Stirring utensils hang along the wall. Jars of oils and seasonings sit on display in fancy glass containers. The line between food and art is blurry here.

For years now, meals are a morbid occasion for me. Everyone must eat to live, but when the food and water are in short supply and what’s left is riddled with radiation, it feels a bit like Russian roulette. Will today’s meal be the one that poisons your system? It’s the reminder that while we stave off death for the day, we’re always beckoning it closer.

But here in this place, food appears to be a joyous occasion. One that celebrates life and gluttony. I envy the lifestyle even as I reject it.

I head over to a faucet and turn it on. Clear water pours from it.

“The radiation … ?”

“Reverse osmosis filters it out. It’s simple enough technology.”

I run my fingers under the stream. “Not if you don’t have running water to begin with.”

I turn off the faucet. If this house is supposed to be inviting, it has the opposite effect on me. I don’t belong amongst plush carpets and polished surfaces and crystal goblets made for delicate drinks that are to be sipped.

I belong around gunmetal and smoke, around the weak and the violent, the broken and battered.

But not here, not here.

I head up the stairs to the second story. An expansive bedroom takes up most of the space. A wall of glass doors line one wall, facing the water. They’re already propped open, and a cool sea breeze blows through the room. I head out to the balcony beyond them.

Places like this make you yearn for things you can’t put your finger on. I always imagined myself too hardened for something like whimsy, but even I feel a deep stirring in my heart.

I can’t take it. Hope is a dangerous thing when you’re in the business of loss. Better to expect the worst.

In this world, that’s often what you receive.

THE NEXT MORNING, I wake to fingertips on my back.

They trail down my spine and I arch beneath them. I sigh, stretching out my body. I feel a kiss at my temple, then another where my jaw meets my neck.

This is Montes’s wake up call, and each morning it happens, I enjoy it a little more. Unfortunately.

I flip onto my back and he continues to trail kisses down my throat, between my breasts, all the way to my stomach. There he stops. His hands move over the skin there, like he’s cradling it. I’ve gained weight, not enough to lose my waist, but enough to fill me out.

He must notice.

I begin to move, about to slip out from under him, but he holds me in place.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, his gaze trailing up the length of me to meet my eyes. I can tell from his expression how much he means this. And he’s looking at me like it should mean something to me as well.

“I already told you what I think of beauty,” I say, fighting my own impulse to touch him. It’s a losing battle, and I end up running my fingers over his jaw.

“Yes, you have very little regard for it.” His hands are still on the swell of my stomach. “It doesn’t change that you are.”

His grip tightens on me. “You’re also brave, fierce, reasonable, and despite all your violence, you have a good heart.”

I trace his lips. “Compliments won’t save you from my gun,” I say. It’s not a threat, not like my others which are said in anger. I don’t know when that shift happened, when this easy camaraderie became a part of our relationship.

“Serenity, I’m serious.”

I know he is, and he’s forcing me to be as well. I don’t want that.

I cover his mouth with my fingertips. “Don’t,” I say.

He removes my hand from his lips. “Don’t what? Make you face this?”

“Caring for me doesn’t change anything,” I say.

Did my voice sound a tad distressed?

“It changes everything,” he says.

I push my way out of bed and angrily begin dressing. He follows me.

“Serenity.”

I try to ignore him. I can’t. He’s everywhere. On my skin, in my mind, inside my heart. I wear his ring, share his name and his empire.

He turns me. “Serenity.”

“Stop.” I’m shaking.

“No.” His voice resonates.

We stare each other down.

“I don’t care what you think of me,” he says. “I don’t care that you think I’m evil. We’re both guilty of horrific things. Why do you think I wanted you in the first place? Death in a dress. That’s what you were when you descended down those stairs in Geneva. I knew you’d either redeem me or you’d kill me.”

“You and I both know there’s only one way this ends,” I say.

Six feet under.

He shakes his head. “No, Serenity. You want to believe that, but you and I both know this doesn’t end in death.”

He’s apparently the keeper of wisdom, on top of everything else.

“Then how does it end?”

“In love. And life.”

CHAPTER 17

Serenity

I’M IN A foul mood when we arrive at some swanky hotel for the morning’s first meetings. For one thing, the king cornered me into facing emotions I’d rather ignore.

For another, the people who packed my bags sent me away with a suitcase full of dresses. They look similar in style and cut to the gowns I wore during the peace talks. I hate them all. It’s just my luck that I now have a style, one I didn’t choose, and it’s getting perpetuated.