fleur ✶

You see Luke at the corner of your eye step ahead of you, giving a theatrical display of zipping his lips shut before snapping into a sleazy grin when you roll your eyes at him.

The Oracle of Delphi finally comes into sight at the edge of the attic, and Luke has to settle a hand across the base of your spine to keep you moving along when you freeze upon seeing the figure. Visiting the Oracle always left an uneasy feeling that settled like sediment at the bottom of your stomach, and Luke knows exactly, despite the low lights of the attic, that you would be picking at the skin beneath your nail.

He taps his finger on your spine to grab your attention, teasing spelled on his face, “Scared, smart girl?”

You swallow thickly before breaking away from his hand, “In your dreams, crook.”

Luke offers you a small chuckle as he anchors his palms on the beams near your head to keep you from bumping into them when you stalk along the attic, wary of the menacing figure right in front of you.

The skeleton is perched near the stained glass window, and silence simmers in the air so thick it almost shrouds your heartbeat in a muffled vacuum. After a few heavy seconds, the Oracle of Delphi slowly creaks into animation. There’s this odd pull of energy surrounding the flimsy skeleton, perfuming a spine-chilling and nerve-wracking pulse into the air, and into whatever summer clothing she had draped over her bones.

“Oracle of Delphi, we’ve come to seek your guidance.” Luke utters, and you cross your arms behind him, observing the decrepit and stop-motion-like movement of the figure. The skeleton encapsulates the feel of the Oracle in a snap of a finger, her arms creaking into animation and her skull snapping to your direction.

There are no eyes in the vessel as of the Oracle, but you can't mistake the sharp stare she gives you as she utters out the prophecy guided by the goddess of love, Aphrodite. And when she does, you feel a burdening weight forming on your shoulders and a thousand prickling needles at your spine. 

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding. 

Because to find a “second wind” and bring life and victory to your affairs, the quest from Aphrodite meant that you would have to share a kiss with the Hermes head counselor, your spiteful ex-lover, and the absolute bane of your existence, Luke Castellan.

What a funny joke this was.

—

“Well?” you’re cross-legged atop the ping-pong table, staring accusingly at Luke.

Luke rolls his eyes at you, sharpening his dagger against the wall of the dimly-lit Rec Room, “Well, what?”

The two of you ended up in the counselors’ meeting room just below the attic of the Big House after the prophecy sinked in enough for you and Luke to move down somewhere to confer.

“We’re contesting this with Chiron, aren't we?”

You observe Luke from the table, watching intently as he sighs in frustration, returning the dagger to its leather holster, giving you his full attention now.

“We aren't and we won’t.” he asserts, “And get off the ping-pong table, you’ll break it.”

There’s considerable pressure to his words, but you were never one to back down from his intimidation, so you stand your ground, “I’m going to contest this, Castellan. Whether you like it or not.”

“Under what possible circumstance?” He reasons with slight exasperation, “You know they won't let you contest a prophecy—from Aphrodite—off all gods.”

“It’s a clear case of conflict of interest.” the table creaks, and you heed Luke’s advice to hop off.

“That conflict of interest is a deliberate choice from the goddess. Besides, it’s a kiss. One kiss.” he sighs—you’ve been conferring about the prophecy for a while now, and every second is one wasted on argument instead of preparation, “Do I affect you so much that having me kissing you is such a huge deal? What, afraid you’ll come crawling back for more?”

You squint your eyes at the insinuation.

“The kiss isn’t a big deal for me. I don't care about that, you, and whatever relationship we had in the past.” your voice loses its venomous edge when you see Luke watching you intently through lidded eyes. His gaze is a pressuring expression, as if prompting you to speak more, and your mouth slips beyond grasp when you scoff, “You could kiss me right now and I wouldn't bat an eye.”

Oh shit.

The realization of your statement sinks in the second it leaves your lips. A gasp is stuck in your mouth, and you keenly watch Luke for a reaction.

Luke doesn't shoot his usual retort, taking his sweet time before getting off the wall with a grunt. He walks toward you with a heavy gait, one that echoes in the room as if in mockery of your position.

He finds himself almost between your legs, standing a breath’s width away. Luke chases your gaze when you snap your head the other way.

“Huh,” he smiles, and you feel the sinister intent behind it in your stomach, “Do you wanna repeat that for me?”

There’s a stern look on your face, refusing to budge out of self-preservation and dignity, and he tuts in response, “Look at you. You never change, do you? Pouring out emotion but never committing to it. You’re still all bark and no bite—” he whispers with a rough edge, “Like you’ve always been.”

Luke’s words are an obvious, honest-to-gods ploy. It’s nothing more than plain bait, and he’s waving it in your face to see if he can get you off your high horse and into the ground where he wanted you, and he knows if he pushes this narrative a little further, he can get you to bite down.

You blink, and feel the irritation bubbling, choked into the back of your throat. He didn't have the right to tell you about emotions when he was the one that left after the slightest bit of actual reciprocation.

A second passes and you try to give him a chance to take it back, but he only gives you a cocked eyebrow and a look as if impatiently waiting for your verdict.

He persists, and you huff before staring at him straight in the eye with a burning defiance. 

Luke thinks, oh, 

He’s fucking got you.

A sharp finger jabs itself into his chest, and Luke finds it exhilarating to have you on your toes, “I said,” the tone of your voice is as tense as a rope pulled taut, “You could kiss me right now, and I wouldn't do so much as bat an eye.”

Your pride is deadly as it is precarious—this is affirmed when Luke plants his palm on either side of your figure on the table, stepping an inch closer to where he has to crane his neck down to keep you in his sight in response to your dispute.

Luke leans his head forward, the mocking grin etched right in his mouth, “You’re sure?”

You aren't, but you’ve gone so far now that retracting your sentiments is equivalent to admitting complete defeat.

And defeat to Luke Castellan was a defeat you could never stomach. 

So you persist.

“Try me.” you lift your chin as if to push him further to do what he’s been threatening to. You decide there was a large chance of Luke bluffing, so you prompt, “You don't have the balls to do it, Castellan.”

The heartbeat in your ribs thrums and pounds at your bones, a clear display of your body knowing that you should run before anything untoward happens, but your burning pride keeps your feet planted on the ground.

Luke is the closest he’s ever been since you broke up, head slanted into place with his mouth just above yours. The position is familiar, and you hate that you feel it in the pit of your stomach; Luke was so terribly close. He studies your most miniscule of movements, eyes wandering and lingering on your jaw, your neck, and your lips.

The action is an arrogant, self-assured display of power, fueled by the slight, unwanted flush on your face ignited by the suffocating proximity and the sandalwood perfume on his neck—and when he tips closer, it hits you that maybe Luke wasn't bluffing at all.

So, you do the next best thing after realizing you backed yourself into a corner: you close your eyes and wait for Luke’s mouth on yours.

…

Except, it never comes.

You peek your eyes open with a slow wind, Luke has a smug satisfaction written all over his face. He slips his mouth just above your ear, breath hot and searing when he whispers, “Liar.”

You swallow your dignity into your stomach at the realization that he just humiliated you to your face, and you whisper back at him with a hardened gaze, “I’m gonna make you wish you were dead, you damn crook.”

“Do your best, sweets.” the endearment is an offensive spit in your face. Luke takes a step back before stretching his limbs with a faux yawn as he walks to the door, “Good luck with the contention. Let me know how it goes.”

—

Luke knows you like the back of his hand.

He knows you inside out, from your oddly niche allergies, to the callouses you have on your fingers because you used to compete in unauthorized, handwritten poetry competitions with the campers from Apollo, Demeter, and Aphrodite before Chiron shut it down.

(The poetry competitions somehow turned into betting games, which were also unsanctioned.)

He knows you’re just about the most brilliant strategist at camp, as proven by the quest paraphernalia displayed in the attic that you’ve managed to snag along the way, but you let the younger campers like Annabeth hone their skills and take center stage during camp games.

He knows you have marks on your neck that map out the shape of the Lyra constellation, traced from your neck down to the bottom of your collarbone, and he knows, by heart, how long it takes to kiss the stars, one by one, before you give out on your knees.

Most of all, Luke knows that when you despise somebody, you despise them with a burning hatred that singes and ignites everything around you with charring smoke and flame. 

And that’s what he exactly gets for being the ex from a relationship felled by a spiteful fallout: your loud hatred, concentrated resentment, and your sweet, sweet unbridled attention in the quest.

Frankly, Luke supposes having your attention is worth it, despite being rooted in bad faith and distrust in his actions.

“My feet are killing me.” you suck at your teeth, eyes glued to the thickets, “This route’s going to wear us down faster than Aphrodite could ever do.”

You’ve done nothing but go and complain about Luke’s decisions for the past couple of days, and it’s a deliberate call on your end—being annoying and insubordinate just enough to piss him off, but never too much as to jeopardize the quest and its goal.

To be fair, you were the daughter of a war goddess. Your words held weight, and not to mention considerable influence and accuracy on your calls on strategy and quest location planning.

It was just that you were using your mother’s gifts to piss the hell off Hermes’ kid.

It’s a lure dangled just above his face, just out of reach to push Luke to his very limit. You’re convinced it’s an art form in itself, the act of patience and persistence in getting somebody to break.

But you haven't had much luck, because as the world would have it, Luke knew what you were doing, and decided he wasn't going to give you the slightest bit of satisfaction by displaying irritation.

He’ll do just about anything to keep your eye on him.

“Are they, now?” Luke answers, a few steps away from you. He keeps walking, and when he doesn't hear your feet shuffling behind him, he turns around, “Sore?”

“Deadly.” you groan, rolling your ankles off the ground. In your defense, the trail ahead was rigorous, bumpy, and slippery from the recent rainfall. Not to mention the elevation gain throughout. You had more than enough of a right to complain, “We should’ve just cut through the highway instead of playing hiker.”

There was some truth to your assertion—it really would wear you down, but not so exaggeratedly.

Luke crosses his arms, a usual telltale hint of irritation, but none of it is present in his voice, “And be picked off the asphalt by a rogue Fury?”

“At least a Fury would take the pressure off my feet.” you grumble, and continue walking forward when you realize Luke just wasn't biting down. You look to the sky in an attempt to clear your head.

