Page 6 of American Prince (New Camelot Trilogy 2)
“It should be him,” Merlin says, stepping close to us. “It’s still tricky, but Embry was also scheduled for a vacation out of state this week. And while it’s reckless and logistically thorny, there’s no real reason why it shouldn’t be him. We are in new territory with your wife’s abduction, Mr. President, and new territories require new solutions.”
Ash reluctantly releases my neck. “I feel like a coward staying here,” he replies bitterly. “Letting everyone else risk everything.”
“They risk it of their own free will,” Merlin says. “And even the great Maxen Colchester can’t stop people from using their free will.”
Kay is close now too, her hand on Ash’s arm. He relaxes the tiniest bit. “We are going to get her back, Ash,” she says. “We’ll keep this from the press, long enough for Melwas to think we aren’t taking any action, which might make him uncomfortable enough to make a mistake. We’ll send the best of the PPD and CIA and Special Forces, and we’ll send Embry. Between all those things, we will disrupt all the plans Melwas has made about Greer and we’ll stop any harm from coming to her.”
He swallows, closing his eyes. “I hate this,” he whispers. “I hate this so much.”
My heart twists, and before I can stop myself, I’ve got my arms around him. His head drops to my shoulder—the opposite of how we stood in this room last night, right before Ash palmed my cock and made me come all over his fist. Now I’m the strong one, now I’m the one offering comfort and release.
I hold him tighter. “I’ll get her back,” I swear.
“It should be me,” he says into my shoulder.
“But it can’t be.”
“You have to come back to me. Both of you. If I lose you, too—” His voice cracks suddenly. “My little prince. Please come back.”
People are casting sympathetic glances at us, at our seeming display of fraternal comfort. But I see the way Kay and Merlin look at us, the only two people in the room who know our past, and I see them wonder. About me and Ash. Me and Greer.
I step back, shuddering slightly at the feeling of Ash’s stubble rasping against my cheek as he pulls away. “I’m coming back,” I promise. “And your wife is too.”
After all, if it weren’t for Greer all those years ago, I wouldn’t have believed myself capable of love again. If it weren’t for Greer, I wouldn’t have Ash again. If it weren’t for last night, for the vows we spoke to each other and the promises we made with our bodies, then I wouldn’t have my own soul.
I have to rescue her.
She’s already rescued me.
3
Greer
after
I’m in a car. That much I know, that much I can feel by the vibration of the road thrumming through my skull. The thought comes, illuminating my mind, and then other sensory information floods in after it. My hands are taped behind my back, my ankles bound together. There’s something over my eyes and something over my mouth. I can’t see, can’t move, can’t hear anything over the roar of the tires. I tentatively stretch my legs out, first down, then side to side, then up. That and the scratchy carpet against my cheek confirm what I already suspected—I’m in a trunk.
For a moment, I’m almost amused. I’ve become one of those damsels in the legends that I teach about at Georgetown, one of those women in the stories who represents sex or virtue or deceit or any number of things to the gallant knight she’s entreating for help. To complain that these women are passive is to miss the point; they aren’t women at all. They’re symbols, defined by the meaning the knights make of them, recognizable only as the role they play in the knight’s adventure.
And right now, it’s hard not to feel a kinship with those cardboard characters. I’m in this trunk because of the meanings Melwas made about me, even because of the meanings the President and his Vice President have made about me. To Melwas, I’m a thing to be possessed; to Ash and Embry, I’m a living projection of their love and promises.
In other words, I’m being moved around in a story that isn’t my own, and I squeeze my eyes shut against my blindfold and vow that it will not continue. Not even if I have to kill Melwas myself.
I take a minute to calm my thoughts, to keep back the tears that might stop up my nose and keep me from breathing. I’m in a trunk. All modern trunks have trunk releases, right? If I release the trunk and we’re in heavy traffic, then someone will see me bound and gagged and surely I’ll be saved. But if I release the trunk and there’s no one around, then I’m screwed. He or they—whoever is in the front seat—will simply stop the car and shut the trunk again. And maybe hurt me for the trouble.
Which means I need my legs free at least, so I can run, no matter what the scenario.
The clean smell of the trunk carpet hints to me that this is a rental car, which means there’s a chance my captors haven’t been thorough in certain respects. I wriggle—quietly, trying to keep thumping to a minimum—so that my hands find the edge of the trunk carpet, and just as I hoped, it lifts up. Underneath, there will be a cavity where the spare tire and jack are stored, but I don’t care about that. I just want the tools. One tool in particular.
It takes a long time, or at least it feels long in the dark, having to move so slowly. But then I find it: a cheaply made vinyl bag resting in its own cavity under the carpet. I slowly work it open and extract the pry bar, thanking God that Grandpa Leo insisted I learn how to change a tire when I was a teenager, even though I had no reason to drive anywhere. It serves me now as I brace the bar against the side of the trunk and begin working the sharp points of it into the tape.
My wrists are stinging and aching after only a few moments of this; several times the sharp end misses the tape and digs into the soft skin of my inner arms. Luckily, the tape over my mouth stifles my yelps of pain, and after my hands go numb and my arms are bleeding and sore, it happens. The tape tears enough to free my hands. I wincingly peel the tape off my mouth and lose the blindfold, and then set to work on my feet, which takes much less time.
And without the blindfold, I see what I’m looking for, the only point of light in my dark world. A tab marked Pull.
I want to pull it now, right this instant, but I force myself to wait. Wait until the car slows, rolls almost to a stop. I bet we are at a stop sign or stoplight, and praying for daylight and lots of traffic, I yank the tab. The trunk lid pops open.
The light is blinding. Actually blinding—I can’t see, can’t even make out shapes and surfaces right in front of me. But I force myself to move anyway, climbing clumsily out of the trunk, forcing my half-asleep legs to run, run, run, even though I can’t see where I’m going and my bare feet struggle to find purchase on the wet asphalt beneath them. Even though I feel the hotel bathrobe I’m still dressed in begin to flap open, exposing my nakedness underneath. There’s a yell, a shout in Ukrainian, and I will my eyes to see more, see faster, as if I could shrink my pupils at will.
