Chapter 6
Serenity
Five years ago my father and I moved into the bunker. By that time we were in a full-scale war with the eastern hemisphere, and the king had started picking off those political leaders not already dead. Located several miles outside of D.C., the bunker was an asylum for what was left of our government officials and their families.
It also offered some measureable protection against the high radiation levels caused by the nuclear blasts. Not that it mattered. The radiation was in the water, in the earth and the food supply. We’d lived with it long enough; the damage was already done.
The day my father and I moved in, when I first saw the beds that lined a single room, my chest tightened. I realized that the world I thought I knew had been gone for a while now and somewhere along the way people had become synonymous with threat.
My wariness eventually wore off, and my next reaction was excitement. I might make friends. I had to dust that word off; I’d shelved it from my vocabulary for so long.
The bunker, however, came with its own sacrifices. No natural light filtered into our new home, and I had once been a self-proclaimed child of the sun. An unpleasant schedule came to rule my days. And social interactions were difficult to maneuver; I found I was way more skilled at making enemies than I was friends.
Still, I was safe, surrounded by people that didn’t antagonize me, and I had reliable food and shelter. For the first time in a long time, I felt hopeful.
“I hate dresses,” I mumble as one of my guards zips me up.
He snickers.
“Shut up. It’s not funny.” I can’t breathe in this thing.
“Freeman in a dress? Hell yeah it is,” my guard says.
I throw him a look just as Marco knocks on the door to our suite.
The guard squeezes my shoulder. “Own those negotiations,” he whispers.
I leave my room as my father opens the door. “Morning Marco,” he says, grabbing his briefcase.
Marco nods to him. “Ready to go?”
My father looks over to where I stand.
“I’m ready,” I say, now that my wispy dress is on. I glance back at my room. My gun lies underneath the pillows on my bed. It’s hard to walk into the peace talks in my flimsy outfit without my usual protection.
“’Kay, then let’s do this,” my father says.
We follow Marco out into the hall, our guards shadowing us. At least they are allowed to carry holstered weapons. I’ve seen most of them in action, so I trust their skills.
We move to the other end of the king’s mansion, where the negotiations are to take place. I fist my hands in the black folds of my dress. I’ve learned a lot about diplomacy from my father, but I’ve never been able to apply any of my lessons. I know how negotiations with an enemy state work in theory, but not in practice, and I fear that something I say or do might cause irreversible damage.
I can identify the conference room from all the way down the hall. Cameramen and film crews cluster around the door. Flashes of light are already going off, which makes me think that the king must have arrived before us.
My heart pounds a little faster at the thought. Last night felt like we danced on the edge of a knife. One wrong move and I’d cut myself.
Despite the obvious danger that comes from dealing with the king, yesterday he hadn’t struck me as particularly … evil. Nor, for that matter, did he seem immortal, though he did appear to be younger than his true age. If I had to guess, I’d say the king is in his mid thirties. King Lazuli, however, has been conquering countries for nearly thirty years.
My thoughts are interrupted by a flash of light, and then the camera crews are on us, snapping shots and filming our entrance.
Unlike the conference room back in the bunker, this one is full of light and gilded surfaces. It is a room that a king does business in, and the sight of it reminds me all over again just why I despise the man who rules over half the world.
King Lazuli waits for us inside the room. His eyes find mine almost immediately. Once they do, they don’t bother looking away.
In that moment I can feel in my bones that my father and I are merely toys here for the king’s entertainment. Nothing more. We have no real power, so the king is allowed the luxury of gazing at the emissary’s daughter and ignoring everyone else in the room.
I can still see flashes of light from my peripherals, but my attention focuses on the table. Someone’s set placards in front of each seat. I look for my name, not surprised to find it placed next to the king’s chair.
“How … convenient,” I murmur quietly as I pass him.
King Lazuli pulls out my chair and leans in. “Convenient—yes, I do believe that word sums up our relationship.”
I didn’t notice it last night, but there’s a subtle lilt to his words. English is not his first language. I wonder what is.
“We have no relationship,” I whisper back to him. Luckily, there’s too much going on around us for our conversation to gather unwanted attention.
His eyes linger on my face, moving to my scar, then my lips. “You won’t be saying that by the time you leave.”
I hold his gaze and suppress a shiver. As much as I want to fight his words, I fear they’re true.
My father takes a seat across from me. His eyes move between the two of us, but other than that, there’s no indication that the seating arrangement bothers him. I’m not deceived. He hates the king more than even I do.
Someone places a document in front of me. It takes me a minute to realize this is a peace treaty, a tentative contract drawn up listing the conditions that need to be met in order for the war to end.
King Lazuli’s arm brushes mine from where he sits to my right. My eyes flick to him, but he’s not paying attention to me. “Ambassador Freeman, Serenity,” the king says, nodding to each of us, “in front of you is a draft of the terms of your surrender.”
I see flashes of light go off as each media outlet allowed in here captures the beginning of the negotiations. Each one distracts me from the matter at hand.
