The Queen of All that Dies (The Fallen World Book 1) (14 page)

The king places me gently on the bed, and gazes at me like I’m his next meal. I scramble off the mattress.

“I-I need to use the restroom.” I bolt for the gleaming bathroom before he has a chance to respond.

I close the door behind me and lock it. Then I lean against the wall and let myself slide down. I rest my head between my knees.

This is no worse than death I try to tell myself. But in some ways it is. I’m protecting a nation by following through with this wedding, but I’m dishonoring my parents. What I despise most is that, beneath all that anger and hate, I actually feel something else for the king. Sometimes desire—he is beautiful, after all—sometimes camaraderie, sometimes amusement, and sometimes … compassion.

I get to my feet, my legs shaky, and lean over the counter. When I glance at my reflection I see a strong woman, one who’s had to skirt right and wrong her entire life. I can do this.

I leave the bathroom without pretending to flush the toilet or wash my hands—the king’s not a fool. He knows I’m scared as hell of what lies ahead.

When I enter the bedroom, Montes lounges on a side chair. His tie is loosened and his jacket has already been removed. He doesn’t move for a moment, just takes me in.

Then, ever so slowly he gets up and makes his way to me. “I’m not a nice man,” he says.

“I couldn’t agree more,” I say.

“This is happening tonight.”

My throat works. “I know.”

“Good.” Then he closes the remaining distance between us and kisses me. At first, all I do is stand there, unresponsive. But eventually, I give in and move my lips. I wonder if this is how royalty felt when they were forced to marry one another. The repulsion, the nervousness, the sense of duty—all of it. I wonder if any of them felt perversely excited, as I do. Perhaps in this I am well and truly alone.

The king backs us up until I fall against the bed. He kneels between my legs to remove my shoes. First one comes off, then the other. But he doesn’t remove his hands. Instead he slides them up my leg until they brush the lace of my panties.

I gasp, and struggle against the urge to rip his hands away. A second later his hands are gone, but only so that he can remove his tie. Once he’s discarded the garment, he begins unbuttoning his shirt.

I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them, he’s shirtless. His body is all sculpted muscle. I appreciate the sight on a physical level, but it bothers me that he can care so much about his body and so little for entire nations.

Then again, perhaps he has to keep himself in shape in case he ever needs to use his physical strength. It’s not like he doesn’t have enemies. With that thought, I scour his body for bullet wounds. He’s been shot before.

I reach out to his chest and run a hand over the smooth skin that covers his heart. “Where is it?” There should be scar tissue where he’d been shot. It was filmed on live T.V. I’ve seen him bleed in front of my eyes.

He closes his eyes slowly, as though he’s relishing the feel of my skin on his. “Don’t you know, my queen?” he says, opening his eyes. “I can’t be killed.”

I frown. “Stop calling me that.”

“No.”

I drop my hand and the king resumes undressing himself. I scoot further back on the bed as I watch him remove his shoes, then his socks, and then his pants. I fist the comforter beneath me to give my hands something to do.

When he stands in just his boxer briefs, his stomach muscles rippling, he returns his attention to me. “Come here.”

I don’t move.

He sighs. “You need to take your dress off, Serenity, and you need my help to do so.” He says it like he’s the most reasonable person in the world. As though I’m being ridiculous by wanting to keep on the dress I despised so much earlier. What he doesn’t realize—or maybe he does—is that it’s my last defense before we get intimate.

Reluctantly I scoot myself off the bed and pad over to him. I feel like the world’s most wretched person that my eyes linger on all the sculpted lines of his body. He turns me around and begins unfastening the buttons that trail down my back. I can feel the brush of his fingers along my skin. They draw out goose bumps.

Slowly my dress peels away from me. Montes removes the last of the buttons, and the gown glides over my hips and pools at my feet. Instinctively I cover myself. I’m still wearing lingerie, but it hardly leaves anything to the imagination.

Montes pulls my arms down from where they hide my chest. He gives me a surprisingly gentle look, and I close my eyes.

