly changes, the guard at my side nods to the two men in front of me, and they grasp the door handles. “Congratulations,” he says, stepping aside as the doors swing open.
I stand there blinking as I take in the foreign faces that watch me from the pews. I’m too terrified to smile, so I simply stare straight ahead. My eyes meet the king’s, and strangely, in this moment, the sight of him grounds me.
He stands with his hands clasped, smiling at me. I can’t help it, between my nerves and his smile, my mouth curves up. I don’t look away as I walk towards him; ironically, he’s the only thing that’s keeping me from running out of here screaming. And I don’t want that—not if this is somehow supposed to symbolize future peace and unity.
It seems like an eternity before I get to him. Once I do, relief washes over me that I’m no longer doing this alone. I pass my flowers to someone standing nearby, and the king takes my hands. I know he can feel them shaking by the way he squeezes them reassuringly.
The priest officiating drones on in Latin, and my pulse calms down a bit. At some point he reverts to English and asks King Lazuli to present me with the token of his commitment.
Montes reaches into his breast pocket and procures a ring. Giving me a soft smile, he slides it onto the finger where the engagement band already rests.
The stone of this new ring is dark blue, and flecks of gold are caught in its matrix. It looks for all the world like I’m wearing the night sky on my finger. Because what I love most about the sky are the stars.
He remembered.
It’s also not lost on me that the stone is lapis lazuli; I’m wearing the king’s namesake on my finger.
Someone passes me a ring, and with trembling hands I slip it onto the king’s finger.
I gaze into his eyes as the priest speaks. They shine, and right then I feel beloved—by the man in front of me and the world that’s looking to me.
Then I remember my father, and why it is that I’m up here. The lives the king has taken because of his selfishness. The façade is gone just as the priest says, “You may now kiss the bride.”
My movements are jerky and automated. I kiss the king, but I’m not really present. My skin crawls as his lips caress mine. When he pulls away he smiles, but I can see something like uncertainty there. I want to laugh that I can make someone like the king feel vulnerable, but I’m too consumed by my own personal pain.
The priest announces us to the chapel, and I feel a tear drip down my cheek. I just married the monster under the bed.
The king and I stand outside the palace, on the grassy lawn that overlooks the water. From the ice sculptures to the overabundance of flowers, it’s clear the king’s spared no expense on our reception. It had to cost a fortune of money better spent elsewhere.
A constant stream of people approaches us and congratulates the king and me on our union. I give most of them flinty looks. I know it’s not fair of me to be hostile to people I don’t know, but I’m insulted that anyone could assume I’m happy about what’s happening to me.
“Congratulations my friend. You deserve all the happiness in the world,” says the politician in front of us. He looks frighteningly similar to a walrus, and he eyes me like the object I’m supposed to be.
Montes nods and shakes his hand, “Thank you,” he murmurs.
When the man reaches for my hand, I level a glare at him. He gets it.
Bowing, he says, “Congratulations again,” and backs away.
The king watches him as he leaves. “I don’t like the way he looked at you,” he says quietly.
“That makes two of us.”
The king nods to himself. “Then I’ll take care of the situation.”
I blink a few times. “Are you psychotic?” I hiss at him under my breath. “You can’t just punish everyone who slights you.”
“Of course I can,” he says.
Before I can respond, the next guest approaches, this one a crusty old man who spews praise at the king. Once he moves along, I lean into the king. “Brownnoser, that one.”
The king snickers, and I cringe that, at the moment, we are coconspirators. For the king, this seems to elicit the opposite reaction. He wraps a hand around my waist and rubs my side affectionately. I think I’m going to be sick.
A couple approaches us, and thankfully King Lazuli has to drop his hand from my side in order to greet them.
“We are so happy for you,” the woman says, “and we hope that this union brings prosperity to your home—and lots of children,” she throws in, flashing me a sly smile. Like what every woman wants is a snotty baby.
I sway on my feet at the thought. “That won’t ever happen,” I say before I can help it. The idea of carrying the king’s child is just too much for me to process at the moment.
The woman glances at me sharply, and the king stiffens at my side. “Er … I can’t have children.” It’s not even necessarily a lie, considering all the radiation I’ve been exposed to.
“You poor thing,” the woman says.
