The Gender War (The Gender Game #4)(46)

Violet nodded. “I’m on it.”

“And, Your Majesty,” I began, preparing to give the king a long-winded lecture, when Jay interrupted.

“Why did Amber shoot that man?” he blurted from the steps where he and Tim were lurking.

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” I told him. “But… I intend to find out. Tim, Jay, would you mind following the staff and keeping an eye on them to make sure that they don’t try to call for help?”

The two boys exchanged a quick look and then nodded at me in agreement before racing up the stairs, enthusiastic smiles playing on their lips. Their excitement lifted my heart, as always—we were going to have to find more for them to do.

“Your Majesty,” I said, going back to my previous goal. Maxen’s gaze narrowed on me, but I ignored it. “You will start backing me up when I say things like that—I gave you my word I would keep you safe, but your subjects will not understand that you aren’t a prisoner unless you support what I am saying.”

“Honestly, how do you expect me to trust that you’ll help me when you can’t even control your women?” the king sneered. He held up his still-cuffed hands. “Not to mention these—they don’t exactly scream ‘I’m not a prisoner.’”

I paused, my mouth open, as I took in his words. “I am not even going to address that remark regarding ‘my women’, but I will remind you that all of the women with us will know where you will be sleeping. So—in the interest of not waking up one morning with a bullet in your chest—say one more thing like that, and I’ll gag you.”

I let that sink in for a moment, enjoying the particular shade of purple the king began to turn, and then cut sharply through his sputtering, indignant response. “Your cuffs remain until I am convinced you aren’t going to run off and get yourself killed in some foolhardy attempt to raise an army by yourself. Now, you are going to sit down and explain to Ashabee the score, and what’s at stake. You’re then going to tell him I’m in charge, and we’ll go from there.”

I didn’t wait for him to agree, just nodded at Ms. Dale and Violet before marching into the house.





17





Violet





I sat down on a padded seat in front of a large bay window in Amber’s family… mansion, turning off the enormous television that seemed to fill one side of the wall. I couldn’t watch it any longer. I was exhausted, my hand was killing me, and trying to manage King Maxen’s search for an “acceptable” room on the second floor had given me a headache. The sun was starting to set behind the house, casting the lawn and drive into deep shadow.

Ms. Dale was still with the king—she had insisted on taking the first watch. Viggo, Owen, and Henrik were still hashing things out with Ashabee and Jeff, Amber was holed up in her childhood bedroom, and Quinn was helping Tim and Jay oversee the remaining staff, which left me with… exactly nothing to do. For the first time in what seemed like forever.

Which was why I was sitting at the window, staring out over the vast front lawn. Someone needed to keep an eye on it, just in case we had been followed—in case Desmond and Elena had predicted this move. Ms. Dale thought we would probably be safe here, at least for a little while. Apparently, Mr. Ashabee was the Colin Everett Ashabee, major Patrian weapons designer and manufacturer. And after spending only a few minutes with the man, Ms. Dale was confident that he had saved the best weapons for himself, making this place a fortress.

I rested my back against the wall behind me, gazing around the room. According to the abbreviated tour I’d gotten, this was the tea room—a room where Ashabee would greet longtime friends or family. It was certainly homier than the sitting room, with four massive plush chairs seated around a small coffee table. There were two bookshelves framing the door opposite me, which was intended for the servants, and a door to the left that headed into the informal dining room. And, of course, the massive television that hung on the wall opposite me.

The whole thing was ostentatious, grand, and completely impractical, save to show that it was ostentatious and grand—especially the TV, which was of a size and modern design that I’d only ever heard of in bars and public venues. Many households in Matrus couldn’t even afford their own television sets, and though I knew that Patrians generally lived in more luxury due to the overall wealth of their resource-rich country, really, who needed a TV in a tea room?

I couldn’t help but wonder how much money this room had cost, with its elaborate design and luxurious furniture. What quantity of resources had been burned for the luxury of a man who was living here alone?

Sometimes, the more I saw of humanity, the more I hated it.

I had been attracted to the tea room because the news had been playing on the television, but that did not make me feel more optimistic. Image after image of destruction had played across the screen—gutted warehouses, toppled apartment buildings, rows of burned and overturned vehicles at a military compound. A man’s voice droned, “The areas that suffered the worst of the bombings are in a sorry state. No one knows just how extensive the damage is or who the perpetrators could be. Emergency forces report that they’ve seen families split up and properties burned beyond repair.”

Then the scene flipped, and the headline Patrian-Matrian Alliance? scrolled across the screen. The man who’d been speaking earlier now showed, his hair neatly styled and his clothes pristine. “All this destruction,” he said, “could mean an historic alliance between our two countries.”