My father pulls out the document the WUN crafted up that catalogues our terms of surrender. After reading it on the flight over, I can rattle off the essentials: Our people must be provided with medical relief, first and foremost. Then steps must be taken to clean the environment—too much radiation has seeped into the earth and the running water. It’s in our food, and until we can expel it, people are going to keep getting cancer.
Once those two requirements are met, then our secondary measures are to boost the economy and reestablish the social order that existed before the war.
The king takes the document from my father and flips through it. Suddenly he laughs. “You think I’m going to let your country revert back to the materialistic, wasteful state it was in before the war?” he says, his eyes moving over the page before lifting to meet my father’s gaze. The irony of his statement isn’t lost on me, here in this opulent palace of his.
Across the table, my father relaxes into his seat, looking at ease when I’m sure that’s the last thing he feels. “The WUN is not suggesting that. We merely wish to get our economy back on its feet.”
The king’s eyes flash. “Your hemisphere will never be where it once was.”
The negotiations draw on for a long time even after the king makes it known that he wants to cripple our economy. I shiver at the thought. Though pretty much anything would be an improvement from the current state of the western hemisphere, I know from history that there’d be long-term problems if the king decided to purposefully weaken our economy.
I page through the king’s document in front of me. Most passages are long-winded discussions of the terms of the agreement. I keep looking for the medical relief the king would provide for our people, but I can’t find any mention of it.
“Where can I find the terms of medical relief you’ll provide the WUN?” I finally ask, turning to the king.
He swivels his body to face me. “There are none,” he says.
I blink at him a few times. “None?”
“None.”
I stand suddenly. “You’d leave our people to suffer? To die?” I don’t know what I’m doing. It feels as though someone’s squeezing my lungs because I can’t seem to get enough air.
The king leans back in his seat. “Only some of them.” He gives me a challenging look.
My anger obscures my vision. I ball my hands into fists. “This isn’t a game!”
Silence.
No one moves.
And then a whole lot of things happen at once. The king stands, and judging by the vein throbbing at his temple, he’s pissed. Behind me several people push forward, and my guards press in close.
King Lazuli leans in, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Yes, Serenity, this is a game. One you’ve already lost.”
I’m escorted from the negotiations for the rest of the day. The king’s guards take me back to my room. They linger outside it, standing guard in case I try to leave.
Now that the anger has dulled somewhat, embarrassment and guilt quickly follow. I can’t act like that, even if I think I’m defending the WUN. No one’s going to thank me if the negotiations dissolve because of my emotional outbursts.
I hear the door to our suite open and, a few seconds later, a knock on my door. My heart hammers away in my chest. I stand, and my muscles tense. Knowing my father, he’s not going to yell, and his quiet disappointment is so much worse to bear.
The door opens, but instead of my father, King Lazuli stands in the doorway.
My eyes widen. “What are you doing here?” My earlier anger hasn’t simmered back to the surface yet. I’m too surprised.
He closes the door behind him and strolls into my room, taking a look around. “How are you liking the palace so far?” he asks.
I raise my eyebrows. “It’s fine.”
“Fine?” It’s his turn to raise his eyebrows. “Surely it’s more than just fine.”
Now my anger’s returning, like a dear old friend. “Okay, it’s more than fine. It’s absolutely repulsive that you can live around such opulence when the rest of this city is so broken. I’m sickened to hear you deny my people basic medical relief while you host dinner parties inside your palace.”
The king approaches me. “There it is. The truth: you hate everything about me.”
I suck in a sharp breath of air. “Yes,” I breathe.
King Lazuli holds the crook of his arm out. “Walk with me.”
I take a step back, eyeing his arm like it’s poisonous. I just admitted to the king of the eastern hemisphere that I hated him.
When he sees my hesitation, he says, “I don’t bite.”
“No,” I say, “you kill.”
“So do you, soldier.”
We stare at each other a moment. Not one fiber of my being wants to touch him, but I remember General Kline’s words yesterday. I need to play my part.
Reluctantly I slide my fingers through the crook of King Lazuli’s arm, and he leads me out of my room.
“Where’s my father?” I ask as soon as we pass his empty room.
“He’s still in discussions with my aides.”
“And you’re skipping out to what—give me a tour of your mansion?”
The king glances down at me, a small smile playing on his lips. “Something like that.”
I frown at his expression and a sick sensation coils through my stomach. I can practically smell the desire wafting off of him.
The thought makes me want to puke. I’ve been rude to him since we met. I stood up to him; I admitted that I hated him. He must truly be psychotic if that excites rather than angers him.
He leads me outside to the gardens. “How lovely,” I say, “you pay someone to cut your hedges into cute little animals. I’m so impressed.”
His lips twitch. “I’m pleased to hear you like them so much. I’ll have the gardeners shape another just for you. Perhaps a gun? Or are you more of a hand grenade lady?”
“How about you simply uproot the hedge you plan on shaping and watch it slowly die? That would be a more accurate representation of me and my people.”
The king sighs. “You do not know the first thing about power.”
“And you don’t know the first thing about compassion,” I bite out.