“The queen doesn’t know what she’s saying,” King Lazuli says. “She can have children.”
I try to hide my swallow at the way the king looks at me, like my reproductive system is now at the forefront of his mind.
“Oh.” Now the woman glances back and forth between us in confusion.
“Great to see you Claudette—Roger.” The king nods to both of them and they take the cue to move on.
I watch their retreating forms. “Do you even have any real friends?” I say. “These people make me want to blow my brains out.”
“What the hell was that about, Serenity?” King Lazuli says.
“Nothing,” I say quickly.
The king studies me. “This discussion isn’t over.”
An older, regal woman greets us next.
“I’m so glad to see you settle down,” she says to King Lazuli.
The king smiles back at her. “Thank you, Margot.”
She squeezes his hand with her wrinkled one. I eye her withered beauty. She wears strings of pearls and gaudy gold jewelry. My upper lip curls. It changes into a grimace of a smile when she focuses on me.
Her eyes widen when she sees the scar that trails down the side of my face. I’ve gotten this reaction all day. And just like the others, I get the feeling that the woman in front of me has never seen violence firsthand. She’s never killed a man, never watched his blood slowly seep out of him and the light fade from his eyes. I’d wager that she came from a nation that either allied with the king, or surrendered before war broke out.
She recovers from her shock and pats the side of my face. “My, my, what a pretty thing you are.” My smile slips at her words, and she must see the killer in me because she recoils.
The woman clears her throat. “Congratulations again you two,” she says, nodding at the king and trying hard not to look at me. I watch her as she walks away, and just as I suspected, she throws a final, spooked glance over her shoulder, like she can’t help herself.
I narrow my eyes and give her a slow, predatory smile. Her eyes widen and she hurries away from us.
“Stop scaring our guests,” King Lazuli says next to me.
“You mean your guests,” I retort.
The king’s eyes drift to my bare arm and move down. The sight is possessive, hungry, and it makes my stomach churn.
I won’t think about later tonight. I won’t.
“They are our guests now, my queen,” King Lazuli says.
“Don’t call me that.” I rub my shoulder against my neck, as if to wipe off the stain of his words from my skin.
“You better get used to it. That’s what you’ll be known as from now on.” The king seems satisfied by the thought.
I snag a champagne flute from a passing waiter. The waiter looks between me and the king, mortified. The caterers are controlling the amount of alcohol I’m consuming, probably on behalf of the king’s orders. It’s a clever move too, since if I had it my way, I’d already be twelve drinks deep and unwilling to stop until the liquor killed me.
Before the king can take the glass from me, I throw it back. It’s only my third drink of the night, but I can already feel the warm, tingly sensation of the alcohol sliding through my veins. King Lazuli scowls at me as I remove the now empty glass from my lips and flash him a triumphant smile.
The waiter snatches the champagne flute from my hands the first chance he gets, as though his attentiveness now can make up for the fact that he blew it.
The boy stutters apologies at the king, who waves him off. I watch longingly as the tray carrying champagne is whisked away.
I can feel the king’s eyes on me, and I’m strangely interested in what he’s thinking—not because I care about him, but because I want to know what his motives are for marrying me, a woman who loathes him.
The only answer that comes to mind is the obvious one: that this is some archaic form of a political alliance—marrying into power. Not that I have any power in my own right. But ideology is the most powerful currency in the world—it can start wars, and it can end them—and to the citizens of the nation, the king of the eastern empire and the emissary of the WUN symbolize two hemispheres tonight made whole.
However, feeling the king’s eyes on me, I can’t help but wonder if the marriage might be more than just a power play. I know the king finds me attractive and that he enjoys verbally sparring with me, but could something more be there?
The king waves Marco over. Marco, who’s just as responsible for my father’s death as the king is. Perhaps more so, if the king really didn’t order my father killed.
This is the first time I’ve seen him, and I give him my most lethal look. The fact that Marco is not rotting in a jail cell or a coffin, but instead attending my wedding, has me seeing red.
He flinches, but that doesn’t stop him from approaching King Lazuli.
“The queen is tired,” the king says to Marco.
“No, I’m not.”
Marco flicks me an annoyed look. I get perverse satisfaction knowing that it bothers him that I undermine the king.