“Open your eyes, Serenity.”

“Then stop looking at me like that.”

“I can’t.”

I press my eyelids shut harder. “You’re heartless.”

“Most of the time. But sometimes … sometimes I’m not when I’m around you.”

I open my eyes at that. He’s being genuine. And this is the worst. A bad guy with a change of heart. I’m not his redemption; I’m going to be his executioner.

He kisses me, and this time I don’t fight it. My lips move against his, and I tangle my fingers in his hair, relishing the fact that I’m ruining it. He makes an approving sound in my mouth and lifts me so that my legs are forced to wrap around his hips.

The king moves us to the bed and then places me on top of it. He reaches under my back and unsnaps my bra. I wince as he tosses the flimsy garment aside.

And then he’s touching me, kneading my breasts, moving his thumbs over my nipples, and I can’t figure out whether this situation disturbs me or turns me on. Both, I think.

Montes’s mouth replaces his fingers, and his teeth skim the tender flesh. I shiver at the sensation, and he flashes me a smile.

“Still a virgin?” he asks.

“That’s none of your business.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, “which means it’s my job to make sure you enjoy yourself tonight.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“We’ll see what you say after all is said and done.”

His fingers hook under the thin fabric of my panties and he pulls them off me before removing his boxer briefs. When he returns to the bed, he lays his body over mine. I’ve never experienced so much skin-on-skin contact, and I’m surprised to find that it feels good.

Really good.

He rolls to my side and moves his hand until it’s touching the most intimate part of me.

“
Montes
.” I jerk away from him before I remember myself.

He pushes me back down against the mattress and kisses my collarbone. His fingers slip inside me, and I jerk again.

“You’re already wet,” his whispers in my ear.

I get the logistics of female anatomy, but not how it works when expert fingers strum it. Judging by the king’s smug tone, I can piece together what I’m missing. The way he touches me has me throwing my head back and closing my eyes.

My breath catches and picks up as his fingers rhythmically stroke me. Sensation is building up inside of me, and my eyes flutter closed to better experience this.

The king lets out a satisfied chuckle under his breath, then removes his fingers. I’m left bereft only for a moment before he rolls back onto me and positions himself. My eyes snap open and gaze into his. Oh God, it’s happening.

“This might hurt,” he says.

And it does, briefly. Then I feel him fully inside me.

Montes’s hands brush back the hair of my face, and he presses a kiss along my cheek as he withdraws.

The optimist in me wonders if this is it. Show’s over. Then Montes glides back into me, and I suck in a breath at the pleasant throb. The man who ruined my world, killed my parents and most of my people, is now my husband, and he’s making love to me. And I’m enjoying it. It’s so wrong it makes my skin crawl.

A stray tear streaks down my cheek. “I hate you,” I say to him.

“You won’t always feel that way,” he says, thrusting into me.

“I will. I swear it.”

“Give it up,” he growls, pushing into me harder. “The war is over.”

“Not for me. It won’t ever be over for me.”

Ch
a
pter 17

Serenity

I lie awake
for a long time afterwards, staring at the ceiling. Next to me the king’s breathing is steady and even. He fell asleep a while ago. When I can’t take it anymore, I push his arm off of my waist. The king makes a noise in his sleep and rearranges himself.

I slip out of bed and grab the silk robe that someone had set out for me earlier. The smooth material makes me want to shrug the garment off. After wearing rough fatigues for most of my life, such soft fabric feels unnatural against my skin. Instead I cinch the robe around my waist and walk outside.

I grip the stone railing. Here, wherever here is, the night is pleasant. I can smell the seawater carried along the breeze.

Now that no one is watching, I bow my head and allow myself to weep. Weep for my life, for all those who’ve killed or died because of the war, and for the uncertain future of the world.

When I’ve cried myself out, I lie down on the cool floor of the balcony and stare at the stars. I make out the Pleiades, a constellation my mother taught me years ago.
Make a wish upon the seven sisters
, she’d whisper to me when we’d catch sight of them.

