Reign: A Royal Military Romance

by Roxie Noir

  It’s a very official, polite note. He’s extending me a hospitable invitation, and I don’t have to hide it.

  The corner of my sitting room has a desk in it, and when I open a drawer looking for paper or something, I find nice stationary, a nice pen, and thick envelopes. I sit down, call on my vague memories of Miss Manners, and write back.

  Dear Kostya,

  I would be delighted to tour the dungeons this afternoon at 4 and learn more about your country’s fascinating history.

  Sincerely,

  Hazel

  For a minute I debate re-doing the whole thing and writing something besides sincerely. Is this a “best” situation? What about “yours truly,” or “regards,” or “truly best regarding yours” or some other nonsense?

  Chill, I tell myself.

  I read the letter over again, fold it, and stick it in the envelope. I hesitate for a moment, then write “Kostya” on it in Roman letters instead of Cyrillic, because I’m pretty sure I’d fuck up the Cyrillic. Then I get dressed, brush my hair, and head down to breakfast, where the first palace staff member I see notices the envelope I’m carrying and asks if I have correspondence.

  “I’ll see that His Highness receives it promptly,” she says, nodding at me.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  That was easy, I think.

  At three-thirty, I’m standing in my massive closet, looking at dresses. I’ve got on a knee-length floral sundress that’s nice-looking but not particularly sexy, but I’m debating whether I should change or not.

  On one hand, this is cute and respectable.

  On the other hand, I’m not sure cute and respectable is how I want to look for Kostya, because it’s sure as hell not how he makes me feel.

  You’re still gonna be in the palace, dumbass, I think. You can’t exactly parade to the chapel in a miniskirt and thigh-high stockings. Not that the closet your mother stocked has either of those things in it.

  Plus, it could just be a tour of the dungeons.

  I think yet again about last night, about Kostya’s tongue in my mouth. His goddamn massive erection pressing against me, his fingers hot against my spine.

  And then I’m wet again, for about the fiftieth time today.

  I’m pretty fucking sure this isn’t really a tour of the dungeons. I cross my arms and glare at the dresses in the closet, even as I know I’m overthinking it.

  Then there’s a knock on my door. I frown and pad to it barefoot, a knot tightening in my stomach.

  Maybe his schedule changed and he just showed up here, I hope.

  The knot pulses, and I open the door.

  It’s my mother, a stern-looking woman I don’t know, and a garment rack. I stand there like an idiot for a moment.

  “Hi,” I say.

  My mother raises her eyebrows.

  “This is the palace seamstress, Irina,” my mother says.

  She waits, looking at me. Irina’s face doesn’t move.

  “You have a gown fitting appointment right now?” my mom says.

  I have absolutely no idea what the fuck she’s talking about. I never made a gown fitting appointment, and it is not happening right now because my dungeon date is in half an hour.

  “A gown fitting appointment?” I ask, trying to sound polite.

  “For the masquerade ball two nights from now,” my mother says, using her special Hazel, you are testing my patience tone of voice. “Can we come in?”

  I finally remember my manners, and open the door for them.

  “Yes, please,” I say. Irina enters, rolling the garment rack behind her, and my mom follows.

  Once we’re in my sitting room area, Irina gives me a long, appraising, head-to-toe look. I can practically see her thinking well, I’ll do what I can.

  “Mom, could I speak with you privately for a moment?” I ask.

  I don’t wait for her to answer, just walk to my bedroom. She follows, and I shut the bedroom door behind us.

  “Did you forget?” she asks.

  “Mom, what the hell is this?” I hiss.

  “The king and queen are holding a masquerade ball the day after tomorrow,” she says, half-shrugging. “I think it’s partly because we’re here, and they’re trying to royal it up for us.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of this,” I say.

  “No, I told you about it before,” she says. “You just forgot.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I’m one hundred percent certain you didn’t tell me anything,” I say, already fuming.

  Her lips thin.

  “Do you have plans already?” she asks.

  “No, but that’s not the point,” I say.

  “Hazel, I apologize that I didn’t tell you about this,” she says, in her diplomat’s tone of voice that says, clear as day, I still think I’m right and you’re wrong, but I’m apologizing anyway.

  I’m so mad I want to scream, because she does this. We’ve had this fight before: she signs me up for something, doesn’t bother telling me, and then acts like she’s Saint Eileen for apologizing.

  “You have to tell me things,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “I apologized,” she says, and I want to say but we both know you didn’t mean it.

  Instead I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’m not a teenager any more, even though when she does this I instantly feel like my angry, overly dramatic sixteen-year-old self again.

  “Mom,” I say, forcing myself to approach this reasonably, “I’m happy to attend palace events, and I appreciate that I’m here on an incredible, free vacation, and I don’t mind you making commitments on my behalf, but I would very much prefer it if you consulted me first.”

  I think it might be the most mature sentence I’ve ever uttered.

  My mom’s jaw flexes a little, and I can tell that she’s still annoyed and still thinks I’m wrong, but instead she nods.

  “I’ll try to be more mindful in the future,” she says.

