“It wasn’t him,” I say. “This wound was from when I was shot outside the hospital.”

The guard radios in a second time. “The queen is injured. Repeat, the queen is injured. Requesting a stretcher.”

“I am not leaving this building on a stretcher,” I growl out.

Over my dead body would that happen.

I glare up at the hallway’s florescent bulbs as I’m wheeled out. Around me several guards push the gurney, and I swear they’re suppressing smiles. Pricks.

Somewhere ahead of me, one of the king’s soldiers leads a handcuffed Will. But most of them surround me.

From the brief glimpses I get as I’m rolled out, I see bodies littering the floor, most lying in pools of their own blood. One of them is Nadia, the nurse that stitched up my gunshot wound, her eyes glazed and empty. The Resistance members here have been massacred.

My throat works. I shouldn’t feel anything for them—not after they were so willing to hurt me. But these were once people I worked with. People whose courage I admired. Sorrow wells within me. Wrong is right, and right is wrong.

Somewhere ahead of me doors open, and early morning light pours in. I squint at the sunlight shining down on me.

Above me several helicopters circle the warehouse. I can’t see my surroundings well, but by the looks of it, the king has brought most of his army here.

I hear a cheer rise through the air, but I can’t tell who’s watching.

Suddenly a head eclipses the light, and I make out the dark eyes of the king. My stretcher stops as the guards halt. The king cups my face and bends over me.

I feel a drop of water against my cheek. A tear—the king is crying. Over me.

He presses his lips to mine, and I feel the brush of his wet eyelashes against me. I’ve never seen the king cry—no footage has ever captured this side of him.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he says, his voice choked.

My heart thumps painfully in my chest. It should never have been this way. My comrades turning on me, my enemies saving me. But worst of all, I should never have felt anything other than hatred for this man, the king. Definitely not this, this warmth that thaws my soul.

I stare into the king’s eyes. I am Isolde, I am Juliet, I am Guinevere.

I am every one of those idiots because I’ve fallen for the king.

Chapter 23

The King

I will murder every last one of them. I will rip every last survivor from limb to limb, I will torture them for days for what they did to Serenity. For what they tried to do to me.

I can feel small pricks of pain behind my eyes, but I hold back my tears. She’s safe now.

I thread my hands behind my head and pace outside Serenity’s hospital room, where she’s been resting since she returned.

Henry, the lead investigator of my secret service unit, approaches me. “Your Majesty, the prisoner who was found with Serenity in the interrogation room—we have reason to believe that he’s the leader of the western division of the Resistance.”

This is news. What is the leader of the western division doing here? And why was he the one in Serenity’s room?

Cold dread settles in my stomach, but I keep my resolve steely.

“We’re trying to figure that out at the moment.” Henry’s lips thin. “That’s not all, Your Majesty.”

I wait for him to go on.

“The prisoner is William Kline, the son of the former general of the WUN, Chris Kline.”

He knew her. He knew her. He knew her.

And he betrayed her. He betrayed me. Hell, he probably betrayed his father.

There’s nothing I hate worse than a traitor.

I watch him through the one-way mirrors as he’s being tortured for information. Funny how quickly he’s gone from being interrogator to interrogated.

Usually I stay far away from these sessions. They’re a little too gruesome for my taste. But while Serenity is still sleeping off her latest surgery to undo the mediocre medical attention her bullet wound received, I’m savoring justice in its most savage form.

“Why did you kidnap Queen Serenity Lazuli?” the interrogator asks.

The general’s son is silent.

“Still not going to talk?” the interrogator asks.

When William, the general’s son, doesn’t reply, the interrogator grabs the metal pliers and moves it over to an untouched finger. The table he sits in front of is already slick with blood.

“Stop!” William shrieks as another fingernail goes. This isn’t even the worst part yet.

“Do you want to talk?” the interrogator asks calmly. Civilly.

William is sobbing, and sweat drips down his pale face.

“Perhaps I should move to chopping off fingers … or other things,” the interrogator says.

The Resistance leader’s jaw clenches.

“No? Then perhaps we’ll just have to drag your father into it.”

William’s face pales further. “I—I’ll talk.” I can hear the defeat in his voice.

What the boy doesn’t know is that my men are already on their way to execute his father. It’s long overdue.

Serenity

When I wake up, my golden hair fanned out around me, I’m alone in the hospital room. The monitors beep and whirr.

I throw my legs over the side of the bed, the pads of my feet touching the cool linoleum. Not surprisingly, I feel like I’ve been rolled over by a tank. It doesn’t matter. I can’t take it in here. Not one second more. I’ve been either injured or recovering for the last few weeks in the hospital; I’m done being sick.

I rip out the IV drip taped to my wrist, only wincing slightly when I feel the momentary pain. A monitor next to me goes off.

Out of curiosity I lift up my hospital gown to look at my wound. Unlike the last time I was here, my body shows evidence of surgery. Clean bandages wrap around my torso. Relief floods me at the sight of it; it means that I haven’t lost days or weeks.

I pull the cloth gown back down and exit my room.

In the hallway a swarm of guards keep watch outside my door. I guess the king didn’t want to chance an attack again. As soon as they see me leaving, they try to coerce me back into the room.

“My queen, you need to—”

“The first person who tells me to rest will find themselves castrated,” I say, piercing each guard with a glare.

The guards go silent, and I smile. “I want to see the king,” I say.