He must see the fear in my eyes as he pulls away because he pats my shoulder. “Make me proud.”

I give him a look that tells him what I think about that statement. He grins at me and winks before moving away from me to talk with an elderly man—the former prime minister of what used to be England.

My skin prickles; I can sense the king watching me. I turn and lock eyes with him. He swirls the wine in his glass as he assesses me. His eyes meander down my body and back up, and as he does so, an approving smile spreads across his face.

I suppress a shiver at his gaze. I imagine this is how he looks at unconquered territories.

The camera crews crowd me, despite the WUN soldiers standing guard. I keep my expression bland so the world doesn’t see the terror coursing through me. The king has always been my boogeyman, but boogeymen aren’t supposed to be real. They’re the things of nightmares, the things your parents kiss away.

But he’s real. And he wants me. And the entire western hemisphere might benefit if I simply face my fears.

The plan I’ve toyed with for the last several days comes to fruition. I will do this, even if it’s as scary as running headlong into battle.

I roll my neck like I do before I work out and push my shoulders back. I’m going to give the cameramen one hell of a show.

I stride towards the king, who stands on the other side of the room. I let my body sway a little more than usual, just to pull eyes to me.

Up until now, all anyone knows about the king and me are rumors—if that. I’m about to blow those rumors open.

I can hear the uncertain shuffle of my guards keeping formation around me and the eager clamor of camera crews. They’re like carrion circling a wounded creature—they can practically sense a story about to happen.

I’m gathering stares; I can feel the way they crawl along my skin. The king looks amused—no, transfixed—as I make a beeline for him. He too knows something is about to happen.

The crowd parts for me, and the buzzing chatter in the room dies down. I close the remaining distance between the two of us until I’m standing in front of him.

“Miss me?” I ask.

King Lazuli’s face is serious, but his eyes smile. He’s definitely enjoying the show.

“I haven’t missed anything more,” he responds smoothly, like the slick politician he is.

“Then why haven’t you kissed me yet?” Now the room goes quiet.

This, this is a gamble. On the one hand, the king might reject me in front of a crowded room—scratch that, in front of the entire world. That I can handle; I haven’t believed he’s been sincere about his feelings for me since the day we met. And if he does reject me, the WUN will have definitive proof that the king’s just toying with all of us.

On the other hand, if he goes along with this, the world will anticipate favorable negotiations with the WUN—if he’s openly friendly with the emissary’s daughter, he’s surely friendly with the nations she represents. My hope is that it will increase the odds of an advantageous peace treaty for us.

This possibility scares the crap out of me. It means more contact with the king. Intimate contact.

Montes raises his eyebrows, his eyes twinkling like mad. This whole exchange delights him. He takes the final step that removes all the distance between the two of us, and I feel the press of his tux against my chest.

A roguish grin lights up his face. He slides a hand along my jaw and cups the back of my head. My heart speeds up, and I can’t tell whether fear or a thread of desire is responsible for it.

His cool breath fans across my face. “Just remember tomorrow that you started this,” he says quietly.

I don’t know what to make of his words, but then I don’t need to. His lips are on mine, and they move softly, sweetly against my mouth. I kiss him back, parting my lips and running my tongue over his.

The murmurs around us quiet, and in the silence that follows I can hear the frantic shuffling of camera crews that want to capture what could be a pivotal moment in the negotiations.

But even that is background noise compared to being completely and totally enveloped by the king. His fingertips touch my cheeks with the lightest of pressure. There’s a kindness to the touch, and I have the oddest urge to weep that someone can be this gentle to another human being. That it’s the king who caresses me like this … I can’t rectify my conflicted emotions.

One of King Lazuli’s hands moves to the small of my back, holding me close, his thumb stroking the bare skin there. I move my own hand so that it cups his jaw, and I’m shocked by its roughness. Shocked perhaps because he feels more like a man than a nightmare.

Our poolside evening together bubbles to the surface of my thoughts. He was a different person then, and right now, while his lips move against mine, he’s that same person. The thought makes me forget that I’m in the arms of the enemy, and that my country might consider me a traitor for my current actions—actions I make on its behalf.

The kiss ends, and the king draws away slowly, his eyes lingering on my lips. Desire and a trace of something else flare up in his eyes.

Around us the room is silent. I can feel half a dozen cameras focused on me and the king. I’m sure several are capturing my father’s expression as well, but I’m too busy staring down Montes to care much about that.

Whatever this is, it’s no deception on the king’s part. It’s something far, far worse.

Someone whistles on the other side of the room, and then I hear the tinkling of silverware on glass. More join in; some people even tap the side of their glasses with a knife.