Reign: A Royal Military Romance Read Online Free PDF Page A

once. We were always cold and usually hungry, and twenty-odd years later, here I am talking about china patterns.
    “Don’t you think so?” Yelena says, looking up at me.
    “Of course,” I say. I have no idea what I think, but I doubt I have an opinion.
    “That would be very stately,” my mother agrees.
    The doors open again, and the same footman steps through.
    “May I present United States Ambassador Eileen Towers, her husband Mr. Thomas Sung, and their daughter Miss Hazel Sung.”
    He steps aside, and the three of them walk past him. Each thanks him, because they’re American, and Americans love thanking people who are simply doing their jobs. The footman looks slightly confused.
    Hazel nods her head slightly as she thanks the man, her long black hair shining in the light. Then she walks toward us, looking around the room as she does, taking in the portraits on the wall, the heavy wooden furniture, the overstuffed chairs.
    She even walks like an American: shoulders back, head high, hips barely swinging even though she’s wearing heels. Nothing less than confident, even though we’re royalty who saw her in a sweatshirt earlier today and she’s a loud, brash commoner.
    We all exchange pleasantries again, I introduce Yelena, and her parents start talking with mine. Something about architecture, but I’m not really listening, I’m looking at Hazel. She’s got on a black cocktail dress that’s curve-hugging yet tasteful, with a deep V that just barely hints at her cleavage.
    Now that she’s rested and polished, she’s nothing short of breathtaking .
    The waiter with the wine comes back, and Hazel grabs a glass and takes a sip.
    “It’s nice to see you again, Konstantin,” she says.
    “Likewise, Miss Sung,” I say.
    “You can call me Hazel,” she says, with a little half-laugh. “We’re going to be seeing each other for a month.”
    I don’t know why she’s laughing, but I nod.
    “Then please, call me Kostya,” I say. “Konstantin is far too formal.”
    She nods again and looks around the room.
    “This is a beautiful palace,” she says. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it, and I’ve certainly never stayed anywhere like it.”
    “It was built five hundred years ago to withstand barbarian attacks from the Black Sea,” I say. “The walls are five feet thick at the base.”
    “Wow,” she says.
    “Many of the interior passages still have murder holes in the ceiling,” I go on. “They’ve been plastered over, but if you know what to look for, you can find plenty.”
    She takes another sip of wine.
    “Murder holes?” she asks, politely.
    “If the gates were breached and enemies got past the walls, the defenders would boil water or oil, and pour it through grates onto the attackers,” I explain.
    “Did that ever actually happen?” Hazel asks.
    “Once,” I say. “During the reign of Maksim the second, the castle was left undefended while he was fighting across the country, near the Russian border. But when he returned, he took the castle back and mounted the head of every man who’d taken it from him on spikes outside the walls.”
    Hazel’s got both eyebrows up, her mouth partly open.
    “All of them?” she asks.
    I just nod.
    “It was a simpler time,” I say. Then I lift my hand with my wine glass in it and point at a portrait. “That’s him,” I say.
    Maksim the second stares out of the frame, his gaze intense five hundred years after his death. I’ve never had a problem believing that he would execute hundreds, maybe thousands, and display their heads on spikes.
    Hazel looks from the portrait to me, then back again.
    “I see the family resemblance,” she says.
    “I’ve been told we have the same chin,” I say. “Though I’ve never put a head on a spike. I understand that’s frowned upon.”
    Hazel just looks at me uncertainly for a long moment.
    I guess that’s what I get for trying a joke.
    “Maksim was a third cousin twice removed to Vlad Dracul,” I go