Chapter 5 #2
We had already agreed when working out the security details of the evening that only three agents would accompany me onboard—Rickon, Chase, and a younger agent named Rivers who got his assignment because his dad was a congressman—and remain in the adjoining hallway while I shared a private dinner with Declan in his stateroom.
At my signal, which was nothing more than calling his name, Rickon would move in to apprehend Hewes.
With any luck, we'd be off the yacht with no one being the wiser within the hour.
Ugh, what if Declan tried to kiss me? What would be worse if he did: vomiting or screaming?
The last time I got kissed was about a month after becoming Vice President.
First Lady Amelia Duncan had fixed me up with Senator Laberbera.
She was always trying to fix me up with somebody.
He was a nice man, a widower, but it just felt wrong.
Then the President died, and there wasn't enough time to even think about kissing.
My eyes flicked to Rickon before I could stop myself. What would it be like to kiss him? The thought slammed into me so suddenly I nearly stumbled.
Jesus Christ, Ellie. Get a grip.
But I couldn't help it. My gaze traced the line of his jaw, the way his lips pressed together in that serious expression he always wore.
Would they be soft? Would he kiss gently, or would there be an intensity to it that matched everything else about him?
Would it feel like kissing a human man, or would I be able to feel the alien underneath?
Heat flooded my cheeks, and I jerked my eyes away, horrified at myself. Rickon was here simply to capture Declan Hewes and head back into space, not whatever the hell my hormone riddled brain was conjuring right now.
I was the President of the United States, for fuck's sake, about to walk into a sting operation to arrest a corrupt billionaire, and here I was fantasizing about kissing my alien bodyguard like some teenager with a crush.
Get. It. Together.
The gangway was solid beneath my feet as I stepped onto the yacht, Rickon a half-step behind me. Two of Declan's guards, both built like brick shithouses in expensive suits, materialized at the top of the boarding ramp.
"Madam President," the taller one said with a nod that was just shy of respectful. "If you'll follow us."
I didn't miss the way Rickon's hand flexed at his side, or how his eyes tracked every movement the guards made. The tension rolling off him was palpable.
We descended into the belly of the ship, leaving the cool night air behind.
The interior was exactly what I'd expected, all gleaming wood paneling, brass fixtures, and artwork that probably cost more than most Americans made in a lifetime.
The carpet muffled our footsteps, the weave was so plush it felt like walking on clouds.
The guards led us down a corridor lined with what I assumed were guest cabins, then down another set of stairs. Deeper into the yacht. Further from the exit.
Finally, they stopped at a set of double doors. Mahogany, if I had to guess. Because, of course, they were.
"The stateroom," the shorter guard said, pulling open the doors.
I stepped through, and despite everything—despite knowing what Declan was, despite the plan, despite the danger—I had to fight to keep my expression neutral.
The room was obscene.
A dining table dominated the center, set for two with what had to be museum-quality pieces.
The plates alone looked like they belonged behind glass, delicate porcelain with intricate hand-painted designs I recognized as Meissen.
Crystal glasses caught the light from the chandelier overhead, refracting it into tiny rainbows.
Baccarat, probably. And the silverware had a distinctive organic design I'd seen in a Smithsonian exhibit once, Peretti for Tiffany.
The table's place setting could probably fund a small school district for a year.
They had already laid out the food. Caviar glistening in a crystal bowl nestled in ice.
A perfectly marbled ribeye that had to be Wagyu, the kind that costs hundreds of dollars per ounce.
Pasta that looked handmade, probably laced with truffles, given the earthy aroma.
Asparagus so green and perfect, it looked artificial.
And the wine—I glimpsed the label and nearly choked.
Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. A single bottle could go for tens of thousands of dollars.
The cost of this dinner could make a sizeable dent in the national debt.
My stomach rolled.
I settled into the chair the guard pulled out for me, hyperaware of Rickon's position near the door.
When I glanced up, our eyes met, and I saw it written all over his face.
He hated this. Hated letting me out of his sight, hated that I would be alone with Hewes, hated every single second of this plan.
For just a moment, I let myself draw strength from that look. From knowing he was close. From knowing he'd come through that door like the wrath of God if I needed him.
Then the guards ushered him out, and the door clicked shut behind them.
I was alone.
A few minutes passed, long enough for me to study the room, to note the other door on the far wall, to count my breaths and remind myself why I was doing this.
Then the door opened, and Declan fucking Hewes walked in.
He looked so goddamn smug. His suit probably cost more than my entire wardrobe—and as President, I had a kick-ass wardrobe—perfectly tailored to his frame.
