Reign: A Royal Military Romance (2 page)

I
exhale
and squeeze the trigger three times in quick succession. Three neat holes.

I inhale, exhale again, and squeeze the trigger three more times. Three more neat holes, this time in the chest. Between gun shots it’s dead quiet and almost perfectly still out here, the dewy calm of the early morning on the coast.

Inhale. Exhale. Right shoulder, left shoulder, right shoulder. At the royal residence in Tobov, the capital city, the shooting range has the full setup. The targets move back and forth, up and down. They can duck in and out of cover, and while it’s not exactly thrilling, it’s a little more interesting than the setup here.

At the summer palace, I’ve got a paper outline on a hay bale in a disused horse paddock. I breathe in and out again and shoot the paper outline through the liver and then once through each lung.

It’s not as soothing as the range at home, because there’s less to concentrate on. Shooting a hay bale isn’t hard, but as I keep punching holes through paper, I can finally feel the knot inside me start to loosen.

I exhale again. Steady my hands. I shoot the paper’s right shoulder so perfectly through a hole that’s already there that I can’t even tell, then I do the same thing to the left shoulder.
Now
I feel in control, finally, after waking up at four in the morning again, the sheets soaked in sweat.

There are some problems that the shooting range solves better than a four-mile run or a brutal hour-long workout, and this is one of them.

I lower the gun and step back a few paces, but before I raise it again, I see someone standing far to the side, respectfully waiting. The other palace residents only had to learn once what a bad idea it was to tap me on the shoulder while I was at the range, particularly when I’ve got hearing protection on.

I nod at him, shoot my last two bullets into the paper target, then put the safety on and put the gun down, taking the earmuffs off. He finally walks over.

“Your father requests your presence in his study,” Niko says.

I look at my watch. It’s eight in the morning, and I’m wearing a sweat-soaked t-shirt and track pants.

“I’ll see him at the small council meeting in an hour,” I say. “He needs me before that?”

Niko shrugs.

“He sent me to request your presence,” he says. “You know he’d never give me more information than strictly necessary.”

I almost snort. My father isn’t in the habit of giving anyone more information than strictly necessary, and that includes me. The Crown Prince. The next in line for the throne.

The kind of person who should have some damned information sometimes.

“Thanks,” I say. I eject the magazine from the handgun and pull back the action, checking that there isn’t a bullet in the chamber.

“Has he said anything about the reports from the north?” I ask, still looking at the gun. I speak quietly, even though I’m certain it’s just the two of us.

“Kostya, if you hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t
know
there were reports from the north,” Niko says, his quiet tone matching mine. “Your father hasn’t even mentioned them in my presence.”

“Of course he hasn’t,” I mutter.

My father, King Grigory II of Sveloria, is also suppressing them from the state-run media, which is the only media in our tiny country. After a year and a half, the guerillas are emerging from the mountains again. There’s going to be fighting, maybe bad fighting, and we haven’t warned our people.

Niko says nothing, but we share a long look. I know perfectly well that I’m one of the few people who can criticize my father, and even in private, it’s a good idea for others to keep their mouths shut. But Niko and I go all the way back to boot camp, then to Five Hundred Squad, and then to the Svelorian Royal Guard.

The Royal Guard is an old, old name. They don’t guard the royal family any more. Now they’re an elite military force. More like the Green Berets than actual guards.

After Niko got hurt, I convinced my father to hire him as an aide. Partly because Niko is sharp, experienced, and lowborn — the kind of voice the palace desperately needs. Partly because I wanted to have a friend around.

“He’s expecting you,” Niko says, and inclines his head, just barely.

“Thank you,” I say.

Niko walks away, shoulders straight, his limp very slight these days.

* * *

I
don’t even change
before I go to my father’s study. He wanted to see me now, he can see me before I’m presentable.

In the antechamber to his study, his secretary sits, straight-backed. Anna has worked for my father since his coronation nearly twenty-one years ago. She wears her gray hair in a bun at the nape of her neck, has cat-eye glasses, and if she’s ever smiled, I wasn’t around to see it.

All the same, I think there’s a speck of fondness for me in there, somewhere.

“Good morning, Anna,” I say, nodding at her.

“Good morning, Konstantin Grigorovich,” she says, using the most formal version of my name.

I’ve told her a thousand times to call me Kostya, like most people do. She’s known me since I was a child, after all, but Anna is old fashioned and I know she never will.

“Is my father in?” I ask.

She inclines her head slightly, the line of her mouth perfectly straight.

“You’re to go right in,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say.

I step through the door to my father’s study, and he looks up. I close the door behind me as he sits behind his massive, ornate wooden desk. It’s one of a handful of furniture pieces that survived the nearly seventy years of Soviet rule.

I clasp my hands in front of me, the sweat on my shirt cooling against my skin. He gives me a long look, his face nearly unreadable, but I think there’s a hint of disapproval there.

“You asked for me, father?” I say.

He finally looks up at my face.

“Yes,” he says. “The Queen and I are receiving Ambassador Towers’s daughter at the train station, and you’ll be joining us.”

For just a moment, I stare at him. It’s not that he calls my mother, his wife,
the Queen
. That’s what he always calls her. It’s probably what he calls her in private.

