American Queen

by Sierra Simone

  American Queen

  Sierra Simone

  Contents

  Prologue

  The Princess

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  The Queen

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Ready for More?

  Also by Sierra Simone

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 by Sierra Simone

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design: Hang Le

  Cover Image: Shutterstock

  Editor: Evident Ink

  To the No Shadow Bitches—Penises!

  Prologue

  The Wedding Day

  Love is patient.

  Love is kind.

  Love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude.

  It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in truth.

  It bears all things,

  it believes all things,

  it hopes all things,

  it endures all things.

  It endures all things.

  I stare at the last line of the Bible verse as my cousin Abilene and her mother continue to fuss with the edges of my veil. The entire passage from I Corinthians is etched into a marble block in the church’s narthex, and any other bride standing here might have seen these words as a comfort and an encouragement. Perhaps I’m the only bride ever to stand in front of these massive sanctuary doors and wonder if God is trying to give me a warning.

  But when I think of what awaits me at the end of the aisle, of who awaits me, I straighten my shoulders and blink away from the verses. From the moment I met Ash, I knew I was destined to love him. I knew I was destined to be his. There’s no place he can go that I won’t follow, no sacrifice he can demand of me that I won’t give, no part of myself that I won’t offer willingly and completely to him.

  I will bear, believe in, hope for, and endure Ash’s love until the day I die, even if that means robbing my own soul.

  And it will mean robbing my own soul.

  My only comfort is that I won’t be alone in my suffering.

  With a deep breath, I step in front of the doors just as they open, the airy notes of Pachelbel’s Canon in D drifting through the stone nave. My grandfather takes my arm to guide me down the aisle. The guests are standing, the candles are flickering, my veil is perfect.

  And then I catch sight of Ash.

  My pulses catches, races, trips over itself as it rushes to my lips and face and heart. He wears his tuxedo as if he were born wearing one, his wide shoulders and narrow hips filling out the tailored lines perfectly. Even if he didn’t stand at the top of the stairs leading up to the altar, he would still seem taller than everyone else around him, because that’s just Ash. He doesn’t have to exude power and strength, he simply is power and strength made manifest. And right now all of that power and strength is bent toward me as we lock eyes and, even across the distance of the nave, begin to breathe as one.

  Shock seems to ripple through him as he fully sees me—the dress, the veil, the tremulous smile—and pleasure kindles and glows in my chest at this. He wanted to wait to see each other until the ceremony, he wanted this moment. And I have to admit that watching his handsome face struggle to contain his emotions, feeling my own blood heat at the sight of him in his tuxedo—it was worth it. No matter how outdated the tradition is, no matter how much it inconvenienced our guests, no matter how long those hours were this morning without him, it was worth it.

  And then as my grandfather and I move closer, I see him.

  Right next to Ash, dark-haired and slender, with ice-blue eyes and a mouth made for sin and apologies, sometimes even in that order. Embry Moore—Ash’s best friend, his best man, his running mate…

  Because of course, I’m not just walking down the aisle to the man I’ve been in love with since I was sixteen, I’m walking down the aisle to marry the President of the United States.

  The hundreds of guests fade away, the massive stands of flowers and candles vanish. And for a moment, it’s only the bride and the groom and the best man. It’s only me, Ash, and Embry. There’s no presidency or vice presidency or freshly painted First Lady’s office awaiting me after the honeymoon. There aren’t hordes of cameras inside and outside the cathedral, and the pews aren’t filled with ambassadors and senators and celebrities.

  It’s the three of us. Ash stern and powerful, Embry haunted and pale, and me, with bite marks on the inside of my thighs and a hammering heart.

  It’s when I’m almost to the front that I see the best man has a bite mark of his own peeping above the collar of his tuxedo, large and red and fresh.

  It’s when I’m almost to the front that I see that the small white square in Ash’s tuxedo pocket isn’t a silk handkerchief, it’s undeniably the familiar lace of my panties. No one who hasn’t seen my panties before would know, but he’s so blatantly displaying them, like a trophy. The last time I saw them they were clutched in Embry’s strong fist…

  My grandfather lifts my veil and kisses my cheek, putting the veil back down over my face. Ash extends his hand and I slide my fingers into his, and we step up to the priest together, one of my bridesmaids straightening my dress after we find our places and stand still.

  I don’t realize I’m crying until Ash lets go of my hand, reaches under my veil, and swipes his thumb across my cheek. He lifts his thumb to his lips, licking the taste of my tears off his skin. His dark green eyes smolder with promise, and behind him, Embry’s hand unconsciously goes up to touch the bite mark I’m certain Ash left on his neck.

  I shiver.

  The priest begins, the guests sit, and I wonder one last time if God wants me to stop this, if God can barely stand to look at the three of us, if God wasn’t trying to warn me before, because what did I really think I could endure? What did I really think the two most powerful men in the world would be willing to endure from me?