The king ignores me. “We’re going to head to our suite now. Think you can handle the rest of the wedding without us?”
“Absolutely. Go enjoy your wedding night,” Marco says, smiling at me as he does so. It’s his underhanded form of payback.
I work my jaw, then let my gaze flick back to the king. “I’m not tired. Please.” I’ve resorted to begging. Anything to put off the inevitable for a little longer.
The king’s eyes move over my face. “You want to stay now? I could’ve sworn that you said you wanted to blow your brains out at the thought of being around our guests.”
I slit my eyes at him and he smiles. He places his hand at the small of my back and leads me towards the palace. I can feel the mounting stares of smiling guests. Why are they so happy? Why is anyone happy? They still have a tyrant ruler who’s now married to a strange girl from the last conquered land.
The looming palace looks like my prison, and in some ways it is. Here I will always be watched, assessed, guarded. But I will stick to my decision. I’ll leverage my new status for my people, I’ll figure out the king’s secrets, and when the time is right, I will kill the Undying King.
We pass into the palace. In here it’s quiet, too quiet. The king and I ascend the stairs, and I follow him down the hall to a room I’ve never been in before. Our room.
He cracks the door open and turns back to me. “I think this calls for tradition.” He bends and wraps one arm behind my knees and another across my back, then lifts me.
I yelp, and before I can think about what I’m doing, I wrap my arms around his neck. “Put me down, Montes.”
Instead of putting me down, he pushes the door further open with his foot and carries me inside. The large canopy bed is the first thing that catches my eye. And we’re moving towards it. Next I notice a wall of windows that open up to a balcony. Beyond them I can see the starry sky and the dark ocean.
The king places me gently on the bed, and gazes at me like I’m his next meal. I scramble off the mattress.
“I-I need to use the restroom.” I bolt for the gleaming bathroom before he has a chance to respond.
I close the door behind me and lock it. Then I lean against the wall and let myself slide down. I rest my head between my knees.
This is no worse than death I try to tell myself. But in some ways it is. I’m protecting a nation by following through with this wedding, but I’m dishonoring my parents. What I despise most is that, beneath all that anger and hate, I actually feel something else for the king. Sometimes desire—he is beautiful, after all—sometimes camaraderie, sometimes amusement, and sometimes … compassion.
I get to my feet, my legs shaky, and lean over the counter. When I glance at my reflection I see a strong woman, one who’s had to skirt right and wrong her entire life. I can do this.
I leave the bathroom without pretending to flush the toilet or wash my hands—the king’s not a fool. He knows I’m scared as hell of what lies ahead.
When I enter the bedroom, Montes lounges on a side chair. His tie is loosened and his jacket has already been removed. He doesn’t move for a moment, just takes me in.
Then, ever so slowly he gets up and makes his way to me. “I’m not a nice man,” he says.
“I couldn’t agree more,” I say.
“This is happening tonight.”
My throat works. “I know.”
“Good.” Then he closes the remaining distance between us and kisses me. At first, all I do is stand there, unresponsive. But eventually, I give in and move my lips. I wonder if this is how royalty felt when they were forced to marry one another. The repulsion, the nervousness, the sense of duty—all of it. I wonder if any of them felt perversely excited, as I do. Perhaps in this I am well and truly alone.
The king backs us up until I fall against the bed. He kneels between my legs to remove my shoes. First one comes off, then the other. But he doesn’t remove his hands. Instead he slides them up my leg until they brush the lace of my panties.
I gasp, and struggle against the urge to rip his hands away. A second later his hands are gone, but only so that he can remove his tie. Once he’s discarded the garment, he begins unbuttoning his shirt.
I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them, he’s shirtless. His body is all sculpted muscle. I appreciate the sight on a physical level, but it bothers me that he can care so much about his body and so little for entire nations.
Then again, perhaps he has to keep himself in shape in case he ever needs to use his physical strength. It’s not like he doesn’t have enemies. With that thought, I scour his body for bullet wounds. He’s been shot before.
I reach out to his chest and run a hand over the smooth skin that covers his heart. “Where is it?” There should be scar tissue where he’d been shot. It was filmed on live T.V. I’ve seen him bleed in front of my eyes.
He closes his eyes slowly, as though he’s relishing the feel of my skin on his. “Don’t you know, my queen?” he says, opening his eyes. “I can’t be killed.”
