by Roxie Noir
I grimace at him and shrug. He gets up and pours himself another glass of wine.
“This is why parents drink,” he says.
8
Kostya
For the third night in a row, I’m awoken by a boom and a flash of light and I open my eyes still gasping. The screams in my ears fade, the bedsheets clenched in my fists.
I stare at the ceiling, whispering to myself.
“Summer palace, Velinsk, Western tower,” I say.
I swallow.
“Summer palace.”
Slowly, my hands unclench.
“Velinsk,” I whisper.
I take a deep breath.
“Western tower,” I say, and exhale.
It’s not always the same dream. My subconscious has plenty of horrors to choose from, but I always wake up the same way: soaked in sweat, every muscle in my body clenched tight.
It’s silly, but telling myself out loud where I am helps. It reminds me that I’m not deep in the mountains, fighting someone I can’t see. I’m safe at home: Summer palace, Velinsk, Western tower.
I walk to the big windows in just my boxers and look out, over the Black Sea. The moon is behind me, so the tower is casting a shadow to the front. It’s not more than half-full, so everything out there looks silver-blue and dreamlike.
A far cry from the vivid reds and greens of the war dreams. They’d been getting better for a long time, right up until about a week ago when the USF started attacking again. Just reading the reports and knowing what was going on triggered something again, something that gets me out of bed at one in the morning and won’t let me sleep again for an hour or two.
I cross my arms and look out. Military service is mandatory in Sveloria: everyone is required to do two years of service by the time they turn twenty-five. Most people do their two years stationed somewhere fairly pleasant and never have to fire a gun at another human, then get out and go on with their lives.
I joined at twenty-two, fresh out of college. My father tried to talk me into taking a cushy officer’s position, one where I could be in charge of people and wouldn’t have to do any of the dirty work, but I refused. When I insisted on going to basic training with everyone else, he tried to talk me out of it.
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.
9
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 a
pologizing.
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.”
I lean my back against the stone wall as well, trying not to look at him. It’s the first time I’ve seen him dressed so casually, in jeans and t-shirt, and it’s... distracting, the way his sleeves hug his biceps, or the way his shoulders are just a touch too wide.
“Do they do it by getting the other animals drunk?” I ask.
“Only sometimes,” he says, and I can feel his eyes slide toward me again.
For a moment, he’s silent, just looking at me. My face heats up and my heart beats faster. Desperately, I think it’s nothing, it’s nothing, it’s nothing.
“Did you get your shirt from a church?” he finally asks.
I look down at myself, because I’ve never gotten a shirt from a church and have no idea what he’s talking about.
With my arms crossed, all that’s visible of this dumb shirt is Good girls go to heaven.
“Definitely not,” I say, and uncross my arms.
I use every ounce of my willpower not to shiver and pucker my nipples.
“Aha,” he says, reading Bad girls go everywhere.
Then he looks at me, and something sparkles in his gray eyes. I think it’s a smile. I think.
“Which are you?” he asks.
“The shirt was a gift,” I say, not really answering the question. “My best friend gave it to me before I went on this trip, as sort of a joke, because I was going to a lot of places and I’d just dropped out of school.”
“Was one of the places heaven?” he asks.
“Does the Vatican count?” I ask.
“Not even close,” he says, and the corners of his eyes crinkle.
“I went to the top of Notre Dame Cathedral,” I say.
“Closer, and beautiful, but not heaven,” he says.
I look away for a moment. My back is to the sea, so we’re looking over the stone work of the castle and the grounds beyond, all dimly lit and silver in the moonlight. I’m just buzzed enough that I can feel the moonlight on my skin, cool and liquid.
“I watched the sun come up on a train in the Alps,” I say.
“Still not heaven,” he says. His voice has gone a little softer and almost growly. Now that we’re alone up here, just the two of us and the night sky, he sounds different. Not quite so harsh.
Fuck it, I think.
Flirt back. He started this.
