Every time I move, trying to get comfortable, the couch creaks. Finally I shift, trying to get a lump out of my backbone, and there’s the unmistakable sound of very old wood cracking. Hazel freezes.

“We broke the couch,” she whispers.

“You mean we broke my couch,” I say, shifting again. “I’m the king. Ugly couches live and die at my whim.”

Hazel laughs.

I can’t help but grin, because I finally did it. She curls into me a little more, and then she looks up at me.

She stops laughing immediately and looks suspicious.

“What?” she asks.

“I can’t smile?” I ask.

Hazel just narrows her eyes.

“I told a joke and you laughed,” I explain.

Now she looks puzzled.

“You make me laugh all the time,” she says.

“This time was intentional,” I say. “We were standing right there the first time I tried to make you laugh.”

Hazel looks at me blankly.

“Before the dinner when I got really drunk and you had to come feed me bread?” she finally says.

“I told you I believed putting heads on spikes was frowned upon,” I say.

There’s a long pause.

“Oh,” she says.

“It wasn’t funny,” I admit.

She draws her legs onto the couch and then moves around some, trying to get comfortable.

“It’s a terrible couch,” I say, and pull her against me so she’s half lying on my chest, half off the damn couch. “We should just go get in my bed.”

Hazel leans her head against me and blows a hair out of her face.

“Everyone will know if we do,” she says.

“Let them,” I say. “We can worry about that tomorrow afternoon.”

She turns and gives me another weird look, like she’s about to ask me something, but then doesn’t. I think she’s given up asking what I’m hiding from her.

It’s for the best, because I’m not going to tell her. For the first time since my father died, I’m finally certain that I’m doing something right. I’m not even nervous, just satisfied.

We stand after another moment. I find my clothes and pull them back on, not bothering to tuck in my shirt, because I’m pretty sure the whole palace heard us and I couldn’t care less.

When I turn, Hazel’s topless, frowning at her bra.

“I didn’t break it, did I?” I ask.

She bites her lip, like she’s trying not to laugh.

“Kostya, do you know how to take bras off?” Hazel asks softly.

We look at each other for a long moment.

“I understand the principle,” I finally admit. “It’s harder to put into practice.”

“So you’re great at eating me out and you can’t get a bra off,” she says.

I put my hands on her arms and pull her in, kissing her.

“Say that again,” I tell her.

She laughs and blushes.

“You heard me,” she says.

“Come on,” I say.

“Fine,” she says, and drops her voice to a whisper. “You’re great at eating me out.”

I kiss her again.

“I prioritized learning certain skills over others,” I say.

“Of course you did,” she says, putting the bra on, clasping it behind her back with no problem. “You probably had a checklist.”

“Not technically,” I say.

She finds her shirt, and then we move the couch back, more or less, to where it was before. It’s got a definite wobble to it, but we’re not going to throw it out tonight.

I lift the bar from the door, but before we push it open, Hazel and I look at each other.

Tell her in English, I think.

I push the door open, and we leave the drawing room. If anyone else heard anything, they keep their mouths shut.

* * *

Hazel’s walking toward a man I don’t recognize, sitting at a table. I’m watching from fifty yards away, and we’re all on a big flat outdoor space on top of a concrete slab. Some kind of factory that was never built. This must be the gray district.

It’s hot, but she’s wearing lots of gear: thick jacket, thick pants, helmet. The man stands.

I know what’s going to happen before it happens, like I read a few pages ahead, but I can’t run. I can’t move. I’m standing in glue, or maybe concrete. I can’t even shout.

The scene shifts, and now there are trees where there was nothing before, interspersed with buildings. I still can’t move, but something is scratching at the back of my brain, like it’s trying to get in.

Hazel walks. She’s almost to the table, but she can’t get there, because if she does something bad will happen. I don’t know how I know, but I do.

I feel like there’s a screen between me and her, and I try to grab at it, tear it away, shout at her so she stops. She keeps walking.

The bomb is under the table.

Hazel and the man both fly backward, twenty feet, the flame blossoming and disappearing instantly. I watch her land wrong, her neck at a bad angle, and she’s still for long, horrifying seconds.

I wake up shouting.

I sit bolt upright in bed. Next to me, someone jerks and I turn and catch a wrist on instinct, breathing hard, my body covered in sweat.

“Kostya,” Hazel says.

I let her wrist go, yanking my hand back like she’s a hot stove.

“Prosti,” I whisper. “Dermo, prosti.”

She puts the hand on my shoulder.

“You’re in the palace, in Velinsk, in your room,” she says.

“Ya sdelal tebe bolno?” I ask.

“It was just a dream, you’re fine, you’re here,” she says, her hand moving in wide circles on my back.

I look at her, and blink.

