Free Reign: A Royal Military Romance by Roxie Noir

smiles.
    “You’re never boring, zloyushka ,” he says.
    I frown. My very limited Russian doesn’t include that word.
    “Z loyushka ?” I ask.
    He just gives me a teasing look.
    “I can’t sleep because of the dreams,” he says.
    “What dreams?”
    “From my time in the military,” he says.
    “I’m sorry,” I say, softly.
    I know he was in the Royal Guard, but beyond that, most of his activities are classified by the Svelorian government. There’s been speculation that he was fighting in the north, but no one knows very much for sure.
    “Can you keep a secret?” he says.
    “If I can’t, we’re already in trouble,” I say.
    Well, mostly me. His kingdom, his palace, et cetera.
    “We were fighting the separatists in the north of Sveloria, up in the mountains,” he says, his eyes straight ahead, raking over the moonlit stone. “Guerrilla warfare, which means you’re always fighting. When you’re sitting in a camp, writing letters, you’re fighting. When you’re eating, you’re fighting. When you’re sleeping, when you’re taking a shit, you’re still fighting. All the time.”
    My eyes widen, and I stay perfectly quiet. A single shiver runs down my spine.
    I don’t know why, but I get the strong feeling that he’s telling me something he’s never told anyone before, and I have no idea why he’s telling me , the awkward, loud, unmannered American girl, of all people.
    “Any second, the shooting could start,” he goes on, gazing into the distance. “While we were doing anything. We were shot at while sleeping, while scouting, while getting supplies in town.”
    He swallows.
    “Once, we stopped at a hut that was far outside of a village. We could hear someone moaning in pain inside, and even though it was dangerous to stop, we did.”
    He swallows again. I wish I’d brought water up here.
    “Inside there was a young man, not more than eighteen, lying on a bed. Both his legs were missing up to the knee. Infected, bright red, oozing pus. I ordered two more men into the hut, thinking that if we could get him somewhere fast enough, he might live. We thought maybe we could help.”
    My eyes are wide. I’ve got one hand over my mouth just imagining the scene. The knot in my chest tightens.
    “I was outside, standing guard in the road while the others went in,” he says, and pauses, staring at the stonework on the ground. “And suddenly, the hut exploded. It knocked me forward, onto my hands and knees, my face in the dirt, half my back covered in burns.”
    “Oh, my God,” I whisper.
    I’ve seen plenty of burns in med school and before that, as a volunteer EMT, and they’re ugly.
    “The kid had volunteered himself as bait for a trap,” Kostya says. “We fell for it. I fell for it.”
    “You couldn’t have known,” I say.
    He takes a deep breath.
    “I lost four men,” he says. “And I learned that trying to help people is dangerous. Two hard lessons.”
    “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “That’s what you dream about?”
    “It’s one of the things,” he says.
    “Are the others similar?”
    Kostya just nods. He looks so distant and alone , standing there with his arms crossed, his hundred-yard stare raking over the stone castle. I can’t even begin to imagine doing what he did and not being able to even tell anyone.
    I take a deep breath and reach one hand for his shoulder, because hugging the crown prince is probably off-limits, and I don’t even know if he wants one.
    He looks at me as my fingers hover over his shoulder. I pause and we lock eyes, his face somehow softer, almost vulnerable. I swallow and touch him, his heat radiating through his thin t-shirt, and stoke small circles on the hard muscles of his shoulder
    “What helps?” I ask. We’re still looking at each other.
    “Reminding myself where I am,” he says, softly. “Coming up here when it’s dark and the moon is out and I can be alone.”
    “I can leave,” I offer.
    “Talking to bad American girls