Reign: A Royal Military Romance Read Online Free Page B

and now I’m here,” I finish, shrugging. “Ta-da.”
    “Goat smells and all,” my mom says, teasing me.
    “I showered,” I say, laughing.
    “I’m glad we could convince you to visit this terrible place,” she says.
    “You did have to blackmail me,” I say.
    My mom sighs good-naturedly.
    “Hazel, I told you,” she says. “This was bribery . Blackmail would be if I said visit us in Sveloria or I’ll post your old diaries on the internet .”
    “Do you still have those?” I ask, tipping back the last of my wine.
    “Refuse to visit us sometime and find out,” she says, and stands. “Ready to make a better second impression?”
    “You tell me,” I say, and turn slowly for her inspection.
    “Yes,” she says. “Come on, let’s salvage this diplomatic mission.”
    “When the inevitable conflict starts, they’ll call it the Spandex War,” I say, dryly. “Future historians will debate what might have happened had I gotten your texts in time to change clothes this morning.”
    “Get moving,” my dad says. “You can be late or you can be a smartass, but you can’t be both.”
    I stick my tongue out at him. He laughs, and we leave the suite.

4
    Kostya
    “ I do hope they use the old china pattern for the dinner and not the newer one,” Yelena says, standing at my side, her voice high and soft. “I love those pretty pink roses on the old dishes. The ones rimmed in gold leaf?”
    “Yes,” I say, nodding down at her, even though I’m not quite listening.
    I think Yelena knows more about the palace’s china patterns than I do. No: I know she does, because I’m not really sure what she’s talking about. Apparently we own plates with roses on them.
    “There may not be enough of those for this dinner,” she says, worrying at her lip. She seems concerned, like it’s her fault that the palace staff might have used a different china pattern.
    “It’s no loss if they use the other china,” I say, because I’m sure the other china is just as nice.
    She just sighs, her wide blue eyes flitting around the drawing room, taking in everything and nothing. Finally she looks up at me and takes my arm.
    “Of course not, Kostya. You’re right.”
    The double doors open and a footman precedes my parents in.
    “May I please present—” he starts.
    “It’s just our son,” my father growls. “He knows who we are.”
    The footman ducks his head and backs out of the room, pulling the doors closed, and my parents walk toward us. Yelena curtsies to them, and I nod.
    “You’re well, I expect?” my father asks Yelena.
    “Yes, your highness,” she says. “We were just discussing the palace’s china.”
    I try to make eye contact with my father, but he ignores me.
    “Yes, it does need updating,” my mother says, her hand on my father’s arm. “It could use a woman’s touch, and I’m afraid that I haven’t the fashion sense or taste to do it justice.”
    This isn’t a conversation that requires my input, so I let my mind wander. A waiter comes by with a tray of wine, and we each take a glass.
    I take a long sip and look out one of the tall paned windows. This one looks onto the gardens. Today, they’re beautiful and well-kept, full of rosebushes in bloom, walking paths, everything neat and orderly and green.
    The first time I saw this palace, I was five, and the gardens were bare dirt. It was the February after an ugly winter, and my mother and I had been sent here because the opposition forces were closing in on Tobov, the capital city.
    The palace was freezing and miserable. My mother worried constantly, desperate for any scrap of news about my father, fighting for his life. I spent my days exploring secret, unknown wings of the palace until it was time for dinner, putting the prizes that I found — a bat skeleton, a scrap of gold cloth, a child’s spinning top — into a box in my bedroom.
    My mother wasn’t the queen then. I wasn’t a prince, just a kid whose ancestors had sat on a throne