I grab it from the bathroom, then escort her back to my front door. Kostya goes back into the bedroom and closes the door, firmly this time.
Inside the front door, my mom crosses her arms in front of her.
“He’s telling his father and I had to find out this way?” she asks.
“You weren’t supposed to,” I say.
She glances at the closed bedroom door again and thinks for a moment.
“I had some suspicions,” she admits. “We were hoping you were just flirting.”
I make an oops face.
“Everyone says he’s much more reasonable than his father, at least,” she says. Her voice softens a little. “And he’s got a cuter butt.”
I go scarlet again.
“Mom,” I hiss, but she just laughs.
Then she puts one hand on my shoulder.
“You like him for more than his cute butt?” she asks, softly.
I just nod.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll do the paperwork.”
“Thank you,” I say. “And sorry.”
She hugs me.
“I can’t even tell your father,” she says. “The man couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended on it.”
“I know,” I say. “Thanks.”
Then she leaves. I take a couple deep breaths, standing in the living room, and then walk to the bedroom and open the door.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Kostya
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.
We 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.”