The Queen of All that Dies (The Fallen World Book 1) (12 page)

Chapter 14

Serenity

Miserable. I am
absolutely miserable.

“Emerald green or orchid pink?” my wardrobe manager—
wardrobe manager
—asks me, holding up each dress.

“Neither.”

She nods absently, as if that is the conclusion she’s come to as well. “Yes, these colors are too casual—we want something that’s hopeful yet regal.” She stares at me for a beat, and then her eyes widen and she snaps her fingers.

I’m in the ninth circle of hell.

“I just had a thought. I’ll be right back!”

“Can’t wait,” I mutter.

The hairstylist standing behind me yanks my hair, and my head snaps back. “Ow!”

“S-sorry, My Lady,” the woman stammers. She sounds frightened, and she has good reason to be. I’m already rethinking this whole will-to-live bit if it includes being manhandled.

“Don’t call me that,” I growl out.

She nods her head and bites the inside of her cheek.

I’m being too abrasive, as usual. This is why friendship never came easily to me.

I reach up and place a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry,” I say, gentler this time, “I’m just not used to people touching me.” Or caring about my appearance at all.

In fact, over the last few hours I’ve repeatedly fantasized about grabbing my father’s gun and ending all our lives. And then I’d remember that my gun was confiscated. Probably for the best.

My wardrobe manager comes waddling back into the bathroom with a shimmery golden dress draped over her arms. “Is it not perfect?” she says, holding the thing up so I can get a good look at it.

The thing is absolutely hideous; all that gold is giving me a headache. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t be caught dead in the garment, but the same could be said for any dress I’ve crossed paths with. At this point, the sooner I agree to wear a dress, the sooner this will be over.

“There are no words,” I say.

The wardrobe manager flashes me an eager smile. “I was hoping you’d say that. The king’s going to have a hard time keeping his hands off you once he sees you in this.”

I manage a weak smile. “Lucky me.”

Shortly after I’ve
finished getting ready and my stylists have slipped out the door, I hear a knock. I grab the handle and open the door. On the other side King Lazuli waits.

His eyes widen when he sees me, and I watch as they slowly drink me in. When his gaze makes its way to my face, his eyes change from something hungry to something regretful. I recoil at the sight, and he pretends he didn’t notice my reaction. We just managed to have an entire conversation solely based on body language.

“What, no guards?” I ask, noticing that he came to my room alone. It isn’t the first time either. Earlier this morning he came alone as well, which means despite all he’s done to me, there’s a level of trust there. That, or he really can’t be killed.

He takes my hand and kisses it. When he returns it to my side he says, “I hope you’ve been practicing how to pretend to be happy.”

“Your beloved empire will be fine. I can be convincing when I want to be.”

The king’s eyes search mine. “I know.”

He places his hand on my lower back, and I suppress a shiver. I’m not supposed to feel like this. I’m not supposed to react to his touch after everything.

“Ready?”

I take a breath and nod. “Let’s do this.”

The king leads me through his palace. This place is different from his mansion in Geneva. Both are grand and feel like stuffy royalty, but the king’s palace here is larger and it seems more lived in than his other house. But like the mansion in Geneva, the floor plan here is hopelessly confusing.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“In the hallway,” the king says.

I roll my eyes, and he laughs when he sees my expression. I realize too late that to him, exasperation is a better emotion that hate, fear, or sadness. And it is. It means that I can feel something towards him that’s softer than what I have felt since I arrived.

“You know what I mean,” I say.

The king’s lips curve upwards at my interest. He should know that his reaction is only annoying me further. “We’re in the Mediterranean—but you’ll have to figure out what island we’re on.”

I file this information away and try not to think about how far away we are from my homeland. I’m dying to ask about the WUN, but I keep my mouth shut. I’m going to have to ease my way into a position of trust. For now I’ll be the agreeable fiancée.

“How many houses do you own?”

“We,” he says.

I flash him a questioning look.

“
We
have many houses. By the end of the week they’ll be yours as well as mine.”

My eyes widen, and then I glance away. I can’t wrap my mind around all the implications of being married to this man.

Married.

To my parents’ killer.

Suddenly the food I ate earlier doesn’t seem like it’s content to stay in my stomach. I stop walking and breathe slowly.

The king leans in so that he can peer into my eyes. “Are you alright?”

I hold up a finger, and he patiently waits. The nausea passes, and I begin walking again.

“What was that?” he asks.

