Modern Fairy Tale: Twelve Books of Breathtaking Romance

by Kristen Proby

  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 vaguely scornful—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 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 one 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.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Step-sister,” Morgan corrects icily.

  “Step-sister,” Embry concedes cheerfully. “But we both have the same winning personality, don’t we?”

  “There’s no need for sarcasm,” Morgan says, glancing away from us as if bored. “We all know you’re here to rescue the princess from the evil witch.”

  Embry’s smile grows wider. “Your words, Sissy, not mine.”

  Morgan actually looks mortified. “Don’t call me that here.”

  “Did you know,” Embry says, as if he didn’t hear her, “that Sissy here personally requested to sit next to you once she heard you were attending the dinner? A fun fact I just learned from Belvedere, who learned it from the social secretary. Now, why would that be, Morgan? You weren’t planning on causing any trouble, were you?”

  “I simply wanted to meet the soon-to-be-famous Greer Galloway for myself.” Morgan’s eyes sweep back to me, appraisingly. “See the girl that has the President so preoccupied.”

  Embry’s hand curls protectively around my shoulder.

  Morgan doesn’t miss that, and she raises an eyebrow. “She has you preoccupied too, then? How interesting.”

  There’s a blink of something on Embry’s face—worry, maybe—and then it’s gone. “They’re starting up the dancing, Morgan, so as delightful as this little reunion is, I’m afraid Greer and I must abandon you.”

  Embry helps me stand, but before we can make our escape, I feel Morgan’s cool hand on my wrist. “Don’t forget what I said to you,” she says quietly, and there’s no malice in her voice, only a kind of urgency. “You’re in over your head.”

  “That’s enough, Morgan,” Embry tells her. “You’ve done your worst. Now leave us alone.”

  Morgan sits back with a pretty frown, and I withdraw my wrist and let Embry lead me away, my stomach churning.

  “Don’t let her upset you,” Embry says as we weave through the tables to the far corner of the dining room, where Ash stands with a circle of dignitaries talking and sipping premium vodka. “She’s jealous. She and Ash…well, there’s a history there. And it’s not a pretty one.”

  “I gathered that much.” I take a deep breath. “They used to fuck?”

  Embry winces at the word. “I hate such a wonderful word being applied to such a short-lived, stupid thing. They met the first year Ash was deployed, three or four years before Caledonia.”

  Three or four years before he met me, I think, doing the math.

  “And it wasn’t anything more than an R and R fling. Over in a week. Fourteen years ago.”

  I’m not often struck by the age difference between Ash and me, but for a moment, I’m stunned by it. Stunned by the fact that he was fucking Morgan Leffey while I was an eleven-year-old skipping around my grandfather’s penthouse.

  “So there hasn’t been anything between them since then?” I ask. “Because that’s not the impression I got.”

  Embry’s face has a purposefully open expression, and his voice is so carefully honest and casual. “That’s the last time they fucked, I’m certain of it.”

  He’s lying. Or he’s not telling the whole truth, but before I can press him further, he tucks my hand in the crook of his elbow and squeezes it. “Let’s not talk about my sister now. I just ate like thirteen pierogies in front of the Polish president in order to impress him, and I’m already about to throw up. Besides, we have much more important things to talk about, like how many times are you going to dance with me tonight?”

  I smile up at him. “As many times as you’d like.”

  His eyes glow. “You have to dance with Ash first. But then after that, you’re mine.”

  In his words, I hear the echo of our night together, and my blood stirs to a boil.

  You’re with me, not him.

  That’s it. All mine.

  He looks away, clearing his throat as if realizing how intense that sounded. “I mean, for dancing, of course. Hey, maybe we can convince the quartet to play Rihanna—they probably already have the sheet music for that, right?”

  I give a small laugh and so does he, but it doesn’t dispel the sudden uncomfortable tension between us. It’s almost a relief when we reach Ash and the Polish dignitaries.

  Embry untucks my fingers from his arm and, with exaggerated ceremony, places them in Ash’s outstretched hand. “Your lady, milord.”

  Ash’s fingers tighten around my hand, and he easily pulls me into him, his other hand holding his tumbler of vodka perfectly steady.

  “You must trust this man very much to allow him unfettered access to such a beauty,” the Polish president says in a thickly accented voice.

