“Stop referring to me in the third person.”

“Or what?” His lips are just an inch away from mine, and his voice is husky. “You’ll really never tell me your secrets?” He thumbs my nipple as he taunts me.

Already my breath has quickened. “I sleep with my gun. You’d do well to remember that.”

“And you know I’ll take that gun away from you if I feel like you’re abusing your power.”

I guffaw. “Do you seriously want to get into a debate about the abuse of power?”

He laughs low in his throat. “I don’t want a debate at all.”

He takes my mouth then, his lips gliding against my own. I like to think myself a complicated, toughened person, but it never takes Montes long to pull me apart piece by piece.

I press my torso into his, and now he releases my hands so that he can skim his along my skin.

Beyond us the tide has risen, and it licks at our toes. I can feel it dampening the edges of my robe, which—thanks largely to Montes—is no longer serving any sort of proprietary function. I’m splayed open to the king, something it doesn’t take him long to figure out.

First his hand, then his head dip down between my thighs, and my fingers are grasping uselessly at sand. My legs open further, and the king groans, pausing his ministrations to grip my thighs.

“I enjoy it when we fight,” he says, “but I enjoy it even more when you finally give in.”

“Ssssh …” I don’t bother clarifying that I was trying to tell him to shut up, but I couldn’t get past that first syllable.

I’ve come completely untethered. I thread my fingers through Montes’s hair, getting sea salt and sand all over the king’s dark locks. I mess it up further, which I’m unashamed to say is a favorite pastime of mine.

I don’t know how he does it, but the man manages to shed his pants while keeping me preoccupied. But then his mouth leaves my core and his bare chest slides up my torso. I laugh as the sand I put in his hair sprinkles down on me.

He kisses my mouth, and I taste myself on his lips.

“Maybe I’ll make a wish upon those Sisters,” he says between kisses.

“Mmm, you don’t get to claim the Sisters on top of everything else,” I say, nipping his lower lip.

“That’s not very egalitarian of you.” That wicked grin of his stretches against my lips.

“Wishes are for people who can’t just buy what they want.”

“Hasn’t anyone told you, nire bihotza?” he says between kisses. “The best things can’t be bought.”

“What does that even mean?” I ask, fighting the impulse to move against him now that his weight has settled between my legs.

“‘Nire bihotza’?”

I nod.

“Mmm, you’d like to know, wouldn’t you?” He touches my scar. “Too bad it takes sharing your secrets to learn mine.”

I huff. What he says is fair; it doesn’t mean I like it.

“Now,” he continues, “about that wish …”

Back to this?

“Fine, make a wish, man-who-has-everything,” I say.

He lifts my hips and slides into me, breaking away from my mouth to watch my reaction.

“I will: I wish that one day, you’ll finally know happiness.”

And, staring into his eyes, I fear that one day, I just might.

CHAPTER 20

Serenity

MONTES SLIPS OUT of bed the next morning only to return sometime later, bearing a tray with breakfast on it. His hair is mussed from sleep and sex, and he smells like man as he sets the tray on the bedside table and runs a hand through my locks.

“Morning, my queen.”

I stretch and force myself to sit up.

“Morning,” I mumble, stifling a yawn. It’s as pleasant as I can be. After the prior evening’s late-night foray, I feel like I’ve gotten steamrolled by a tank. The king, on the other hand, looks positively refreshed.

“You know how to cook?” I ask, my eyes falling on the tray. I know maids have come in—that or the bed magically remade itself yesterday—but aside from that, I haven’t seen any staff on the premises.

“I’m a regular Renaissance man,” Montes says, winking at me.

I furrow my brows at his carefree expression, and then at the spread of food. I can’t take him when he’s like this—selfless. Sweet. Or that, for a girl used to waking up early and standing in line for breakfast, having a decadent one prepared and delivered to me is a significant gesture.

He reaches out and smooths the skin about my eyes. “You don’t have to be conflicted about this. It’s just breakfast.”

I breathe in deeply, catching a whiff of bacon. A wave of nausea rolls through me at the smell. I wait for it to pass.

When it doesn’t, I throw off the covers and run for the bathroom. I barely make it in time. My stomach spasms over and over as I clutch the toilet. It’s even worse this time around—the nausea, the sharp pains that stab my abdomen.

Behind me, Montes lays a warm hand on my back. He rubs me affectionately while his other hand gathers my hair. First breakfast and now this. What does this man want from me today? I’ve already handed over my heart and sold him most of my soul.

Once the nausea passes, I flush the toilet and wipe the perspiration from my forehead. I stand, shakily, and Montes is there, wrapping an arm around my waist and letting me lean on him.

He has no questions for me, nor does he air his concerns about my worsening condition. He doesn’t even glance over at the bottle of pills I’m supposed to take every day. Perhaps he’s finally accepting the hopelessness of the situation.