I didn’t tell him I was trying to join the Royal Guard until I’d already made it in, after the most grueling three months of my life. If I’d thought I could keep it hidden from him, I would have.
It’s hard to keep secrets from a former KGB agent.
He threatened to disown me if I didn’t leave the Guard. He told me he’d make my younger brother Mikhail, all of thirteen at the time, the crown prince. He threatened to exile me and make me a refugee from my own country.
I told him to go ahead. It was the first time I really ever stood up to him.
I can still remember the way he screamed at me. At one point I could hear my mother’s voice, asking what was wrong, and he called her a stupid cow and told her to leave.
But I won in the end. All along, I knew my father wasn’t stupid enough to disown me for serving my country. His country.
When my two years ended, I signed on for two more. This time, when I told my father, he didn’t say anything at all, just hung up the phone. We didn’t talk again until I finally left the military and took on duties at the palace.
My father’s never been a nice man. He’s never been a warm or loving man to either of his sons or his wife. I can’t imagine a tender moment with him; I can’t imagine him holding an infant or comforting a child.
I lean against the wall next to the window and look out at the sea. It’s childish, but I always wonder if there’s someone on the opposite coast, somewhere in Turkey, looking back at me.
I’m too hard on my father sometimes. He’s had a hard life. Everything he’s done, all the fighting, all the ruthlessness, all the iron-fisted ruling, I know he’s done because he thinks it’s right.
He grew up under communist rule and had to lie about who his family was just to survive, and he wants something different for me and Mikhail. For everyone in Sveloria.
I just don’t always think he’s going about it the right way.
I take a deep breath and exhale, the window pane fogging up for a moment. I’m not getting back to sleep any time soon, so I put on a pair of jeans, an undershirt, and shoes. I walk out of my suite and close the door softly behind myself.
Even in the dark, I know the way to the ramparts by heart. The wide stone walks stretch from tower to tower, and while they’re technically off-limits for safety reasons, everyone in the palace knows how to get up there.
The moment I push open the heavy wooden door, I get the faintest whiff of pot smoke, and I frown.
It’s not really uncommon for people, mostly the younger house and kitchen staff, to smoke. But they usually smoke out on the grounds, further away from the palace itself.
I’ve never seen them smoking up here. It’s surprisingly bold of them, almost reckless. I shut the door softly and walk out onto the rampart, ready to give some young idiot some strong advice about where they should be smoking.
Then, near the far end of the stone walkway, a figure shifts, backing away from the waist-high wall and scratching the back of one leg with the opposite foot.
They’ve got long black hair, and they’re wearing a t-shirt, shorts, and no shoes.
And even from here, I can tell they’ve got a really nice ass.
Chapter Nine
Hazel
I take one more hit, then crush the joint on the stone wall of the ramparts. I don’t want to be super high right now, but it’s one in the morning and I can’t sleep, so I’m getting a little buzzed.
If the people who work in the kitchen smoke sometimes, I figure I’m good.
I rub my hands over the waist-high stone wall, and it feels like I can feel every single grain in the stone. I can feel every single time someone’s come up here and fired an arrow at the barbarians below, every single time someone’s hoisted a boiling pot of oil to pour down over the side.
Right now, though, it’s lovely and peaceful. Maybe even idyllic. There were a couple signs about how this area was off-limits on the way up here, but no locked doors. I figured the signs were more of a suggestion than anything.
Then there’s movement off to my right. I snap my head around.
Someone’s walking toward me.
Are you fucking kidding me, I think.
I slide the rest of the joint and my lighter into the pocket of my shorts, then lean against the wall, trying to look casual.
Just once, I want to stop fucking up, I think. It would be great if someone caught me doing something impressive.
Like a yoga handstand, or calculus.
Of course, I’d have to do either of those things to get caught doing them.
The figure gets closer, and I squint at it in the moonlight. Tall, blond, wide shoulders. Military bearing.
It’s Kostya. Fucking of course it’s Kostya.
I’ve been behaving perfectly well for days, and the hot prince catches me smoking up in my pajamas, I think.
I cross my arms in front of myself, because I’m not even wearing a bra. Not that I’ve got a ton going on, boob-wise, but I already feel half-naked around Kostya and his sexy glare.
He walks up, stops a couple feet away, and looks at me.
“The ramparts are off-limits,” he says, straight-faced.
I look straight into his gray eyes, a knot gathering itself in my chest. Kostya’s gaze doesn’t waver, but why should it? It’s his country, his castle, and I should just apologize and leave before I commit another dozen faux-pas.
Instead I think of my arm through his as he escorted me back to dinner the other night, and I think of how we separated ourselves before the doors opened. Like we had a secret that might come out if people saw us touching.
I swallow. My mouth feels a little dry, but that’s the pot. I lick my lips.
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” I say instead of apologizing.
I think his lips twitch upward.
“You don’t have any leverage,” he says, but his voice doesn’t have that hard edge any more. “They’ll take my word over yours.”
“What are you going to say?” I ask. “‘When I went up to the off-limits ramparts, the American girl was there too?’”
He probably doesn’t have to say anything. It’s not as if the staff is going to reprimand the crown prince.
“You should give me some credit,” he says, crossing his arms in front of himself. “I’m craftier than that. I’m fucking crafty, actually. Like all my people.”
I narrow my eyes at him, and for a long moment, we just look at each other.
“You’re teasing me,” I finally say, even though I’m not sure.
“I’m attempting it,” he says. “Because the other day you said Svelorians were fucking crafty after I told you why we have so many toasts. I was referencing that.”
I try hard not to laugh, and fail. Kostya sighs, turns his back to the stone wall, and leans against it.
“At least you find something I say funny,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Thanks for coming to my rescue at that dinner, even if I felt like the world’s biggest idiot and then told you your people were crafty, like you’re foxes in a fairy tale or something.”
“I’ve been called much worse than a fairy tale fox,” Kostya says. “At least in our stories, the clever animals usually come out on top.”