In your reflections, you fail to notice that Luke’s gone quiet with mischief, and you see your clear fault of letting your guard down when you get picked off the ground and hauled over his shoulder like cattle.

“Castellan—” you gasp, your vision in a whiplash, “What the hell! Put me down!”

Luke secures an arm over the back of your knees, the other one supporting your hip on his shoulder. He speaks to you with no hint of a struggle, “You wanted to put the pressure off your feet, right?”

“And the first solution that came to mind was to carry me on your shoulder?” you say in disbelief, propping yourself up with your arms on his back, “That's not how things work, you freak!”

“You’d rather I carry you in my arms?”

“I’d rather you put me down on the ground!”

“And let you hurt your small princess feet?” Luke coos in a voice so sickeningly sweet, it makes you feel as if nauseous from a sugar rush, “You know I’d never let you do that.”

“Gods, I hate you.” you grumble with a voice hinting resignation. You go limp on top of his shoulder when you realize there’s no point in arguing with him, “You’re the worst.”

“Get used to it.” Luke says, starting to walk the trail into the forest, “The worst hasn't even happened yet.”

“And that’s supposed to be what?”

He taps you thrice on the back of your knee, “I’ll let you figure that out on your own.”

—

It’s hard to forget that you and Luke are exes by the way you two fall quickly into a routine when left alone. Despite the rough start to your quest that resulted in petty arguments, derailments, and relentless teasing, your disgruntlement with Luke has sort of fizzled out into something a little more tameable, something malleable under shared snickers and a few will-they-won’t-they situations.

It starts off in treks where he takes your pack without a second thought when your breathing lags a little more than usual because you weren't as physically inclined as you'd like, in moments where you catch him forking away at the raisins in your bread so you wouldn't recoil at the sight, and during slow days when the journey is oddly peaceful, and the two of you wordlessly take detours to see pretty trails that Luke gets a little too excited over.

It ends with Luke falling from a spiraling tree root sprawled on the soil, and with flowering wounds on his hands and face.

“You’re a mess.” 

You frown over the soft orange spires of the campfire, watching Luke with a pitiful red bruise birthed from his own actions. He’s fussing over his own wounds, and he tries, really, to the best of his abilities, but Luke hasn't attended a first aid class from Apollo’s cabin in years—and it’s showing in the way he tries to treat the bloody marks on his face.

“You’re pitiful.” You comment, looking down at his hunched figure over the sprawled kit. It doesn't help that it’s nighttime and he struggles more and more with adequate light without burning himself on the bonfire, “A disgrace. Pathetic.” 

“I’m hurt.” He says, going back to applying an ointment that comes out way too watery because he doesn't know you have to shake it, “I’m hurt and you’re being mean to me.”

You can hear the obvious dramatisation in his voice, evident in the way he draws out his vowels. He’s pitiful and pathetic—just like you said—but for some reason, you find yourself slumped on a log next to him, stealing the balm from his hands.

“Give it to me.” You grit through your teeth, like you’ve been forced to help him by some unknown force, “Best swordsman in 300 years, and he cannot apply healing ointment on himself.”

It’s a comment made under your breath, and when you shake the tube and apply the cream on his arm, you miss the small smile Luke gives you.

The air is so cold with the night air and ripe with tenderness, and the two of you don't miss its hint when you touch Luke’s chin to move his head to the side, applying ointment on the gash lining his cheekbone.

“I’m shocked you’re not even recoiling at this.” You mutter, lathering out a pea-sized amount on his face, “You must hate it so much.”

It’s rare that you strike up a conversation first, but it seems like the intimacy of the moment has gotten to you, so Luke entertains you, “At what?”

“This.” You sign to the two of you, “I’ve done this to you a lot before, but it embarrasses you every time, doesn't it?”

It always started with you having to fuss over him, and with Luke being pissed off—and ended with an fiery argument without fail. 

It was a stupid thing to argue about; but when you’ve just passed the honeymoon threshold of a young relationship, everything felt far too intense far too early.

Luke cannot find it in himself to answer immediately, a little embarrassed by the idea of his past actions, so you pacify the situation by talking, “I get it, you know.” You hum, “I was overbearing, and young, and overexcited.”

“And I was stupid, and angry, and cowardly.” Luke answers, an airy chuckle coming out of his lips, “I think we’re just fair. Actually, I might've been worse.” 

You shrug, keeping your concentration on the gash. Luke’s eyes are peeking at the side, taking a look at you through feathered eyelashes.

“Hey, smart girl?”

A hum of acknowledgment lets him know you’re listening despite the utter focus on his cheek.

“I really was stupid back then for a lot of things, wasn't I?”

You stop momentarily. It’s wordless knowledge, knowing what he’s referring to, but you aren't sure you want to mull it over right now. The moment is too dangerously intimate to dabble in something so sensitive, so you decide to respond by whispering out an “Mhm.” before continuing on.

Luke watches you and your concentrated look, your lips jutted out and your nose in a slight scrunch. He feels like he’ll physically melt at the feeling of your hands cradling his face.

You’re finished with fussing over his wounds, and in a state of effortless muscle memory from all the times you had to do this to him before, your grip on his chin unconsciously angles him to face you, and you move to give him a peck on the side of his lip. 

You’re so precariously near when you catch yourself and jolt into freezing. There’s only a breath’s width between you and him. It leaves you with Luke’s eyes gazing right into yours, eyes as wide as deer in headlights.

You can hear nothing but the crickets of the forest, the crackling of the firepit, and the ring of your slowly accelerating heartbeat. The time stills into a simmering tick.

Luke’s eyes flicker somewhere down in a split-second, and he squints at you, “Were you going to give me a kiss?”

You’re taken out of the trance, and in a flash of panic, quickly push Luke’s face away from yours, “You look horrible up close, Castellan.”

It’s an offhand comment, but Luke doesn't seem to mind when he scoffs out a comment of his own, “Oh please, we’ve made out a lot closer before.”

A red flush comes out of your face, shocked that he would bring up something so old, “And I hated every second of it every single time.”

You didn't—but his ego doesn't deserve to know that.

“If you hated it so much, you’re about to seethe at the next act of our quest,” Luke shrugs, stretching his arms into the ground behind him.

“And that's what, now?”

“Prophecy says you owe me a kiss, remember?”

—

Oh, shit. You forgot about the kiss.

Completely blinded by your deliberate attempts to usurp Luke’s decisions as primary of the quest, you seem to have forgotten the damning condition of your victory—to share a kiss with your past lover.

Simply put, Aphrodite was bored and decided it was time to pair together people who hated each other to death and make them kiss like dolls.

Was it to rekindle buried feelings? Maybe. Was it to drive the offsprings of gods into insanity? Oh, absolutely.

But whatever Aphrodite wanted to achieve by having you and Luke venture out into the world, it still doesn't do so much as change the thoughts plaguing your head for the last few days.

When was this kiss going to happen?

Since leaving the camp, and after that shred of intimacy that night, every passing moment became ripe with untouched tension, thick enough to cut through with a knife and a saw. You felt your heartbeat pound into your ear at the times when Luke would pull you close when he knew a creature was watching a little too intently, or when he would sit between your legs and let you fuss over his shoulder to have his minor wounds treated.

Normal occurrences at a quest, but with the prophecy looming over your head like an unrelenting shadow of misfortune, you were always distracted at the thought of: is this it?

Your agitation with the prophecy and your fear at the thought that Luke would smoothen you into kindness put you on edge, and soon enough your composure unraveled like loose threads and your formerly safe antics almost cost you and Luke your lives.

But it wasn't always you making the trip a hassle.

Your heavy, dragging breaths fill the tight brick alleyway just on the outskirts of the city you cut through to make a “harmless” shortcut Luke hounded you into taking, where you caught the attention of a rogue minotaur hungry for demigod dessert. Now, you have burnt soles and a creature hot on your tail.

It was a shortcut no different from the one you had insisted on taking, but Luke reason that the alternative trail was the same amount of time, with less elevation, and with more places to get food and water—but before you could leave, you realized why the town felt a lot more deserted than usual.

Luke pulled you inside the slim space by the arm, clutching you close into his body and angling you away from the mouth of the alleyway. He has one hand clamped over your mouth and the other on the base of your spine, pulling you so intensely near that you can smell his perfume and feel the ridges on his chest.

You hear the minotaur’s guttural growls and heavy gait echoing with a sharp thud, slowly and slowly until it disappears out of earshot. It’s only then that you feel the heartbeat pounding into your bones once the adrenaline runs out of your bloodstream.

You seem to realize the minotaur’s disappearance a lot faster than Luke does, with his hand remaining over your mouth and his body still pressed close to yours.

Oh, he was so incredibly close.

The flush on your face deepens at every single passing moment, your fingers picking at the skin beneath your nails, with your body becoming hypersensitive to every point that touches his, fueled by the force of the two brick walls squeezing the two of you together. His body feels warm from the constant running that led you to this moment, excreting bodily heat that seeps into yours the longer he holds you close. 

When Luke gazes down after ensuring that the minotaur was out of the immediate area, he finds you studying him with a wide set of eyes. He doesn't say anything, mostly because his ego is enjoying the show, watching you stare at his chest, and his arms, his neck, before ending up on his eyes.

You retain eye contact, and Luke cranes his head to your side to check on you. Luke liked getting in close for things he only wanted you to hear, so when he tipped his head down to ask if you were alright, you stalled—like deer in headlights—and panicked at the feeling of his face so close to yours. You break out of Luke’s hold when the panic seeps into your bones, and you stumble onto the open streets.

You crane your gaze to the left—and meet eyes with the minotaur.

—

The hotel off the highway is dingy and obviously seen better (and more graceful) days, with peeling wall paint, dusty carpets, and a receptionist with a mean streak who barely cares for the customers arriving. The ringer on the desk barely makes a sound over her nail file.

She files her nail with a vigorous back-and-forth, the scratching of the material screeching into your ear like nails on a chalkboard. The bright purple of her hair is mirrored by the bubblegum in her mouth, deflating in a scandalous pop when she decides to entertain you.

Well, not you exactly, but the view of the tall, handsome man standing just behind you. Who was, believe it or not, clutching his injured shoulder. 

