Reign: A Royal Military Romance

by Roxie Noir

“This ball seems pretty important,” she says, the corners of her eyes just crinkling. “At least, it had better be. I just got felt up by a seamstress for half an hour.”

  That shouldn’t be a sexy thought, but my cock twitches anyway.

  “You’ll be in attendance?” I ask.

  “Of course,” she says. “But you’ll have to figure out who I am, since I’ll be wearing a mask.”

  “I’ll just look for the girl doing shots of vodka and waltzing wrong,” I say.

  Hazel laughs.

  “I know better than to do vodka shots now,” she says. “And I’ll have you know I learned to waltz for my best friend’s bat mitzvah, only eleven years ago.”

  “Do you remember how?” I ask.

  “I’m hoping it’ll come back to me,” she says. “Otherwise, I’m about to embarrass all my dancing partners.”

  I hold out my left hand and bow slightly.

  Hazel raises one eyebrow and looks at me.

  “It’s an invitation to dance,” I say, still holding my hand there. “I thought you knew how.”

  “You know we’re in a staircase, right?” she asks.

  “Are you declining?” I ask, and let myself smile, just slightly. “It’s very poor manners to decline a dance with a royal, you know.”

  “How many times are you going to use that line?” Hazel teases, taking my hand. “With you, it’s always royal this, royal that.”

  I slide my other hand around her back, cupping her shoulder blade, and Hazel frowns, then rests her arm on top of mine, her hand just above my bicep. Our sides are touching lightly, and I swallow, reminding myself that there’s a window just behind us, that we’re essentially in public.

  “See?” she says.

  “We haven’t done any dancing yet, zloyushka,” I say.

  “But this was better than you expected,” she says.

  “I’ll count off,” I say. “One-two-three, one-two-three...”

  We both try to step forward and kick each other. Hazel bursts into laughter, and I grin down at her.

  “Shit,” she says.

  “Aren’t you glad I’m teaching you to do this now?” I ask. “You could have kicked an important official.”

  “I doubt they’ll let me dance with anyone important,” Hazel says, still laughing. “Everyone here knows I’m walking disaster. I’m sure I’m only invited because they had no choice.”

  I count off again, and this time she gets it right. We waltz around the landing very slowly and I count to three in English, over and over again.

  When we’re back where we started, still in formation, I pause for a moment.

  “You ready for something new?” I ask.

  “Okay,” Hazel says.

  19

  Hazel

  Before I know what’s happening, Kostya’s pushing me backward, my head plummeting toward the floor. By some miracle, I manage not to scream, but I can hear my gasp echo off the stone walls.

  Then he holds me there for a moment, my hair just brushing the floor. His face is inches from my stomach, his strong hand still under my back. He’s holding up most of my body weight with one arm.

  “Relax,” he says. “I’m not going to drop you.”

  I take a deep breath as liquid fire surges through my body, and I pray that he can’t somehow tell that I’m dripping wet from a damn waltz.

  “Promise,” he says.

  I force my core muscles to relax, and my spine bends further, my head going back.

  Just before he lifts me again, I feel something brush my stomach lightly, through my dress.

  Did he just kiss me? I wonder, but then we’re face-to-face again, closer now, and my hair is wild and I’m breathing hard.

  “Are your father’s advisors going to be doing that?” I ask, a little breathless.

  “I hope not,” he says, his voice low, a light in his gray eyes. “I wouldn’t want some dirty old man dropping you on the dance floor.”

  He slides his hand down my spine until it’s resting on my lower back. My hips press against him, almost on their own, his huge erection against my lower belly as a hollow ache opens up inside me.

  I’ve never had this reaction to anyone, ever. I feel like I’m putty.

  “What dance is this?” I ask, my eyes on his.

  He doesn’t answer, just looks at me for a long, long moment.

  Then he kisses me again. I can’t help myself, and I wrap my hand around the the back of his neck, holding him to me. I open my mouth under his and deepen the kiss as he walks me backward until I’m up against the cool stone wall, the granite pressing against my shoulder blades.