His smile was wide and self-satisfied, like a cat that had finally cornered a particularly elusive canary.
Vomit, I decided in a heartbeat. If he tried to kiss me, I'd vomit and try to get as much on his suit as I could.
"Madam President," he said, his voice dripping with false warmth. "I'm so glad you came to your senses."
I forced myself to smile back, to play the part. "Mr. Hewes. Thank you for the invitation."
He settled into the chair across from me, immediately reaching for the wine. "Please call me Declan. I think we're past formalities now, don't you?" He poured for both of us without asking. "I have to say, I wasn't sure you'd actually show. But I'm very pleased you did."
Arrogant bastard. There wasn't a single thing attractive about him. Not his looks, not his manners, nothing. Just money and power wrapped in an expensive suit.
He raised his glass. "To new partnerships."
I lifted mine but didn't drink. Not yet. "You've been trying to get me alone for some time now. What exactly did you want to discuss, Declan?"
"Oh, come now." He took a sip, savoring the wine as he savored the moment, as though everything that existed did so solely for his pleasure. "Let's enjoy our meal first. Business can wait."
Like hell it could. But I played along, taking the smallest bite of caviar I could manage. It tasted like salt and money.
After a few minutes of excruciating small talk about the yacht, the weather, and other meaningless bullshit, he finally leaned back in his chair, swirling his wine.
"So," he said, his tone shifting to something more businesslike. "The trade deals with Japan and South Korea. How are those progressing?"
I set down my fork carefully, swallowing the small beads of caviar on my tongue. "You know I can't discuss that."
He laughed—actually laughed. "Oh, Ellie. May I call you Ellie?" He didn't wait for an answer. "That's silly. Of course, you can discuss it. With me, at least. After all, it will be my influence that decides whether or not those deals actually go through."
My spine stiffened. "Excuse me?"
"Come on." He leaned forward, elbows on the table like we were old friends sharing secrets.
"You're a smart woman. You know how this works.
I have connections, business interests, political allies—people who owe me favors.
If I want those deals to succeed, they will.
If I don't…." He shrugged. "Well, let's just say it would be unfortunate for your administration. "
His sheer arrogance took my breath away. He was sitting here, openly bragging about his ability to manipulate international trade policy.
My hackles raised, every instinct screaming at me to put this smug asshole in his place.
"Not on my watch," I said, my voice cold and determined.
He laughed again, the sound rich and genuinely amused. "Oh, Ellie. That's adorable." He took a sip of his wine, completely unbothered by the ice in my tone. "I already control the United States. You just haven't realized it yet."
"You smug son of a...."
"Smug?" He tilted his head, considering.
"Perhaps. But accurate." He set down his glass with deliberate care.
"You think you're in charge because you sit in the Oval Office?
Because people call you Madam President?
" Another laugh, softer this time, almost pitying.
"Darling, I own half your cabinet. The other half?
They're owned by people who owe me favors.
Your legislative agenda? It moves when I allow it.
Your executive orders? They're enforced—or ignored—based on whether they align with my interests. "
My hands clenched into fists under the table. "You're delusional."
"Am I?" He leaned back, perfectly relaxed. "Your power is only an illusion. You just don't realize it yet. But you will, very soon."
The signal. I needed to give Rickon the signal. His name. That's all it would take, and he'd come through that door like an avenging angel and put an end to this nightmare.
I reached for my water glass, preparing to take a drink, and then start yelling.
"Tell me something," Hewes said, his voice dropping lower. "Do you really think I don't know what your acceptance of this dinner invitation was all about?"
My hand froze halfway to the glass.
His smile widened. "Did you honestly believe I wouldn't find out about your little deal with the Alliance Prime?"
The blood drained from my face, a prick of chill dancing up my spine.
Then I heard it—gunshots. Sharp cracks from outside the door, followed by shouts and the heavy thud of bodies hitting the floor.
I stumbled to my feet, my chair scraping back. "What did you do?"
"I apologize for killing your agents," Hewes said, his tone conversational, like he was commenting on the weather. "But don't worry, I'll get you new ones. Though I'm afraid you won't be returning to the White House." He snapped his fingers.
The door behind him opened, and three figures entered.
They weren't human.
Hairless, with skin like pale leather stretched too tight over elongated skulls.
Their eyes were too large, too dark, reflecting the candlelight like polished obsidian.
They moved with an unsettling grace, their limbs just slightly too long for their bodies.
The only thing my mind could conjure upon seeing them was that they resembled hairless cats.
I screamed.
The door behind me exploded inward with a shower of splintered wood.
Rickon.