Reign: A Royal Military Romance (18 page)

* * *

I
jerk awake
when the phone rings. We’re still in the same position, and half my joints are creaky. My left arm is completely asleep, and Hazel kicks my shin as she wakes up.

It rings again.

“Is that the phone?” she asks.

I sit on the edge of the bed and find the flashlight on the floor, turn it on, and shine it at the ceiling so the light reflects.

“I’ll get it,” I say, and walk for the office, wearing nothing but my boxers. Hazel pads along behind me and slumps tiredly onto a wooden bench when I answer the phone.

“You can come out,” Chief Minister Arkady says. “It was just one crazy person. Everything else was smoke with no fire. Security council meeting in thirty minutes, and your father wants to see you first.”

We hang up. Hazel leans against the concrete wall, yawning.

“All clear,” I say, offering her my hand. “They’re waiting for us.”

She takes it, and I pull her up. Hazel slides her arms around my waist.

“I’m sorry your dad got shot at, but I’m glad we got to be in a bunker together,” she says.

I kiss her, long and slow, ignoring my erection.

“I’ll think differently about desks forever,” I say.

“And desk chairs,” she says.

“I don’t know if I’ll see you before the ball,” I say. “I have a feeling I’ll be kept busy.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “There’s a country to run and everything.”

“Save me a dance,” I say. “Royal orders.”

Hazel rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.

* * *

T
he air
outside the bunker smells incredible, like roses and lilacs and baking pies and sunshine. When we come out, Hazel and I walk together to the wing of the palace where the living quarters are, and then give each other a polite, cordial goodbye. I force myself not to watch her walk away.

In the rest of the palace, everything seems oddly normal. Anna’s at her desk outside my father’s office.

“Good to see you’re well, Konstantin Grigorovich,” she says, nodding once.

“You as well, Anna,” I say.

“He’s expecting you,” she says.

I steel myself, because I have a feeling that this isn’t going to be pleasant, and push his door open.

“Father,” I say.

“Konstantin,” he says, still writing something at his desk.

Shit.
It’s never good when either of my parents uses my full name.

“Sit,” he orders me.

My father finishes writing something, folds it into an envelope, seals it, puts it aside, and reaches into a desk drawer.

A moment later, my leather jacket is flying at me, and I snatch it out of the air by reflex. I’d completely forgotten about it.

“A mechanic found that yesterday on that piece of shit you insist on keeping in the garage,” he says.

“I went for a ride,” I say.

“To where?” he asks. His hands are on the desk and his back is perfectly straight. Even though he’s almost seventy, my father’s always had an imposing, commanding presence.

We don’t always get along, but I’ve always respected
that
. It’s a good thing to cultivate if you’re going to rule.

“I rode to the sea cliffs and back,” I lie.

He leans forward slightly.

“You must think I’m stupid,” he says, his voice very soft. “So I’ll let you try that again.”

“I’m not a prisoner here,” I say, even though I know avoiding an answer is the same as admitting guilt. “There’s no law against taking a ride at night.”

He stands, thrusting his chair back, and begins pacing behind his massive, ornately carved desk.

“You were in the gray district,” he says, barely-controlled fury in his voice. “You were seen at an illegal drinking establishment. You, the heir to the throne, were
flagrantly
disobeying
your own laws.”

I nearly say
they’re your laws
, but it sounds childish, so I bite it back.

“I disagree with those laws,” I say, simply.

“I don’t care,” my father says. He’s still pacing. “They’re the laws, and until I’m dead and you’re on the throne, Konstantin, they are your laws.”

“Are you going to threaten my claim to the throne again?” I ask.

He laughs, hollowly.

“I don’t make threats for show, Konstantin,” he says.

“You would throw the country into civil war over me getting a drink with my friends?” I ask, and I stand as well, my jacket clenched tightly in my fist.

“Once the people know you’re a degenerate with a taste for American pussy, how many do you think will side with you?” he snarls.

“I’ve been perfectly polite to Miss Sung,” I say through my teeth.

“You stare at her like you’re a dog and she’s a bitch in heat,” he says, disdain dripping from his voice. “And you don’t know the first thing about her.”

I know way fucking more than you think
.

“She’s a foreigner in a strange country, and I’ve helped her get settled here,” I say. I’m trying to control myself, but my voice is shaking with fury.

A bitch in heat
. If he were anyone but my father, I’d have punched him already.

My father puts both hands on the desk and leans over it.

“You can have anyone you want except the diplomat’s daughter,” he says. “And what do you do?”

“Would you rather I get someone pregnant so I’m forced to marry them?” I ask.

“Careful,” he says.

“It worked for you,” I say. “Now you’ve got a docile queen, an heir, and a spare.”

