“I-I need to use the restroom.” I bolt for the gleaming bathroom before he has a chance to respond.

I close the door behind me and lock it. Then I lean against the wall and let myself slide down. I rest my head between my knees.

This is no worse than death I try to tell myself. But in some ways it is. I’m protecting a nation by following through with this wedding, but I’m dishonoring my parents. What I despise most is that, beneath all that anger and hate, I actually feel something else for the king. Sometimes desire—he is beautiful, after all—sometimes camaraderie, sometimes amusement, and sometimes … compassion.

I get to my feet, my legs shaky, and lean over the counter. When I glance at my reflection I see a strong woman, one who’s had to skirt right and wrong her entire life. I can do this.

I leave the bathroom without pretending to flush the toilet or wash my hands—the king’s not a fool. He knows I’m scared as hell of what lies ahead.

When I enter the bedroom, Montes lounges on a side chair. His tie is loosened and his jacket has already been removed. He doesn’t move for a moment, just takes me in.

Then, ever so slowly he gets up and makes his way to me. “I’m not a nice man,” he says.

“I couldn’t agree more,” I say.

“This is happening tonight.”

My throat works. “I know.”

“Good.” Then he closes the remaining distance between us and kisses me. At first, all I do is stand there, unresponsive. But eventually, I give in and move my lips. I wonder if this is how royalty felt when they were forced to marry one another. The repulsion, the nervousness, the sense of duty—all of it. I wonder if any of them felt perversely excited, as I do. Perhaps in this I am well and truly alone.

The king backs us up until I fall against the bed. He kneels between my legs to remove my shoes. First one comes off, then the other. But he doesn’t remove his hands. Instead he slides them up my leg until they brush the lace of my panties.

I gasp, and struggle against the urge to rip his hands away. A second later his hands are gone, but only so that he can remove his tie. Once he’s discarded the garment, he begins unbuttoning his shirt.

I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them, he’s shirtless. His body is all sculpted muscle. I appreciate the sight on a physical level, but it bothers me that he can care so much about his body and so little for entire nations.