“Go,” I say. “Tell your parents I’ll be personally arranging for food and medical supplies to be delivered to your families.”

I watch them run off as the king steps up to my side. “This is why I fought so hard for medical relief in the negotiations,” I say to him.

“I can see that.” His gaze roves over the shantytown, and I can’t get a read on his expression. Right now, I would give a lot to know where his mind is.

The people head into their houses. I can see them still watching us through their windows, but no one else approaches.

The king’s hand falls to the back of my neck. He massages it as he says, “Your ten minutes are up.”

It’s a weak way to end the visit, but I doubt anyone would be willing to talk to us at this point, regardless. Not now that the king is among them.

If Montes is disgusted or unsettled by what he’s seen, he never shows it. We get in the car, and our caravan leaves the desolate encampment these people call home.

This is what my sacrifices are for—making sure settlements like that one get what they need to survive and, eventually, thrive.

I glance over at Montes on our way back. “Why did you let me do it?”

The king in his ivory tower; I’d imagine a visit like that is far down on his list of things to do.

Montes lounges against his seatback. He lifts a shoulder and lets it drop. “You’d find a way regardless, and the radiation levels aren’t too dangerous there. But most importantly, I want to get laid later.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

“I expect I will too,” he adds.

“You are a terrible person.”

“I am terrible, and yet when I’m buried inside you tonight, you’ll have your doubts. And tomorrow when I send the food and water to the village, your carefully crafted hate will die.”

I glare at him.

“I wonder what will happen once we burn down all of it? What will be left of my queen when her fury no longer fuels her?”

I don’t say anything. I can’t. Already he’s uncovered a very real concern of my own: how to hold onto hate when there’s nothing left to feed it.

He leans forward. “I intend to find out.”

CHAPTER 21

Serenity

SEVERAL HOURS LATER, after reading a stack of reports on the South American territories, I head into the bathroom to change for dinner.

Another day, another dinner party. This one will be hosted back at the hotel where we’re holding the discussions.

I give the black lace dress hanging on the bathroom door the evil eye.

I unbutton my shirt in front of the mirror. As I slip it off, I notice—really notice—what a difference a few months of living with the king have made. My hips and waist are fuller and my stomach slopes gently out. I run a hand over it. The skin feels taut. I’m still not as soft as I would’ve imagined.

I could still be getting worse. The king believes in the Sleeper the same way some people believe in religion. I, on the other hand, only have misgivings about the machine. To me the only thing it does is remove scars and kill time.

I slide the dress on, along with a pair of heels. I run my fingers through the loose waves of my hair and paint my lips a dark red. I still haven’t gotten used to the type of grooming the upper echelons of society expect.

My hands move from the makeup set out on the counter to the neat case of pills I’ve been packed with. I hold one up to the light. This little thing is what keeps the king permanently young, and it’s partly what started his war.

I swallow it, despite my compulsive desire to flush it down the toilet. After all the killing and dying, it seems too precious to waste.

The king knocks on the door. Giving my reflection one final look, I leave.

He waits for me on the other side clad in a tux. Montes leans back as I walk out, his gaze approving. He opens his mouth.

“Don’t say it,” I say.

“Can’t I give my wife a compliment?”

“I don’t want the compliment you’re about to give me.”

Montes comes to my side as we head downstairs. “Has anyone ever told you that you are a strange girl?”

“Because I don’t like being called pretty? You all can take your stereotypes and shove them where the sun don’t shine.”

“Mmm, I’d prefer to shove something else there.”

I glance sharply at him.

He looks unrepentant.

His hand falls to the small of my back. “You look lovely. I don’t care that you don’t want to hear it. I’m going to tell you over and over again.”

“You don’t get it,” I say to Montes as I fold myself into the car waiting for us outside. “I don’t want to be valued for my looks. That belongs to your world.”

He follows me in. “You now belong to that world.”

I think Montes enjoys having the attention on us. Not because he’s a narcissist—though he is—but because it gives him an excuse to exercise his chivalry on me. He knows I won’t fight him while we’re being filmed.

But I don’t. I belong to neither the old world nor the new one. I’m no longer one of the impoverished, but I’ll never be one of the rich.

I’m a woman with nothing to her name but a few memories and a few more dreams.

“ARE YOU GOING to deprive me of alcohol again tonight?” I ask as we step out of the car. Immediately camera crews close in on us. I squint against the flashing lights. The king’s guards step in and keep the media at bay.