“That’s right,” he says, his voice getting dangerous. “I took back what was mine and I made you so you could rule it when I’m gone. And it’s your job to do the same. A Svelorian heir. With a Svelorian girl, not this idiot who thinks she can drink like a man. Lust after someone who won’t cause an international crisis, Konstantin. You’re dismissed.”

I turn and walk out, too furious for my brain to form words. I nod curtly at Anna, who must have been able to hear the shouting, but who says nothing to me.

I’ve got fifteen minutes until a full day of endless meetings, briefings, people buzzing on about one thing or another until my brain turns to mush, but I go to my rooms and stand on the balcony, elbows on the railing, overlooking the Black Sea.

I don’t understand my father. At this point, I don’t think I ever will. He got shot yesterday, but now all he wants to talk about is whether I’m sleeping with Hazel. There are problems in the country, real, terrible problems, and he’s concerning himself with my love life.

I take a deep breath of the salty air. I flex my hands against the railing. I need to have a good shooting session. I need to go for a run somewhere and just be alone in stillness.

I need to stop thinking about last night, about Hazel saying
I’m a shark
, about her getting into bed next to me in the pitch black darkness. I rub both hands over my face, like that will help.

Then I take a fast shower, put on fresh clothes, and go do a full day of prince shit.

M
y parents hug
me for about half an hour. They seem slightly unhappy that it was just Kostya and I in the bunker, but I go on and on about how
boring
it was, how all there was to do were puzzles and the dictionary, and how he was busy the whole time and didn’t have any time to even talk to me.

I’m not totally sure whether they buy it or not, but I give it my best shot.

As I’m leaving their quarters, my mother calls out to me.

“Your afternoon activities are still scheduled, by the way,” she says.

I take a deep, calming breath before I turn around.

“And what are those?” I ask.

“Dancing lessons and a mani-pedi,” she says. “They’re on the schedule I slipped under your door yesterday afternoon.”

“I’ve been in a bunker,” I say.

“Me too,” she says.

She has a point.

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

* * *

N
eedless to say
, the dancing lessons aren’t as fun as the one Kostya gave me, but they’re probably more useful. Best of all, the dancing instructor, a tiny old man with enormous glasses, promises me that the modern, young people aren’t very strict at all about their dancing.

Sounds perfect.

The woman who does my nails clicks her tongue disapprovingly at my short, unimpressive nails. She tries to shape them the best she can, then paints them bright, stop-sign red without even asking. By the time I realize what she’s doing, it’s too late to stop her, so I just let it happen.

I know I’m going to chip half of them by the time the masquerade happens anyway, so it isn’t like it matters that much.

When I get back to my room, schooled and polished, I’m a little disappointed that there’s no note from Kostya under my door. I know he’s busy, and I know he has things to do besides flirt with me, but I was still secretly hoping.

Then it’s late, and I’m exhausted, so I fall into bed.

* * *

A
t 7
:30 the next morning, there’s a knock on my door. I’m awake, but still lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, so I roll out of bed.

The knock sounds again.

“Coming!” I shout.

Maybe it’s Kostya
, I think as I grab the black silk robe that came with the room.

It’s not. It’s Irina, the palace seamstress, and she’s got a rack of clothes behind her.

“Good morning,” she says.

“I already picked a gown,” I say, my brain not fully firing yet.

“Yes,” she says. “Alterations are ready and you need to try it on again.”

“Right,” I say. “Uh, please, come in.”

Five minutes later, I’m standing in nothing but my underwear as Irina applies double-sided tape to something that looks a little like a dead jellyfish, but firmer. I’m not awake enough to protest any of this, and besides, she seems like this is a normal thing for her to do before eight in the morning.

“Arms up,” she commands, and I lift my arms over my head. She plonks both jellyfish onto my boobs and then squeezes them.

It’s the least sexy I’ve ever felt while rounding second base, that’s for sure.

After a moment, she steps back and examines her work.

“Much better,” she says, nodding.

Irina orders me into the dress, and then spends several moments examining parts of my body up close, including the way a seam wrinkles directly over the curve of my ass. After a bit, she seems to decide it’s okay, and I look over my shoulder into the mirror.

Oh shit
, I think.

The dress looked fine before alterations, but
hello
, bootylicious.

Irina sees me looking and almost smiles.

“This dress is a husband-finder,” she says, and gives my butt a friendly pat.

* * *

I
get
a break for a couple of hours, but still no correspondence from Kostya.

It’s not like he’s some guy who didn’t text you
, I think.
You’re fucking in secret while he runs a country. He probably couldn’t send a note without getting busted.

Starting in the early afternoon, my mom’s lined up a whole beauty
regimen
, even though I begged her not to, pointing out that I’ve got eyeliner already. She just told me to relax and enjoy being pampered, so that’s what I try to do as a very friendly woman wearing a leopard-print bustier puts curlers in my hair and applies layer after layer of makeup.

