House of Kings(36)

A simple step forward. To the side. The other side. Backward. Repeat.

We twirl. Glide over the marble floor. Cyrus leads me step after step. He’s an accomplished dancer, and I never once feel out of sync as he guides me through the steps and movements. The masses quickly move to make room for our dance.

For a moment, I am once again swept up in the grandeur of the King and his Queen, and I imagine that I am actually her. Here with my husband, with an interrupted immortal life before us, filled with love and pain and reunion  .

It’s a beautiful, if somewhat broken, picture. But it’s easy to want it for a few moments.

The music begins to slow, and Cyrus twirls me one last time. He dips me into a low dip, and I let my head fall back as my eyes slide closed. The tip of Cyrus’ nose trails from my chest downward. And so very reverently, he presses a kiss between my breasts.

My eyes glow and burn as he rights me, and our gaze meets once more. I see the desire there. The urgency.

He’s ready for his queen. Now.

But I am not her.

I toy with the ultimate game creator.

“Thank you,” he breathes hard.

“Of course,” I respond, cupping his cheek in my hand, gazing tenderly into his eyes.

The crowd around us claps, drawing my attention away. The floor drops out beneath me when my eyes meet Raheem’s.

He does not mask his disapproval. His gaze is hard, cold, and vengeful, and it’s directed at the King. His eyes flick once more to mine, and there’s betrayal and hurt there. He stalks away, back into the crowd.

And I feel sick.

Who the hell have I become?





THE KING TAKES A BOW, that entertained, almost drunk-like smile on his face. He takes a huff, deep breath when he stands once more and looks around at the crowd. “Thank you! Thank you,” he says, his smile growing bigger and bigger. “Now, where are Chelsea and Charles?”

“Here, your majesty!” that girlish voice cuts through the crowd. They both shove their way through the masses and pop out before the two of us.

“Wonderful,” Cyrus says, clapping his hands. “Now, I’m thinking of a number between one and fourteen. Would you please pick a number?” he asks of Chelsea.

She mulls it over for a moment, thinking far too long and hard about it. As if she doesn’t grasp what has just happened.

Part two of Cyrus’ game.

“Two!” she finally declares gleefully.

“Wonderful,” Cyrus says with a smile. He then turns to Charles. “Your turn, my man.”

“Eight,” Charles says without hesitation. There’s a smug look on his face as if he’s sure he’s guessed correct.

“Eight, he says!” Cyrus says, throwing his hands up in the air. “Two and eight, guessing from one to fourteen. So, we shall go right in the middle with five!”

Cyrus walks in a small circle, studying those that surround us. And I feel as if I should be nervous. The King’s games never end well. There is always death and blood. But instead, I find myself anticipating what is to come.

“How many of you have ever watched modern sports?” Cyrus asks. He slowly walks the perimeter, his hands folded behind him. “I confess I don’t get into it much, but I did study them sometime in the last decade or so. Trades happen frequently, switching and offering like it’s nothing of consequence at all. Teams swap players to gain advantage and to shake things up with fresh blood.”

Tension rises in the air as some begin putting together what is going on. They shift uncomfortably, look at each other with wariness.

“Alivia recently acquired fifteen new members of her House. All Born. All capable. All willing to swear loyalty,” he says as his eyes search out the new faces. They are so new that I only remember a few of their names. “And today, the two Houses will trade five members.”

Shouts of anger and disbelief rise into the air. Eyes flash red. Several take steps back, as if to flee.

“You cannot be serious,” Chelsea asks in disgust as she steps forward. “The shortest anyone has been a member of the House of Allaway is twenty-one years. You expect me to just give away loyal subjects?”

Cyrus walks up to her and puts his face within two inches of Chelsea’s. “I expect you to obey your King,” he breathes low and dark. “For if you do not, you know what the punishment is.”

The way her face blanches tells me she does indeed.

But I’m not certain what the punishment is. A swift, quick death by stake or beheading? Or a trip to Roter Himmel for a trial and then death?

Either does not end well for her.

“Do as he says, sister,” Charles says as he places a hand on her shoulder. “We will let them volunteer and then go from there.”