He still doesn’t look at me, and the black anger inside simmers to a boil. Lately, more than ever, he’s seemed obtuse and old-fashioned, like he’s ignoring reality in favor of the way he wishes things were.
But he’s the king. I’m not. And if I want to be, I do what he says.
“Yes, father,” I say, and turn for the door.
“Kostya,” he says.
I turn, my hand on the knob.
“I’ve taken the liberty of asking Yelena Pavlovna to accompany you to the dinner tonight,” he says. He looks up at me again.
I don’t say anything. It’s not as if protesting will change his mind.
“It’s more than time, Kostya,” he says. “A prince needs an heir, and for an heir, you need a good Svelorian wife.”
Lately, he’s been going on more and more that I need to get married and have a son, though my love life is the last thing I want to discuss with my father. When I find someone I think I can spend my life with, I’ll get married. It’s that simple.
Yelena Pavlovna, even though she’s a sweet, pretty, well-bred girl, isn’t that person.
“Yes, father,” I say.
Then I open the door and leave, nodding at Anna as I walk past her desk.
My mother, the Queen, pats my hand as we sit in the limousine.
“Yelena is such a sweet girl,” she says. “Her grandmother bore twelve children, you know. Her mother bore six. It bodes well for her suitability.”
“I don’t wish to marry someone because they can have a litter of children,” I say.
Her face changes for a split second, and something like relief crosses it. She herself only had two, and we were ten years apart with plenty of strife in between.
“She’s lovely and charming, all the same,” my mother says. “You should give her a chance, Kostya.”
Yelena’s father is also in charge of the state-run oil company of Sveloria. The company belongs to the crown, but he’s still a wealthy man, someone we’d like to keep happy.
“I think Yelena is a very nice, lovely woman,” I say, trying to sound neutral.
It’s true. Yelena is sweet, nice, lovely, well-bred, and perfectly mannered. There’s nothing at all wrong with her, but I don’t think we’ve ever had a meaningful conversation in the years we’ve known each other.
It’s a bit like talking to a puppy: she’s sweet, and she wants very much to please everyone, but she doesn’t quite have the mental resources to give me what I need.
“Kostya, you don’t need to be in love to marry,” my father says. The limo goes over a bump, and my mother’s gaze flicks to one side.
I hate how casually cruel he can be to her sometimes.
“Just marry,” he says, and the limo comes to a stop.
The driver comes around, opens the door, and gives my mother his hand. She climbs out, followed by my father, and finally me.
We stand on the sidewalk in short row, and I try to fight my irritation again that I’m here, meeting some American girl, rather than doing my job back at the palace.
After a moment, three people emerge from the train station and begin crossing the plaza. Since two of them are Ambassador Towers and her husband, I assume the girl in between them is their daughter.
As they come closer, I straighten up a little, suddenly conscious of the way I’m standing.
The Ambassador’s daughter is pretty.
No. She’s beautiful. Gorgeous, in a way I’ve never even seen before, in a way I didn’t even imagine a woman could be beautiful. Black hair in a high bun, latte-colored skin, narrow brown eyes and freckles across her high cheekbones.
Her mom says something to her and she laughs loudly, showing her teeth. The sound almost makes me smile.
Next to me, my mother makes a small sound of disapproval. I know without looking that she thinks Americans are too loud and jovial.
To make matters worse, the American girl is wearing leggings, an oversized sweatshirt, and sneakers, an outfit so casual that no Svelorian woman would be caught dead wearing it. The spandex pants in particular don’t leave much to the imagination, but I don’t mind.
I don’t mind at all. She may be a tasteless American, but I can still enjoy the view.
When they’re finally standing in front of us, Ambassador Towers begins the introductions. My father is first, and despite her attire, the American girl comports herself very well: she pronounces his name flawlessly, and even says honored to meet you in near-perfect Russian.
She does the same for my mother, and my mother manages to be gracious.
Finally the American girl is standing in front of me, and she’s even more beautiful up close, in a make-me-forget-my-own-name kind of way. Her sweatshirt slides over one collarbone, and I have to fight the urge to lean forward and plant my lips on her skin.
“Your Highness, may I present my daughter, Miss Hazel Sung,” Ambassador Towers says to me.
“Miss Sung,” I say, inclining my head slightly, offering my hand.
Hazel, I think.
“Hazel, may I introduce the crown prince of Sveloria, His Highness Konstantin Grigorovich,”
“Priyatno poznakomitsya, Konstantin Grigorovich,” she says, and shakes my hand firmly, looking me right in the eye.
“I’m honored as well, Miss Sung,” I say.
I hold her hand for a beat too long, then let it go. My mother is already making small talk with her in her accented English about the long train ride, and one of our bodyguards is loading her enormous backpack into the trunk of the limousine.
Hazel climbs into the limousine, and when she bends over, I can’t help but stare at the half-globes of her ass before she disappears into the car. I wonder what they’d feel like if I could squeeze them. How they’d look without the leggings on.
“Kostya,” my mother says, very quietly.
She’s giving me a gentle-but-disapproving glance. Then we all get into the car.
Chapter Three
Hazel
There are ways that could have gone worse. I could have been wearing cutoff jean shorts and stripper heels. There could have been two handsome, sexy, suit-wearing princes.
Someone could have dumped an entire bottle of cheap cologne on me before I got off the train. I could have accidentally said something like your mother is a famous giraffe-fucker.
See? Plenty of ways to make a worse first impression than the one I actually made.
I sit in the rear-facing seat and squeeze my knees together, trying to be as demure as humanly possible while wearing spandex. Polite as they were, it doesn’t take a genius to realize that the Svelorian Royal Family doesn’t really approve of being met by someone wearing a sweatshirt and pants with an elastic waistband.
Plus, it turns out that pictures don’t do Prince Konstantin justice. Not even close. He’s hot in pictures, yeah, but way hotter in person.
Pictures don’t get across just how tall and built he is. They don’t properly communicate that when you’re in front of him, and he’s sexily glaring at you, you feel like an insect pinned to a board, but in a good way.
I’m still amazed I remembered what to say to him. For a second there I wasn’t sure I could even manage hi, which is ridiculous.