(Minotaur’s fault; not yours, directly)

You can see the instant attraction in her eyes when it lands on Luke’s figure, and you feel a dull sensation in your ribs.

“Well,” she smacks her lip, looking as if she wanted to undress Luke with her eyes, “Two separate rooms, I hope.”

“Excuse me?” you say, stopping halfway from digging into your bag for the money. 

“Two rooms, right?” the receptionist rolls her eyes at you, dragging her words along the floor. She fetches two keys on the counter but keeps them beneath her palm, batting her eyelashes at Luke, “Hey, you—pretty boy. I’m a pretty good masseuse, you know.”

You press your lips together, holding back the incredulous expression your face is dying to spit out. 

Two customers annoyed and frustrated at each other, looking for a room; one with a bad shoulder, and the other a sleeve catching on a doorknob away from crashing out into misery.

And the damn receptionist decides it's time to snag a quick hookup?

She continues her little show of seduction, leaning over the counter in her slightly-undone button down. There’s venom and honey dripping on her voice, and a bony finger catches itself on her lip, “I can heal that shoulder of yours real good if you let me come up to your floor.”

It’s unbelievable at this point, you decide. You could tolerate this a lot better if you were having a better day, but today was not that, at all.

Your anger, burning hot and bright, slowly becomes slightly clouded by a churning feeling at the bottom of your stomach when you realize you haven't heard Luke answer—nor did you know how he was reacting to the woman at all.

Was he enjoying the attention? Was he considering blowing off steam with her? Did he like it?

Why do you care?

You don't. That’s what you put your resolve on—and there are more serious things to think about, like how you’re on the verge of failure in your quest. He could fool around with anyone, and that wouldn't be your business. It shouldn't be your business.

Whatever turns him productive enough to lead you to completion of Aphrodite’s favor.

Your thoughts are on the verge of collapse, but as if by some wicked timing, the receptionist shakes you out of your trance and pushes you into irritability tenfold when she slips over to you one key.

“Here’s ‘ya room. Leave your boy to me, hm?”

You feel like a kettle, slowly boiling until it’s time to explode and spill over scalding hot insults and lectures about the lack of decency being given. You’re about to start when you feel a chin nuzzled into your shoulder and a hand at your waist.

Luke whispers in your ear, “She’s not worth it.”, staring at the receptionist dead in the eye before exchanging the one key for money.

“Just one room. We’ll be fine, alone.”

The elevator ride is dragging, and you’re standing on opposite sides as if Luke wasn't just clinging on you from the last minute as a response to the flirty receptionist. He looks at the floor with a restrained expression, and you have a flat frown on your mouth. It takes what feels like decades before the carriage reaches your floor.

The doors open into a narrow hall, dimly lit with matching dull carpets from the lobby. Your room isn't in any better shape than the rest of the building. It might be worse when the door shuts and another misunderstanding erupts.

“What happened back there?” Luke asks, his voice pulled taut by tension, but held back by the need to not escalate the situation, “Why did you freak out on me?”

Luke knows you’re keeping something secret, you’ve had a shift in behaviour that he doesn't exactly recognize, but feels familiar all the same.

You keep his gaze leveled to yours, “I’m not the one at fault here, Castellan. We wouldn't have been there if we took the original route.”

“Fine,” he groans, “It was my fault we ended up in that stupid alley in the city outskirts. I didn't factor in why the map wouldn't mark it as a route in the first place. But that’s not what I’m asking, isn't it?”

“What are you asking then?”

“Why’d you freak out on me in that alley?”

“And that’s such a big deal?”

“It’s a big deal because that meltdown of yours cost us an injury, supplies, and now transport money that we have to use on this hotel.” he stalks closer, tone suspiciously clear of malice, “You’re smart. You know we don't have enough time or resources for the quest, no?”

“I know that.” you snarl. You don't even know when you stood up, “Shit happens, Castellan. I can't control when and where I panic.”

“But you can.” he shrugs. You have no idea when he got so close, “I may not know what happened, but I do know you—you’re calm, collected; you hate being driven by emotion and you are Athena’s favourite child for a reason.”

You look away to the side, refusing to make eye contact, “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying,” Luke drawls, as if the answer is staring at you, “Either your skills have downgraded for absolutely no reason at all, and you’ve become a shame of a daughter of a war goddess—or, something else has shook you to your core entirely. Something, or someone. That’s my guess.”

It was true—you were shaken by the prophecy and let the panic from it settle far too deep into your bones, but you were a lot more pissed by the way Luke was speaking to you. As if he knew you from the inside out, and to hell with him thinking that way.

He didn't have the right.

“You wanna know the reason, crook?” Your finger jabs into his shoulder, and you have to look up to his towering height to meet his gaze and get your point across. You were at such a close proximity now, it's as if you could taste the smugness in his voice.

He rolls his eyes, and shrugs mockingly, “Well, don't keep me waiting.”

You let out a good exhale before you postulate.

“The prophecy got under my skin.” Luke senses the tinge of nervousness in your voice, the end of your sentence faltering into a low mutter, “As much as I want to be the perfect quest companion you need so bad, the prophecy that we would have to eventually kiss crawled into my head and won't leave my consciousness since.” your voice tries to remain steadfast, “Every time you’re near, I think about the kiss, and I panic because I wouldn't know what to do with myself and I wouldn't know what to do with you. Happy now?”

You pull out a sharp exhale, “You make me nervous, Castellan. You still make me nervous.”

Luke stares at you like gears are turning in his head, his eyes flickering between your gaze and your lips. The realization of what you just said hits you in the ribs, and you feel as if the oxygen in the room is too little to keep you alive and breathing. You swallow your pride and your embarrassment, wide-eyed and on your toes.

You almost move to ask Luke to say something, anything really, but he cuts you off wordlessly when his hand weaves its way into your hair and his mouth finds its slot against yours.

Time grinds into a halt, and you realize that in all the times you imagined the prophesized kiss in shameful fever dreams and trances, you never expected for it to be this: Luke kisses you like he’s been starving for months. He’s deprived and angry and desperate and moves as if there wasn't anything else he’d rather be doing than to dishevel you in the middle of the room and leave your knees weak and trembling like he used to.

Oh, gods. The kiss is like water,  like a delirious thirst in your bones finally quenched and an itch you’ve been dying to scratch. You’re stunned at first, but find yourself kissing him back just as quick and just as desperate.

“I waited far too long for this.” he rasps into your mouth, tongue swiping on your bottom lip to open your mouth, “Couldn't get my mind off you even when we broke up.”

“Shut up, Castellan, for once.” you breathe out, and Luke can’t help to restrain himself when he smiles against your lips. 

“I tried everything to get close again.” He says in between kisses, “Who knew we only needed a damn quest?”

The two of you are sprawled on the creaking twin-bed mattress, and Luke, despite his bad shoulder, hauls you into his lap with a burning intention to keep you there. His lips trace from pecking at your lips, to nibbling at the skin behind your ear, to tracing down searing hot, open-mouthed kisses on the bottom of your jaw.

“Castellan, I—” you gasp, melting between his mouth and the hand that’s running lines over your hips.

“That’s not my name.” he mutters between kisses, turning you over with your back to the mattress, “Say my name, smart girl.”

If you were in any sort of proper thought, you’d be flushed red and annoyed at Luke for speaking to you this way—but all rationality is thrown through the window when his lips are on your neck.

You swallow your pride, your dignity, and everything in between, “Luke.” it’s a whimper when it comes out, and he pulls you in impossibly closer.

He hums in satisfaction, dropping his head over one of the moles on your neck. Luke gives it a small lick before smoothing it over with a kiss, “Vega.”

To your collarbone, “Sheliak.”

Down to the mole just above your chest, “Sulafat.”

He’s naming the stars in the Lyra constellation, and your mouth lets out a choked moan, “Luke, shit—”

Luke pulls away after one more quick peck, and he doesn't waste time admiring your figure from head to toe. You’re resting against the white pillows, breathing heavily with a disheveled look when he asks, “You good?”

The moment finally sinks into your mind in a panicked, cascading waterfall of information—that you’ve just shamelessly made out with your ex after a frustrating run, and that you were basically pinned against him on a bed.

It’s a wash of fresh, hot shame. Before you can help it, words spill out your mouth in an attempt to save face.

“That,” you blink, still a little hazy from having Luke’s mouth on yours.

“Go on,” He says, patiently, “Take your time.”

“Well, that’s—uhm” you inhale, “—don’t take that personally, Castellan.” you rasp out, trying to hide the weakness in your voice, “That was just for the quest.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” you nod cautiously, “We’ve got the prophecy out the way now, haven't we?”

You doubt you were convincing him any more than you were convincing yourself when Luke gives you a sickeningly sweet grin. He’s still pinned over you, like he refuses to be anywhere else.

“Mhm,” he coos, “Sure it was.”

“That didn't mean anything to me.” you repeat, to yourself more than anyone, “And that didn't mean anything to you.”

“Speak for yourself,” Luke shrugs, now falling into the pillows next to you. He closes his eyes, sinking into the bed, “That meant the world to me.

There’s a mixture of confidence and lack of hesitation in his voice, and when you prop yourself on your elbows to look at him, he was disheveled with smeared lip gloss all over his mouth, and he looked the happiest he’s been in days.

“Hear that?” he goads with a lilt that sounds suspiciously like bait, like he’s prompting you to retaliate, “I said the kiss meant the world to me.”

You find it unimaginable to believe him, but when Luke gathers your hands in his and places them against his lips with a soft exhale, you feel your stern resolve melting at every passing second.

“You don't mean that.” Your voice sounds even weaker now, like you’re hanging on by a thread.

“I do. I mean every single word.” Luke kisses your knuckles, softly whispering, “I can prove it to you, if you’ll let me.”

It’s scary.

It’s a scary realization to know what Luke’s asking for, and an even scarier realization was the fact that you were willing to give him another shot.

A second wind. Like what the prophecy asked for.

“You’re lucky I tolerate you, you crook.”

In your many years at camp, still, the best advice you could probably give somebody is not to date another camper.

But when you’re tasked to go on a journey with them promising a kiss at the end, maybe it wouldn't hurt to give it a chance.

Especially if it’s somebody like Luke Castellan.

“The luckiest alive, smart girl.”

