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She was crowned with a fire opal.
The stone was not fitting for a queen, but she was not the sort that was fit for a queen. She was an assassin, and she was going to kill this king before the marriage was consummated. She had stayed too long in this country, long enough to where she was becoming lost in her role. She had friends here, and that was dangerous for someone in her work.
She should not settle, could not allow herself to be so weak.
Yet, when she accepted the crown on her head, weighted with the strange stones that would not settle on a color, Natalia met the eyes of a man—not her husband, but the Hawk standing in the shadows—and felt like a queen.
Her husband lead her out onto the floor for a dance, and she endured it. He was not the sort of man she would have been interested in if she had chosen to marry, but they were never alone together. The king was paranoid enough for that, and she would have appreciated it if she did not think it foolish. They had overlooked women as a means of getting to him, and he had been too easy for her to reach, even if it meant that she had to marry him to gain access.
He had married a stranger, and he did not care. He only cared that he had an exotic prize. That was all she had ever been to this king, all she would ever be—until she killed him. Then, and only then, would he see her differently.
“Are you happy, my queen?”
She did not think she had ever been happy in her entire life. “Should I not be?”
“I was afraid that you would disapprove of the choice for your crown. The stones are traditional, but they do not suit you. You should have finer, rarer, more expensive ones that honor your beauty.” The king lifted up her chin. “No one agreed with me. They followed my brother's orders instead, refused to alter the crown. I had them executed. This disloyalty is tiresome.”
She frowned at that—not him killing the servants, that was common with him and they were nothing to her, but at the idea of his brother selecting her crown. The king kissed her and finished their dance. She did not think he intended to give her another, and she would not complain. He was a poor dancer. She would have rubbed her foot if she did not know that it was a weakness.
“You had better take a turn with him. If people do not see you together, they will think he disapproves of you, and you need his favor around here,” the king said, casting a dark look toward his brother. His lips twisted into a grim half-smile. “It is a pity you are not a trained killer, my queen. I would have you eliminate that threat to our happiness.”
She frowned, almost wondering if he knew, but before she could ask, the king had ordered Hawkeye to his side and given her hand to him, forcing her into another dance.
She should be nervous. Hawkeye had already warned her that he would harm her if she betrayed the king, and she thought that he saw more of who she truly was than anyone in the country. “I would not have thought you would be here.”
“My brother—the king—got married. I have to be here.”
“You disapprove of me. Why bother attending?”
He did not answer, but he did not step on her feet, either, which was some improvement over the king. She was not surprised to see a man with his skills move with grace. He needed to if he was to be an effective killer. Brute force was rarely as effective as subtlety.
“Silence does not change your disapproval,” she told him. “Not only did you threaten me, but you also made your feelings clear about the crown.”
He glanced toward the stones. “You are mistaken. That shows more approval than you have. It should have been changed for you, but I am not willing to see centuries of our heritage thrown away because he is a fool. The stones even suit you, duplicitous as you are.”
Her lips thinned and she almost twisted his wrist in anger. “Excuse me?”
He tapped the crown's matching necklace. “The stones seem to change colors. You are like them, always someone else dependent on who you are with at the moment.”
He knew her too well. He was dangerous.
After she killed the king, she should kill him.
“Your brother wants you dead.”
“I know,” Hawkeye said, and a part of her wondered if he knew what she had planned for his brother, if he was going to permit it. He could stop her, here and now, but he did not. Was this permission, then?
“You are not bothered by this?”
He almost smiled. “Everyone dies. Having two sons is meant to be insurance for the future, ensuring the succession, but most of the second sons I know have killed their older brother. They lack loyalty.”
“To their family or to the throne?”
“Both.” He said, ending the dance with a formal bow. He left the dance floor, disappearing into the crowed. She covered the fire opal with her hand. She understood—Hawkeye was loyal to the throne. He was a tool that could be used.
If he did not kill her, if she did not have to kill him, she might be able to use him.
“Something wrong, my queen?”
“No,” she answered, giving the king a smile. “Everything is perfect.”