“It’s my body’s reaction to you.”

“I’m glad I leave you short of breath.”

“Don’t flatter yourself; I was trying not to barf.”

The king’s concern fades into an amused smile. We walk in silence after that, but with each passing second I feel the heat of King Lazuli’s hand spread through me.

It angers me that my body reacts this way. Hell, it angers me even more that the king considers every emotion of mine that’s not hate or pain a small victory..

He leads me outside to a limo. Photographers and cameramen swarm around us almost immediately, and again my stomach roils, this time from claustrophobia. A chauffeur holds the door open for the king and me, and I all but dive into it. I thought the publicity we’d received before was bad, but it seems I’d only received a taste of it in Geneva.

The king follows me into the car, I’m sure taking in my wide eyes. “I hope this is not you being convincing, because you’re horrible at it,” he says.

“Shut up.”

Again, the king smirks, and I want to throttle him. Even if there wasn’t this terrible baggage between us, there’d still be something about him that gets under my skin.

As soon as we pull away from the palace, I roll down the window. I can feel the king’s eyes on me, but I ignore him. Once the window’s all the way down, I stick my head out, then the rest of my torso.

For a single blissful second the air sings in my ears and streams through my hair. Then I feel a firm pair of hands wrap around my waist and yank me inside. I yelp and tumble into the king’s arms.

“Are you trying to kill yourself?” the king asks, raising his voice. I can see that vein in his temple begin to throb.

“You caught me,” I say sarcastically, “I was trying for death by moving vehicle.”

“Be serious,” he commands.

I raise my eyebrows. “Is that the tone you use on all your subjects? Because frankly, it—” My voice cuts off when the king leans forward and runs a hand through my hair.

He’s fixing my hair.
I don’t know why this action of his catches me so completely off guard, but it does. Maybe because the gesture is affectionate, especially when I notice the slight quiver of his hands.

“Did you really think I was trying to kill myself?” I ask.

His hands pause, and they loosely cup my hair and my chin. “What do you think?” He stares at me, and I see concern in them.

“I’m thinking that there are far more effective ways of killing myself than jumping out of a moving car through the window.” Seriously. I’d just use the door.

“Your father died a week ago.”

I flinch at his words. Why would he bring that up?

“You had to be sedated when you arrived,” King Lazuli continues. “I’m going to assume the worst until you prove otherwise.”

I frown at him and push his hands away. “Well, I’m not planning on killing myself, so your concern is not needed.”

The king doesn’t leave my side. Instead he reaches around me and rolls up the window, and I feel my skin sear in every place his body presses against mine. The window seals shut, yet he doesn’t move away. My eyes crawl over his arm to his shoulder, to his square jaw, to his mouth. There they pause, and then I meet his gaze.

My breath catches as we stare at each other.

He’s the enemy.

It’s too bad my body doesn’t think so. It’s ready to say
que sera sera
and forget the past.

The king leans in slowly, giving me plenty of time to pull away. There’s no reason to fight him now that I’m forced to marry him, but that’s not why I hold my ground. No, if I’m honest, it’s because I want to feel something other than pain and hate.

He stops short of my mouth, though. Reaching up a hand, he traces the scar that drags down my face. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” I say.

“This time I really am.”

A lump forms in my throat. “Don’t say that.”
Or else there will be no one left for me to hate but myself.

He drops his hand, and something tugs at my heart. Regret? Yearning? I can’t tell, but it’s an emotion I don’t want to feel.

“Where’s my father’s body?” I ask. It’s been on my mind lately. I’m not sentimental over death; I’ve seen it, seen the way a soul leaves a person’s eyes. The body is just a vessel—once whatever animates it is gone, it’s just flesh. Still, I can’t help but want to put my father’s body to rest.

“It’s being kept in a morgue in Geneva.” The king’s expression is cautious. He’s watching me like I might snap. This conversation brings up all that’s passed between us.

“Geneva?” I say, my throat hoarse. That is a punch to the gut. “I want his body returned to our homeland.”

“I can arrange that,” he says.

I stare at him for a beat, then nod once.

We sit in uneasy silence for the remainder of the drive. When the car finally stops and I look out the window, my heart drops through my chest. There are hundreds of people streaming into what looks like an amphitheater. This is really happening.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” the king asks.

“Like I have a choice.”

His leg brushes mine as he moves towards the doors. “Good point.” His eyes slink over me. “I forgot to tell you—you look lovely.”

