Out of all the perks his relationship with Tatiana provided, his favorite by far was the deferential respect the Royals gave him; they didn't dare offend or anger the woman who was rumored to be their next queen. They bit their tongues and kept their disdain hidden, treating him as an equal—brown nosing and ass kissing in hopes of winning her favor. That respect was something he'd always craved… but at times like this, he seriously thought about throwing in the proverbial towel.
He wasn't a goddamned errand boy—not for anyone.
"Look, I don't give a shit what you were told—Tatiana Ivashkov sent me to pick up the package for her. So I suggest you get your bureaucratic ass back there and find it—or I'll find it myself." He glared at the Moroi clerk, his temper getting the best of him. The hellish train ride from the capital to Saint Basil's had taken fifty four hours, leaving him tense and irritable—ready to explode at the slightest provocation. Having to listen to the clerk—the idiot was obviously a student volunteer—hem and haw for the last five minutes hadn't done anything to improve his mood.
The bell over the door jangled behind him, but he didn't turn around to look at the new arrival—to do so would mean breaking eye contact with the moron, and he'd be damned if he'd be the first to give.
"Stef, Professor Grasavich needs—"
"Wait your turn kid," he snapped, still not bothering to look at the voice's owner; his Russian was flawless—unlike hers—rolling off his tongue as if it were his native language.
"Bloody Royal arsehole."
The muttered oath in strongly accented English grabbed his attention like a slap in the face; he spun around, shifting his glare to the dhampir girl standing behind him—this time speaking in English. "What the fuck did you just call me?"
Her cheeks flushed—brown eyes widening in surprise, but she didn't back down. Tilting her head back, she lifted her chin defiantly, returning his glare in kind, with a fierce version of her own. "I called ya a bloody Royal arsehole—though I probably shoulda added the word rude in there as well!"
He narrowed his eyes. "You've got a smart mouth on you kid—better watch out or it'll get you into trouble."
"I'm not a bloody kid—an' I'm hardly likely ta be frightened by the likes of ya, am I!" She scoffed at the idea, rolling her eyes. "Could take ya with one hand behind me back."
"Miss Hathaway! Mr. Mazur is a guest of this Academy—your impudence is not appreciated." The loud, disapproving voice came from the inner sanctum that the moronic clerk had been guarding; a tall, gray haired Moroi stood framed in the doorway of one of the offices. "Apologize—now."
"I will not—he was rude ta me first!" The dhampir tossed her head; despite his irritation, he couldn't help but notice the way the deep red strands complimented her coloring.
The angry glint in his dark eyes faded, replaced with a look of interest as he slowly raked his gaze over the fiery tempered girl, really seeing her for the first time as something other than an irritation. She was short—at least a foot and change shorter than he was—dressed in baggy training clothes that were unable to hide the curvaceous body beneath them. His tongue darted out, swiping across his lips as he raised his gaze back up to take in her face—Jesus… she's a fucking knockout…oh shit.
The girl was watching him with an indignant look on her gorgeous face.
"Why don't ya take a feckin picture—it'll last longer ya dirty pervert," she snapped, her brown eyes filled with barely controlled rage.
"Miss Hathaway! How dare you—"
"I'm here ta learn ta protect a charge—not to be bloody well ogled like some kinda pin up girl!"
"That's quite enough out of you—"
"No—she's right." His voice was soft as he cut the man off, bowing his head to the dhampir. "My apologies, Miss Hathaway—I shouldn't have been so rude."
Or quite so obvious about the direction my thoughts were headed, he added mentally.
"Damn right ya should'na been! I ain't a damned blood whore!" She turned, storming out of the office, her curvy backside twitching as she moved—a mouthwatering sight, to say the least. The glass in the door rattled as she slammed it shut behind her.
"I'm so sorry you had to deal with that Mr. Mazur—she's an exchange student… unaccustomed to how we do things here. Highlanders can be… temperamental, to say the least." The older man's voice drew his eyes away from the door—the jackass was practically bowing and scraping in an attempt to smooth over the incident and appease him.
"As I recall, I've often heard the same said about Russians, Mister…"
"Boreyev . Vladimir Boreyev—I am the headmaster of this academy." The man held out his hand—Abe ignored it.
"Where's the package I'm supposed to be picking up, Boreyev?"
The headmaster grimaced. "I'm afraid it's not quite ready. You see… Princess Ivashkov's secretary said there was no rush… it was set aside to work on more pressing matters. It will take a few days to get the financial statements pulled and then a few more to compile the figures she requested. Of course you will have full use of one of the suites we reserve for our honored guests while you wait."
Ten minutes before, he would have exploded in rage at the wait—but he suddenly found himself intrigued at the thought of lingering at the academy for a little longer. "Not a problem. I'll just wander around—make myself familiar with your lovely campus in the interim."
"Very good sir. Stefan—arrange to provide Mr. Mazur with whatever he might need to make his stay more comfortable, then summon one of the guardians to show him to the guest suites—"
"Boreyev," he interrupted, his eyes drifting back to the door, "The Scottish girl I offended…I'll need to make proper amends for my rudeness. What's her name?"
The headmaster looked surprised. "Novice Janine Hathaway, sir. But you really don't need to trouble yourself—"
"Oh… I think I do." His lips twitched up in a slow, lazy grin as he thought about the tempestuous red head. "You see Boreyev… if I'm occupied trying to appease Miss Hathaway's temper… I might forget how pissed off I am that Tati's package wasn't ready. You really don't want me angry now… do you?"
The man paled; he'd heard rumors about what happened to people who incurred the young Turk's anger. "No sir… I don't"
"Good… I'm glad we understand each other." Abe rapped his knuckles on the counter, turning towards the door. "I don't need a guardian to show me the way—I'll find it on my own. Oh… and Boreyev?" Abe glanced back over his shoulder, his sly smile widening. "That package? No hurry, if you catch my drift. If Tati said no rush, then there's no need to put yourself out. Take as long as you need—I think I might enjoy sticking around awhile."
A/N: Abe and Janine have been poking me nonstop… so I gave in—on one condition. For this fic, I am going to attempt to keep each chapter under 2,000 words in hopes that it won't interfere with all the other updates I need to make. Just a heads up, I plan on taking it up through Abe meeting Rose in Russia for the first time, though I have no idea how often I'll update since the other fics take precedence—and because Abe is an extremely temperamental muse and only talks when he's damn good and ready, lol. Also, don't worry, I don't intend to type out Janine's accent throughout the whole thing—just the first few chapters to set the tone for the rest. Hope you enjoy it.