—

“That’s my victory, then, forehead-spawn.”

A sultry voice echoes in Olympus. Aphrodite leisurely fans her face with a smug look, satisfied by the outcome of the prophecy.

We fall into something of a routine: Nikolai makes his way into my room at a bell or two past midnight, I treat him while trying my best to keep myself calm from all the flirting and the occasional displays of affection, then, I drag him out the door to collect whatever bit of sanity I have left. I try not to think of his affection as something personal, after all, he did grow up a prince, and princes had to charm people into not assassinating them almost every day.

His gait is hardened when he makes a beeline for my bed, groaning when he sinks down on the soft mattress, “You tell me, darling. I’m not the one who didn't bother coming to see my arrival.” Nikolai continues, “Instead, I find out you’ve chosen poor, sweet Lev over me. Does treason run in the family?” 

A smile laced with spite is etched on my face, “The same way vanity runs in yours.” 

“Sardonic little thing, aren't you?” He narrows his eyes at me. Nikolai leans back on his hands, adjusting the way he sits whilst trailing his eyes after me like a hawk. I feel hot at the way I’m placed under scrutiny over such a small task of gathering bandages and disinfectants.

I school any hint of discomfiture on my face into something a little less readable, “People say it’s my best quality.”

I kick the stool between his legs, settling on it before taking a closer look at his face. Nikolai didn't appreciate messy work, so I take my sweet time making sure nothing leaves a scar, “You are a waste of a pretty face with all these gashes.”

“You think so?”

“Of course. You get into trouble, you bleed, and you whine about it while I try my best to keep you the vainest, most reckless peacock of all of Ravka.” My voice lowers as I pour all my focus on healing a stubborn cut on his jaw.

I hear a hum of agreement, and in an instant, I look back up at him, alarmed. Nikolai was a man of reason, and he certainly loved reasoning with me whenever I tell him how rash of a man I think he is.

Instead, Nikolai tips forward with a lazy smile, almost closing the very small gap between us. 

The proximity makes concentration difficult, even more so when Nikolai decides to plant a hand on the side of my stool, caging me in with his body. The fluorescents aren't helping me in the slightest when it illuminates how defined and prince-ly Nikolai’s features are under the sharp light of my room, and while I’d never openly admit this, the way he’s all gashes and cuts just adds onto how… attractive he looks.

Good saints. Ew. What is he doing to me?

I can hear my erratic heartbeat ring into my ear when his half-lidded, hazel eyes run their course over me, momentarily stopping on my lips before it returns to hold my gaze. 

My heart hammers at my chest, and I could only pray the heartrenders next door can’t hear me.

Nikolai nods slowly, running his tongue across his teeth, “So, you do think I have a pretty face. And to believe the people say my appeal is all fake.”

The smile on his face afterward reeks of court-trained charm and flattery, and it pisses me off to the point that I want to press a kiss on his mouth to shut him up completely. Nevertheless, I pay no attention to how close his lips are to mine, instead biting back at this old trick of his— one he’d abuse to see me the tiniest flustered.

“Oh, you are pretty.” I move away slightly, raking my eyes over him, his sunlight hair, his partially opened shirt, and the multiple rings adorned on his calloused hands, “Just not when you’re talking. And you talk…” He licks at his lips ever so subtly in amusement when I jab a finger on his chest, “A lot.”

A glimpse at his dilated pupils before his head falls on my shoulder is enough for me to know I’ve caught him off guard, and it satisfies me to know that for once, I’ve been the one to render him completely flustered.

I can feel his laugh on my neck, and it burns the exposed part of my skin, “You wound me, malyshka.”

He stays there for a few seconds, before silently groaning when he adjusts himself. If he weren’t so close to my ear, I probably wouldn’t have heard him, “Nikolai? What is it?”

Of course, he does this: looking at me as if I made up the fact that he groaned in my ear, “What’s what?”

I know he isn’t going to tell me even if I asked. He’s stubborn and stupid, and while he has a flair for the dramatic, Nikolai rarely wants anybody to worry about him.

I scan my eyes over him, and my eyes fall on a bloodied bandage wrapped around his abdomen, peeking out his shirt, “Take your shirt off.”

“Oh?” Nikolai’s eyes widened, almost comically. He’s taken aback, and it doesn't seem like he’s bothering to hide it at all, “Well, close the door, sweetheart. I’m not that filthy.”

Huh? 

…

Oh.

Like a badge of embarrassment, heat starts to rise in me, prompting a shameful blush to creep up my ears. I gasp, “I didn't mean it that way!” My eyes start to dart around the room to avoid his face, “I can see the bandage on your stomach, and I don't want you bleeding all over my bed.”

“Look at me.” Nikolai has an edge to his voice, and I respond, flicking my eyes back to him, “If you don't want me bleeding on your bed, you’re gonna have to take off my shirt yourself.” 

“You’ve got hands, don’t you?”

“And I’ve got a wound on my stomach that squeezes out blood when I move.” 

We stare at each other for a good few moments before I reluctantly reach for him. I can feel his eyes on me as I unsteadily work on unbuttoning his shirt, perusing the tiniest of my movements, and I silently pray to the saints that I don't start to look like a brighter shade of Corporalki red.

The tension is rather thick and I try to ignore the bubbling feeling of how horrible this would look if anybody ever saw us in this… rather misleading position. What would the people think if they saw the prince's darling healer hovering over the prince himself, unbuttoning his shirt while he sat there, looking as if he’s enjoying the view?

Maybe I should've listened to Nikolai and closed the door, regardless of what was happening inside.

“You’ve got shaky hands, my darling.” He whimpers when the shirt slips off, the cold air biting at his wound, “You like what you see?”

I roll my eyes, “I’ve seen better.”

Liar. I, in fact, have not seen better. 

I would’ve said more, but my voice, like the traitor it was, falters to nothing when I glance at Nikolai’s body. He was well-built with broad shoulders and arms that’ve been obviously put through rigorous work, and saints, is he a sight for sore eyes. My poor mother would be clutching her pearls if she knew what was going on in my mind.

When it hits me how long I’ve been staring, I shake my head, directing my attention back to his wound.

Nikolai takes notice of my eyes on him. He flashes me a puckish grin, teasing dripping from his voice, “Now, see here, malyshka. This is where we’re gonna have a problem.” He says, “You tell me you don't like what you see, but then stare at me like I’m a marble sculptor’s magnum opus.”

Out of spite, annoyance, and any other feeling similar to vexation, I poke at his wound, resulting in him slapping my hand away. It’s unclear to me whether I wanted to hurt him for talking too much, or if I just hated him for acknowledging the things he does to me.

“Do not flatter yourself, you little pompous prince.” I run a piece of cloth over the blood on his toned stomach, “You are a marble sculptor’s failure at best.”

“Would it kill you to admit how attractive you think I am?”

“If I thought you were attractive, then probably,” I mutter, starting to work on his wound. 

“You said I was a waste of a pretty fa— OW!”

Sudden jolts of flinching, groaning, and drawn-out gritting of his teeth are the only things to come out of Nikolai’s mouth for every minute I spend on him. I imagine he isn't the most pleased with the blood and the gut-wrenching pain he’s experiencing right now.

He falls silent when I’ve finished sealing the wound, but this was Nikolai Lantsov; he wasn't one to stay silent for too long.

“I don’t like Lev very much.”

I stand to pick up the bandage from my bedside table, “You don’t like a lot of people, Nikolai.”

With a heavy huff of breath, he starts, “He’s unprofessional. Lev’s been taking up too much of your time and it’s unfair. Chatter is, he’s being intentionally careless so that he can get you doting over him long enough to ask you out on a date.”

Lev, huh. I have noticed him frequenting the clinic more often than usual these days. 

I suppose there isn’t any harm in seeing where it goes with him in the chance the chatter was true. It would be one date with one guy who wasn't even half bad. He trained with Zoya and me back in Os Alta until Nikolai took me away to be his healer. He wasn’t bad-looking and probably more competent than most men in Ravka. 

Saints know how long I’ve gone without a little romance in my life, and Nikolai certainly wasn’t going to fill that void anytime soon.

I lean on the table, “You call it unprofessional, I call it romantic.”

“What?” Nikolai’s mouth dramatically gapes open, “Romantic is when my uncle Sergei buys my aunt Ludmilla multiple dachas in Udova for their anniversary, not when somebody breaks three of their bones every single day for attention.”

“Oh?” I settle back in, crossing my arms, “Pray tell, who was the hard-headed pirate who broke his arm so that he’d have a reason to force me into talking to him?”

He scrunches his nose, “You know how I feel about that word.”

“Hard-headed?”

“Pirate.” 

Nikolai reaches out to grab at my wrist, luring me back into my seat, “You’re my healer, malyshka, not his. I can't see why he thinks he can hog you every single day.”

“I am everybody’s healer, Nikolai.” I corrected him, “If you want me all for yourself, then I suggest giving me a raise.”

He raises his eyebrow at me, “Name your price.”

“One of your aunt Ludmilla’s dachas in Udova.”

Nikolai laughs, “I’ll give you all of their dachas if it means you’d attend to me and to me only.” He continues, “I’d march up to the Darkling with nothing but dear Baghra’s cane if that meant having you all for myself.”

“Don’t be stupid, Nikolai—” I try to clear my head, sensing whether he was fooling around or not. “At least bring a rifle with you."

After I bandage the wound, he lets me do the work of slipping back on his shirt, staring me down with half-lidded eyes while I fumble with his buttons, “We have so many heartrenders and healers, malyshka, surely they can handle Lev, and everybody else, for that matter.”

I can’t help but sense that Nikolai’s becoming jealous of Lev, but that would be straight delusional and rather pathetic, so I shove it aside. Although, I’ll admit, the idea of a possessive and jealous Nikolai gave me some sort of thrill, and I imagine the longer I think about it, the redder my cheeks get.

Nikolai clears his throat to grab my attention when he realizes I’m deep in thought. I shake myself sober, grabbing him by his arm and dragging him to my bedroom door.

I can’t afford to think about jealousy and romance with him; not here and certainly not now. “Come back tomorrow. I’ll check up on your wound.”