I frown. “Stop calling me that.”
“No.”
I drop my hand and the king resumes undressing himself. I scoot further back on the bed as I watch him remove his shoes, then his socks, and then his pants. I fist the comforter beneath me to give my hands something to do.
When he stands in just his boxer briefs, his stomach muscles rippling, he returns his attention to me. “Come here.”
I don’t move.
He sighs. “You need to take your dress off, Serenity, and you need my help to do so.” He says it like he’s the most reasonable person in the world. As though I’m being ridiculous by wanting to keep on the dress I despised so much earlier. What he doesn’t realize—or maybe he does—is that it’s my last defense before we get intimate.
Reluctantly I scoot myself off the bed and pad over to him. I feel like the world’s most wretched person that my eyes linger on all the sculpted lines of his body. He turns me around and begins unfastening the buttons that trail down my back. I can feel the brush of his fingers along my skin. They draw out goose bumps.
Slowly my dress peels away from me. Montes removes the last of the buttons, and the gown glides over my hips and pools at my feet. Instinctively I cover myself. I’m still wearing lingerie, but it hardly leaves anything to the imagination.
Montes pulls my arms down from where they hide my chest. He gives me a surprisingly gentle look, and I close my eyes.
“Open your eyes, Serenity.”
“Then stop looking at me like that.”
“I can’t.”
I press my eyelids shut harder. “You’re heartless.”
“Most of the time. But sometimes … sometimes I’m not when I’m around you.”
I open my eyes at that. He’s being genuine. And this is the worst. A bad guy with a change of heart. I’m not his redemption; I’m going to be his executioner.
He kisses me, and this time I don’t fight it. My lips move against his, and I tangle my fingers in his hair, relishing the fact that I’m ruining it. He makes an approving sound in my mouth and lifts me so that my legs are forced to wrap around his hips.
The king moves us to the bed and then places me on top of it. He reaches under my back and unsnaps my bra. I wince as he tosses the flimsy garment aside.
And then he’s touching me, kneading my breasts, moving his thumbs over my nipples, and I can’t figure out whether this situation disturbs me or turns me on. Both, I think.
Montes’s mouth replaces his fingers, and his teeth skim the tender flesh. I shiver at the sensation, and he flashes me a smile.
“Still a virgin?” he asks.
“That’s none of your business.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, “which means it’s my job to make sure you enjoy yourself tonight.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“We’ll see what you say after all is said and done.”
His fingers hook under the thin fabric of my panties and he pulls them off me before removing his boxer briefs. When he returns to the bed, he lays his body over mine. I’ve never experienced so much skin-on-skin contact, and I’m surprised to find that it feels good.
Really good.
He rolls to my side and moves his hand until it’s touching the most intimate part of me.
“Montes.” I jerk away from him before I remember myself.
He pushes me back down against the mattress and kisses my collarbone. His fingers slip inside me, and I jerk again.
“You’re already wet,” his whispers in my ear.
I get the logistics of female anatomy, but not how it works when expert fingers strum it. Judging by the king’s smug tone, I can piece together what I’m missing. The way he touches me has me throwing my head back and closing my eyes.
My breath catches and picks up as his fingers rhythmically stroke me. Sensation is building up inside of me, and my eyes flutter closed to better experience this.
The king lets out a satisfied chuckle under his breath, then removes his fingers. I’m left bereft only for a moment before he rolls back onto me and positions himself. My eyes snap open and gaze into his. Oh God, it’s happening.
“This might hurt,” he says.
And it does, briefly. Then I feel him fully inside me.
Montes’s hands brush back the hair of my face, and he presses a kiss along my cheek as he withdraws.
The optimist in me wonders if this is it. Show’s over. Then Montes glides back into me, and I suck in a breath at the pleasant throb. The man who ruined my world, killed my parents and most of my people, is now my husband, and he’s making love to me. And I’m enjoying it. It’s so wrong it makes my skin crawl.
A stray tear streaks down my cheek. “I hate you,” I say to him.
“You won’t always feel that way,” he says, thrusting into me.
“I will. I swear it.”
“Give it up,” he growls, pushing into me harder. “The war is over.”
“Not for me. It won’t ever be over for me.”