Reign: A Royal Military Romance

by Roxie Noir

  I just made him angrier, I think.

  Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

  He looks down at his foot, and in that split second I grab Kostya’s helmet off the bike and swing it at his head as hard as I can.

  It connects with a dull thud before glancing off, and the guy’s head snaps to one side but it doesn’t knock him out like I was hoping it might. He’s still screaming, his face turning purple with anger, and behind me I can hear Kostya still fighting the other two.

  The guy I hit lunges toward me, and I scream again. His face is inches from mine, and for some reason, I notice that his top teeth are straight and his bottom teeth are really fucked up as he grabs me by the front of my jacket and shakes me.

  I drop the helmet. He swings me toward the wall, nearly lifting me off my feet, and I do the last thing I can think of.

  I knee him as hard as I can in the balls.

  His eyes go wide and he makes the worst sound I’ve ever heard a person make, the veins in his forehead popping out.

  I do it again.

  Then I back away. My foot catches something and I nearly go down, but then the wall’s at my back and I put my hands on it for support. My heart’s thundering and I’m breathing so hard I feel like I’ve run a marathon, my eyes glued to the guy whose balls I just kicked.

  He stares at me, agony written all over his face.

  Then he falls to his knees, both hands cupping his crotch. I just stand still. My whole body’s shaking so hard with adrenaline that I feel like there’s an earthquake inside me.

  “Hazel,” Kostya’s voice says, and I snap my head up.

  He’s still standing in the middle of the narrow alley. One of the guys is on the ground, curled around himself, and the other is against the wall, holding his nose, both eyes purpling.

  “Hey,” I say, like an idiot.

  He glances at both the beat up men, then walks toward me and grabs me by the arm.

  “Are you okay?” he says, his voice low and serious. His eyes bore into mine.

  I just nod wordlessly. I’m afraid that if I try to say anything else I’m going to start sobbing.

  16

  Kostya

  I’ll fucking murder them, I think, looking down at Hazel. If they fucking hurt her I’ll fucking murder them, I swear to God.

  “I’m fine,” she whispers at last, and even her voice is shaking. I can tell she’s trying not to cry.

  I pull her to me and hold her tight. She’s trembling and my heart is still beating wildly. Sweat’s pouring down my back, and I’m practically jumping out of my skin with adrenaline, but Hazel’s okay.

  I’ll kill them, I think, over and over. I swear I’ll kill them.

  “I’m sorry,” Hazel whispers.

  “Shh.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m fine,” she says. She’s babbling. “I’m okay.”

  The guy on the ground coughs, and I tighten an arm around Hazel, her head against the hollow of my throat. She takes a deep breath, and I can tell she’s trying to get a grip on herself.

  “Can you hold on?” I ask.

  She nods shakily.

  “Then we’re gonna leave,” I say, and let her go.

  The asshole against the wall with the black eyes is looking at me like he’s thinking of trying again, and the guy on the ground is on his hands and knees, still breathing funny, but he’s looking at me with murder in his eyes.

  The guy Hazel kicked in the balls is down for the count, on his knees, head bent. I fight the urge to kick him in his goddamn face and break his skull, because I’ve got enough honor not to hit someone when he’s down.

  I grab my jacket and hand it to her.

  “I’m fine,” she says, shaking her head.

  “Take it,” I order her, and she does.

  I pull on my helmet and straddle the bike, watching the three guys while she climbs on behind me and buckles her helmet. I can’t actually kill them, at least not if they stay down.

  “Pig,” one of them says to me at Russian.

  “You want more?” I growl back at him.

  He glares, but he doesn’t do anything. If I were alone I’d happily go another round, but I just want to get Hazel out of here.

  I can’t believe I took her here in the first place, I think. What the hell is wrong with me?

  Hazel gets on behind me, swimming in my jacket, her hands disappearing into the sleeves when she reaches around me.

  “Hang on,” I say into the intercom.

