The king leads me through his palace. This place is different from his mansion in Geneva. Both are grand and feel like stuffy royalty, but the king’s palace here is larger and it seems more lived in than his other house. But like the mansion in Geneva, the floor plan here is hopelessly confusing.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“In the hallway,” the king says.

I roll my eyes, and he laughs when he sees my expression. I realize too late that to him, exasperation is a better emotion that hate, fear, or sadness. And it is. It means that I can feel something towards him that’s softer than what I have felt since I arrived.

“You know what I mean,” I say.

The king’s lips curve upwards at my interest. He should know that his reaction is only annoying me further. “We’re in the Mediterranean—but you’ll have to figure out what island we’re on.”

I file this information away and try not to think about how far away we are from my homeland. I’m dying to ask about the WUN, but I keep my mouth shut. I’m going to have to ease my way into a position of trust. For now I’ll be the agreeable fiancée.

“How many houses do you own?”

“We,” he says.

I flash him a questioning look.

“We have many houses. By the end of the week they’ll be yours as well as mine.”

My eyes widen, and then I glance away. I can’t wrap my mind around all the implications of being married to this man.

Married.

To my parents’ killer.

Suddenly the food I ate earlier doesn’t seem like it’s content to stay in my stomach. I stop walking and breathe slowly.

The king leans in so that he can peer into my eyes. “Are you alright?”

I hold up a finger, and he patiently waits. The nausea passes, and I begin walking again.

“What was that?” he asks.

“It’s my body’s reaction to you.”

“I’m glad I leave you short of breath.”

“Don’t flatter yourself; I was trying not to barf.”

The king’s concern fades into an amused smile. We walk in silence after that, but with each passing second I feel the heat of King Lazuli’s hand spread through me.

It angers me that my body reacts this way. Hell, it angers me even more that the king considers every emotion of mine that’s not hate or pain a small victory..

He leads me outside to a limo. Photographers and cameramen swarm around us almost immediately, and again my stomach roils, this time from claustrophobia. A chauffeur holds the door open for the king and me, and I all but dive into it. I thought the publicity we’d received before was bad, but it seems I’d only received a taste of it in Geneva.