American Prince

10

Greer

after

President Melwas Kocur sits across a table from me. The table is wide enough to accommodate serving dishes, flowers, candles, and wineglasses—Melwas has ordered the servants here not to disturb us as we eat, and so we serve ourselves, me only eating things that he’s eaten first. I taste nothing of the food, save for—strangely—the paper-thin apple slices in the salad. They are too tart, pulling my tongue to the top of my mouth, making me swallow unnecessarily. No matter how much water I drink or whatever else I eat, that tartness lingers and stings.

Melwas is as handsome as I remember him, blond hair and a strong face, a wide, muscular build that he clearly dresses to show off. But up close that handsomeness is compromised. By the hardness of his eyes, which are the flat color of acorns pressed into winter mud. By his mouth, which is almost too thin for how broad his jaw is. By the softness of his hands as they cradle his wineglass and pluck idly at the linen napkins.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” he says finally.

I haven’t said anything since I’ve gotten to the table, save for a quiet thank you when Melwas complimented my appearance. I didn’t want to say even that much, but I had decided to be Queen Guinevere and it’s what she would have done. Both to indicate her personal sovereignty was intact and to set the tone for the interactions to come. Much as I resented the idea of being polite to a kidnapper, it was expedient for me to keep Melwas within the bounds of civility for as long as possible.

“Ask what?”

He gestured around the lodge. “Why you’re here. Why I’m here. Why I had you spirited away in such a manner.”

“I assume it’s a move meant to provoke my husband,” I say. I sound much calmer than I feel.

Melwas nods. “Yes, partly that. But Greer, you cannot have forgotten the words we exchanged in Geneva.”

Someday I’ll see what the great hero gets to enjoy every night.

I have not had a challenge in a very long time.

I remember them very well. They are the kind of threats that stay with you, particularly because I knew Melwas meant them as he said them. They weren’t idle words.

I drop my hands into my lap so that their trembling can’t betray me. My face I keep schooled into a mask of perfect calm. “I remember, President Kocur.”

He stands up and comes around to my side of the table, standing behind me and dropping a hand on my shoulder. His touch is corrosive; I feel it peeling away my flesh and my calm, burning through my resolve of politeness like acid. I glance around the room under my lashes—his guards are situated discreetly around the large central room. I could take advantage of his nearness and try to hurt him, but I’d be overpowered quickly and there’s nothing to hurt him with other than a few serving platters and my own fists.

“I want this to be enjoyable, for both of us,” Melwas says. His voice goes softer, the accent more pronounced. “Did you not enjoy the clothes I’ve provided for you? The lovely room? Even my wife does not have such nice things.”

He plans on raping me and yet expects me to find it enjoyable? “The clothes are a thoughtful gesture,” I say. A lifetime of watching diplomats at work helps me find the right words. “But I’m unsure how to feel about our situation.”

“I will win you over,” he says.

“I thought you wanted me as a challenge. To break my spirit.”

The hand on my shoulder squeezes. Hard. “Yes. I do want that. Know this, Greer, if you fight back, I will enjoy it all the more.”

“So what do you want, President Kocur? For me to enjoy this or for me to fight it?”

His hand wanders from my shoulder to the back of my neck, where he fists it in my hair. Tears spring to my eyes at the pain in my scalp. “This will be a compassionate arrangement for you. Women like you are satisfied by such roughness—” he yanked at my hair “—and men like me are satisfied by giving it. I was told about the marks my men found on your body the night they took you. So do not pretend that it will be a great cruelty, me being with you.”

One more hard yank—hard enough to make me cry out—and then he releases me. But as he sits back down, his manner is changed. One of his unpredictable mood swings. “It will be good for you, you’ll see,” he says earnestly, almost contritely. “You will see how much I am willing to do for you, and you will enjoy me when the time comes.”

I stare at him as he resumes eating, willing my pulse to go back to normal. And I realize that Melwas is more dangerous than I thought.

He’s a sadist who thinks he’s kind, a narcissist who thinks he’s humble.

And unless I can find a way to stop him, I am completely at his mercy.

“That’s enough,” he declares abruptly. He raps his knuckles on the table and servants appear from nowhere, scrambling to clear the surface. He gets to his feet and walks back over to my side, wrapping a hand around my upper arm and jerking me to my feet so fast that my chair topples over behind me. “We’re going to your room.”

Dread hammers in my chest as he pulls me down the wide staircase to the second floor, and I realize this is it. Queen Guinevere has failed, hoping to steer my captor into civility has failed, and now I have a choice—yield to a man who almost certainly wants to rape me, or fight back. And for the tiniest second, I wish I were any other woman than Greer Galloway-Colchester. I wish that I were a fighter, a boxer, a cop, or a soldier. I wish that I were the kind of woman that shot arrows and brought down empires, that knew all the ways to make men like Melwas hurt. But I’m not.