The Last Queen Book Four

by Odette C. Bell

  I curl in on myself, withering like a flower that’s just been stomped on.

  I’m seated and he’s standing. John’s never had a particularly commanding presence. Not like some of the other kings I’ve faced. His power isn’t locked in his muscles or the way he holds himself. It usually rests in what he does, not how he looks. Now he looms over me like a mountain.

  “I’ve already promised you that I will do everything within my power to keep you safe as long as you do everything in your power... to help with my cause.” His voice drops with passion. “But if the cost of keeping you safe is...” he trails off.

  I find myself gripping my armrests with both hands. “What are you saying? This is... over? That... our partnership has now become too costly for you?”

  Though I only put into words what he was obviously suggesting, he reacts to me viscerally, jerking a step back. “No,” he says. The move is quick, guttural, too. It makes him sound like someone’s got their hands around his throat. More than that, it makes him sound as if his voice is coming from someplace else. Maybe it’s momentarily bypassing the rational John and bubbling up from the part within him that has always been a king.

  I watch him. “Then what are you saying?”

  “That your mere existence puts me in a precarious position. If you were my... full piece, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But I respect your anonymity and your desire to remain separate. Yet at the same time—” He looks at me, and it’s as if he’s unshielded his gaze. As if his eyes have always been two burning, blistering pools of fire and only now is he allowing me to see their full power. “You leave me exposed. And if you don’t measure your hand, you will lead directly to my destruction.”

  I feel like I’ve been slapped. There’s a ringing pressure in my head. It marches up my cheeks and pushes into my eyes, almost making me want to cry.

  I’ve never been great with confrontation, and this is categorically one of the most confrontational scenes I’ve ever faced.

  I force myself to swallow, but it can’t do anything for the emotion still climbing my throat. It twinges in my jaw as I let my lips drop open. “Okay. I understand. I’m sorry.” My voice is tortured.

  I drop my gaze and look down at my hands.

  John opens his mouth automatically, obviously to continue the argument, but he pauses.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I let my gaze drift up and lock on him.

  He brings his hands down, settles them along his legs, and drums his fingers on his thighs.

  He takes a step back. He turns abruptly, clasps his hands behind his back, and walks toward the view.

  He gets lost staring at the city for several seconds.

  Though I know I should probably stay seated and quiet like a compliant, remorseful kid, slowly I push up from my chair. Warily, I walk until I’m standing beside him.

  It takes him a heck of a long time to tug his gaze off the view and to lock it on the side of my face. “I’m sorry,” he says out of nowhere.

  I blink in surprise. “What exactly should you be sorry about?”

  “I keep forgetting that you’re new to this.”

  “... I’m hardly new. It’s been months now. And... years before that since I started gathering my power.” As I open up and talk about this fragile topic, I bring my hands up and scratch my arms.

  He watches the move. The passion is gone. No – that isn’t right. It’s been pulled back behind that shield. The power in his gaze is muted once more. That does not mean for a second that I’ve forgotten his power. I will never underestimate John’s fire again.

  “What I keep forgetting,” he insists on finishing his point, “is that relatively speaking, you’re still too new to this world. You don’t understand enough to appreciate the mistakes you’re making.”

  Though we were having a touching moment, there’s a real snap behind his words again.

  Rather than bite back, I press my lips together and swallow my words.

  When he keeps looking at me out of the corner of his eye, I slowly tilt my head up and face him. “There’s something you want to say, isn’t there?” I demand out of the blue.

  His gaze narrows. “That’s the problem,” he says with no explanation.

  I frown, the move hard and expressive. “What are you talking about?”

  I want to say that there’s a careful look in his eyes. I want to say that it reminds me of the gentle John I’m used to. But that’s not it. It’s much more prying than that. “You keep making mistakes because you don’t understand... the unique biology between a king and queen. Other pieces aren’t connected in the same way we are. And they never will be.”

  Though John has mentioned the imprinting process several times before, he’s always measured his words in the past. He has never, never been this close and this intense.

  I go to swallow, then I realize the move looks too fragile, so I stop myself, and I clear my throat instead. I open my mouth.

  “Before you ask what I’m talking about, you know. You keep making mistakes because you can’t make your mind up. And because you can’t make your mind up, your magic becomes confused, stopping you from thinking straight, stopping you from connecting to nature’s forces and allowing her to guide you down the correct path.”

  “... What are you saying?”

  “That before you get me killed, you need to choose once and for all who is in your heart.” With that, he turns around, walks away, and closes his door with a ringing thump behind him.

  He leaves me reeling. My mouth becomes dry as my heartbeat thumps hard and loud in my chest like a prisoner banging against their cell wall.

  “Did he... what the hell did that bastard just say?” I spit as I whirl around, my hair fanning around my face. I face the door, expecting him to stalk back in and continue the argument, or maybe fall down on one knee and tell me that he didn’t mean to intimate what he just did.

  In the past, John has always walked around on tenterhooks whenever discussing not just the imprinting process, but especially Spencer.

