That’s why you told me about your nightmares, and why you dared me to burn my shirt, why you gave me a nickname.
And why you still haven’t let go of my hand.
He looks over at me, his eyes dancing, his face serious.
“Yes,” he says.
He unlocks the garage, and once inside, he punches a code into a panel just inside the door.
The inside of the garage is huge, and it smells like grease and brakes, like rubber and new leather. We walk down the center of it, between rows of low-slung cars that gleam even in the dark, their headlights like the eyes of panthers, tracking us in the night. I wonder how fast they go.
Kostya hasn’t let go of my hand yet.
“Do we get to take one of these?” I ask, looking around. The massive space swallows my voice.
I know as much about cars as anyone, which is to say I know about Fords and Hondas, and I drove my friend’s Mercedes once when she got too drunk to drive herself home. But I think these are Porsches and Maseratis and Ferraris and I-don’t-even-know-whats. Cars so nice I’m a little afraid to even touch them.
Kostya laughs, a deep-throated chuckle.
“Not tonight,” he says. “I can’t imagine what would happen to one of those if I took it to the gray district.”
“So you’ll take me and not a fancy car,” I tease.
“I’m not planning on parking you outside and leaving you there,” he says. “You’re not leaving my sight.”
His voice suddenly has a hard, almost protective ring to it.
There’s a big part of me that wants to say I can take care of myself, thanks, but I press my lips together and swallow the words, because I know there’s a good chance they’re not actually true in a shady part of a foreign country.
“I wouldn’t want to trigger an international incident,” I say.
“Zloyushka, I’m not going to take you anywhere that I can’t keep you safe,” he says.
“I’m not worried.”
“Good,” he says, and we stop.
We’re standing near a big black SUV. Even in the near-dark I can tell that the windows are tinted. It looks exactly like something a monarch would be driven in.
“Is that bulletproof?” I ask, letting my eyes slide along it. It’s so well-polished that there aren’t even fingerprints.
Kostya frowns. Then he follows my gaze, looks at the SUV, and snorts.
“That is,” he says, nodding at the massive vehicle.
Then he points to an ancient-looking motorcycle, nearly hidden in the shadows next to the gleaming SUV.
“This isn’t,” he says.
“Does that run?” I ask.
He finally lets go of my hand and walks toward it, running one hand almost tenderly over the handlebars.
“It purrs,” he says, and then half-laughs. “Like an old, asthmatic tiger with a bad cough.”
It’s big and bulky, anything but sleek. The paint’s a little rusted, the headlight is so big it looks like it’s from a locomotive, and it’s got a sidecar that might have been riveted together from scrap metal.
“Soviet?” I ask.
He reaches into the sidecar, pulls two helmets, and hands me one. This, at least, looks new and not like it’s older than I am.
“Of course,” he says. “I found it in the back of an outbuilding when I was seventeen. My father wanted to scrap it, but I convinced him to let me fix it up instead.”
He uses a thumb to rub some dirt off of a dial on the handlebars.
“He hates this thing,” he muses.
“I didn’t know you fixed bikes,” I say.
“Even a prince needs a few practical skills,” he says. “And I can’t cook or clean for shit.”
He puts the helmet on, and I follow suit, then look down at the sidecar.
It’s not very big, and it might be the only thing in this garage that looks more beat up than the bike itself. I’m pretty sure that if we hit something, it’ll crumple like aluminum foil.
“I’ve never ridden in a sidecar,” I say, my voice sounding dubious even to me.
“I won’t make you start now,” Kostya says. “As long as you promise you can hold on tight.”
I think of the night before, trying not to stare at him as he handed me his shirt, and I’m glad I’ve got this helmet on in the dark because I feel my face flush just at the thought.
“Of course,” I say.
Kostya uncouples the sidecar, wheels the bike forward, and then gets on. He’s wearing jeans, motorcycle boots, and a black leather jacket that fits exactly the way a black leather jacket ought to fit a man.
Watching him straddle a motorcycle, even with the helmet hiding his face, all I can think is: it’s completely unfair how hot he is.
“Come on, zloyushka,” he says. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”
“Not for a second,” I say, sounding slightly braver than I feel.
I’m not nervous about going out with him, but I’m a little nervous about riding something that looks like it belongs in a museum.
Also, I can’t figure out how to get on the back. The second seat is just high enough that I don’t know if I can get a leg over it, so I stand there for a moment while Kostya holds the bike still, and I shuffle from foot to foot.
“Step there and hold onto my shoulder,” he finally says, pointing at a bar sticking out of the back.
“It won’t fall off?” I ask, poking at it gingerly.
“It’s a foot rest,” he says. “This is what it’s for.”
I put my weight on it and grab his thick shoulder, swinging my leg over the seat.
Kostya turns his head, and for just a second, his hand drifts to my knee and holds it, warm and comforting. I take a deep breath and then reach my arms around his waist, very determinedly not thinking about him shirtless.
He says something, but I can’t hear him.
“What?” I say.
He turns his head and reaches back, sliding one finger along the underside of my helmet. There’s a faint click, and then I hear Kostya’s voice right in my ears.
“Tighter,” he says.
I tighten my arms, and the bike roars to life, the noise echoing inside the big garage. We take off toward a big garage door, slowly opening.
I fight the urge to duck as we go under it, and Kostya points a remote back over his shoulder.
Royals, I think. They use garage door openers just like we do!
Then the bike’s engine cuts out.
“Shit,” I say into my helmet’s intercom. “Did it break already?”
“I told you, this thing is indestructible,” Kostya’s voice says back. “The engine is too loud.”
We coast through the palace grounds, past hedges and trees and old stone buildings until we’re at the service entrance. Unlike the front gate, this is a simple iron affair, and it opens as we approach, then closes behind us.
Once we’re outside the palace grounds, the bike roars to life again, and I tighten my arms around Kostya as we pick up speed. Soon, we’re flashing past the dark windows of shops and restaurants, the warm summer breeze blowing my hair back.
Then we’re past the Old Town, riding inland from the sea, and I can see the shadow quarter — or the gray district, whatever, I like my way better — looming in front of us.