Daughters of the King |✓|

Chapter Thirty-Six

Bjorn and Bastian stopped only a few steps across the bridge.

The other side hadn't moved.

We were in trouble.

I grabbed the last remaining rifle and ran.

"Olya, no," screamed Tomoko when I dashed past them, but I didn't stop until I reached Bjorn and Bastian.

And that's when I finally saw everything. From the truck, too much had been obscured from my view. Perhaps Bjorn had intended it that way, had angled it so I wouldn't do this. But it hadn't worked. I was on the bridge now, and I was staring straight ahead at my worst nightmare.

My mother was there. She pushed the hood of her cloak off her head to reveal her long, flowing black hair. Behind her was a lineup of guns aimed right at us.

She smiled.

Gunnar was at her side, and it's no wonder I hadn't recognized him from a distance. He was nearly unrecognizable. Thin and underfed, and heavily beaten. Bruises and cuts marked his whole face, like he'd been tortured.

"My daughter," my mother's voice carried over the distance separating us. "I've been trying to find you for a long time."

I couldn't formulate a response—couldn't do anything but stand there in horror. This was another game of hers, another challenge.

She stood there in the open, chin held high, unafraid. She knew we wouldn't shoot her—wouldn't shoot a Daughter. It's like she was daring us to fight—daring us to start a war. That's what she wanted after all, wasn't it? A war. I'd known it somehow, and yet I'd wanted so bad for it not to be true.

"Take Bastian back to the truck," I hissed to Bjorn, desperate to save who I could.

"No," he growled back, unwilling to leave my side.

Bastian didn't wait around. I heard him go and didn't even have to look to know he'd taken off, back to the truck on his own. I felt Bjorn stand closer. My shadow. Together, we faced the queen.

She inched closer, her face manic, her cloak billowing behind her in a vile wind, while gripping Gunnar by the arm and dragging him along. In her other hand, she held a pistol.

Gunnar could barely walk beside her, his legs weak. I started trembling from head to toe, tears stinging my eyes.

"I thought he knew where you were," she said, by way of explanation for the state of him. "You should be thankful. It's what kept him alive all this time."

"What do you want?" I asked.

"I want you." Her voice was sickly sweet, then she laughed and the sound of it echoed its way down the bridge and off the surface of the black river rushing below, before disappearing into the forest that surrounded us. "I want you to come back with me, you and the baby. And I want you to surrender control of the factories."

"No," Bjorn practically screamed. "Olya stays with us."

It was the stupidest thing he could have done—I wanted to choke him—because a second later, my mother planted her feet, and a darkness enveloped her features.

She turned the pistol on Gunnar, holding the nozzle of it right at his temple. Gunnar's eyes fluttered closed, and I saw a pallor settle on his face as the blood drained, his bronze skin turning ashen.

"You can have me," I said, since it made no difference to me, and I tried to cross the bridge, tried to run to Gunnar, but Bjorn grabbed me.

I was momentarily so distracted, it took me a second to register why I hadn't moved. Then I turned and glared at him.

"Let go," I bit out.

"Please," he whispered. "Stay with me."

I didn't have time to argue with him. I shoved him off and turned back towards my mother. She had a smile painted on her face now, and I started to walk, one step at a time.

Except I was still too unfocused—my mind too clouded with the desire to hold Gunnar in my arms—that I didn't immediately notice it. Didn't notice that her hand had moved, but the gun hadn't. Just the smallest of shifts, but one that could make all the difference.

I slowly, belatedly realized she'd put her finger on the trigger. Why did she only just now put her finger on the trigger?

I came to a halt midway across the bridge. I forced my gaze away from Gunnar—forced myself to focus on my mother for a second. Her face was still etched with that manic smile, her eyes wild in her face. She was a jealous person by nature, my mother.

She didn't love me. She loved to own me. And she didn't like to share.

She already had the country, but now she would get me, she would get the baby, and she would get control of the factories back.

She would have it all, and she would make sure I had nothing left.

Where's Zelle? I thought suddenly, at the exact same moment I realized she must be dead.

I might have shot my mother right then and there, if she weren't a Daughter of the King. I pictured myself raising the gun and doing it. Over and over, it replayed in my head, even though I knew I never would. I never could.

Shooting her—the supreme leader, a Daughter of the King—would only start a war.

"Olya," my mother said, her voice hard, a warning, because I'd stopped walking.

I wasn't looking at her anymore. I was looking at Gunnar. The man I'd lost, and thought I would finally get back.

He was looking back at me, and time was frozen still as I suddenly went over every aching second of the time we'd spent together, right from the moment we'd met under a bolt of lightning, to this very moment right now.

He looked so broken, but then, suddenly, he nodded. He was giving me permission to go. Sacrificing himself. That's the sort of person he was.

Distantly, I heard his voice. We were tangled together in bed in the middle of the night, one of many cherished and stolen moments.

When did it start for you? I'd asked him those words.

As soon as I saw you, that very first time, he'd said. I knew you were going to ruin me. I thought to myself: this is it. Your time has come. This is the one.

The one who's going to kill you.

It took me another few long seconds to remember I still had a rifle strung to my shoulder.

I made sure to act quickly. Made sure to do it before anyone would realize what I was doing.

I heard nothing. Thought of nothing. Became nothing.

I raised the gun and shot.

If you had to choose between your own freedom and the man you loved, what would you choose? If you had to choose between your child and the man you loved, who would you choose? It's an impossible decision, isn't it?

I wasn't even sure which choice I'd made until I heard the gun go off. The sound of it shocked through my body like a lightning bolt, as though I'd just shot myself. I wouldn't have been surprised if I had fallen to the ground dead.

But I wasn't dead. I'd never been so alive. I could hear the pounding of my own heart in my ears—could feel the sob that ripped its way up my throat, the pain tearing through me.

There were distant cries from both ends of the bridge. My mother trembled on her feet, ready to fall to the ground, but managed to hold her footing.

Gunnar fell over, shot through the head.

I turned my back on him—on my defeated mother—and marched to the truck. I didn't look behind me once, I just kept on walking, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

Just one foot, then the other.

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