The Queen of All that Lives
Page 50

“How easy we kill,” she murmurs. She sets the gun on the table in the center of the room. “It never solves our problems.”
Something about her words and her voice has my hackles rising. Only recently Serenity discovered the art of scheming. It’s a talent of mine, one I fear she’s taken a liking to as well.
“We will get them back,” she swears to the room.
“Serenity,” I cut in.
There are some promises we cannot make, and that is one of them.
“We will get them back, Montes,” she reiterates, her eyes glinting.
I stare her down. We might get them back, yes. But they might not be alive by then.
“Leave us,” I tell the men.
Once the room clears, I approach her. “You can’t save everyone,” I say.
She leans her knuckles against the tabletop and bows her head. “I know,” she says softly. She lifts her head and I see resolve in her eyes. “But I owe your subjects, our subjects, safety for their allegiance.”
It’s almost too much, seeing her like this. She might be the best decision I’ve ever made.
“How did our plans get leaked?” she asks.
“You already know,” I say.
Even surrounded by honest men, I have traitors in my midst.
She presses her lips together and swipes her gun off the table, holstering it at her side. She might’ve hesitated killing me, but she won’t when it comes to our enemies.
“If this continues,” I say. “I’m pulling the plug on this campaign.”
Her eyes flash. “Montes—”
I stride towards her slowly, well aware that when I’m like this, I’m intimidating.
Even to her.
And that’s the point. She will not question me on this.
“This is your chance at peace,” she says.
I shake my head slowly. I’ve had a hundred years to devise ways to end the war. I know she feels there’s some rush to save the world, but we’ve gotten by without that elusive peace for a century now.
“It’s not worth your life,” I say.
Just the thought has my knees weakening. At times like this, I feel regret that she’s not still in the Sleeper where I can keep her safe. Losing her, really losing her, could very well be the end of me.
And then she says something that has my blood curdling.
“But it is worth my life, Montes.” She looks out the far window. “It is.”
Serenity
I’m essentially on house arrest.
One little comment was all it took for Montes to double up the original number of guards, bar the doors of the mansion and secure the perimeter of the property.
All so that I never have the chance to put my life on the line. Already our itinerary is being changed to accommodate his paranoia. Less time in each location, extra security around each building we’ll be meeting in. He’s even pulled extra troops to guard the large stadiums I’ll be speaking at.
I can barely piss without someone watching over my shoulder.
Anyone who thinks that with power comes freedom is wrong. I’m a prisoner to it, and it doesn’t matter that I never wanted this for myself.
Morning sunlight streams into our bedroom, and I swear it looks different here. A part of me yearns to linger in this place just see all the ways the sun shines differently.
But there are things to do—loyalties to sway.
I sit on an ornate couch in our room, my weaponry and ammunition spread out along the coffee table. Gun oil, cleaning rods, and rags are littered between them.
I’m sure I’m quite a sight, clad in the dress and heels I’ve been forced to wear, my face painted and my hair coiffed for today’s speech.
Cleaning my weapons is my little act of rebellion.
The door to the room opens, and even though I don’t look up from my work, I know it’s the king that steps through. Perhaps it’s the heavy sound of his footfalls, and perhaps it’s the power of his presence alone.
I hear him pause. “Should I regret giving you those guns?” he asks.
I lift an eyebrow but otherwise ignore him.
The narcissistic king doesn’t like that very much. He strides over and places a hand over mine and the gun that I hold.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I lower the weapon and raise my eyes. “What?”
He narrows his. Before I can object he sweeps his hand across the coffee table, brushing aside all the items I have laid out.
I curse as they clatter to the ground, beginning to reach for them.
He catches my wrist. “No.”
“In a hundred years you haven’t managed to be less of a control freak,” I bite out.
“Hazards of being king,” he replies, his voice hard.
Only then do I notice he’s wearing his crown. Just like the last time I saw him in it, he looks devastatingly deadly.
It’s then that I notice he’s holding another. And it’s not just any crown. By the looks of it, it’s the crown I wore when I was coronated.
“No,” I say.
“Yes,” Montes counters.
I stare at the crown in his hands.
“No,” I repeat more vehemently.
I’ve already compromised enough with the day’s attire. The deep blue gown I wear is far too tight along the bodice and the heels I’m forced to wear will break my ankles if I need to run. I allowed it all without complaint.
But a crown?
“You might find this hard to believe,” he says, and now his voice gentles, “but people don’t carry the same stigmas they did a hundred years ago. They’re not going to see the crown as you see it.”