American Queen

by Sierra Simone

  “Also,” I continue in a low voice, making sure my voice doesn’t carry down the long candelabra-lit hallway, “you’re not allowed to stir me up. Because I’m not wearing anything under my dress.”

  Ash stops walking, right there in the middle of the hallway. His entire body is a study in masculine interest. “What?”

  “It’s for dress-logistic reasons, you pervert. But it does mean I need my body to behave.”

  In the blink of an eye, I’m crushed against him, a large hand between my shoulder blades and the other on my ass, pressing my pelvis against his. With my heels, I’m tall enough to feel his swelling erection right against my mound, and it’s enough to make my knees weaken.

  “What’s your safe word?” he asks, his breath hot against my ear. I feel the faint scratch of his jaw against mine—even only an hour after shaving, he has a five o’clock shadow.

  “Maxen,” I swallow.

  “That’s right. It’s yours to say, yours to use.”

  I nod, feeling his face against mine, melting into his searing certainty, his undeniable lust. We’re alone in the hallway save for the Secret Service agents who are staring studiously at the entrances and exits and not at us.

  “Good. Now that’s out of the way, know this: your body is mine, and when your body behaves? That means it’s obeying me. If I want your nipples so hard I can see them through your dress or your pussy so wet that you leave a mark on your seat, then you’ll do it. Got it?”

  “And what if I don’t?” I murmur in a teasing voice.

  He pulls back a little to gently search my eyes, and then squeezes me when he sees that I’m kidding and not trying to express a limit. “Then maybe we’ll revisit our sodomy conversation earlier than planned.”

  “You can’t punish me with something I want.”

  “Oh,” he breathes in my ear, “but isn’t that what makes it fun?”

  He presses his lips to the sensitive spot behind my ear and then straightens up, taking my hand into the crook of his elbow and starting us down the hallway again. “Just wait until I tell Embry that you aren’t wearing anything underneath that dress.”

  “What?”

  Ash smirks. “You didn’t really think I’d keep that kind of amazing information away from him, did you?”

  I stare at him, puzzled and horrified and—I know, isn’t this always the case?—turned on. “Ash…do you really think that’s fair?”

  “Fair to whom?”

  “Goddammit, fair to any of us. We still haven’t talked about—”

  “And we’re not going to here. We will talk, I promise, and we will navigate all this history between us. But for now, don’t make Embry suffer for loving you. I’m not.”

  “He doesn’t love me,” I protest. (A little weakly because, oh, how the thought of him loving me makes my heart beat faster.) And then I remember the men kissing under the mistletoe. Is that included in the history Ash is referencing?

  I open my mouth to ask him, to tell him I know, but then we’re at the door to the ballroom and the moment is lost.

  23

  Melwas Kocur and his wife Lenka are the last to arrive. They sweep in grandly, like movie stars, and even I have to admit, they look the part. Melwas has dark blond hair and a square jaw, his wide face offset by a strong nose and arrestingly dark eyes, and Lenka is a human doll, bird-boned and delicate with a little pointed chin and bow-shaped lips. But also like a doll, she has glassy, vacant eyes, and when they come up to Ash and me for formal introductions, I see that she’s been crying.

  I look back to Melwas and the way his fingers dig into her skinny upper arm, and I see all I need to know.

  The introductions are tedious and time-consuming, because there are advisors and Vice Presidents and Cabinet members, and only a few of us speak Ukrainian and only a few of them speak English, and so almost everything has to go through translation. But I was raised to smile and pretend and find common ground and shake hands and quietly spy, and so that’s what I do.

  And finally, thankfully, it’s time to sit down and eat. I’m seated next to Lenka, with Melwas on my other side, and Ash next to him. The idea, I suppose, was to give Melwas and Ash ample time to informally converse, but the effect is that I’m sandwiched between a human shell and a man I suspect is a monster.

  It’s not pleasant, but again, I was raised for moments like this. I take a drink of wine to preemptively reward myself and then I turn toward Lenka. “Do you speak any English?” I ask.

