She'd been half expecting to trip and fall down these stairs for years now. They were steep, narrow, rickety and poorly lit, and the only time they were used was in panicked, emergency situations. Still, it was embarrassing when it finally happened. She'd been halfway between entrances to the safe rooms when the rebel alarms started blaring, and Avery, the guard nearest her, ran forward, brandishing his weapon, and escorted her at a full out run to the next opening. But America had been in heels, of course, and she'd fallen behind during the run. She needed to seek out physical training, she lamented, because she'd been shorter and shorter of breath since moving into Maxon's gilded cage three years previously. She was out of shape.

So Avery, brave and dutiful, reached back and took her by the arm, pulling her with him the rest of the way to the safe room entrance. There were loud, crashing sounds coming from the hallway, and America thanked any deity listening for men like him. Men who ran, with weapons brandished, towards the rebels, to defend the Kingdom. The door to the safe room swung open, Avery shoved America inside, and slammed the door closed behind her. She was safe, and Avery was running toward the now clearly audible gunfire.

Avery had been perhaps a little overly enthusiastic in his saving of America's life. With that push into the safe room, she toppled down the steep, narrow, rickety, poorly lit stairs and landed hard on her shoulder, right at Maxon's feet.

"America!" he exclaimed, surprised. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." she said, through gritted teeth. Her shoulder burned, but it would fade quickly. She needed a minute, maybe thirty seconds, and the pain would start to subside.

He knelt down and gave her a hand up. "Did you trip?"

"I was pushed." she shouldn't have said it, she immediately regretted it. The pain had been distracting her, or she would have thought better of this attempt to salvage her pride. Everyone knew she was clumsy, anyway. It wasn't as though pretending to have tripped would have damaged the Queen's reputation any further.

"Who pushed you?" Maxon asked, gravely.

"It was an accident." America insisted, straightening out her dress. Her shoulder still burned. If there had been anyone else in the room, she'd have busied herself with them. But she and Maxon were all that was left of the royal family, and they were the only ones left to occupy the main safe room. It was one of the very few times when she missed the Selection enough to wish that some of the other girls were with them. Even if it meant her husband having to go pretend to flirt with a few of them for a while, it would be better than the anger in his eyes right now.

"Who pushed you, America?"

"A man who also happened to be saving my life." she said, stoutly.

"A guard?"

"It was bad timing, Maxon." America said, going over to the nearest cot and sitting down. "I was in between two safe rooms without easy access to either. That's why it took me so long to get down here. A guard, I won't tell you which, ran me to safety, got me through the door, and proceeded to rush into battle to defend your life and mine."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "If I promise not to be angry—"

"You're already angry."

"They are not supposed to push you, America, and they know it."

"He got overly excited in his zest for protecting me from gunfire. Give that man a medal."

"Maybe I would if you'd tell me who it was."

She sized him up. "I won't."

"America." he said, exasperated.

"In a couple of days, I promise." she said. "Not while your adrenaline is still pumping, my love." she'd added the last endearment as a reminder. They weren't supposed to have fights down here. The safe room was for cherishing each other only.

Maxon sank down next to her and nodded. "Fine. Let me look at it?"

"At—"

"The shoulder you fell on."

"How did you know?" She'd done her best not to gesticulate to it, she didn't like adding more worries to his already heavy load. Not for something silly like a jammed shoulder.

He gathered her fiery red hair in his hand and let it fall over her far shoulder. "I pay attention." he replied, gently tugging the shoulder of her bottle green day dress down to expose the flesh beneath. It was bright red and already forming a bruise. He pressed his lips lightly to the wound. "Ice." he said.

"As soon as the attack is over." America nodded.

"Would you consent to an aspirin?" he knew her reluctance to medicate. Most of the time, she told him he was overreacting when he tried to force medicine down her throat. It was a result of their different upbringings. America, as a Five, never had access to medical care or medicines. Maxon, as the Prince and sole heir to the throne of Illéa, was, in all likelihood, overdosed all of his life out of an abundance of caution.

"Would it set your mind at ease?" America asked, leaning her nose in to touch his.

"Yes."

"Then I shall." she said, smiling a little.

He chuckled and pressed his lips to hers, punctuating his next sentence with kisses. "Did you really—" kiss, "just use the word—" kiss, "'shall'?" kiss.

America grinned at the memory from their first meeting, "You're a terrible influence on me, Maxon Schreave."

"Does it hurt?" he asked, peeking down her her still exposed skin.

"It's much better now." It throbbed a little, but the burn of first impact was gone. They listened, but it was impossible to hear much through the mostly soundproofed rooms. "Is it bad?" America asked.

"I couldn't tell."

"Violent, though." America said, grimly. "I heard gunshots."