Lovely
. I want to laugh at his words. “You shouldn’t have bothered with the compliment,” I say “I’m many things, and the least impressive of them is lovely.” I push past him just as someone opens the car door.

Lovely. What a load of bullshit.

Chapter 15

Serenity

The king’s been
onstage for only a couple minutes when he calls me out. His voice booms out on the loudspeakers. “I have some important news I want to share with the world, and I want Serenity Freeman to help me announce it.”

I know what’s coming next, and I think the audience does as well. There’s a buzz throughout the crowd. As I walk out onto the stage, I plaster on a smile and act as though my legs aren’t wobbling beneath the dress I wear. Around so many people, my brain’s having trouble processing what Montes is saying.

I come up next to him and stare out into the crowd. My smile wavers as I take in the hundreds—no, thousands—of occupied seats. A strong hand takes my own. I look down at the hand then back up at the man who holds it. He is the king of the entire world. He’s a man who can’t die. A man who doesn’t age. He’s a man who’s made my life a living hell since the war began, and he’s the man I’m forced to marry.

“The Western United Nations and the Eastern Empire have come to a peace agreement. The war is over.”

I’ve never heard this many people cheer in such a confined space, but it seems to resonate through my bones. I smile at the sound, and it’s genuine. Peace, at last.

The cheering goes on for a minute, maybe more, before the crowd is quieted and the king resumes his speech. “Now that there is peace between the two hemispheres, we can begin to look forward to the future.”

The king turns his focus on me, and my heart drums faster. “There is no one I’d rather spend it with than the woman standing next to me.” The look in his eyes is genuine; he’s good. He’s almost convinced me.

And then he does something I really wasn’t expecting. He gets down on one knee. My heart is hammering away in my chest, and I’m sure if a camera got close enough, they’d capture the whites of my eyes on film. I’m about to take a step back when I pause.

You need to convince them.

He pulls out a small box and opens it, revealing a ring inside. “Serenity Freeman, will you marry me?” he asks, smiling. His eyes are vulnerable.

In a room full of thousands of people, it’s absolutely silent.

I put a hand to my heart. Beneath my skin I can feel it pound. “Yes,” I whisper. Only my whisper blasts across the sound systems thanks to the mike hooked up to me.

The crowd roars their applause, and the king’s face breaks into a blinding smile, one that brightens his entire face and reaches his eyes. There’s genuine happiness there, and I wonder if I might be the only person in the world that’s not pleased by the situation. I think of Will.

No, I’m not the only one.

Taking my hand, the king removes the ring from its case and slides it onto my finger. It’s a band made up of yellow diamonds. I can’t decide whether it’s the ugliest or prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.

The king stands, and without giving me a warning, he cups my face and his lips touch mine. I freeze for a split second, my mind and body conflicted, before I move my lips against his and return the kiss. I can feel a low burn starting at the bottom of my stomach and work its way through my limbs.

I touch a hand to his cheek and stroke the rough skin there. My abs clench. Aching want. Guilt. Divided loyalties.

The crowd continues to cheer, although now some whistles join the noise. It unsettles me that we have an audience—that we’re doing this
for
an audience.

The kiss ends and the king takes my hand, lifting it into the air. The motion swivels my body so that I’m now facing the audience. I focus on my breathing as I stare out at the crowd.

“May our marriage symbolize the peaceful joining of two hemispheres and the future prosperity of the world,” the king says. His words grate on my nerves. Of course, he’s marrying me because it’s the easiest, most secure way of controlling the entire world and snuffing out potential rebellions. A political alliance based on matrimony. What bothers me more than this realization is that the king’s motives make a difference to me.

The crowd’s cheers seem even louder now than they did before, and I force out what I hope sounds like a giddy laugh as I gaze at the king. His eyes stare back at me with that intensity I’ve come to recognize. And in this moment, I realize my mind is a small thing. Much smaller than the tide we’re being swept along, smaller than the king’s empire, smaller than the number of people who have fought and died to lead us to this moment.

But most of all, it’s smaller than the heart, and that’s the cruelest irony of all.

It’s late by
the time we finally return to the king’s palace, and by then I’d shaken hands with hundreds of people, smiled until it felt like my face must’ve broken, and withstood the flash of dozens and dozens of cameras. Tonight I got my first taste of what it will be like as the king’s marionette. It made me want to shoot someone—preferably the king.