  Her eyes dart up to me, then back down to her plate. She’s barely touched her salad, and a soft roll lies buttered on her plate but uneaten. This makes me profoundly sad for some reason. No matter how dark my life has gotten, I’ve always seen carbs as one of life’s few real gifts.

  She finally shakes her head. “No English,” she manages.

  “I don’t speak Ukrainian,” I apologize. Dammit, why wasn’t my boarding school education more useful? All those hours translating Cicero and Rousseau, and not a single one focused on any language in the Slavic family tree. “And I suppose you also don’t speak Old English or Middle English then. But maybe…Francais? Deutsch? Latin?”

  Lenka’s head snaps up and the faintest pulse of life shows in her eyes. “Ich spreche Deutsch.”

  I give her a big smile. “Wunderbar!” Another sip of wine and a decision to forgive Cadbury Academy a little. “My German is very rusty,” I explain to Lenka in German. “I haven’t used it much since college, when I transitioned to medieval languages.”

  “I haven’t spoken it in many years either,” Lenka says softly, also in German. I recognize instantly that her accent and pronunciation is much stronger than mine.

  “You must have learned it very young. You sound almost like a native speaker.”

  Lenka picks up her fork and pokes at her salad. “My grandmother was German. She looked after me while my mother worked, and I grew up speaking both Ukrainian and the language of my mother’s family. But,” she shoots a glance across me to where Melwas and Ash are talking in a mix of Ukrainian and English, “my husband does not like for me to speak in German because he doesn’t understand it.”

  “Will it bother him to know we’re speaking in it now?” I ask as gently as I can.

  She gives a small nod, swallowing. The action looks almost painful given how slender her neck is.

  “But surely he would be proud to know that his wife was performing her diplomatic duties so well,” I say.

  She looks confused.

  “Think of it. Here you are, charming the soon-to-be First Lady, who will go back to the President of the United States tonight and tell him how kind and intelligent the Carpathians are,” I explain. “You are proving what an asset you are, what special gifts you bring to his position.”

  “I did not think of it like that.” She chews her lip for a moment. “But perhaps my husband would not like you to be charmed. He might think that I have undercut his power, his wish to make the Americans afraid of him.”

  “Do you want me to act intimidated instead?” I ask honestly. “I can. No one will know but you and I.”

  “You’d do that for me?” she asks, those doll-blue eyes disbelieving. “But why?”

  “Even if our countries are barely at peace, I think loving a president puts us in a very small club. I think that makes us friends. Don’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” she says uncertainly. “I don’t have very many friends.”

  I reach under the table and squeeze her small hand. “You have one more tonight.”

  And for the first time, I see a tentative smile on her face. It’s gone almost immediately, but it was most definitely there and I reward myself with more wine.

  After dinner, there are a few requisite speeches and polite applause, and then the dancing is set to begin. I’m to dance with Melwas and Lenka with Ash, and she’s shaking as we stand up.

  “I’m not sure what you’ve heard about my husband,” I tell her in German, “but he is very kind. Unfortuna
tely he is a miserable dancer and you will have to protect your feet.”

  This wins me another smile. “I will try.” But the smile quickly fades. “My husband…he can be unkind. I am sorry in advance if he’s unkind to you.”

  “It’s not your fault if he’s unkind. Nothing he does is your responsibility,” I tell her seriously, searching for precisely the right words in German to tell her this. “And I promise when it comes to your husband, I can take care of myself.”

  “You may think that now,” she says sadly, “but he has a way of getting what he wants when it comes to hurting people.”

  And at first, I think she’s wrong. Melwas leads me out on the floor as Ash and Lenka take their positions, and there’s nothing but charm on his face as he takes me in his arms and we begin dancing. In fact, he’s a very good dancer, and for a minute or two, we are so focused on dancing and maintaining smiles for the photographers that we don’t converse. But just as I’m beginning to relax, he speaks.

  “You are a very beautiful woman,” he remarks. His English is remarkably clear. “Your President Colchester is a very lucky man.”

  “Thank you,” I answer politely. “But I consider myself equally lucky.”