  But then I catch sight of Ash’s eyes, still flared with unmistakable heat, and Embry’s long fingers, still probing the mark on his neck, and I decide now that this fairy tale couldn’t have ended any other way.

  I mean, God can warn me all he wants, but that doesn’t mean I have to listen.

  Part I

  The Princess

  1

  Eighteen Years Ago

  I was cursed by a wizard when I was seven years old.

  It was at a charity gala, I think. Save for the wizard, it wouldn’t have stood out from any other event my grandfather took me to. Ball gowns and tuxedos, chandeliers glittering in opulent hotel ballrooms while string octets played in discreet corners. Ostensibly, these events raised money for the various foundations and causes championed by the rich and bored, but in reality, they were business meetin
gs. Political allegiances for this candidate or that were sounded out; potential donors were identified and wooed. Business deals began here, and marriages in the upper reaches of society began here as well—because among the wealthy, what were marriages but lifelong business deals?

  I understood some of this, even as a young girl, but it never troubled me. It was life—or at least Grandpa Leo’s life—and it didn’t occur to me to question it.

  Besides, I enjoyed dressing up in the expensive flouncing dresses Grandpa Leo bought for me. I enjoyed having adults ask my opinion, I enjoyed seeing all the beautiful women and handsome men, and most of all, I enjoyed dancing with Grandpa Leo, who always let me stand on his shoes and who never forgot to spin me around and around so that I could pretend I was a princess in a fairy tale.

  And late at night, when the big black car would pick us up and take us back to the Manhattan penthouse, he would let me chatter happily about everything I’d seen and heard, asking me questions about who had said what, about how they said it, if they had looked happy or sad or mad as they said it. He would ask me who looked tired, who looked distracted, who grumbled under their breath during the keynote speeches. It wasn’t until a few years later that I realized Grandpa relied on me as a kind of spy, a watcher of sorts, because people will behave around children in way they won’t around adults. They let their guard down, they mutter to their friends, certain that a child won’t notice or understand.

  But I did notice. I was naturally observant, naturally curious, and naturally ready to read deeply into small comments or gestures. And at Grandpa Leo’s side, I spent years honing that natural weapon into something sharp and useful, something he used for The Party, but that I used for him because I wanted to help him, wanted him to be proud of me, and also because there was something addictive in it. Something addictive in watching people, in figuring them out, like reading a book and deciphering the big twist before the end.

  But the night I met the wizard, all of that was still in the future. At that moment, I was giddy and wound up from spinning in circles and sneaking extra plates of dessert from the winking waitresses. I was still spinning when my grandfather beckoned me to join him near the doors of the ballroom. I skipped over, expecting another of his usual friends—the Beltway wheelers and dealers or the snappish, bored businessmen.

  It was someone different. Something different. A tall man, only in his mid-twenties, but with crow-dark eyes and a thin mouth that reminded me of the illustrations of evil enchanters in my fairy tale books. Unlike the evil enchanters, he didn’t hunch over a cane or wear long, trailing robes. He was dressed in a crisp tuxedo, his face clean-shaven, his dark hair short and perfectly combed.

  My grandfather beamed down at me as he introduced us. “Mr. Merlin Rhys, I’d like you to meet my granddaughter, Greer. Greer, this young man is moving here from England, and coming in as a consultant to The Party.”

  The Party. Even at seven, The Party was a force in my life as strong as any other. A risk, I suppose, that came with having a former Vice President for a grandfather. Especially when that former Vice President had served in the White House with the late Penley Luther, the dead and revered demigod of The Party. It was President Luther who was referenced in all the speeches and op eds, it was Luther’s name that was invoked whenever a crisis happened. What would Luther do? What would Luther do?!

  Mr. Merlin Rhys looked down at me, his black eyes unreadable in the golden glow of the ballroom. “This seems a bit dull for a girl your age,” he said, softly but also not softly. There was a challenge in his words, lodged somewhere in those neatly folded consonants and airy vowels, but I couldn’t puzzle it out, couldn’t sift it away from his words. I kept my eyes on his face as my grandfather spoke.

  “She’s my date,” Grandpa Leo said affectionately, ruffling my hair. “My son and daughter-in-law are traveling out of the country for humanitarian work, so she’s staying with me for a few months. She’s so well-behaved. Isn’t that right, Greer?”

  “Yes, Grandpa,” I chirped obediently, but when I caught the frown on Merlin’s face, something chilled in me, as if a cold fog had wrapped itself around me and only me, and was slowly leaching away my warmth.

  I dropped my eyes to my shoes, shivering and trying not to show it. The glossy patent leather reflected the shimmers and glitters of the gilded ceiling, and I watched those shimmers as Merlin and my grandfather began discussing midterm election strategy, trying to reconcile what I felt with what I knew.