  Now we’re next to the window, so anyone outside can’t see us, but anyone who comes downstairs could. I can’t bring myself to care, though, because Kostya is pressing himself against me like he’s drowning and I’m a life raft.

  After a moment, he pulls away and rests his forehead against mine, looking down at me. He runs one thumb along my jaw and then down my throat to the hollow, and his touch sends shivers down my whole body.

  “Zloyushka, I can’t seem to make good decisions around you,” he murmurs.

  “Makes sense,” I say, and take the front of his shirt in my hand, pulling him in. He lets me.

  “It does?”

  “Bad girl, bad decisions,” I say.

  He chuckles as he kisses me again, then moves his lips along my jaw and to that spot right under my ear.

  A very quiet noise escapes me, and I swear to god Kostya growls in response.

  “I’ve been wondering whether you’d make a noise if I did that,” he says, his lips barely brushing me.

  I force myself not to make another one, breathing hard. His lips trail down my neck, slow and hot, and my toes curl inside my shoes, my hand in his hair as he flattens his tongue into the hollow of my throat.

  I swallow hard, and he chuckles again.

  “Almost as good as the noise,” he says, and it feels like his low, rough voice vibrates through my whole body.

  “Should we be not in public?” I whisper. My whole body feels like jello.

  He doesn’t even answer me, but suddenly he crouches, puts one shoulder to my stomach, and lifts me over his shoulder.

  This time I do yelp, but Kostya doesn’t respond as he takes me down the last flight of stairs and pauses at the bottom.

  “You can’t just carry people off like this,” I say into the middle of his back.

  I don’t know why I’m protesting. I’ve never been with someone who could just toss me around like this before, and Jesus is it hot.

  Kostya doesn’t respond, but he turns left, and then he’s putting me back down in a black sliver of shadow beneath the stairs.

  “This is my kingdom and my castle,” he murmurs. “I can carry people off if I want.”

  “But I’m the barbarian,” I tease.

  He’s stroking my hip with one hand, the other on my waist. I’m pulsing with desire, desperate for him to push my skirt up and my panties down.

  I run one hand down his torso, over his respectable button-down shirt, and feel the rippling muscles underneath. My fingers come to rest on the top of his belt buckle, just above the world’s most obvious hard-on.

  Kostya kisses me hard again, his tongue snaking into my mouth, but God, I want more. I want more so bad I’m nearly shaking with it.

  Hesitantly, I grab his hand and slide it up my torso until he’s palming my breast. My nipple stiffens instantly, and even though I’ve wanted this almost since I got here, for a moment I’m nervous that I’m being too forward, that he’s going to think proper girls don’t ask men to feel them up in stairwells.

  Then Kostya pinches my nipple through my dress and bra, and I moan quietly into his mouth.

  “I told you already,” he says, still pinching, “I like barbarians. I’ve had enough of princesses to last me a lifetime.”

  Now he’s got both his hands on my breasts, and he pinches both my nipples at once. I gasp, doing my best not to
make much noise and failing.

  I can’t help myself any longer, and I run the palm of my hand down his hard, thick cock, through his pants. He pinches both my nipples again and groans, loud enough to echo. My back arches off the wall.

  “Shh,” I whisper. “We’re in a stairwell, you know.”

  “Only because I don’t think I can make it to my rooms,” he says. “I wanted to do this last night in the back of an old Soviet truck, but we nearly got caught.”

  “This has about the same ambience,” I whisper.

  He leaves one hand stroking my nipple and moves the other back to my hip, then hikes up my skirt until his fingers are on my bare thigh.

  “No, someone probably died in the back of that truck,” he murmurs.

  My eyes pop open and I just look at him.

  “Pretend I didn’t say that,” he says.

  “Make me forget it,” I say.

  Kostya pushes his fingers under the side of my panties, stroking them toward the juncture of my thighs.

