He steers me down the aisle we’re on and we enter another room of the greenhouse. High above us I see the stars through the domed glass roof I’d caught a glimpse of outside.

The plants here cling to the edges of the room. In the middle of it all is a table set for two that’s illuminated by candlelight.

I clutch the chain of my mother’s necklace. I’ve never been romanced, outside of one other candlelit dinner also hosted by the king. And that last time, to my great embarrassment, it worked.

It probably will again.

Montes herds me forward, his dark eyes twinkling. It’s even harder to not be drawn in by him when the room’s dim glow draws attention to all the pleasing angles of his face.

He likes this, I realize. Indulging me in his lavish lifestyle. He hasn’t yet figured out that it’s a double-edged sword. I am a child of war and famine. I don’t know how to indulge, and I don’t want it.

He must see me backpedaling because he increases the pressure he places on my lower back. Reluctantly I let him steer me to the table. I approach it the way I would anything else that’s too good to be true.

The plates and cutlery rest atop indigo and gold linens embroidered with the king’s initials. I glance down at my rings. The colors match.

“Blue and gold—they’re your colors,” I say. I’m only now putting together the symbolism that’s been woven into the king’s rule.

“And yours as well, my queen that loves the stars and the deep night,” he says, shrugging off his jacket and taking a seat across from me.

Just like earlier today, he undoes his cufflinks and rolls his shirt up past his elbows. And now I’m back to staring at his forearms.

This is carefully crafted seduction, and I’m defenseless against it.

“What do you want from me?” I ask, forcing my gaze up. His face isn’t a better option.

I can’t bear this. I was raised on duty and honor, and I can’t find any in my situation. I’m trapped in a role where I’m everyone’s traitor—even my own.

He gives me a penetrating look. “Everything.”

“You know that’s impossible.”

“Is this another one your facts?” Montes asks, leaning forward.

Before I can answer, I hear the door to the greenhouse open. A long beat of silence stretches on while two servants enter, one bearing a bottle of wine, the other a tray with two plates on it.

“Here, I’ll take that from you,” the king says, grabbing the neck of the wine bottle from the server while the other one sets the plates in front of us.

Once the food has been laid out, both servers bow and exit the room.

Montes pours us each a glass of wine from the uncorked bottle he holds. “Let’s play a little game,” he says, handing my glass to me. “I’ll ask you a question and you’ll either tell me the answer, or you’ll drink.”

I narrow my eyes at him but take my drink from his outstretched hand. The last time I played this game, I slept through the next day’s negotiations, and when I woke, I was sicker than a dog. A downside. I also kept the king from sleeping with me. An upside.

“I’ll play, but only if you answer my questions as well.”

His mouth curves up. “Of course. That’s only fair.”

As if he knows a thing about fairness.

He leans back in his seat, the flame of the candles dancing in his eyes. I might as well be seated with the devil; Montes is handsome enough and wicked enough for the job.

“You told me once that hate isn’t the only thing you feel for me,” he says. “What else is it that you feel?”

He starts with that? That?

I take a drink of my wine. Montes smiles, and I realize too late that my reaction was an answer in and of itself.

“Were you planning on killing my father and me before we arrived in Geneva?” I ask.

If he gets to ask hard questions, then so do I.

Montes’s sighs. “This is supposed to be fun.”

“It’s not my fault you’re a bastard,” I say. “Now answer my question.”

The vein in his temple begins to pound. “Tread lightly, my queen,” he says softly.

We stare each other down, and I think we both realize we’ve met our match.

Finally, he says, “Death is always on the table when it comes to my negotiations. You know that.”

He had planned to kill us.

“Did you order my father killed?”

“Ah-ah,” he says, his voice jovial, but his eyes are hard. “Already forgetting the rules.”

I glower at him.

“Why did you marry me?” he asks.

I go still. “It was me or my country.”

“That was the only reason?”

“It’s my turn.” My voice is icy. I’m seconds away from overturning the table—or lunging across it and attacking the king.

“Did you order my father killed?” I repeat.

“No, Serenity, I didn’t.”

I swirl my wine glass, agitated. What had I hoped for him to say—that he had?

“Was saving your country the only reason you married me?” he asks.

Did he really expect any answer but yes?

“I vomited when I learned I’d have to marry you,” I say. “Do you really want to rehash this all out?”

“No. What did the Resistance do to you while they held you prisoner?”

He tricked me out of a turn.