“Montes, tens of millions of people have died fighting this war. There are plenty of identities one can take on, and the Resistance excels at scrubbing them down. You’d never know.”
This causes the king to pace, his hands clasped behind his back. He pauses and scrutinizes the men in the room. Suspicion flares in his eyes.
“Usually Resistance fighters take on positions that allow them to disappear,” I say. “Maids, drivers, cooks, and so on. It’s unlikely that any of the men in this room are in the Resistance’s pocket … though not impossible.”
One of the king’s advisors, who’s been staring at me with intense vitriol, now speaks. “Your Majesty, how do we know the queen’s not still working with them?”
The king stops pacing.
I tense, and not from the accusation itself. I couldn’t care less what the king or his men think of my loyalties. I owe no one an explanation.
No, my muscles coil up the moment the king’s shoes stop clicking against the floor because something bad is about to happen.
My eyes move over the men at the table. Like me, everyone’s frozen in their seats.
I hear the squeak of the king’s shoe soles as he swivels to face the man who spoke. “Are you questioning your queen’s loyalty?” I can hear the dangerous edge in his voice.
Don’t speak, I want to tell him.
I can see the man’s body shaking. “N-no, merely—”
“You said ‘how do we know the queen’s not still working with them?’ didn’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“How do we, indeed?” the king says. “Perhaps, you know something I don’t about the queen’s loyalties? I’m sure she’s had plenty of time to deceive us between getting shot and fighting cancer.”
The man’s gone pale. The officers sitting at his sides are scooting away from him, like being too close might make them guilty by association.
When I glance at Montes, a smile is playing on his lips. He’s a cat that’s caught a mouse and is now toying with his food. “Or maybe it was when the Resistance kidnapped your queen and threatened her with torture?” Montes snaps his fingers. “Oh wait, she never gave into their demands.”
My breath catches when I realize that my interrogation must’ve been recorded. Somehow the king got his hands on it.
Montes’s voice goes cold. “How do we know you’re not working with the Resistance, Ronaldo?”
The man, Ronaldo, shakes his head furiously, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead. “I’d never do such a thing. Please, Your Majesty, forgive me.”
I and every other person in this room—including Ronaldo—know there’s nothing he can say that will save him. This is a witch-hunt, and guilty or innocent, Montes has found his first suspect.
The king nods to Marco, who’s seated to my right. I’d managed to ignore the asshole so far, but now my eyes move to him. Marco pushes out of his chair and approaches the man who spoke, the king’s guards leaving their stations to flank him.
Now I understand why these men have kept so quiet. Speaking means catching the king’s attention. Defeated nations everywhere can testify that garnering his attention is never a good thing. Hell, I can testify to that.
Montes has murder in his eyes. I stand abruptly, my chair scraping back. When his gaze meets mine, I shake my head. “I will not sit by and watch this.”
The room’s fallen silent, save for Ronaldo’s quiet sobs as Marco and the guards drag him out. The king’s just proved how he responds to challenges of any kind.
I, however, don’t give two shits.
The king’s arms are folded and he pinches his lower lip as he studies me. “You don’t get a choice.”
“I do if you want my help.”
The king takes two ominous steps towards me, until he towers over me. “You might be my queen, but I am the leader, Serenity, and I make the decisions. And fuck it if I’ll let you make demands of me.”
So much for being equals.
I push past him, and he grabs my wrist. “I haven’t dismissed you,” he growls.
I laugh. “I don’t answer to you, Montes. You better fucking remember who you married.” There are millions of demure ladies who would’ve done his bidding in a heartbeat, who would’ve carved out their own identities to become whoever they thought he wanted. And yet he chose me, the one woman who won’t do that, the one woman who’s as likely to explode as he is.
Yanking my wrist out of his grip, I stalk out of the room, and no one stops me.
I don’t know where I’m going, but it’s a good thing I’m unarmed or else someone might get hurt. As it is, I’m eyeing the coat of arms that’s on display ahead of me, and I’m seriously considering maiming the thing.
Behind me the door opens.
“Serenity.”
I rotate and see Montes headed towards me, his eyes angry. When he gets to me he wraps a hand around my throat and pushes me up against the wall. A knee slides between mine.
“You really shouldn’t have left the room.”
I should be pissing my pants at the look in his eye and the way he presses himself against me, but I’m not. I’m no longer frightened of this man. I don’t know when that happened. The king has always been my nightmare. But he’s not anymore. It’s just further proof that I’m maladaptive.
I lift my chin. “Are you going to cart me away like you did Ronaldo?”
“I’m considering it.”
I don’t get the chance to reply.
Montes captures my mouth with his. Fear, anger, lust—they must all function on the same wavelength because one moment I’m pissed at the king, and the next I’m twining my tongue with his, my breaths coming in short, heavy pants.
His free hand grabs my hip and pulls me even closer to him. Close enough that I can tell he wants me. I find it curious that insubordination—and the resulting anger—could turn him on. Do people get intimate when they really just want to throttle each other? If so, I believe I’d excel at it.
“I think I will cart you away after all,” Montes murmurs. He bends to pick me up. I’m slammed back into reality.