Maxon sighed, tiredly. "Damned southerners." There was no other kind of rebel anymore. The northerners who still wished to be unified and militaristic were now called 'the Militia' and they enforced the King's peace in unstable regions that weren't responding as well to the slow but steady changes in the caste structure.

America nodded, heart aching for her husband, and placed a hand on the back of his neck. "Get comfortable, Maxon. It's going to be a long night, once we're out of here."

Maxon frowned, loosening his tie. "I was looking forward to dinner with you tonight, my dear."

"Don't start." America said, rolling her eyes and kicking off her heels.

"What?" he asked, boyishly. False innocence all over his face.

"Do you know who you called 'my dear' last week? The Chancellor of the German Federation. The only people less likely to be 'your dear' in this whole world might be the rebels. Might be. I still half expect that, when you finally come face to face with one, you'll reach out your hand to shake and make peace and exclaim, 'Good to see you, my dear'." Maxon chortled at this, his honey brown eyes glittering. "You will call anyone 'your dear'. You don't call me 'your dear'." America ordered.

"My dearest love." Maxon offered.

America shook her head at him. "You might be trying too hard." she leant forward and kissed him, then leant back on the cot, lying flat, looking up at the dim ceiling. She moved her bare feet into Maxon's lap. His hands went to work, rubbing her soles deeply, eliciting a heavy sigh of contentment from America, "You're working your way back into my good graces right now."

"This is all it takes?" he asked, amused. "I'm going to start misbehaving much more frequently."

She smiled a little and closed her eyes. She was horrified by the attacks, beyond anxious for the guards fighting upstairs right now and for their families, should any of them perish, but she couldn't stop herself. This was the most time she and Maxon had had together all week. She was glad to have it.

His hands froze suddenly, and he took a sharp breath in. "You're bleeding." he said, unhappily.

"What?" America asked, leaning up. How could she be? She wasn't hurt, except her shoulder, and that hadn't broken skin.

"The top knuckles of your toes are scraped raw, Ames." he said, leaning closely over them to examine them. In the dim light of the safe room, it was hard to see details.

"Oh." America breathed a sigh of relief. She laid back down and closed her eyes again. "That's from my shoes."

"These shoes?" Maxon asked, peering down at her abandoned shoes on the floor, revolted.

"All of my shoes. That's just what they do, honey. It doesn't hurt." she assured him.

"You've rubbed your skin raw in those shoes, how can you say that it doesn't hurt? Did Silvia make you wear these? Or was it Mary?"

America smirked and shook her head, "There you go again, asking me to name names."

"America—" he protested, but she cut him off.

"You think I would betray the women in my employ? Leave them helpless in the face of their King's wrath? They're my shoes, I put them on every morning, I am perfectly capable of wearing other shoes, but I don't. I like the shoes I have."

"You won't wear them anymore, America." he said, firmly.

"You know, though I am happy to defer to your wisdom in certain matters of state, I do not defer to your fashion sense, Maxon."

"You could have others made, custom for your feet. Just as fashionable, but without the blood."

America sighed, but not unhappily. "And you could be a little less protective of me."

He did not reply. He was chewing it over, and she liked that about him. He was listening to her concern, processing it, and attempting to address it. When he spoke, it was not in the voice he'd adopted as King. It wasn't authoritative or firm. It was his young prince voice. He was terribly uncertain and just a little bit frightened. "You're all I have left, America." he said, finally.

She immediately swung her feet over the side of the cot and wrapped her arms firmly around him from the side. He vocalized that particular anxiety every once in a while, and she'd found that it always helped for her to wrap him up in a warm embrace as soon as possible. "And I'm not going anywhere." she pressed a kiss to his cheek. "You're stuck with me."

He smiled a little at this and then, some color returning to his cheeks, leant back against his elbows and said, with an air of false casualness, "You know, if you'd give me heirs, maybe I'd be less protective of you. I'd have other family members to concern myself with."

She chuckled at his cheekiness. "Maybe if you ever made it to bed before two o'clock in the morning, we could make an heir."

"Really?" he asked, looking over at her, eyes shining.

America took a deep breath, "It would certainly improve the odds."

"Well… we're together now." he said, impishly wagging his eyebrows.

America laughed and shook her head, "Maxon Schreave, we are not conceiving the next heir to the throne of Illéa in a safe room during a rebel attack. It's an entirely inappropriate setting."

"Damn it." Maxon sighed. "You're right. That's not how we want to start things off with him."

"Him?" America asked.

"Or her, as our first child may be. But the heir to the throne would be a 'him'."

"Oh, would it?" America asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Of course. You know that." Maxon said, confused.

"Enamored with the patriarchy, are you?" America asked, amused but not pleased.

