The Queen of All that Dies (The Fallen World Book 1) (5 page)

“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.