In front of us the cement floor tilts up until it kisses the ceiling of the bunker. As I watch, the ceiling slides back, and the leaves that helped camouflage the hidden door fall into the bunker like confetti.

Natural light streams in, the first I’ve seen in months, and the sight of it takes my breath away. The washed out sky beyond is not the same blue that haunts my memories, but it’s still one of the most beautiful sights I’ve seen in a long time.

Once the ceiling slides back far enough, our caravan pulls out. My eyes drink in the war-scorched earth. Out here in the middle of nowhere, the damage isn’t as apparent as it is in the heart of our once big cities, but if you stare long enough, you’ll see it.

It’s a five-minute drive to the hangar that houses our jet. Short enough that if the representatives ever needed to make a quick escape they could, but long enough that if the hangar were ever to be attacked, the bunker would remain unharmed.

We pull into it, and inside several aircraft wait. One sits in front of the rest, and several men and women already swarm around it, loading the jet, and checking up on its general maintenance.

“Ambassador Freeman,” the general turns to my father, “this will work.”

I see a muscle in my father’s cheek flex, and something unspoken passes between the two of them. Whatever it is, it has my father angry.

Beyond us, the rest of our group is beginning to load themselves onboard the aircraft. I grab my bag, clenching my jaw at the airy way my dress swishes around my legs—as if I am some delicate thing that requires only the lightest of caresses and the softest material.

I stare at the jet that will take me away from this miserable land to one that’s already fallen to the king. The same king that’s taken everything from me. I’ll come face to face with him. I take a deep breath.

Time to dance with the devil.

Chapter 3

Serenity

Eight years ago my father put a gun in my hand for the first time.

That morning when I walked into the kitchen, he sat at our table sipping a cup of coffee, a wrapped box in front of him.

I halted at the sight of it.

“Thought I’d forgotten your birthday?” he asked, glancing up from his laptop.

I had. He hadn’t mentioned it, and I hadn’t bothered reminding him. He’d been so busy. So weary. It made me feel guilty any time I thought of mentioning it to him.

I continued to stare at the gift.

“Well?” He closed the computer screen and pushed it aside. “Are you going to open it?”

Tentatively I approached the kitchen table. “You didn’t have to get me a present,” I said, even as I reached for the box.

He gave me a gentle smile, but something in his eyes warned me to curb my enthusiasm.

Carefully I peeled away the wrapping, savoring the fact that my father had remembered. Beneath it was a worn-out shoebox advertising men’s loafers. I raised my eyebrows, earning me a chuckle.

“Open the lid, Serenity,” my father said, leaning forward.

I lifted it like he asked, and balked at what rested inside.

“Go ahead and grab it—gently.”

Reaching in, I touched the cold metal and wrapped my hands around the handle.

“Do you know what that is?” he asked me.

How could I not know? “It’s a gun.” I tried to curb my disappointment. I wouldn’t be getting any new toys this year. Not on my father’s watch.

“No,” my father said. “That is a death sentence.”

I stared at the weapon in my hand like it was a snake.

“I know you’ve seen the street gangs shooting up property for the hell of it,” he continued, leaving his seat to kneel at my side. “That is not a toy. You point that gun, then you aim to kill.”

My eyes widened at that. Of course I knew guns could kill, but my father was gifting me the weapon. As though he expected me to kill.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Then get dressed. We’re leaving in an hour.”

“Where are we going?” I asked him.

He flashed me a small, sly smile. “The shooting range.”

Nine hours after we left D.C., the flight begins its descent into what was once Switzerland.

My father takes my hand and squeezes it. He’s not a man of many words, but throughout the flight he’s been even quieter than usual.

“I never wanted this life for you,” he says, looking at me.

I squeeze his hand back. “I know, Dad.”

But he’s not done. “You’ve had to grow up so damn fast. And now this. I’ve delivered you into the belly of the beast.”

I look at him, really look at him. “You are all that I have left,” I say. “I’d rather die here with you than live alone underground until the war ends.” And I’m captured.

My father shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he says. “You have your whole life ahead of you.”

What he doesn’t say is that my lifespan isn’t all that much longer in the bunker than it is here. The real question is what would kill me first—starvation, capture, or my failing health.

“And what kind of life is that?” I ask.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Will likes you. Has for a while. And I’ve seen the way you look at him when you think no one’s watching.”

My brow creases at this, and my cheeks flush. Out of all the horrible things I’ve seen and done, why does this one embarrass me so much?

“Dad, that couldn’t ever happen.” Even as I say it, I wonder if it could. Will seemed interested in starting something.

My father sighs. “I just wish.”

And that’s all we do these days. Wish.

The jet touches ground and I hold onto my seat as we bounce. Outside the sun is brighter than I’ve ever seen it, and the sky bluer. I don’t know how it’s possible that the world can look this lovely.

Outside the runway, a large crowd has gathered. My head pounds at the thought that they are waiting for my father and me.

I unbuckle my seatbelt as the aircraft coasts to a stop near the crowd. By the time my father and I stand, our guards are already waiting in the aisles, their faces grim. I know each and every one of them, which makes this whole situation worse. Now I have over a dozen people to worry over, to grieve for should anything go wrong.