Reign: A Royal Military Romance (22 page)

I
shut
the door behind myself and stare at the bedroom. Our clothes are scattered everywhere. Hazel’s thong is on the back of a chair, my pants are half under the bed, and the used condom wrapped in a ball of tissues is still on the nightstand, even though I meant to throw it away.

We got lucky that Hazel’s mom just saw the jacket
, I think, smiling to myself.

I toss Hazel’s thong from the chair to the bed and then sit by the window, opening the curtains enough to look out onto the Black Sea. It’s a gorgeous Saturday morning, and in the distance, I can see sailboats moving away from the harbor in Velinsk.

After a few minutes, the door opens and Hazel comes back in. She sits in the armchair opposite me, and curls her legs under her. The black silk robe settles against the curves of her body, and I can’t help but think about running my hands down her body through the soft fabric and wondering what noises she makes when she’s still a little sleepy.

“That could have gone worse,” she says.

I force myself to stop thinking about the filthy things I could do to her.

“She didn’t seem angry,” I say.

Hazel looks out the window at the sailboats and drums one finger on the arm of the chair.

“I think she’d prefer it if I didn’t take up with a foreign head of state while she’s serving as that country’s ambassador,” she says, slowly. “It complicates her job. But she’s not mad about
you
, just your title.”

She pauses again.

“I think she kind of likes you, actually,” Hazel says. “She doesn’t really share her personal opinions on the people she works with, but I
think
she likes you.”

It’s strange to hear that someone
likes
me. For most of the women I’ve been with, I was politically expedient for their parents or something to brag to their friends about. I’m useful and have an impressive title. Whether people like me rarely enters into the equation.

“I like her,” I say. “She’s good at her job and she respects your decisions.”

“
That’s
not always true,” Hazel says. “I’ve made plenty that she didn’t respect. She plans things for me without telling me first
all the time
. Every time we go somewhere here, she tells me not to wear leggings, like I didn’t learn
that
lesson.”

“My father’s threatening to disown me and name my brother crown prince if I don’t produce the right kind of heir with the right kind of docile, well-born, Svelorian woman,” I say. “I was fourteen when he started lecturing me about the importance of having an heir. Like I’m just breeding stock.”

“You win,” Hazel says, and makes a face. “I can’t imagine either of my parents telling me to
produce an
heir
. Especially not when I was fourteen.”

“He didn’t mean for me to do it then,” I say. “Though he certainly meant for me to do it by now.”

She looks at me for a long moment, thinking.

“He’s really gonna flip his shit, huh?” she says.

“Yes,” I say, and shrug.

“What happens if he
does
disown you?” she asks.

“Then I become a royal in exile and find my fortune out in the world, like a commoner,” I say. “And come back here when he dies.”

“A commoner?” she says, totally straight-faced. “They don’t even live in castles. You’d have to pay rent instead of living somewhere that your family has owned for hundreds of years.”

“You’re making fun of me again,” I say.

“You used the word
commoner
,” Hazel says, her eyes dancing, but she leans forward, her voice going soft. “
I’m
a commoner. Of course I’m making fun of you.”

I lean forward in my chair and hold out my hand.

“You know what I mean,” I say. “I’d have to go make myself useful instead of look important and do nothing.”

Hazel takes my hand, and I pull her forward until she’s straddling my lap, her robe just starting to come open.

“Kostya, if you think that’s going to happen, you don’t have to—”

I put a few fingers on her mouth, and she hushes.

“I’m telling him,” I say. “And in case I get kicked out and never set foot in this palace again, I think we should stay here all day. Specifically, in your bed.”

She laughs, and I pull the sash on her robe until it falls open, then pull her forward until we’re face to face.

“Do you have any royal blood in you?” I ask.

She frowns.

“I don’t think so?” she says.

“Would you like some?” I ask, and squeeze her ass.

Hazel makes a face somewhere between grossed out and amused, then finally laughs.

“That’s not quite how that line goes,” she says.

* * *

W
e don’t leave
her rooms. We barely leave her bed. I call down to the kitchen, request that food be brought to Hazel’s rooms for two people, and don’t explain why. Rumors spread like fire through the palace, so by nightfall, I’m sure that everyone’s heard that the prince has been with the American girl, in her room, all day, and I don’t give a damn.

All we do is fuck, talk, and nap. I’ve never been lazier in my entire life, and it feels wonderful to spend a whole day without anything I have to do, nowhere to go, and for once, nothing to worry about. I fall asleep with her on her side, curled around me, and I wake up spooning her tightly, my nose in her hair.

