He prowls over to me, his hands stroking my legs as he watches me, a slight smile playing along his lips. I can’t stand just laying here, so I push myself to my knees.
Reaching out, I stroke the king’s chest for no other reason than I want to. After all, he’s clearly put his fingers—and lips—everywhere that pleases him.
The king’s eyes close, and he covers my hands with his own. They’re warm and they dwarf mine.
“Don’t stop,” he murmurs.
I blink. I hadn’t realized that his touch had stilled my own. I move our hands down, over the ridges of his abs, across his obliques, to the hard, lean muscle of his thighs. Here the king’s hands tighten over mine.
He releases his hold and softly pushes me back against the bed and follows me on, his body blanketing me.
There’s something to be said about physical touch. I’ve gone so long without it that the sensation is better than the sweetest of the king’s liquors. I don’t believe I’m the only one that feels this way. Montes is stroking my skin.
It hits me: he’s been with far more people than I have—he told me so himself—yet he’s acting as though I’m something coveted.
One of the king’s knees slink between my legs, spreading them apart. His hips settle heavily over me, and I can feel him right at my entrance. He shifts his pelvis, and then he’s pushing into me.
The king enters slowly, watching me the entire time. This isn’t the rough sex I expected. Somewhere along the way our frenzied movements have turned into this.
My lifelong enemy is now the person who’s physically closest to me. And I don’t mind. The remorse I felt on our wedding night is gone.
Montes thrusts into me, and the sensation is overwhelming. He’s overwhelming—over me, inside me.
Something about the languid way he moves and the way his eyes track mine makes me think this is more than just physical for him. That I might now consume the thoughts of the man who consumes mine.
A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips.
Montes stills. “That’s a first,” he breathes.
I’m finally giving into whatever it is I feel for this man and forgiving myself for circumstances beyond my control. I’m drawing a new beginning. One where not everything is a battle.
Long after we’ve finished, Montes clasps me to him. A light and fizzy emotion surges through me. Hope.
If not war, then love.
I don’t know the first thing about it—love. I don’t know if I’m even capable of it. But I also know that I have a limited time to learn. I’m still dying. If I hope to help the world before my time’s up, then I’ll have to work with the king to achieve it.
That’s asking a lot of the two of us—working together. We’re the last people for any of this. But it will happen. I’ll make sure of it.
“Weeks ago you promised I could get involved with medical relief,” I murmur.
Montes’s fingers trail my back. “I did.”
“I want to start tomorrow.”
His fingers halt. They tap against my skin once, twice. “Then I’ll put you in touch with the advisor on global health and wellness first thing,” he says. Whether the king is actually doting on me or just interested in keeping me busy doesn’t matter. I’ll get to work immediately.
Neither of us speaks again for several minutes.
Eventually, Montes breaks the silence. “What do you fear above all else, Serenity?” he asks quietly.
It’s a strange question, given our circumstances.
“You,” I say automatically.
I glance up at him, but he’s not looking at me. He’s staring at the ceiling, a faraway expression on his face.
His thumb strokes my shoulder. “Is this another one of your ‘facts’?” Now his eyes do travel to mine.
I give him a shove, even as my lips curve up. He has me there. One doesn’t make love with one’s fears. Not willingly. Then again … perhaps I am the poster child for immersion therapy.
“Aside from me, is there anything you fear?”
My brows furrow.
When I don’t respond, Montes says, “You can’t answer my question.”
I can’t. Death doesn’t scare me. Nor does pain. I might’ve said I feared losing the things that I love … but I’ve already lost them all.
“What do you fear?” I ask.
He’s silent. “I don’t know,” he finally says.
“You do,” I accuse.
He sits up, the action causing the blanket to draw down and expose my breasts. I push myself up as well, dragging the sheet back over my chest.
“They kept blood and oxygen flowing to my brain,” Montes says, rubbing his jaw. “That’s how they did it—how they kept me alive even after I’d been shot. You can replace everything but the brain. If that goes, a person is well and truly dead.”
My hands tighten on the cloth. I don’t know why he’s decided to confide in me now, but I don’t stop him. People have killed and died to learn what he’s telling me. And he’s telling me, the woman who’s threatened to kill him to his face.
He knows things have changed between us.
“The origins of this war began decades ago, when I was just a successful businessman trying my hand at politics. I’d caught wind of a company developing an Alzheimer’s drug with unusual side effects. It could turn back the clock—it could return a patient to their brain’s peak performance, reverse baldness and bone loss, increase skin’s elasticity, repair torn tissue.
“I took a chance and bought the majority shareholding of the company, and gave it the capital needed to continue testing. The drug was further tweaked, and we found a way to prevent aging completely.”
Will had been right; Montes had stumbled upon the fountain of youth.
“The company’s shares skyrocketed, and for a while, there was real concern in the medical field that the drug had just made tens of thousands of health related jobs obsolete.” The king gives a dry laugh. “It probably would’ve too.”