  “Thank you,” I say, and open the bedroom door.

  I think some diplomacy might have rubbed off on me after all, I think.

  “You look nice, by the way,” she says as we walk back into the living room. “Are you going somewhere?”

  I panic and lie.

  “No, I just thought I should look nicer if I’m going to be living in a palace,” I say, smiling at her just a little too much.

  She nods, and then I’m in front of Irina, whose facial expression hasn’t changed this whole time.

  What the hell did you lie for? I think. You don’t have anything to lie about. It’s just a palace tour, and now if you go back and tell the truth, it’s going to be weird.

  “You have strong shoulders,” Irina says, and nods in approval. “But we’ll need to take the bust in.”

  Inwardly, I sigh. Then I look at the clock and hope I can explain this to Kostya.

  Forty minutes later, I’m standing on a footstool wearing a floor-length dress. It’s black lace over a flesh-colored lining, with a halter neck and a low back, pinned in a few places, and my mom and Irina are talking about it.

  It turned out that my own input was limited to vetoing dresses that I absolutely, positively hated. Like the marigold-yellow one that was inexplicably tight through the hips and loose through the waist, and made me look like a lumpy, jaundiced banana.

  I liked the green one with the half-cape, but it was deemed too “showy” for an American, and I learned years ago that I should pick my battles with my mom carefully. Besides, this one looks good too.

  “She can’t wear a bra with that,” my mom says to Irina. “The back is pretty low, is that too immodest?”

  “No,” Irina says. “The women will be very...”

  She moves her hands in front of her like she’s grabbing two enormous bosoms.

  Okay then.

  I glance at the clock, my stomach clenching. 4:15.

  He thinks I stood him up. I’m stuck here, my mom as
king whether I look too slutty in the dress she chose, and he thinks I stood him up.

  I take a deep breath, doing my best not to act like I want to tear this dress off and run through the palace halls looking for Kostya.

  “I will give you the stick-on bra,” Irina tells me. She walks over in front of me, and stands there, hands on hips, a measuring tape around her neck, staring directly at my boobs.

  Then she reaches out with both hands and runs her fingers along the crease beneath both breasts, frowning. I pull back just a little, instinctively.

  Jesus, buy a girl dinner first, I think, but I don’t say anything

  “It’s very secure,” she says. “The bra sticks here, and it will give you more volume, more lift. Don’t worry.”

  I just nod, because I wasn’t worried.

  I’ve gotten this far in life with these boobs, I think.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “I think this will do nicely,” my mom says.

  “Take it off,” Irina says. “I’ll have it to you the morning of the ball.”

  “That sounds perfect,” I say, and wait for her to leave.

  After a moment, she sighs a little, walks over to my mom, and they both turn around at least. I quickly get out of the formal dress and into the cute sundress I was wearing earlier.

  Ten minutes later, at almost 4:30, I finally get rid of my mom and Irina, but not before discussing shoes, makeup, hair, and what mask I’m going to wear. Apparently someone’s taking this masquerade ball seriously enough that we all have to wear Batman-style eye masks, as if I won’t recognize everyone anyway.

  Irina tells me to drink lots of water and bathe in oatmeal “for my complexion.” I wonder what the hell is wrong with my complexion.

  When the door shuts after them, I give them a two-minute head start so I don’t run past them in the palace halls. I brush my hair again, brush my teeth, and put on sandals.

  Then I walk to the first floor chapel as fast as humanly possible, praying that maybe I’ll run into Kostya as he leaves or something.

  18

  Kostya

  It’s 4:03 when I finally extract myself from a meeting about declaring the official moss of Sveloria. It was surprisingly heated, even though I can’t tell one type of moss from another. The proponents of one moss — I don’t even remember which — felt that the other moss was too reminiscent of Sveloria’s Soviet past. The proponents of that moss felt that the first moss presented too strong a monarchic image, and that choosing the wrong moss sent the wrong political message to the rest of the world.

  My job, as the crown prince, was to sit there, take their concerns seriously, and pretend that I could see any difference at all in these two mosses.

  The king has started sending me to meetings like this that he doesn’t wish to attend. In a way, it’s good practice. The official moss of Sveloria is state business, after all.

  At least the United Svelorian Front attacks in the north seem to have stopped. Maybe my father was right. I’d rather be hearing about moss than about more burned farmhouses.

  It’s just that moss is state business I couldn’t care less about, particularly when all I can think about is being alone with Hazel again. Her letter is still folded into my pocket, delivered to me this morning as I listened gravely to the concerns of a business owner who felt he was being taxed too much.

  I didn’t hear a word that man said.

  By the time I get to the door outside the chapel, it’s 4:05 according to my watch, but I don’t worry. I like to let it run a few minutes fast so that I get places on time.

  There’s no sign of Hazel, and I relax a little. I doubt she would come, see that I’m not here, and leave again in just a few minutes. Besides, this part of the palace doesn’t get much traffic, so it’s a nice respite from my day.

