When the kiss ends, he begins moving again. “Does that feel better?” he whispers.

I close my eyes and hum in response. We continue like that, enjoying extremely sinful and morally questionable sex for a while, before I open my eyes again and run my fingers down his cheek. His large, dark eyes shutter at my touch and his tempo increases.

Heat builds at my core, and finally I cry out and clutch him as my orgasm lashes through me. His strokes become harder and deeper, and I feel him throb inside me as he finds his own release.

He collapses against me, and we’re both slick with sweat. In some ways sex is a lot like the lifestyle I’m used to, and that surprises me. I’d always imagined that it was something purely soft and sweet, but what we’ve done tonight proves otherwise. That there’s something primal in the act—some strange combo of pain and pleasure, an adrenaline rush, exertion—just like there is in war.

I’d never really thought through marrying the king. The horror of it eclipsed any curiosity I might’ve had at being someone’s partner. I’m greatly surprised to find that in private the king can be gentle and—dare I think it—caring.

I watch him as morning sunlight streams through our balcony windows and find I want to touch him again. His tan skin dips and rises over corded muscles. I see a solitary freckle just below his shoulder blade.

He’s human.

It’s the stupid freckle that reminds me. He may be broken and wicked and narcissistic, but he’s human. He bleeds, he feels.

Thinking like this is risky, particularly when I still plan on killing him. I don’t want to grow close to this man, but I can’t seem to help myself, even after all he’s done. Maybe he doesn’t need to die. Maybe he can be changed.

I scoff at my own ridiculous thought. If nothing has swayed the king into growing a conscience before now, I doubt I’ll be what does.

His thick hair dusts his cheekbones, hiding his features. Before I can think twice, I reach out and push the dark locks away from his face. In sleep, he’s lovely. At my touch, he stirs but doesn’t wake.

I didn’t quite realize humans could savor each other the way we did last night. In the bunker, people didn’t talk about these things, and if they did them, they kept their business private.

The bed shifts next to me, and when I refocus my attention on the king, his eyes open. “What is my queen doing up?” Sleep roughens his voice, and again, I’m reminded that at the end of the day—or the beginning of it, rather—the king is just a man.

He scoops me to him when I don’t respond, and we spend a minute staring at each other. “Sore?” he finally asks.

I feel my cheeks flush. I hate that this subject still makes me uncomfortable. “I’m fine.”

His fingers brush across my face. “Hmm. I thought we were past the lies.”

Lying and discussing this with the king seem like two very different things. My eyes move between his. “Are you happy now that you finally have me?”

The king shakes his head. “I don’t have you—yet. But I will.”

Someone brings in strawberries and champagne shortly after we wake up, and now it’s clear that not only can one enjoy good food and good sex, but also enjoy the two together. It seems outrageously gluttonous, but it doesn’t stop me from reaching over to the platter and picking up a strawberry while the king pours champagne.

Just as I open my mouth, the king catches my hand and makes a tsk-ing sound. “This, I believe, is my job.”

He takes the strawberry from me and presses a champagne flute into my hand.

“So now I’m permitted to drink?”

“As long as I’m the one pouring, you are.”

“You’re a control freak.”

The king scoops cream onto the strawberry from a nearby bowl. “This surprises you?” he asks.

“No, but you could try loosening up for once in your life.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What, exactly, do you think I’ve been doing for the last twelve hours?”

“Punishing me,” I say without missing a beat.

He sighs. “You keep lying. Hasn’t anyone told you the key to a healthy marriage is trust and honesty?”

I scoff at him. “There are so many things I could say to that statement.”

The king smirks and lifts the strawberry like he wants to feed me.

“Do that, and I’ll bite your fingers off.”

“You like my fingers too much to do them harm. Now, open your mouth.”

I eye him like a wary creature even as I part my lips and he feeds the berry to me. My annoyance with him is less compelling than my desire to eat the fruit.

My eyes close as I bite down on it and enjoy the taste. I can’t remember the last time I had a strawberry.

When my eyelids lift, Montes is watching me with fascination, like he craves these reactions.

That sense of wrongness comes back. I shouldn’t be doing this with the king while the world toils on. I feel like the traitor everyone made me out to be.

I flash him a cautious look, and never taking my eyes off of him, down the champagne.

Bad idea. Whether it’s my empty stomach, all the alcohol I’ve imbibed, or the rich palace food, something’s not sitting well.

“Serenity?”

I scramble out of bed. I don’t bother grabbing the silk robe on my way to the bathroom. I barely make it in time. The water’s tinged red, and I can’t tell if it’s from the berry or the blood.

Behind me, the king swears. What’s he doing in here?

“Get out,” I say weakly.

“Last I checked, I’m the king, not you.”

I flush the toilet and rise to my feet. I’m more fatigued than I should be. I fear that just when I decided I had the will to live, my body decided it didn’t.

Montes presses a button built into the wall of the bathroom. “Marco, get me a doctor—”

“No.” My voice is sharper than I intend it. “Please,” I add, leaning against the counter, “the alcohol didn’t sit well. That’s all.”

“Your Majesty?” Marco’s static-y voice blares into the room. Just the sound of it makes my trigger finger itch.

The king scrutinizes me for a long time before he turns back to the intercom. “Scratch that, Marco. Just bring some broth, crackers, and something with electrolytes in it. Oh, and I believe it’s time to put the queen on my pills.”