Reign: A Royal Military Romance

by Roxie Noir

  “Oh, Kostya,” he says, like he’s surprised.

  “We had technical difficulties,” I say.

  He just nods. I can’t tell whether he believes me or not.

  “We’ll probably be cleared to leave in the morning,” he says. “But not before then.”

  Hazel’s still standing behind the monitor, watching me. I look at the clock and realize that it’s two in the morning.

  “Hold on a moment,” I tell Niko, and mute the microphone, then walk around the desk.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Still nothing,” I say, and put my hands on her shoulders. “We’re here overnight, though. Go to bed.”

  “You sure?” she asks, flattening one hand against my chest.

  “Unless you want to listen to endless, boring details on air traffic control in Russian,” I say.

  “Not particularly,” she says. “You’ll be in?”

  “Soon, I hope,” I say.

  I kiss her again and force myself to keep it short and nearly chaste, because Niko’s waiting.

  “Call me if you break the cable again,” she says, and walks out.

  I watch her go, disappearing into the pitch-dark dormitory room. Then I turn and look at the back of the monitor, which is half-covered with some sort of duct tape harness keeping the cable in place.

  I’m probably going to be hearing about that soon, but right now, I still don’t care.

  I un-mute myself and sit. Niko sighs.

  “Okay,” he says. “Status report...”

  After forty-five minutes, Niko’s finally gone through everything important. He’s got circles under his eyes, and I probably do too.

  I sign off and walk back into the main room of the bunker, open a cabinet, grab a flashlight, and then hit the lights. Everything plunges into pure, inky blackness, the kind of darkness that only exists when you’re fifty feet underground, so thick it feels like it’s running through your fingers.

  I turn the flashlight on for a moment, see where the furniture is, and turn it off again. Even as a kid I kind of liked the dark, because it made me feel invisible, and sometimes that was what I wanted.

  Then, in the Guard, that comfort with the dark came in handy night after night when there were no fires, no lights, not even cigarettes for fear that the enemy could spot us. Some of the men I served with still sleep with a nightlight on, but I’ve never been able to do that.

  At the door of the dormitory I flick the flashlight on again and point the beam at the floor. In the reflected light, in the last of the eight bunk beds, I can see Hazel curled up under an army-green blanket, her hair fanned out behind her.

  I turn it off and run my hand over each bunk bed until I get to the one next to hers, where I strip and pull back the scratchy sheets, get in, and stare at the bottom of the bed above me even though I can’t see it.

  A few feet to my left, Hazel shifts in her sleep. Then she shifts again, and sighs.

  “That’s you, right?” she says.

  “Reporting in,” I say.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she says, her voice quiet and dreamy in the big space.

  Her bed creaks, and I hear her shift again, and then her hand’s on my shoulder.

  “God, it’s dark,” she says. “I can’t see my hand in front of my face.”

  I scoot over and she gets into bed next to me, gingerly feeling out where I am.

  “Just for a minute,” she says. “Then I’ll get in my own bed.”

  “You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?” I ask, rolling onto my side.

  I put one hand on her belly, and she puts a hand over it. She’s wearing a t-shirt from one of the dressers down here, underwear, and nothing else.

  “Not anymore,” she says. “When I was a kid, at my first-ever sleepover, my friend convinced me that all closets were portals to monster-world, and when it was dark, they’d slowly push the door open, come out, and eat me.”

  A sleepover? I think.

  I’ve seen them in movies, but I never spent the night at a friend’s house when I was a child.

  “Not a very good friend,” I say.

  “I think we were six,” she says. “And I got over it.”

  “Americans really have sleepovers?” I ask.

  Hazel laughs.

  “What do you mean?” she says.

  “You go to someone else’s house, eat pizza and watch movies, and then sleep there?”

  “Yeah,” she says, sounding confused. “Well, not as adults, but we do it all the time as kids.”

  She pauses.

  “Why?”

  “I always thought they were made up for movies, like pie-eating contests, or beer pong,” I admit. “I never attended a sleepover. I don’t think they happen here.”

  Now she’s laughing even harder, her stomach shaking under my hand.

  “You laugh at me too much,” I say, nuzzling my forehead into her hair.

  It’s not true. Even though I’m always puzzled, I’m getting attached to the sound of her laugh, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners, and I’m always surprised at what she finds funny.

  “I thought you’d been to the U.S. a couple of times,” she says.

  “I have,” I say. “Everyone is too friendly, but the burgers are delicious and you’re very orderly drivers.”

  “Pie-eating contests and beer pong are also both real,” she says.

  I exhale into her hair.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “People make pies only to see who can eat them the fastest?” I ask.

  I’ve never made a pie, but I understand it to be a time-intensive process.

  “Yup,” says Hazel.

  “And people also toss balls into cups full of beer and then drink them,” I say.

  “Also yes,” says Hazel.

  “Why not just drink the beer?”

  She pauses for a long time.

  “Because there’s an added element of fun, I guess,” she says. “It’s sort of competitive, and silly, but it also gets you drunk?”