“We should get out of bed today,” she murmurs.

“We got out of bed yesterday,” I say, lazily stroking her hip. “I even took a shower.”

“You never put on pants.”

“I don’t remember any complaints.”

She rolls over onto her back and kisses me good morning.

“Maybe even out of my rooms,” she says.

“Ambitious,” I say.

It’s noon by the time we leave. I have to ask someone to bring me regular clothes from my own rooms, and as we walk through the halls of the palace, I can feel everyone watching us while pretending not to.

He must know by now
, I think.
Surely, someone’s told him already that I spent the day in her room.

The silence from him worries me more than if he called and screamed at me. I half expect that when he gets back I’ll simply be given an official document and told that I’m no longer his son, but right now, it’s impossible to worry about that.

We walk through the gardens. Hazel smells a rose, and I pick it for her, because I
can
. A gardener stares, so I pick another one and hand it to her.

“Okay, stop picking roses,” she says.

“No,” I say.

“How many do you think I need?” she asks.

I pick her another one, and she laughs.

“What if I don’t take it?” she asks.

“An even number of flowers is bad luck,” I say.

“You’re making that up.”

“I’m not. We put even numbers of flowers on graves.”

I hold out the rose.

“Is that the last one?” she asks.

“You’re impossible,” I say. “I’ve got a castle with an entire rose garden and you won’t take three flowers.”

“Here we go again,” she says, her eyes crinkling around the corners like she’s about to laugh. “More ‘I’m a prince’ stuff.”

“It’s impolite to tease a royal,” I say.

We walk to the massive garage. There are people everywhere on the palace grounds, and they’re all watching us while pretending that they’re not, so I ignore them.

“There are beautiful sea cliffs about twenty miles from here,” I say as we walk between the rows of shining cars, perfectly parked. “You can almost see Turkey from them, and at low tide, there are caves below.”

“Won’t it be crowded on a Sunday afternoon?” she asks.

I pause for a moment as we walk.

“No,” I say.

She sighs.

“Kostya, what’s wrong with the sea cliffs?” she asks.

“Why do you think there’s something wrong with them?” I say.

“Because of how you said it,” she says. “That was your
I’m not telling you the whole story and it’s because something is fucked up
voice.”

I frown.

“I don’t have that voice,” I say.

“Then the caves are lovely and no one is there because they were all busy today?” Hazel asks.

“The caves
are
lovely,” I say.

Hazel waits.

“And haunted,” I finally admit.

“That keeps people away?” she asks.

“We’re very superstitious,” I say. “A hundred and fifty years ago, there was a lot of piracy on the Black Sea, and pirates would hide out in the caves.”

“And an enterprising Svelorian king somehow killed them all while they slept?” she asks softly.

“It was an admiral,” I say. “His name was Dubroshkov. The pirates slept in hammocks during high tide, so he sent in canoes rigged with gunpowder, then shot one from a war ship out on the sea.”

Hazel squeezes her eyes shut.

“It triggered a chain explosion, seventy pirates burned to death, and there’s a statue of Dubroshkov in the center of Velinsk,” I finish. “I’m sure you’ve seen it.”

“Did it stop piracy?” she asks.

“For a year or two,” I say, and put my hand on her back, rubbing in slow circles. From the far corner of the garage, a mechanic looks at us and then looks away.

“The cliffs are still beautiful. I ride out there sometimes at night.”

“Have you ever seen a ghost?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

We stop in front of a low-slung, black Maserati that looks fast even when it’s parked.

“Come on,” I say. “We’ll go for a ride in style this time.”

Hazel looks unsure.

“Would you
rather
take the bike?” I ask.

“Maybe,” she says, looking up at me. “No one will notice if I accidentally scratch it.”

“Hazel, there’s no damn point to being a prince if I can’t give you flowers from my garden and I can’t take you for a drive in my sports car,” I say.

“That thing probably costs more than the house I grew up in,” she says.

“It’s only a Maserati,” I say. “It’s not a
fancy
car.”

She gives me a slightly alarmed look.

“Joke,” I say, and sigh. “Someday, you’re going to laugh at one.”

“Someday, one’s going to be funny,” she says, and stands on her tiptoes to kiss me quickly.

The mechanic looks over and away again, and I fight the urge to squeeze Hazel’s ass. Instead I get the key from a fingerprint-protected lockbox, walk to the passenger side, and open the door for her.

Just as she’s getting in, I hear shouting. I turn my head and Hazel stands, both hands on the door frame.