To our right, a large alcove has been cut into the hedge that borders the gardens. Inside it sits a marble sculpture. The king pushes me into the alcove.
My back bumps into the nearly solid surface of the hedge as the king presses his body against mine. “You think you know something about compassion? A soldier trained to kill?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Then prove it.”
I raise my eyebrow, still pinned between him and the hedge. Despite his closeness and his heated emotions, I’m not scared. I know how to take him down if I need to, and I trust him more when he’s not so composed.
“How exactly would you suggest I prove it?”
His gaze flicks to my mouth. “Kiss me.”
My breath hitches. “I think you’ve confused passion with compassion.”
“No, I haven’t.” His eyes glitter, and I have to remind myself that he’s a sick human being, because right now all I’m noticing are his expressive eyes and sensual mouth. “Compassion is showing kindness towards the man who killed your mother.”
“You want to see compassion? Fine.” I take the hand pressed against my shoulders and kiss his knuckles. “I’ve now kissed the hand of my mother’s killer.”
Before he has time to react to my chaste kiss, I bring my other hand up and slap him.
His head whips to the side. “I’m also a vindictive bitch,” I say.
Slowly he moves his face back to where it was. There’s a dull pink handprint across his cheek. His eyes flash, and I’m already learning that this is when he’s at his most dangerous. “And I don’t play fair,” he admits.
The words are hardly out of his mouth when he closes the distance between us and his mouth captures mine.
There’s nothing sweet or diplomatic about this kiss. His lips move roughly against my own, and his hand runs down the length of my side, as if even a kiss isn’t enough to satiate him.
I will my mind to go blank before I kiss him back. I press my eyes tightly closed as I force myself to wind my arms around his neck and lean into him.
As soon as he feels me respond, the kiss deepens. His lips part my own and his tongue presses against mine.
Oh God, I don’t think I can do this. It’s too much. I turn my head to the side to break off the kiss.
I swallow down my bile. “Enough,” I say, my voice hoarse.
He steps away from me, and I pull in a deep breath of air. The king’s staring at my lips, as though looking at them long enough might cause them to resume their former activity.
I gaze at him, feeling like a cornered creature. This is when I’m my most dangerous. He must sense it as well because he steps aside. I brush past him, and he catches my wrist. “I want to see you tonight.” His meaning is clear.
“No,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Not until you offer full medical relief to the WUN with no strings attached.” It’s a ballsy move, manipulating him like this. But this is why the WUN sent me.
“I could simply have you killed if you don’t agree.”
“Then kill me,” I say, tugging on my wrist. I am more than ready to leave the king and his empty threats. Chances are, he will eventually kill me, but not like this.
He doesn’t let go of me. “I’ll think about it,” he finally says, and I know he’s referring to the medical relief and not having me killed.
“And all I’ll do is think about visiting you until you make your decision,” I say.
The king tugs my wrist hard enough for me to stumble into him. “Stop toying with me,” he growls against my ear, his voice low and lethal.
I pull away from him. “Unlike you, I don’t play games, Montes.”
His eyes trail down my face to my lips. “And I get what I want. Always.”
I yank my wrist out of his grip and back away from him. I can see the cold calculation in his eyes.
“There’s always time for firsts,” I say, and then I walk away.
“What were you thinking?” Unlike my father, General Kline yells when he’s angry.
Next to me, my father broods. When he returned an hour ago, he looked at me and shook his head. That’s all it took for me to break down and apologize. I wanted him to be proud of me, not disappointed.
General Kline, on the other hand, could kiss my ass.
I flash him a vicious smile and hold up my index finger, signaling him to give me a moment. Seizing a nearby pen and sheet of paper, I scrawl a note on it.
The king came to my room after that incident, we went for a walk, and he kissed me. I’ve promised to do more if he negotiates medical relief into the peace agreement.
My cheeks burn as I hold the paper up to the camera, and my father looks away.
I’ve already told my dad about my little walk in the gardens. I can’t imagine what he’s feeling. Of the two of us, his is the worse task. He has to pretend to negotiate with a dictator while allowing that same man to take advantage of his daughter. At least I have some agency in the matter. He has none.
I pull the sheet away from the screen and hand it to my father, who will have to burn it later. This is the securest way to communicate.
The conference room in the bunker is quiet. I’m sure the situation doesn’t sit well with anyone in there. I feel like a harlot, trading sex for promises.
The general bends over the table and scribbles something onto a sheet of paper before approaching the screen.
Good job, Serenity. Hold him to that and leave the rest to your father for now. If you try to leverage anything else, he’s going to figure out what’s going on.
As if the king hasn’t already. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to deduce what my role here was. I’m just surprised that it’s actually been working so far.
The general removes the note from the screen and returns to his seat a short distance away. “From now on, control yourself during negotiations,” he says gruffly.
I work my jaw, but nod.
Behind me, I hear a distant knock on the door. My dad and I glance at each other.
“I’ll get it,” I say.
I push out of my chair and leave my father’s room, making sure to close the door behind me. I pass through the apartment’s common area and open the front door.
