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 illusion 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?