King Lazuli met my seething looks and barely contained anger with uncharacteristic patience, which only pissed me off further.

Our shoes click on the marble floor as Montes escorts me back to my room.

“Why are you still making an effort with me?” I ask, breaking the silence between us. “We have always been enemies, and we will always be enemies. Why try to force together puzzle pieces that will never fit?” I ask.

The king’s hands slide into the pockets of his suit, and he bows his head, like he’s actually thinking deeply on my question.

Finally, he speaks. “That first moment I saw you,” Montes says, “I felt a jolt right here,” Montes places a hand over his heart, “and I knew with certainty that you were mine.”

“I’m not a possession, something you repeatedly seem to forget.”

“Your heart is, and I wish to own it—I will own it.”

I give him a curious look. “So confident.”

We walk a few more paces in silence. “What is it that interests you?” Montes asks, glancing at me. “Apart from slaying, that is.”

I ignore the barb and don’t hesitate when I respond. “World affairs.”

I glance at Montes to gauge his reaction, but he seems unsurprised. I was an emissary before I was his fiancée, after all. “Any areas in particular?” he asks.

Perhaps he means regions of the globe, but I interpret the question differently. An image of burned skin and patchy hair comes to mind. Another of the palsy a former soldier developed. All were the result of radiation poisoning and biological warfare. Not to mention that strange things are occurring in the king’s labs, things he’s kept quiet on. I want to know what those secrets are.

“Health,” I say. “Innovations that will help people’s quality of life.”

He watches me for a long time. “You will make a great queen.”

I press my lips together to keep my upper lip from curling at the title.

“The people need a leader who listens to their needs,” the king continues as we come to a stop in front of my door. “Cares about them.”

At his words, I close my eyes. I’m not sure I want to hear what he has to say. It means committing to my role as the king’s wife, as the queen. I’m not ready for that.

His hand cups my chin. “Open your eyes, Serenity.”

I do.

“If you are genuinely interested in health and technology as it relates to world affairs, I will give you access to that information.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Really?” Excitement creeps into my voice.

His smile is sly. He knows I’ve taken his bait. “As soon as we’re married and you’ve proven that you’re not planning on killing me or yourself, then absolutely.”

And there’s the catch.

I scowl at him. “I already told you, I’m not going to do anything.”

He touches a finger to my lips, and I pretend his touch does nothing to me. “I need more than just your word,” he says. “I need proof.”

I
don’t see
the king again until the next evening. He’s been busy all day with ruling the world, and I imagine that he will be especially busy for many months—hell, many years—to come.

When he knocks on my door, I just about bound out to meet him. Sure he’s a slimy bastard, but men and women have been in and out of my room all day taking my measurements, asking questions about my personal preferences, and abusing my skin, nails, and hair in the name of beauty. There are forms of torture less painful than that.

“Someone seems happy to see me,” he says.

“You are a sadistic bastard.” I brush past him and out the door, glancing both ways just to make sure no one else is about to ambush me into picking out a color scheme for God-knows-what.

Somehow the king knows exactly what I’m referring to. I can see the laughter in his eyes. “I thought all women liked getting pampered?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Do I look like the kind of woman who enjoys that?”

The king places a hand on my back and leans down to whisper in my ear. “You look like the kind of woman who shoots and asks questions later, and it’s a turn-on.”

My head whips back to look at King Lazuli. He’s gazing at me hungrily. “You are a twisted son of a gun.”

“Look who’s talking.”

I open my mouth to retort when the king cuts me off. “I want to show you something.” He takes my hand and pulls me down the hall.

“Where’s your little henchman, Marco?”

The king’s hand tightens on mine. “He’s around, but I’ve asked him to keep his distance.”

“So, he’s still working for you?”

“Yes.” King Montes doesn’t look at me when he says it.

I pull my hand out of his. “That’s it? He kills my father and he goes unpunished?”

“Watch your words.” Now the king turns to face me, and his eyes flash. “You and your men killed and injured some of my best men, and you got a peace treaty and a promotion out of it.”

I stop in my tracks. “A
promotion
?” My voice only gets quiet like this before I do terrible things. “You consider this a promotion?”

My hands clench and unclench. The king eyes them before he speaks. “From emissary of a dying nation to queen of the entire world? Of course it is.”

I pull my fist back and slam it into his face. My knuckles split as they connect with the king’s cheek. It’s the most pleasant sting I’ve ever endured.

