“I fired it on many occasions,” he explains.

When I wanted to be close to you.

The king omits much of what his heart wants to say, but I glean it off of him anyway. And it’s twisted that this weapon, which has ended many lives, is a bridge between the king and me. But everything about our relationship is twisted, so it fits.

“The bullets are also long out of production.”

I unholster the gun and run my hands over it. From the looks of the thing, it’s aged about as well as I have. Which is to say, not at all.

But it’s a relic, nonetheless.

Just like me.

“So you gave me another gun,” I say, re-holstering my beloved weapon and reaching for the other.

“Everything about its design is essentially the same as the guns you’re familiar with,” the king says, crossing his legs at the ankles as he leans back against the wall. “And those bullets are the most common ones on the market.”

So I can get my hands on more if we find ourselves in a tight situation.

I loop the belt and holsters around my pants. Once everything’s secured, I glance up at Montes.

“Thank you,” I say. I mean it, too.

I’m still upset and unnerved about my twin, but for once, I’m going to bury the past. I have bigger worries on the horizon.

The king levels a serious look at me. “Don’t die on me.”

“So many demands,” I murmur. “You’re setting yourself up for disappointment, Montes.”

“I didn’t marry you because you were a pretty thing. I married you because you were a wicked one.”

Was that a compliment?

“You married me because you’re a bastard.”

“Yes,” he grins, though it lacks any mirth, “that too.”

It takes only a couple hours to fly from the king’s seaside palace to Giza. Only a couple of hours’ time, but there appears to be lifetimes of differences between the land we left and the one we arrive in.

Giza is only a handful of miles from Cairo, one of the cities that the West apparently destroyed. But as we descend and the buildings come into view, I realize just how war-torn and desolate Giza itself is. Half the buildings are in various states of disrepair.

When I step out of the plane, hot, dry desert air greets me, and the very feel of it is nothing like what I’m used to. I squint as a hot gust of air blows my hair around.

The king steps up to me and presses a hand to my back. Several men wait to greet us on the ground. From what I’ve picked up, these men are the territory’s dignitaries, and they will be our guides while we’re here.

They take one look at me and begin to bow, their hands clasped together as they do so, like I’m some desperate, answered prayer of theirs.

Montes puts pressure on my lower back, urging me forward. I dig my heels in instead.

“They’re acting like I’m a god,” I say to him. I can’t quite take my eyes off the people in front of us.

“You are a queen and a rebel fighter, and you’ve been dead a hundred years only to turn up alive. To them you might as well be.

“Now,” he continues, putting more pressure on my back, “you need to meet them and act like it.”

When I approach them, one by one they clasp my hands and kiss my knuckles.

“It is an honor to meet you.” The man who speaks has a heavy accent, yet his English is crisp and sharp. The result is a lilting speech.

“I am honored to be here,” I say honestly.

“Where is Akash?” Montes asks, glancing about the group.

From what I read, all of the king’s lands have regional leaders. Giza and its surrounding land is managed by Akash Salem.

“Your Majesties,” the man who first spoke now sobers, his easy smile disappearing. “On our way here, we received worrisome news concerning Akash and his family.”

“What about them?” I ask.

No one seems to want to be the one to break the news. Eventually, however, one does.

He takes a deep breath. “They’re missing.”

Chapter 29

The King

“How could this have happened?” I pace up and down one of the rooms in the royal house we’re staying at. We’ve been here mere hours and already I’m itching to drag my wife back onto our plane and return to my palace.

If my regional leaders can be taken, then so can Serenity.

“Akash’s servants were found slaughtered and there were signs of forced entry,” one of my men says.

My eyes cut to my queen.

She sits in an armchair, her expression stormy. She’s been sitting there brooding since we entered the room.

“Serenity,” I say, my voice softening.

Her gaze flicks to me, returning from wherever she wandered in her mind.

“Are they dead?” she asks.

One of the men behind me shakes his head. “We don’t know, Your Majesty.”

She looks to me because she knows I won’t euphemize the situation.

“If it’s the West,”—and it surely is—“they’ll be tortured. All of them. Even the kids.”

She flinches at that. Buried beneath all my queen’s violence is something soft and righteous.

“How old?” she asks.

“Eight and five,” one of the dignitaries says.

She gets up from the couch, and everything about her looks heavy. Evil does that; it weighs you down, makes you weary. I know all about it.

Serenity removes her father’s gun from its holster, and everyone tenses just a fraction. She flips it over in her hand.