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

  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.

  I rip my mouth from his. “We can’t do this right now.”

  The king’s eyebrows rise, and he smirks like I’m funny. “We’re the rulers of the entire world; we can do whatever it is we want.”

  “But I still want to punch you in the face.”

  The king clucks his tongue. “My queen has never heard of angry sex. I think a woman like you would enjoy it.”

  The door we exited from opens. “Your Majesty, the Resistance just raided one of the warehouses of our weapons supplier. They took most of the armaments stored inside, including technology that hasn’t officially hit the market.”

  Montes curses. His hold tightens on me before he releases me—though not completely. His hand slides down my arm and clasps my hand. He begins walking, tugging me along behind him.

  I halt in my tracks, causing Montes to glance back at me. “I don’t want you to hurt Ronaldo.”

  If I’m conceding something by returning to the king’s conference room, then he’s going to have to concede something, his earlier words be damned.

  Montes narrows his eyes. “That man was the one who coordinated the atomic blasts that destroyed your nation all those years ago.”

  The news is a slap in the face.

  “Still want to save him?” the king presses.

  My throat constricts, but I force my words out. “Killing him will not resurrect my people.”

  The king tilts his head, like he has all the time in the world to ponder my request. “I know what you’re doing, Serenity,” he says, finally. “He’ll return unharmed if you come with me and assist us with intel on the Resistance. If you don’t, I can promise you that you’ll never see Ronaldo again.” I can see it in his eyes too; he’ll end that man’s life.

  Bastard. Now look who’s blackmailing whom.

  “Deal?” He smiles like the devil he is.

  I run my tongue over my teeth and nod. “Deal.”

  I spend the rest of the day and well into the evening discussing what I know of the inner workings of the Resistance. My words will jeopardize hundreds of Resistance members, people I once worked with. The thought leaves a bad taste at the back of my mouth, but it doesn’t stop me from telling Montes and his men everything they need to know.

  The war’s over. We should be focusing on healing communities, not more violence. Yet we can’t. Not when stolen military weapons are in the hands of a terrorist organization. Because that’s what the Resistance is and what it’s always been, a terrorist organization. Vigilantes that use intimidation and coercion to fight for a cause they believe in.

  When I stood with the WUN, I never minded their activities. It was enough that we were fighting a common enemy. Now that the war is over, the violence is no longer excusable. No matter where my allegiance once lay, I can’t risk more innocent lives lost by staying quiet.

  By the time Montes and I head back to our room, the mansion has a stillness to it that only comes with the deep night.

  The king’s hands are shoved into his pockets, and there’s a vertical crease between his brows.

  Once again my opinion of the king subtly shifts. Worries plague him. Another weakness. Another sign that he has a conscience.

  He catches me looking, and the edge of his mouth tips up. He reaches for my hand.

  We are the epitome of dysfunction. Our marriage won’t work—it shouldn’t. We are miserable human beings. And yet, when he laces his fingers through mine and I feel the thrill of contact, that tiny flame of hope I carry around flares up.

  Anything’s possible. From darkness to light, war to peace—hate to love.

  The king brings the back of my hand to his lips and presses a kiss to it. The entire time he stares at me like we’re sharing a secret. We are. We’re two monsters that might not be quite so monstrous after all.

  Anything’s possible.

  Chapter 26

  Serenity

  Before we leave Geneva, there’s something of great importance to me here.
A visit I’ve been anticipating and dreading. I come to find out it’s the reason the king stopped here instead of his Mediterranean palace.

  I enter the morgue alone—well, as alone as I’m allowed outside the king’s estate. Today that means two guards flank me. Montes has wisely made himself scarce.

  My eyes fall on the body in the middle of the room. He’s already laid out, and suddenly, he’s the only thing I have eyes for.

  In four quick strides I cross the room. The medical examiner stands off to the side, and my guards fall away. It’s just me and him.

  My father.

  Before I can think twice about it, I take his hand. It’s cold and the texture is somehow all wrong. He’s been gone long enough that, even embalmed, there is no pretending that he’s a living thing. Still, I can’t seem to let him go.

  My gaze travels to his face. The blood has been washed from him, and the bullet hole in his forehead’s been sealed up.

  A tear drips onto the metal table beside my father’s head. “I was supposed to die with you,” I whisper to him.

  The loneliness of my situation slams into me. How am I supposed to live if the one person who mattered most to me is now dead?

  Killed by my husband’s people. How could I forgive Montes for this? What kind of weak woman would that make me?

  “I’m so sorry, Dad.” For a moment I wait for him to respond. I know what he would say: Don’t be. I’m so proud of you.

  A memory from two years ago floats in. I’d been so angry at the king, angry at all the senseless death.

  My father placed a hand on my shoulder.

  “Do you know why your mother and I named you ‘Serenity’?” he’d asked me.

  I shook my head; I had no idea where he was going with this.

  “Serenity means to be at peace,” he explained. “When your mother was pregnant, she said the thought of you gave her that—peace.”

  Ironic that my life had known so very little of it.

  “You’ll never live up to your namesake if you don’t forgive, Serenity.”

  “Dad—” He managed to use my one weakness, my mother, against me.

