Reign: A Royal Military Romance

by Roxie Noir

  “Why do you think there’s something wrong with them?” I say.

  “Because of how you said it,” she says. “That was your I’m not telling you the whole story and it’s because something is fucked up voice.”

  I frown.

  “I don’t have that voice,” I say.

  “Then the caves are lovely and no one is there because they were all busy today?” Hazel asks.

  “The caves are lovely,” I say.

  Hazel waits.

  “And haunted,” I finally admit.

  “That keeps people away?” she asks.

  “We’re very superstitious,” I say. “A hundred and fifty years ago, there was a lot of piracy on the Black Sea, and pirates would hide out in the caves.”

  “And an enterprising Svelorian king somehow killed them all while they slept?” she asks softly.

  “It was an admiral,” I say. “His name was Dubroshkov. The pirates slept in hammocks during high tide, so he sent in canoes rigged with gunpowder, then shot one from a war ship out on the sea.”

  Hazel squeezes her eyes shut.

  “It triggered a chain explosion, seventy pirates burned to death, and there’s a statue of Dubroshkov in the center of Velinsk,” I finish. “I’m sure you’ve seen it.”

  “Did it stop piracy?” she asks.

  “For a year or two,” I say, and put my hand on her back, rubbing in slow circles. From the far corner of the garage, a mechanic looks at us and then looks away.

  “The cliffs are still beautiful. I ride out there sometimes at night.”

  “Have you ever seen a ghost?” she asks.

  “No,” I say. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  We stop in front of a low-slung, black Maserati that looks fast even when it’s parked.

  “Come on,” I say. “We’ll go for a ride in style this time.”

  Hazel looks unsure.

  “Would you rather take the bike?” I ask.

  “Maybe,” she says, looking up at me. “No one will notice if I accidentally scratch it.”

  “Hazel, there’s no damn point to being a prince if I can’t give you flowers from my garden and I can’t take you for a drive in my sports car,” I say.

  “That thing probably costs more than the house I grew up in,” she says.

  “It’s only a Maserati,” I say. “It’s not a fancy car.”

  She gives me a slightly alarmed look.

  “Joke,” I say, and sigh. “Someday, you’re going to laugh at one.”

  “Someday, one’s going to be funny,” she says, and stands on her tiptoes to kiss me quickly.

  The mechanic looks over and away again, and I fight the urge to squeeze Hazel’s ass. Instead I get the key from a fingerprint-protected lockbox, walk to the passenger side, and open the door for her.

  Just as she’s getting in, I hear shouting. I turn my head and Hazel stands, both hands on the door frame.

  We frown and look at each other. The shouting gets louder, and Hazel steps back, shutting the door.

  Coming down the center aisle of the garage is Niko, running even with his limp, trailed by two much older cabinet chiefs of my father’s.

  “Kostya!” Niko shouts, a note of desperation in his voice I haven’t heard in years. Not since the Guard.

  He’s calling me by my informal nickname in front of government officials. I feel like I’ve swallowed lead, like there’s an enormous fist squeezing my lungs as I walk toward him, then break into a run.

  Behind me, Hazel says something but I don’t catch it.

  Niko and I stop a few feet from each other. He’s breathing hard and favoring his bad leg, standing slightly off balance, and I wonder how far he’s run.

  “Kostya,” he gasps.

  “Tell me,” I say, speaking Russian.

  Hazel comes to a stop a few feet away, keeping her distance, like she also instinctually knows something is very, very wrong.

  “Your father’s been murdered,” Niko says.

  I stare.

  “There was an explosion,” he says, still trying to catch his breath. “A car bomb. In Tobov. He didn’t suffer.”

  My body’s gone numb. I’m frozen. I couldn’t move if I wanted to.

  “I’m sorry, Kostya, I’m sorry,” Niko says, the words spilling out of him. “We didn’t know, there were no rumors, no whispers, nothing at all to suggest...”

  He trails off. I’m barely listening. The last time I spoke to my father we fought and I stormed out, too angry to even say goodbye. I don’t even know why he was in Tobov. I thought he was in Kiev.

  The other men have caught up to Niko now, huffing and puffing and gasping like they’re having heart attacks. Niko is still looking at me, jaw set, face rigid.

  He takes a deep breath.

  “Long live the king,” he says.

  29

  Hazel

  I don’t know what’s happening, but I know it’s bad. I don’t need to speak Russian at all to see Kostya’s face change when Niko tells him something, settling into a hard, stony mask. I want to shout what the hell is going on? but I know my manners for once, so I just stand there like an idiot.

  More and more people keep trickling in, and I recognize some of them from the ball two nights ago, some of them from briefings. Some I don’t recognize, but then Niko steps back and says something loudly, his voice raised, and everyone else echoes him.

  I catch the word korol, king.

  Suddenly I think I know what happened.

  My stomach twists and I cover my mouth with both hands as everyone else in the garage goes down on one knee and Kostya just stares at them, beyond them, like he can’t see anything.

  The king was with my parents in Kiev, I think.

