“Men, cover the queen!” Montes yells. “Let’s get our asses out of here!”

I don’t have time to marvel over the king before his men surround us, clearing a path towards the stage.

It takes less than a minute for the enemy to gun down those soldiers covering mine and Montes’s front. I don’t have time to check their vitals now that the king is exposed.

He won’t die.

Not here. Not now.

Turns out, however, that the king is pretty effective at defending himself.

Montes and I back up as we fire. Every target Montes shoots at goes down. His accuracy is even better than mine.

“You’ve gotten good!” I yell over the noise.

His lips draw back from his teeth as he fires off three more rounds, his arm barely jerking at the gun’s kickback.

“I’ve had a hundred years to practice!” he shouts.

“Not taking a compliment?” I say, pulling the trigger twice more. “How unheard of.”

“If we live through this,” he says, “I’m spanking you for that.”

I smile gruesomely. He’s still good at battle-talk.

“If we live through this, I might just let you.”

He grins.

Slowly, we make our way through the melee, our guards covering our flanks. When we get to the stage, we have to turn our backs to the fighting.

Gunfire lights up the ground around us. One of the soldiers ahead of me jerks as a bullet tears through his arm, but he doesn’t slow. Whoever these soldiers are, they’re made of tough stuff.

We cross behind the curtains, and the shots cease now that our enemies no longer have a visual on us.

Up ahead, our motorcade waits for us, and the soldiers guarding me and the king now hustle us to one of the vehicles. Montes and I are barely inside when the door slams behind us and the car skids out. Now we’re moving targets. Any enemy in the sky could get a bead on us.

I wait for the next explosion to come. The one that will kill me and Montes.

It never happens. One second bleeds into the next, and the sounds of fighting gradually fade away.

“Nire bihotza.”

I swivel just as Montes gathers me to him. He holds me tightly in his arms, like I might evaporate.

“We made it,” he murmurs into my hair, “We made it.”

I let out a breath. Things are not processing, not the way they will once the high wears off. My brain moves sluggishly.

For several seconds we sit there in silence, our car careening down the streets.

“Are you all in one piece?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whisper against him. “You?”

“Yeah.” A beat of silence passes, and then, “Don’t fucking do that again.”

There is my cold, cruel husband.

I don’t respond.

“Marco and your officers?” I ask instead.

He sighs, knowing I’m evading the topic. “They’re already on their way to the aircraft.”

I nod.

Montes leans his head back against the seat rest. “No more, Serenity. No more.”

Speeches, he means. Speeches and visits.

I nod again.

I might be determined, but I’m not suicidal. We’ll figure out another way to sway the people, one a little less deadly.

The drive to the airfield is more than a little eerie. No one shoots at us, no one even seems to notice us.

And that damn tingle skitters up and down my back again.

Not right. Not right. Not right.

This isn’t unfolding as it should.

The airfield comes into view, as does the hangar where our aircraft waits. A minute later, our vehicle pulls up to it, the rest of the motorcade filing in around us.

Soldiers hop out, several jogging over to our car. They usher us out, and Montes and I, along with his officers and his men, head towards the taxying aircraft.

We never make it.

I see the pool of blood first, near one of the rear wheels of the aircraft. It doesn’t draw attention to itself, but it’s shiny, fresh.

My steps falter.

Ambush.

It barely has time to register before the men and women loitering about the hangar withdraw their weapons. The enemy has camouflaged itself to look just like us.

The king’s enemies knew that we would fly out of here.

They begin to open fire, and Montes’s men go down one after another.

I unholster my weapon for the second time and begin to fire. Two shots in, the chamber clicks empty.

And now I am a sitting duck, no better than a civilian.

Ahead of me, Montes is busy shooting the enemy, his movements fluid. Practiced. My mercenary king is a strange and glorious sight.

The guards that surround us—those that still live—are also firing. I can see some of them calling in for backup, but by the time anyone else arrives, the fight will be over.

None of us are leaving here until the enemy is gone.

Or we’re dead.

The bullet takes me by surprise.

My body jerks back from the impact. I don’t feel the pain. Not immediately. The itch and burn of the bullet’s entrance and the sickening tug of its exit are merely uncomfortable.

I hear the king’s shout amongst the barrage of bullets. How loud he must be yelling to cut through all that noise.

I swear seconds slow to a crawl as I stare out blindly at my surroundings. My hand falls to my stomach. I actually feel my insides as I press my palm against the wound.

I stagger, then drop to my knees.

Now I feel the pain. Oh God, now I feel it.

That agony is so acute I’m nauseous. The only thing that stops me from vomiting is that the pain closes up my throat. I can barely swallow in air.