It’s for that very reason that I take my leave early.

At the end of the day, I am a solitary thing. I’m not sure if this is the result of circumstance, or if I would’ve been this way had war never altered my life.

As soon as the dining room doors close behind me, the tinkling glasses and jovial conversations cut off.

I head through the cavernous palace, my steps echoing. I pass the massive entry hall, with its long entryway and towering columns, and keep going.

Down the corridors, all those sheets still cover most of the royal paintings. It’s vaguely irritating. Why put a picture up at all if it’s just going to get covered?

I don’t know where I’m headed; I have no place in mind. I just want to keep moving. And the more I walk, the more I notice how much of the walls are covered up.

Whether it’s curiosity or irritation that halts my steps, I can’t be sure, but I stop in front of a section of wall partially covered by velvet drop cloths.

I reach out, towards the material.

It only seems like a bad idea at the very last second, when I’ve already bunched the velvet up into my fist. By then, gravity has taken over. The fabric slides off the frame.

A young Marco stares back at me from inside the frame. It’s a formal photo, one where he’s posed rigidly in a uniform. He can’t be more than fourteen or fifteen years old. He has a wispy mustache boys at that age get.

I take a step back. It’s hard to look at Marco as a boy. I don’t associate his cruelty with this version of him.

I glance down the corridor, noticing over half a dozen similarly covered frames.

Surely they are not all photos of Marco? Not that I would put it past the king. He’s obsessive with his affection.

I move to another covered frame and tug the cloth off of it. It’s another of Marco, this one when he’s older. In it, he and the king are clasping shoulders, laughing at something together.

I move on. My heels click against the floor as I stride down the hall.

This time when I pull down the velvet covering, I’m not prepared.

What lies beneath it has me recoiling.

The person I’m staring at is me.

Only, it’s not.

It can’t be. For one thing, I’m posing in a huge fucker of a dress. I’d knock someone out sooner than I would put that thing on. And I would’ve remembered it if I’d worn it. I mean, the thing’s practically as big as a tank.

For another thing, my scar is gone.

I walk several paces down the hall and pull off another sheet of material.

There I am again, this time as a young teenager. I can’t be older than thirteen or fourteen.

And I’m not alone in the photo either.

My arm is slung around the neck of an equally young boy.

But not just any boy. A cloned one.

Marco.

Chapter 27

Serenity

I take a shaky step back.

Oh God, what is this?

“Her name was Trinity.”

I startle at the voice. When I swing around, Marco is watching me. His eyes drift to the wall.

My pulse is in my ears. I can hear my own blood whooshing through my veins.

I place a hand to my temple. “Are you saying—?”

“He couldn’t bear waking you, so he cloned you,” Marco finishes for me.

It takes several seconds to process his words.

“Montes cloned … me?” The proof is hanging on the wall, but I don’t want to believe it.

Marco steps up to the photo.

My chest is rising and falling faster and faster. “Why would he do that?” I ask.

“Marco. Serenity.” That powerful, ageless voice. It’s wiped out cities, ordered countless deaths, whispered sweet platitudes in my ear. It’s fooled me into loving it.

I stiffen when I hear it.

He cloned me.

It doesn’t take long for shock to slide to anger.

I spin to face the king. “You did this?”

The king strides towards us, his eyes taking in the framed photos.

The bastard wouldn’t wake me up, but he’d make a copy of me.

I back up when I realize he wants to eliminate the distance between us. “Stay away from me,” I warn.

“Marco, leave us,” he says as he continues to stride forward.

Marco hesitates, earning an arched brow from Montes. With one last, long look at me, the king’s right-hand turns on his heel and leaves.

Montes steps into my personal space, and even when I cock my arm, he doesn’t stand down. Instead he lets me throw my punch, but only so that he can catch my fist.

I growl my frustration, trying to tug my hand out of his grasp. “Let me go, you bastard.”

“Not until I explain.”

I keep yanking on my arm. “I’m tired of your explanations,” I say between gritted teeth.

What I don’t say is that something in me is broken and bleeding. Something that no Sleeper can heal. I force back a sob.

When he still doesn’t let go, I bring my knee up to his crotch. He swivels out of the way.

Now he’s mad, his features taut with his anger. He thrusts my body back up against the wall, the force of it making the frames shiver. His hand is at my throat. “Listen to me,” he growls.

“Fuck. You.” I don’t want to listen. I want to bathe in the horror of this moment because this is the Montes that I remember.

“That was forty years ago,” he says as though he can read my mind.

“And let me guess,” I say. “You’re a changed man.”