Marco stands on the other side. “The king requests your presence at dinner,” he says, giving me a sullen look. The feeling’s mutual.
“Request denied,” I say, closing the door.
Marco’s foot shoots out and catches the door before it can latch shut. “You can’t deny the king’s request.”
“Well, I am.” I give Marco’s foot a good kick. He yelps and pulls it back, and I slam the door shut.
“What was that about?” my dad asks when I return to the room.
“The king requested my presence at dinner.”
“And?” my father asks.
There’s loud knocking on the other side of the suite door.
“I politely declined.”
My father raises an eyebrow while the representatives watch from the other side of the screen. “Are you going to answer the door?” he asks.
“No.”
My father lets a small smile slip out, just enough to tell me that I’m humoring him.
The general clears his throat. “You should go to dinner with him.”
“Well, I don’t want to.”
“That’s not a good enough reason, Serenity,” the general says.
I lean in close to the screen. “You want me to use my womanly wiles to secure a favorable peace agreement? That’s exactly what I’m doing,” I say. “Let me do my job.” The truth is that I’m not trying to play hard to get—I don’t know the first thing about attraction. I simply can’t stand the thought of being close to the king right now.
The following morning I’m back in the conference room, sitting across from my father while we wait for the king.
The king pushes open the conference room doors. He holds onto two documents; one he drops in front of my father, the other he drops in front of me.
He leans in next to my ear. “I expect to see you in my room, tonight,” he whispers.
I stiffen, watching him as he takes a seat next to me. His leg brushes against mine, and I flinch from the contact. Across from me my father’s eyes move between the two of us.
“Here is a revised peace treaty that has been adjusted based on yesterday’s discussions,” the king says.
My father and I flip through the document, and I can’t help the way my hands shake, crinkling the paper. I already know what I’m going to find before I read it.
“Medical relief?” My father says, looking up from the document in front of him. His voice carries both confusion and hope.
“Serenity happens to be very persuasive,” the king says, glancing at me. My stomach clenches at his heated look. I try to tell myself that I’m merely nauseous at the thought of what’s coming tonight. But it’s more than just that. It’s that in some dark corner of my mind, the thought of being alone with the king excites me.
I close my eyes and breathe in and out. When I open them, my father’s gaze rests on mine for a moment. Just long enough for me to read the sheer panic in his own.
“You don’t have to do it, Serenity,” my father says. He’s sitting on a side chair in my room, his hands clasped so tightly together that his knuckles are a bluish white color. I’m flipping through the dresses I temporarily own.
“Dad,” I throw him a glance, “you and I both know that’s not an option.” There’s no telling what the king would do if I backed out after he’d held up his end.
My father scrubs his face and pushes himself out of the chair. “Come here,” he says, opening his arms.
I stop rifling through my clothes to look at him. His face is weary—old. And as he stands there with open arms, I realize that he might need my comfort more than I need his.
I walk into his embrace and he envelops me in a hug. He speaks into my hair. “I’m not okay with this.” His hold on me tightens. “I’ve been ordered—” My father’s voice catches. “I’ve been ordered to let this happen.”
“I know.” I’d assumed as much. The general is the mastermind behind this idiotic plan. It doesn’t matter how much my father disagrees with it, if General Kline ordered it, he’s duty bound to follow through. As am I.
He holds me for a long time, and I’m hesitant to pull away before he does. I’m afraid of what I’ll see on his face.
“You’ll never know how proud I am of you.”
I give a humorless laugh. “There’s nothing honorable about what I’m doing.”
My dad draws back to look at me. If he cried while he held me, all traces of his tears are gone. “Your life has never been easy, Serenity. The world has always demanded something from you—war is a series of hard choices—but you haven’t let it break you. Not even now, when this is being asked of you. No father could be prouder of his daughter.”
I blink back tears and swallow. “Thank you,” I say quietly.
This evening, when Marco knocks on our suite’s door, I’m armed for battle. I have a plan that will keep the monster at bay.
I open the door. “The king requests—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I say. “Let’s go.” I push past Marco. The guards won’t come with me tonight, not for this sort of thing.
Marco jogs up to me. “You’re going the wrong way Miss Freeman,” he says, catching my arm and spinning me around.
“Oh.” I let him lead me in the opposite direction, and I smooth down the fabric of the lacey plum colored dress I wear. For the millionth time I wish I was wearing my fatigues. The tight bodice and high heels limit my movement.
We tread down the halls, and I memorize every twist and turn Marco makes. I’ll need to since I doubt the king will escort me back to my room before he gets what he wants.
Every so often someone passes by me in the hallways. Their eyes dart to mine, then away. I sometimes receive this reaction from people who notice my scar. Tonight, however, I wonder if this has more to do with the filmed negotiations. I never considered the fact that people might recognize me once the footage hit the Internet, but they must.
Marco and I climb a set of stairs and turn down a hall. I can tell we’re nearing the king’s private rooms. There’s a stillness about my surroundings that the rest of the mansion lacks.
