I’m not in the mood for his coy games. “This isn’t a fucking exchange. I’m your wife.”

Montes leans in. “With me, it will always be an exchange. Of wits, of wills, of affection, and of everything in between.” He yanks his wrist out of my grip and walks away.

Two hours later I’m glaring at him as I exit the palace, my hair coiffed, my face painted, my body sheathed in another too-tight dress. He waits to the side of our ride, wearing his coat of arms.

Those deep eyes of his land heavily on me. “My, doesn’t my wife look lovely.”

“Fuck off.” I stride past him and duck into the car waiting for us. I still have no idea where we’re going.

He follows me in. “Dark blue is a good color on you.”

I won’t look at the asshole, who probably took a total of ten minutes to get ready himself.

“Are you going to finally tell me where we’re headed, or do I have to guess?”

When I turn to face him, he’s pinching his bottom lip and studying me with interest.

“We’re going to church.”

IT’S BEEN A while since I’ve been inside a church, and not just because I lived in the bunker for most of my teen years. After all, I spent a good amount of time topside when I was doing my tour with the military.

I lost my religion about the same time I lost my city. When it comes to war, people tend to go one of two ways: either they find God, or they do away with him. I fell into the latter category.

I never blamed him, not like some of the others that gave up religion. They seemed more like jaded lovers than atheists. God just never was a man in my mind. He was food, shelter, safety, and—ultimately—peace. And when all that fled, I realized that my world no longer had a place for him.

But now as I enter the cathedral, holding the king’s arm like I was prepped to do, I can feel the weight of something fall on my shoulders. Maybe it’s the dim light, or the silence in the cavernous space filled with hundreds of people, but it prickles the back of my neck.

I’m about to ask the king if we’re getting married all over again when I catch sight of a crown at the end of the aisle. It rests on a pillow next to a priest—or a bishop, or a cardinal. I have no idea what title the holy man goes by.

My breath releases all at once.

The king’s planning to coronate me.

I pause mid-stride. I want no part in this. It’s one thing to be forced to marry a ruler, another to accept the position yourself. And this isn’t just some parliamentary affair; this is a spiritual one as well.

No good god would sanctify this.

“Montes,” I hiss. “No.” That’s all I’m willing to say in this place of silence.

“Yes,” he insists.

I’m still fighting him, even as he drags me forward.

“Do it for our child,” he whispers.

My heart pangs. I have a new weakness, and Montes just exploited it. If he thinks a crown will protect the baby, I’ll go along with it. After all, I was willing to do much worse when I didn’t know if Montes would survive the flight to Geneva. So I stop fighting him.

We’re halfway up the aisle when he leans into me. “Once we get to the altar, kneel,” he breathes, his voice barely a whisper. “When you rise again, you’ll be a crowned queen.”

Montes leaves me at the foot of the altar, where I do as he says and kneel.

The rites are read in Latin, and they go on and on and on. My eyelids are drooping by the time the holy man grabs the crown.

I blink several times as he approaches me with it. Lapis lazuli circles its base, and dozens of gold spikes branch off of it. I’ve never seen anything like it.

The holy man speaks more Latin as he places the crown on my head. He makes the sign of the cross before retrieving a robe made of velvet and ermine. The material settles over my shoulders, and he clasps it at the base of my throat. The weight of it all presses down on me; I’m sure the effect is intentional. This is very much a burden.

He gestures for me to stand. I do so, and the two of us lock eyes. I think for a moment we are wondering what kind of person the other one is. What kind of woman marries a tyrant ruler? What kind of religious man ordains a killer as queen? Staring at him, I realize we might both simply be decent people cornered into powerful roles. Everyone can be bought, but the price is not always power. I wonder what his was.

He speaks again in Latin, makes the sign of the cross again, and then indicates for me to face the crowd.

I swivel and find hundreds of faces staring back at me. But there’s one face my eyes seek out. He’s the only other person besides me and the man behind me who remains standing. His dark eyes gleam with approval.

For the first time since I entered the Cathedral, the man behind me speaks in English. “I present to you, Her Majesty Serenity Lazuli, High Consort of the King, Queen Regent of the East and the West.

“Long live the queen!”

CHAPTER 26

Serenity

I’M STARING OUT the window of my room at Geneva’s broken city. It presses up against the edge of the palace grounds and fans out to what I can see of the horizon.

I don’t like this place; it holds too many bad memories. I keep wanting to hunt down the suite my father and I stayed in. It’s macabre, but I feel like if I went there, I’d run into him—or at least see the stain his blood left on the carpet.

I touch my crown and prick myself on one of its points. They might as well be thorns. They look like thorns, they feel like thorns, the only difference is that these thorns are golden and shine in the light.