  I felt fear, the kind of creeping, neck-prickling fear I had when I woke up at night to see my closet door open. But I knew that I was safe, that Grandpa Leo would keep me safe, that this stranger couldn’t hurt me in a room full of people. Except I wasn’t afraid of him hurting me or stealing me away, necessarily. No, it was the way his eyes had bored into mine, the way his disapproval of me had enveloped me so completely, that frightened me. I felt like he knew me, understood me, could see inside of me to all of the times I’d lied or cheated or fought on the playground. That he could see all the nights I’d been unable to sleep, my closet door open and me too afraid to get up and close it. All the mornings my father and I went walking in the woods behind our house, all the evenings my mother patiently taught me tai chi. All the fairy tale books I so adored, all of the treasures I’d gathered in the little treasure box stored under my bed, all of my secret childish dreams and fears—everything. This man could see it all.

  And to be seen—really seen—was the most terrifying thing I’d ever felt.

  “Leo!” a man called from a few feet away. He was also with The Party, and Grandpa gave my hair a final ruffle as he gestured to the man to approach him. “One moment, Mr. Rhys.”

  Merlin inclined his head gravely as my grandfather turned to speak to the other man. I willed myself to meet his eyes again, and then immediately wished I hadn’t. His eyes, I now realized, had been shuttered when speaking to Grandpa, and they were un-shuttered now, burning with something that seemed a lot like dislike.

  “Greer Galloway,” he said in that soft-not-soft voice. Something like a Welsh lilt emerged in his words, as if he’d lost control of his voice as well as his eyes.

  I swallowed. I didn’t know what to say—I was a child, and always my girlish demeanor had been enough to charm Grandpa Leo’s friends—but I sensed that it would do no good here. I could not endear myself to Merlin Rhys, not with smiles or dimples or twirls or childlike questions.

  And then he knelt down in front of me. It was rare for the adults in Leo’s world to do that—even the women with children of their own preferred to stand over me and caress my blond curls as if I were a pet. But Merlin knelt so that I could look him in the eye without craning my neck, and I knew despite my fear, this was a sign of respect. Merlin was treating me as if I were worthy of his time and attention, and even though it was tainted with disapproval, I was grateful for it in my own young way.

  He reached out and took my chin in his long, slender fingers, holding my face still for inspection. “Not ambitious,” he said, dark eyes searching my face. “But often careless. Not cold, but sometimes distant. Passionate, intelligent, dreamy…and too easily hurt.” He shook his head. “It’s as I thought.”

  I knew from the stacks of books beside my bed that the words of an enchanter were dangerous things. I knew I shouldn’t speak, I shouldn’t promise him anything, agree to anything, concede or lie or evade. But I couldn’t help it.

  “What’s as you thought?”

  Merlin dropped his hand, and an expression of real regret creased his face. “It cannot be you. I’m sorry, but it simply can’t.”

  Confusion seeped past the fear. “What can’t be me?”

  Merlin stood up, smoothing his tuxedo jacket, his mind made up about whatever it was. “Keep your kisses to yourself when the time comes,” he said.

  I didn’t understand. “I don’t kiss anyone except Grandpa Leo and my mommy and daddy.”

  “That’s your world now. But when you are older
, you will inherit this world,” Merlin said, gesturing around the room, “the world your grandfather helped create. And this world hangs on a thread, balanced between trust and power. Powerful people have to decide when to trust each other and when to fight each other, and those decisions aren’t always made with the mind. They’re made with the heart. Do you understand this?”

  “I think so…” I said slowly.

  “Greer, one kiss from you would swing this world from friendship to anger. From peace to war. It will destroy everything your grandfather has worked so hard to build, and many, many people will be hurt. You don’t want to hurt people, do you? Hurt your grandfather? Undo all the work he’s done?”

  I shook my head vehemently.

  “I didn’t think so. Because that’s what will happen if your lips touch another’s. Mark my words.”

  I nodded because this was logic that spoke to me. Kisses were magic, everyone knew this. They turned frogs into princes, they woke princesses from deadly sleep, and they decided the fates of kingdoms and empires. It never once crossed my mind that Merlin could be wrong, that a kiss might be harmless.

  Or that a kiss might be worth all the harm it caused.

  The regret in his eyes turned into sadness. “And I am sorry about your parents,” he said softly. “Despite everything, you are a sweet girl. You deserve only happiness, and maybe one day you’ll learn that’s what I’m trying to give to you. Hold tight to the things that make you happy, and never doubt that you are loved.” He nodded towards Grandpa Leo, who was now walking back toward us.

  “Don’t be sorry for my parents,” I said, puzzled. “They’re just fine.”

  Merlin said nothing, but he reached down and touched my shoulder. Not a pull into a hug, not a pat or a caress, just a touch. A moment’s worth of weight, and then nothing but the feeling of air on my skin and worry settling into my small bones.