I follow Marco up to a door and wait while he knocks. A servant opens the door and ushers us in. A quick glance around the room tells me that this is a private dining room. The lights have been dimmed, and a small round table has been set for two.
Romantic. I believe that’s how one would describe the setting. Unease gathers in the pit of my stomach.
The king steps into the room from some side chamber, fiddling with a cufflink of his suit. When he catches my eye, I see him pause. His eyes move over me, his gaze searing. I can tell he doesn’t want to simply have his way with me, and that realization surprises me.
“Thank you, Marco,” the king says, “you may go now.”
Marco inclines his head and backs away. I watch him leave us. Only once the door clicks shut, do I turn to face the king.
He’s studying me. “Are you happy?”
“About what?” I ask.
“Your precious medical relief.”
“I’ll be happy once I see the finished peace agreement with the medical relief included. Until then, I remain skeptical.” The king could always withdraw that clause of the treaty once he gets what he wants from me. That’s why I’m going to have to make sure he doesn’t.
“You don’t trust me?”
I guffaw. “I don’t have the luxury. In my world trust will land you a knife in your back and an early grave.”
“So cynical,” the king says, tsk-ing. He approaches me. “Why didn’t you come to dinner last night?” he asks. His eyes gleam. He’s not a man to take rejection well.
“I thought we just went over my opinion on trust.”
King Lazuli cups my face and tilts my head up. His thumb strokes my jawline as his eyes dance over my lips. It takes most of my self-control to let him do this. Even this small touch feels extraordinarily intimate. “You don’t trust yourself with me?” he asks.
“Especially not with you,” I say, holding his gaze. My pulse is in my ears.
He drops his hand and moves away from me, a smile playing along his lips. “Hungry?” he asks, indicating the table.
I’m not, but pretending to eat is better than the alternative. I nod. “Starving.”
I make my way over to the table, where King Lazuli pulls out a chair for me. I give him a strange look as I take it.
“Are you not used to a man pulling out your chair for you?” he asks.
“Where I live, a man would sooner mug me than pull out a chair for me.” It’s not completely true. I wouldn’t get mugged in the bunker. But out on the streets where resources are scarce? Absolutely.
The king frowns at this. “Once this war is over, I will teach your country’s men how to treat women.”
I can’t help it, I laugh. There are so many things wrong with his statement. “One, King Lazuli—”
“Montes,” he corrects me, walking around the table and taking a seat across from me.
“—the men of my country aren’t savages by nature. Your war has made savages of us all, me included.” Of course the megalomaniac across from me would twist a problem he created into some form of cultural sexism. “And two, you are the last person on earth who should speak of how to treat women.”
I went too far. I can see it in the way the vein at the king’s temple throbs. We stare at each other for a few long seconds, and I can practically see the king’s internal debate. In the past he’s killed off everyone who speaks out against him, but clearly he’s hesitant to do that to me, now that he’s gotten me in his private rooms. But how to handle the situation?
The moment is interrupted by what appears to be the king’s personal chef. She sets a covered plate in front of each of us, and then removes the metal lids. “Filet mignon served with a red wine sauce, fried gnocchi, and caramelized shallots. Paired with a cabernet sauvignon.”
I stare at the plate in front of me. I don’t recognize any of the food items the chef just rattled off, and I can only identify the reddish-brown lump on my plate as meat. But from the smell wafting off the food, it will taste delicious.
The chef pours a small serving of wine into the king’s glass, and I watch, fascinated, as the king swirls the liquid, smells it, and tips a portion back into his mouth. After a moment, he nods, and the chef pours more wine into the king’s glass, and then mine.
“You make food look like an art form,” I say.
“That’s because it can be,” the king responds.
I shake my head and glance down at my meal. He will never understand how insulting this is to a girl who is always underfed.
“Go ahead,” he says, “try it.”
I lift my knife and fork and try a bite of the meat. I have to close my eyes as I eat it. I’m not sure I’ve ever tasted anything so delicious.
I hear the king chuckle across from me and my eyes snap open. “Now try the wine.” His voice lilts, reminding me that he’s just as exotic to me as his lifestyle is.
I reach for my glass. I’ve only had sips of alcohol up until now. Not too many people in the bunker bother with the stuff, but I’ve tasted it enough to expect the strange flavor that hits my taste buds. What I don’t expect is the warm richness of the liquid. It heats up my throat, and then my stomach. I didn’t know any substance could do such a thing.
“It’s good,” I say reluctantly, and then I take another drink. And another.
“Just good?” There’s a twinkle in the king’s eyes. “That’s the best you can do?”
“Yes.”
The room gets quiet, and I know that we’re both remembering my earlier words. I wonder why he hasn’t brought them up again.
“Tell me about yourself,” I finally say, because I can’t think of a more open-ended question to distract us.
The king raises his eyebrows. “What is it you want to know?” he asks.
I shrug. “Whatever it is you want to tell me.”
“I’m an only child,” he starts.
“Me too,” I say, taking another swig of my wine.
He nods. “My mother passed away when I was eight, and my father passed away when I was twenty-two.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. Regardless of who the king is, I can empathize with the pain of losing a parent.
