I groan from the pain and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to forget just how my life led me here. Given the situation, I hope the wound takes me. Chances are good that if I live through it, I’m going to die a much more painful death.
The door to the ambulance opens, and I see the nurse I talked to earlier. “So you’re the traitor?” I wheeze.
“I’d say the same thing to you.” She glances at the man hovering over me. “Get the car started. The rest of the team is leaving.”
She turns her attention back to me. “Let’s get you fixed up.” This must be Nadia.
They shot me only to stitch me back together. “This is why I hate doctors,” I whisper.
“I’m a nurse,” Nadia says, snapping on gloves. And then she touches the wound.
I scream. What she is, is a sadist.
I blink open my eyes, confused about where I am. I twist my body to look around, and pain lacerates me everywhere. I yelp and still. My side throbs long after I stop moving, and I quickly fill in the gaps of my memory.
The king and I were ambushed. He escaped. I didn’t. I’d been operated on and passed out at some point, either from the pain or the blood loss. And now I’m here.
I no longer side with the Resistance. That realization leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. They’d been my allies for so long. But I’d made the choice to defend the king—my husband—when I could’ve let him die. I find I don’t regret it, either. And now the Resistance and I are enemies.
I’m still wearing the hospital gown, and crusted blood and bits of tissue cake it. I run my hands over my ribcage and waist and feel layers of gauze encircling the bullet wound. They’ve done a good job dressing my injury.
I sit up slowly, careful not to jostle anything. The glimpse of my room isn’t promising. Cement walls and floor, a cot—which I’m resting on—a table and two chairs, a T.V. mounted near the ceiling. But my absolute favorite two details are the one-way mirror and the stainless steel toilet. If I need to go to the bathroom, I’ll have an audience.
Someone must be watching me because the knob to my room twists and the door opens. I watch it, my face carefully arranged to look disinterested.
But the mask slips when I see exactly who steps through the door.
Chapter 22
Serenity
“Will?” I’m not sure whether to be horrified or elated that he’s the one entering my cell. I do know that I’m shocked.
He’s wearing the same black fatigues as everyone else, and I notice that he’s carrying his weapons on him. Either he’s planning to use force, or he hopes to intimidate me.
He crosses the room in three long strides and then I’m gathered in his arms. I wince from the pain.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, standing. “What’s going on?”
“I’m now the head of the western chapter of the Resistance. And I’m here to help you kill the king.” He lets me go long enough to cup my face. I swear for a moment he considers leaning in and kissing me, and I can’t help but rear back. His hands drop, looking confused at my reaction.
“Will, you’re still a part of the Resistance? What were you thinking? If the king finds out, he’ll kill you.” My heart pounds at the thought. Then the implications of Will’s new position sink in. My eyes widen. “You ordered your men to shoot me?”
He cocks his head, like he doesn’t understand me. “It needed to be believable.”
“Believable for what?”
He leans in, his voice hushed. “Everyone thinks you’re with the king except for me.”
I give him a disbelieving look. “Will, I am with the king.” That was why the representatives made me marry Montes—to glue together two warring hemispheres.
Will stares at me long and hard, like I might really be the traitor everyone else claims I am.
Surprise morphs to anger. I sacrificed so much for the good of my friends and my nation, and Will still wants to play soldier, to gamble with lives like this is a game.
“Does your father know of your actions?” I ask.
“Leave him out of this.”
“He doesn’t,” I state.
Will shakes his head. “That’s not the point, and that’s not why we dragged you here.” He grips my upper arms. “The king can be killed,” he says, shaking me slightly.
His words catch my attention, temporarily distracting me from my current situation.
“How?” I ask.
Will releases me. “He hasn’t told you?” He actually sounds surprised.
I hesitate. “The king was going to tell me once I recovered,” I finally say.
Will’s head tilted. “Is it true then? Do you have cancer?”
“If I answer your question, will you tell me how you know the king can be killed?”
He gives me a sharp nod, and I exhale, glancing down at my soiled gown. “It’s true,” I say quietly. “All that radiation … I have stomach cancer.”
As I speak, Will’s brows draw together, and in the silence that follows, he glances away. One might think that he was overcome with emotion, but I know what he’s really thinking—it’s the same thing that plagued my thoughts for a while. He’s wondering why the hell the king is trying to save my life.
“Did they get the cancer?” Will asks.
I fold my arms over my chest. “I wouldn’t know. I was shot and kidnapped before I heard the prognosis.” Voicing this only throws the absurdity of the whole situation in sharp relief: Will allowed Resistance members to shoot me even though he knew I might be sick. Right now his heartlessness is giving the king a run for his money.
Will grunts, and that’s the closest he’ll come to saying, point taken.
“I shared my news,” I say. “Your turn.”
“One of our members found out that the king takes a certain prescription,” Will begins.
My mouth dries, and my fingers grip the skin of my arms tightly.
“We were able to get ahold of a sample of it and study what it does,” Will continues.
I wait with bated breath.