Everything about this bunker is harsh and ugly, a throwback to the way things used to be, a sharp contrast to the sunny, beautiful palace above us.
At least it’s here, I think. No matter how good things seems sometimes, we’ll always need these.
On the computer screen, my father sits in his chair again. He’s wearing a jacket, so I can’t even see his bandaged arm. I sit up straight.
For one crazy second, I think he might be about to tell me that I was right about the USF all along, but then he opens his mouth.
“I had the military police raid several illegal gathering places in the gray district last night,” he says. His voice may as well be made from concrete.
Shit, I think. The last thing I’m in the mood for right now is getting into yet another argument with my father.
“Several of the officers reported seeing someone who looked quite a bit like you at an illegal drinking establishment,” he says.
“My face isn’t that unusual,” I say.
He glares so hard I’m surprised the monitor doesn’t burst into flames.
“Don’t play games with me, Kostya,” he says. “I will not have you undermining my authority by going directly against my orders, and I don’t care who you are. While I’m still drawing breath, I am the King and you are my subject. Is that clear?”
I clench my jaw and don’t answer. He barely seems to notice as he leans forward, toward the camera.
“I know you think that because your brother is a spoiled teenager you’re the only option I’ve got to succeed me,” he says, his voice getting even lower and harsher. “You’re not. I can choose whomever I wish.”
I glare back. It’s technically true, but it’s not that easy. I’m popular with the people of Sveloria; if he named someone else to the throne, he’d launch Sveloria right back into civil war.
He knows that. He knows I know that. But here he is, trying to strong-arm me anyway.
“Of course, father,” I say. My voice is ice. “Are we done?”
“One last thing,” he says. “Watch yourself with that American hussy.”
My blood boils, but I force myself to remain perfectly still and expressionless, even as my hand curls into a fist below the desk. I want to defend Hazel to him, but I know it’s worse than useless.
For years, I obeyed his orders to the letter. The first time I really disobeyed him was when I joined the Royal Guard.
Since then I’ve broken the rules a little more, but never seriously. I’ve never done anything to bring harm to Sveloria. Unlike him.
I’m fucking tired of it. I’ll do what he wants most of the time, but not here. He can’t order me to take up with a wealthy man’s simple daughter over the sharp, beautiful American in the next room.
“Goodbye, father,” I say, and cut the connection.
For a long moment, I stare into the black screen, fuming. If I were anyone else, this wouldn’t be an issue. There wouldn’t be this ridiculous pressure not to be with an American, the pressure to produce as many heirs as possible with a nice Svelorian girl.
The computer chirps again, and I take a deep breath.
Niko pops up on the screen, and I exhale.
“Ambassador Towers and Mr. Sung would like to speak to Miss Sung, if she’s available,” he says.
I almost laugh. Of course she’s available. What the hell is she going to be doing?
“One moment,” I say, and stand.
Chapter Twenty-One
Hazel
I’m leaning my chin in one hand, staring at a puzzle piece of yellow fur. I finished the castle, though there are a couple of pieces missing, and moved onto the puppies.
This one is actually harder, because every puzzle piece of dog fur looks exactly the same. All I’ve really got to go on is gradations of light and color, plus the shape of the puzzle piece itself.
Not exactly thrilling, but there’s nothing else to do. The only book in English is the Russian-to-English dictionary, and at least the puppies are cute.
It’s a moment before I realize that the bunker’s gone quiet. Kostya kept the office door slightly ajar, so for the past hours I’ve been listening to men talking, shouting, and arguing in Russian. Not the most soothing soundscape, but it was nice to know that at least I wasn’t alone down here in this Cold War bunker.
Kostya opens the door and leans out.
“Hazel,” he calls. I look up. “Your parents want to talk to you.”
I jump up, leaving the blanket in the chair where I was sitting, and walk for the office in the tube socks I found when my shoes got too uncomfortable.
There they are, their faces on the screen.
“Sweetheart,” my mom says.
“I’m okay,” I say, sitting in the chair. Kostya’s in the doorway. He nods once at me and then disappears.
“I’m so sorry about all this,” she says.
“Mom, it’s not—”
“I never should have suggested you come here,” she says, and I think my iron-willed mother is close to tears. “I knew that the situation was worse than they were letting on, but I didn’t think it was this dire, and — oh, God, I’m just so glad you’re okay.”
My dad’s got an arm around her, holding her tight.
“You guys okay?” I ask, even though it’s rhetorical.
“Perfectly fine,” my dad says, rubbing my mom’s shoulder. “We were relieved to hear you were with the prince.”
“I ran into him after my fitting and he offered to give me a quick tour,” I say, hoping that I’m better at lying over video than in real life. “I guess the closest bunker to us wasn’t too popular.”
I’m pretty sure I’m blushing.
“These things are very safe,” he says. “Built to withstand nukes, so they’re pretty serious.”
“Any news?” I ask. “I’ve been listening in a little, but it’s all Russian.”
“Nothing concrete yet,” my mother says. “But they’re working on it. The King says we’ll be out of here in a few more hours. I’m just glad you’re all right,” she says. “We have to go, official business. Stay safe, all right? I love you, Hazel.”
“Love you, sweetheart,” my dad says.
“Love you guys too,” I say, and the screen goes black.
I rest my head in my hands, silently thankful that my parents are okay. I have no idea what I’d do here without them.
Then, despite myself, I think of Kostya with his face up my skirt, and I press my thighs together.
He reappears in the doorway, and I stand, walking around the desk. I lean back against it, the hard steel cutting into the backs of my legs.
“Your parents okay?” he asks.
I just nod.
“Shaken up, I think. Yours?”
Kostya shrugs, leaning against the door frame. His sleeves are rolled up and his shirt has the top two buttons undone.
Even here, now, in this bunker after hours of stress, I can’t help but watch the way he moves, the calm self-assuredness he has.
“My mother is borderline hysterical and I’m not sure my father’s noticed yet that he was shot,” he says.