A roguish grin lights up his face. He slides a hand along my jaw and cups the back of my head. My heart speeds up, and I can’t tell whether fear or a thread of desire is responsible for it.

His cool breath fans across my face. “Just remember tomorrow that you started this,” he says quietly.

I don’t know what to make of his words, but then I don’t need to. His lips are on mine, and they move softly, sweetly against my mouth. I kiss him back, parting my lips and running my tongue over his.

The murmurs around us quiet, and in the silence that follows I can hear the frantic shuffling of camera crews that want to capture what could be a pivotal moment in the negotiations.

But even that is background noise compared to being completely and totally enveloped by the king. His fingertips touch my cheeks with the lightest of pressure. There’s a kindness to the touch, and I have the oddest urge to weep that someone can be this gentle to another human being. That it’s the king who caresses me like this … I can’t rectify my conflicted emotions.

One of King Lazuli’s hands moves to the small of my back, holding me close, his thumb stroking the bare skin there. I move my own hand so that it cups his jaw, and I’m shocked by its roughness. Shocked perhaps because he feels more like a man than a nightmare.

Our poolside evening together bubbles to the surface of my thoughts. He was a different person then, and right now, while his lips move against mine, he’s that same person. The thought makes me forget that I’m in the arms of the enemy, and that my country might consider me a traitor for my current actions—actions I make on its behalf.

The kiss ends, and the king draws away slowly, his eyes lingering on my lips. Desire and a trace of something else flare up in his eyes.

Around us the room is silent. I can feel half a dozen cameras focused on me and the king. I’m sure several are capturing my father’s expression as well, but I’m too busy staring down Montes to care much about that.

Whatever this is, it’s no deception on the king’s part. It’s something far, far worse.

Someone whistles on the other side of the room, and then I hear the tinkling of silverware on glass. More join in; some people even tap the side of their glasses with a knife.

I look from them to the king, my brow furrowed.

“They want us to kiss again.”