  I feel Embry’s posture stiffen behind me, feel the rush of blood to my cheeks.

  “I do,” Ash responds. “I trust him with my life.”

  “Really, it’s that I trust the Vice President to have such unfettered access to Maxen,” I joke to cover over Embry’s and my discomfort, but Ash doesn’t laugh along with everyone else.

  Neither does Embry.

  I look to him and then back to Ash, catching them glancing at each other. My heart crashes against my ribs, and for no reason at all, I’m reminded of how tight and hungry my cunt feels right now. How empty.

  “Greer, I don’t think you’ve formally met the president of Poland,” Ash says, picking up the thread of conservation before our guests could notice the troubled tension hanging between the three of us. “Greer, this is Andrezj Lewandowski. President Lewandowski, this is Greer Galloway, a lecturer at Georgetown and a very important woman to me.”

  Lewandowski leans in to brush a quick kiss against the back of my hand before releasing it, and it’s right then that Belvedere comes up to us. “Mr. President, they’re ready for you on the dance floor.”

  “I suppose that’s our cue,” Ash says. “President Lewandowski, would you and Mrs. Lewandowski care to join us?”

  The foreign leader looks less than thrilled, but nevertheless he finds his wife, and the four of us take to the dance floor. The band strikes up an orchestral version of a famous Polish folk song, and then I’m in Ash’s arms, my hand curled around his warm neck and his hand on my waist. We start moving, and I giggle a little at how woodenly Ash dances.

  He makes a face at me. “Don’t make fun of me. I had to work hard to be this bad; I used to be much worse, you know.”

  “I don’t see how,” I laugh as I steer us clear of the Polish couple. “I think I need to have a word with your teacher someday.”

  “Any time you want,” Ash says, eyes twinkling down at me. “He’s right over there.”

  I glance over to where Ash tilted his head and then laugh even harder. “Embry taught you to dance?”

  “There’s a lot of dead time to fill when you’re deployed,” Ash says mock-defensively. “We had to entertain ourselves somehow.”

  “So he taught you how to dance?”

  “We took turns being the man, if you’re wondering.” Ash says it jokingly, but I can’t help but remember his hand fisted in Embry’s tuxedo jacket, Embry’s knees on the floor between Ash’s shoes.

  Ash notices my flushed cheeks before I do, reaching up and brushing my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You’re blushing,” he remarks.

  “I—” No. There’s no way I can tell him the things that are flashing through my mind. “I’m just warm.”

  He looks at me for a moment, and I see him shelve this away for
later. Instead he says in an offhand voice, “You and Embry seem to have become fast friends.”

  Well, if I was flushed before, I’m sure my face is bloodless now. I can only manage a nod as a voice inside my head screams tell him the truth, tell him the truth!

  “It makes me happy to see you get along so well,” he continues. “You’re the two most important people in the world to me, besides my mother and sister, and I want us all to be close.”

  You have no idea how close Embry and I are, I want to say. I should say. But the words stick in my throat.

  Embry and I aren’t together and we’ll never be together now…so what difference does our past make? If I tell Ash about that night in Chicago, it will just add more tension between the three of us, and apparently there’s enough of that already.

  Stop rationalizing. You know lying is wrong. Tell the truth.

  But the moment has passed, and we’re spinning across the dance floor and then Ash says, “I heard you also had the pleasure of meeting Senator Leffey.”

  “Yes,” I answer, a bit sourly. “She and I are not going to be fast friends, in case you were wondering.”

  He laughs. “No, I didn’t think you would be. What did she say to you?”

  Here, I decide to be honest. “She told me that you two used to fuck. She told me you’re a liar. And she warned me that I was in over my head with you.”

  Ash blinks in surprise. “Wow. She really dove right in there, didn’t she?”

  “Yeah.”

  His face turns pensive. “Morgan doesn’t like me very much, I’m afraid.”

  “Why?”

  He sighs. “Lots of reasons. Too many to name. In fact, she has so many reasons to dislike me that it almost feels like fate. We’re destined to be enemies.”

  “I’m guessing those reasons weren’t around when you fucked her?”

  His hand is suddenly tight and possessive on my waist, pulling me so close that I can feel my dress catching on his legs as we move. “Jealousy looks good on you,” he says, leaning his head down to speak into my ear. I shiver at the feeling of his warm breath on my skin.