Set between The Indigo Spell and Silver Shadows.
"Sweet," Rose says one night in bed, laptop perched on her crossed legs and the fan whirring loudly in protest from sitting on the comforter. "If I get a one-fourteen on the final, I can slide out of western civ with an eighty."
It takes you a second to realize getting 114 percent on a test without extra credit is mathematically impossible, but you cover it up with an amused snort, not looking away from your book.
Over the past few months, you've watched with amazement as Rose managed to keep up with Lissa's university schedule despite the shenanigans occurring out in Palm Springs and Sonya's somewhat related spirit vaccine project. True, Rose isn't away from Court all that much, but with everything going on — including Sydney, who's become a close friend to Rose in recent months, getting whisked away by her superiors to some undisclosed location for "disciplinary actions" — her attention could certainly be more distracted than it has been.
"How much do you need for a seventy?" you ask. History is her worst subject, and that only amplified when she got to the university format of fewer class meetings and a shorter timeline and faster pace.
She taps a couple numbers, clicks the trackpad once. "A ninety-two."
Maybe keep up is too overzealous a description. More like somewhat regularly attended lectures and occasionally turned in homework.
"That's not impossible."
"Comrade." She's fixing you with a look, the one that says you're being overly optimistic. You don't see it often, but your optimism tends to show up when she's particularly down about something. You hate seeing her sad. "You've met me, right?"
That gets a laugh out of you, though it's more of a humorless, acknowledging-the-irony sound. Still, it's more than what most people can do.
"What's on the final?" you ask, because if nothing else, you're a planner. Or, more accurately, you've trained yourself to be a planner to keep your reflex for overreacting in check.
"Uhmmmmm," she drags out, opening a new tab and pulling up the online portion of her class. Her eyebrows furrow as she skims through the announcements on the front page. "Forty identifications, half a point each. A mix of twenty-five true-false and multiple choice questions, a point each. Five short answers, minimum one paragraph, five points each. One essay, thirty points. The essay is open-topic, we just have to pick an event we covered during class and explain its significance on the state of affairs in the world today. God, this still sounds as awful as it did when I got the email last week."
Actually, it sounds typical of the work St. Basil's had you doing when you started secondary school, but you don't mention that.
"What does it cover?"
"It's cumulative."
The try-playing-this-up-to-make-me-feel-better look is out in full force. She only uses it when her pessimism is so intense, you doubt even Lissa could make her see the positives in a situation.
"I'd say 'start studying', but I'm sure you've beaten me to that."
She sighs heavily. "I barely scraped by in the first half of this class, and I really don't want to have to repeat the second half."
"You only have to pass two semesters of history, right?"
"Yeah." She closes the laptop, sets it down on the floor under the bed, and curls against you, throwing an arm over your waist. Recently, the two of you have had nights off together more often than not, but you know that'll change in the next few weeks as she and Lissa focus on finishing their semester. They'll probably stay on campus for finals like they did in the fall, so you decide to focus on Rose, bookmarking the novel in your hands — one of the many you've read so many times the spine is falling apart — and wrap her up in your arms tight. In the grand scheme of things, these quiet moments are rare, and to you, it's law they be cherished.
"What's passing? A 'C'?"
"Yeah."
You kiss the top of her head. "You'll pass."
"You sound awfully sure of me."
"I'm always sure of you. Do you have anything else for that class?"
"Nope. I do have, like, a paper for everything else, though, because Lissa couldn't pick something easy to major in, like biology, where papers don't exist."
"Biology has lab reports that are just as long, if I remember correctly."
"Wow. I'm shocked your memory still works after all this time. I thought old age deteriorated the mind."
"I've only been out of school five years, Rose."
She does math, though she's admittedly slow to work out the numbers. "Okay, your math is definitely worse than mine. You're only twenty-six." She turns her head to look up at you where you're half-slumped against her headboard, her eyes narrowed in confusion.
"Ivan went to university," you explain, only realizing what you're saying after it's out and she's raising her eyebrows. In the year and half you've known her, you can count on one hand the number of times you've talked about him.
