Peanut Butter Fingerprints

Chapter Twenty-Six

"The Corrupt King"

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"All things can corrupt when minds are prone to evil."

-Ovid

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America

Each second felt like an hour as time stood still. I wondered if the rest of the world was holding its breath as I was. Every tick from the clock on the shelf to my right seemed longer with each passing second; it was almost as if time itself had slowed.

The silver blade held against my throat glimmered in the setting sun's rays, and the fiery swirl of yellow and orange in the evening sky casted a warm glow into the room through the ceiling-tall windows on the wall behind me. Red coated the edge of the blade, but I didn't think that blood was mine. I fought the urge to shudder.

I knew I needed to say something, but I couldn't bring myself to speak. My throat felt too swollen to be able to say anything, yet I knew if I did anyway it'd only draw the metal deeper into my flesh. When his grip on my hair tightened, I finally found the strength to reply.

"What do you want?" I hissed as my arms protectively wrapped around my swollen belly.

"I think you know what it is that I want, America," he replied sharply.

I gulped, and laced my fingers together. The alarm was still whirring throughout the Palace, its shrill warning echoing in my ears. Noise from outside the study's door was becoming louder as I pushed away the sound of my racing heart. Amongst the sirens were steady pops of gunshots, shouts in French and English, and thuds of bodies hitting the ground.

I knew what he wanted: the crown. As if I'd ever give up my crown to a bloodthirsty, power hungry tyrant like him.

"Over my dead body," I spat.

I gasped as he tugged on my hair and yanked my head back farther, exposing more of my neck. I felt a sharp prick, and something warm slide down my skin. A single drop of blood fell onto my robe, staining the white cloth scarlet.

"That can be arranged," he growled near my ear.

I argued, "You won't kill me. You need me. I'm no use to you dead."

He chuckled bitterly. "You'd be surprised to know just how many people want you dead."

I swallowed again, refusing to shiver at the feeling of the cold metal on my skin.

"For every person who wants me dead, there's a hundred more who want me alive. If I were you, I'd be more careful about whose neck you put a dagger to," I replied slowly.

A weak cry slipped through my lips as he flipped the dagger around and placed the tip under my chin.

"Remember whose life you're also responsible for," he warned.

My eyes instinctively lowered to my stomach, where I still felt sharp pains. I wanted so badly to cry out, but I knew I couldn't. If I showed him that I was in labor, he'd no doubt use it against me. Before I could think of something, anything to get myself out of here, a string of words I wished I could have taken back slipped through my lips.

"If you think you're going to dethrone me by simply holding a knife to my neck, then you've lost your goddamn mind."

"I'm not here to dethrone you. Actually, I'm here so that you keep your petty crown. You see, we don't just want the throne. We want you."

My heart thudded in my chest. If Clarkson had lived, I would have had the same fate: keep my crown to play the part of puppet. I loved my people too much to see them destroyed, but I also loved them too much to manipulate them.