  Then I start the bike with a roar, leaving the three of them behind and zooming along the canal as fast as I dare. Neither of us says anything until the hulking gray buildings are disappearing behind us, but I can hear Hazel’s breathing over the intercom, slowing and evening out.

  Once we’re in a better neighborhood, I slow down a little, then take one hand off the handlebars and slide it into the sleeve of my jacket, finding Hazel’s hand.

  “What was that about?” she finally asks.

  “The bar got busted by the military police,” I explain.

  “Is that why they had machine guns?” she asks.

  “All police have machine guns,” I say.

  “Oh.”

  “The men in the alley recognized me,” I say. I zoom around a little white hatchback. “They were drunk and decided it was my fault that their good time got ended tonight.”

  There’s a long pause.

  “It seems pretty dumb to beat up the crown prince,” she finally says. Her voice is starting to sound like her again, with just a sliver of that laugh, and I’m relieved.

  “It is,” I say. “At least, it’s dumb to try.”

  “Are you okay?” she says, and squeezes my hand. “I didn’t even ask.”

  Inside my helmet, I smile.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  I get off the highway and take the road toward the palace, turn off it onto the service road. The back gate opens for us and I cut the engine, letting the bike coast to the garage. I don’t let go of her hand until I guide the bike into its parking spot.

  We dismount and toss our helmets into the sidecar, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m pulling Hazel against me and wrapping my arms around her.

  “I’m fine,” she says. She’s not shaking anymore, at least.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have taken you.”

  “I had a really good time until the end, actually,” she says. “Even the tunnels weren’t so bad. Your friends are...”

  She trails off.

  “Assholes?” I offer.

  Hazel laughs.

  “I was gonna say fun,” she says.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I am surprised.”

  “Am I that bad?” I ask.

  Alone and out of danger, her body pressed against mine in the dark garage, I’m acutely aware of everything. The way her chest expands against me when she breathes. The way her voice hums against my chest. The way her hands are locked around my waist, the way she fits against me perfectly.

  “Not at all,” she finally says.

  After a long moment, she pulls out of the embrace to take off my jacket.

  “Here,” she says, looking up at me. “You’re — shit, Kostya, you said you didn’t get hurt.”

  She touches my chin so lightly that I can barely feel her fingers. I toss my jacket onto the bike behind her and shrug.

  “I’ve been hurt worse,” I say.

  One of the guys managed to land a glancing blow on my chin, just hard enough to bruise and split my lip on one side, nothing major. It’s not bleeding anymore, and barely even swelling.

  “You should put ice on that or something,” she says.

  Her fingers run underneath my lip, skimming the surface of my skin, and I swear her touch tingles. She’s examining my face, concern in her eyes.

  “I’m fine,” I say, as her cool fingers run over the lump on my chin.

  She just frowns.

  “Zloyushka, I’
ll be good as new in a couple days,” I say, and take her hand in mine.

  “I don’t think you get to beat up two guys outside a speakeasy and call me the bad girl,” she says.

  Her eyes drop to my knuckles.

  “Your hands are fucked up, too,” she points out.

  “What’s that English phrase?” I ask. “The one that means the person I fought is worse?”

  “‘You should see the other guy,’” Hazel says. “And I did.”

  Now she’s got both her hands on mine, examining my bruised knuckles, feeling along the bones and tendons, making sure nothing’s broken.

  I know it’s not, but I could stand here forever and let her touch me, in this vast dark garage, surrounded by fancy cars bought with Sveloria’s oil money. I feel like time has stopped, like the outside world stopped mattering.

  This is stupid. I know this is stupid, and I’m perfectly aware that I’m careening toward something much, much more stupid, but I don’t care.

  If I cared, I wouldn’t have followed her out of that dinner when she was drunk. I would have turned around and left the roof last night. I would have left her at the palace tonight and gone out alone.