—

The morning bustle of the Spinning Wheel keeps everybody on their toes. I find myself running on my usual morning cup of adrenaline and tea when these idiot grishas and otkazat’syas come in continuously into my clinic, with requests varying from a fresh roll of bandage to mending back a bone into its proper position.

It isn't until eleven in the evening when I get to rest, hoping to meet with Nikolai then fall into my not-soft-but-soft-enough bed mattress, but before I could get any farther, Lev walks into the clinic. He presents burns on his arms, from what I can only assume are the results of Inferni flames. 

I let Lev ramble and ramble on while I did what I could to turn the stubborn burned patches of skin back to normal, occasionally offering a laugh or two. It takes me a long time to finish due to the fatigue from today’s work and the thoughts of Nikolai waiting for me clouding my head, but when I finally do, Lev catches my wrist in his hand.

“We’ve been spending a lot of time together, haven’t we? I was wondering if you were avail-”

No.

“Lev, you should be going now. It’s getting late and you still have an early day tomorrow.” I smile, already halfway through the door, “Have a good night.”

… Oh, saints. What is wrong with me? 

I check my pocket watch, rushing through the hallways to get to my room in an effort to get there faster. It’s a quarter to one in the morning, and if Nikolai was still awake and waiting, he’d never let me hear the end of this.

I peek through the crevice of my red cedar wood door, and by a stroke of bad luck, Nikolai was still awake and waiting, and probably impatiently, too, judging by the bouncing knee and the constant knuckle cracking, “Nikolai,” I call softly, “Hi.”

“You’re late.”

“And you’re in my room. You don’t get to complain.”

Nikolai beckons me over with a grin, crooking his finger in a come hither motion, “Come here. I’ve missed you.”

His drowsy voice pulls me in, and without a second thought, I walk over to him. Once I’ve settled on the stool between his legs, I poke at his forehead, “Lying little pirate.”

We’re blanketed by comfortable silence when Nikolai starts to let me unbutton his shirt, humming a low tune of a sea shanty while I continue on unwrapping the bandage around his stomach. When it drops, it reveals a rather healed wound for something that was oozing blood just yesterday. I splay my fingers over the scar, healing whatever was left.

I break the silence, “Lev asked me out today.”

“Oh?” The humming comes to a stop, “Well, what did you say?”

“I, uh,” I stumble on my words, “I didn’t let him finish asking.”

It takes a few seconds of stillness before Nikolai responds, a knowing smile etched from ear to ear, “I knew you wouldn’t.” He leans forward when I button his shirt up, dropping his elbows down to his lap, “Obviously, you haven't the faintest interest in Lev. In fact, it’s obvious you like somebody else entirely.”

I scoff, ignoring the proximity, “How are you so sure?”

“I pay attention, malyshka— to you, specifically. That’s how.” 

Before I could respond, a booming sound of a door getting barged in followed by a shout of my name echoed throughout the room. Nikolai and I turn our heads to see Lev panting and struggling to find his words. When his breathing eases down, he says something along the lines of ‘I really, really like you. Please go out with me.’

I’m stunned, and words stick to my throat when I try to croak out an answer, leaving my mouth gaping open. I wasn't expecting such a bold proclamation from Lev, and certainly, I wasn’t expecting that while there was somebody else in the room.

Nikolai flicks his eyes back at me after staring at Lev with a furious crease in between his eyebrows. He scoffs, “Well, it seems like Levochka is here to finish what he started.” He doesn't miss a second when he hooks an arm around my waist and pulls me in just enough to whisper against my lips, 

“Too bad I’m not letting him.”

Then, he kisses me.

He kisses me full of fervor and with an arm pulling me in closer until I’m practically straddling his lap. Nikolai’s thumb runs over the length of my waist to ease the tension in my body, and his lips smile into the kiss while giving a side-eye at the door, as if in satisfaction of showing Lev something he’d never get to experience as long as Nikolai was around.

I know Lev’s gone when he directs his eyes back at me, leaning further back on his other arm when he deepens the kiss, swiping his tongue on my bottom lip. I return it almost immediately with my hand tangled in his hair and the more I show signs of interest, the cockier his smile gets in return. 

When I pull away for air, his breathing is heavier and his lips are red and swollen. Nikolai licks at his lips, grinning, “Seems like Lev got his answer, didn’t he?”

That’s when the realization hits me. Was that all there is to it?

“Lev?”

That was all there is to it, I suppose.

He needed some sort of childish revenge on Lev after he took up my time at the clinic, causing me to run late. I knew Nikolai didn't like waiting, but he could've at least done something else to spare me the shame of thinking that the kiss was genuine.

My heart drops, and an ugly wave of emotion stirs inside of my stomach. Heaving a heavy breath, I say, “Nikolai. Out.”

—

The next few days are rough. Avoiding Nikolai in the very same place he was running wasn’t the easiest thing in the world, but somehow, I managed to slip away every time I saw him walking towards me or whenever he tried to talk to me. On multiple occasions, a letter or two of his find their way into my desk, asking me to tell him what he did wrong, and that he’d make amends for it however I see fit. 

I never found a reason to write back, mostly because we lived two hallways away from each other.

However, it was only a matter of time until I had to talk to him, and it was during the after-hours of a bustling Saturday night.

I hear my name from across the hall, with Tamar, who honestly looks like a blur of drab-olive-colored shapes from the distance, waving at me, “Come quick! Nikolai broke his arm.”

My ears perk up at his name, and without a second thought, my legs start moving towards his room, unclear if I’m abandoning all the grudges I might've held against him this week. With a soft creak on the big cedar door, I step inside of his chambers, pushing past the doors with a slight struggle. When I fully step inside, the doors behind me heavily snap close, eliciting a small shriek from me.

Nikolai is pacing around his bed, and when he hears me, he comes to a stop, “You’ve been avoiding me, have you?”

I say with a certain edge to my voice, reminding myself I was here to only mend his arm and nothing else, “Give me your arm.”

It takes a little bit of reluctance, but he walks towards me in a gait that can only be described as both intimidating and attractive, with eyes half-lidded and sharp, the occasional blond strand of hair falling over his eyebrow. 

I feel around his arm, and sure enough, his bones aren't broken. I furrow my eyebrows, skeptical of whether this was just a ruse, yet I continue feeling around the arm.

My suspicions are confirmed— his arm was never broken, “Nikolai-”

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

I bite my tongue, dropping my gaze somewhere else. At the corner of my eye, Nikolai clicks his tongue, getting impatient with my silence, but he decides to try once more, “Why are you avoiding me?

“Figure it out.”

He works his jaw in exasperation of the only answer I’ve given him since I’ve entered his chambers. Then, he hisses in a low voice, “Screw this.”

I feel the wind get knocked out of me as I’m pinned back against the door. His hand is planted on the hard surface of the cedarwood, and his other hand is gripping the hand I had on his arm.

The slight impact of my back hitting the door sobers me up, and suddenly all of my senses are too aware for my liking. My poor heart was hammering inside my chest at the way his hand is caging mine, the way he still smells of snow and the perfume I gave him on his birthday, and the way that his gaze just refuses to leave mine.

“What did I do wrong, malyshka?” Slowly, the grip on my hand loosens, the same way his voice lowers down into something of a whisper. Nikolai brings it to his lips, kissing the space between my wrist and my palm, still looking at me, “When I told you in the letters that I’d make amends however you see fit, it wasn't a try at humor—but to do that you’d have to tell me what it is I need to fix.”

He mutters against my wrist, softly. Nikolai talks of it like it would hurt him, “Is this about the kiss?”

I’m reminded of the kiss, and the ugly emotion I’ve felt days ago comes crashing back, settling into a boiling puddle on my stomach, “And if it is? What would you do, then?” I yank back my hand, “You kissed me for petty revenge, Nikolai. How do you think that would make me feel?”

I plow on, “To think that I kissed you back!” I say, “For saint’s sake, Nikolai, I kissed you back! And for what? For it to be some pathetic, childish revenge!”

Nikolai lets me calm down, peering down at me with half-closed eyes and a wicked grin showing just how level-headed he is about my rambling. I want to hit that grin off his face with a shovel.

“You’ve been avoiding me because you thought the kiss was revenge?” He calmly says, as if what he did wasn't a big stab wound to my pride and sanity.

I scoff in disbelief, “Was it not?”

Nikolai tips forward and I back into the door further until I can feel every single ridge of the surface. My heartbeat skips a beat or two when his grin widens, and my breathing hitches when he opens his mouth to talk.

“Malyshka, do you really think so low of me?” He breathes out of clear exasperation, never letting his gaze leave mine. “I could kiss you a million times—Saints help me, I want to kiss you a million times, and I would if you’d let me— because I was jealous of Lev for spending time with you, and because I’ve been insufferably trying to get your attention for years, but never because of revenge.”

I huff, “Is that so? Well-” 

Huh. Did he just say he’s been trying to get my attention? That he was jealous of Lev? 

For the love of all saints, did Nikolai actually like me?

He waits patiently for the words to sink into my head, running his tongue over his bottom teeth while he revels at the sight of my cheeks slowly starting to flush red, “And here I thought I’ve gotten you so used to me that you were just going to skip over the part where I said I wanted to kiss you.”

“Hear that, sweetheart?” Nikolai sneers, eyes chasing mine as I try to avoid his gaze, “I said I wanted to kiss you.”

I decide I’ve had enough of his taunts, and think to myself that for once, let me be the tease.

“Yeah?” My lips curl up into a grin, almost mocking his, “Kiss me then.”

Nikolai blinks but quickly regains posture, schooling the uncharacteristic blush into his usual, charming facade. He traces a finger on my jaw, pressing a chaste kiss on the edge of my lip, 

“I can’t deny you anything, now can I, malyshka?”

When Nikolai slams the door behind him, I roll my eyes, hauling the papers into my arms with mutters of mockery and anger under my breath. I found the anger incredibly useful for motivation to plow through my papers, but my poor dip pen’s nib was getting the brunt of it. In the middle of my third pile, and by this time I’ve lost count of how many inkwells I’ve gone through, I hear the chamber doors creak open.

My head snaps to attention, and with little suspense, a blond tuft of hair peeks in.

Nikolai.

The king with the needy and suffocating wife.