  “No,” he shook his head, “this is not an argument. What you choose to do with all that anger is your business. But you can’t control the world; someone will always be there to wrong you. It’s your choice to let it go. Only you can decide the woman you want to be.”

  It’s finally time to let it go. I’m not excusing Montes’s atrocities, nor all the monstrous acts that his war brought with it. No, I’m releasing my bitterness so that I can find peace within myself. I want to be that woman my father spoke of, the woman my mother might’ve imagined I’d become.

  Perhaps my father was against my current circumstance. It doesn’t change the fact that he always wanted the best for me. He’d want this, serenity.

  By the time we arrive back at the king’s palace by the sea, my father’s remains are on their way to becoming ash. I didn’t think he’d want to be buried in the ground after spending so many years down in the bunker.

  Once he’s cremated, I intend to scatter his ashes over our homeland, just like we did my mother’s.

  I walk into Montes’s room—our room—and see the bed I lost my virginity in. I have mixed feelings about this place, but it’s definitely better than Geneva, where memories of my father haunt the halls.

  Montes comes in behind me. His arms weave around my torso and across my stomach. It’s clear what feelings this room stirs in him.

  He places a kiss along my neck. This hasn’t happened in awhile—angry hallway encounter not withstanding. Surgeries, kidnapping, and healing wounds have kept us apart. But as the king’s hands glide down my torso, I can tell that’s all about to change.

  I turn my head to face him. The look he gives me commands attention—demands I quiet my thoughts so that I can be filled with his. I see his charisma, his charm. It’s what everyone notices, but below all those hardened layers is a shred of the man he must have been long ago. Someone who wasn’t nearly so cruel. Perhaps it isn’t just me who’s capable of becoming a better person.

  His fingers hook under my shirt, and he peels it off me.

  “I hate you,” I say quietly, without any of my usual venom.

  Montes tosses my shirt aside. “I know—you’ve told me many times.” He doesn’t stop undressing me.

  “But.”

  The king’s hands still on the button of my pants. “But?” he repeats calmly. I know his cool demeanor is a ruse, especially when his eyes slowly travel up to mine.

  I press the palm of my hand to the side of his face. “But it is not the only thing I feel for you.”

  The king’s eyes smolder at my words. He understands what I’m saying even if I can’t really put words to it.

  He threads a hand behind my neck and pulls me to him, and I catch sight of it: a flicker of something vulnerable and compassionate on the king’s face. His lips press hard against mine, kissing me like I’m his oxygen. This is magic, this is heaven, this is everything my life has denied me.

  We begin tugging off our clothes. My hands grasp the collar of Montes’s shirt, and I yank it open, popping buttons as I go. He growls low in this throat. The sound makes me pause until I realize that this is an approving sound.

  The king pushes me up against the wall, and my back hits hard.

  “Fuck,” the king swears quietly, “did that hurt?”

  There’s that shred of humanity again in his eyes. Too bad it’s misplaced. I am most comfortable with pain.

  I tunnel my fingers into his hair and drag his head back harshly. “Don’t stop.”

  The king’s eyes hood, and he recaptures my mouth, his tongue forcing its way in.

  For all his rough ministrations, his hands and his gaze are gentle. While his chest pins me to the wall and his mouth pillages mine, his fingers trail down the skin of my arms and my torso. They come to a halt low on my belly, and there they linger.

  It’s the area where a woman carries a child and just below the epicenter of my cancer.

  The king falls to his knees and kisses it. I lean my head back and close my eyes at the tender gesture. We both know the king’s plans for an heir will be put on hold indefinitely—at least if he wants one that shares my blood. It’s one of the many things that go unsaid between the two of us because we can’t seem to acknowledge things that waken our cold, charred hearts. Like the fact that I’m still dying.

  He unzips my pants, tugs them off, leaving me in only my lingerie. That’s what I wear now—scraps of lace. I only tolerate them because I’m obviously not wasting material.

  Montes stares at them, and I can see his thoughts turning wicked. “I wouldn’t have guessed my wife would go for these.” His eyes move to mine. “I always assumed you were more of a cotton panties lady.”

  “Better be careful what you say when my knee is that close to your face.”

  A wolfish smile breaks out on his face. His lips skim over the material, and then he drags them off of my legs.

  Suddenly I feel far too exposed. I’ve only done this with Montes a handful of times, and before that, never. I’m not used to baring myself, and the king is at face-level with the most intimate parts of me. I reach down to cover myself, and the king catches my hands.

  “I don’t think so.” He pins them to my side.

  When he moves his mouth to my core, I yelp. “Montes!”

  I’m scandalized; I wasn’t aware that anything could still shock me.

  The king lets out a husky laugh, then his lips return to the sensitive flesh. I don’t last long. My legs buckle, and Montes is there to catch me. He stands and picks me up.

  He quiets me with another kiss, and carries me to our bed. When he lays me out on it and removes the last of his clothe
s, I swear his eyes shine in the dim glow of the room’s light.

  Where I’m modest with nudity, the king isn’t. Once he’s fully unclothed, he approaches me, completely unselfconscious. My eyes stray to all the pleasing lines of his body. He is mesmerizing to look at.

  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.