I married Ash. I pledged my fidelity—however complicated that concept is between Ash and me—my honor, my respect, and my love. But that wasn’t all, because Ash isn’t just Ash, he’s the President of the United States. He’s the head of the most powerful military force in the world, the largest economy on the planet. Captain of a ship carrying three hundred and twenty million souls. Which means I married into that responsibility, I pledged my honor and respect to his office and his duties.
With Grandpa Leo as my guardian growing up, I’ve always been a patriotic girl. But now I really feel the full force of country first. I’m the First Lady. I’ve promised to do everything in my power to make our nation stronger, to help Ash in his quest to do so.
And the contradiction between country first and wanting to be rescued is obvious and insurmountable. Of course Ash can’t come after me. Logistically ridiculous and morally wrong. He can’t jeopardize the country or use resources available only to his office to find me. Same goes for Embry. Knights don’t rescue damsels anymore, not because they are any less gallant or devoted, but because there are systems in place for these things.
Diplomatic systems.
Military systems.
Intelligence systems.
The problem is that I don’t know how these systems can save me either. Diplomacy needs reciprocal energy, and I doubt Melwas is interested in reciprocating anything other than war. Ash wouldn’t want war, and I don’t either.
Which leaves intelligence. CIA. Special ops. The underground things the majority of Americans never see or know about. Things too opaque even to me to count on.
So the answer is clear. No more damseling. I need to save myself.
I sit up straighter and look around the cabin again, taking stock. My ears are popping, which means we are descending, but I take a gamble and stand up.
“I have to pee,” I announce to Not-Daryl.
“Sit down,” he says dismissively. “We land soon.”
“I have to pee right now,” I say, pitching my voice louder for effect. I mean, I do actually have to pee, so it’s not a lie—not that I’m above telling lies right now. “I’ll pee all over myself and this plane if I can’t go to the bathroom.”
Not-Daryl swears and gets to his feet, yanking me by the upper arm to the back of the plane. He shoves me into the tiny bathroom, but when I try to lock myself in, he shoves his foot in the way, easily blocking the flimsy folding door.
I already know the answer, but I ask anyway. “Can I have some privacy?”
He doesn’t answer, just keeps his foot in the doorway and gives me the same heavy-jawed glare. I sigh and make a big production of maneuvering my bathrobe to hide my lower half as I sit on the toilet. Glaring eyes sweep down the exposed lines of my legs, appraising. I sense that in any other situation, there would be much more bodily violation at stake, but something’s different here.
“Melwas wants me all to himself, does he?” I ask when Not-Daryl’s eyes come up from my bare legs to my face. “You’re not allowed to touch me.”
“I can touch you all I like,” Not-Daryl says. “President Kocur only says you are to arrive to him unmarked. Although…” a wicked smile appears on his face. Not sexy-wicked. Stomach-turning wicked. “…I notice you are quite marked up already by your own president.”
I can almost feel the weight of his assumptions about me, about my body, about what I allow or endure or enjoy.
I stare at him. I stare at him as coolly as I can, channeling all those times I watched Grandpa Leo wrestle down his political opponents by sheer force of will. I pour every ounce of my unusual upbringing as the princess of the Democratic Party, of my identity as Ash’s little princess, as his queen, into my stare. And even though I sit bare-assed on the toilet in a bathrobe, even though by every visible metric he controls all the power here, Not-Daryl’s smile fades and he looks away. He pulls his foot back and shuts the bathroom door with a loud clack.
I win.
For now. Because I can’t outmuscle these men. I can’t outrun them. And after I finish peeing and washing my hands and get back in my seat, I see out the window where they are taking me and I know that I can’t escape.
Fine.
I’ll find another way.
The plane dips away from the massive lodge and into a nearby valley, where it lands on a minuscule airstrip. From there, I’m tied up again and placed in a mud-splattered Range Rover, and we climb up into the jagged mountains. The lodge, hulking and black, comes into view now and again through the trees and around bends in the road. It looks like Dracula’s castle, perched malevolently over the stone teeth of the Carpathians, and I realize we probably aren’t far from the historical land of Transylvania.
I’d rather face a vampire.
But this is more than a castle; we pass perimeter after perimeter of extremely modern security. Fences and gates and patrols and cameras mounted everywhere. Drones fly overhead. This place is just as secure as Camp David. And my heart sinks even further, though I refuse to let my determination flag. I’ll pretend I’m Queen Guinevere in all those stories I teach, unreachable and dignified, and composedly serene even as she’s kidnapped over and over again.
The lodge itself is less utilitarian than it appeared in the distance—large windows line the walls that face out over the valley, and as I’m dragged inside, I see thick wood beams and a massive fireplace and lots of leather furniture. It’s definitely masculine, but the interior seems like a place made for enjoyment, not captivity. This impression is further reinforced by the room into which I’m deposited. It’s spacious, with a beautiful view overlooking the valley, a canopy bed like something out of Versailles and a bathroom almost bigger than the room itself, with a deep-set bathtub and walk-in shower. I’m unbound and instructed to shower. Not-Daryl indicates a closet at the far end of the room.
