We tread down the halls, and I memorize every twist and turn Marco makes. I’ll need to since I doubt the king will escort me back to my room before he gets what he wants.

Every so often someone passes by me in the hallways. Their eyes dart to mine, then away. I sometimes receive this reaction from people who notice my scar. Tonight, however, I wonder if this has more to do with the filmed negotiations. I never considered the fact that people might recognize me once the footage hit the Internet, but they must.

Marco and I climb a set of stairs and turn down a hall. I can tell we’re nearing the king’s private rooms. There’s a stillness about my surroundings that the rest of the mansion lacks.

I follow Marco up to a door and wait while he knocks. A servant opens the door and ushers us in. A quick glance around the room tells me that this is a private dining room. The lights have been dimmed, and a small round table has been set for two.

Romantic. I believe that’s how one would describe the setting. Unease gathers in the pit of my stomach.

The king steps into the room from some side chamber, fiddling with a cufflink of his suit. When he catches my eye, I see him pause. His eyes move over me, his gaze searing. I can tell he doesn’t want to simply have his way with me, and that realization surprises me.

“Thank you, Marco,” the king says, “you may go now.”

Marco inclines his head and backs away. I watch him leave us. Only once the door clicks shut, do I turn to face the king.

He’s studying me. “Are you happy?”

“About what?” I ask.

“Your precious medical relief.”

“I’ll be happy once I see the finished peace agreement with the medical relief included. Until then, I remain skeptical.” The king could always withdraw that clause of the treaty once he gets what he wants from me. That’s why I’m going to have to make sure he doesn’t.

“You don’t trust me?”

I guffaw. “I don’t have the luxury. In my world trust will land you a knife in your back and an early grave.”

“So cynical,” the king says, tsk-ing. He approaches me. “Why didn’t you come to dinner last night?” he asks. His eyes gleam. He’s not a man to take rejection well.

“I thought we just went over my opinion on trust.”

King Lazuli cups my face and tilts my head up. His thumb strokes my jawline as his eyes dance over my lips. It takes most of my self-control to let him do this. Even this small touch feels extraordinarily intimate. “You don’t trust yourself with me?” he asks.

“Especially not with you,” I say, holding his gaze. My pulse is in my ears.

He drops his hand and moves away from me, a smile playing along his lips. “Hungry?” he asks, indicating the table.

I’m not, but pretending to eat is better than the alternative. I nod. “Starving.”

I make my way over to the table, where King Lazuli pulls out a chair for me. I give him a strange look as I take it.

“Are you not used to a man pulling out your chair for you?” he asks.

“Where I live, a man would sooner mug me than pull out a chair for me.” It’s not completely true. I wouldn’t get mugged in the bunker. But out on the streets where resources are scarce? Absolutely.

The king frowns at this. “Once this war is over, I will teach your country’s men how to treat women.”

I can’t help it, I laugh. There are so many things wrong with his statement. “One, King Lazuli—”

“Montes,” he corrects me, walking around the table and taking a seat across from me.

“—the men of my country aren’t savages by nature. Your war has made savages of us all, me included.” Of course the megalomaniac across from me would twist a problem he created into some form of cultural sexism. “And two, you are the last person on earth who should speak of how to treat women.”

I went too far. I can see it in the way the vein at the king’s temple throbs. We stare at each other for a few long seconds, and I can practically see the king’s internal debate. In the past he’s killed off everyone who speaks out against him, but clearly he’s hesitant to do that to me, now that he’s gotten me in his private rooms. But how to handle the situation?

The moment is interrupted by what appears to be the king’s personal chef. She sets a covered plate in front of each of us, and then removes the metal lids. “Filet mignon served with a red wine sauce, fried gnocchi, and caramelized shallots. Paired with a cabernet sauvignon.”

I stare at the plate in front of me. I don’t recognize any of the food items the chef just rattled off, and I can only identify the reddish-brown lump on my plate as meat. But from the smell wafting off the food, it will taste delicious.

The chef pours a small serving of wine into the king’s glass, and I watch, fascinated, as the king swirls the liquid, smells it, and tips a portion back into his mouth. After a moment, he nods, and the chef pours more wine into the king’s glass, and then mine.

“You make food look like an art form,” I say.

“That’s because it can be,” the king responds.

I shake my head and glance down at my meal. He will never understand how insulting this is to a girl who is always underfed.

“Go ahead,” he says, “try it.”

I lift my knife and fork and try a bite of the meat. I have to close my eyes as I eat it. I’m not sure I’ve ever tasted anything so delicious.