Reign: A Royal Military Romance (19 page)

“
K
ostya
,” says Yelena’s soft voice.

“Yes?” I ask.

After one more moment I tear my eyes away from Hazel’s back. Her dress ends right above those two dimples, and just thinking about them makes my mouth go a little dry.

“Is something wrong?” she asks, her big blue eyes looking up at me.

For at least the twentieth time in the past week, I feel guilty for how I treat Yelena. Just because I don’t find her attractive or interesting doesn’t mean I should be openly gawking at someone else while I’m escorting her at the masquerade ball
she
organized.

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” I say, which is at least true. Last night I wasn’t in bed until nearly four in the morning, and I wake up by six at the latest, no matter what.

She pats my arm.

“I’ve arranged for Turkish coffee in the gallery at ten,” she says. “Though I’m afraid it will smell too strongly, and then the drapes in there will never let go of the scent.”

“I’m sure it will dissipate after a few days,” I say, and Yelena heaves a sigh.

She’s dressed like most of the women here: a bright red dress, hair piled elaborately on her head. The neckline on her dress isn’t as drastic as most, but there’s more than a hint of cleavage visible, and it pushes upward every time she breathes.

I dart my eyes at the spot where Hazel was again, but she’s gone.

“There’s Vika and Sasha,” Yelena says, suddenly perking up. “Let’s go say hello.”

* * *

I
’m starting
to feel like I’m playing hide-and-seek with Hazel. Yelena is still talking to her friends, the other daughters of rich men, and even though I’ve had two more glasses of champagne they’re still not interesting.

I keep catching glimpses of black lace swishing through the crowd, and it’s starting to drive me mad. To make matters worse, my father is here, my mother on his arm, striding back and forth and watching everything with his unpleasant hawk’s gaze.

If I had any goddamn sense at all, I’d slip Hazel a note and show up in her bedroom later.

If I had
good
sense, I’d stop this completely.

“Excuse me,” I say to Yelena.

I bow my head slightly and then walk away before she can protest that she wants to come with me. I don’t know who told her it was attractive to act like a barnacle — probably her father — but someone did.

In one corner, my father is speaking with a few old men in one circle, their wives clustered together next to them. I keep scanning the crowd, hoping that I haven’t escaped just as Hazel accepted a dance with someone else.

Since I have to look like I’m going somewhere, I head toward the bar, where a server in a tuxedo is standing in front of an enormous fountain pumping pink champagne punch. The thing is hundreds of years old and so gaudy it must have embarrassed even
my
ancestors, but it’s present at every formal event in this palace.

By the time I walk up, he’s already poured a champagne glass full of the punch, and he hands it to me, dipping his head.

“Your highness,” he says.

I nod back.

“Is
that
who you are?” says a familiar voice behind me, and I turn.

“Miss Sung,” I say, as formally as I can.

“Konstantin Grigorovich,” she says. “I assume, anyway, with the mask and everything.”

I hold out my right hand, and she takes it like we’re about to shake hands on a business deal, but I bring it to my lips and kiss her knuckles longer than I should, her skin cool and soft under my hand.

Her eyes flick to my knuckles. They’re almost healed, just ugly shades of yellow and blue now.

“Can I offer you a glass of punch?” I ask. “It’s an ancient family recipe.”

“Thank you,” she says.

I take the glass of pink liquid from the server. Hazel thanks him, and we step away to stand beside a cocktail table. We’re surrounded by people on all sides, and I know for a fact that anywhere I go in this ball people are looking at me, watching what the prince does.

Maybe that’s why I like the dark so much. I can do what I want.

“Is it appropriate to toast with pink punch?” she asks, looking into her glass.

“Vodka is preferable, of course,” I say. “Though this is mostly vodka.”

“I thought this was champagne punch,” she says, twirling the glass in her hand.

“We rarely pass up a chance to add vodka to something,” I say.

She looks down at her drink, and even though the mask makes it hard to tell, I think she’s smiling a little.