And I do so now.
I wish I could be up there with you.
I gaze at them until my eyes drift closed.

Sometime later I feel my body lifted off the ground and the warm press of skin against mine as I’m tucked back into my bed.

I’m pulled from sleep once more when I feel a light kiss on my lips, and the sensation of hands caressing my skin. I make an approving sound at the back of my throat and stretch like a contented cat.

Then my situation comes rushing back to me. My eyes snap open, and I stare into Montes’s deep brown ones. His hair hangs down around his face, and I can’t help but notice that the ruffled look suits him well.

The sky outside has a predawn glow. It’s not morning yet, which means …

“Again?” I widen my eyes. Of course we weren’t going to do this only once. I’d just hoped that it wouldn’t happen again so soon. I enjoyed it far too much the first time.

“I plan on acquainting myself with you many times.”

I feel his erection press against me, and my breath catches. Just like last night, his fingers touch the soft skin between my legs. His thumb dances circles around my sensitive flesh until I moan. I bite back the sound, but it’s too late.

Montes wears a knowing grin, and his finger moves faster. “Like that?” he whispers against my ear.

“This changes nothing,” I gasp out.

“I think it does.” I can feel myself getting slick against him, and the bastard’s fully aware of this as well. He removes his hand, and I feel the hard press of him against my opening.

I’m still sore from last night, so when he pushes himself inside me, air whistles through my teeth as I inhale. And just like last night, the soreness is soon replaced by the first stirrings of pleasure. The whole thing is wrong, wrong, wrong. Then again, I’m not the most morally righteous person; war hasn’t afforded me that luxury. So instead of retreating into my mind, I tentatively begin to touch the king.

First my hands glide over his shoulders and arms, stroking the bunched muscles beneath the skin. Above me the king stills, and I meet his gaze.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Discovering my . . . husband.” It’s hard for me to call him that—to think of him like that, but some wars are won by surrendering certain, doomed battles, and this is one of them.

He watches me, unmoving, and I squirm against him. “Why have you stopped?”

Something a whole lot like affection—or maybe victory—brightens his eyes. He leans in and kisses me, and the feeling of being joined in two places nearly throws me over the edge. Who knew that beneath my tough exterior was a sex-starved woman?

When the kiss ends, he begins moving again. “Does that feel better?” he whispers.

I close my eyes and hum in response. We continue like that, enjoying extremely sinful and morally questionable sex for a while, before I open my eyes again and run my fingers down his cheek. His large, dark eyes shutter at my touch and his tempo increases.

Heat builds at my core, and finally I cry out and clutch him as my orgasm lashes through me. His strokes become harder and deeper, and I feel him throb inside me as he finds his own release.

He collapses against me, and we’re both slick with sweat. In some ways sex is a lot like the lifestyle I’m used to, and that surprises me. I’d always imagined that it was something purely soft and sweet, but what we’ve done tonight proves otherwise. That there’s something primal in the act—some strange combo of pain and pleasure, an adrenaline rush, exertion—just like there is in war.

I’d never really
thought through marrying the king. The horror of it eclipsed any curiosity I might’ve had at being someone’s partner. I’m greatly surprised to find that in private the king can be gentle and—dare I think it—caring.

I watch him as morning sunlight streams through our balcony windows and find I want to touch him again. His tan skin dips and rises over corded muscles. I see a solitary freckle just below his shoulder blade.

He’s human.

It’s the stupid freckle that reminds me. He may be broken and wicked and narcissistic, but he’s human. He bleeds, he feels.

Thinking like this is risky, particularly when I still plan on killing him. I don’t want to grow close to this man, but I can’t seem to help myself, even after all he’s done. Maybe he doesn’t need to die. Maybe he can be changed.

I scoff at my own ridiculous thought. If nothing has swayed the king into growing a conscience before now, I doubt I’ll be what does.