“Thank you,” he says, holding my gaze. In that second, my pulse speeds up. I’m a fly caught in a spider’s web, a moth drawn to flame. He’s pain and death, yet I’m falling into those dark eyes of his. Perhaps he truly is something supernatural if he can coax this response from me.
King Lazuli glances away. “I enjoy playing football—soccer—I sing in the shower—”
I raise my eyebrows. “You sing in the shower?”
The grin that spreads along his face is pure sin. “I can always give you a demonstration, but you’d be required to join me.”
“I think I’ll pass.” I reach for my full glass of wine and take another drink. I glance at it once I pull it away from my mouth. I could’ve sworn I’d almost finished the wine. Those servants of his should double as spies; they’re shadows, slipping in and out of the room, refilling drinks, removing silverware—essentially seeing to our every need.
“How about you?” the king asks, tipping his own glass back.
I chew the inside of my cheek and stare at my wine. “I live in a room with seven other women. This trip is the first time I’ve seen natural light in months, but what I miss the most about the sky are the stars—oh, and I love to swim, even though I haven’t been able to for several years.”
The king holds my gaze. “Would you like to?”
“Like to what?” I ask, drinking more wine.
“Go for a swim. I have a pool.”
My eyes widen, though I shouldn’t be surprised to learn about this. “I don’t have a swimsuit,” I say. What I don’t mention is that it seems wrong to enjoy myself when so many others can’t.
He waves away my concern. “That’s not an issue. Marco can get you one.” The king stands up. “Give me a moment.” He walks out of the room, presumably to talk to one of his servants.
As soon as he’s gone, I eye the door. I could slip out now and return to my room. Where would that leave me, though? No, I need to stick around a little longer.
At least my plan is unfolding as I wanted it to. So long as I keep the king talking I don’t have to do anything physical with him. But more importantly, if the king sees me as more than just a pretty face with an attitude, I’ll have more leverage.
The king comes back in the room. “Grab your glass of wine,” he says, seizing his own glass and the wine bottle that sits next to it.
I glance at our half-eaten plates. “What about the food?”
“It’ll be here when we come back.”
I know he says that for my benefit. I doubt the king would eat a reheated meal. But he’s probably learned enough about me to know that I’d balk at wasting it.
He takes my hand and leads me to the door. I stare at our joined hands. The backside of his is tan, and I don’t know why that particular detail makes me wistful, but it does.
Ashamedly, I savor the warm press of his palm. I can tell that he’s used to being touched by the way his focus is on other things. And now, horror of horrors, it sinks in that I actually like skin contact with the king.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
“Nothing.” I respond too fast, and the king’s lips twitch. “Why do you ask?”
“You had a small smile on your face for a minute there. It was nice.”
I look away, mortified that the king caught me smiling while I was thinking about him. Scratch that, I was embarrassed that the king caused me to smile in the first place.
“And the lady shuts down yet again. I should add smiles and compliments to the growing list of things that make you uneasy,” King Lazuli says.
“You are what makes me uneasy,” I say.
His grip on my hand tightens. “I know.” He looks down at me, and I see the desire in his eyes.
I swallow. Tonight is going to be long.
I hold my towel tightly to myself when I leave the bathroom. It’s a good thing the alcohol is really starting to hit my system and lower my inhibitions. Otherwise there’s no way I’d have the courage to do what I’m doing now.
King Lazuli waits for me in the room that houses his pool, wearing a swimsuit that leaves little to the imagination. I suck in my cheeks. I’d expected the king to have thin, doughy arms and a shapeless stomach under all those suits of his. I hadn’t expected him to be toned like a soldier.
Our eyes meet across the room. “Are you going to take off your towel?” he asks.
“As soon as I get more wine.” I probably shouldn’t drink more. I’m already starting to feel a little queasy from the alcohol and overly rich food.
The king grabs my glass from where it rests on the edge of the pool next to the wine bottle, and he brings it over to me. “How about a trade: your glass of wine for the towel.”
Instead of answering him, I take the wine in his hand, down it in two long gulps, and then let go of my towel.
It drops to the ground, and I’m left standing in only a black bikini. The king takes a step back, his expressive eyes brighter than usual. I know what he sees—a lean body toned by war. He might even see some of my fainter scars.
I never thought there was anything particularly beautiful about my body. It is useful, and in my war-torn country, that’s the best I can ask for.
Only now, as Montes’s gaze drinks me in, I realize he’s savoring me like he does his wine. Like I am something rare and refined and he wants to take his time enjoying me. The thought makes me aware of every inch of exposed skin.
He takes my empty glass and sets it on a nearby ledge, his eyes serious. I sway a little on my feet as I watch him; the alcohol is already affecting me.
When the king turns back to me, he bends and scoops my feet out from beneath me.
“What are you doing?” I gasp out.
“What do think I’m doing?” he asks, carrying me to the shallow edge of the pool, where steps trail down into the water.