  “Do you now?” His wide forehead wrinkles in mock-puzzlement. “But of course! The great American hero, the soldier no one could defeat. They say that America never lost a battle when he was there on the battlefield. Is that true?”

  I don’t like where this conversation is going. “You tell me if it’s true,” I say, pleasantly enough to mask the challenge in the words.

  “You know, he and I once fought face to face,” Melwas says, steering me expertly into an elaborate spin. There’s impressed applause around us as he guides me back into place. “A small village called Glein. And he was willing to let a church full of civilians burn that day. That doesn’t sound very heroic to me, but then again, maybe you Americans care more about winning than how you win.”

  I can’t help the itchy hot indignation that prickles my skin, and frankly, I don’t want to help it. “Are you saying their deaths are on President Colchester’s hands and not on the men who shot them? On the men who lit a boat full of children on fire?”

  To my surprise, Melwas smiles widely. “You’ve got spirit in you. I like that in a woman.”

  I think of Lenka and seriously doubt that.

  “So if you were there,” I continue, “were you the one who gave the order? Did you personally shoot any of the civilians? Set fire to that boat?”

  “Do you think I’m such a monster?”

  I think of Lenka. I think of the treaty. I think of the mental chessboard my grandfather taught me to hold in my mind as I spied for him, and yet I throw it all out in favor of honesty. “Yes. Only monsters try to kill children, President Kocur, and a real man wouldn’t pass the blame onto someone else.”

  Anger flashes quick on his face at the dig at his masculinity, and his shoulder tenses under my hand. “You test me, Miss Galloway,” he says, and his hold on me tightens. “Do you also test your hero in this manner?”

  I lift my chin. “I don’t need to.”

  “You know, if you were my wife, I’d make sure you never talked this way to me again.” He yanks me close to him and I stumble with a small gasp. “And I would enjoy giving you that lesson very much.”

  Another yank and I feel him. Feel it. He’s hard.

  If I ever wanted to know if there was something wrong with me, if I ever felt confused by the dynamic between me and Ash, all of that blurriness is wiped away. I see it clearly now, the difference between consensual power exchange and the actual violence men can do to women. I know immediately what Melwas means by teaching a lesson and it wouldn’t be playful spankings bounded by a safe-word and affection. All I feel at Melwas’s words is nausea and the urge to run.

  I try to pull back, but he doesn’t let me, making sure I feel exactly how much stronger he is than me. “I didn’t mean to be ugly,” he apologizes suddenly, as if struck with a sudden mood swing. “Not to such a beautiful woman. Perhaps you could visit me tonight, and I could make amends.”

  I refuse to struggle against his hold, even though the erection pressing into my stomach is triggering all sorts of instinctual alarms. I look him in the eye. “You know that won’t happen.”

  He gives a shrug that is so very Slavic. “Maybe not tonight. But someday I’ll see what the great hero gets to enjoy every night.”

  He’s jealous of Ash. It’s so obvious that I’m surprised I missed it, but it makes so much sense. Melwas fought in the same war, emerged as his fledgling country’s ruler, and yet outside of Carpathian borders, Ash is the one venerated like a saint.

  “And your wife?” I ask, looking over to Ash and Lenka. Lenka is leading Ash through the steps, and they’re both laughing—the smile and color in her cheeks doing wonders for Lenka’s beauty.

  I feel rather than see the irritation run through Melwas’ body, although I’m not sure if it’s at Lenka’s happiness or the fact that Ash is the one giving her the happiness.

  “She has no say in these things. I’ve made that very clear to her.”

  Poor Lenka. Does she pretend not to see Melwas with other women? Or is she secretly relieved that she alone doesn’t have to bear the brunt of his lust?

  And then for no reason at all, I think of Embry and Ash under the mistletoe, Ash’s fist in Embry’s shirt and my heart pounding in the dark. Am I like Lenka? Standing passively by while my partner cheats on me?

  The thought is like a tuning fork, humming along my bones, deep into my teeth, and all of my priorities fall right back into order, and I’m Greer Galloway again, the professor, the spy, the political princess.

