American Queen

¥ Republican, but elected in a traditionally blue state.

¥ A staunch supporter of military action against Carpathia (which could explain why she’s invited tonight, to show Poland solidarity in their continued diplomatic tensions with the new, hostile nation).

¥ Divorced, but now unmarried and unattached.

¥ No children, no big scandals.

It feels like there’s something else that I’m missing about her though, something big. I can’t put my finger on it.

All this assessment happens within the blink of an eye. On the next blink, I ask calmly, “Pardon me?”

“I said,” she answers with a catlike smile, “have you fucked Maxen?”

I dart a quick glance around us, and she puts a cool hand on my arm. “No one’s listening, I promise. Now, have you let the President fuck you yet?”

“That’s not your business,” I decide is the safest answer.

“That means no,” she says, sounding satisfied. “Has he hurt you yet?”

I feel the blood leave my face.

“Has he flogged you? Or tied you up? Fucked your throat? Has he made you cry and then beg for more while the tears are still on your cheeks?”

How can she know this about Ash? About this side of him?

“What he and I have is still very new,” I answer carefully. A chess piece answer. A pawn left exposed on the field.

She takes the bait. “Then that’s a yes,” she says, smug knowledge lacing her words.

I watch her face. Have you fucked Ash? I want to demand. Has he dominated you? The thought of Ash with anyone else sets my palms to itching with envy, but the thought of him with Senator Leffey? Well, that sends daggers of pure, uncut rage straight between my ribs. And the thought of him doing the same things with her as he did with me—the commands, the control, the rough, vulnerable need—it fills me with something deeper than jealousy, a lizard-brain need to defend my territory from invaders, defend it to the death.

As if she knows what’s happening inside my mind, she gives me another smile and takes a sip of her champagne. “Don’t worry, Greer. Maxen and I are done fucking for now. No need for jealousy.”

For now. What a deliberate choice of words. I have the nearly irrepressible urge to dump my own champagne in her lap, but I don’t. Instead, I force myself away from my anger, force the jealousy aside, and redouble my focus on her. On the smile curling at the edges of her mouth, her eyebrows quirked in enjoyment. She wants me to flare up and she wants me to be defensive—she’s counting on me reacting the way she would in my shoes.

But she’s not me, and I’m not her. I give her a small smile that I know looks tentative and shy. “It’s hard not to be jealous, Senator. You are a very beautiful person, and like I said a minute ago, what the President and I have is very new. I guess it’s hard not to be insecure.”

My honesty and intentional sweetness seem to throw her—both the flattery and the truth-telling finding purchase somewhere inside this powerful woman. I follow up, pressing my advantage. “Do you know Maxen very well? Did he hurt you too? I want to please him, but I’m still new to our, um, arrangement.”

Every word sings with earnest honesty, sings with submission. You are so beautiful and worldly, my words whisper to her. You know more than I do, you know this man better than I do.

It works. Her pleased smile remains, but it’s no longer shrewd, merely satisfied. “I have to admit, I’m surprised he chose you,” she says, glancing at me again. “The young academic, the granddaughter of the famously liberal and feminist Leo Galloway. You seem like the last girl on earth who could handle Maxen Colchester. Not to mention the last girl on earth who would want to—surely it will be hard to glad-hand all the Democrats in the Congressional Women’s Caucus with belt marks on your ass?”

Her dig falls so short of the mark that I almost laugh, but I resist. She’s revealed three different layers of resentment and a profound ignorance about me in just a few sentences, and more importantly, she’s revealed the reason she’s needling me to begin with. She wants to know why me, why Ash chose me, and her barbs reveal that it’s about something deeper and fiercer than mere political curiosity.

“I’m actually registered with the President’s party,” I say mildly. “Not my grandfather’s.” I changed my affiliation the day Ash announced his intention to run for President as a third-party candidate. Merlin had laid the foundation for a third-party run for years leading up to it, at the state and national level, and when the nation’s favorite hero had emerged as the face of the new party, I wasn’t the only turning in my old party card. “And,” I continue, keeping my face open and earnest as I move my next chess piece, “I’ve never found any problem mixing what I want in bed with feminism. Did you? Is that why you and Maxen aren’t together?”

Check.

Her lips press together, revealing a flash of irritation, and then she leans in, her voice truly cold for the first time. “Be careful, Greer. You’re in over your head with Maxen Colchester. You have no idea the things he’s capable of, the things he’s done. The secrets he keeps. The lies he tells.”

I remember Abilene’s warning, Merlin’s evasiveness, and there’s a shot of ice water running through my veins. How many people know these secrets about Ash? Why am I the only one in the dark?

Morgan sees that she’s finally landed a blow, and her voice is both cold and pleased when she says, “And have you ever thought about the reason why you and Maxen haven’t had sex yet? Maybe he’s told you that he wants to wait, that he wants to take things slow, but no man can take things that slow, trust me. Not unless he’s getting it from somewhere else.”