"What… what does that mean?" It was times like this, Maxon's upbringing showed. His lack of experience with women still occasionally left him with a 'deer-in-the-headlights' look in his eyes. It usually made America want to melt into a puddle, as if she was staring into the eyes of a much younger, more vulnerable Maxon. But this time, she needed to teach him.

"What would be so wrong with a female hereditary monarch, Maxon?"

"You mean… our daughter? To be Queen?"

"Yes."

"Well… it's just… it's not the done thing." he said, simply, with a weak attempt in his tone to end the avenue of conversation.

"Why not?" she challenged, but with sweetness in her voice.

"Because… we just… we pass the throne down through the male line."

"Why couldn't you pass it to a daughter?"

"Because she wouldn't be a male." he said, sensing the danger he was in and looking faintly ready to bolt.

America nodded, sympathetically. "So you believe men inherently more capable of ruling the country than women."

"Of course not!"

"A Queen is an accessory to a King, not a ruler in her own right."

"I never said that!"

"Then why wouldn't you allow our daughter to be reigning monarch after you?" America pressed.

"We don't have a daughter!" he reminded her.

"We could." America said, simply. "And I need to know that she wouldn't lose the rights afforded her by birth because of her gender."

"What do you want me to do, America?" he sounded so weary. He'd had a long week, and she hated to make it longer.

America sighed and kissed his temple. "I want you to amend the laws of inheritance so that our first born child, boy or girl, may inherit the throne. And once I know that we've done everything to ensure equality between our male children and our female children, I think I could be convinced to start producing them."

Maxon was not happy. "You're asking me to change a law as old as Illéa."

"The castes were as old as Illéa, too, Maxon. There's a lot we're changing. We're for equality between castes. And I want us to be for equality between genders, too. We could have a daughter, Maxon, and she could be talented if she takes after you. Why would we throw that away just because she'd be a girl?"

Maxon frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "How long have you been cooking up this scheme?"

"Honestly? Since before the Selection."

"What?"

"I've always thought it was ridiculous that princesses were used as political pawns, married off to foreign princes, and only princes could inherit a reigning title. And you know it's glaring, because I noticed it. I didn't give the monarchy more than two glances before the Selection, but during one of those glances, I noticed this."

Maxon had that furrow between his brows. "I'll think on it."

"You can't imagine handing over your crown to a woman?" she asked, understandingly.

"It'd be your crown, my—"

"Maxon." America warned.

"Love. I was going to say love, I swear." he smiled a little again and that brow relaxed.

"You think she wouldn't be strong enough to shoulder the burden?" America asked, resting her head on his shoulder.

That smile faded. "I can't imagine burdening any of our children with this responsibility, but least of all our little girls."

"We'll help them, Maxon. Both of us." she said, leaning in and kissing his lips, softly. "It won't be like your parents. I'm not the type to sit in the Women's room and do needle point all day, and you know it. You knew that going into this marriage, didn't you?" she reminded him.

"Yes, I did."

"Yes, you did." She agreed. "We'll teach them, we'll guide them. They'll come to us for support, for help. We're stronger together."

"Yes, we are." he agreed.

"They'll learn from that." she promised.

He considered her closely, then kissed her lips. "I want my heir, America." he said, with false petulance.

"Well then, you know what to do, your Majesty." America teased.

"You've been holding off all this time, for this?" he asked.

"I haven't been holding off." she shook her head, raising her eyebrows, surprised. "We just... weren't ready." It had taken them years to recover from the sudden loss of King Clarkson and Queen Amberly. The thought of bringing an infant into the world under those messy and tumultuous circumstances was horrifying. But now, despite the still present rebel attacks, King Maxon and Queen America were ruling well together. Two halves of a very important coin. And they were older now, they'd had some time together with just the two of them. America felt ready, and she knew Maxon wanted nothing more than to cradle an infant or twelve in his arms. He wanted a big family, and he wanted it yesterday.

"I'm ready now." he said.

She nodded at him, then started unbuttoning his stiff collar and sleeves. "Give it some thought, sweetheart. I'm serious. I won't raise my daughter as a second class royal. I won't ship her off to marry one of your allies. I won't do it. I won't do it to her, and I won't send that message to the women of Illéa. My children will be equal, each one of them, and the only thing to tell them apart will be their birth order."

Maxon groaned and flopped down on the cot. America smiled at him and snuggled up to his chest, resting her head just under his. He kissed her hair and then said, "You're insufferable, do you know that?"

"I do." she smiled. "I don't know how you put up with me. I feel sorry for you, Maxon."

"All I want is my heir, and off she goes on equality between genders." Maxon pretended to complain. Maybe it wasn't entirely pretend.

"You had thirty-four other women to select from. You made your choice, now live with it." America joked.

He laughed and kissed her. "With pleasure." he said, before kissing her again.