“New clothes are in there.”
“New clothes?”
Before I can stop him, he tugs off the bathrobe. I don’t bother to cover myself, partially because he’s already seen me naked and also because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he’s upset me.
He smiles again, and away from the humiliating circumstances of the airplane, I’m finally able to make a connection I couldn’t before. I knew he’d been at the Carpathian diplomatic dinner, but that smile…he was also the man Abilene spent the rest of the weekend with.
Abilene. It was her text message that sent me down to the lobby in the first place. Had she been exploited by this man somehow? For her connection to me? Or was she complicit?
Had my best friend betrayed me?
I can’t think about that right now. I don’t think about it. I walk away from Not-Daryl and go into the bathroom and do as I’m told, not because I’m told to, but because a shower is a human comfort I crave very much right now. And as I shower, I pull together my thoughts and consider, reading this situation like I would read a medieval text, looking for clues and meanings and subtext. Like I’m at a fundraiser with Grandpa Leo and he’s asking me to spy for him, to find all the secrets hiding in the words and faces of the political literati.
First of all, by leaving me unsupervised and unbound, they are trusting that I won’t harm myself. I’m not sure whether this is an overconfident gamble on Melwas’s part or if he believes if I did hurt or kill myself, it would still serve his purposes. Suicide doesn’t serve my purposes, but the threat of it might be leverage.
Second of all, they’ve given me a windowed room where I can see the road and the drones and where I will be able to mark the days. This is a lot of information being handed to me—again, is this Melwas arrogantly assuming there’s no way I can escape? Or be seen by those who might try to rescue me? Or would my escape and rescue still serve his purposes?
Thirdly, as I wrap myself in a towel and go to investigate the closet, there’re only obvious reasons why Melwas would want me clean and dolled up for him. To make me pleasing to him, to make me comfortable, to give me the illus
ion that I’m some sort of guest perhaps…
So what are the reasons that are less obvious? Melwas doesn’t strike me as a subtle man, yet by using Abilene and preparing this extensively for my captivity, he is certainly a smart one. There are webs of contingencies and plans I’m certain that I can’t see, and until I can see them, it’s best to tread carefully.
I style myself as best as I can with the limited tools they’ve given me—a brush and hair dryer and some hairspray. Lipstick and mascara. They don’t leave me any bobby pins or nail trimmers or anything like that—nothing I could use as a weapon.
There’s any number of ridiculously lacy underthings in the closet, all exactly my size, and I have a moment where I almost can’t bear it. I slump against the wall of the closet and try to hold my quivering chin still.
I should be on my honeymoon. I should be with Ash. I should be with Embry. We should be savoring each other, taking long, delicious drinks from the cup we’d forbidden ourselves all this time. But that cup’s been dashed from my hands. All I have are these cold, angry mountains and a would-be rapist trying to dress me like a doll.
But I don’t succumb. I’m used to holding my emotions inside, projecting outward grace. It used to be for Abilene, and then for the cameras and journalists as Ash publicly claimed me as his own. And now I’ll do it for survival.
I dress in the most demure frock in the closet—a long dress of red silk with a plunging neckline—and try the door to the bedroom. Locked. So I sit and wait, wondering if there are cameras in the room, wondering if I can be seen even now. I think yes, I can, because Not-Daryl unlocks and opens the door not long after I sit.
“President Kocur is waiting,” he says.
And I get up and follow him to face my captor.
9
Embry
before
It was Melwas Kocur who did it. Of course I wouldn’t learn his name until later, know for sure he had been at that village until much later than that. But I knew his presence before I knew his name, knew his handiwork before I knew anything else about him.
Everyone knows now what happened there. How Melwas put the village’s children on a boat and lit the boat on fire. How he rounded up the town’s adults inside the church and shot them, torching the church after. How it was the first of Colchester’s many victories.
But at the time, I only knew one thing.
Morgan was there.
Morgan was all I could think of as our Humvees raced through the valley, Morgan and that dumb church and how I was the one stupid enough to suggest she go exploring. Why did I do that? Why didn’t I insist she stay safe and sound in the village near the base? Or better yet, go home?
“You okay?” Dag asked quietly as we approached Glein. The smoke plumed up like a black chimney, faint pops and booms rattling the windows. The local militia trying to fight off the separatists and failing miserably.
“My sister is there,” I said, looking down at my hands. They were shaking. “She’s in that place.”
Dag nodded. He didn’t try to comfort me. He didn’t look for reasons why it might be okay.
I appreciated that.
Our convoy stopped about half a mile outside the village, and we got out. The captain was there somewhere, giving orders, but I barely listened. I found Colchester in the huddle of men and pulled him aside.
“Morgan’s here,” I said.
He pulled back to look me in the eyes. “What?”
“She’s here. In the village.”
Colchester’s voice was sharp. “Why?”
For some reason, that pissed me off. “She got tired of waiting around for you, so she went to see the church here.”
I dropped my voice to a mutter, half hoping he wouldn’t hear, half hoping he would. “Maybe if you’d just talked to her instead of ignoring her, she would have gone home or something. She would be safe.” It wasn’t fair, I knew it wasn’t fair, but I needed to blame someone. Hurt someone.
