Ruslan Bogdanovich Makarov's spoiled, twisted family is desperate to retain their power, but refuse to name him Tsesarevich, the crowned prince or heir apparent, because of his birth gender. Instead, they've welcomed Alexander Vissarionovich Sokolov...
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The day passed without Ruslan speaking much, a rarity as his mother couldn't resist pointing out. But Ruslan had good reason. He'd been calculating. Or, at least, to the best of his ability he had been. He was still convinced that there was a way to persuade Nikolai to allow him to bring Bernard. And whatever the cost, Ruslan had resolved himself to pay it.
First, though, he'd need to get back on Nikolai's good side, and despite the uncomfortable chills crawling across his skin, he was almost certain he knew how to get it done...
"Leave us, all of you," Ruslan ordered before his husband could, dismissing Bernard as well as the maids that had aided him out of his dress. That caught the man's attention.
Good.
Ruslan took a deep breath as he did his best casual traipse over to the vanity across from the foot of the bed. He considered the image in the large, ornate oval mirror—the pretty little blonde with a porcelain figure... She wasn't him, Ruslan reminded himself.
That was how he was going to get through this. Dissociate.
She was Ruslan's bargaining chip. She was Nikolai's prize...and she certainly had the duke's full attention now.
Nikolai wasn't even finished undressing, but he was already closing the distance between them, no different than a famished spider drawn to a moth tangled perilously in its web. Ruslan clearly saw the hands coming, but couldn't help his quick, involuntary intake of breath when warm fingers crested his skin.
No—not his skin. Her skin.
Arms encircled her bare waist, and lips cut a trail of kisses up her shoulder, then along her elegant neck to a particularly sensitive spot just below her ear. It felt wrong, sacrificing her like this for his own selfish means, but Ruslan also knew she wasn't real. He was a real person, and so was Bernard. She was just an idea...
And yet...the guilt he felt was almost like a presence of its own. Empty and oppressive—a monster in of itself.
"You're so beautiful, my darling," Nikolai flattered, voice husky and dripping with desire. "Don't be frightened," he added when Ruslan tensed. "I'll be gentle this time."
Ruslan swallowed thickly. "...I'm not frightened."
"No? Your heart's beating fast," Nikolai countered.
"I'm just excited." A lie, but it worked.
As Nikolai's hands explored, uninhibited, Ruslan's stomach turned, and he began to feel horridly dizzy, so much so that he found himself grabbing the vanity for support, bumping a small, shallow box that had yet to be packed...
His eyes closed tightly. He had to press through this. He had to keep Bernard by his side. Being split up was too great a risk. It wouldn't do. Ruslan wouldn't survive it. He just hoped Bernard wouldn't be too upset. He hoped he would understand Ruslan's sacrifice.