His head whips to the side, and I hear the click of his teeth as his jaw snaps together. Montes staggers, but only for a moment. I hear the pounding of several footsteps as some of the nearby palace guards run to help the king. He waves them off and rubs his jaw while he watches me, his eyes sparkling dangerously. Blood trickles out the side of his mouth. He must’ve cut himself with his teeth.

“So the king bleeds—I wasn’t sure,” I say.

He smiles. That’s all the warning I get. Then he’s on me. He swipes my feet out from under me, and I slam to the ground. The king follows, straddling me. He grabs my hands and holds them over my head. “Are you finished with your tantrum?”

“Not even close,” I growl.

I try to buck him off my body, but it only serves to tighten his grip on me. The king’s legs press into my sides, and he squeezes my hands. It takes me a few seconds and a couple deep breaths to realize that we’re in a compromising position.

As if reading my mind, the king’s eyes flick to my lips, a wicked grin forming along his own. I want to scream, but instead I force my strained muscles to relax. It’s even harder to swallow my pride.

“Are you going to get off of me and show me this surprise of yours?” I ask, trying to sound exasperated. It’s not very convincing, considering the series of events that led up to now.

“Hmm, I’m not sure,” King Lazuli says, pretending to ponder my words. “It’s not very often that I get my bloodthirsty wife-to-be on her back.”

My face heats both with anger and embarrassment. He removes one of his hands from where they grip mine to brush his thumb over my lower lip. Heat ripples through my stomach. I don’t want to react this way, not in the middle of some hall in the king’s palace in front of palace guards. Not with him, and not after he’s just tackled me to the ground.

I lie there, watching, waiting for what he’ll do next. He gazes at my lips, and then he leans in.

He’s a hair’s breadth away from my mouth when I speak. “Don’t,” I say.

“Why not?” The king’s breath fans against my lips. He’s smiling down at me rapaciously.

I don’t speak. There are a hundred reasons why this shouldn’t happen right now, but my mouth can’t form a single one.

“I’ll tell you what,” he says, his voice low. “I won’t kiss you if you can offer me something better.”

“I’m not your fucking employee, and this is not a business transaction,” I snap.

His grin deepens. “You’re right, it isn’t.” His mouth presses against mine, and my stomach clenches. His tongue strokes my lips, encouraging them to part. Caught up in the moment, I let them. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed kissing and how good the king’s, in particular, are.

His tongue brushes against mine, and I relish the heady taste of him. With Will, my mind had loved him while my body had remained unmoved. In this situation, it’s the exact opposite. I hate the king, yet I crave him. I want him to suffer, but I also want this.

Love and hate really aren’t so very different.

He bites my lower lip, sucks on it, and I all but moan at the sensation. The king pulls away from me, and I lazily open my eyes, not realizing I’d closed them to begin with.

I just got owned, and the king knows it. I can tell by the way he bites his lip. He releases me and stands up.

I push myself up on my forearms and watch him. He reaches out a hand to help me up.

When I don’t take it, he says, “Do you want to see my surprise, or would you rather I get back on top of you?” he asks.

I run my tongue along my teeth and take his hand, giving it a hard yank as I get up. He doesn’t flinch.

I follow the king out of the palace. The cool night air raises goose bumps along my skin, but it’s the sound of crashing waves that captures my attention. This is the first time I’ve been outside the palace since I arrived, and it’s ecstasy.

I take a deep breath, relishing the smell of the salty sea breeze and let myself forget my past. The sea and the sky can do that—make me feel like an ageless thing.

This is the surprise, I realize. I’d like to be snarky about it, since it’s so simple, but instead I feel a little unnerved. This is the best thing he could’ve surprised me with: escape.

I lift the skirt of the dress I’m wearing and run towards the waves, kicking my shoes off in the process. Behind me I can hear the king jogging, and I wonder if he’s worried that I’m going to throw myself into the water like some tragic Greek maiden. ’Cause he should be. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.

I yip as my feet hit the water and then I dive in, ruining my outfit and my hair and my makeup. Good riddance.

When I come up for air, I’m laughing. A moment later I feel hands wrap around me and haul me to my feet. It takes the king a moment to realize I’m fine.

He swipes the wet strands of my hair away from my face. “Jesus,” he says, “you scared the shit out of me!”

I can’t see him in the dark, but if I could, I bet I’d see that vein in his temple throbbing. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were concerned.”