  “Like this?” he whispers.

  “Still remember,” I say.

  I grab his cock through his pants and squeeze. I swear he throbs in my hand.

  “You can take it out,” he says into my ear. “It doesn’t bite.”

  He strokes his thumb over my panties, brushing my clit and lips, and I gasp and turn my head away, forcing myself not to make too much noise. I’m positive that my underwear is totally soaked, but given that I’m writhing up against a wall, it’s not like it’s a secret that I’m turned on as fuck.

  Kostya strokes me again. I unzip his pants, and his cock springs out, thick and swollen and huge. I wrap my hand around it and stroke it from root to tip as he finally slides his fingers inside my panties, finding my clit and circling it slowly.

  I exhale and try to melt into the wall behind me.

  “Forget yet?” he asks.

  “Forget what?” I say.

  Kostya chuckles, and then I remember. He kisses me again, hard, as he rubs my clit and I stroke his cock. His hand moves deeper and then he’s stroking my lips and slipping his fingers inside.

  I gasp as he moves them inside me, the heel of his hand still on my clit. He’s watching my face with a combination of fascination and lust that I’ve never seen on anyone’s face before, and it’s intoxicating.

  “Your eyelids flutter when I do that,” he says, his voice a low growl. He moves his fingers inside me again, the heel of his hand rubbing hard against my clit.

  “That’s because it feels fucking good,” I whisper.

  He does it again, and this time I bite my lip almost hard enough to draw blood.

  Then he whispers in my ear.

  “You know what I heard about American girls?”

  I take a deep breath.

  “It better not be that we’re easy,” I gasp.

  For good measure, I stroke him from root to tip, hard, his cock pulsing in my hand.

  “I heard your pussies taste like Coca-Cola,” he says.

  “I don’t think that’s true,” I whisper.

  “There’s one way to find out,” he says. “And I’ve been thinking about it since you tried to burn your shirt.”

  Kostya bites my earlobe for good measure.

  He moves his hand again, and I suck in a breath. Kostya just laughs, and then he’s on his knees, his fingers still inside me, his head under my skirt.

  I have no idea how the hell this is going to work, since I’m still standing, but he’s kissing my belly and then my hips and he hoists one thigh over his shoulder, while he trails kisses along the inside of it, his fingers still moving inside me the whole time.

  I glance down. The hand that’s not finger-fucking me is stroking his cock. I look around for a moment, just to take a reality check.

  The crown prince is about to eat me out in a stairwell with his head up my skirt, I think.

  Yes. Correct. Insane, but correct.

  He flicks his tongue lightly over my clit, just enough to tickle me, and I gasp again. His fingers move again, and I realize that in a few minutes, I’m probably going to come as hard as I’ve ever come.

  Then something shrieks.

  It’s an alarm, some electronic noise that’s so loud and grating that it feels like it’s making my teeth buzz. My eyes snap open and I nearly fall over, but Kostya somehow manages to catch me, despite being on his knees and having both his hands occupied. I clap my hands over my ears despite myself as Kostya stands and stuffs his cock back into his pants.

  Is this a fire drill? And are you fucking kidding me? I think.

  Then I look at Kostya’s face, and my breath catches in my throat, because he’s worried. He takes one of my hands gently in his and moves it away from my ear, and I try not to notice that he’s still slick with my juices.

  “We have to go, now,” he shouts.

  “Where? What’s going on?” I shout back, but he’s already pulling me by the hand, through the door and into the hallway, where I subtly try to rearrange my underwear.

  “Something bad,” he shouts back.

  He’s walking so fast that I’m nearly jogging to keep up, turning left and right through maze-like hallways until I’m more than lost, and the constant sirens aren’t helping at all. My brain feels like it’s being shaken, like my eyeballs are vibrating with the noise, and then finally Kostya drops my hand and we go around a corner, where he opens a big double door.

  Is this the conservatory? I wonder, totally confused.