  I feel nauseous. I’m shaking. I force myself to take deep breaths so I don’t hyperventilate.

  Everything is still for a long time. It’s probably a few seconds but it feels like hours, and then Kostya barks something and everyone stands, swarming around him as he gives orders in a flat, hard-edged voice.

  People start rushing back out of the garage. One older man says something to him and Kostya nearly shouts at him, and I just stand there, watching because I have no fucking idea what to do. I still don’t even know what’s going on, not really.

  Finally, when there are only a few people left in the garage, I walk over to one middle-aged man. I think we danced once at the masquerade, though I can’t remember his name right now so I don’t bother addressing him.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. It’s impolite and informal but I do not fucking care right now.

  He looks at me with his serious, lined face, and he’s about to say something when footsteps come toward us and we both turn.

  “A moment,” Kostya tells the man. The man nods his head and leaves, and Kostya turns his hard gray eyes on me.

  “My father was murdered twenty minutes ago by a car bomb in Tobov,” he says, his voice flat and strange.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Kostya, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

  He just nods.

  “Your parents weren’t with him,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  I want to reach out and grab him, hold him and stroke his hair but we stand there, locked in place like we’re statues. I can feel tears running down my face, but I don’t reach up to wipe them away.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” he says, his voice stiff and formal again. “There’s a lot to do.”

  “Of course,” I say. “I’ll help however I can.”

  He starts to step away, then hesitates. He looks at me, and for a moment he gives me a long, wistful look.

  “I’m sorry about the sea cliffs,” he says.

  Then he walks away.

  We’re all herded back into bunkers. There’s an enormous one below the garage, it turns out, and that’s where we are as we slowly find out that it’s worse than we thought, that the elements of the United Svelorian Front that everyone thought were small,
fringe elements were larger than anyone in the government suspected.

  Kostya’s father is dead. The train stations are shut down, occupied by insurgent forces. The two airports are shut down, also occupied. The border crossings. The USF is making demands. At least, I think that’s what’s happening. Once in a while, someone comes over and updates the idiot American.

  Everyone is constantly shouting in Russian, and I feel beyond powerless. I can’t even understand what they’re saying, let alone do anything at all, so I sit in a folding chair in the corner with my head in my hands as my mind spins.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been like that when there’s a hand on my shoulder, and I jerk my head up.

  “Hazel,” Yelena says, smiling down at me sadly.

  I blink.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, formalities and politeness a distant memory.

  “The queen and I were talking about putting a pond in the gardens,” she says, her soft voice sad. “She wanted my opinion.”

  A pang of guilt stabs through me. Not only are my parents okay and Kostya’s father is dead, but now I’m talking to the perfectly nice girl I stole him from.

  “Oh,” I say. “How is the queen?”

  Yelena’s brow knits together slightly, then relaxes.

  “She’ll be okay,” she finally says.

  She grabs another folding chair and settles in next to me, her dainty hands in her lap. I have no idea why, because it seems like she should probably hate me or at least not really like me or something.

  “I think you might need a translator,” she says.

  We sit together for a long time. She translates random snippets of conversation, tells me where cities and towns are, fills me in on the background story to all of this.

  Yelena tells me that the USF started as a political group in Sveloria, not terrorists. They were populists, for the most part, and they wanted western-style reforms: a free press, free assembly. Some kind of representation in the government, even if it was only ornamental, but Kostya’s father refused everything, sometimes even tightening restrictions.

  So the USF radicalized, becoming violent, and when they did, Kostya’s father crushed them mercilessly. The remnants fled to the mountains, where Kostya himself fought them years later.

  Just as Yelena finishes, there’s another wave of shouting. Before Yelena can translate, Kostya storms out of the room, past us, and up the stairs. There’s the sound of a heavy door slamming shut, and then a moment of total silence before people stream after him.

  I look at Yelena.

  “Something like, ‘If they want to fucking kill me I won’t wait for death like a fox in a hole,’” she says, frowning. “Do foxes have holes? Is that the right animal?”

  “They do,” I say.

  Then we look at each other. I shrug. Yelena kind of shrugs.

  “Let’s get out of this stupid bunker,” she says.

  Yelena and I work side-by-side through the afternoon, into the night and just past sunrise. The palace was full of people who don’t live here, so we find beds and food for everyone. Communications are still up, so I work with one ear listening to the BBC. After a long time, my text to my parents that I’m alive finally gets through, and minutes later, CNN is reporting that there’s an American citizen among those holed up in Velinsk.

  I’m on my back, underneath a desk, trying to troubleshoot an ancient desktop computer as Yelena translates the error messages for me when someone comes into the room and nearly kicks my head.

  I look up. It’s some kid, maybe fifteen.

  “Are you Hazel Sung?” he asks in English.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “America’s calling,” he says.

  He doesn’t get more specific. I follow him through the noisy halls of the palace to the cabinet offices, then into a large meeting room. It’s nearly empty: two officials and Kostya, all looking at a blurry projection on the wall. They look tired, totally exhausted.

