The Queen of All that Lives
Page 43

“Montes,” I say, “let me do this.”
He fully turns his body towards me, and his nostrils flare as he tries to tamp down his emotions. When I look into his eyes, all I see is agony. I’m someone he loves, someone he respects, someone he cannot bear to lose under any circumstances.
I take it all in, and then I do something uncharacteristic.
I place a hand against the side of his face, in full view of Marco and the officers.
“We need to end this war,” I say. “I have a good chance of doing just that, but only if you let me try. I’m not going to hold our deal over your head, and I’m not going to force your hand.”—Yet.—“I’m asking as your wife and your queen to allow this to happen.”
He looks moved, but I’m not sure.
“It can be how it was before,” I say quietly. “We rule well together. Let me do this. Nothing bad will happen.”
Montes grimaces then closes his eyes. He places his hand over mine, trapping it against his cheek.
“I always knew you’d make a good queen,” he murmurs.
He opens his eyes. “Fine. I’ll agree to it, provided there’s extra security.”
I nod, my expression passive. But there’s nothing passive about how I feel. The king doesn’t readily make concessions, and I don’t usually get my way without threatening someone.
The two of us are making progress.
“Serenity?” he says quietly. “You still need to work on your lies. You and I both know that with diplomacy, something bad always happens.”
Chapter 25
Serenity
After the meeting, the king takes me to the palace gardens.
Montes and his gardens.
The plants that grow here are far different than the ones in Geneva and his other palace in the United Kingdom. They’re greener, brighter, more exotic.
“Do you still have your palace in England?” I ask.
Montes glances over me. “I do. Would you like to go back at some point?”
What an absurd question. That place was just another example of the king’s decadence, another example that I was just a brightly colored bird in a gilded cage.
My retort is on the tip of my tongue. Only … I find I can’t say the words. That terrible home of the king’s might be one of the few things about this world that I remember. People need familiarity. I need to feel like I’m not swept out at sea.
“Maybe,” I say.
I look over at Montes as he squints off at the sea.
His handsome face is made all the more so by how well I know it. His palaces are not the only thing I am familiar with.
I could reach out and touch his face. I want to. I want to run my finger down the delicate folds of skin that pinch when he squints. For the longest time I’ve held back my affection. I thought it important to punish the king for being the king and me for wanting him.
I reach out and ever so softly run two fingers along the skin near one of his eyes, smoothing out the crinkled skin.
He turns into my touch. I can tell without speaking that he’s surprised and pleased. Both of us stop walking.
My fingers move to his mouth. I trace the edges of his lips. “What happened to all your wickedness?” Even that has changed. Oddly enough, I miss it.
He gives me a what-can-you-do-about-it look. “I got old.”
“You don’t look old,” I say.
We haven’t discussed it, but the king must still be taking his pills. He looks identical to how I’ve always remembered him.
And he hasn’t tried to make me take any; it’s just further proof that he’s not nearly so wicked as he used to be.
Montes touches my temple. “I got old here.” His fingers move to the skin over my heart. “And here.”
I understand that. Age isn’t just a number; it’s also how you feel.
Montes takes my hand and tucks it into the crook of his arm. When I try to tug it away, he holds fast to it.
The age-old battle of chivalry versus my stubbornness.
He wins this round.
We resume walking.
“Marco likes you,” he says, absently running his thumb over my knuckles.
I don’t bother hiding a very real shiver. “That’s regrettable.”
“It is.”
There’s something about the way Montes says this that has me glancing over. I can’t put my finger on it—
“What do you think of the future?” he asks, changing the course of my thoughts.
“It’s disorienting,” I say, “though not as different as I imagined it would be. The world does not appear to have made any progress.”
“War does that,” Montes says. “The only thing that ever gets more impressive are the new ways we find to kill each other.”
That’s more than a little disheartening to hear.
“In what ways has the weaponry gotten worse?” I ask.
“Mmm,” he muses, staring out at the horizon, “I’ll let you figure that one out on your own. It’s probably in my best interest not to have you knowing about all the new and ingenious ways you can kill me.”
I smile at that.
I’m so fucked-up. We are so fucked-up.
“So you still think I might kill you?” I ask.
The king stops again.
This moment is too much. The warm, bright sun, the sweet smelling flowers, the sound of the surf crashing. The way the king’s staring at me. I am getting gluttonous off of it.
“That’s the beauty of being with you,” he says. “I never quite know.”