The Crown's Game (The Crown's Game, #1)(71)

“Let alone into my room.”

“What happened to your protections?”

Nikolai fell back against his pillows. “I fear I’m too weak to keep them up.”

“But the Game! If you’re not strong enough . . .” Renata stared at him, her mouth downturned.

He sensed the conversation was about to take a sad turn. But Nikolai didn’t want to talk about dying. Not again. “Could I have some tea?”

“Of course.” Renata poured a cup for him.

“You won’t read the leaves?”

“I won’t read the leaves.”

Nikolai nodded, although he did not drain the cup, just in case.

“Do you want the swan?” Renata asked. “Or should I decapitate it or something?”

The edge of Nikolai’s mouth turned up, a hint of a smile. “No need for violence. But I . . . I can’t eat it. I shouldn’t. Who knows what would happen if I ingested her magic?” Yet there was a warmth in the pit of his stomach, a visceral desire to taste Vika’s magic even if it poisoned him. He picked up the baguette and took a bite of it to smother the yearning.

Renata pushed the swan farther away. “Nikolai . . . There is something I need to tell you. I read her leaves two days ago.”

“You what?” He sat up on the edge of his bed and almost knocked over the entire tray. He tossed the rest of the baguette onto its plate. “When? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I haven’t had a chance to. You’ve either been asleep or gone. Vika paid a visit to the pumpkin and asked me to.”

“What did they say? Or . . . do I not want to know?”

Renata stared at the carpet. “Oh, Nikolai. There was a knife in the inner circle. Death is coming for one of you soon.” She flung herself at him and buried her face against his neck. So much for not talking about dying.

He wrapped his arms around Renata to soothe her. But he looked at the slim drawer of his desk, where the knife Galina had given him rested, biding its time. The dagger that would not miss.

“I don’t want either of you to die,” Renata said into his collarbone, her breath hot right above his scar. “But especially not you.” She held him tighter. “I love you.”

Nikolai pulled back. Renata’s bottom lip quivered as she held her arms out, not quite releasing their embrace even though he’d already broken away.

“I . . . Renata, you mean so much to me, but—”

“But what?”

“You shouldn’t love me. It isn’t wise.”

“There’s no wisdom in love.” She watched him, her eyes rimmed with red. “But you love her, don’t you?”

Nikolai said nothing.

“You’ve loved her since the first time you saw her.”

“No.” For that could not be true. Falling in love with Vika would mean a complete loss of control, and Nikolai did not lose control. It would also mean he’d given in to someone else, and he would not and could not trust someone else so entirely. It had always been himself, on his own; no one else was dependable. No one else would put his interests first. “Renata, you’re one of my best friends.” Nikolai reached for her. But she stood from the bed and backed away. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She gathered his tray. “You don’t need to apologize. It was silly of me to hope. I knew it all along.”

“It’s better for you not to love me. I’m doomed whether I live or die. You don’t need to be a part of that.”

“It doesn’t matter, Nikolai. You’re a part of me, whatever the outcome. If you die, a part of me dies. If you live but suffer over guilt from the Game, then I suffer as well.”

“I am very sorry for that.”

She shook her head. “I’m not.” She took the tray of dirty dishes and strode to the door. “I don’t regret loving you, Nikolai. It’s always been in my leaves, and I wouldn’t trade it for another cup.” She opened the door and slipped out to the hall.

Nikolai looked after her long after she had gone. He did not relock his door.





CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR


The tsarina had been unwell for quite some time. This Pasha knew, as he had heard his mother muffling coughs into handkerchiefs at supper, seen her retire earlier and earlier from state functions, and watched her once-regal presence wilt into a near nonexistent one. Yuliana had commented on the tsarina’s wan complexion as well, and Pasha himself had caught her once when she fainted during a stroll in the gardens.

Now Pasha strode into the small chamber his mother used for conducting business—the same room through which he’d sneaked the night of the ball—having been summoned by the tsarina in the middle of his meeting with the Spanish ambassador.

“You wished to see me, Mother?” Pasha asked as he strode up to the tsarina’s desk. He took her gloved hand and kissed it.

“Yes, darling.” There was no one else in the room but some of her attendants, and she waved them out. “I apologize for interrupting your meeting. This may be the only moment I have free before I leave.”

“No apology necessary. The Spanish ambassador is a pompous bore, and Father had me meet with him only to keep the Spaniards out of his own hair. But did you say you’re leaving? Where to? Are you sure you’re fit to travel?” Pasha dragged a chair from the opposite side of the desk and set it next to his mother’s. When he sat down, he took her hands and clasped them in his lap.