"Really?"
You nod. "It's a different process than what you and Lissa did. There's no application. But St. Basil's offers the university entrance exams to anyone who wants to take them because the school's technically part of the state education system. Ivan was expected to get a degree, so I was, too, by extension. After . . ." You can hear it like always when you think about it, the echo of a voice on the phone telling you reassignment paperwork was being sent to you and we're very sorry for the loss of your charge. "They moved me to the European Court within days of his passing until I made a decision about what to do next, so I didn't get to finish. It disappointed my mother more than anyone else. I was the first in the family to get the opportunity."
She's silent, dark eyes filled with love and curiosity watching you intently, her chin propped up on her fist against your abdomen. That's one of the first things that captured you in the beginning, a passion and thirst for knowledge that seemed ready to spill over at a moment's notice. Rose Hathaway was never meant for a traditional classroom, unlike you who excelled at rote memorization and regurgitation, but that doesn't keep her from being the smartest woman you know, soaking up the world around her like it might disappear any moment, and given your lives . . . dying tomorrow that isn't that much of a dramatic exaggeration.
"Where'd you guys go?" she asks, sidestepping the unhappier parts of the conversation because she knows it'll send you into an irreparable spiral for the rest of the night, and it's one of those times you're grateful she can read you so well.
"Irkutsk. He would've liked one of the more prestigious universities in Moscow or Saint Petersburg, but he understood it would've been a challenge for his guardians." You frown, remembering your hesitance over even Irkutsk being too big for your friend's safety, a hesitance that was later proven right, but then Rose is pushing your hair behind your ear. Your sadness slip back into the past at her touch. "He went for business." You catch her hand, lace your fingers together and nose along the inside of her wrist, her scent calming the emotions inside you getting ready to steamroll over your mood. You don't miss the way she leans into you in response, and you crook a smile when you meet her eyes and deadpan, "I didn't mind most of the courses, but accounting deserves its own level in Hell."
She laughs, pressing her face into your t-shirt, and then looks back up. It doesn't seem possible, but the love in her eyes has grown even more, like the declaration made her fall for you all over again. "Would you finish if you could?"
You open your mouth and then close it, considering your answer. "If I had to go back to studying business . . . probably not. I was only doing that because of Ivan, and he didn't have a choice, either, as far as his parents were concerned, so no, I don't think I would. If I could go back and start from scratch . . . yeah, I might."
"I'd like to see you as a lit major," she says, shifting to trap one of your legs between hers. "Then you could put all your reading to use."
You roll your eyes. "Some people read for fun," you reply, echoing something you're sure you've said a thousand times before and when she smiles, a mixture of ruefulness and fondness, you know for a fact that you have. "I don't know," you add, sliding down nearly the rest of the way so that it's just your head resting against the headboard and your shoulders almost touch the pillow long ago designated yours. "I couldn't tear stories apart for a grade. There's a mysticism that gets lost when you start analyzing the words and why the author put them on the page. I'd probably go for something like philosophy or religious studies. Mathematics, maybe, if I could devote myself full time."
"That . . ." She shifts again, giving your hand a quick squeeze as she considers your answer. "I'm actually not surprised by any of that. The math, kind of, but I'm sure it's just as thinky as the others, and I'm just not seeing the connection."
"It's its own language," you explain reflexively. "Some people think we can talk to God through mathematics. I'm not sure how much I believe that, but I certainly think it holds the secrets of the universe, which is kind of the same thing. Regardless, it's interesting to think about."
"Figures I'd end up with a nerd," she mutters.
Your laugh this time is genuine, rich and warm and full-bodied, even to your ears. The pleasantness in your body when you see her smile spreads. You have a few issues that are better worked out with a therapist instead of a punching bag, so you don't laugh often, but when you do . . . the way she lights up in response is enough to make you want to never stop.