My head slowly returns to the papers, but I wasn't an animal, I spared Nikolai a side-glace, “Huh. Aren't you home early,”

He moves slowly from the door, rubbing his eyes, “Genya sent me home. Said it’s either I rest on my accord or she knocks me out unconscious.”

May the saints always look over Genya Safin-Kostyk and her gift of bargaining. But also, please let her knock Nikolai unconscious once in a while.

Finally, my eyes return back to my work, and I wave off a dismissive hand, “Go and rest, then”

From the corner of my eye, I see Nikolai stand there, an eyebrow raised in pure confusion. I always took it upon myself to attend to him when he falls ill, but he did say he could take care of himself this morning, and if the king wants to take care of himself, then so shall he.

“Are you not joining me in bed, malyshka?” He coos, taking a step closer to my seat.

Is joining in bed suddenly not under being suffocating and clingy?

“No.” 

“Why is that?”

I thought about lashing out, but I decided that my anger was more needed to motivate me through the paperwork, so instead, I said dismissively, “Go to bed, Nikolai.”

He blinks at me for quite some time before he sits down on his side of the bed, patting a spot beside him before smoothing it out, “Just in case you get tired of writing,”

I lift my head from my empty ink-pot to take a good look at him once again. Nikolai’s under the thick blanket, flashing me a smile that only appears when he wants to coax me into sleeping in instead of working. Words are itching to come out of my mouth, but I just stiffly nod as a response.

He sighs and retreats back under the blanket. However, it doesn't take very long until the scratchy writing of my dip pen is replaced by the annoying, constant shuffling of our sheets. Nikolai’s been tossing and turning and it makes working feel nearly impossible.

“My darling,” He groans, sitting against the headboard with his hand running through his disheveled hair, “The bed's too big to sleep in alone.”

“Then sleep in the guest’s chamber.”

He tries again, cooing in a voice so soft that if I went any farther I wouldn't be able to hear it, “Please, malyshka, come to bed.”

There are two decisions I could choose from to go about the situation. I could get into bed, rest with him until he feels better, however, I could also stay petty, and do petty things. 

I chose the latter.

I set down my pen, making a move to walk closer until I reach the side of our bed, staring Nikolai down with daggers for eyes, “Ah, but sweetheart,” My hand reaches down to sneak into the drawer, pulling a full glass of ink from it, “Kings cannot afford suffocating and needy wives, now, can they?”

Nikolai tilts his head, brows knitted together. He stays silent, and the chirping of the songbird perched on our windowsill makes for amazing backing music to fill his head before the memories of our early morning do. 

His eyes go wide, and I start to walk away, but before I get any farther, Nikolai catches my wrist in his hand and pulls me under the sheets with him, 

“It’s a good thing I have a lot of money, then.”

A shriek escapes my mouth as I try and wiggle out of his grasp but my efforts amount to nothing because Nikolai, however sick he is, still has the strength to haul me over to make me sit on his lap, “Oh, no. You aren't going anywhere.”

Even with my body forcibly facing his, I turn my head to the other side, refusing to look at him directly. So I’m stubborn. Whatever. Try getting called needy and suffocating by your own husband.

He pouts, stealing the ink jar from my hand to set it back down on the desk, then gently holds at my jaw to veer my gaze at him, “I’m sorry, malyshka.”

I don't respond, giving him the space to scramble for words.

“Sweetheart,” he bends his knees, sliding his hands to rest on my hips, prompting me closer to him, “Talk to me, please.”

I try to break away from his grip but he holds me down firmly, “I need to work, Nikolai. Besides, don't you think this is…” I scowl, the next word already leaving a bitter taste in my mouth, “Suffocating?”

“Not at all,” Nikolai says, tipping forward to give my shoulder a fleeting kiss, “Suffocate me all you like, actually. I don't care.”

My heart skips a beat, and it takes half my sanity to maintain the facade. I huff, shrugging Nikolai’s hands off of me, “Yeah, whatever. I need to work.”

Nikolai’s hands, however, find their way back on my hip, “No, no, malyshka, please.” He pleads, gripping me tighter with desperation, “I didn't mean what I said this morning. If anybody was needy, it’d be me— I mean, look— I’m trapping you on my lap because I’m sick and insufferable and want attention from my very pretty wife.”

The silence following his words thickens the tension in the room, but it eases when a smile finally cracks out of me, “Your very pretty wife?”

“My very, very pretty wife.” Nikolai coos, relief etching on his face. His thumb is tracing my waist, coaxing me, “Now, won't you put me out of my misery and come join me in bed?”

We are both rendered speechless by what I had just said, and our silence is as uncomfortable as a sock rolling halfway down a shoe-clad foot.

There’s a subtle look of shock present on his face before quickly schooling it back to something a little more controlled, "Little bossy coming from somebody who wants my hand in marriage, no?"

Huffing, I sink back into the chair, "Pretend hand in marriage." 

Silence falls on us again, but this time Nikolai has his brows knitted, trying to figure out why'd I want to do this in the first place. After all, we've spent the better half of our mortal lives in a catfight. It could've been counted as a childhood rivalry, yes, but unfortunately, Nikolai and I are both destructively competitive, much so that what was once a quarrel between 9-year-olds over simple geography and literature became a fight between 22-year-olds (who both have much better things to do) over politics and pride.

It takes a good minute before he gives up, striding across the floor to get to my seat. He sighs, planting a hand in front of me as he leans into the marble, "You've got me again, princess. Go, elaborate."

"Parents want to marry me off to this Fjerdan boy, and he's terribly stupid and arrogant." The words pass through my gritted teeth, "I am a scholar at Ketterdam University, Lantsov. Royalty, at that. I can't get married to a man who lowers the intelligence of the whole room every time he talks."

Nikolai licks his lips, nodding in amusement. He's clearly enjoying the predicament I'm in. Bastard. Chances are, he'd reject the deal just to see how it plays out, "Watching the boy annoy you to your wit's end would be fun—entertaining, even. I'd throw a ball every two weeks just to see how you’re holding up. Perhaps I could learn from him.”

"Ha-ha. You're predictable, Nikolai."

"But also, I have to say, the idea of you being cross at somebody that isn't me is making me a little jealous." He moves forward, tilting the bottom of my chin with the pad of his finger, “I think I should be the only one to see this little scowl of yours.”

What?

I could feel my breath hitch from his comment. "What do you mean?" I stab a finger at his chest. I’m making a move to get out of the seat, hopefully covering the red coming up on my ears, "Look, if you aren't going to take this seriously, I might as well just lea-”

I'm startled when he grabs at my hand to stop me from moving away from him any further, his thumb smoothing over my wrist, "It means I'm interested, darling. What's in it for me?"

Nikolai gently pushes me back down on my seat, and I do the impossible: I oblige, "I hear Ravka’s coffers are nearly empty, and with everything going on, I know you need the money I’m offering you. What’s inside those coffers won't be able to support the people and those little pet projects you have.”

He scowls at the comment, “Huh.”

"If you accept my offer, I’d be willing to fund you. I mean it, every personal project you need the money for. I earn more than what I need and the exchange rate between kruge and Ravkan money is good.” I bite at the bottom of my lip, smiling as if assured he’d take the deal, “You’re smart as a whip, Nikolai. You’d get more benefit out of this than I would.”

His ears seem to have perked up at my last statement, immediately turning his head to meet with my eyes. His expression is melting into something cocky as if telling me he’d already figured me out. “I’m an ethical person, princess.” He shakes his head, sucking on his teeth, “I don't take offers where I get more than the other, and you don't make offers that put you at a disadvantage.”

I scoff, “Oh, my. Is Nikolai Lantsov willing to put morality over coin? Did coming back to court soften you up?” His eyes are boring straight into my soul at every word I spit out, “You’re a privateer, Nikolai. You took what you could get.”

His tone, however kind and sincere it sounded, was filled with stinging poison, “Correct. Privateers took what they could get, but I am a king now, and kings get whatever they desire.”

I cross my legs, smoothing over the wrinkles on my dress, “What’s your point, Nikolai?”

“You obviously have some sort of plan under this fake relationship proposal, and I’m trying to fish it out of you. There isn't any way you’d let me get so much in exchange for so little.” He kicks the leg of my seat so that I’m forced to face him, “So, it’s either we play this stubborn game of ours a little longer, or you just tell me what it is.”

If there was one thing worth noting about Nikolai, apart from his freakishly good looks and his sunlight hair that just has to be styled to perfection, it was that he was observant with anybody and everybody. He had such a keen eye that by the ripe age of 15, he could tell whenever I was lying or hiding something. The catch is? I don't have a tell. Or at least I think I don’t. I once looked him dead straight in the eyes, stating a lie so coherent it could've easily been the truth, and yet, he flashed me his childish, toothy grin, and pointed out my lie. 

Not even my own sisters or my own governesses knew how to figure me out, and the fact that Nikolai did never failed to get under my skin.

Slightly on edge, I mask my nervousness with a snarky comment, “Can never get anything past you, can’t I?

“So?”

“My papers are based on the theology of the Ravkan saints. The books I need for research are in the Apparat’s possession, as well as a bunch of scrolls from the palace’s restricted library.” I shrug, “Thought I’d have an easier access if I had a direct relation to you and the palace.”

Clearly pleased with my answer, Nikolai lightly taps on my cheek, the gloves’ leather rough against my skin, “That wasn't so hard, no?”

His gloved hands are stuffed back into the pockets of his coat as he walks back to his own seat, and I hope they sweat so bad that they stain through both his ridiculously expensive gloves and his ridiculously expensive coat. Insolent little peacock.

Nikolai is now clearly evaluating the deal I've given him, judging by the furrowed eyebrows and with constant nibbling of his bottom lip. He’s back in his seat from across the table, bouncing his knee ever so slightly. His actions are making me weirdly anxious even though I was confident he’d strike up the deal, and I imagine I've turned blue, vis-à-vis lack of breathing. 

"You’re going to get a deal, but on one condition.” He pauses before his lips curl up into a little Cheshire grin. "You have to say please."

—

Three weeks from now, our first plan would be set in motion. A massive party for the nobilities and the merchants to mingle amongst their pretentious little selves would be held inside the Grand Palace, right in the heart of Ravka. My family, of course, would be invited to see their youngest daughter hanging off the arm of the king. 

