Part 2 – The Queen
The egg-blue gown rustles prettily as I walk up the stairs to the second floor of the Residence, the silk of the tiered skirt just loud enough to be heard over the gentle strains of music coming from below. The dinner is set to start soon—there’s a string quartet playing Chopin while the guests chatter over cocktails and hors d’oeuvres—and while I’ll be by Ash’s side for most of the evening, I want to find him before the dinner starts. Share a moment that’s only the two of us before the cameras start flashing and the gossip kicks in. Before the hungry wolves realize they’ve just found their next dinner.
I think I hear a sound coming from the living room, and I slip through the open door saying, “Belvedere said I could find you up here—oh.”
Ash isn’t alone.
Looking like a prince or a movie star in his crisp black tuxedo, he’s sitting on the sofa, leaning forward, long legs bent, power coiled in his body. And Embry—also in a tuxedo—is in front of Ash, sitting on the carpet. It’s clear that both of them were engaged in a serious conversation—there’s a furrow in Ash’s brow and a cast of unhappiness to Embry’s shoulders—but that’s not what stops me in my tracks. Because Embry isn’t just sitting in front of Ash, he’s kneeling. Kneeling in front of Ash the same way I would—between his outstretched legs, caged in by the shiny black dress shoes planted on the floor. Kneeling in front of Ash as if it’s the most natural place in the world to be. And Ash isn’t only leaning forward, he’s got a hand fisted in the shoulder of Embry’s tuxedo jacket, as if they’re getting ready to fight or to kiss.
A bolt of unthinking desire sizzles straight to my core, and my chest tightens with an unfamiliar excitement.
Both men both freeze at my entrance, looking over at me with expressions I can’t read right away. Guilt, maybe, or maybe just guilty surprise, or maybe it’s something more complicated, like relief laced with anger…or anger laced with relief. And I don’t know what my own face betrays because I don’t even know what I’m feeling myself. They’re just talking, they’re best friends, they’re the President and the Vice President, it’s natural that they would talk together.
But like this? And I can’t help it, I feel a stab of jealousy at their closeness, at their shared history. How many years has Embry been able to be close to Ash, how many years has Ash been able to stare into Embry’s ice blue eyes, while I was denied both of them? How often do they get to touch each other and talk together, how many evenings have started this way, when all of my evenings have started with loneliness?
They both unfreeze at the same time. Ash drops his hand from Embry’s shoulder, and Embry eases himself back so he’s lying on his side on the carpet, propped up on one elbow, all casual elegance and ease. It looks almost illegally decadent of him, especially in that tuxedo.
“Greer,” Ash says, and the only thing I hear in his voice is affection. Happiness that I’m here. I must have imagined the guilt and the anger, I must have been mistaken in thinking that Embry kneeling in front of Ash means something. And I’m certainly imagining the strange tugs of feeling in my chest at the sight of these two men so serious and intimate with each other. I’m imagining the near painful pull of heat in my belly at the sight of Embry on his knees between Ash’s legs.
“You look like a princess,” Embry says as I walk over to the couch. His voice and face are teasing and friendly, but his eyes tell a different story. His eyes tell me that he remembers what I look like underneath the dress, that he remembers what I taste like and feel like. Being denied orgasms all this week has made me painfully responsive, my arousal on a hair trigger, and I have to remind myself to breathe normally.
I’m not here with Embry. I’m not here for him. I’m here for Ash. Ash, Ash, Ash.
Oh, but why does Embry have to look so good right now? Lounging on his side like a tiger, blue eyes like the inside of glaciers? It’s too much to be around him even at the best of times, but now, when I’m so starved for pleasure that I could come from a single touch, it’s murder.
I sit next to Ash on the sofa, the motion deliberate and precise. Ash watches me carefully, taking me in, the thoughtful furrow in his brow growing slightly deeper.
“This is a very beautiful dress,” he says, reaching out to run a finger along the neckline. It’s not scandalously low, but the corseted bodice pushes the swells of my breasts over the top and his finger follows the sloping curves. I let out a shuddering breath, almost a moan, and then I hear Embry scramble to his feet.
“I should leave you two alone,” he says, making for the door.
“Embry,” Ash calls after him.
But Embry doesn’t look back, just tosses a half-wave in Ash’s direction. “I’ll see you downstairs,” he says, and then he’s gone.
Ash’s profile is thoughtful when I turn back to look at him. And I think I should tell him now, explain about Chicago and Embry and all about that night, but I don’t know how to start. And I don’t know how to finish either, because if I tell that story to Ash, he’ll be able to see in an instant that Embry still affects me. That my feelings for him aren’t over with. And there would be no way to verbalize that my feelings for Embry don’t at all cancel out my feelings for Ash. They are related and intertwined, they are layered on top of one another, they are both and together and all at the same time. Even I don’t understand how there’s room for both inside me—how could I expect Ash to?