"You're just as intelligent," you argue, thumb stroking the turn of her back where her bra strap usually wraps around. The shirt she's wearing suspiciously looks like one of the dozen that have gone missing from your closet since September but you really, really couldn't care less about having to replenish your wardrobe every few months. They look better on her.
She doesn't believe you, eyes narrowed as she shakes her head. "I'm good at the physical stuff, like punching and kicking. P.E. was my best class in elementary school."
"With science right behind," you counter, which has always been ironic to you given how tragically bad at math she is. Last semester, when Lissa took a math class for people who'd already completed Calculus in high school so she could satisfy a requirement, Rose had to have another guardian cover for her so she could struggle through a lower level math in a different building.
"Yeah," she says and you could know without breathing she has yet to be convinced.
"Not everyone is good at school," you say, desperate for her to understand how you see this part of her. "You're amazing at dreaming up schemes to achieve the impossible. Your security detail plan for Sonya and Mikhail's wedding was flawless, and I know everyone working that event was impressed. Even if you're not book-smart per se, you've got street smarts to rival the best of them."
Her eyes are still narrowed. Damn. Time to call in the big guns.
"Plus, you escaped from a place more secure than the White House with your best friend when you were fifteen and lived on your own for two and half years without getting in any real kind of trouble." Your hand slides up her back to play with the ends of her hair. "I can't think of anyone else who could've done that. And that's not getting into the stunts you've pulled since we met."
Her grin is bright and infectious, and she drops her head to rest her cheek against her now flattened hand. "You sound impressed by that."
"I was. I still am. You have no idea how hard it was to find you two. That night . . . the moment I saw you, I knew you were the kind of person whose abilities were underestimated by everyone around them. Before I even introduced myself, I made a promise that I wouldn't let your intelligence be brushed over by anyone ever again."
"Really?" she asks, voice small, like she's hesitant to believe you.
You nod, your hand wrapping through her hair to rest on the back of her neck, massaging gently. There's something about her that makes you more tactile than a newborn discovering the world around them. Any moment spent in her presence not touching her is a moment wasted.
"You're the smartest woman I know," you reply, voicing your earlier thought, and something warm and giddy shoots through you at the sappy look that comes over her gorgeous face. It's because of the compliment, but part of you suspects it's specifically the word choice. She's freshly nineteen, stuck in that weird limbo where children see her as an authority figure and older adults aren't sure whether or not she's still a teenager. Woman isn't a word people are using to describe her just yet, but you do, exclusively. Calling her a girl feels weird and borderline infantile, and while it's been almost a year since she graduated, sometimes you have a hard time shaking your old instructor mindset around her, even though you never really treated her like your student.
And besides, she's proved to you she's definitely a woman in every sense of the word during the countless nights, mornings, and hours in between that the two of you have shared.
She doesn't speak, instead rocking up to kiss you, unlinking your hands so she can anchor herself on your shoulders. Your grip on her neck tightens involuntarily, wordlessly telling her you enjoy the gesture. It's soothing, like coming home to her after a month away. There was a time when all of her kisses lit you on fire, and while that's still true about some of them — namely when it's been a while, like that one exceptionally rare weekend morning you both had off — you're usually calmed by the majority of them now, brief, momentary reminders that she loves you or was thinking about you. You were saddened by this when you realized it one day, until you reminded yourself it's a completely normal side effect of settling down. You're at your most peaceful when you're with her; her kisses only increase that feeling tenfold. They're familiar now, a constant in a world that insists on changing every day, and they keep you grounded, even on your good days.
How you gave this up — multiple times — is beyond you.
She pulls away, wrapping her arms around your torso and resting her head on your shoulder as you finish sliding down to lay flat, pulling the comforter up to her mid-back. You're so blissed out by her that you feel ready to float away. If it were possible to live inside a single moment for the rest of your life, you'd choose this — the two of you, happy and in love, existing in each other's spheres and nowhere else.
"Keep kissing me like that and I'll buy a ring tomorrow," you joke, voice soft. You've been talking marriage almost from the moment you officially got together with her, and while she's been adamant about waiting until she's twenty, she's never outright said she doesn't want to. At her birthday dinner a month ago, her eyes had met yours when someone mentioned she was starting her last year of teenagehood, a heavy, meaningful look passing between the two of you.