  But I didn’t do any of that. For the first time, I’ve met a girl I feel like I can’t stay away from, and I dove headlong into idiot decisions.

  “At least I didn’t kick him twice in the testicles,” I say.

  Hazel just wrinkles her nose, and I realize that was probably the wrong thing to say in the moment.

  “Give me your other hand,” she commands softly.

  I do it, and her light but firm fingers work it over, checking for damage.

  “I’ve gotten in fights before, you know,” I say. “I’ve made it this far.”

  “Kostya, shut up and let me do something after you probably saved my life,” she says.

  “That’s no way to speak to a prince.”

  “Then throw me in a dungeon,” she says, and her eyes flick up to mine, a teasing smile around them.

  “I told you, we don’t do that anymore,” I say.

  I let her hands go and slide my thumb along the line of her jaw, completely unable to stop myself.

  “Now, we let the barbarians come through the front door and smoke pot on the roof,” I say.

  Her hand is on my side now, her eyes wide and deep brown.

  “I’m civilized,” she whispers.

  “Are you sure?” I ask, letting my voice drop. “I like barbarians.”

  I bend down and kiss her before she can respond, and her mouth underneath mine is warm and pliant and she kisses me back, her fingers curling against my side. My heart is slamming against my ribs, her silky hair between my fingers, and I run my other hand down her back.

  After a moment I end the kiss and just barely pull away. I’m breathing hard and my whole body is buzzing with desire.

  I want to kiss her harder. I want to fit my fingers to the notches in her back. I want to hear the sound she makes if I kiss her neck, I want to lift her up and I want her to wrap her legs around me as I push her back against the bulletproof SUV.

  Instead, I wait for a heartbeat, her lips millimeters from mine. I’m afraid I’ll spin completely out of control if I don’t.

  But then Hazel wraps her hand around the back of my neck and pulls my mouth to hers, our lips moving together slowly. We stop, separate by millimeters, kiss again, deeper this time, her fingers on my spine now, pressing me toward her.

  I’m rock hard, and she has to notice, but I don’t care. I’m sure Hazel’s figured out by now how much I want her.

  Delicately, almost tentatively, she glides the tip of her tongue along my lower lip and I touch it with my own. Somehow, my hand got under her jacket and her shirt and my fingers are on her bare skin, my other hand still in her hair.

  We move so slow I think I might explode, but exploring her like this feels so right that I don’t care if I do. I may as well be thirteen again, kissing a girl for the first time for how brand-new and wonderful everything feels, how much I don’t want this to end.

  There’s a loud beep from the garage entrance.

  We both freeze, the kiss ending suddenly. Then footsteps.

  “Shit,” Hazel whispers. “Are we even allowed in here?”

  “I’m allowed everywhere,” I whisper. “Remember?”

  “So do we just walk out there and say hi, then?”

  We’re still holding each other tight, and I desperately want to pretend that nothing is wrong and keep making out with her.

  But there are a couple of things that could put me in deep, deep shit with my father, and I’ve already done several of them tonight.

  “Someone must have seen the garage door open,” I say.

  I should have gotten off the bike and walked it through a different door, but it wasn’t the first thing on my mind.

  Now I can see a flashlight moving over cars. Goddamn it.

  “See that ugly box truck with the canvas over the bed?” I whisper, pointing.

  Hazel looks around me, then nods.

  “We’re gonna get in the back of that, then sneak out after the guard walks past.”

  She nods. We tiptoe for the big, ugly, military-green truck, and I hold up the canvas flap. Hazel climbs in silently, and I follow her, letting the canvas close behind me.

  The guard’s footsteps echo toward us. There are a few holes in the canvas, and I can see the flashlight shine over walls and cars.

  “Do you spend a lot of time hiding in ancient Soviet trucks?” Hazel whispers.

  “It’s not the first time I’ve hidden here,” I say.

  The footsteps are closer. Closer.

