The Queen of Traitors
Page 45

“You’re pregnant, Serenity.”
I stare at him, uncomprehending. I don’t think I breathe for several seconds.
“What?” I finally say.
I’m aching to return my attention to the business at hand, but I can’t look away from him.
“You’re pregnant.”
I recoil from him.
This conversation might be the one thing that can make me forget about the fight occurring right outside these walls.
I don’t realize I’m shaking my head until the king says, “Yes, Serenity, you are.”
Pregnant? With the king’s child? Horror and disbelief war for dominance.
No. No.
Impossible.
He has to be wrong. How would he even know this?
“You’re lying,” I say.
Below us someone kicks at the front door. A second later, I hear a shot fired and the thump of a body hitting the outside wall.
“Nire bihotza, I’m not.”
There is not enough air for me to catch my breath.
I still don’t believe him. But each second that he stares back at me unflinchingly, I lose a little more confidence. We’re about to die. He has no reason to lie.
I’m going to be sick. The king’s child is inside of me. I’ve never thought of a baby as parasitic, but I do now.
I’m carrying a monster’s child.
“How would you know whether I was … ?” I can’t even say the word.
“It came up when you were in the Sleeper.”
That was over a week ago.
I grip my gun tighter, but I’m not angry—not yet. At the moment I’m … blindsided.
I draw in a deep breath.
It doesn’t matter. The situation, the deception, the horror of it all. None of this matters if we’re dead.
I nod to the gun in Montes’s hand. “Know how to use that?”
He looks affronted by the subject change. “Yes.”
“Good. We’re going to survive this so that I can kill you myself. Until then, I need your help.” I nod to the window. “There are too many of them. I’ll need you to shoot incoming soldiers.”
His eyes follow mine. I can’t read his expression, but I know where his mind lingers. I can’t afford to think about what he’s just confessed, and if he’s to do his part, he can’t think about it either.
Montes has never personally killed before. It’s almost frightening that he’s never gotten his hands dirty with death, mostly because that needs to change today if we’re to live. Even the monster that is my husband has limits to his terror, and today I’m asking that he break one.
“Montes.” I recapture his gaze. “This is target practice. Don’t see people. See heads and chests. If they’re wearing bulletproof vests and helmets, you’ll need to aim for the neck, groin, or thighs. And be careful, once you fire the first shot, they’re going to know your position.”
That’s all I can give him. It doesn’t get past me how messed up the situation is—I’m giving the man responsible for the third world war tips on how to kill.
The man responsible for knocking me up.
I force down a wave of nausea and get up to leave.
“Serenity—”
I slip out of the room before he can finish whatever he’d been about to say. As far as I’m concerned, the time for talking is over.
I head down the stairs, both hands on my weapon. I can hear the pad of several sets of boots. The enemy is still trying to be silent and stealthy, which means they will be keeping their bodies crouched as they approach. I adjust my aim, knowing they will also likely be wearing Kevlar and helmets. It makes them harder targets, but not impossible to get past.
I peer around the corner.
A shot goes off, and the plaster just above my head chips away. I pull back and lean against the wall, closing my eyes and drawing in a deep breath. From the glimpse I caught, there are at least a half a dozen of them and one of me.
They’ve come outfitted for war while I have just a handful of bullets. This will take some creativity on my part if I want to survive the next several minutes.
I exhale and an open my eyes. I may not be used to the ways of queenship and polite society, but I’m intimately acquainted with death.
I push away from the stairs and sprint towards a nearby couch. As soon as I hear the first gunshot go off, I slide the last few feet behind the couch.
They’re relentless. They must have a bottomless supply of ammunition to use it so carelessly.
Above me, Montes’s gun goes off. He fires three separate shots.
I don’t have time to wonder about what’s happening outside these walls. The couch I hide behind is getting shot up with bullets; stuffing and scraps of material flutter into the air. I have to flatten myself along the floor to avoid getting nicked.
And then I hear a sound that makes my stomach bottom out.
A grenade clinks against the ground next to my head. My eyes lock onto it. I don’t give myself time to think. I simply grab it and lob it back over the couch. The split second decision ranks as one of the stupidest, riskiest maneuvers I’ve made in battle.
And this time it pays off.
The grenade explodes seconds after I throw it. I hear shouts and the thud of large bodies as they hit the ground. The blast shoves the couch against me, and a wave of heat ripples through the room.
I peer over the back of the couch and level my gun at my opponents. Some are getting up off the ground, some aren’t. I take advantage of their temporary disorientation and fire my gun. I aim for their necks.
Five out of the eight shots find their mark. And then my gun clicks empty.
Shit.
While my opponents are shouting and scrambling to regroup, I duck again behind the couch and tuck my father’s gun into my waistband.
This is the moment where my chances of survival are the slimmest. I’m out of weapons and the enemy hasn’t retreated.
In fact, more vehicles are approaching; I can hear their engines in the distance.
It hits me again: I’m pregnant. Whatever happens to me doesn’t just affect my life anymore. It makes me hesitate when I shouldn’t.
Behind me, several of the windows have been shot out. It’s no honorable exit, but honor has nothing to do with this entire situation.
I begin to crawl towards them, keeping my body as low to the ground as I can.
Two successive shots pierce the air.