“Thanks for the warning,” she says. “I’ll try not to make another spectacle of myself.”

I hold the glass up, just slightly.

“To my father, may he live to be an old man,” I say. It’s a very correct first toast.

“
Nah zdrovya,
” says Hazel. We both take a sip.

“And to bunkers,” I say, lowering my voice.

Hazel swallows, and her bottom lip twitches, like she’s trying not to smile.

“To bunkers and desks and office chairs,” she says, and we both drink.

“Are you enjoying the masquerade?” I ask. I feel like an idiot, trying to make pointless small talk with Hazel, but I have to act like we’re friendly acquaintances at best.

“It’s quite a spectacle,” she says. “I feel a little like a pigeon in a flock of peacocks, to be honest.”

I look at her, then let my eyes travel slowly down her body, making sure she sees me do it.

“You’re a lovely pigeon,” I say, already desperately fighting an erection. God, I should have taped my dick down or something.

She laughs, but under her mask she’s turning pink.

“Thank you,” she says. “Maybe pigeon was the wrong bird. Maybe I’m more of a duck.”

Her eyes are sparkling behind her lace mask.

So this is how we’re going to do it
, I think.

“Or a shark,” I say.

“Why would I compare a shark to a peacock?” she asks, tilting her head like it’s an innocent question. “Sharks aren’t even birds.”

“Peacocks are barely birds,” I say. “The pretty ones can’t even fly. Better to be a duck. Then it doesn’t matter if you get a little wet.”

I swear I feel a prickle on the side of my neck, and I try to ignore it.

Hazel laughs and looks away briefly, like she’s trying not to be embarrassed.

“I shouldn’t have started talking about birds in the middle of the ball,” she says, and takes a sip of champagne. “How dull.”

“I disagree,” I say, trying not to smile. “I find ducks
fascinating
.”

“Now you’re making fun of me,” she says.

“Only because it’s my turn at last,” I say.

There’s a pause. We both take a deep breath and look down, because this has gone quickly from small talk between acquaintances to something
much
more familiar.

“Are you enjoying the ball?” she asks.

I want to say
I am now that you’re here
, but I don’t.

“Of course,” I say. “I always enjoy hosting formal events.”

My neck prickles again, and this time I can’t help but look.

My father’s glaring at me from clear across the room. I turn my head back to Hazel, tamping down my anger.

“You do seem suited to it,” she says, and I know she’s making fun of me again, but I can’t say anything.

“Thank you,” I say, and drain my glass of pink punch, setting it on the table. “I should return to my date, I’m afraid I’ve left her alone for too long.”

“Of course,” she says, her tone suddenly stiff and formal.

“Give me your hand,” I say, my voice as quiet as I can make it.

She does, and I kiss it again, only letting my lips brush her knuckles.

“You’d better save me a dance,” I say to her hand, then straighten.

“You’d better behave yourself,” she says, fighting a smile again.

Then I walk back to Yelena’s side, my father’s eyes tracking me the entire time.

* * *

O
nce the dancing
starts in earnest, I’m in hell. Since Hazel doesn’t have a date to the masquerade, every dirty old man in the whole place asks the American girl to dance.

I dance with Yelena, I dance with her friends, I dance with a whole slew of pretty, unmemorable girls with rich fathers, and I watch other men get to put their hands on Hazel’s bare back while I have to pretend like I can’t even see her.

We switch partners. Hazel dances with Niko and I dance with his girlfriend Marina.

“I heard you got caught the other night,” she says. “Niko told me.”

“Someone recognized me,” I say.

“It’s a real drag, being the prince,” she says, totally deadpan.

“Tell Niko to go back to his dirt farm and abandon his dreams,” I say.

We keep chatting. The dance ends, and I start leading Marina over to Niko and Hazel. I can propose we swap partners and not set off any alarms.

She gives me a look that makes my toes tingle. Then someone touches her shoulder and she turns toward him, accepting the next dance.

I almost growl.

Marina dances with someone else, and I’m about to stand on the sidelines and simply watch when my mother comes over and looks at me.