His thick hair dusts his cheekbones, hiding his features. Before I can think twice, I reach out and push the dark locks away from his face. In sleep, he’s lovely. At my touch, he stirs but doesn’t wake.

I didn’t quite realize humans could savor each other the way we did last night. In the bunker, people didn’t talk about these things, and if they did them, they kept their business private.

The bed shifts next to me, and when I refocus my attention on the king, his eyes open. “What is my queen doing up?” Sleep roughens his voice, and again, I’m reminded that at the end of the day—or the beginning of it, rather—the king is just a man.

He scoops me to him when I don’t respond, and we spend a minute staring at each other. “Sore?” he finally asks.

I feel my cheeks flush. I hate that this subject still makes me uncomfortable. “I’m fine.”

His fingers brush across my face. “Hmm. I thought we were past the lies.”

Lying and discussing this with the king seem like two very different things. My eyes move between his. “Are you happy now that you finally have me?”

The king shakes his head. “I don’t have you—yet. But I will.”

Someone brings in
strawberries and champagne shortly after we wake up, and now it’s clear that not only can one enjoy good food and good sex, but also enjoy the two together. It seems outrageously gluttonous, but it doesn’t stop me from reaching over to the platter and picking up a strawberry while the king pours champagne.

Just as I open my mouth, the king catches my hand and makes a
tsk
-ing sound. “This, I believe, is my job.”

He takes the strawberry from me and presses a champagne flute into my hand.

“So now I’m permitted to drink?”

“As long as I’m the one pouring, you are.”

“You’re a control freak.” 

The king scoops cream onto the strawberry from a nearby bowl. “This surprises you?” he asks.

“No, but you could try loosening up for once in your life.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What, exactly, do you think I’ve been doing for the last twelve hours?”

“Punishing me,” I say without missing a beat.

He sighs. “You keep lying. Hasn’t anyone told you the key to a healthy marriage is trust and honesty?”

I scoff at him. “There are so many things I could say to that statement.”

The king smirks and lifts the strawberry like he wants to feed me.

“Do that, and I’ll bite your fingers off.”

“You like my fingers too much to do them harm. Now, open your mouth.”

I eye him like a wary creature even as I part my lips and he feeds the berry to me. My annoyance with him is less compelling than my desire to eat the fruit.

My eyes close as I bite down on it and enjoy the taste. I can’t remember the last time I had a strawberry.

When my eyelids lift, Montes is watching me with fascination, like he craves these reactions.

That sense of wrongness comes back. I shouldn’t be doing this with the king while the world toils on. I feel like the traitor everyone made me out to be.

I flash him a cautious look, and never taking my eyes off of him, down the champagne.

Bad idea. Whether it’s my empty stomach, all the alcohol I’ve imbibed, or the rich palace food, something’s not sitting well.

“Serenity?”

I scramble out of bed. I don’t bother grabbing the silk robe on my way to the bathroom. I barely make it in time. The water’s tinged red, and I can’t tell if it’s from the berry or the blood.

Behind me, the king swears. What’s he doing in here?

“Get out,” I say weakly.

“Last I checked, I’m the king, not you.”

I flush the toilet and rise to my feet. I’m more fatigued than I should be. I fear that just when I decided I had the will to live, my body decided it didn’t.

Montes presses a button built into the wall of the bathroom. “Marco, get me a doctor—”

“No.” My voice is sharper than I intend it. “Please,” I add, leaning against the counter, “the alcohol didn’t sit well. That’s all.”

“Your Majesty?” Marco’s static-y voice blares into the room. Just the sound of it makes my trigger finger itch.

The king scrutinizes me for a long time before he turns back to the intercom. “Scratch that, Marco. Just bring some broth, crackers, and something with electrolytes in it. Oh, and I believe it’s time to put the queen on my pills.”

My ears perk up at this.

“Consider it done,” Marco says, and the line clicks off.

“Pills?” I inquire. “Trying to poison me?” I fish.