Very fortunately, I was allowed by the university to take a month-long vacation to Ravka, where I’d settle into a guest’s chambers every night. This new arrangement would ease the other people in the palace into our very fake relationship, however, it would mean that I’d have to spend every waking hour in his presence. That wasn't something I was looking forward to, but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make. However, Nikolai was a king—a tremendously busy one, at that— and it wasn't as if he’d go out of his way to spend time with his pretend girlfriend whom he surely hated: me.

I assume we are in Os Alta from the way my carriage ride goes from rattling to smooth. With this, I packed up the book inside my purse, and opened the carriage curtains to reveal the pinnacle of all gaudy monstrosities Ravkan architecture has birthed, the Grand Palace, and waiting for me in the entrance is Nikolai—

Wait. Huh?

Nikolai?

Why’s he there? 

“You gonna get down from there or you want me to carry you out?” Nikolai is leaning against the frame of the carriage door, “Hi, princess.”

I frown, taking his offered hand as I climb out, “What are you doing here?”

“Might come off as a shock, but I actually live here.” He answers, pure sarcasm seething out of his tongue. His other hand moves from behind his back, revealing a bouquet of snowdrops and native Ravkan flowers, all tied between fine strings of twine, “I sure hope you still like snowdrops.”

I take it from his hand. Given his track record, it wasn't all too surprising that Nikolai knew the basics of making bouquets look coherent and appealing, but he didn’t need to know that. He was plenty good in many other things already, “Not really your talent, is it? Flower arrangements?”

“And acting like a besotted little princess certainly isn't yours.” Nikolai pauses, gesturing to the multiple people around us, “A thank you would suffice.”

I look around, facing the palace servants and a few grisha looking at us with clear intent to figure out why the princess of Novyi Zem was here, and I remember that I was here to be his fake girlfriend, and not to annoy Nikolai into ripping out his hair, 

“Thank you,” I mumble begrudgingly. 

“Thank you… what?” He raises his eyebrows at me, waiting for an endearment.

I try not to throw up in my mouth, “Thank you, solnyshko.” I made a move to walk away into the doors, but I couldn’t get any farther away with Nikolai’s hand gripping on my waist, pulling me right back to him. A small gasp escapes my lips when his hands find their way on the small of my back, tracing circles while my hands are placed flat on his chest to stop myself from crashing into him.

Nikolai lowers his head and presses a kiss on my temple, whispering, “Try not to act so repulsed, princess, disgust doesn’t look that good on you.”

—

It’s been four days and we have not spent a single hour together. Normally, being away from Nikolai was something to be celebrated, but right now, I was his fake girlfriend, and his fake girlfriend did not enjoy the pity stares and gossip she was receiving from the servants and the grisha. Poor, naive princess waiting for the busy king’s attention.

Until now. 

Nikolai has invited me to dine with him and his friends tonight, and he seems excited about this, even doing as much as sending a personalized dress and pieces of emerald jewelry to my room. I find myself arriving earlier than what was said in the card, and Nikolai, ever so punctual, is alone on one of the chairs with a bouquet right next to him. He’s deep in thought and tapping his fingers on the table in a song I’m not very familiar with when I arrive. Nikolai shakes sober when he sees me, eyes scanning everything from my head to my toes, “Hi.”

“Well, hello.” I cross my arms, narrowing my eyes at him, “Finally decided to talk to me, have you?” 

“You’ve been waiting?” He’s grinning wicked, head lazily propped on his hand, “I know you’ve missed me, princess, but you don’t have to make it so obvious. "

Nikolai doesn’t have to stare to notice that today I’m not in the best mood today. 

He earns an eye roll from me when I chuck the bouquet out of his hand, “I miss not being the recipient of all the hot palace gossip, that’s what.” I scrutinize the flowers a little longer, “Good saints, Nikolai, these are wilted. Is this how you treat your lady?”

“Judging by the beautiful gown I had made for her and the jewelry hanging from her neck, I think I treat my lady quite well.” Nikolai gestures to the variety of beverages on the table, “A drink, darling?”

“What are my choices?”

“Yes or no.”

Sighing, I answer, “Whatever you’re having.”

Our conversation is cut short by the doors creaking, entering now are Nikolai’s friends. I’m glad to see familiar faces, namely Zoya and Genya who frequently visit Ketterdam to see me, and apparently some guy who runs the Crow Club downtown. The night is young, and while we eat, Genya makes small talk to entertain the group, “I hear Nikolai’s invited you to stay for the month, leading up to the party. What for?”

Nikolai is quick to answer, “We’re finally making it official to her family.”

Everybody has stopped their movements, either shocked or in the middle of processing the information. Did he not tell them beforehand?

“Official?” Tamar asks.

“We’re dating.”

Genya lifts an eyebrow, inquisitive, “You’ve been packed these last few days, Nikolai. Why didn't you tell us your girl was here? We could have cleared up your schedule!” She turns to me, “I hope he’s been spending enough time with you.”

“Well, he hasn't had the time to talk to me, let alone spend a few moments together.” I answer, plastering an obviously fake smile to get my point across, “But what can we do? Kolya has precious things occupying his day and it’s only unfortunate I’m not included.”

I see from the side of my eye that he’s seething with anger, hiding it under rapid slicing of the knife on his steak. It was only a matter of seconds before he talked, “If you didn't give me a headache every time you opened your mouth, maybe I would have made an effort to actually spend time with you.”

Oh.

I hear gasps from around the table, even from David, who has kept to himself all evening. The utensils dropping on the porcelain plates make screeches and clangs. Zoya is furious, brows furrowed with her tongue biting her cheek and Genya is constantly looking over at me to see how I would react.

I smile. A tight-lipped, tired smile.

Without a second thought, I abruptly get up from my chair. It makes a scandalous little screech that garners the attention of everybody in the room, including Nikolai’s, who is looking at me with a mixed expression of regret and anger.

“I don't wish to make your busy night harder for you, moi tsar. Have a good night, everybody.”

—

It’s deep into the ungodly hours of the night when I hear another knock from my door. I’ve been left to soak up my emotions, namely anger. Exhausted, I think of feigning sleep to let the person realize I wouldn't be getting up soon, but I do the opposite anyway, “A second, please!” I say, slipping on a silk robe. 

When I nudge the door open, it reveals Nikolai. Just great. Perfect.

“Can I come in?”

I decide to indulge in pettiness so I don’t say a word, only gesturing with my head.

He settles on leaning on my vanity table, taking a deep breath before softly letting out, “What’s wrong with you?” Nikolai doesn’t wait for an answer, “How are we supposed to be believable if you act like that when somebody even looks at us?”

“Look at us? They barely see us together, Nikolai.”

“They finally saw us together three hours ago and what did you do?” He works his jaw, “The moment you got an opportunity to talk about our arrangement and convince them we’re real, you tell every person with an ear to lend about how your own partner doesn’t give you the time of day.”   

Nikolai is off my vanity, walking towards me until I’m forced to take slower steps backward. His breathing is ragged and it’s obvious he’s trying his very best to stop whatever anger is boiling in his blood.

“How am I at fault here? The last time I checked, I wasn’t the one who let their partner have no company at all for four days.” I let a finger jab into his shoulder, “Have you heard the gossip, Nikolai? The servants all think I’m some stupid princess who forced her way into the castle for you to start giving me attention, and you’re making it all too real for them.”

“Tell me, then, smart girl. How was I supposed to react when you told them you think it’s unfortunate you weren’t important enough to occupy my day?”

“You were supposed to act your part as the charming king, telling his lady that he’d take time off for her and coddle her up until she was practically melting in his arms. You’re used to swooning people into taking a bullet for you, so what’s not clicking?”

Nikolai doesn’t say or do anything, instead, he walks closer and closer until my back hits the wall next to the door, eyes boring into me as if I’d committed a terrible crime until his expression breaks into something I was so very familiar with. He’s relaxed his jaw to give way to a forced smile like he’s clearly figured out what to do with me. I’m hoping it isn’t murder.

“You want my attention, princess? Fine.” He plants a hand above my head, he smells of brandy and that one ridiculously expensive perfume he likes so much and it’s overwhelming my senses. Has he been drinking? At this hour? How irresponsible. “Oh, you’ll get my attention alright.”

The way he’s towering over me is enough for my voice to catch on my throat, and I don’t say anything until I manage to get a small croak of, “Good.”

I can see his eyes flickering from mine to my lips before he turns away, reaching for the doorknob, “I’ll have handmaidens here by seven in the morning to prepare you.”

“What for?”

Nikolai sneaks a glance back at me, and the faint ghost of a smirk is on his lips, “You wanted attention, didn’t you?”

—

Right on the chime of the morning bell, about 12 handmaidens enter my room, Genya making her way in last. I see them carrying boxes, which I can only assume are dresses, and my suspicions are proven when they lay them out on the table, revealing gorgeous fabrics of various colors and embellishments. “I saw Nikolai make his way to your room late last night. Must’ve done more than just reconcile if you’re still asleep at this time.” she lifts a brow suggestively, poking at my arm.

“Give me a break, Genya. It’s like seven in the morning.” I groan out, trying to block out the light from the windows, “What’s with all the dresses?”

“The king had them made just for you.” Genya drags me by the arm, “Now, get up, because you have to meet with him in exactly two hours, and Nikolai does not like to wait.”

True to her word, Nikolai was waiting in his private dining hall at nine in the morning, “Hi, pretty. I see you’re wearing the dress I sent you.”

I shrug, taking a seat across from him. The scene is dramatically similar to when we made our deal, and I stifle a laugh at how stupid we must look: begrudgingly sitting across from each other with daggers for eyes, “What are you planning, Nikolai?”

“I’ve taken time off from my kingly duties, and I’m planning to coddle my lady until she practically melts in my arms.” He directly quotes me from last night, sending over a mischievous grin, “Since she wanted the attention so bad, today she’ll find her fill of it.”

He certainly wasn’t lying. 

Nikolai’s brought me around the Little Palace, parading me around the most crowded of hallways and courtyards with his hand settled on my waist, squeezing on it ever so lightly when somebody greets us. He tells the trainers he’s in here to overlook how the new training regiment is performing but spends more time planting kisses on my head and fixing my hair than actually looking at his Grishas train. It’s obvious he’s overplaying his role, out of spite or not, but after yesterday, I’m sure I shouldn’t be in any position to complain.

