I stick my hands in my pockets, not bothering to cross my arms anymore. My nipples are definitely out, proudly declaring I am cold and/or slightly aroused, and trying to hide them is only making it more obvious.
I hope Kostya thinks I’m just cold.
“What’s keeping you awake?” I ask.
He looks at me for a long moment. His eyes are slightly glassy.
I pray that I didn’t get him too high. Even though he’s over six feet of muscle, if he doesn’t smoke much, two hits can screw a guy up.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “If I tell you why I’m awake, you tell me the long story about why you dropped out of med school.”
“It’s not a good story,” I say.
He shrugs.
“It doesn’t reflect well on me,” I say. “Not that I’ve made a great impression so far.”
Kostya runs one hand over his hair, shakes his head a little, and then looks at me.
“Now, you worry about the impression that you’ve made?” he asks.
“Better late than never?” I say.
He smiles. Maybe it’s the pot, but he actually, legitimately smiles.
“You’re never boring, zloyushka,” he says.
I frown. My very limited Russian doesn’t include that word.
“Zloyushka?” I ask.
He just gives me a teasing look.
“I can’t sleep because of the dreams,” he says.
“What dreams?”
“From my time in the military,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I say, softly.
I know he was in the Royal Guard, but beyond that, most of his activities are classified by the Svelorian government. There’s been speculation that he was fighting in the north, but no one knows very much for sure.
“Can you keep a secret?” he says.
“If I can’t, we’re already in trouble,” I say.
Well, mostly me. His kingdom, his palace, et cetera.
“We were fighting the separatists in the north of Sveloria, up in the mountains,” he says, his eyes straight ahead, raking over the moonlit stone. “Guerrilla warfare, which means you’re always fighting. When you’re sitting in a camp, writing letters, you’re fighting. When you’re eating, you’re fighting. When you’re sleeping, when you’re taking a shit, you’re still fighting. All the time.”
My eyes widen, and I stay perfectly quiet. A single shiver runs down my spine.
I don’t know why, but I get the strong feeling that he’s telling me something he’s never told anyone before, and I have no idea why he’s telling me, the awkward, loud, unmannered American girl, of all people.
“Any second, the shooting could start,” he goes on, gazing into the distance. “While we were doing anything. We were shot at while sleeping, while scouting, while getting supplies in town.”
He swallows.
“Once, we stopped at a hut that was far outside of a village. We could hear someone moaning in pain inside, and even though it was dangerous to stop, we did.”
He swallows again. I wish I’d brought water up here.
“Inside there was a young man, not more than eighteen, lying on a bed. Both his legs were missing up to the knee. Infected, bright red, oozing pus. I ordered two more men into the hut, thinking that if we could get him somewhere fast enough, he might live. We thought maybe we could help.”
My eyes are wide. I’ve got one hand over my mouth just imagining the scene. The knot in my chest tightens.
“I was outside, standing guard in the road while the others went in,” he says, and pauses, staring at the stonework on the ground. “And suddenly, the hut exploded. It knocked me forward, onto my hands and knees, my face in the dirt, half my back covered in burns.”
“Oh, my God,” I whisper.
I’ve seen plenty of burns in med school and before that, as a volunteer EMT, and they’re ugly.
“The kid had volunteered himself as bait for a trap,” Kostya says. “We fell for it. I fell for it.”
“You couldn’t have known,” I say.
He takes a deep breath.
“I lost four men,” he says. “And I learned that trying to help people is dangerous. Two hard lessons.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “That’s what you dream about?”
“It’s one of the things,” he says.
“Are the others similar?”
Kostya just nods. He looks so distant and alone, standing there with his arms crossed, his hundred-yard stare raking over the stone castle. I can’t even begin to imagine doing what he did and not being able to even tell anyone.
I take a deep breath and reach one hand for his shoulder, because hugging the crown prince is probably off-limits, and I don’t even know if he wants one.
He looks at me as my fingers hover over his shoulder. I pause and we lock eyes, his face somehow softer, almost vulnerable. I swallow and touch him, his heat radiating through his thin t-shirt, and stoke small circles on the hard muscles of his shoulder.
“What helps?” I ask. We’re still looking at each other.
“Reminding myself where I am,” he says, softly. “Coming up here when it’s dark and the moon is out and I can be alone.”
“I can leave,” I offer.
“Talking to bad American girls helps too,” he says.
I sigh, still rubbing slowly widening circles on his back, trying to ignore the way his body feels beneath my fingers and the effect it’s having on me.
“I’m burning this shirt,” I mutter.
He raises both eyebrows.
“Now?”
I stop rubbing for a moment, open my mouth to say no, blush, shut my mouth, keep rubbing, and swallow.
“Only if I can have yours instead,” I say instead.
What the fuck is wrong with you? I think.
Slowly, Kostya smiles, and a teasing, challenging look comes into his gray eyes.
“I don’t think you’ll go through with it,” he says.
“Is that a dare?” I ask, my fingertips tracing a circle around his shoulder.
“It’s a challenge,” he says. “I’ll give you my shirt, but you have to burn yours. Right here, right now.”
Laugh, say no, and leave, I think. Just for once, try not to make a situation worse.
I take my hand from his shoulder, take the lighter from my pocket, and set it on the stone wall. Then I look back at Kostya just in time to see his gaze flick up from my way-too-perky nipples.
Heat floods downward through my body, even though it’s cool out. I’m pretty uncertain about a lot of things right now, but I know one thing for an absolute fact.
Prince Kostya wants to see me topless. He turns to face me, still smiling.
“No cowardice,” he says, and I laugh.
“You mean, don’t chicken out?” I say.
“Sure,” he says. “No chickens.”
“No chickens,” I say.
My heart is hammering in my chest, and as certain as I was that I shouldn’t have been smoking up on the ramparts, I am super ultra really fucking certain that I shouldn’t be getting half-naked with the prince up here. I’m equally certain that telling anyone who catches us that it was his idea will be useless.