“Can’t wait,” I mutter.

The hairstylist standing behind me yanks my hair, and my head snaps back. “Ow!”

“S-sorry, My Lady,” the woman stammers. She sounds frightened, and she has good reason to be. I’m already rethinking this whole will-to-live bit if it includes being manhandled.

“Don’t call me that,” I growl out.

She nods her head and bites the inside of her cheek.

I’m being too abrasive, as usual. This is why friendship never came easily to me.

I reach up and place a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry,” I say, gentler this time, “I’m just not used to people touching me.” Or caring about my appearance at all.

In fact, over the last few hours I’ve repeatedly fantasized about grabbing my father’s gun and ending all our lives. And then I’d remember that my gun was confiscated. Probably for the best.

My wardrobe manager comes waddling back into the bathroom with a shimmery golden dress draped over her arms. “Is it not perfect?” she says, holding the thing up so I can get a good look at it.

The thing is absolutely hideous; all that gold is giving me a headache. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t be caught dead in the garment, but the same could be said for any dress I’ve crossed paths with. At this point, the sooner I agree to wear a dress, the sooner this will be over.

“There are no words,” I say.

The wardrobe manager flashes me an eager smile. “I was hoping you’d say that. The king’s going to have a hard time keeping his hands off you once he sees you in this.”

I manage a weak smile. “Lucky me.”

Shortly after I’ve finished getting ready and my stylists have slipped out the door, I hear a knock. I grab the handle and open the door. On the other side King Lazuli waits.

His eyes widen when he sees me, and I watch as they slowly drink me in. When his gaze makes its way to my face, his eyes change from something hungry to something regretful. I recoil at the sight, and he pretends he didn’t notice my reaction. We just managed to have an entire conversation solely based on body language.

“What, no guards?” I ask, noticing that he came to my room alone. It isn’t the first time either. Earlier this morning he came alone as well, which means despite all he’s done to me, there’s a level of trust there. That, or he really can’t be killed.

He takes my hand and kisses it. When he returns it to my side he says, “I hope you’ve been practicing how to pretend to be happy.”

“Your beloved empire will be fine. I can be convincing when I want to be.”

The king’s eyes search mine. “I know.”

He places his hand on my lower back, and I suppress a shiver. I’m not supposed to feel like this. I’m not supposed to react to his touch after everything.

“Ready?”

I take a breath and nod. “Let’s do this.”

The king leads me through his palace. This place is different from his mansion in Geneva. Both are grand and feel like stuffy royalty, but the king’s palace here is larger and it seems more lived in than his other house. But like the mansion in Geneva, the floor plan here is hopelessly confusing.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“In the hallway,” the king says.

I roll my eyes, and he laughs when he sees my expression. I realize too late that to him, exasperation is a better emotion that hate, fear, or sadness. And it is. It means that I can feel something towards him that’s softer than what I have felt since I arrived.

“You know what I mean,” I say.

The king’s lips curve upwards at my interest. He should know that his reaction is only annoying me further. “We’re in the Mediterranean—but you’ll have to figure out what island we’re on.”

I file this information away and try not to think about how far away we are from my homeland. I’m dying to ask about the WUN, but I keep my mouth shut. I’m going to have to ease my way into a position of trust. For now I’ll be the agreeable fiancée.

“How many houses do you own?”

“We,” he says.

I flash him a questioning look.

“We have many houses. By the end of the week they’ll be yours as well as mine.”

My eyes widen, and then I glance away. I can’t wrap my mind around all the implications of being married to this man.

Married.

To my parents’ killer.

Suddenly the food I ate earlier doesn’t seem like it’s content to stay in my stomach. I stop walking and breathe slowly.

The king leans in so that he can peer into my eyes. “Are you alright?”

I hold up a finger, and he patiently waits. The nausea passes, and I begin walking again.

“What was that?” he asks.

“It’s my body’s reaction to you.”

“I’m glad I leave you short of breath.”

“Don’t flatter yourself; I was trying not to barf.”

The king’s concern fades into an amused smile. We walk in silence after that, but with each passing second I feel the heat of King Lazuli’s hand spread through me.

It angers me that my body reacts this way. Hell, it angers me even more that the king considers every emotion of mine that’s not hate or pain a small victory..

He leads me outside to a limo. Photographers and cameramen swarm around us almost immediately, and again my stomach roils, this time from claustrophobia. A chauffeur holds the door open for the king and me, and I all but dive into it. I thought the publicity we’d received before was bad, but it seems I’d only received a taste of it in Geneva.