The Queen of Traitors
Page 63

A reluctant smile tips the corners of my mouth up. “‘Nire bihotza’ means ‘my heart’ in Euskara—Basque.”
“That’s your native tongue?” Her voice sounds painfully rough.
I run a hand down her arm. “Mhm.”
“You’ve been saying that for a while.”
My hand comes to the end of her arm, and I thread my fingers through hers. “It’s been so since the moment I met you.”
Even now I want to wrap myself up in her and make her the air I breathe and the earth I stand on. But she’s not earth or air.
She has been and always will be fire. She’s my light and my death, and I couldn’t escape her unscathed even if I tried.
Serenity falls quiet after that. With relief I realize that her coughing fit is over, for now.
Finally she breaks the silence. “Montes?”
“Yes?”
“Bury my body in my homeland.”
My hand tightens around hers. A single sentence shouldn’t be so devastating. This one levels my heart.
No.
No, no, no.
I want to shout my answer at her. She’s not leaving me. I won’t let her.
“Go to sleep, Serenity.”
She sighs.
I wait for her body to relax before I leave her side and go to the bathroom. Turning on the faucet, I splash water on my face then settle my palms heavily against the marble countertop.
War comes at steep costs. Everyone I’ve ever held in high esteem has told me this. I just never felt the breath of it until recently. Things I’ve never had trouble holding onto are slipping through my hands—friends, loyalties, countries, lovers.
When I glance back up at my reflection, I notice the blood speckled across my chest. I touch my fingers to it and look down at them. The crimson liquid is smeared across the pads of my fingertips. It hadn’t been saliva that Serenity had coughed on me.
My last straw just broke.
I return to our bed and pull her back into my chest, attempting to get as much of her pressed to as much of me as I can.
“Fuck you and your bravery,” I whisper. This hurts worse than the bullet she buried in my shoulder.
She murmurs against me.
For the first time in what feels like eons, tears spill from my eyes.
My eyes had burned when I found out Marco died, and they’d watered when we lost our unborn child, but it’s Serenity who gets my tears. This is the first time since my father died that I let them freely fall.
I bite my lip to keep a sob from slipping out, and it takes most of my self-control to not squeeze her to me when it might trigger another coughing fit. I can’t, however, stop my body from shaking as premature grief consumes me. It’s almost unbearable, watching someone die. I’ve callously killed millions, but when my victim is my lover and she’s dying in my arms, I can’t bear it.
What I told her earlier was true. I never planned on loving her, but I do. I never planned on losing her either.
I still don’t.
Serenity
I GROAN AS I wake, stretching my limbs out and wincing when I feel a sharp lance of pain in my abdomen. I tilt my head to the side and stare tiredly out the window. The sun has an orange glow to it. For a moment I relish the fact that I can wake to the sun at all. Aside from my stint with the military, I’ve lived belowground for the last five years. I’m used to waking to total darkness or the bunker’s sickly fluorescent lights.
Then I noticed that along with the deep orange light are the beginnings of shadows.
How late did I sleep?
I look over my shoulder. The other half of the bed is empty. And now that I think about it, I vaguely remember Montes bending over and kissing my lips.
That snake.
He slipped away before I woke to resume his post and help his troops fight the rebellions in South America. He left his weak, sick wife to sleep in.
For all his good intentions, he left me here, out of the action. I hate that. If there’s trouble on the horizon, I don’t want to be left in the dark about it.
I push back the covers. That’s when I notice the blood. It speckles the sheets and my pillow.
Had the king seen this?
He couldn’t have, otherwise he’d be riding my ass to get in the dreaded Sleeper. Even now I shiver at the thought of it. Months spent in stasis as my body heals and no memory to account for that lost time. Could you even call that living?
When I glance down at my hands, I see more droplets of blood.
Cancer’s a frightening way to go. I always wanted a swift end for myself, for death to take me quickly. Not this.
I quickly change into a black shirt and pants. When given the choice, I will always reach for the outfit the leaves me the most mobile.
In the middle of dressing, I have to pause to run to the bathroom and vomit. After I rinse my mouth out several times and brush my teeth, I roughly comb out my hair.
Good enough.
I tuck my tight black pants into a pair of lace up boots and leave.
When I arrive at the king’s conference room, it’s empty. I try him in his map room next. Again, the room is completely vacant.
Where is everyone?
I run into a group of aides talking in the corridor. They glance up from their readouts and monitors.
“Where is the king?” I ask, glancing at each one.
“Your Majesty,” the aide nearest me says, bowing as he does so. The rest of them murmur the greeting and dip their heads. I wave the title off.
One of the aides pulls me aside. He bends in close for a private word. “Last I heard, he was discussing the possibility of another aerial strike with some of the men upstairs. Third floor, east wing, fourth door on the left.”
I leave then and follow the aide’s instructions.
I climb up the stairs and head for the east wing. From the windows I get a panoramic view of the palace grounds and a glimpse of the world beyond. That world still represents freedom, and now that so many have seen my face, that freedom seems farther and farther out of my reach.
When I arrive at the room the aide referred to, I don’t bother knocking. I simply storm inside.
The tea room—or whatever the fuck they call delicate little spaces like this one—that I walk into is devoid of life.
My first thought is that I’ve entered the wrong room, but I head back out into the hallway and recount the doors. I’m in the east wing, and the tea room is the fourth door on the left. I re-enter the room.
A few papers rest on one of the couches. I glance down at them. All appear to be printouts of the latest activities in South America. A cold cup of coffee rests on the side table next to the couch.