  I walk to the end of the hall and look out the big, wrought-iron window there. Since I’m on the ground floor, this window also has thick iron bars across the outside, and the windowsill is a couple of feet deep. Even though my mom and I lived here when I was younger, the royal family didn’t officially summer here until I was eight or nine, after the civil unrest had ended. I remember curling up in these thick windows and looking out at the beautiful scenery.

  That was when I learned all about the castle’s murder holes, the heads on spikes, and the deep dungeons with secret exits. As a kid, after watching the country nearly crumble, knowing that I was living somewhere designed to be defended made me feel safer than I’d felt in a long time.

  I check my watch again.

  4:15. I frown and look down the hallway, my other hand going to the letter in my pocket.

  Did she change her mind? I wonder. Did she get held up?

  It’s not good manners to keep the Prince waiting, I think.

  I’ll tell her that when she gets here.

  Minutes tick past. 4:20, and I’m starting to think that whatever happened, she’s not coming. I tell myself that she was held up somehow, but there’s a kernel of worry somewhere in the pit of my stomach.

  What if she’s changed her mind since last night? What if she was just being polite when she kissed me back because she’s afraid of me?

  I swallow hard and take a deep breath, remembering her hand on the back of my neck, pulling me toward her. The way she pressed herself against me, throbbing erection and all.

  That was more than politeness, I tell myself.

  I glance down at my knuckles, still bruised and purple. My lip is barely swollen anymore, but still split, and I don’t know how many people believe that I the injuries sparring with Niko. Most people here don’t question what I tell them, but I haven’t seen my father more than in passing for several days.

  I know he wouldn’t believe me for a second.

  4:30. My heart sinks, but she’s not coming. Something has happened, and as I walk I tell myself over and over again that it’s something beyond Hazel’s control and not that she changed her mind.

  For all you know, there’s a messenger somewhere in the palace looking for you, I tell myself as I push open the door to a stone staircase.

  I only get one flight up before a door above me swings open. I can’t see whoever it is, but they’re clearly in a huge rush, thundering down the stairs. It sounds like a herd of elephants.

  Elephants wearing heels.

  I stop on a landing in front of a window, arms crossed in front of my chest, trying not to smile.

  Svelorian women don’t stomp down stairs.

  A moment later there’s a flash of blue as she whirls around the turn in the staircase, one landing above me.

  Hazel glances down at me, stops suddenly, and clears her throat.

  “Kostya,” she says, a little out of breath.

  “This is terribly rude,” I say, and force myself not to smile at her.

  Hazel makes a face and descends the last flight of stairs. She tucks her black hair behind one ear and then she’s standing a couple feet away from me, a polite distance. Her dress is a patterned blue, perfectly tasteful and demure, but all I can think about is what’s under it.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, still breathing a little faster than normal. “Did you know there’s a masquerade ball the day after tomorrow?”

  “Is it that soon?”

  “You throw masquerade balls here?” she asks, like I’ve completely missed the point.

  “I don’t throw them,” I say, looking down at her. There’s a window behind me, and anyone at all could come into this staircase at any minute, but I still have to fight the urge to bend down and kiss her, unzip her dress and slip a hand inside.

  Shit, my dick’s already at half-mast and rising quickly.

  “I don’t mean you, Kostya, I mean the royal you,” she says.

  “I believe this one is hosted by my mother, the Queen, and Yelena Pavlovna,” I say. “And I really did forget it was that soon.”

  Hazel’s eyes narrow at Yelena Pavlovna.

  “Miss Pavlovna hosts events at the pal
ace?” she asks, cocking her head, her voice cooling just slightly.

  I don’t correct the wrong form of address, because I can tell that Hazel’s driving at something, but I’m quickly starting to realize that she’s moving one step ahead of me here, and I’m stuck trying to figure it out.

  “She’s hosting this one because it was her idea, and she talked my mother into it,” I say carefully.

  “Is she close with your family?” Hazel asks. That teasing look is gone from her eyes. Her voice is bordering on a whisper, and there’s something I can’t read on her face.

  “Her father is one of the richest men in Sveloria,” I say. “He runs the state-owned oil company, and he and my father are... associates.”

  I wouldn’t say my father has friends.

  “Yelena tends to get what she asks for,” I go on.

  “And she asked for a masquerade ball,” Hazel says. “With gowns and masks and dancing and shit.”

  “She thinks this is a fairy tale,” I say. “Yelena’s twenty-two. She doesn’t remember the civil war or the bombings or the fighting in the streets, she just remembers growing up in a mansion with servants. Her whole life, her father has been rich and powerful and she’s been his little princess. Now he’s angling for his daughter to actually be royalty.”

  We stare at each other for a long moment, and I can tell from Hazel’s face that there’s a million things she’s not saying right now.

  “It’s not working,” I say. “I don’t care what my father thinks, I’m not interested in Yelena no matter how much he tries to push her on me.”

  I pause again.

  “I think I’m her date to the masquerade, though,” I say reluctantly.

  The corners of Hazel’s eyes wrinkle, just a little.

  “You think?” she says, softly. I can’t tell if she’s teasing me.

  “I get told a lot of things,” I admit. “I don’t always pay attention to the unimportant ones.”