On layer two, I’m nervous. By layer four, even though she won’t show me yet, I’m certain that I look like a cartoon panda, and I’m panicking. There are false eyelashes. There is a worrying color of eyeshadow, but every time I try to stop her, she just tells me to trust her.

It’s the same thing for my hair. I try to tell her that when I wear it up, I prefer to wear it lower and not piled on top of my head, but does she listen? Fuck no.

Finally, she spins my chair toward the mirror, and I hold my breath in horror.

Staring back at me is a hooker from an 80’s movie. She used the wrong shade of foundation, and since she wanted to cover my freckles, she used a
lot
of it and I look like a garish clown. I’ve got the wrong shade of blush on, along with blue eyeshadow that’s nowhere near the actual contours of my eyes.

And my hair. Jesus, my hair. It’s a pile of awful curls on top of my head. I hate every single thing about this.

“What do you
think
?” she asks, grinning.

I force myself to smile back, because I can’t change this now.

“Great!” I say.

The moment I’m out of her sight, I
run
to my room. I’m still getting the foundation off when there’s a knock on my door.

“Hazel?” my mom calls.

“Come in!” I shout.

I hear her walking through the rooms.

“We should go in a few—”

She stops short, and I can see her over my shoulder in the bathroom mirror.

“Oh, dear,” she says.

“Help,” I say, desperately.

She steps up behind me and surveys my hair as I wipe blush off myself.

“You do your face. I think I can give you a passable chignon with this mess,” she says.

“Okay,” I say.

Sometimes it’s useful to have a mom who plans. Ten minutes later, my hair is in a not-fancy-but-perfectly-nice knot at the base of my neck, my face is clean of foundation, and I’m leaning toward the mirror, swiping on eyeliner. I kept the fake eyelashes, but ditched pretty much everything else.

Finally I step back and look at myself.

“
Much
better,” my mom says. “I’m so sorry. She was highly recommended.”

She points at the bed.

“Dress, stick-on-bra, underwear, shoes, necklace, earrings, mask,” she says. “We’ll meet you in five. I gotta go put my own mask on.”

“I can’t believe there’s masks,” I mutter.

“They can be very traditional,” she says, giving me a light hug. “By the way, the Queen says that a few pieces of double-sided tape under the mask works wonders.”

I make a face, and my mom laughs as she leaves. I get dressed like lightning, and check myself out in the mirror.

From prostitute to class act in fifteen minutes
, I think.
Thank god for teamwork.

Then I stick the mask on my face and fly out the door.

* * *

W
hen we walk
into the ballroom, I think two things right away.

One, it’s enormous and beautiful, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, tall windows looking out over the ocean, a string quartet playing on stage. The woodwork is all beautifully carved, obviously something else they managed to save from the Soviets.

Two, with everyone wearing these lace masks over their eyes, I feel like I’m walking into a weird sex club with my parents. It’s not a feeling I really enjoy, and I wonder if I’m the only one thinking it.

I hope I’m the only one thinking it
.

We run the gauntlet of officials and high-ranking people, and of course my parents have to stop and have a quick chat with everyone. More than one mostly-drunk old man gives me an up-and-down look and then tells me to save a dance for him, and it makes me feel slimy, but I smile and agree while hoping he’ll forget.

The whole time I’m smiling, saying niceties in Russian, and scanning the room. I have no idea if Kostya’s here yet, but I feel like a pre-teen with a crush at a middle school dance, my heart beating fast and my palms sweaty.

I thought I’d feel half naked with my low-backed dress, but looking around, I feel like a nun. All the women here are wearing brightly-colored dresses, hair piled high, cleavage on full display.

Yet again I feel like an alien who’s just come to Earth to observe human behavior, because Svelorians are confusing as hell. On one hand, women aren’t supposed to curse, they don’t drink vodka, they’re demure and polite and always dressed to the nines.

But on the other hand, my backless, bootylicious dress may as well be a paper bag here. At least
now
I understand why Irina was so concerned about my bust.

I sneak a glance down. They’re not winning any prizes, but they... exist.

Better too conservative than too slutty
, I tell myself.

Can you imagine if you showed up with your tits half out and everyone else was wearing high-necked Elizabethan gowns?

Another old man shakes my hand, kisses my cheek, and touches my shoulder a little too long, but then I finally spy Kostya, taking a glass of champagne from a tray. My heart does a little flip in my chest, and I stare a little too long, because he’s wearing his military dress uniform and
damn.

God
damn
.

Then he hands the glass of champagne to Yelena, standing right next to him, and I force myself not to make a face.

“Everything all right, Miss Sung?” the man says.

I look at him, smile, and nod.

“Good,” he says, and grins lecherously to me.

I walk away, following my parents, but I sneak a look back at Kostya. Now he’s drinking his own champagne. His mask is solid black, more
Zorro
than sex club.

Just as I’m about to turn my head, he looks right at me. I swallow hard and look away, forcing myself not to smile.