There’s another moment of silence, and then Ash reaches for me. He easily pulls me onto him, until I’m a ball of embroidered silk perched on his lap, and he lays a light kiss on the exposed nape of my neck. One hand is splayed against my stomach, holding me close against him, and the other one is digging in my skirts, skating up past my smooth legs to my thighs.
I part for him with a happy sigh, and I feel the wide pads of his fingers probing my pussy through my lace thong.
He hooks it with one finger so he can investigate further. “Wet,” he confirms in a rasp. “You’re already wet. Is it for me?”
“Yes,” I moan, shivering as his fingers graze my clit. “It’s for you.”
“Because this pussy is mine. Only mine. It gets wet only for me, is that right?”
It’s not a lie when I breathe, “Yes, yes. It’s your pussy. It’s wet for you.” And it’s the truth, somehow, because even when I crave Embry, even when my body keens for him, it’s bound up with Ash. Even when I gave my virginity to Embry, it was because of Ash. My body can’t separate wanting the two.
There’s a nip at my neck and a playful smack on my cunt. “Keep yourself wet for me,” Ash orders as he withdraws his hand from under my skirt. “And then, after the dinner, I’m going to spend the rest of the night taking care of my pussy. How does that sound?”
I sigh. “Like dinner is going to take too long.”
The dinner goes much as I expected. Ash and I walk down to the dining room together, and there’s a frenzy of cameras and questions, a buzz of interest running through the guests. I feel a little like Cinderella in the blue silk gown, with my thin crystal headband nestled into my updo. Abilene tried to coax me into something a little more daring, saying I needed to maximize my entrance onto the political scene, but once I saw this ball gown, I knew it was the one. And the way Ash steals glances over at me, I know I chose correctly.
After the staircase, Ash presses a kiss to my cheek—to the delight of the crowd—and goes to formally greet the Polish president. I join the other guests, hoping to melt anonymously into the crowd without the President by my side to draw attention.
This fails—magnificently.
First, there are the reporters, and then there are the guests themselves—politicians and their wives, notable Polish-Americans, high-ranking military officials. Most of them want to schmooze and make themselves known to me, assess firsthand how important I am to the President and how I might be useful to them in the future. I know how this game is played, so I smile and laugh and shake hands and give them nothing, but do it so sweetly that they don’t realize it until they walk away. A few are more daring, more salacious—is it serious with the President? How long have we been together? Wasn’t it so lovely of me to comfort this noble, stoic man still reeling from the death of his wife?
Then there are the speeches—one from the Polish president and one from Ash—and Ash’s is so rousing that the applause doesn’t stop for almost five minutes afterward.
And then there’s one more encounter after that, one that leaves me a little shaken. It’s during dinner, and even though I’m supposed to be seated next to Ash, he’s been waylaid by dignitaries at the other end of the room, leaving me alone with the other guests at the table. I’m fairly adept at the political small talk, but I don’t enjoy it, and when the main course of roasted duck in apple appears, I’m grateful for the silence that falls over the table as we eat.
It’s then that the woman next to me turns and asks, “So, are you fucking him yet?”
Years of practice keep me from dropping my fork, and those same years of practice make me glance over at her. Raven-black hair. Pale skin. Green eyes. She looks to be in her late thirties—elegant and beautiful and smooth-skinned—and she reminds me of someone, although I can’t quite decide why. I look down at her place setting.
Morgan Leffey, Sen.
I’ve been intentionally avoiding politics since I came to Washington this summer, but after seeing her name, I’m able to dredge up a thin biography of Senator Leffey:
¥ Republican, but elected in a traditionally blue state.
¥ A staunch supporter of military action against Carpathia (which could explain why she’s invited tonight, to show Poland solidarity in their continued diplomatic tensions with the new, hostile nation).
¥ Divorced, but now unmarried and unattached.
¥ No children, no big scandals.
It feels like there’s something else that I’m missing about her though, something big. I can’t put my finger on it.
All this assessment happens within the blink of an eye. On the next blink, I ask calmly, “Pardon me?”
“I said,” she answers with a catlike smile, “have you fucked Maxen?”
I dart a quick glance around us, and she puts a cool hand on my arm. “No one’s listening, I promise. Now, have you let the President fuck you yet?”
“That’s not your business,” I decide is the safest answer.
“That means no,” she says, sounding satisfied. “Has he hurt you yet?”
I feel the blood leave my face.
“Has he flogged you? Or tied you up? Fucked your throat? Has he made you cry and then beg for more while the tears are still on your cheeks?”
How can she know this about Ash? About this side of him?
“What he and I have is still very new,” I answer carefully. A chess piece answer. A pawn left exposed on the field.