  Then they pause. We stay perfectly silent, and even though it’s almost perfectly dark, I can just see Hazel’s eyes, looking at me.

  The flashlight sweeps over the wall behind us, but she’s close and it’s dark and the only thought in my mind is kiss her again so I do. The footsteps move on, and after a long time, I pull away from Hazel again.

  “Come on,” I say, and hold open the canvas.

  “Do we have to?” she whispers.

  “We don’t have to,” I whisper back. “But it’s a very good idea.”

  She hops out quietly, and I follow. I keep my hand on her back we creep along the wall toward the exit.

  The guard’s footsteps are starting to come back, more quickly than they were before, but then we’re at the exit and Hazel reaches for the knob.

  “Wait,” I whisper, and dig through my pockets. I find a 25¢ Euro coin, wind up, and throw it as hard as I can across the garage, then hold my breath.

  There’s a faraway clink. The footsteps stop. The flashlight beams over the far wall, and I push the exit door open into the cool night. Hazel slips out and I follow her to the hedge, and we slip through it to a different part of the garden than the one we were in before, this one filled with some kind of flowering shrub.

  I point toward the castle.

  “Can you get back from here?” I ask.

  “Do I just walk toward the palace?” she whispers.

  I nod.

  “Then yes,” she says, but she turns and looks at me again, her eyes searching mine.

  We’re out in the open, and even though it’s three in the morning, guards patrol the gardens all night.

  “I mostly had a really good time,” she whispers. “Thanks.”

  “I’m sorry it wasn’t a completely good time,” I whisper back.

  I want to say stay here, we’ll duck behind the bushes and no one will find us, but I don’t. I’ve done enough dumb things tonight.

  But I do one more anyway, pulling her in and kissing her one more time, long and slow, right out in the open like this. When we pull away I’m breathing hard and I can feel my self-control slipping away. Not that I ever had much around her.

  “Go,” I whisper.

  She kisses me on the cheek, pulls away, and walks toward the castle. I watch her walk, half wishing that I wasn’t watching her g
o, half watching her ass in her jeans, which does nothing for my raging erection.

  Finally she disappears. I sit on a bench, the dew sinking through the fabric of my pants, but I barely even notice.

  All I can think of is her mouth on mine, her skin under my hand. Her saying you sure you’re not the bad brother?

  Hazel clocking that guy with my motorcycle helmet.

  I smile to myself, leaning back on the bench.

  Barbarian, I think, grinning.

  17

  Hazel

  The next morning, I’m drinking coffee in my chambers, wearing a bathrobe and pretending to read the news, when something slides under the heavy wooden door of my rooms.

  That’s new, I think, and go check it out.

  It’s an envelope.

  No: it’s an envelope with a wax seal on the back. I pick it up, raising my eyebrows as I hold it to the light.

  I’m pretty sure it’s the royal seal of Sveloria, which would make this official royal correspondence. I try not to smile as I turn it over and open it.

  Inside is the very official-looking letterhead of His Majesty, Crown Prince Konstantin Grigorovich, Minister of Military Affairs, Lord of the Realm, on nice paper, so thick you could almost build furniture out of it.

  Below that is messy, all-caps handwriting that has to be Kostya’s.

  Dear Hazel,

  It would be an honor to give you a tour of the palace dungeons, if you’re still interested in the darker aspects of Svelorian history.

  Please reply with your availability for four-o-clock this afternoon, outside the first floor chapel.

  Most sincerely,

  Kostya

  Stuck to the bottom of the formal correspondence is a sticky note.

  Civilized people reply in writing, with a note given to any member of the palace staff. Don’t worry, they know who I am.

  I grin, then try not to grin, then grin again because who cares, no one’s watching me. I stuff the letter into my backpack, somewhere I’m hoping no one will look. Then I take it out and leave it casually on the dresser, because it’ll look more suspicious if someone finds it in the bottom of my backpack, right?