“You okay?” I finally ask.
He kisses the top of my head.
“I was gonna do this tomorrow but I think I’m braver right now,” he says.
“The hell do you need to be brave about?” I ask.
“Stay there,” he says.
I sit on the couch and listen to him pawing through something. I’m drunkish, but mostly sleepy, and I know I have to be up early tomorrow for a full day of ceremony and regalia.
Kostya comes back. There’s something in one hand, and he just looks at me for a moment. He swallows, like he’s nervous. I pull my legs up and sit cross-legged on the couch, getting a little nervous myself.
Then he sits down on the couch and turns toward me, still holding whatever it is in his hand.
“I still get nervous about you,” he says.
“Don’t,” I say.
He looks at his hand and thinks for a moment, while I lean against his shoulder and he puts his arm around me.
“I found this when I was kid,” he starts, his voice going quiet. “I kept this box of these little treasures I found, and even after everything got better and I grew up, I kept them and I never told anyone. And sometimes I take them out, still, when I feel like I’m getting too comfortable. Because I want to remind myself that it wasn’t always this way.”
I take his hand in mine and lace our fingers together.
“I’m not explaining this well at all,” he says.
“You’re fine,” I say.
He exhales hard, looking at the wall opposite us.
“That’s not what I’m trying to say,” he says. “I’m trying to say that all that, the secret box, the being afraid that this will all fall part again, it’s all part of me that I never told anyone until I met you. And I think it’s easy to love a king with a palace and harder to love a dirty, scared kid who hoards trinkets because he always thinks everything might fall apart.”
I squeeze his hand and he takes a deep breath.
“And tomorrow is all king stuff, but I wanted to give you this first, alone, from a dirty scared kid who has nothing, but he loves you and would do anything for you.”
I’m crying, and I bite my lip hard, a tear running down my face. Kostya opens his hand and there’s a dull, dark gray ring inside. He turns it over in his fingers.
“It’s an iron wedding — don’t cry,” he says.
“It’s good crying,” I whisper.
“You sure?”
“Yes,” I say, rubbing the tears off my face. “Tell me about the ring.”
“It’s an iron wedding band that I found in the chapel when I was five or six,” he says. “I think it’s a couple hundred years old, and it’s pretty ugly, and you don’t have to wear it, but I wanted to give you something with no pomp and circumstance. I wanted to give you something that’s mine, not the king’s.”
He’s flipping the ring around in his fingers, rubbing the outside along his thumb.
“I always thought that all that would be a weird, secret part of me forever, and I’d never share it with anyone. But then you came along, and I wanted to share it with you, and you love me anyway and I don’t know why but I’m glad you do,” he says.
I hold out my hand. He takes it and kisses it, then looks at me.
“Put the ring on me,” I whisper.
“Oh,” he says.
It doesn’t fit on the ring finger of my right hand, but it fits on my middle finger, already warm from his hand. He wipes tears off my face with one thumb.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he says.
“It’s okay,” I say, and swallow. “I’m glad you love me even if I’m a fuckup who fucks up a lot. I didn’t get you anything. I’m sorry.”
“You moved across the world,” he says. “You volunteered to get married in a language you don’t know
I just burrow my head against his neck and look at the iron ring on my finger.
“I love you,” I say. “And I love you better because you were a scared dirty kid once, not despite that.”
“I love you better because you met my family wearing spandex,” he whispers.
“I really thought you hated me,” I say.
“Not at all,” he says, leaning his head against mine. “You made me feel funny and I didn’t know what to do.”
He strokes my shoulder, and I take his other hand in mine.
“We should go to bed so we can get married tomorrow,” I say.
“This is nice, though,” he says.
“It is,” I say. “This won’t change, right?”
“Not at all,” he whispers. “I’m yours forever.”
“Ya lyublyu tebya,” I say. “A lot.”
“I love you more,” he says.
“It’s not a contest,” I whisper.
“I’d win if it were,” he says.
I laugh, and he kisses me.
“No way,” I say.
Kostya stands, still drunk, and pulls me up after him. He slides his arms around me and squeezes my ass.
“You’ve got one night left as a commoner,” he says, pressing me against him. “Let’s make it count.”
“Are you saying that once I’m Queen all the fun stops?” I ask, teasing him.
He pulls my skirt up and then slides a hand under it, up my thigh.
“Hell no,” he says, his voice getting lower. “I’m saying I’m drunk, I love you, you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen and I want you to ride my cock on this couch right now, and I love you.”
“Dirty,” I tease.
I kiss him and slide my hand along his cock. He growls into my mouth.
“Just honest,” Kostya says, and kisses me back.
The End
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Eli Loveless was my nemesis from the first day of kindergarten until we graduated high school. Everything I did, he had to do better - and vice versa. The day he left town was the best day of my life.
And now? He’s back.
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I love writing sexy, alpha men and the headstrong women they fall for.
My weaknesses include: beards, whiskey, nice abs with treasure trails, sarcasm, cats, prowess in the kitchen, prowess in the bedroom, forearm tattoos, and gummi bears.
I live in California with my very own sexy, bearded, whiskey-loving husband and two hell-raising cats.
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