The King | Maxon Schreave

Chapter Seven

Hello everyone! This new chapter contains scenes that are rated M, so if you don't feel comfortable with it, don't feel obligated to read. Also, the chapter was reviewed by the amazing Eliza-Vic_fanfic who writes also incredible fanfictions of The Selection Series in French. Thank you so much! I hope you will enjoy the chapter, please leave reviews it's so important for me!

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Leaning on the stone railing, bathed in the light of the sunset, my eyes wander in the void, seemingly unable to settle anywhere. I take a breath from the cigarette I hold between my fingers, and for a few seconds, the stabbing pain that lacerates my heart seems to subside.

Then my thoughts drift back to the events of the day, and the suffering overwhelms me again, like a tidal wave devastating everything in its path. I am nineteen years old, and today I buried my father and mother. I am nineteen years old, and I am an orphan. I am nineteen years old, and I am the king of a country in the midst of an uprising. I am nineteen years old, and today everything seems too big, too heavy to bear on my shoulders alone.

Feeling nausea rising, I close my eyes and squeeze my eyelids as hard as I can. My grief may not be physical, but it is only getting worse. It is a pain that devastates everything, takes everything from you, devours you from within. I feel as if I have hit rock bottom and been weighted down, with no hope of ever being able to find the surface again.

Drowned in my sorrow, I hardly feel the caress of a light hand on my shoulder. I would recognize this touch in a thousand ways, and yet tonight it is of no comfort to me. But I still turn to her, in the vain hope that her delicate features will distract me for a moment from my dark thoughts.

America is standing upright in her black dress with the veil of her hat folded over her back. She is staring at me with such deep sadness in the depths of her azure pupils that it takes my breath away. Everything in her emanates compassion and affliction. I do not see an ounce of pity in her eyes. She knows I could not bear it. A sad but tender smile appears on her lips as she stretches out her arms towards me, inviting me to embrace her. A millisecond of hesitation and I collapse into her arms. Her arms so slender and yet so strong.

And I break into tears. Something that had not happened to me for years, so well have I learned to control my feelings, to hide them behind this mask of flesh. He had always told me that men do not cry. But some feelings justify being broken up.

It seems to me that this moment stretches for hours, and yet the cold tears that wet my neck proves to me that I am not dreaming. She shares my pain, she understands it, feels it in her whole body, in her whole soul. And I love her even more for that. But I need more tonight. I need to forget, to forget everything, to silence those invisible voices screaming in my head.

Her perfume greys my senses, dazes me, intoxicates me. She, which was only a challenge imposed on me, has become my drug. My obsession. She has become vital to me. Essential to my survival. Moved by an almost wild instinct, I take possession of her neck, and I sow long kisses along the vein that beats to the rhythm of her heart. I can feel her get carried away as my hands explore her body still covered by the heavy black crepe dress.

"Maxon..." she sighs. "Maxon, I..."

"I need you," I whispered into the hollow of her neck. "I want you."

"You already have me," she replied with difficulty, so much so that the assaults of my lips against her skin destabilize her.

"I want you all of you, only to myself," I almost begged. "Make me forget everything, I beseech you."