"What, you don't already have one?" she quips back and you'll swear to anyone who will listen that your heart legitimately skipped a beat at her words. This is the closest she's come to agreeing and you can feel your hopes rising. At this point, she's less than a year out from her twentieth birthday, so the timing isn't ridiculous anymore; plenty of happily married couples had engagements last over a year.
"If your father wasn't hanging around Court I would. That's probably irrelevant, though. I'm sure if I went to a mall five timezones away, he'd know before I even got inside the store."
You can barely believe the words coming out of your mouth. You're having an actual, honest to God conversation about engagement rings with her. Up until now, whenever you mentioned getting engaged, you were met with eye rolls and jokes, and half the time it usually ended in sex, always a diversion tactic on her part.
You still get an eye roll this time, but it's not directed at you. "Abe's harmless. Besides, if he did approach you about it, it couldn't possibly be any worse than when he and my mom cornered you last fall."
"Roza," you say lowly, memories of that awful, long, awkward as hell conversation flashing through your mind. "I specifically remember that being three of the longest hours of my life. I can't imagine how painful it would be if we were discussing my proposing to you."
She fucking giggles, a quiet, maniacal laugh that leaves no room for interpretation who her father is. "Well, if you do find the courage to get a ring, it better be rockstar levels of awesome. Like, minimum three diamonds. If I have to wear jewelry, I want to go all out with it."
At first, this isn't what you expected her to say about what she wanted. Practicality is her middle name if you go by her fashion sense and insistence on separate bank accounts. But on second thought, a plain, simple ring isn't really her. She's loud and unapologetic, her personality flashy and bright, like someone bejeweled her soul. The party animal that she tamped down her senior year occasionally resurfaces from time to time when she capitalizes on the benefits to having a boyfriend over twenty-one.
You've already come to the conclusion that she won't wear the ring when she's on duty, which is fine with you. You rather she only wear it part-time to protect her hand in case she ever had to throw a punch, despite the hopeless romantic in you wanting to insist she never take it off. Her nazar is her most worn piece of jewelry currently, and that usually only comes out if her parents are in town.
"I'll see what I can do," you promise, brushing your lips against her hairline as you card her dark locks back, reveling in the softness between your fingers. Her hair is your weak spot and you'll always be thrilled she doesn't mind you playing with it any chance you get.
"You may have to talk to Abe anyway," she says after a moment, and when you pull yourself from your thoughts and look down at her, she's wearing a devilish, shit-eating grin.
"Why?" you ask, unsure if you want to hear the answer.
"I would expect a man of your high morals and integrity to ask my father for my hand in marriage and all that bullshit. And anyway, he's Muslim. They're big on stuff like that, though I don't know if matters as much if he's not practicing."
You and high morals in the same sentence is laughable. "I wouldn't be asking for your hand, but that doesn't matter. I wouldn't even think about doing it unless you wanted me to."
"If it isn't my hand, what would you ask for, then?" That curious look you love so much is back.
"In Russia, it's . . ." You trail off, trying to figure out how to best phrase in English what you're trying to say. You wouldn't know where to start if you had to explain what language you think in, but important things — like anything to do with Rose — are very clearly in your native tongue. Sometimes, as a result, you have to stop and translate your thoughts for the sake of those listening. "It'd be less my asking your parents for permission to marry you and more my seeking their blessing for us to start building a family together. I'll probably also end up explaining how much I love you and am committed to your happiness, even though I've made that clear in multiple conversations already. And—" You hold up a hand when she opens her mouth. "I know we can't have children together, but that's not important because when I think about who my family is, it's only ever you who comes to mind."
Her eyes are glossy, letting you know you've hit her romantic streak. She's not the type to wax lyrical about her feelings — her declarations of love are pretty blunt, just like the rest of her — but she loves it when you do, which is good considering how often you feel compelled to remind her how much you adore her.
