“You better get used to it. That’s what you’ll be known as from now on.” The king seems satisfied by the thought.

I snag a champagne flute from a passing waiter. The waiter looks between me and the king, mortified. The caterers are controlling the amount of alcohol I’m consuming, probably on behalf of the king’s orders. It’s a clever move too, since if I had it my way, I’d already be twelve drinks deep and unwilling to stop until the liquor killed me.

Before the king can take the glass from me, I throw it back. It’s only my third drink of the night, but I can already feel the warm, tingly sensation of the alcohol sliding through my veins. King Lazuli scowls at me as I remove the now empty glass from my lips and flash him a triumphant smile.

The waiter snatches the champagne flute from my hands the first chance he gets, as though his attentiveness now can make up for the fact that he blew it.

The boy stutters apologies at the king, who waves him off. I watch longingly as the tray carrying champagne is whisked away.

I can feel the king’s eyes on me, and I’m strangely interested in what he’s thinking—not because I care about him, but because I want to know what his motives are for marrying me, a woman who loathes him.

The only answer that comes to mind is the obvious one: that this is some archaic form of a political alliance—marrying into power. Not that I have any power in my own right. But ideology is the most powerful currency in the world—it can start wars, and it can end them—and to the citizens of the nation, the king of the eastern empire and the emissary of the WUN symbolize two hemispheres tonight made whole.

However, feeling the king’s eyes on me, I can’t help but wonder if the marriage might be more than just a power play. I know the king finds me attractive and that he enjoys verbally sparring with me, but could something more be there?

The king waves Marco over. Marco, who’s just as responsible for my father’s death as the king is. Perhaps more so, if the king really didn’t order my father killed.

This is the first time I’ve seen him, and I give him my most lethal look. The fact that Marco is not rotting in a jail cell or a coffin, but instead attending my wedding, has me seeing red.

He flinches, but that doesn’t stop him from approaching King Lazuli.

“The queen is tired,” the king says to Marco.

“No, I’m not.”

Marco flicks me an annoyed look. I get perverse satisfaction knowing that it bothers him that I undermine the king.

The king ignores me. “We’re going to head to our suite now. Think you can handle the rest of the wedding without us?”

“Absolutely. Go enjoy your wedding night,” Marco says, smiling at me as he does so. It’s his underhanded form of payback.

I work my jaw, then let my gaze flick back to the king. “I’m not tired. Please.” I’ve resorted to begging. Anything to put off the inevitable for a little longer.

The king’s eyes move over my face. “You want to stay now? I could’ve sworn that you said you wanted to blow your brains out at the thought of being around our guests.”

I slit my eyes at him and he smiles. He places his hand at the small of my back and leads me towards the palace. I can feel the mounting stares of smiling guests. Why are they so happy? Why is anyone happy? They still have a tyrant ruler who’s now married to a strange girl from the last conquered land.

The looming palace looks like my prison, and in some ways it is. Here I will always be watched, assessed, guarded. But I will stick to my decision. I’ll leverage my new status for my people, I’ll figure out the king’s secrets, and when the time is right, I will kill the Undying King.

We pass into the palace. In here it’s quiet, too quiet. The king and I ascend the stairs, and I follow him down the hall to a room I’ve never been in before. Our room.

He cracks the door open and turns back to me. “I think this calls for tradition.” He bends and wraps one arm behind my knees and another across my back, then lifts me.

I yelp, and before I can think about what I’m doing, I wrap my arms around his neck. “Put me down, Montes.”

Instead of putting me down, he pushes the door further open with his foot and carries me inside. The large canopy bed is the first thing that catches my eye. And we’re moving towards it. Next I notice a wall of windows that open up to a balcony. Beyond them I can see the starry sky and the dark ocean.

The king places me gently on the bed, and gazes at me like I’m his next meal. I scramble off the mattress.

“I-I need to use the restroom.” I bolt for the gleaming bathroom before he has a chance to respond.

I close the door behind me and lock it. Then I lean against the wall and let myself slide down. I rest my head between my knees.

This is no worse than death I try to tell myself. But in some ways it is. I’m protecting a nation by following through with this wedding, but I’m dishonoring my parents. What I despise most is that, beneath all that anger and hate, I actually feel something else for the king. Sometimes desire—he is beautiful, after all—sometimes camaraderie, sometimes amusement, and sometimes … compassion.

I get to my feet, my legs shaky, and lean over the counter. When I glance at my reflection I see a strong woman, one who’s had to skirt right and wrong her entire life. I can do this.

I leave the bathroom without pretending to flush the toilet or wash my hands—the king’s not a fool. He knows I’m scared as hell of what lies ahead.