Peanut Butter Fingerprints

Chapter Eleven

AMERICA'S POV- (SIX MONTHS AND TWO WEEKS PREGNANT)

"ANY CRAZY CRAVINGS SO FAR?" Kriss asked through a mouthful of cookies and tea.

Elise gave Kriss a scolding glance, but relaxed a bit when she saw me shoving cookies into my mouth too. Kriss let out a muffled giggle when I shook my head exaggeratingly. She gulped down the food in her mouth and laughed cheerfully. "America, you look like a chipmunk!"

She was right; I'd pushed all of the cookies into my cheeks. Without even looking in a mirror, I could tell they looked round, like a chipmunk with nuts shoved into its cheeks. Oh, what Maxon would do to have a picture like that up on our wall.

My chest ached at the thought of Maxon. Damn, was it hard to keep him from my thoughts. The more I tried to ignore it, the more I thought about it. Yesterday, Maxon had been declared a criminal of the country of France. Daphne made some sob story about how Maxon had tried to kill and rape her. Of course, not a single person sitting in that court room knew that was true.

But what really pissed me off, really really pissed me off was the fact that Maxon pleaded guilty. It didn't make any sense at all. Maxon had a nasty temper when he was really angry-an unfortunate trait from his cruel father-but he always came to the Princess Suite on his knees, tears streaming down his face, telling me he didn't deserve me.

For the first three to four years, it was like that. Until lately. It morphed from verbal abuse to mental abuse, from mental abuse to physical abuse. Sure, he yelled at me; shouted nasty things at me and ended up locking himself in his study to cool off. We were never really angry for long; and all the words we said to each other we didn't mean anyways.

However, in the last year or so, they'd become increasingly violent. Like four nights ago when he'd dug his fingers deep into my throat and bruised my windpipe. (It still hurt to eat; I was on a soft foods only diet to cut my throat some slack.) Maxon had never been that aggressive in the past. Sure, he'd slapped me, he'd grabbed my shoulders and shook me, and he'd even thrown a book at me. He'd never left a wound that wouldn't heal.

But the day before, when three-fourths of The United Nations voted towards sentencing Maxon to his death, he left a dagger in my heart that I would never be able to pull out. What troubled me the most was that he didn't struggle; he didn't even so much as lift a single finger. He let them drag him away, his eyes looking distant. All of the anger from him choking me left in an instant when he looked straight into the camera and mouthed I love you, America. The look in his eyes said it all.

He was giving up. This was a fight he could not win.

It was then I knew it was all an act. Daphne, taking advantage of Maxon's temper, must have slipped something into his drink; a pill or liquid that fueled his rage past the point of conscious thought. Maxon had never screamed at any of my maids before. He had never "commanded" anyone to do anything, besides for me to stop tickling him. As I replayed the incident in my mind over and over again, it all made sense. Daphne had seen an opportunity for her to take Illeá, and she'd snatched it up. In her eyes, my pregnancy made me vulnerable and reliant on Maxon. Or so she'd thought.

The media had perceived me at first as delicate and fragile but all of that changed when I'd stormed into the Congress Conference Room with a dark black dress and makeup. Maxon chuckled when I'd told him two years ago, that if ever anything were to happen to him and I'd be left alone with Illeá, I wanted a box full of things to make me look to be in charge.

Of course, he had chosen all of the things with me, telling me which style dress I looked best in when I was angry. I'd laughed and thrown a palette of black and purple eyeshadow at him, which broke and spilled all over his face and shirt. I still had that picture tucked underneath my pillow for whenever the need to tease Maxon arose.