  “I suppose you have made that clear to her. And I will make it clear to you—I’m not interested. Tonight or ever.”

  “A challenge,” he says, his accent growing thick. “I have not had a challenge in a very long time.”

  “You will lose,” I say, and I say it with such certainty and calmness that it throws him. His grip on me loosens.

  “May I cut in?”

  I look up to see Embry next to us, unsmiling and warlike, all of the meanings of his interruption obvious.

  Get away from her.

  She belongs to someone else.

  I’m not afraid of you, and I don’t give a shit about diplomacy.

  I don’t think Melwas really gives a shit about diplomacy either, which he makes apparent by stepping forward and pointedly adjusting his tuxedo jacket to cover his erection. Embry sees this, his face contorting into an expression of wolfish rage, and for a minute, I wonder if he’s going to take a swing at the Carpathian leader. But then Ash and Lenka are coming up to us, and Ash is saying something in Ukrainian as he bows and kisses Lenka’s hand and then gestures to Melwas.

  Lenka giggles. Giggles. And the sound jars Melwas out of his locked stare with Embry. He says something brusque and demanding in Ukrainian and then stalks off the dance floor, Lenka scurrying after him.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Embry says quietly once they’re gone, his hands curling into fists.

  Elsewhere, I see other couples spilling onto the dance floor, more or less oblivious to the crisis that was just averted by a giggle. Adrenaline is pumping through me like I’ve been fighting, like I’ve been attacked, and Ash steps to me and takes my head in his hands.

  “Are you okay?” he asks seriously, searching my face. “I came over as soon as I saw something was wrong. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you when you needed me.”

  “I’m okay.” I take a deep breath and realize my hands are shaking. “He…it doesn’t matter. I’m fine, and I didn’t need help.”

  “You’re not fine though,” Embry hisses, turning to Ash. “Did you see how he was holding her? Touching her? We can’t let him near her again.”

  Ash looks at me thoughtfully, on the surface all cool analysis while Embry seethes and mumbles threats next to him. But when I meet his eyes, there’s not
hing cool or composed in their deep, clear depths. In them, I see the soldier. I see lead and fire and blood.

  “He wants you,” Ash says finally. “That much is clear. I’m doubling your security for the duration of your stay, and you tell me the moment he says or does something untoward again. Understood?”

  “I can take care of myself,” I say, a little snappishly. “I don’t need you to rescue me.”

  Ash looks impatient. “This isn’t a game, Greer. You were just sexually assaulted by the leader of a country hostile to ours. Like it or not, you are an extension of my office now—your safety and the safety of our country are intertwined, and aside from all that, you are the most precious possession of my heart. I will do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

  I don’t even know why I’m so riled up right now, so peevish, because none of this is Ash’s fault, but I bite off a caustic, “I’m not anyone’s possession” and glare at him.

  And then he’s leaning into my ear, his hand on the small of my back. “That’s right, you’re not my possession. You’re going to be my wife. My wife who kneels at my feet, who presents her cunt to me without question when I demand it, who trusts me with her heart and soul and future. You think it’s either/or that you belong to yourself or belong to me, but I’m telling you right now that it’s both/and. You belong to yourself and you belong to me, and I don’t fucking care that it seems like a contradiction because we both know it isn’t. Now if you can’t accept that, then say my name right now and we will step back and renegotiate our relationship. But if you are willing to submit to the fact that I will move fucking heaven and earth to keep you from harm, then say yes, Sir.”

  My irritation leaves instantly, my emotions taking a crash as the adrenaline in my blood begins to plummet down to pre-Melwas levels. “Yes, Sir,” I say, feeling instantly guilty for taking out my fear and anger on him. “I’m sorry, Ash. I’m not angry with you. I’m just shaken up.”

  “I know.” He gives me a lingering kiss on the lips, parting them with his own and sliding his tongue inside my mouth. I taste mint and whiskey and Ash. “I love you,” he whispers, pulling back. “I have to go talk to Merlin, though. This…complicates things.”