  “But you could just get drunk,” I point out.

  “Sure, we could all sit around drinking vodka alone, stoically looking at pictures of our dead ancestors,” she says. “Or we could enjoy ourselves.”

  “Now you’re making fun of me,” I say.

  “You can be very serious sometimes,” she says.

  I stroke her stomach with my thumb and think for a moment. I should be trying to get some sleep, but I’d rather lie here, talking to Hazel.

  “Are cowboys real?” I ask.

  She drums her fingers against mine.

  “They used to be,” she says. “It’s a job that doesn’t really exist any more.”

  “Prom?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says. “Think of it as a masquerade ball, without masks, for teenagers.”

  She’s teasing me again.

  “I’m not throwing the ball,” I say. “I didn’t even remember it was soon.”

  “I didn’t think masquerade balls were real,” Hazel admits. “Especially the part where I have to actually wear a mask.”

  “This is only the second that’s been held,” I say. “The first was last year. Before that, the last was probably more than a hundred years ago.”

  “Why’d they start again?”

  I sigh.

  “Yelena,” I say. “She wanted it, so her father convinced mine that it would be symbolic of the return of the monarchy, remind the people of old times, inspire national pride, that sort of thing.”

  “And you disagree.”

  “I think the people would rather have their roads kept free of potholes,” I say into her hair.

  Hazel wiggles, turning onto her side so that I’m spooning her, my arm tight around her chest.

  “It’ll at least be something to tell people about,” she says. “I went to a real castle, met a real prince, went to a real masquerade ball. God, it sounds like Cinderella or something.”

  “I
don’t remember the Soviet bunker in Cinderella,” I say.

  “She didn’t smoke pot on the roof either,” Hazel says. She sounds like she’s starting to drift to sleep, and I can feel my body finally giving up.

  As small as this bed is, it’s warm and cozy with her against me, her body fitted perfectly to mine.

  “In the original version, her stepsisters cut off their toes to fit the slipper and it filled with blood,” I say.

  Hazel squeezes my hand in hers.

  “Kostya, you say the weirdest shit,” she says.

  “It didn’t work,” I say. “The prince still knew the right girl.”

  There’s a long, long pause.

  “Was it because she still had toes?” Hazel finally asks.

  “You need toes to be a queen,” I say. I can feel sleep tugging at me, and I’m not sure I’m making much sense.

  “I should get in the other bed so you can sleep,” Hazel says.

  “Two more minutes,” I say, and pull her tighter against me.

  I jerk awake when the phone rings. We’re still in the same position, and half my joints are creaky. My left arm is completely asleep, and Hazel kicks my shin as she wakes up.

  It rings again.

  “Is that the phone?” she asks.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and find the flashlight on the floor, turn it on, and shine it at the ceiling so the light reflects.

  “I’ll get it,” I say, and walk for the office, wearing nothing but my boxers. Hazel pads along behind me and slumps tiredly onto a wooden bench when I answer the phone.

  “You can come out,” Chief Minister Arkady says. “It was just one crazy person. Everything else was smoke with no fire. Security council meeting in thirty minutes, and your father wants to see you first.”

  We hang up. Hazel leans against the concrete wall, yawning.

  “All clear,” I say, offering her my hand. “They’re waiting for us.”

  She takes it, and I pull her up. Hazel slides her arms around my waist.

  “I’m sorry your dad got shot at, but I’m glad we got to be in a bunker together,” she says.

  I kiss her, long and slow, ignoring my erection.

  “I’ll think differently about desks forever,” I say.

  “And desk chairs,” she says.

  “I don’t know if I’ll see you before the ball,” I say. “I have a feeling I’ll be kept busy.”

  “It’s okay,” she says. “There’s a country to run and everything.”

  “Save me a dance,” I say. “Royal orders.”

  Hazel rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.

  The air outside the bunker smells incredible, like roses and lilacs and baking pies and sunshine. When we come out, Hazel and I walk together to the wing of the palace where the living quarters are, and then give each other a polite, cordial goodbye. I force myself not to watch her walk away.

  In the rest of the palace, everything seems oddly normal. Anna’s at her desk outside my father’s office.

  “Good to see you’re well, Konstantin Grigorovich,” she says, nodding once.

  “You as well, Anna,” I say.

  “He’s expecting you,” she says.

  I steel myself, because I have a feeling that this isn’t going to be pleasant, and push his door open.

  “Father,” I say.

  “Konstantin,” he says, still writing something at his desk.

  Shit. It’s never good when either of my parents uses my full name.

  “Sit,” he orders me.

  My father finishes writing something, folds it into an envelope, seals it, puts it aside, and reaches into a desk drawer.

  A moment later, my leather jacket is flying at me, and I snatch it out of the air by reflex. I’d completely forgotten about it.

  “A mechanic found that yesterday on that piece of shit you insist on keeping in the garage,” he says.

  “I went for a ride,” I say.

  “To where?” he asks. His hands are on the desk and his back is perfectly straight. Even though he’s almost seventy, my father’s always had an imposing, commanding presence.