“Did I hurt you?” I ask, in English this time.

“No,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

“Super sure,” she says.

I look at the clock. 3:30. I shouldn’t bother going back to sleep before I have to leave.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Jesus, Kostya, quit apologizing,” Hazel says. “I’m fine. You grab me all the time.”

I lean on one hand and put my forehead against hers, and I stay there as I let the dream slide away, reminding myself over and over that she’s here, she’s in my bed, she’s safe. She’s going to stay safe.

I want to tell her not to be nervous about tomorrow morning, that she’s got nothing to be afraid of. That if I can do one fucking thing as the King of Sveloria, it’s protect her.

“Ya lyublyu tebya,” I say.

She just runs her hand through my hair, like she thinks I’m falling back asleep. I put my hand on her jaw, gently, my thumb across her lips, and she looks at me. Her hand in my hair goes still, and suddenly I’m bats-in-my-stomach, heart-in-my-throat nervous.

“What?” she whispers.

“I love you,” I say.

Her lips move like she’s about to speak.

“Don’t say anything,” I say. “Don’t say it back. I just wanted to tell you.”

After another moment, I move my thumb off her lips. My heart is still in my throat, and despite everything, I’m terrified of what she might say.

“I know,” she whispers, and kisses me gently.

“You should go back to sleep,” I say. “Before tomorrow.”

“You know I’ll be okay, right?” she asks.

“I know,” I say.

We lie back down, and as we do, I feel her hand on the back of my neck.

“What happened?” she asks, and I reach behind myself.

“What are you talking about?” I say.

“You’ve got these long red streaks,” she says, sitting up and getting closer. “It looks like somebody—“

She stops, then closes her mouth, looking sheepish.

“Looks like somebody raked their fingernails over my neck trying to get me inside her faster?”

My dick twitches, and I ignore it.

“Never mind,” Hazel says, and I laugh, then lay next to her and pull her close.

“I learned my lesson,” I tease, on my side curled against her, Hazel on her back.

She sighs.

“Give Hazel all the cock she wants,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” she says, but she’s trying not to laugh. “Are you okay?”

“I survived this time,” I say.

“Shut up,” she whispers, and I kiss her.

I want to tell her I like being marked yours, but I don’t. Instead she falls back asleep slowly, turning onto her side in my arms and snuggling into me while I watch the minutes tick by on the clock.

For the first time all day, I don’t want to do this any more. I just want to stay in bed with her while the world goes on outside, but then I think of the dream again, of her head at that angle. She stirs in her sleep, and I realize I was holding her too tight.

I kiss her on the shoulder and slowly unwind myself. She turns onto her stomach but doesn’t wake up.

“I love you,” I whisper, kiss her other shoulder, and get out of bed.

* * *

At 4:15 I meet Niko in the Emerald Dining Room, the one we never use except for formal events. It’s still dark outside, and he walks up to me without speaking.

“You’re sure?” he asks, finally.

“I’m sure,” I say, and he nods once, crisply.

“I thought so,” he says.

At 4:30 we’ve made it to the east gate of the palace. Niko pulls out his phone and begins the security system updates, taking it offline, and he and I open the gate manually.

On the other side are four Humvees. American-made, nearly new. My father got them just last year. Dmitri waves from one window, and I wave back. Captain Ovechkin jumps out of a truck.

“Everything’s in place?” he asks.

“Yes, sir,” Niko and I say in unison.

The captain gives me a funny look, but doesn’t say anything. He holds out one hand to Niko.

“Nikolai,” he says, clapping his other hand over Niko’s. “It’s been an honor.”

“Likewise,” Niko says. The captain lets his hand go, and Niko’s gaze washes over the trucks and the men inside them, full of naked, unabashed longing.

It must be hell to be the guy who has to stay behind while the rest of us get to go on a mission like this. It doesn’t matter that he’s got some of the most important jobs, or that there’s no way it would be happening without Niko. There’s nothing else like it in the world, and he knows that.

Captain Ovechkin nods again and turns back to his truck.

I turn to Niko and we embrace hard.

“Good luck, brother,” he says gruffly.

I back up and we hold each other’s shoulders at arm’s length.

“I wish you could come,” I say.

“I do too,” he says. “I’d slow you down.”

“You’ve got everything,” I say.

He nods.

“You know the backup plans?” I ask.

This could go bad. I could die. We could all die.

“Of course,” he says.

“Thank you, brother,” I say, and we let go. He walks back through the still-open gate, his limp only just noticeable.

Then he watches us as we drive off, and the car is quiet for a moment. I look out the window at the barely-gray horizon, thinking about the hour and half between now and the meeting.

Finally, Sergei speaks up.

“What the hell happened to your neck?” he asks.