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And all the arguments and guilt and the feelings that I don’t belong evaporate like spit on parched, cracking soil. My hands slide up his hard chest to his neck, and I pull away for a moment, just to breathe in his scent. I shouldn’t be surprised, but he smells like leather and a cool stream and a spring rain all at the same time. I could smell it all day long and never tire of it. My hands wrap around the back of his neck, and I pull him down even closer to me.

“You can’t leave,” he murmurs against my mouth. “I’m sorry it’s boring and you hate it and I know we’ll have to figure some things out, but I need you here with me. The Russian people need me, but I need you even more.”

“Okay,” I whisper back. Now that he’s touching me, now that he’s here, I remember why I came. I remember why I’m doing things I’ve never done, things I vowed never to do. Something inside of him calls to me. Something about him soothes me. Something about sitting in his lap, with his arms around my body, makes me feel safe in a way I never have before.

Which is ironic, because I’m probably in more danger now.

But for the first time in my life, it feels like I’m not alone.

He may be everything I never deserved, everything that my past decisions will complicate, but walking away from him feels harder than giving up breathing. It feels like turning down a chocolate lava cake and a tall glass of cold, frothy milk: impossible.

As he kisses me, I start to want more. Things I never thought I wanted. My stomach flutters. My heart races. My hands tremble. I unbutton the top of his shirt, but he catches my hand at the wrist.

“Adriana.” His voice is ragged, and he drags in a breath. “You can’t.”

It’s like he’s dangling a truffle in front of me and telling me no. Or offering me the tooled, leather bridle I want and then tossing it away. “Why not?”

The corner of his mouth turns up. “Soon,” he says. “But not yet. Our hearts and our heads need to sync first.”

He’s right. If we do more than we should tonight, tomorrow morning will be awkward.

“I don’t want you to leave, Adriana.” His voice is smaller than ever before, like he’s about to share a secret. “My whole family’s gone, Ana. I can’t bring them back, and I need you.”

Ana.

He made up a nickname for me. Mirdza calls me A sometimes, but not consistently, and it never really caught on. No one else has ever used a nickname just for me. It sends a tiny thrill racing through me, and I want to kiss him again.

I don’t want to stop.

But then the rest of what he said sets in. My whole family’s gone. He’s telling me that even though he looks invulnerable, bulletproof, and larger than life, he’s fragile.

He’s scared.

And what frightens him is that I might leave. He’s also scared that I might die.

“Are you at all excited?” I ask. “Do you think you’ll love ruling?”

His laughter sounds so pained that I can’t help dropping my hands and wrapping them around his waist.

I press my head against his chest. “No?”

“I hate it,” he says. “But I was raised from birth to believe that it’s a ruler’s obligation to provide the best life for the people they rule. My dad was destroyed by evil people, and I know they’re still out there. I can’t just walk away from his legacy, no matter how it’s been tainted and twisted by the victor.”

“I’ve been thinking about something,” I say.

“What?”

“Leonid came to your dad, you said.”

He murmurs assent. “Hm.”

“He wanted to regain the throne, presumably?”

“I think so.”

“And then he managed to curse all of you—Boris and Mikhail joined him to do it. But then, why did he wait? Why did he let the Bolsheviks or whoever take over? What happened?” I sit up enough to see his face.

Alexei blinks. “Why haven’t we been focused on that?” He scratches his chin, and I love the sound of his fingers rasping against his golden stubble. “The mare we saw—things have moved so fast since then—she’s Boris’s sister. She and Leonid had something going on, but they had a falling out. I can’t imagine she’d run against us, but she must have done that for him.”