“Kostya, are you trying to get me to say I’m a bad girl?” I ask.
“I’m just making polite conversation with a palace guest about her shirt,” he says, and I swear there’s just a hint of a smile in his voice. “Though it does seem you’ve been many places, and not one of them was heaven.”
I swallow as warmth snakes through me, tightly coiled and writhing.
I’m acutely aware that I should not be doing any of the things that I’m doing right now: I shouldn’t be in this off-limits area, I shouldn’t be smoking pot, and I shouldn’t be flirting with a future monarch.
“I wouldn’t say I’ve been everywhere.”
“You’ve got time to fix that,” he says. “And I think everywhere is much more interesting than heaven.”
A slight breeze drifts over us and I hug myself tighter as I feel my nipples pucker.
Don’t look, I think. I swallow.
Or do look, fuck, I don’t even know.
Being near Kostya lights something stupid and dangerous inside me, something that wants to throw all caution to the wind and tell him I’m a very bad girl. Something that wants to do something ridiculous, like lean against this wall and lick my lips and invite him to sex-glare at me, nipples at full attention while I bite one finger like some kind of sexpot.
I don’t do any of those things.
“Heaven’s never sounded all that appealing,” I admit. “I think I’d rather be on the goat train from Kiev than spend eternity on a cloud with one of those tiny harps.”
“I believe they’re called lyres,” he says.
“Show off,” I say, teasing him.
He opens his mouth, closes it, and frowns very slightly. Then the corners twitch a little.
“Because I know what a tiny harp is called?”
“I’m just kidding,” I say, already wishing I could backtrack.
He kicks at a loose rock and it bounces across the stone blocks that make up the floor of the rampart.
“Did it work?” he finally asks. “Are you impressed?”
“That you knew the word lyre?” I ask, smiling.
“That I know more about heaven than you,” he says.
“You’re not going to convince me you’re an angel,” I say. “You snuck up here just like I did.”
“It’s my palace,” he points out. “I don’t have to sneak anywhere.”
“So the palace guard knows where you are right now?” I ask.
“I just said I don’t have to sneak, not that I didn’t,” he says. “Having your every move tracked can get tedious after a while.”
“You’re taking a pretty big risk being alone with me, then,” I say. “Maybe I’m an assassin.”
The second I say that out loud, I regret it.
“I’m not an assassin,” I say quickly.
“Yes, that was a joke,” he says, his eyes sparkling again. “I’m catching on.”
“I just couldn’t sleep,” I say.
“Me either,” he says.
He looks like he’s about to go on, but doesn’t.
I take a deep breath.
He came and gave you bread when you humiliated yourself, I think.
“You know what helps me sleep sometimes?” I say, reaching into my pocket.
“Is it smoking marijuana?” he asks.
“Shit,” I say, and laugh. “I guess I wasn’t very crafty.”
“It’s not what Americans are known for,” he says.
“I’ve still got half a joint,” I offer. “I smuggled it from Amsterdam by accident.”
I pull out the joint and the lighter and offer them.
I have no idea if he’s ever even smoked before. Everything I’ve read about the prince makes him sound like a serious, straight arrow who toes the line.
I’m starting to realize that there’s more to Kostya than the official reports, though.
“A medical school dropout and a drug smuggler,” he says, taking the joint and the lighter. “Bad girl doesn’t even start to describe you.”
“It got lost in my dirty laundry,” I say. I have no idea whether that makes me more or less of a bad girl. “I didn’t mean to smuggle it here.”
“It’s been a while,” he says.
The crown prince of Sveloria takes one more hit off of my smuggled joint, then hands it back to me. I crush it out again on the stone wall. He exhales again and clears his throat.
“These stones are hundreds of years old,” he says. I think he’s trying to sound stern again, but I’m not falling for it.
“Then they’ve had worse things happen to them,” I say, and put the stub and the lighter back in my pocket again.
“The ramparts were built so that archers could fire flaming arrows at ships coming ashore,” he admits.
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.