  Now he’s pretty much slapped me in the face with a question he would never previously have been brave enough to ask. Do I love Spencer, or do I love him?

  I don’t even flinch back from the way I described that question. Barely a few minutes ago, I would have.

  Because I would never have allowed myself to think that the disparate, confusing, manipulating emotions I feel around those two men have anything to do with love.

  Now I’m not so sure.

  Isn’t that the only thing that could account for John’s growing passion and his anger at what I did today?

  I bring up a shaking hand and slowly clamp it over my mouth, trying to breathe through my fingers. But no matter how much I measure my breath and beg myself to calm down, my body rebels.

  I feel like I’ve just been in the argument of my life.

  John does not return. He leaves me standing there, staring at the view, contemplating one question.

  What’s in my heart. And more importantly, whether what’s in my heart will get anyone killed.

  Chapter 7

  WE’VE BARELY SPOKEN since our argument, and when we have, it’s only so John can make it clear that I’m not to leave the building.

  I feel exactly like a bird trapped in a cage.

  Okay, that’s not true. Unlike a bird, I can open the doors to my cage. And if John locks them, I can blast through.

  But... I don’t.

  I stay in my room, barely leaving, only training when he gives me permission to. In many ways, my worst fears have come true. I’ve lost my freedom. And yet I still trust him.

  Why?

  I can’t honestly tell you.

  More than a few times as I have lain on my bed thinking about my screwed-up life, my mind has ticked back to what Spencer told me on top of that roof. That he’s the one I’m meant for. That even if I try to forge a relationship with another king, it won’t work. I have to go with where my passion is – whe
re my heart leads me.

  I’m lying on my bed now, and I bring a hand up and latch it over my face, letting my fingers thump so hard against my head, I see a few stars flash through my eyes.

  I’ve never been one for sitting still, but with nowhere to go and nothing to do, what option do I have?

  John still hasn’t shown me to the rest of his pieces. They aren’t aware I’m in the building – even Antonio. They don’t see me and they don’t have anything to do with me.

  I’m like a prisoner....

  Before that thought can settle in and rattle my nerves even more, I hear footsteps.

  The sound of a heavy, strong stride striking the polished concrete floor outside.

  I don’t bother pulling myself off my bed, even when I hear John’s heavy-handed knock on my door.

  I pause for several seconds.

  “I know you’re in there. Something’s come up,” he says.

  I feel my shoulders tense, my muscles contracting and dragging over the crumpled sheets of my bed. “Fine, come in.”

  The door creaks, and he walks in.

  I still have my hand over my eyes, and I don’t let it drop. Once upon a time I had a rule about showing emotion in front of John. What’s the point now? Our once pleasant relationship has twisted into something bitter.

  I want to tell myself that the reason is that John is disappointed in me. He has all but acquired me, but in doing so, I’ve brought him more risk than gain. I’m too powerful to be controlled. But at the same time, I’m far too powerful to be let go.

  I’m like a nuclear weapon.

  But there’s another reason for how acrimonious our relationship has become.

  And that’s the last thing he said to me before he stormed out of his office two weeks ago.

  The reason I keep attracting so much trouble for him is that I can’t make my mind up. Sure, technically I’ve all but joined him as a piece. But in my heart, have I ever let go of Spencer?

  I don’t fucking know.

  “Do you have a headache?” There’s no kindness behind his tone; it’s just a direct question.

  I let my hand drop and stare at him down my nose. “I’m bored out of my brain, does that count as having a headache?”

  He looks back at me, and he doesn’t measure the disappointed quality to his gaze. “You could be training rather than wasting your time.”

  “I sure could. But there’s a limit to what I can learn...” I trail off as I stop myself from finishing that sentence. I want to say there’s a limit to what I can learn from him. John is an overcautious player. He holds his pieces in reserve and never shows his hand.

  Which, of course, just makes me think of Spencer again.

  He was in my dreams last night. And more than anything, my shoulder’s been acting up. I just stop myself from bringing up a hand and letting my fingers trail tenderly down what’s left of the imprint on my arm.

  John has a very wary quality to his gaze as he’s staring at me, and it’s clear he’s assessing me.

  I finally sit up, looping my legs over my bed. My clothes are messy, and I don’t bother to bring up a hand and neaten my hair. “What is it?”

  He presses his lips together hard until the flesh starts to go white. “Never mind.” Without another word of explanation, he turns hard on his foot and strides toward the door.

  “Are you serious?” I get up and lock my hands on my hips. “You stalk in here telling me that something’s come up, then you turn around and leave without another word?”

  “I don’t have time to get into another argument with you.”

  “So you’re just going to lock the door to my cage and ignore me for the next few weeks?” My words are bitter, coming out in sharp hisses. I’ve bottled this emotion up for days. And the longer I’m left alone, the more poisonous it becomes.

  I take a sharp step toward him, my hands still on my hips, my arms so tense, I look like I’m a statue.

  “I don’t have time for this,” he repeats. He looks at me from over his shoulder, opens the door, and walks out.

  John has rules. So many damn rules. Primary amongst them is that when we talk about magic, we are to do it in his office or in my room.

