Page 6 of American King (New Camelot Trilogy 3)
“It’s too late to—”
“Maybe it is too late. But I want you to know anyway. There’s not a night that goes by that
Glein doesn’t haunt my dreams…that the whole fucking war doesn’t weigh on me. I failed you that day. I didn’t mean to, I was trying my hardest, but I still failed. I’m still responsible, and I’ll never forgive myself for it. Especially now, knowing about our son.”
Morgan is quiet when she speaks. “Okay, Maxen.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” she affirms.
“Thank you.”
“Good night, little brother.”
“Good night, Morgan.”
THREE
ASH
now
I didn’t sleep that night. I didn’t expect to, but it still feels bitter when it comes. The insomnia. The restless memories. The guilt. The endless chewing questions—what if what if what if.
What if I’d saved everyone in Glein?
What if I’d found ways to spare more enemies?
What if I’d kept Greer safer before Melwas took her?
And the wave of what ifs would curl and hang into the future—what if I begged Embry to come back? What if I went after Melwas right now? What if I said fuck everything and caught the next flight to Seattle to meet my son?
Then the wave would collapse and crash, sucking itself back into the past. An endless, churning cycle of doubt. I only knew one way to stay the doubt, to part the guilt and the worry like a biblical sea, and that way was lost to me. My little prince had run away, my little princess was in another city. There was no one to wrestle, no one to whip, no one to kiss. No one to shove inside of and relieve every ache.
Fuck. I needed it bad too. Those moments before Embry had told me he was leaving, his jacket crumpled in my fist, his fingers warm and probing the place I’d denied him so long…
God, what I would have given. My kingdom. My soul, just to have Embry in front of me. I’d grab that jacket again, and then I’d push him down, shove his face into the carpet. Yank down his pants. How the fuck dare he, how the fuck dare he, and I’d seethe just that into his ear as I laid my body over his. I’d pin him down with a forearm to his neck, I’d make him feel every angry pound of me. I’d fuck him right in two.
BELVEDERE FINDS me in the gym the next morning, naked to the waist and covered in sweat.
Belvedere’s in his mid-twenties, Latinx—and his floppy black hair and tight cardigans and trendy glasses betray the same level of attention he gives to style as he gives to everything else, which is part of why he makes such an excellent aide. The other part is his sheer unflappability; he makes no comment on my haggard expression or sweaty body.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” he says. I grunt in response, finishing the last four pull-ups of my set before dropping from the bar and reaching for my towel.
“We’ve got a full docket today,” he continues, unfazed. Ryan Belvedere has seen me in every mood, every state of sweat and undress, every tired, snappish moment in a rented car or in the corner of a high school gymnasium or under the baking sun at a state fair. He’s my body man, my personal aide—my valet if you care for such old-fashioned terms—and he’s awake before me and asleep after me. His job is me. To manage my travel and my appointments in conjunction with my secretary. To make sure my dry-cleaning arrives at the right hotel when I’ve got three different events in three different cities. To hand me Sharpies when I’m signing at rallies, to carry my spare ties, to answer my phone when I can’t. He’s my shadow, and after last night, he’s my most loyal friend.
Of course, Embry and I were never really friends. When we first met, he thought I was his enemy and I thought he was perfect. Then I fell in love with him, and he’s been breaking my heart ever since.
I flex my hands just once, hard enough to feel the protest of the bones and thin tendons, to remind myself that I can feel something other than this. Than him.
My little prince.
“What’s on today?” I ask, throwing the towel in a nearby basket and taking the folder Belvedere offers. Inside is my agenda for the day and several memos from my staff to review.
“Briefing from your secretary at eight thirty,” Belvedere says, taking the folder from me and handing me a bottle of water, which I gladly drink. “Then your daily security briefing with Gawayne at nine thirty. A phone call with the new UK prime minister right after, then the televised visit with the Pine Ridge high school. Merlin wants me to remind you to use it as a chance to showcase the early achievements of the reservation infrastructure bill you spearheaded last year.”
Merlin. Another open wound that needs triaged today. I cap the now-empty bottle and drop it into the recycle bin. “I’m not going to platform on something that should have been done decades ago. It feels corrupt.”