  It’s not the conservatory. This must be a different floor, because instead of the conservatory’s high windows and polished floor, there’s a small room with two armed guards and a metal vault door.

  I stop short, because now I really don’t know what the fuck is going on. Kostya strides to the door and puts his hand on some kind of scanner, but one of the guards comes over to him, points at me, and says something in Russian.

  Kostya shakes his head and replies, and it sounds curt and commanding, but so do most things in Russian.

  Now the other guard comes over, and he says something. I can hear the door unlock, and Kostya pulls his hand from the scanner, draws himself to his full height, and says something very commanding to the first guard.

  The guard responds. The other guard responds. Both of them have huge machine guns and Kostya’s got nothing at all, but even as it escalates into a Russian shouting match, he doesn’t back down.

  I stand in the first doorway, holding my breath. The tiny amount of Russian I know doesn’t help at all when everyone is shouting and angry, so I have no fucking clue what’s going on or what they’re arguing about.

  Finally Kostya roars something and slams his hand against the vault door.

  Both the guards go quiet, and all I can hear is the alarm shrieking. Then Kostya says something again, and turns to me.

  “Hazel, come on,” he says, and opens the vault door. The guards glare as I walk toward it, and I still have no idea why.

  I just nod at them and step through. Then the heavy door swings shut behind us, silencing the alarm, and Kostya leads us down a gray concrete hallway toward another, more regular-looking door.

  20

  Kostya

  We’re walking through the entryway to the bunker. I can finally hear myself think, now that the goddamn alarm is out of earshot. My stomach is twisted into a thick knot, because if there’s something worse than something going wrong, it’s not knowing what’s gone wrong.

  Plus, I cannot fucking believe the timing.

  Halfway down the hall, I stop, glance at both doors, and take Hazel’s shoulders in my hands.

  “It’s not a fire drill,” she says.

  Her eyes are wide as she looks around the concrete hallway, pipes and electric cords running along both sides.

  “No,” I say. “That alarm means there’s a black-level threat.”

  Her eyes widen a little more.

  “Meaning there’s been a threat to a member of the royal family or the cabinet,�
�� I say. “The black level protocol is for all remaining members of the royal family and cabinet to secure refuge in a bunker. There are a couple around the palace.”

  “Okay,” she says, and sucks in a breath, nodding like she’s trying to take it all in.

  It’s a lot, especially considering what we were up to about two minutes ago.

  “You’re not supposed to be in here,” I admit. “This bunker is for royals and high-level officials only, so if there’s anyone inside already, there will be some questions.”

  She nods, then takes one of my hands in hers.

  “The guard didn’t tell you what happened?” she asks.

  I just shake my head, and she kisses my hand.

  “I hope it’s nothing,” she whispers.

  “Me too,” I say.

  The thought of my father, mother, or little brother hurt or dead makes me nauseous. Even though the cabinet members aren’t family, I still know them all. I know their families.

  Please, God, let this be a false alarm, I think.

  I let Hazel’s hand go and open the second door. Beyond it is pure, inky blackness, so thick I feel like I could reach out and touch it. We’re the first ones here, then, so I find the switch on the wall and turn on the overhead lights.

  They flicker to life one by one, ugly and fluorescent, but the whole bunker is ugly so it’s only fitting. The door we came through opens onto a landing, and an aluminum staircase leads down to the main area of the bunker, the size of a large living room with an arched ceiling overhead.

  All concrete, of course. The place was built by the Soviets, who may not have realized there were other building materials.

  We walk down the staircase and into the main room. Underneath the landing is a hallway that leads to a few rooms: a perfunctory kitchen, two dormitory-style bedrooms with rows of bunk beds, and a makeshift office. I head for the office and Hazel follows me.

  I don’t even sit down before I pick up the phone and hit the red button on it. After half a ring, someone picks up.

  “Report,” Chief Minister Arkady barks at me in Russian.

  “Kostya in the basement dungeon bunker, along with Hazel Sung,” I say. “Crystal sardine.”