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The doors to Nikolai’s chambers fly open with a burst of force, scattering papers across his desk. The plans for the palace greenhouse fall to the floor, but before Nikolai can pick them up, Zoya’s shiny black boot stomps on them. Nikolai winces.
“What. Were. You. Thinking.” Zoya’s blue eyes have sparks of electricity in them.
“I think a great deal of things all the time. Care to be more specific?” Nikolai asks, aiming for a coy smile, made harder by the fact that the end of a spool of bandage is in his mouth as he attempts to wrap his left upper bicep with only his right hand.
Zoya steps so that she’s toe to toe with Nikolai, and although she’s nearly a head shorter than him, he feels like she is looming over him, her anger adding inches to her height.
“You leapt in front of an assassin’s knife!”
“No one’s tried to assassinate me since I gave up the crown, maybe I got a little jealous. Besides, I’m a soldier, that’s part of the job description.”
“You’re not a soldier anymore!”
Nikolai places a scarred hand over his bare chest. “You’re my Queen. It will always be my job to protect you, moya tsarita.”
Lightning crackles in the room. The air smells of ozone, and Nikolai takes a step back as Zoya’s eyes burn silver. “Do I look like I need protection?”
Nikolai raises his hands, letting the bandages fall loosely, “point taken.”
The sparks leave the room as soon as they came, and Zoya takes the bandages and begins wrapping Nikolai’s still bleeding bicep, refusing to look him in the eye. “You don’t understand.”
“No you’re right, I’m a fool who thinks that the Dragon Queen of Ravka can’t take on a single ozkastsy’a with a letter opener. I wasn’t trying to insinuate you don’t know how to take care of yourself.” He winces as Zoya pulls the bandages taut.
“It’s not that Nikolai.” Zoya murmurs.
“What is it then? Can you look at me?” Nikolai wraps her hand in his and pulls it close to his chest, and tilts her chin up with his other hand, startled to find her eyes are welling with tears.
Zoya jerks her hand away and wipes at her eyes furiously with the sleeve of her kefta.
“I-I’m sorry,” Nikolai stutters, for once at a loss of what to say.
“You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for. You think I’m upset over a point of pride.”
“Enlighten me.”
It takes a moment before Zoya starts talking again. She begins slowly, “Foxgloves.”
“I can’t say I see the practical application of those, although I suppose this fox does wear gloves,” he says, waving his scarred hands.
“Can you be serious for once?”
“Only once.”
“Foxgloves. They’re a type of flower.”
When Nikolai sees where this is heading, his stomach drops.
“There have been three times I have contemplated what flowers I would plant for you. Once, the night before you were to partake in the obisbaya. Once, the night of the bombings in Os Alta. And once, half an hour ago when I watched you leap in front of me to take a knife.” There’s the barest tremble to her voice, that would probably be imperceptible to most people, but Nikolai isn’t most people. Not to her, anyway.
“I’m sorry Zoya. I won’t put you in that kind of pain again.” Nikolai lifts Zoya’s hand to his lips and presses a gentle kiss into her knuckles.
“You will. One day. If not from some reckless scheme of yours, from old age. You will eventually die, and I will live on. Ageless. Timeless. Alone.” Zoya spits out the last word like it has a bitter taste.
“And no doubt some other prince will come and sway you off your feet, although I’ll write it into my will that whatever consort you take next can’t be better looking than me.”
Zoya turns away, but Nikolai catches the trace of a smile. “There have been many men before you that I have taken to my bed, but none have ever built me a greenhouse for my garden.”