We frown and look at each other. The shouting gets louder, and Hazel steps back, shutting the door.

Coming down the center aisle of the garage is Niko, running even with his limp, trailed by two much older cabinet chiefs of my father’s.

“Kostya!” Niko shouts, a note of desperation in his voice I haven’t heard in years. Not since the Guard.

He’s calling me by my informal nickname in front of government officials. I feel like I’ve swallowed lead, like there’s an enormous fist squeezing my lungs as I walk toward him, then break into a run.

Behind me, Hazel says something but I don’t catch it.

Niko and I stop a few feet from each other. He’s breathing hard and favoring his bad leg, standing slightly off balance, and I wonder how far he’s run.

“Kostya,” he gasps.

“Tell me,” I say, speaking Russian.

Hazel comes to a stop a few feet away, keeping her distance, like she also instinctually knows something is very, very wrong.

“Your father’s been murdered,” Niko says.

I stare.

“There was an explosion,” he says, still trying to catch his breath. “A car bomb. In Tobov. He didn’t suffer.”

My body’s gone numb. I’m frozen. I couldn’t move if I wanted to.

“I’m sorry, Kostya, I’m sorry,” Niko says, the words spilling out of him. “We didn’t know, there were no rumors, no whispers, nothing at all to suggest...”

He trails off. I’m barely listening. The last time I spoke to my father we fought and I stormed out, too angry to even say goodbye. I don’t even know why he was
in
Tobov. I thought he was in Kiev.

The other men have caught up to Niko now, huffing and puffing and gasping like they’re having heart attacks. Niko is still looking at me, jaw set, face rigid.

He takes a deep breath.

“Long live the king,” he says.

I
don’t know
what’s happening, but I know it’s bad. I don’t need to speak Russian at all to see Kostya’s face change when Niko tells him something, settling into a hard, stony mask. I want to shout
what the hell is going on?
but I know my manners for once, so I just stand there like an idiot.

More and more people keep trickling in, and I recognize some of them from the ball two nights ago, some of them from briefings. Some I don’t recognize, but then Niko steps back and says something loudly, his voice raised, and everyone else echoes him.

I catch the word
korol
, king.

Suddenly I think I know what happened.

My stomach twists and I cover my mouth with both hands as everyone else in the garage goes down on one knee and Kostya just
stares
at them, beyond them, like he can’t see anything.

The king was with my parents in Kiev
, I think.

I feel nauseous. I’m shaking. I force myself to take deep breaths so I don’t hyperventilate.

Everything is still for a long time. It’s probably a few seconds but it feels like hours, and then Kostya barks something and everyone stands, swarming around him as he gives orders in a flat, hard-edged voice.

People start rushing back out of the garage. One older man says something to him and Kostya nearly shouts at him, and I just stand there, watching because I have no fucking idea what to do. I still don’t even know what’s going
on
, not really.

Finally, when there are only a few people left in the garage, I walk over to one middle-aged man. I think we danced once at the masquerade, though I can’t remember his name right now so I don’t bother addressing him.

“What’s going on?” I ask. It’s impolite and informal but I do
not
fucking care right now.

He looks at me with his serious, lined face, and he’s about to say something when footsteps come toward us and we both turn.

“A moment,” Kostya tells the man. The man nods his head and leaves, and Kostya turns his hard gray eyes on me.

“My father was murdered twenty minutes ago by a car bomb in Tobov,” he says, his voice flat and strange.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Kostya, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

He just nods.

“Your parents weren’t with him,” he says.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

I want to reach out and grab him, hold him and stroke his hair but we stand there, locked in place like we’re statues. I can feel tears running down my face, but I don’t reach up to wipe them away.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he says, his voice stiff and formal again. “There’s a lot to do.”

“Of course,” I say. “I’ll help however I can.”

He starts to step away, then hesitates. He looks at me, and for a moment he gives me a long, wistful look.

“I’m sorry about the sea cliffs,” he says.

Then he walks away.

* * *

W
e’re all herded back
into bunkers. There’s an enormous one below the garage, it turns out, and that’s where we are as we slowly find out that it’s worse than we thought, that the elements of the United Svelorian Front that everyone thought were small, fringe elements were larger than anyone in the government suspected.

Kostya’s father is dead. The train stations are shut down, occupied by insurgent forces. The two airports are shut down, also occupied. The border crossings. The USF is making demands. At least, I think that’s what’s happening. Once in a while, someone comes over and updates the idiot American.

Everyone is constantly shouting in Russian, and I feel beyond powerless. I can’t even understand what they’re saying, let alone do anything at all, so I sit in a folding chair in the corner with my head in my hands as my mind spins.