Montes’s gaze lands meaningfully on the toilet. “Seems like you’re doing a perfectly good job of that on your own.”

“Then what are they for?”

“Your long-term health,” he says cryptically, and that’s the last he’ll say on the subject.

Even on the
king’s honeymoon he has to work; it’s one of the drawbacks of being the leader of the entire globe.

“I’m coming with you,” I say, as he buttons his cufflinks.

The king assesses me. “You’re fatigued. You should spend the day resting. One of the servants can give you a massage if you’d like.”

I yank a dress from a hanger in our closet. “I wasn’t asking.”

“Nor was I.”

Today I’ll discover what happens when two stubborn people reach an impasse.

“You’re going to have to physically stop me from leaving, then.” I’ve been cooped up for too long. I need to get back to the world of the living.

“Don’t tempt me. I can get creative.” The look Montes is giving me makes me flush. I wouldn’t mind his methods one bit, and I’ve made peace with this disturbing realization.

His words, however, don’t stop me from getting dressed. When he’s about to leave, I block his exit. “I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

I reach up and trickle my fingers over his jaw. I’ve learned that the king enjoys any casual affection I give him—likely because I have so little to offer. “Find something for me to do, Montes. Surely you have more than enough work to keep the both of us occupied.”

I’m more than ready to begin healing the damaged lands of the world. I need to prove to myself and to my people that I haven’t turned my back on my past.

He scrutinizes me, then sighs. He must have figured out what I already know: if he leaves me alone, I’m going to get myself in more trouble than if he simply drags me along.

“Aw,” I give him a fake pout, “is someone having buyer’s remorse?” The king’s finally realizing just what a handful I can be.

He catches my jaw. “You believe you can push me without repercussions. You can’t, and you will be repaying me for this later.”

The king should know by now that threats don’t scare me. I hope he can see in my eyes that I don’t give a flying fuck about his words.

When I don’t back down, Montes drops his hold so that he can reach around me and open the door.

I turn to go, but he catches my wrist, reeling me back in. “Serenity?” he says, his lips brushing against my ear. “I’m glad you’re not frightened by my words, but you should be.”

Five hours later,
I’m sitting in a conference room, trying to keep my lunch down. The king flashes me a concerned glance, like he has been all day. Perhaps part of the reason he’s come to rule the world is because he misses nothing.

I finger the document in front of me and focus on evening my breaths. It helps with the nausea. If I concentrate long enough, I can ride this out. I shouldn’t have let myself go following my father’s death. My body’s paying for it now and making it painfully obvious that I’m not okay.

“Reports suggest the Resistance is growing in unprecedented numbers,” one of the king’s political advisors says. “They’ve raided the Toulouse research facility and bombed the Department of Defense in Berlin. There have also been threats to air footage of the queen.”

I suck in air too quickly and choke on my own saliva. I begin to cough, and once I start, I can’t seem to stop.

Next to me Montes stands. “Bringing you along was a bad idea.” He’s been waiting for an excuse to say this. “You should go back to the room and rest.”

I wave him off but continue to cough. My lungs seem to rattle with the effort, and my whole body shakes. Finally I manage to clear my throat. As I draw my fist away from my mouth, I notice the bright red speckles.

Blood.

I drop my hand before the king can see what I have. “I think I will.”

The king’s brow crinkles. If anything, my easy agreement only worries him more.

I stand to leave, hiding my hand in the folds of my dress. The king’s eyes dart to the action, then up to me. He doesn’t say anything, instead waving his royal guards over. “Escort the queen back to our rooms,” he commands.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he says to me. “If you need anything, you only need to ask the staff.”

Without waiting for further direction, I nod and leave the room. Behind me the guards scurry to catch up. My heels click as I cross the halls. I should be wondering what the king thinks about my behavior, or what will happen if the footage of me leaks.

Instead I think of my dwindling health. I’ve never coughed up blood before, but I’ve known people who have. This is the moment of truth, the one I’ve ignored for so long.