  We don’t always get along, but I’ve always respected that. It’s a good thing to cultivate if you’re going to rule.

  “I rode to the sea cliffs and back,” I lie.

  He leans forward slightly.

  “You must think I’m stupid,” he says, his voice very soft. “So I’ll let you try that again.”

  “I’m not a prisoner here,” I say, even though I know avoiding an answer is the same as admitting guilt. “There’s no law against taking a ride at night.”

  He stands, thrusting his chair back, and begins pacing behind his massive, ornately carved desk.

  “You were in the gray district,” he says, barely-controlled fury in his voice. “You were seen at an illegal drinking establishment. You, the heir to the throne, were flagrantly disobeying your own laws.”

  I nearly say they’re your laws, but it sounds childish, so I bite it back.

  “I disagree with those laws,” I say, simply.

  “I don’t care,” my father says. He’s still pacing. “They’re the laws, and until I’m dead and you’re on the throne, Konstantin, they are your laws.”

  “Are you going to threaten my claim to the throne again?” I ask.

  He laughs, hollowly.

  “I don’t make threats for show, Konstantin,” he says.

  “You would throw the country into civil war over me getting a drink with my friends?” I ask, and I stand as well, my jacket clenched tightly in my fist.

  “Once the people know you’re a degenerate with a taste for American pussy, how many do you think will side with you?” he snarls.

  “I’ve been perfectly polite to Miss Sung,” I say through my teeth.

  “You stare at her like you’re a dog and she’s a bitch in heat,” he says, disdain dripping from his voice. “And you don’t know the first thing about her.”

  I know way fucking more than you think.

  “She’s a foreigner in a strange country, and I’ve helped her get settled here,” I say. I’m trying to control myself, but my voice is shaking with fury.

  A bitch in heat. If he were anyone but my father, I’d have punched him already.

  My father puts both hands on the desk and leans over it.

  “You can have anyone you want except the diplomat’s daughter,” he says. “And what do you do?”

  “Would you rather I get someone pregnant so I’m forced to marry them?” I ask.

  “Careful,” he says.

  “It worked for you,” I say. “Now you’ve got a docile queen, an heir, and a spare.”

  “That’s right,” he says, his voice getting dangerous. “I took back what was mine and I made you so you could rule it when I’m gone. And it’s your job to do the same. A Svelorian heir. With a Svelorian girl, not this idiot who thinks she can drink like a man. Lust after someone who won’t cause an international crisis, Konstantin. You’re dismissed.”

  I turn and walk out, too furious for my brain to form words. I nod curtly at Anna, who must have been able to hear the shouting, but who says nothing to me.

  I’ve got fifteen minutes until a full day of endless meetings, briefings, people buzzing on about one thing or another until my brain turns to mush, but I go to my rooms and stand on the balcony, elbows on the railing, overlooking the Black Sea.

  I don’t understand my father. At this point, I don’t think I ever will. He got shot yesterday, but now all he wants to talk about is whether I’m sleeping with Hazel. There are problems in the country, real, terrible problems, and he’s concerning himself with my love life.

  I take a deep breath of the salty air. I flex my hands against the railing. I need to have a good shooting session. I need to go for a run somewhere and just be alone in stillness.

  I need to stop thinking about last night, about Hazel saying I’m a shark, about her getting into bed next to me in the pitch black darkness. I
rub both hands over my face, like that will help.

  Then I take a fast shower, put on fresh clothes, and go do a full day of prince shit.

  23

  Hazel

  My parents hug me for about half an hour. They seem slightly unhappy that it was just Kostya and I in the bunker, but I go on and on about how boring it was, how all there was to do were puzzles and the dictionary, and how he was busy the whole time and didn’t have any time to even talk to me.

  I’m not totally sure whether they buy it or not, but I give it my best shot.

  As I’m leaving their quarters, my mother calls out to me.

  “Your afternoon activities are still scheduled, by the way,” she says.

  I take a deep, calming breath before I turn around.

  “And what are those?” I ask.

  “Dancing lessons and a mani-pedi,” she says. “They’re on the schedule I slipped under your door yesterday afternoon.”

  “I’ve been in a bunker,” I say.

  “Me too,” she says.

  She has a point.

  “Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

  Needless to say, the dancing lessons aren’t as fun as the one Kostya gave me, but they’re probably more useful. Best of all, the dancing instructor, a tiny old man with enormous glasses, promises me that the modern, young people aren’t very strict at all about their dancing.

  Sounds perfect.

  The woman who does my nails clicks her tongue disapprovingly at my short, unimpressive nails. She tries to shape them the best she can, then paints them bright, stop-sign red without even asking. By the time I realize what she’s doing, it’s too late to stop her, so I just let it happen.

  I know I’m going to chip half of them by the time the masquerade happens anyway, so it isn’t like it matters that much.

  When I get back to my room, schooled and polished, I’m a little disappointed that there’s no note from Kostya under my door. I know he’s busy, and I know he has things to do besides flirt with me, but I was still secretly hoping.

  Then it’s late, and I’m exhausted, so I fall into bed.