Alcohol swirls in my stomach, and I’m not sure whether I like the heady way it makes me feel. It’s causing me to notice the way the king’s dark hair curls at the base of his neck, and the golden skin that covers his strong muscles.
My body dips, and I hear the first splash of water as the king steps into the pool. He gazes down at me, and I catch my breath.
I’d never much cared for those epic love stories I’d heard growing up—Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde, Helen and Paris. All couples who’d placed love above all else; I thought the whole lot of them were idiots. But the way the king is looking at me … now I can see why so many loved those stories. There is something to forbidden passion. One heated look has me feeling like I’m on the edge of a precipice, waiting to jump.
My body dips again as we descend down the last two steps. The water kisses the bare skin of my back, but I’m still staring at the king, and he me.
I blink rapidly. I’m here to seduce the king, not to actually feel something for him. I need to remember that at all times.
To distract myself, I focus on my surroundings. The white walls dance with the strange patterns the water makes. “This place is beautiful.” I forget for a minute that this beauty represents everything I despise about the king. Right now I’m able to let go of some of my hate.
“If you think this is beautiful, you should see the pool at my official headquarters.”
“Is that an offer?” I joke, still staring at the beautiful light that dances above us.
“It is.”
My gaze snaps back to the king. “You should seriously leave the lying for the cameras,” I say.
We move into deeper water. “I’m not lying,” he says, his eyes trained on me.
I blink at him. He’s serious. “Why would you invite me?” I ask.
“Because I enjoy your company.” His statement is proof that he’s out of his mind. I’ve been nothing but mean and malicious to him.
“I hate you, remember?” With all the alcohol thrumming through my system, I can’t put emotion behind the words.
“I’m starting to think you don’t, though.” His eyes laugh at me.
I push myself out of his arms, enjoying the way the water ripples over my skin. I do hate the king, just not right now. In the morning I will.
I hope.
I swim over to where the wine bottle sits. “I think I need more alcohol for this conversation.” I’m actually feeling plenty buzzed as it is, but I do need to change the subject before the king corners me into agreeing to the visit.
Just as I reach for the bottle, I see movement out of the corner of my eye. I jolt at the sight of King Lazuli. I hadn’t heard him swim up next to me.
He grabs the wine bottle and moves it out of my reach. “I think you’ve had enough for now, Serenity.” I shiver at the way he says my name. “Me on the other hand …” He flashes me a wicked smile before he tips the bottle back and takes a drink from it.
My abs clench at the sight of him. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I was feeling lustful. He sets the bottle down, and when his eyes meet mine, heat pools low in my stomach.
“Let’s play a game,” I say quickly. He raises an eyebrow. “I’ll ask you a question, and you can choose to answer it, but if you decide not to, you’re going to have to take a sip of wine.” That’ll loosen his lips.
The grin he gives me is full of mischief. “I’ll play your little game, but only if I’m allowed to ask questions as well.”
I nod. “Okay.” I can live with that. “I’ll start you off with an easy one: what’s your favorite color?”
“Blue. What’s yours?” he asks.
“I’ll answer that only if it’s your official question.”
“It is.”
I watch the way the light from the water dances over his skin. I want to hold onto this moment, where we are no longer enemies. Merely a man and a woman discovering each other.
“Yellow.” The color of the sun and the stars, the color of happiness.
“Yellow?” The king’s eyebrows nudge up.
“What, you thought I’d like the color of spilled blood or something?”
He tips his head back as he weighs my words. “Yeah, I kind of did.”
“Next question: where are you from?” I ask, thinking about the roll of his words.
He pauses, watching me with an amused smile on his face. “I was born in the country formerly known as France.”
The water laps against us as I file away this new bit of information.
“Are you enjoying yourself at the moment?” the king asks.
I search Montes’s eyes. I could lie, make up an answer, or I could also pass. I do neither.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “Maybe.”
“Maybe,” King Lazuli repeats. “I’ll take it.”
I glance out the window, where I can make out the moon. “How old are you, really?” I ask.
The king grabs the bottle of wine and drinks rather than answering.
“How old were you the first time you killed someone?” he asks.
“Twelve. And I killed four someones that first time.”
“Four.” He’s looking at me like he’s having trouble believing me. “What—?”
I hold up a hand. “My turn, remember?”
His eyes drop to my lips and he nods.
“Have you ever personally killed anyone?” I ask.
“No.”
His answer doesn’t surprise me. The king strikes me as the kind of man who doesn’t care about other’s suffering so long as he doesn’t have to see it. He survives his cruelty only because he removes himself from it. I think in some ways I might be the more brutal of the two of us.
“Why did you kill those four men?” he asks me. I knew he was going to ask me this.
“They were going to rape me,” I say. I look away from him as I remember.
So much is left out of my statement. How brain and bone flecked the floor like confetti. How one of them took an agonizing ten minutes to die. The entire time he begged me with the ruin of his mouth to put him out of his misery.
When I look at Montes again, his face is studiously blank, like he’s trying to hide his reaction. I realize then that my life might shock the king as much as his life has shocked me. I still can’t comprehend the sheer quantity of lives he’s taken through his wars, but maybe he is also having a hard time believing that I can kill so easily.