And I felt like shit the moment I did it, because it wasn’t Colchester’s fault at all, none of it was.
“We’ll do everything we can,” he promised, calm and kind despite my shitty outburst. His eyes searched my face. “I mean it, Embry. I’ll do whatever I can to save her.”
It was the use of my Christian name that stilled me, that calmed me enough to step back and pretend to listen to the captain’s strategy. Embry. It sounded strange on his lips, two warm syllables punctuated by the cracks and roars of the village burning behind us.
Was I a bad brother because in that moment I would have delayed going to Morgan’s side just to hear him say my name again?
Actually, don’t answer that.
The captain finished giving us orders; our three platoons split up and began working our way into the village at different angles. I say village, although at that point there was almost nothing recognizable about it. The streets were so covered with rubble that you couldn’t tell what had been a road and what had been a row of houses. Fires burned everywhere, hectically, merrily almost, like we were walking into a happily over-sexed pagan rite instead of a war zone. And the bullets came from everywhere. Fast, popping, chaotic.
We’d been at it less than five minutes when the captain came over the radio. “I’ve got new intel,” he shouted. “There’s a boat in the lake, a stranded boat with children. Who’s closest?”
“I am,” came Colchester’s reply. “We’ll go now.”
“And the church,” the captain said. “The adults in the town have been rounded up into the church. Take care of that boat as fast as possible and get to the church, Colchester. I think the boat’s a distraction.”
The church. Morgan.
I directed my men around a corner, and as we exchanged fire with some separatists across the street, I searched the buildings nearby for any sign of the church, and as I did, there was a massive boom, an explosion so violent it nearly knocked me off my feet. It came from the direction of our convoy, where the captain was. I stared at the cloud of dust and smoke at the edge of the village with a sinking heart.
Which was when Colchester swore loudly on the radio. “Four of mine are down. The boat’s on fire. I can see the children on it waving for help. Captain, we’re going in there but we might need more help. Captain? Captain?”
There was no response.
“Anybody?” Colchester asked. “We need help down here now!”
It was as if there was no one left. No one but me and my men. But Morgan…
I gripped my radio too hard as I pressed the call button, “We’re here, Lieutenant Colchester. We can come to you…but the church is important too.”
There was a pause. “I know, Lieutenant.”
I closed my eyes, took a breath. “What do you want us to do?”
“There aren’t any good choices right now. None of them are good, you understand this?”
It felt like he was asking something different, trying to tell me something else, and I understood. I hated it, but I understood. We all had jobs to do, one job really, to safeguard the civilians here, and on the complicated scale of human life, the children were more important. Even I saw that.
“I understand, Colchester.”
“Good. You’re closest to the church. Send four men there, but the rest down here. I’ll leave it up to you where you go yourself.”
With one last glance at the street, I pressed down my radio. “I’m coming to you.”
I never regretted my choice. Those children would have died if we hadn’t all been there. There were nine of us, and it took all nine to wrangle two boats into service and pluck those children from their would-be crematorium. Whatever the consequences, I knew karmically I’d done the right thing. Logically. Morally.
But emotionally? In that hollow place in my chest where my demons lived, where they nested and told me vicious, evil truths about myself? Those demons told me I’d chosen Colchester over Morgan, gone to his side instead of to her rescue. And although I never regretted what I�
��d done, I came closest after we raced through the village to the church and I saw four of my men dead outside the burning building. After I kicked down the flaming doors of the church and found Morgan bloody and nearly suffocated under two other bodies. When I heaved the corpses off of her and Colchester easily lifted her thin frame off the floor and carried her out into the fume-choked air. After I sat next to her in the hospital in Lviv and listened to the doctors tell her she would never have full movement in her shoulder again.
In those moments, I could feel the regret pressing close to me, as if the guilt could corporealize and physically reach out for me with its serrated fingers.
And the last night in Lviv, before Morgan was being discharged to go home, she looked right at me and said, “I’ll never forgive you. Or Maxen.”
“You can hate me all you want,” I said tiredly. “But don’t hate Colchester. He doesn’t deserve it.”
“I don’t hate him,” she said, turning her gaze to the chipped beige wall across from her bed. Through the thin curtain separating her part of the room from the person she shared it with, I heard a cough and then several muttered words in Ukrainian. “I can refuse to forgive him and still not hate him.”
“Morgan, you know the doctors didn’t tell you the whole story when you woke up. The children—”
“Yes,” she snarled suddenly. “The children. You don’t have to tell me again.”
“You would have done the same.”
She closed her eyes. “You have no idea what I would have done. You can’t possibly have any idea.”
“Maybe we’re not biologically related, but we were both raised by Vivienne Moore. You would have done the thing that would have looked best on paper. The thing that would sound good in your memoir.”
“Is that why you did it? To look good in the history books?”
I thought of those children we pulled off the boat, their soot-brushed faces and panicked cries. And then I thought of Colchester murmuring to them in Ukrainian, vy v bezpetsi, vy v bezpetsi.
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