She takes the bait. “Then that’s a yes,” she says, smug knowledge lacing her words.
I watch her face. Have you fucked Ash? I want to demand. Has he dominated you? The thought of Ash with anyone else sets my palms to itching with envy, but the thought of him with Senator Leffey? Well, that sends daggers of pure, uncut rage straight between my ribs. And the thought of him doing the same things with her as he did with me—the commands, the control, the rough, vulnerable need—it fills me with something deeper than jealousy, a lizard-brain need to defend my territory from invaders, defend it to the death.
As if she knows what’s happening inside my mind, she gives me another smile and takes a sip of her champagne. “Don’t worry, Greer. Maxen and I are done fucking for now. No need for jealousy.”
For now. What a deliberate choice of words. I have the nearly irrepressible urge to dump my own champagne in her lap, but I don’t. Instead, I force myself away from my anger, force the jealousy aside, and redouble my focus on her. On the smile curling at the edges of her mouth, her eyebrows quirked in enjoyment. She wants me to flare up and she wants me to be defensive—she’s counting on me reacting the way she would in my shoes.
But she’s not me, and I’m not her. I give her a small smile that I know looks tentative and shy. “It’s hard not to be jealous, Senator. You are a very beautiful person, and like I said a minute ago, what the President and I have is very new. I guess it’s hard not to be insecure.”
My honesty and intentional sweetness seem to throw her—both the flattery and the truth-telling finding purchase somewhere inside this powerful woman. I follow up, pressing my advantage. “Do you know Maxen very well? Did he hurt you too? I want to please him, but I’m still new to our, um, arrangement.”
Every word sings with earnest honesty, sings with submission. You are so beautiful and worldly, my words whisper to her. You know more than I do, you know this man better than I do.
It works. Her pleased smile remains, but it’s no longer shrewd, merely satisfied. “I have to admit, I’m surprised he chose you,” she says, glancing at me again. “The young academic, the granddaughter of the famously liberal and feminist Leo Galloway. You seem like the last girl on earth who could handle Maxen Colchester. Not to mention the last girl on earth who would want to—surely it will be hard to glad-hand all the Democrats in the Congressional Women’s Caucus with belt marks on your ass?”
Her dig falls so short of the mark that I almost laugh, but I resist. She’s revealed three different layers of resentment and a profound ignorance about me in just a few sentences, and more importantly, she’s revealed the reason she’s needling me to begin with. She wants to know why me, why Ash chose me, and her barbs reveal that it’s about something deeper and fiercer than mere political curiosity.
“I’m actually registered with the President’s party,” I say mildly. “Not my grandfather’s.” I changed my affiliation the day Ash announced his intention to run for President as a third-party candidate. Merlin had laid the foundation for a third-party run for years leading up to it, at the state and national level, and when the nation’s favorite hero had emerged as the face of the new party, I wasn’t the only turning in my old party card. “And,” I continue, keeping my face open and earnest as I move my next chess piece, “I’ve never found any problem mixing what I want in bed with feminism. Did you? Is that why you and Maxen aren’t together?”
Check.
Her lips press together, revealing a flash of irritation, and then she leans in, her voice truly cold for the first time. “Be careful, Greer. You’re in over your head with Maxen Colchester. You have no idea the things he’s capable of, the things he’s done. The secrets he keeps. The lies he tells.”
I remember Abilene’s warning, Merlin’s evasiveness, and there’s a shot of ice water running through my veins. How many people know these secrets about Ash? Why am I the only one in the dark?
Morgan sees that she’s finally landed a blow, and her voice is both cold and pleased when she says, “And have you ever thought about the reason why you and Maxen haven’t had sex yet? Maybe he’s told you that he wants to wait, that he wants to take things slow, but no man can take things that slow, trust me. Not unless he’s getting it from somewhere else.”
Checkmate. And the match is hers.
I can’t hear my own thoughts over the roar of the pulse pounding in my ears, the jealousy and the fear—because she’s found my real weakness, my real insecurity—and I feel a stupid, ridiculous burning at the backs of my eyelids. Focus! I order myself. Don’t let her see you upset!
I’m saved by a heavy hand on my shoulder, and I look up to see Embry smiling down at me and Morgan. He has a hand on her shoulder too, and she doesn’t look confused by it, only irritated in the bored way that familiarity and habit breed. I stare at them both—Morgan in her pale gray Dior gown and Embry in his low-waisted tuxedo—both of them so stylish and elegant, their posture suffused with confidence and privilege. Something finally trickles in from the back of my memory, a wisp of information from years ago, something from a speech Morgan gave in the Senate a few years ago.
Something about a loved one who fought in Carpathia.
“Greer,” Embry says. “I see you’ve finally met my sister.”
