He collapses against me, and we’re both slick with sweat. In some ways sex is a lot like the lifestyle I’m used to, and that surprises me. I’d always imagined that it was something purely soft and sweet, but what we’ve done tonight proves otherwise. That there’s something primal in the act—some strange combo of pain and pleasure, an adrenaline rush, exertion—just like there is in war.

I’d never really thought through marrying the king. The horror of it eclipsed any curiosity I might’ve had at being someone’s partner. I’m greatly surprised to find that in private the king can be gentle and—dare I think it—caring.

I watch him as morning sunlight streams through our balcony windows and find I want to touch him again. His tan skin dips and rises over corded muscles. I see a solitary freckle just below his shoulder blade.

He’s human.

It’s the stupid freckle that reminds me. He may be broken and wicked and narcissistic, but he’s human. He bleeds, he feels.

Thinking like this is risky, particularly when I still plan on killing him. I don’t want to grow close to this man, but I can’t seem to help myself, even after all he’s done. Maybe he doesn’t need to die. Maybe he can be changed.

I scoff at my own ridiculous thought. If nothing has swayed the king into growing a conscience before now, I doubt I’ll be what does.

His thick hair dusts his cheekbones, hiding his features. Before I can think twice, I reach out and push the dark locks away from his face. In sleep, he’s lovely. At my touch, he stirs but doesn’t wake.

I didn’t quite realize humans could savor each other the way we did last night. In the bunker, people didn’t talk about these things, and if they did them, they kept their business private.

The bed shifts next to me, and when I refocus my attention on the king, his eyes open. “What is my queen doing up?” Sleep roughens his voice, and again, I’m reminded that at the end of the day—or the beginning of it, rather—the king is just a man.

He scoops me to him when I don’t respond, and we spend a minute staring at each other. “Sore?” he finally asks.

I feel my cheeks flush. I hate that this subject still makes me uncomfortable. “I’m fine.”

His fingers brush across my face. “Hmm. I thought we were past the lies.”

Lying and discussing this with the king seem like two very different things. My eyes move between his. “Are you happy now that you finally have me?”

The king shakes his head. “I don’t have you—yet. But I will.”