  “Miss Sung?” a voice says from a speaker.

  “Yes,” I say.

  One of the officials points at a chair and I sit.

  “I’m Marcia Bloom, the Secretary of State,” the projection says, and I blink at it.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I say automatically.

  “I wish these were better circumstances,” she says. “I’ve known your mother for many years.”

  I just nod.

  Our meeting only lasts five, maybe ten minutes. I think she just wants to make sure that I’m all right and not under duress, and she seems relieved that I’m acting relatively normal. She asks me to keep her updated on the situation, but also makes a vague comment about working for the state department on an informal basis.

  I’m too tired to parse that, but when the call ends, I’m relieved that they made contact and I’m not all alone out here. It makes me feel better to think that someone’s watching me.

  As I leave the room, Kostya rises, and then the two other men rise. Kostya waves them down, but then escorts me out and shuts the door behind him. We’re in a hallway that’s not exactly private, but there’s no one immediately around us.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  I look around. There’s no one. I take one of his hands in both of mine. I squeeze it, but he doesn’t squeeze back.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, uselessly.

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen,” he says. “I don’t know how this is going to go, but we would very much like to have the U.S. on our side.”

  There’s no one here, I think. Say something real.

  I feel awful immediately. This is probably the worst day of his life, and I’m upset about me?

  His hand is still in mine. I just nod. I’ve been awake for almost twenty-four hours, most of those hours have been bad, and I’m trying not to cry.

  “Of course,” I say. “Anything I can do to help.”

  I squeeze his hand again. He holds on, but he doesn’t squeeze back.

  I let his hand go.

  He swallows, looking at me for a long time.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, and then goes back into the meeting room.

  30

  Kostya

  Four days later, I’m staring at the iPad that Niko just handed me, and Hazel’s face stares back. It’s an old picture, badly lit, a little blurry.

  But it’s unmistakably her. And she’s unmistakably wearing a lacy bra, lacy panties, a garter belt, hose, and sky-high heels. She’s got a big red cup in her hand, and she and another girl dressed the same way are leaning on some guy as he reaches around and grabs both girls’ breasts.

  I’m furious. I’ve slept maybe eight hours in the last four nights, ever since my father was assassinated, and my temper is on a hair trigger. I want to murder this fucking asshole in the photo for touching Hazel. I want to murder the shithead who published this trash, and I want to murder the small-dicked douchebag who found the photo in the first place.

  “If this is what I get for removing censorship from the press put it the fuck back in place,” I growl at Niko. “Fucking behead them all. Drown them in the Black Sea. I don’t care.”

  He doesn’t move. He knows better than to actually do any of that.

  “Read the article,” he says, arms crossed.

  I scan it. Fucking salacious trash, obviously. The Tobov Post isn’t even a newspaper, it’s a rumormongering website that normally limits itself to movie stars and pop singers. Now that there are no consequences for reporting on whatever they want, they’ve instantly latched onto the rumors about the brand-new king and his American girlfriend.

  Then I pause. I re-read a sentence.

  My heart stops for a moment.

  Sources also say that Sung, 25, dropped out of medical school after carrying on a sexual affair with her married professor.

  Niko and I stare at each other. We’re alone in a tiny office.

  “Is it true?” he asks, his voice low.

  I clench my jaw. My stomach plummets
, because I want to say no, of course not. I want to say she’s awkward, not despicable, but I can’t. I never did find out why she dropped out of medical school.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  I’ve barely seen her in four days, and I haven’t been alone with her for more than two minutes. The last time was yesterday when I was taking a breather in a nook off a staircase, looking out the window, and she charged through the door with an armful of ethernet cables, heading somewhere else.

  Neither of us said a word. We just looked at each other for a few seconds, and briefly, I felt like my capsizing world was righting itself again, like maybe there was this one small spark of light.

  Then one of the cabinet aides burst through the door, asking her what kind of cables they were looking for, and they were gone again.

  All I thought about for hours was the look on her face.

  My father’s dead, my country’s falling apart, and I’m thinking about the way a girl looked at me.

  That’s why it’s probably better that I don’t see her.

  I last three hours. It’s driving me crazy, the incessant, gnawing worry that Hazel isn’t who I thought she was. That she would do that, sleep with a married man. Be a home wrecker.

  I don’t even know why it matters right now. I’m deliberately trying to see her as little as possible, and I have no idea what she thinks about that, but everything has gone to shit and I’m doing the best I can. The second I can get the airport re-opened I’m sending her home, and God only knows if she’ll ever want to come back to this hellhole.

  I send someone to go find her. When she walks in her hair is in a high, messy bun, her eyes are puffy and purple with lack of sleep, she’s wearing ill-fitting jeans and a t-shirt, and she’s still more beautiful than I remembered and I hate it.

  Neither of us say anything. The aide leaves and shuts the door behind him. My heart feels like it’s pumping sandpaper through my veins.

  “Did the State Department call again?” she asks.

  “No,” I say, and hand her the iPad with the article on it.