American Queen

Checkmate. And the match is hers.

I can’t hear my own thoughts over the roar of the pulse pounding in my ears, the jealousy and the fear—because she’s found my real weakness, my real insecurity—and I feel a stupid, ridiculous burning at the backs of my eyelids. Focus! I order myself. Don’t let her see you upset!

I’m saved by a heavy hand on my shoulder, and I look up to see Embry smiling down at me and Morgan. He has a hand on her shoulder too, and she doesn’t look confused by it, only irritated in the bored way that familiarity and habit breed. I stare at them both—Morgan in her pale gray Dior gown and Embry in his low-waisted tuxedo—both of them so stylish and elegant, their posture suffused with confidence and privilege. Something finally trickles in from the back of my memory, a wisp of information from years ago, something from a speech Morgan gave in the Senate a few years ago.

Something about a loved one who fought in Carpathia.

“Greer,” Embry says. “I see you’ve finally met my sister.”

18

“Step-sister,” Morgan corrects icily.

“Step-sister,” Embry concedes cheerfully. “But we both have the same winning personality, don’t we?”

“There’s no need for sarcasm,” Morgan says, glancing away from us as if bored. “We all know you’re here to rescue the princess from the evil witch.”

Embry’s smile grows wider. “Your words, Sissy, not mine.”

Morgan actually looks mortified. “Don’t call me that here.”

“Did you know,” Embry says, as if he didn’t hear her, “that Sissy here actually requested to sit next to you once she heard you were attending the dinner? A fun fact I just learned from Belvedere, who learned it from the social secretary. Now, why would that be, Morgan? You weren’t planning on causing any trouble, were you?”

“I simply wanted to meet the soon-to-be-famous Greer Galloway for myself.” Morgan’s eyes sweep back to me, appraisingly. “See the girl that has the President so preoccupied.”

Embry’s hand curls protectively around my shoulder.

Morgan doesn’t miss that, and she raises an eyebrow. “She has you preoccupied too, then? How interesting.”

There’s a blink of something on Embry’s face—worry, maybe—and then it’s gone. “They’re starting up the dancing, Morgan, so as delightful as this little reunion is, I’m afraid Greer and I must abandon you.”

Embry helps me stand, but before we can make our escape, I feel Morgan’s cool hand on my wrist. “Don’t forget what I said to you,” she says quietly, and there’s no malice in her voice, only a kind of urgency. “You’re in over your head.”

“That’s enough, Morgan,” Embry tells her. “You’ve done your worst. Now leave us alone.”

Morgan sits back with a pretty frown, and I withdraw my wrist and let Embry lead me away, my stomach churning.

“Don’t let her upset you,” Embry says as we weave through the tables to the far corner of the dining room, where Ash stands with a circle of dignitaries talking and sipping premium vodka. “She’s jealous. She and Ash…well, there’s a history there. And it’s not a pretty one.”

“I gathered that much.” I take a deep breath. “They used to fuck?”

Embry winces at the word. “I hate such a wonderful word being applied to such a short-lived, stupid thing. They met the first year Ash was deployed, three or four years before Caledonia.”

Three or four years before he met me, I think, doing the math.

“And it wasn’t anything more than an R and R fling. Over in a week. Fourteen years ago.”

I’m not often struck by the age difference between Ash and me, but for a moment, I’m stunned by it. Stunned by the fact that he was fucking Morgan Leffey while I was an eleven-year-old skipping around my grandfather’s penthouse.

“So there hasn’t been anything between them since then?” I ask. “Because that’s not the impression I got.”

Embry’s face has a purposefully open expression, and his voice is so carefully honest and casual. “That’s the last time they fucked, I’m certain of it.”

He’s lying. Or he’s not telling the whole truth, but before I can press him further, he tucks my hand in the crook of his elbow and squeezes it. “Let’s not talk about my sister now. I just ate like thirteen pierogies in front of the Polish president in order to impress him, and I’m already about to throw up. Besides, we have much more important things to talk about, like how many times are you going to dance with me tonight?”

I smile up at him. “As many times as you’d like.”

His eyes glow. “You have to dance with Ash first. But then after that, you’re mine.”

In his words, I hear the echo of our night together, and my blood stirs to a boil.

You’re with me, not him.

That’s it. All mine.

He looks away, clearing his throat as if realizing how intense that sounded. “I mean, for dancing, of course. Hey, maybe we can convince the quartet to play Rihanna—they probably already have the sheet music for that, right?”

I give a small laugh and so does he, but it doesn’t dispel the sudden uncomfortable tension between us. It’s almost a relief when we reach Ash and the Polish dignitaries.

Embry untucks my fingers from his arm and, with exaggerated ceremony, places them in Ash’s outstretched hand. “Your lady, milord.”