Page 42 of Under His Command
“So…” I say, getting their attention, “how was your trip to Vermont? I saw it on the news.”
Cam laughs, leaning back on the couch with her legs crossed. “I like you. You seem quiet and reserved, but you’ve got a fire in you of sorts. We’re going to be friends.”
“We are?” I ask, surprised she likes me so much.
“She’s already decided it, so yes, I’m afraid you two are going to be friends,” Rowan says, narrowing his eyes at her. She responds by plastering a Cheshire smile on her lips.
We talk and eat lunch for a full hour. They both ask about my job, my life, and my life with Rowan. I try to ask questions of my own—though it’s hard to come up with any when most of their lives are so public all the time. Either way, I’m honestly having a pretty good time, considering all the nerves I had earlier.
For some reason, I noticed that Cam keeps touching her necklace whenever the President touches her in any way, shape, or form. I wish we could talk about it—she seems like a genuinely great person, and I hope she meant it when she said she wanted to be friends.
“Cam, why don’t you take Dove and show her around? Maybe take her to the rose garden, or the Vermeil room?” The President—I mean, Maddox, as he asked to be called—tells her, his hand sliding up and down her bare leg. Goosebumps pebble her skin wherever he touches, and both her cheeks are blood-red. I also could’ve sworn her legs parted slightly for him, but I could be wrong.
“Great idea.” She clears her throat, jolting upright from the couch. “Come on, Dove. It’s about to get really depressing in here.”
I look back at Rowan, feeling a bit anxious about leaving his side in the White House. But he nods softly, silently telling me it’s going to be all right.
“What do you mean?” I ask her, but Rowan answers instead.
“Just war stuff, angel. Go on. Have fun. I’ll come and get you when I’m done.”
I get up and follow Cam outside, feeling both Rowan’s and Maddox’s eyes on us.
“Cam?” Maddox asks, and she halts, lifting her brows at him.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Behave,” he smiles calmly. “Or be prepared for consequences. Up to you.”
Her nostrils flare in response, but she forces a smile before we both exit the room.
I’m sprawled on a chair in an empty salon three blocks away from the White House, where the First Lady and I are getting our nails done. After whatever subtext Maddox gave her earlier, she wanted to do the exact opposite of what he asked—to not behave. Which for her meant getting out of the White House and enjoying the day with her new friend. Me.
Security already cleared the place for her and surrounded the building, so we’re as safe as we’d be anywhere else, she said. I personally don’t feel threatened—after all, I still go about my day-to-day life outside of the White House. It’s her I’m worried about. But if she says it’s fine, then…
“Fired your bodyguard? That’s pretty tame,” Cam tells me after I confessed the reason I was mad at Rowan earlier. “You should see the things Maddox does. He’s infuriating.”
“Is he? You can’t really tell. He looks… friendly.”
She sighs, inspecting the polished nails on her free hand. “Yeah, well, that’s his superpower. Everyone just loooves Maddox. I mean, look at this country. Zelda,” she addresses the woman doing her nails, “don’t you love your president?”
“Of course, ma’am.”
“Ah, but maybe you’re just saying that because I’m here,” Cam concludes, looking away.
“No, ma’am. He’s done good things for our country.”
“See?” Cam shakes her head at me, exasperated. “What did I tell you?”
I stifle a laugh, while silently thanking my manicurist for finishing off my second coat of polish.
“You have to give me something,” I tell Cam. “What does Maddox do that Rowan doesn’t?”
Cam clears her throat and points at the necklace she’s wearing when the manicurists aren’t looking. It’s tight on her neck, almost too tight, and looks like a choker of sorts. An odd choice for the First Lady, one would say. Then again, Camelia Thorne is loved by this country for her eccentric personality.
“A collar,” she mouths silently.
I gape, taken aback by the confession. A… collar?