When we are asked to join them for lunch, Nikolai doesn’t hesitate to take them up on their offer, immediately following them onto the dinner hall. Two seats up front are reserved for us, and he pulls my chair closer to his when I sit down, “Princess, how far are you from melting in my arms?”

Near, actually. I’m not the most used to public affection and I’m one forehead kiss away from fainting into the cold, dark earth, but Nikolai didn’t need the satisfaction of knowing he’d put me into such a condition.

“Very far. I feel bad for your future wife if this was your best shot at it.”

He laughs, “You’re damn hard to please, aren’t you? This isn’t enough coddling for you?”

I never liked acknowledging that Nikolai’s smile was pleasant to look at, so I turn away from him when I sip into my glass of kvas, “You did say I was hard to please.”

“Then, I hope this’ll suffice.” 

Nikolai pulls me into him and presses a kiss on my mouth, and all of my senses are focusing on him and him only. I can feel him smiling into it, his fingers splayed out on my waist, and perfume’s scent is rendering me weak in my knees.

I try to shake myself sober from the desire to pull him in, instead placing a hand on his chest to push him away lightly. I can see him shift his gaze from me to the crowd of people who are doing a bad job of trying not to stare at us. His eyes are back on me and he subtly licks at his lips, breathing heavy, “You taste like kvas, princess.”

—

Nikolai was a true romantic, and I hated it with all my whole being. I regret ever complaining about how much he didn't take the deal seriously, because I’d sure take that over trying not to burn red every time he showed me some type of attention. He constantly brings me to dinners where he’d lace his fingers with mine, drawing incoherent letters and shapes on my hand while he had small talk with one of his advisors, pulling me away when he wanted to have an early night and brushing away the stray hair on my face when I was busy scribbling off on my notebook. I’d try my best to not flush red, occasionally hiding away to collect whatever was left of my sanity that chipped away at every forehead kiss he’d give me whenever I fixed his hair or his clothes. Butterflies started to burst into my stomach, and every day I do my best to swat them all dead and remind myself that this was an act and nothing more.

Slowly, the things we were only supposed to show in public turned into things we subconsciously did in private, and that terrified me.

I start to seek refuge inside the libraries Nikolai promised me in the deal, avoiding his presence more often than usual. Focusing on my papers would help sober my mind from constantly thinking of Nikolai’s annoyingly soft kisses and his even more annoyingly pretty smile and possibly even save myself the embarrassment I’d face if he saw me like this. It’s nearing eleven in the evening when I decide to take a small break from writing, cracking my knuckles until my fingers feel somewhat sore. It was also nearing eleven in the evening when I hear a familiar voice calling out my name in a soft sigh, “I haven’t seen you all day.”

Oh no.

“You’re a mess, Nikolai. Look at you.” I lean back to get a good look at him.

He’s dragged a chair opposite mine, settling down on it rather slouched. Nikolai’s tousled mess of hair is juxtaposed by his pressed, kingly clothing, and my body betrays me when I reach out to him, running my hand over his hair to push it back from his forehead. My actions have surprised us both, and I try to salvage the silence with the clearing of my throat, “What brings you here?”

“You, clearly.” He answers nonchalantly, “Since when do you hide out in a dusty library for hours?”

I take a second to answer and I raise my eyebrow, giving him an amused smile, “Don’t tell me you’ve missed me, Nikolai.”

There’s a glint in his eyes, “And what if I did?”

“Then, you’d be a liar.”

Nikolai takes it upon himself to stand and loom over my chair, anchoring himself on an arm pressed on the back of my seat, “Oh, milaya moya, I’m many things, but I’m certainly not a liar.” He leans down further, and I’m reminded of the reason I hide in the eerie library aisles. My breath hitches when he speaks again, “And stop flattering yourself. We have fittings in three days for the party.”

—

The fittings took quite a bit of time, and by the last day, Nikolai and I were invited to try on what we were made to wear for the ball. Both of our clothes are pulled in on a mannequin, and we are equally in awe of what they made in a few days’ time. Nikolai’s presented with a gold and blue court tunic with delicate embroidery and a sash. My off-shoulder gown resembles Nikolai’s tunic colors, black embroidery extending under my black corset. My corset is the last thing to fix in my perfect-fitting dress, and it’s impossible to do alone. I try my best to do whatever feels right, and I know it’s taking me a long time when Nikolai shouts out from the outside, “Princess? What’s taking you so long?”

“It’s my corset.” I mumble, rolling my shoulders, “Unless you’re here to help, I suggest giving me a minute or two.”

He knocks, “Come here. I’ll tie it up.”

I push the heavy doors apart with some struggle, and Nikolai is staring, rather wide-eyed when he sees me. His arms are crossed when he walks over, nodding in satisfaction, “You look beautiful in Lantsov colors.”

I turn around to let him grab at the lace of my corset, “I look beautiful in anything.” 

“Of course.” He works his way from the top laces. 

I understand I underestimated the proximity this puts us in when I feel his breathing on my neck when he moves his fingers around the laces, splaying his fingers on the small of my back. I groan when he suddenly tightens it, “Too tight?” He asks. It takes him a few minutes to figure it out, and when he finally does, he lays his hands on the smooth surface of the corset on my waist for a few minutes, “The gold brings out the spite in your eyes.”

“Charming.” 

—

Today, I’ve woken up earlier than usual to prepare for the ball everyone’s anticipating. I’m sitting on my vanity when handmaidens enter my room, with them the gown from yesterday in tow. Upon laying my eyes on the corset, I remember Nikolai’s hand on my waist and I try to pull myself away from the thoughts in my head. I couldn’t afford to think these things, not when I’m supposed to spend hours of him doting on me for show. It would be too dangerous of a game, and I wasn’t exactly the person to dabble in risks. Counting down is the only thing I can do to keep my nerves in check, and it doesn’t provide much help when my heart starts to pound in my ear a few minutes before Nikolai knocks on my door to fetch me.

We are a hallway away from the venue when he stops, reaching for my hand. There’s a gold-band ring on his thumb with an uncut emerald, and he’s carrying an identical one on his other hand, “Just so they know.” And with that, he slips it on my thumb and drags me inside.

I’m quite pleased about how well the party is going. People are fooled by our show, and they’ve been tirelessly asking about our matching clothes and jewelry, intrigued about how this relationship between the youngest Zemeni princess and the Ravkan king bloomed, and I do my job well, gushing about it like it wasn’t just an act we put on.

 I’ve also come to introduce Nikolai to my family, who are all gasping and clutching their pearls, “Is this why you haven’t sent letters this past month? You’ve been spending all your time here in Os Alta!” My mother says in fast Zemini, “And with little Nikolai too, no less.”

“I can assure your daughter’s been enjoying yourself, Your Highness.” He answers her in perfect Zemeni, flashing a charming smile before he bows, “She’s finding solace in one of our many libraries.”

“We never thought you two would come to terms with your feelings. Especially with our little girl here, who was practically glowing red when you two entered the room.” My mother pokes at my arm, “Sweet girl. What has he been doing to you to have you all shy?”

I stutter out an answer, and when no words escape my mouth, I pull Nikolai away from my parents.

“Shy, princess? Did I hear that right?” He laughs, letting himself be dragged off.

“No.” I pant. Nikolai wasn’t exactly a feather, “Now, go. Fool more people.”

“Alright, alright. No need to get pushy.”

Nikolai must’ve been fooling a whole nation because it’s been a good hour since I’ve seen him. I’m growing tired, so I decide to find drinks to sustain me for at least a few more hours. There, I see the boy I’ve been looking for, and… with another princess, too. He’s standing over a glass of brandy with her, and it seems like he’s enjoying his time. I could feel an ugly boiling of emotion at the bottom of my stomach, and my face contorts into something of obvious disgust.

Oh no. No, no, no. This wasn’t happening. I wasn’t feeling this way. Not for him, no.

Nikolai sees me and he excuses himself promptly from the princess, who I’ve identified now as the Shu princess. “Hi, pretty.” He lifts my knuckles up to his lips, “Is there anything you need?”

“You,” I jab a finger at him subtly, holding him at the arm, “are coming with me.”

When we arrive at a secluded room, I push him against the door. “Bold, aren’t we?” He says.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? What are my parents gonna think if they see you chatting up the Shu princess who is clearly interested in you?” I hold him by the collar, “I know you aren’t the most delighted to be seen with me, but save me the shame, Nikolai.”

Nikolai is peering down on me, reading the expression plastered on my face, and his expression of confusion is melting into something of a knowing little smile, “Are you jealous?”

“Obviously not!” I chew at my bottom lip, crossing my arms defensively after such an accusation.

“Stop lying to me. I can tell when you are and you know that.” Nikolai shakes his head, taking me by the waist so that I’m the one against the door, “You think you don’t have a tell, but you do, and I’m rather elated I’m the only one that knows what it is because that means,” He says slowly, tone enticing, “I’m the only one that’s so constantly looking at your lips.”

I look up at him and glare, eyebrows furrowed, “So what if I were jealous? It’s not like it would matter, wouldn’t it? This is just an act we put on for both of our benefits.”

“You’re a stubborn girl, aren’t you?” Nikolai sighs, dragging his hand lower on the door, “I look at you like you hung the stars, the moon, and every celestial body in the night sky, and you’re telling me you think I’m just putting on an act? Good saints, princess, they told me you were smart.”

“You… were flirting with her.” 

“And I kissed you in front of the whole Little Palace.” He lowers himself down to meet with my eyes, “I wasn’t flirting with her. She was, but not me.” He cocks his head to the side, grinning, “Why don’t we save ourselves the embarrassment of admitting to everybody this was all fake, and allow me to actually take you on a proper date?”

“I suppose that would be fine.” I turn my head to the side, unable to retain eye contact. His hand is tilting my face back at him, “Oh, no, no. We’re well past the point of being shy, I think.”

“You are impossible.” I try to muster a poisonous voice but my eyes betray me when it flickers between his eyes and his lips. Saints, his pretty lips, and his pretty smile. I hate him for what he’s doing to me, and yet somehow I’d hate it even more if he were doing this with anybody else.