I don’t know how long I’ve been like that when there’s a hand on my shoulder, and I jerk my head up.

“Hazel,” Yelena says, smiling down at me sadly.

I blink.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, formalities and politeness a distant memory.

“The queen and I were talking about putting a pond in the gardens,” she says, her soft voice sad. “She wanted my opinion.”

A pang of guilt stabs through me. Not only are my parents okay and Kostya’s father is dead, but now I’m talking to the perfectly nice girl I stole him from.

“Oh,” I say. “How is the queen?”

Yelena’s brow knits together slightly, then relaxes.

“She’ll be okay,” she finally says.

She grabs another folding chair and settles in next to me, her dainty hands in her lap. I have no idea why, because it seems like she should probably hate me or at least not really like me or something.

“I think you might need a translator,” she says.

We sit together for a long time. She translates random snippets of conversation, tells me where cities and towns are, fills me in on the background story to all of this.

Yelena tells me that the USF started as a political group in Sveloria, not terrorists. They were populists, for the most part, and they wanted western-style reforms: a free press, free assembly. Some kind of representation in the government, even if it was only ornamental, but Kostya’s father refused everything, sometimes even tightening restrictions.

So the USF radicalized, becoming violent, and when they did, Kostya’s father crushed them mercilessly. The remnants fled to the mountains, where Kostya himself fought them years later.

Just as Yelena finishes, there’s another wave of shouting. Before Yelena can translate, Kostya storms out of the room, past us, and up the stairs. There’s the sound of a heavy door slamming shut, and then a moment of total silence before people stream after him.

I look at Yelena.

“Something like, ‘If they want to fucking kill me I won’t wait for death like a fox in a hole,’” she says, frowning. “Do foxes have holes? Is that the right animal?”

“They do,” I say.

Then we look at each other. I shrug. Yelena kind of shrugs.

“Let’s get out of this stupid bunker,” she says.

* * *

Y
elena
and I work side-by-side through the afternoon, into the night and just past sunrise. The palace was full of people who don’t live here, so we find beds and food for everyone. Communications are still up, so I work with one ear listening to the BBC. After a long time, my text to my parents that I’m alive finally gets through, and minutes later, CNN is reporting that there’s an American citizen among those holed up in Velinsk.

I’m on my back, underneath a desk, trying to troubleshoot an ancient desktop computer as Yelena translates the error messages for me when someone comes into the room and nearly kicks my head.

I look up. It’s some kid, maybe fifteen.

“Are you Hazel Sung?” he asks in English.

“Yes,” I say.

“America’s calling,” he says.

He doesn’t get more specific. I follow him through the noisy halls of the palace to the cabinet offices, then into a large meeting room. It’s nearly empty: two officials and Kostya, all looking at a blurry projection on the wall. They look tired, totally exhausted.

“Miss Sung?” a voice says from a speaker.

“Yes,” I say.

One of the officials points at a chair and I sit.

“I’m Marcia Bloom, the Secretary of State,” the projection says, and I blink at it.

“Pleased to meet you,” I say automatically.

“I wish these were better circumstances,” she says. “I’ve known your mother for many years.”

I just nod.

Our meeting only lasts five, maybe ten minutes. I think she just wants to make sure that I’m all right and not under duress, and she seems relieved that I’m acting relatively normal. She asks me to keep her updated on the situation, but also makes a vague comment about working for the state department on an informal basis.

I’m too tired to parse that, but when the call ends, I’m relieved that they made contact and I’m not all alone out here. It makes me feel better to think that someone’s watching me.

As I leave the room, Kostya rises, and then the two other men rise. Kostya waves them down, but then escorts me out and shuts the door behind him. We’re in a hallway that’s not exactly private, but there’s no one immediately around us.

“Thank you,” he says.

I look around. There’s no one. I take one of his hands in both of mine. I squeeze it, but he doesn’t squeeze back.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, uselessly.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” he says. “I don’t know how this is going to go, but we would very much like to have the U.S. on our side.”

There’s no one here,
I think.
Say something real
.

I feel awful immediately. This is probably the worst day of his life, and I’m upset about
me
?

His hand is still in mine. I just nod. I’ve been awake for almost twenty-four hours, most of those hours have been bad, and I’m trying not to cry.

“Of course,” I say. “Anything I can do to help.”

I squeeze his hand again. He holds on, but he doesn’t squeeze back.

I let his hand go.

He swallows, looking at me for a long time.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and then goes back into the meeting room.