"When did you start thinking that?" she asks, voice soft.
"I think it was . . . actually, I don't remember," you admit, one hand still threading through her hair and the other resting on her hip. "I realized it last winter, I'd guess. You're my home and heart. You're more than all I need to find pure happiness."
When she speaks, her voice is thick. "Then what about people like your mom and sisters?"
"You can have different kinds of family. There are the people you're born to and there are the people who sneak into your life and permanently put down their roots when you're not looking, like you did to me."
"I've never . . . I've never really thought about it," she says, staring off into space, her line of sight brushing against your chest. "I have my parents, even if I didn't know my father until last year, but it's always been that they were the biological reason I'm here. Nothing more, really. There's Lissa, who will always be a sister to me no matter what. I kind of adopted her family as my own for a while, but I never considered them family, not in the sense we're talking about."
Her fingers are light as they trace swirls on your abdomen, warmth bleeding through your t-shirt. Her voice softens you like butter on the kitchen counter. The American accent isn't your favorite, but she somehow makes it pleasant to listen to, a lot less nasally and guttural than everyone else. "I've always had friends," she continues. "Eddie's kind of like a brother to me, and Mason was, too, but I never had a family so to speak. I floated through life without one, if that makes sense." She looks at you and you meet her gaze, the intensity pushing your heart off a ledge into the cavernous space of your chest. "The closest I've ever been to feeling like I had a family was when I was with yours in Baia. Both times," she adds quietly, like it's important you know this even though you're already very intimate as to how well they took care of her last year. "But I think . . . yeah, I'd call you my family if someone asked. You're the only person who completely calms me down."
You gently knock your forehead against hers, needing a moment to breathe. She may be the one getting swept off her feet by your romantic rambles on a regular basis, but on occasion, she flips the tables on you, shoving you off course without meaning to.
It feels right to share her air, and you kiss her, soft and quick, needing the clarity that comes with her mouth against yours.
"I'm serious about those three diamonds," she teases, and the moment shifts to something a little less intense, pulling you back from the airplane you felt your emotions were about to jump out of without a parachute.
"Rockstar ring," you repeat, nodding. You reach up to the bedside light and switch it off, finally tired. Your hold on her hip tightens as you both shift one last time into the kind of position that promotes falling asleep. Perfect and comfortable, just like her.
"My ring size is a seven."
How appropriate. "Noted."
"I know I sound way more pro-marriage than usual tonight—" She yawns, and knowing from memory how ridiculously cute she looks when she does so, you can't help but feel a little out-of-this-world lucky that this woman — beautiful, inspiring, and totally out of your league — chooses to fall asleep in your arms every night.
"Trust me, Rose, I'm very aware."
"—But I'm still not ready. If you popped the question tomorrow, I'd tell you to come back in six months."
She's more or less lying on top of you now, and your hands find the small of her back to gently press down, a silent showing of your understanding and accepting her feelings. A streak of heat flashes through you when she pushes her hips against yours in response. "Good," you say, "Because I'll need time to recover from talking to your parents, and that's not a conversation I think will happen any time soon."
"That's if they let you live to see the sun rise," she says around another yawn, snuggling deeper into you despite the absolute lack of space between your bodies. "I know they're still adjusting to our relationship, and my mother's the kind of person who'll punch her own daughter if she's upset enough. You telling them you're going to propose will easily push her to there, so, you know . . . good luck with that. I'll begin making arrangements for your funeral in the morning."
"Thanks. That's really reassuring."
She laughs, shrugging a shoulder. "You're the one insisting on a suicide mission. I'm just in it for the free bling."
You drag a hand down your face. "I've unleashed a monster."
"And when I say bling, I mean bling, the kind that would make Kanye West jealous."
"This conversation is getting ridiculous. You're getting ridiculous." You sound exasperated on the surface, but you know both of you can hear your tone is filled with nothing but affection.
"Yeah, but you love me."
"I do, Roza, more than I know how to comprehend."