“So cynical,” the king says, tsk-ing. He approaches me. “Why didn’t you come to dinner last night?” he asks. His eyes gleam. He’s not a man to take rejection well.

“I thought we just went over my opinion on trust.”

King Lazuli cups my face and tilts my head up. His thumb strokes my jawline as his eyes dance over my lips. It takes most of my self-control to let him do this. Even this small touch feels extraordinarily intimate. “You don’t trust yourself with me?” he asks.

“Especially not with you,” I say, holding his gaze. My pulse is in my ears.

He drops his hand and moves away from me, a smile playing along his lips. “Hungry?” he asks, indicating the table.

I’m not, but pretending to eat is better than the alternative. I nod. “Starving.”

I make my way over to the table, where King Lazuli pulls out a chair for me. I give him a strange look as I take it.

“Are you not used to a man pulling out your chair for you?” he asks.

“Where I live, a man would sooner mug me than pull out a chair for me.” It’s not completely true. I wouldn’t get mugged in the bunker. But out on the streets where resources are scarce? Absolutely.

The king frowns at this. “Once this war is over, I will teach your country’s men how to treat women.”

I can’t help it, I laugh. There are so many things wrong with his statement. “One, King Lazuli—”

“Montes,” he corrects me, walking around the table and taking a seat across from me.

“—the men of my country aren’t savages by nature. Your war has made savages of us all, me included.” Of course the megalomaniac across from me would twist a problem he created into some form of cultural sexism. “And two, you are the last person on earth who should speak of how to treat women.”

I went too far. I can see it in the way the vein at the king’s temple throbs. We stare at each other for a few long seconds, and I can practically see the king’s internal debate. In the past he’s killed off everyone who speaks out against him, but clearly he’s hesitant to do that to me, now that he’s gotten me in his private rooms. But how to handle the situation?

The moment is interrupted by what appears to be the king’s personal chef. She sets a covered plate in front of each of us, and then removes the metal lids. “Filet mignon served with a red wine sauce, fried gnocchi, and caramelized shallots. Paired with a cabernet sauvignon.”

I stare at the plate in front of me. I don’t recognize any of the food items the chef just rattled off, and I can only identify the reddish-brown lump on my plate as meat. But from the smell wafting off the food, it will taste delicious.

The chef pours a small serving of wine into the king’s glass, and I watch, fascinated, as the king swirls the liquid, smells it, and tips a portion back into his mouth. After a moment, he nods, and the chef pours more wine into the king’s glass, and then mine.

“You make food look like an art form,” I say.

“That’s because it can be,” the king responds.

I shake my head and glance down at my meal. He will never understand how insulting this is to a girl who is always underfed.

“Go ahead,” he says, “try it.”

I lift my knife and fork and try a bite of the meat. I have to close my eyes as I eat it. I’m not sure I’ve ever tasted anything so delicious.

I hear the king chuckle across from me and my eyes snap open. “Now try the wine.” His voice lilts, reminding me that he’s just as exotic to me as his lifestyle is.

I reach for my glass. I’ve only had sips of alcohol up until now. Not too many people in the bunker bother with the stuff, but I’ve tasted it enough to expect the strange flavor that hits my taste buds. What I don’t expect is the warm richness of the liquid. It heats up my throat, and then my stomach. I didn’t know any substance could do such a thing.

“It’s good,” I say reluctantly, and then I take another drink. And another.

“Just good?” There’s a twinkle in the king’s eyes. “That’s the best you can do?”

“Yes.”

The room gets quiet, and I know that we’re both remembering my earlier words. I wonder why he hasn’t brought them up again.

“Tell me about yourself,” I finally say, because I can’t think of a more open-ended question to distract us.

The king raises his eyebrows. “What is it you want to know?” he asks.

I shrug. “Whatever it is you want to tell me.”

“I’m an only child,” he starts.

“Me too,” I say, taking another swig of my wine.

He nods. “My mother passed away when I was eight, and my father passed away when I was twenty-two.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. Regardless of who the king is, I can empathize with the pain of losing a parent.

“Thank you,” he says, holding my gaze. In that second, my pulse speeds up. I’m a fly caught in a spider’s web, a moth drawn to flame. He’s pain and death, yet I’m falling into those dark eyes of his. Perhaps he truly is something supernatural if he can coax this response from me.

King Lazuli glances away. “I enjoy playing football—soccer—I sing in the shower—”

I raise my eyebrows. “You sing in the shower?”

The grin that spreads along his face is pure sin. “I can always give you a demonstration, but you’d be required to join me.”

“I think I’ll pass.” I reach for my full glass of wine and take another drink. I glance at it once I pull it away from my mouth. I could’ve sworn I’d almost finished the wine. Those servants of his should double as spies; they’re shadows, slipping in and out of the room, refilling drinks, removing silverware—essentially seeing to our every need.

“How about you?” the king asks, tipping his own glass back.

I chew the inside of my cheek and stare at my wine. “I live in a room with seven other women. This trip is the first time I’ve seen natural light in months, but what I miss the most about the sky are the stars—oh, and I love to swim, even though I haven’t been able to for several years.”

The king holds my gaze. “Would you like to?”

“Like to what?” I ask, drinking more wine.