The Queen of All that Dies (The Fallen World Book 1) Page 7

  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.

  Chapter 7

  Serenity

  Four years ago the western hemisphere went dark.

  I was doing rounds when it happened. I sat in the back of a military issued vehicle, a gun slung across my body.

  An older bunker member—a retired colonel—sat up front, driving the car around the perimeter. It had been a quiet night. Usually at least one incident cropped up during my shifts, but tonight I seemed to be getting a break. My gaze drifted up to the night sky. I searched for my favorite constellations, but light pollution from the nearby city of Annapolis obscured them.

  My eyes had only just begun to travel back to my surroundings when the sky lit up. It flashed, blindingly bright, turning night into day. Then the light shrank away.

  Another bomb.

  “Shit.”

  Less than a minute later I heard the blast. It sounded like the devil was shouting, like he was going to consume me and the earth. The wave of energy hit me, throwing me back into the bed of the vehicle. Beneath me the earth shivered, and the car engine faltered, the front lights flickering before it decided it wasn’t going to die after all.

  And then there was silence. Ominous silence.

  “What in the fucking hell … ? Serenity, you okay?” the colonel shouted back to me.

  “I’m fine,” I said, pushing myself upright.

  By chance my gaze fell on Annapolis. The city, which only a moment ago had been ablaze in light, was dark.

  I beat the colonel to the radio. “A bomb’s been dropped. Repeat: a bomb’s been dropped.”

  I was so shaken that it took me a moment to realize the message hadn’t gone through; the radio was off. I went to click it on, only to find that it had already been on. I glanced back up at where Annapolis should be. Now it was shrouded in shadow.

  Later I learned that King Lazuli had detonated several nuclear bombs high above the WUN’s territories. The explosions had released EMP pulses that took out all electronics that weren’t heavily shielded from them.

  Most electricity. Many cars. Virtually all mobile devices. Nearly every computer. All snuffed out. Only the bunker and a few other heavily fortified locations—most belowground—survived the EMP pulse unscathed.

  The rest of the WUN got set back decades that day.

  Bright rays of sunlight wake me. I wince at the sight of them and rub my eyes. My head pounds once, then a few seconds later it pounds again, and again. A horrible headache blossoms, worsening with each passing second. All I want is to fall back asleep, but the churning pain in my stomach has me throwing off my covers and running for the bathroom.

  I lift the lid of the toilet and vomit. My stomach spasms while I bend over, letting me know it’s only just warming up. I spend the next thirty minutes huddled around the porcelain bowl, retching until there is nothing left in my stomach. I flush it all down, pretending that last night’s wine is responsible for the crimson tint of the water.

  I feel weak, and my head is screaming at me. I might as well have drunk poison last night; it would have the same effect on me. I push myself to my feet and lean over the sink to catch my breath. I wonder briefly if the king also feels this way.

  My skin heats at the thought of him. Last night I got to know him too well. We shared secrets, drank wine, kissed.

  Oh God, I’m going to see him soon.

  And that’s when I notice it. The strange silence of my suite. Surely my father would’ve poked his head in by now. I haven’t seen him since I left last night.

  I pad back into my room and take another look out my window. It’s late morning, but that can’t be right, not unless …

  A sick feeling that has nothing to do with my hangover washes over me. Did I sleep through the negotiations?

  I cross the room and fling open my door. In the common area a lone WUN soldier waits.

  He sees my face. “The king requested that the remainder of the negotiations be done without your attendance,” he explains.

  “What? Why would he do that?” I ask, furrowing my brows. My worry is quickly morphing into a more familiar emotion. Anger.

  The guard shrugs. “You’re probably doing your job a little too well.”

  I give the soldier a sharp look, and he holds up his hands.

  “All I’m saying is that the king probably wants to make sure he’s still in control of the situation. Having you there might affect his decisions.”

  Because one really shouldn’t mix business and pleasure. And last night I established that I was here for the king’s pleasure.

  The guard is still talking, but I can’t hear him over the noise in my head. I leave him, slamming the door to my room a little harder than I had intended.

  I clench my hands. I want to scream—no I want to hurt something. I want to slam my fist against skin until it bruises.

  The king wasn’t drunk like I was last night. No, he’s been busy orchestrating a plan of his own. One where he makes no consolations to the WUN, or to me, or to my father.

  Just like I had hoped last night, my hatred is back; however, what stokes it is not my country’s wrath, but my own.

  I’ve only been awake an hour when I hear a knock on the door. The WUN soldier answers it before I do.

  “The king wishes to deliver a present to Miss Freeman,” I hear someone say on the other side of the door.

  That’s all I need to hear. “Don’t bother taking the gift,” I yell at the soldier. “I won’t accept it.”

  My guard shrugs to the person standing in the hallway. “Sorry sir, orders are orders,” he says before closing the door.

  Once it clicks shut, the guard shakes his head and glances at me, a twinkle of respect in his eye. “The king’s about to learn just what a ballbuster you are.”

  “The king’s a fucking prick.”

  The guard snorts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  I’m staring out my window, bathed under the dwindling sunlight, when I hear my father enter the suite. As soon as I do, I rush out of my room, ignoring the faint pound of my fading headache.

  My father rubs his eyes, his face weary.

  “That bastard,” I say.

  “Serenity, watch your language,” he says.

  The irony is that I’ve been ruder to the king’s face than this.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  My father
takes a seat on one of the couches in the common area and drops a package he came into the room carrying. “Other than the medical relief you managed to wrangle from him, King Lazuli’s not budging on most of his conditions—and they’re the important ones.”

  “He kicked me out of the peace talks,” I say quietly.

  My father meets my eyes. “I know,” he says, his voice resigned. Of course my father knows.

  As we stare at each other, I feel another strange pang of sympathy for the man in front of me. The situation is unfolding how he feared it would.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “You shouldn’t be the one apologizing,” my dad says.

  But that’s exactly why I’m apologizing—because he blames himself. My father has a whole lot of insight, yet none of it could prevent what’s happened. What a burden it must be to perceive the future yet be unable to change it.

  His eyes shift to the package at his feet. “You have a present from the king.”

  “He can take his present and shove it up—”

  “Serenity.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I grumble. I grab the package and walk it into my room. Once I’m alone, I rip open the cardboard box. Inside is a pale yellow dress, and resting on top of it is a necklace made of yellow diamonds. Yellow, because it’s my favorite color.

  I work my jaw at the sight. How many stomachs could these items feed? How much medical relief could they afford? Everything that comes from the king is blood money.

  My hands shake when I pick up the card resting on top of the pale fabric. The note is simple.

  Forgive me, and feel better.

  I crumple up his note. Forgive me my ass. The king is not sorry. But he will be.

  Marco raps on our suite five separate times before I decide to meet the king. He has my father to thank for that.