Then she clears her throat.

“Mother, would you like to dance?” I ask, humoring her.

“As long as you’re asking,” she says.

I hold out my hand, she takes it, and we start moving around the floor again.

“Your father’s not going to change his mind, you know,” she says suddenly.

“About what?” I ask.

“About anything,” she says. “He’s a strong willed bastard, Kostya, and you know it.”

I just look at her, taken aback. I’ve never heard my mother say
bastard
before, but she just gives me an
oh, please
look.

“He’s not the only one,” I say.

“You don’t have to win,” she says. “You just have to ride it out. Trust me.”

I nod.

“He’s not going to disown you,” she says, her voice getting softer. “He’s stubborn, not stupid.”

“Those two things seem very similar sometimes,” I say.

“They are,” she says. “And don’t let him bully you into marrying the wrong person. That won’t work out for you any better than it did for me.”

I look at her, surprised. She’s never spoken to me this frankly before, and even though I knew she and my father hadn’t been happy for years, I’m amazed she’s saying this out loud.

“I love you and Misha, but if I could go back, I’d turn down the handsome solider and stay a seamstress,” she says quietly. “I know you think you’re keeping a secret, but you light up like a lantern around her, Kostya.”

I swallow.

“It’s that obvious?” I ask.

“Only because I’m your mother,” she says.

The dance ends. I kiss her hand.

“Thank you,” I say.

Then I look around for Hazel, because fuck it.

T
he king’s
aide I was dancing with — Viktor, maybe — kisses my hand solemnly, does not smile, and thanks me for a lovely dance. I thank him for the same.

Then I walk off the dance floor. Apparently Svelorian women have cyborg feet, because they’ve been standing for hours in heels twice as high as mine, and none of them even seem to notice.

I, on the other hand, think I might die. I snag another glass of champagne, my third of the night, from a server with a tray and drink half of it quickly, hoping it helps the pain a little. At least, maybe it’ll help me
notice
the pain less.

Then, when I’m nearly clear of the throng of people, someone touches my shoulder.

“Miss Sung,” Kostya says.

I turn around. He’s holding out his hand, and I put mine in it. He kisses my knuckles.

I swear he’s enjoying this whole prince-at-a-ball thing a little too much.

“May I have this dance?” he asks.

It’s all I can do not to laugh.

“I’d be honored,” I say.

I finish the last sip of champagne and walk back to the dance floor, hand in Kostya’s elbow. My whole body feels like it’s filled with bees, and I tell myself over and over again that two people are allowed to dance at a masquerade ball. That’s what people
do
here.

We get into position. My feet still hurt, but now at least I’m distracted as I look into his gray eyes. He strokes my shoulder blade with his thumb.

The music starts and we dance. He pulls me closer, a little too close, his mouth a few inches from my ear.

“That dress makes me want to bend you over the dessert table and bury my cock in you until you come screaming my name,” he murmurs.

I trip over my own foot.

Kostya steadies me with his hand on my back, even as heat slides through me like a lava flow. I glance around nervously, but no one is showing a sign that they heard him.

“God
dammit
,” I whisper.

He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are smiling as he looks at me.

“I guess you’re really Prince Kostya behind that mask and not an imposter,” I say a moment later when I’ve regained my composure.

“That’s not proof,” he says, totally straight faced. “I’m sure I’m not the only man here who’s had that thought.”

I scrunch my nose a little, and I see a smile flicker around his mouth.

“If I wanted to prove it, I’d tell you what you looked like in nothing but tube socks,” he says.

“Lucky for you I’m the real Hazel,” I say. “What if I were some official’s wife?”

“Then you would be
very
scandalized,” he says.

“I
am
scandalized,” I say. “I nearly fell over.”

“You were just surprised,” he says. “It’s different. If you were scandalized, you wouldn’t be thinking about it right now.”

I swallow, squeeze his hand slightly, and glance at the loaded dessert tables. I imagine myself pressing my face into the white tablecloth, clutching it in one hand as I moan, Kostya fucking me hard and deep from behind.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” I manage to say.