“Tell me how a decent man can be okay with leading a war,” I say.
“That’s not a question, and I’m not a decent man,” he says.
“You’re right, I forgot for a moment.”
The king presses in close to me so that my back is up against the wall of the pool. His hands rest against the tiled edge, trapping me between them. “Told you,” he says, his voice gravelly.
“Told me what?”
“I don’t think you really hate me.”
“That’s just wishful thinking on your part,” I say, but silently I worry that he’s right, that a few hours with him have weakened my long-held beliefs.
“Okay,” I say, changing the topic, “if you don’t answer the question I just asked you—”
“Statement,” King Lazuli corrects.
“—then you can at least answer this one: why do you like me?”
A sinful smile spreads along the king’s lips, and he shifts his body so that his slick skin rubs against mine. “You’re clearly new at this,” he says. I bristle at his words. “Attraction and chemistry don’t follow any logical rules. You’re not the prettiest girl I’ve ever met, nor the smartest, nor the funniest.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“But you are the girl I’ve altered a peace treaty for, and you are the girl I’m spending the evening with.”
“You’re evil and deceptive,” I say.
“And you’re a kindred spirit.”
That stops me. It stops me completely. I’ve never thought of it that way. That the two of us might be the same. The more I think about it, the more frightening similarities there are between us.
The king shifts against me, drawing my attention to the sculpted muscles of his chest and the arms that pin me to the wall. My eyes trail up and rest on his mouth.
The slow burn of the alcohol allows me to focus on only one thing at a time, and right now I’m focusing on those lips.
I blink slowly, the wine churning unpleasantly in my stomach.
“Are you going to let me kiss you?” the king asks.
“Does my answer even matter?” I flick my gaze up to his.
“No, not when you’re looking at me like that. But I still want to hear you to say it.”
“I won’t. Not for you.” Admitting I want him to kiss me feels too much like I’m betraying my nation.
He moves his left hand from where it rests to lift one of my legs. He wraps it around his waist. I swallow and fight the urge to close my eyes against the feel of his fingertips on the sensitive skin there.
He’s challenging me to stop him with his eyes. I don’t.
The king sets his hand back against the edge of the pool and removes his right hand to wrap my other leg around him.
My gaze moves between his eyes, his dark, fathomless eyes. “You can’t make someone love you,” I say.
“I don’t need you to love me.”
I’m sure that buried beneath all the king’s narcissism and conceit, there’s a man that wants companionship, affection—acceptance. That’s what all humans want. But perhaps I give the king too much credit.
He leans in slowly, watching me, daring me. At the last minute I turn my head away from him.
“You don’t get to have me,” I say. “Not after you’ve taken everything from me.” I don’t know when the evening became so serious, and now the wine has loosened my lips. I’m saying things I shouldn’t be saying. Not if I’m supposed to be seducing my way into an advantageous peace treaty.
“Is that a challenge?” King Lazuli’s gaze dips to my breasts, and his knee rubs the fabric of my bikini bottoms against me. He knows what he’s doing—I’ll give him that.
“No, I’m just stating a fact.” I have to coax my voice to sound normal.
“Just like you hating me is also you stating a fact.”
“Exactly.”
“Good,” he says. “Now I know that you have absolutely no idea what a fact is.”
My mouth drops open, and he uses that opportunity to lean all the way in and kiss me.
He was right earlier when he said he didn’t play fair. His lips press hotly against mine, and his tongue caresses the inside of my mouth. I use my own tongue to shove his out, but this is where I make a critical mistake. Kisses are just as much a battle as they are a joining of desires, and in my ignorance I’ve unknowingly deepened the kiss.
The king reciprocates with force, his tongue scorching my mouth. I’ve never been kissed this way before, like I’m some desperate desire of the king’s. He rubs himself against me, and I can feel him harden.
No. This can’t go any further.
I push him away from me, and I scramble to get out of the pool. My exit is not very graceful, but that’s the last thing on my mind.
I’m breathing heavily when I turn to face the king. He’s treading water, studying me with a predatory look in his eyes. Or maybe it’s lust I’m seeing. It doesn’t matter.
“Scared?” he asks, taunting me.
“Yes.” I sway on my feet, feeling lightheaded.
His tone changes. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head. The wine’s no longer a pleasant buzz, but something more insidious. I feel my stomach cramp and nausea rise. “I think I drank too much.”
I stumble over to one of the nearby chairs and lean my head between my legs. This position doesn’t feel so bad.
When I feel a hand on my arm, I look up and see the king crouched in front of me. I must be losing my senses; I didn’t hear him exit the pool and approach.
His gaze looks concerned. “We should probably get you to bed.”
I nod and get up, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around myself.
The king escorts me back to my room, which surprises me. I’d assumed he’d send Marco or one of his other men to accompany me. Or that he’d lead me to his quarters. I can’t make sense of the king when he does something even slightly honorable.
Once we stop outside my room, the king brushes a kiss across my lips. “Feel better,” he says. And then he’s gone.