  Screw that rule.

  Just before he can close the door, I grab it in a white-knuckled hand, wrench it open, and follow him out into the corridor.

  He faces me, his eyes flashing, his head tilted down. He reminds me of a cobra that’s about to strike. “Please,” he says simply.

  “Don’t fob me off this time. What do you want?”

  “We can’t discuss this here.”

  “So you are willing to discuss it, then? You’re not just going to dangle a carrot in front of my nose and then snap it back?” I’m holding onto my anger. It wants to pour out of me and cover this situation like fire.

  Fortunately, though I can hear footsteps, they’re far off down the corridor. Still, if we get into a shouting match, every staff member on this level will hear.

  John clenches his teeth, jerks his head to the side, and sighs hard. “Fine. Follow me.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “Where?”

  “To my car.”

  “What? You’re taking me out?”

  He turns sharply. “I’m afraid I have no choice.”

  “Why? Has something happened?” The anger drains away as a quick worry infiltrates my tone.

  “... Yes.” For a man who usually measures his words and never speaks directly, this is alarming.

  A jolt of adrenaline powers up my back. I take a step in until I’m beside him. I swing my gaze over to his. I’m in crumpled, frumpy clothes. With a quick look, I see he doesn’t approve. He’s bought me a range of far nicer, expensive clothing, but none of it’s comfortable. And who really cares what I look like while I’m locked in my windowless room?

  John darts his gaze from side to side, clearly ascertaining the no one’s around. He leans in. “Please change your clothes. Business wear,” he says simply.

  I clench my teeth. I don’t spit back at him. I concentrate until a charge of magic dances down my arms, across my back, and around my legs. It makes the clothes I’m really wearing disappear as a black pantsuit appears instead. “Will this do, my liege?”

  His face stiffens on the sarcastic term my liege. “Please, please don’t do anything to risk my pieces.”

  I blink, my cheeks paling.

  Out of all of the emotional, heartfelt pleas he could make, that one stops me in my tracks.

  I tilt my head to the side, push my hair behind my ears, and choose to stare at the wall.

  “It would be best if you altered your appearance.”

  “I’ve already put on appropriate business clothes.”

  “I mean your face. We may encounter....” He brings a hand up and locks it on his jaw.

  A race of nerves darts up my back and sinks into my heart. I turn around to look at him, hair swaying around my cheeks. I try to stop my eyes from widening, but I know I fail as John shoots me a calculating, disappointed look.

  “We may face Spencer. I don’t want him to know who you are.”

  I stare at John as he says those words, and he stares back at me. His eyes look like they want to tear through me to find all the secrets buried deep within my heart. He doesn’t have to look that far to see how vulnerable my expression is, though.

  I dart my head back down. At the same time, I peel my senses back. When I don’t hear anyone and when I don’t see anyone, I half close my eyes, bring a hand up, and swipe it across my chest.

  Magic collects around the move, pushing into my body, surging across my shoulders and sinking into my muscles.

  The power concentrates in my face. I make it longer, leaner, older. My eyes change color until they’re a deep green. My hair lengthens and becomes a curly red.

  I can feel John’s gaze on me the entire time, and out of the corner of my eye, just for a few seconds, his expression changes. It looks as if he’s impressed by my magic, enthral
led by what I can do. Once it’s done, I turn back to him.

  “That will do,” he mutters.

  I clench my teeth, but I don’t bite back at him. The promise that we might encounter Spencer....

  I shake my head, surreptitiously bringing my hand around my back and squeezing it until my nails sink into my palm. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Spencer has finally found one of Rogers’ most important boards. He’s making a final move for Rogers’ power.”

  A thrill of nerves dances through my stomach. My mouth dries, and my throat becomes scratchy. I clear my throat, pressing my nails even harder into my palm. “Why did it take so long? Why is he only doing this now? It’s been weeks.”

  “Rogers was a far more powerful player than Spencer. He knew how to hide his boards.”

  “I see. So why didn’t you find this board earlier?” It’s a hell of a direct question.

  John doesn’t shrink from it. He turns his head until he’s staring at me while walking by my side. Though his attention is on me, I doubt he’s about to trip over his feet. Hell, a wall could suddenly appear in front of him, and considering his current mood, he’d just expend magic to blow it the hell up.

  In other words, he has the expression of a man who will not let anything get in his way at the moment.

  “I did look for it. But I didn’t have the resources Spencer did. I have been spending far too much time and energy keeping you safe instead.”

  There would’ve been a time when John would’ve measured his every word around me. There would’ve been a time when he would’ve been as soft as a rose petal against my skin.

  Now he’s like a battering ram.

  A sinking feeling plunges through my gut. I almost bring a hand up and cover it over my belly, but I jerk my head toward him at the last moment, eyes blazing. “I can look after myself.”

  He snorts. “Every action you make has a ripple effect that will affect everyone else. That is your legacy as the Last Queen. And until you accept that—” he stops abruptly.

  I stop too as I hear thundering footfall headed our way.

  Somebody shoots around the corner, and they stop when they see John.