My intel reports to Derek are useless, and not because I have to lie to make them that way, all I’m doing is telling the truth.The cook is happy. The housekeeper has been here three decades and loves it. I had the best pastry of my life this morning. This place has better healthcare than the United States.
A smile twitches on the corners of my lips. I am, truly, the worst spy who has ever lived.
I finish dusting the bookshelves and move to Nikolai’s desk. This is where I should really be looking. Papers, documents, correspondence — the real intel, if any exists. Maybe this is where I can take a snapshot of something definitive that will prove to Derek that he’s wrong about Krovenia.
I shouldn’t be looking through the King’s desk. That’s wrong with a capital W. But my brother is so radicalized, he’s starting to miss work. Maybe if I can prove to him that the Krovenians can’t perform glamour, he’ll let this go, get some counseling and return to his old self.
The desk is massive, dark wood and meticulously organized. There’s a nice computer and two different black screens. The modern technology looking slightly out of place against the ancient stone walls. I find a stack of papers in Krovenian that I can’t read next to a leather folder and a heavy pen that looks antique.
I open a drawer, carefully, quietly. Even though I was told the King is in council meetings all morning and won’t return until after lunch, I’m still nervous. I’ve never done anything like this in my life and I feel bad, going through his things, but I’ll make sure to leave this all exactly the way I found it.
The first drawer is boring. Office supplies, wax and a royal seal. A letter opener that looks sharp enough to kill someone, which I try not to think about too hard.
The second drawer is more interesting. A worn leather journal that I’m dying to open but don’t quite dare. A velvet pouch that clinks with what might be old coins or medals. A dried flower pressed between two pieces of glass, which is so unexpectedly sentimental that I almost drop it.
The Vampire King keeps a pressed flower in his desk?
Derek would never believe me.
The third drawer holds more documents, a signet ring heavy with some kind of dark stone, and a small, framed photograph.
I pick up the photo. It shows a young, smiling Nikolai. The expression softens his face in a way I’ve never seen in any official portrait. He stands with two other boys who must be his brothers. The middle one has a gentle look about him, softer features, an arm slung around the youngest. The youngest is grinning outright, clearly the troublemaker of the group. Behind them stand an older man and woman, the previous King and Queen, I realize. His parents. Both long dead now, according to the history I devoured as a teenager.
It’s strange, seeing the King like this. A boy with a family. A prince who hadn’t yet become king. Why is it hidden in a drawer instead of displayed somewhere visible?
I’m studying the photograph, trying to reconcile this almost-smiling boy with the fearsome vampire king I’m supposedly spying on, when something shifts in the air. A sound, maybe. Or just instinct.
I look up.
King Nikolai stands in the doorway. The very same vampire I’ve had a secret crush on for the last decade.
I suck in a sharp breath.
He’s taller, broader and significantly more intimidating in person. His harsh face belongs on the cover of every dark romance novel I’ve ever secretly read. Black eyes lock directlyonto mine. He wears a fitted black leather jacket over a silky dark shirt, and boots that probably cost more than my car.
And I’m holding a personal photograph of his, while standing behind his desk, in his private chambers. Where I am absolutely not supposed to be going through his things.
Great job, Claire. You’ve been a fake spy for three days and you’re already caught red-handed.
“I—” I start, and my voice comes out as a squeak. “Good morning. I was just — I was dusting and this fell, so I was putting it back?—”
The lie is so bad it practically has a neon sign over it.
Chapter Two
Nikolai
There is a woman at my desk.
A human woman. The new maid I’ve seen in passing, with a brief glimpse of blond hair in the corridors. I was told we’d hired a human through the work-visa program and then thought nothing of it.
I am thinking of it now.
She stands behind my desk with a photograph in her hands, a private photograph of my parents and brothers, from when we were young. Her fingers are on my personal belongings. A drawer hangs open and she has clearly been going through my things.
And she is the most beautiful human I have ever seen in my life.
The thought strikes like a blow to the chest. I don’t usually think such things or notice humans this way. In reality, I don’t notice anyone this way.