“I’d make sure you come first,” he says. “Chivalrous enough?”

His fingers curl slightly against my back, and I glance around the floor full of dancing couples, desperately wishing that they would all disappear.

“Which dessert table?” I ask.

“The sturdiest one,” he says.

“Not the closest?”

“I’d walk an extra twenty feet to make sure I fucked you right,” he says.

“I do appreciate a job well done,” I say, my pulse racing.

We dance for a moment without speaking, and I just savor being close to him, even in public. I can feel eyes on us from the sidelines, or should I say: eyes on Kostya. There’s Yelena, and there are her friends, the other girls the king’s tried to push on Kostya.

My parents. My mom meets my eyes and gives me one of those
mom knows everything
looks, and I try to ignore it.

There’s the King, looking unhappy.

He’d look
considerably
unhappier if he knew what his son had just said to me. I look away and pretend I can’t see him.

The music begins to slow, and Kostya presses his fingers into my back a little harder, like he doesn’t want to let go.

“Thank you for the dance,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” I say. “I only tripped once, and it was your fault.”

“I could make you trip again,” he says, his voice low.

“Not now that I’m expecting it,” I say, forcing myself to keep a straight face, because smiling at the prince has to look suspicious as hell.

“I knew you weren’t scandalized,
zloyushka
,” he says.

The music stops. We wait a beat too long, then separate. He kisses my hand again and then someone’s there, talking to him, and he gets pulled away for another dance. I melt back into the crowd and finally find a place to sit down.

* * *

F
ifteen minutes later
, the doors to the gallery open and the smell of coffee wafts in. The ballroom begins to empty slightly, so I take a deep breath, heave myself to my feet, and make my way out there.

The gallery is hot, steamy, and I don’t want coffee this late at night, so I go back to the ballroom. Before I know it I’m at the dessert table, and my toes curl as I wonder which one is the sturdiest.

Stop it
, I think.
You’re in public
.

I grab a few morsels and open the door onto the patio by the garden. It’s cool outside but not cold, and I wander a bit until I find a bench hidden away in a nook and collapse onto it, slumping and leaning my head against the stone wall of the castle. I breathe in the rose-scented air from the garden, then lean down, take both my shoes off, and wiggle my toes freely for the first time in hours.

It feels so good I don’t hear the footsteps. I don’t even know anyone else is there until I hear him chuckling.

“Americans,” Kostya says, and I open my eyes.

“Don’t you have official prince business?” I tease. “Or something better to do than come find me in my moment of weakness?”

“I didn’t have to find you,” he says, and sits down next to me. “My eyes have been glued to your ass for
hours
.”

“It does look pretty good in this dress,” I admit.

Kostya just grins.

“And you said you were a pigeon,” he says, and I laugh.

“It’s true,” I say. “Everyone seems so uptight, but then I get to a formal event and the women
all
have their tits out.”

I sigh.

“I don’t get it,” I say.

He leans back against the wall, tilting his head against mine.

“Still not stranger than pie-eating contests,” he says, taking my hand in his and lacing our fingers together. I laugh and squeeze his fingers.

“Pie is delicious,” I say. “It’s not that strange.”

“But if you’re eating as part of a contest, you’re not enjoying the pie,” he says. “It may as well be sawdust.”

“I can’t really defend pie-eating contests,” I admit. “I’m barely American.”

“Why?” he asks. “You seem very American.”

“Because I’m loud, friendly, and don’t know my manners?” I ask.

“You wore spandex pants to meet the royal family,” he says.

I sigh.

“I barely lived there until I was a teenager because of my mom,” I say. “We lived in Croatia for a while, then Poland. Ireland. Brazil. Then they sent me to boarding school.”

“Your parents did?” he asks, sounding puzzled.

I nod.

“They wanted me to have at least a couple years of stability,” I say. “Where I could make friends and keep them for a while. Stay in one place for a couple years, at least.”

