Now my anger’s returning, like a dear old friend. “Okay, it’s more than fine. It’s absolutely repulsive that you can live around such opulence when the rest of this city is so broken. I’m sickened to hear you deny my people basic medical relief while you host dinner parties inside your palace.”

The king approaches me. “There it is. The truth: you hate everything about me.”

I suck in a sharp breath of air. “Yes,” I breathe.

King Lazuli holds the crook of his arm out. “Walk with me.”

I take a step back, eyeing his arm like it’s poisonous. I just admitted to the king of the eastern hemisphere that I hated him.

When he sees my hesitation, he says, “I don’t bite.”

“No,” I say, “you kill.”

“So do you, soldier.”

We stare at each other a moment. Not one fiber of my being wants to touch him, but I remember General Kline’s words yesterday. I need to play my part.

Reluctantly I slide my fingers through the crook of King Lazuli’s arm, and he leads me out of my room.

“Where’s my father?” I ask as soon as we pass his empty room.

“He’s still in discussions with my aides.”

“And you’re skipping out to what—give me a tour of your mansion?”

The king glances down at me, a small smile playing on his lips. “Something like that.”

I frown at his expression and a sick sensation coils through my stomach. I can practically smell the desire wafting off of him.

The thought makes me want to puke. I’ve been rude to him since we met. I stood up to him; I admitted that I hated him. He must truly be psychotic if that excites rather than angers him.

He leads me outside to the gardens. “How lovely,” I say, “you pay someone to cut your hedges into cute little animals. I’m so impressed.”

His lips twitch. “I’m pleased to hear you like them so much. I’ll have the gardeners shape another just for you. Perhaps a gun? Or are you more of a hand grenade lady?”

“How about you simply uproot the hedge you plan on shaping and watch it slowly die? That would be a more accurate representation of me and my people.”

The king sighs. “You do not know the first thing about power.”

“And you don’t know the first thing about compassion,” I bite out.

To our right, a large alcove has been cut into the hedge that borders the gardens. Inside it sits a marble sculpture. The king pushes me into the alcove.

My back bumps into the nearly solid surface of the hedge as the king presses his body against mine. “You think you know something about compassion? A soldier trained to kill?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Then prove it.”