But why are they going to a train station to greet the ambassador’s daughter? And why the hell do I have to go with them?

“Father, I have a fairly busy schedule today,” I say. I try my best to sound respectful.

He just looks at me, then looks back at the papers on his desk.

“After the small council meeting, I’m being briefed on the situation in the north by several of the outpost leaders there, and then I’ve set up a meeting with General Vladov to talk about the most appropriate response—”

“The United Svelorian Front likely has Russian backing,” he says, cutting me off. He’s still looking at the papers on the desk. “If we want to stand a chance against that kind of threat, we need the Americans on our side. We have extended every courtesy to Ambassador Towers, and we will do the same for her daughter.”

“Father, I’ll be meeting her at the formal dinner tonight,” I say. I try to keep my voice flat and neutral, but I can hear the irritation creeping into it. “Surely it’s more important that I understand the threat that the USF poses than meet some American girl on her arrival.”

I want to say,
we’re not still doing things the old way. We don’t broker treaties and trade agreements over vodka shots in back rooms any more.

“I’ll have Anna reschedule all that,” he says, barely glancing up at me.

I can tell from his tone that this isn’t up for discussion, but I can’t stand the way he’s treating me like a child. I’m not whining that I’ll miss my birthday party.

I’m trying to protect my country.

“The American government isn’t going to care that I met this girl at the train station when they’re deciding how many guns to send,” I say.

“Yes, but they’ll care about what Ambassador Towers has to say about you,” he says. He’s writing something, his voice going vague. “You’re coming with us, Kostya.”

He still doesn’t look at me, and the black anger inside simmers to a boil. Lately, more than ever, he’s seemed obtuse and old-fashioned, like he’s ignoring reality in favor of the way he wishes things were.

But he’s the king. I’m not. And if I want to be, I do what he says.

“Yes, father,” I say, and turn for the door.

“Kostya,” he says.

I turn, my hand on the knob.

“I’ve taken the liberty of asking Yelena Pavlovna to accompany you to the dinner tonight,” he says. He looks up at me again.

I don’t say anything. It’s not as if protesting will change his mind.

“It’s more than time, Kostya,” he says. “A prince needs an heir, and for an heir, you need a good Svelorian wife.”

Lately, he’s been going on more and more that I need to get married and have a son, though my love life is the last thing I want to discuss with my father. When I find someone I think I can spend my life with, I’ll get married. It’s that simple.

Yelena Pavlovna, even though she’s a sweet, pretty, well-bred girl, isn’t that person.

“Yes, father,” I say.

Then I open the door and leave, nodding at Anna as I walk past her desk.

* * *

M
y mother
, the Queen, pats my hand as we sit in the limousine.

“Yelena is such a sweet girl,” she says. “Her grandmother bore twelve children, you know. Her mother bore six. It bodes well for her suitability.”

“I don’t wish to marry someone because they can have a litter of children,” I say.

Her face changes for a split second, and something like relief crosses it. She herself only had two, and we were ten years apart with plenty of strife in between.

“She’s lovely and charming, all the same,” my mother says. “You should give her a chance, Kostya.”

Yelena’s father is also in charge of the state-run oil company of Sveloria. The company belongs to the crown, but he’s still a wealthy man, someone we’d like to keep happy.

“I think Yelena is a very nice, lovely woman,” I say, trying to sound neutral.

It’s true. Yelena is sweet, nice, lovely, well-bred, and perfectly mannered. There’s nothing at all wrong with her, but I don’t think we’ve ever had a meaningful conversation in the years we’ve known each other.

It’s a bit like talking to a puppy: she’s sweet, and she wants very much to please everyone, but she doesn’t quite have the mental resources to give me what I need.

“Kostya, you don’t need to be in love to marry,” my father says. The limo goes over a bump, and my mother’s gaze flicks to one side.

I
hate
how casually cruel he can be to her sometimes.

“Just marry,” he says, and the limo comes to a stop.

The driver comes around, opens the door, and gives my mother his hand. She climbs out, followed by my father, and finally me.

We stand on the sidewalk in short row, and I try to fight my irritation again that I’m here, meeting some American girl, rather than doing my job back at the palace.

After a moment, three people emerge from the train station and begin crossing the plaza. Since two of them are Ambassador Towers and her husband, I assume the girl in between them is their daughter.

As they come closer, I straighten up a little, suddenly conscious of the way I’m standing.

The Ambassador’s daughter is
pretty
.

No. She’s
beautiful
. Gorgeous, in a way I’ve never even seen before, in a way I didn’t even imagine a woman could
be
beautiful. Black hair in a high bun, latte-colored skin, narrow brown eyes and freckles across her high cheekbones.

Her mom says something to her and she laughs loudly, showing her teeth. The sound
almost
makes me smile.

Next to me, my mother makes a small sound of disapproval. I know without looking that she thinks Americans are too loud and jovial.

To make matters worse, the American girl is wearing leggings, an oversized sweatshirt, and sneakers, an outfit so casual that no Svelorian woman would be caught dead wearing it. The spandex pants in particular don’t leave much to the imagination, but I don’t mind.