I roll my eyes, and he laughs when he sees my expression. I realize too late that to him, exasperation is a better emotion that hate, fear, or sadness. And it is. It means that I can feel something towards him that’s softer than what I have felt since I arrived.

“You know what I mean,” I say.

The king’s lips curve upwards at my interest. He should know that his reaction is only annoying me further. “We’re in the Mediterranean—but you’ll have to figure out what island we’re on.”

I file this information away and try not to think about how far away we are from my homeland. I’m dying to ask about the WUN, but I keep my mouth shut. I’m going to have to ease my way into a position of trust. For now I’ll be the agreeable fiancée.

“How many houses do you own?”

“We,” he says.

I flash him a questioning look.

“We have many houses. By the end of the week they’ll be yours as well as mine.”

My eyes widen, and then I glance away. I can’t wrap my mind around all the implications of being married to this man.

Married.

To my parents’ killer.

Suddenly the food I ate earlier doesn’t seem like it’s content to stay in my stomach. I stop walking and breathe slowly.

The king leans in so that he can peer into my eyes. “Are you alright?”

I hold up a finger, and he patiently waits. The nausea passes, and I begin walking again.

“What was that?” he asks.

“It’s my body’s reaction to you.”

“I’m glad I leave you short of breath.”

“Don’t flatter yourself; I was trying not to barf.”

The king’s concern fades into an amused smile. We walk in silence after that, but with each passing second I feel the heat of King Lazuli’s hand spread through me.

It angers me that my body reacts this way. Hell, it angers me even more that the king considers every emotion of mine that’s not hate or pain a small victory..

He leads me outside to a limo. Photographers and cameramen swarm around us almost immediately, and again my stomach roils, this time from claustrophobia. A chauffeur holds the door open for the king and me, and I all but dive into it. I thought the publicity we’d received before was bad, but it seems I’d only received a taste of it in Geneva.

The king follows me into the car, I’m sure taking in my wide eyes. “I hope this is not you being convincing, because you’re horrible at it,” he says.

“Shut up.”

Again, the king smirks, and I want to throttle him. Even if there wasn’t this terrible baggage between us, there’d still be something about him that gets under my skin.

As soon as we pull away from the palace, I roll down the window. I can feel the king’s eyes on me, but I ignore him. Once the window’s all the way down, I stick my head out, then the rest of my torso.

For a single blissful second the air sings in my ears and streams through my hair. Then I feel a firm pair of hands wrap around my waist and yank me inside. I yelp and tumble into the king’s arms.

“Are you trying to kill yourself?” the king asks, raising his voice. I can see that vein in his temple begin to throb.

“You caught me,” I say sarcastically, “I was trying for death by moving vehicle.”

“Be serious,” he commands.

I raise my eyebrows. “Is that the tone you use on all your subjects? Because frankly, it—” My voice cuts off when the king leans forward and runs a hand through my hair.

He’s fixing my hair. I don’t know why this action of his catches me so completely off guard, but it does. Maybe because the gesture is affectionate, especially when I notice the slight quiver of his hands.

“Did you really think I was trying to kill myself?” I ask.

His hands pause, and they loosely cup my hair and my chin. “What do you think?” He stares at me, and I see concern in them.

“I’m thinking that there are far more effective ways of killing myself than jumping out of a moving car through the window.” Seriously. I’d just use the door.

“Your father died a week ago.”

I flinch at his words. Why would he bring that up?

“You had to be sedated when you arrived,” King Lazuli continues. “I’m going to assume the worst until you prove otherwise.”

I frown at him and push his hands away. “Well, I’m not planning on killing myself, so your concern is not needed.”

The king doesn’t leave my side. Instead he reaches around me and rolls up the window, and I feel my skin sear in every place his body presses against mine. The window seals shut, yet he doesn’t move away. My eyes crawl over his arm to his shoulder, to his square jaw, to his mouth. There they pause, and then I meet his gaze.

My breath catches as we stare at each other.

He’s the enemy.

It’s too bad my body doesn’t think so. It’s ready to say que sera sera and forget the past.

The king leans in slowly, giving me plenty of time to pull away. There’s no reason to fight him now that I’m forced to marry him, but that’s not why I hold my ground. No, if I’m honest, it’s because I want to feel something other than pain and hate.

He stops short of my mouth, though. Reaching up a hand, he traces the scar that drags down my face. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” I say.

“This time I really am.”

A lump forms in my throat. “Don’t say that.” Or else there will be no one left for me to hate but myself.

He drops his hand, and something tugs at my heart. Regret? Yearning? I can’t tell, but it’s an emotion I don’t want to feel.

“Where’s my father’s body?” I ask. It’s been on my mind lately. I’m not sentimental over death; I’ve seen it, seen the way a soul leaves a person’s eyes. The body is just a vessel—once whatever animates it is gone, it’s just flesh. Still, I can’t help but want to put my father’s body to rest.

“It’s being kept in a morgue in Geneva.” The king’s expression is cautious. He’s watching me like I might snap. This conversation brings up all that’s passed between us.

“Geneva?” I say, my throat hoarse. That is a punch to the gut. “I want his body returned to our homeland.”