I swallow and look ahead, remembering that first day. Getting off the plane in Boston, my parents helping me set up a room, and then driving away. Me feeling like alien with all the other American teenagers.

“I think it was pretty hard for them,” I say.

“What about you?” he asks.

“It was hard at first,” I say. “But I got used to it. Then I got kicked out when I got caught smoking pot on school grounds.”

“I knew it,” he says. “Bad from the beginning.”

“It turned out you needed richer parents than I had to get away with that kind of thing,” I say. “So I went to another one and didn’t get caught.”

He chuckles.

“Of course,” he says.

“You went to boarding school too, right?” I ask.

“Only one, in Switzerland,” he says. “I didn’t get kicked out.”

“You were probably quarterback of the football team, valedictorian, and class president,” I tease.

“Rugby,” he says. “I don’t think I broke a rule until I was twenty-three.”

“And now you’ve broken at
least
a couple,” I say. “Better stop now or you’ll develop a taste for it.”

He brings my hand to his mouth and kisses it.

“Too late,” he says. “You’re a very bad influence,
zloyushka
.”

“Good,” I say. “You needed one.”

He kisses me briefly, both of us still leaning against the wall.

“I’m coming over tonight,” he says, lowering his voice.

I can’t help but smile.

“You don’t have to escort Yelena home or something?” I ask.

A tiny twinge of jealousy worms its way through my chest, but I ignore it.

“I might,” he says. “But I’m coming all the same.”

We kiss again, longer this time, his lips moving against mine before we pull back.

“Keep your dress on,” he says, his voice dropping. “I want to take it off you with my teeth.”

My whole body flushes with heat.

“Then don’t take too long,” I say. “I’ve waited enough already.”

We kiss, longer and slower. He puts his hand to my face and runs his thumb slowly along my cheekbone, just underneath my mask.

“I should go before someone comes looking for me,” he says when he pulls back.

“We could go to my room now and you could make excuses later,” I say. “It’s better to apologize than ask permission, you know.”

Kostya just chuckles, his voice low and gravelly, and kisses me again.

“Keep the dress on,” he whispers, and stands, straightening his uniform. I stay on the bench, kicking my feet.

As he turns to leave, his back suddenly straightens and his face goes stony. A bad feeling gathers in the pit of my stomach, and I sit up straight and slide my feet into my shoes.

Please not his father
, I think.

“Yelena,” Kostya says.

That’s better, but not by much.

She answers him in Russian, her sweet voice soft and confused. Then she walks forward, sees me, and freezes.

“Good evening, Miss Sung,” she says, still very formal with me.

She reaches out and takes Kostya’s arm, her eyes flicking from me to him and back, like she’s trying to add something together and can’t quite manage it.

“Good evening, Yelena Pavlovna,” I say, and stand in my unfastened shoes. I hope I don’t need to take a step, because I’ll fall over.

She looks up at him.

“Your father asked me to find you. He’s giving a toast before the final dance.”

Kostya nods once.

“Of course,” he says. “It was a pleasure talking to you, Hazel.”

“You as well, Kostya,” I say.

Yelena gives me one last glance, and they walk away. I sit heavily on the bench and stare at the stonework path for a moment, trying not to think
what if she’d come thirty seconds earlier
.

I refasten my shoes, take a deep breath, and delicately scratch my face underneath my mask.

We’re not keeping this secret
, I think.
Just because I haven’t actually told anyone doesn’t mean they haven’t found out
.

Hell, Yelena, his
actual
date to this event, came about ten seconds too late to catch us making out. This secret thing isn’t
working
.

I walk back toward the ball, just as Kostya escorts Yelena back into the ballroom through the open glass doors. I don’t want to be jealous, but right in that instant, I
am
.

I’m stupidly, childishly, petulantly jealous that she gets to have him escort her around, that she can come find him if she wants. That she gets him in public and I get him in garages and bunkers, after midnight, in the dark.

Put on your big girl panties, Hazel
, I think.

Then I walk into the ballroom and listen to toasts.