Chapter 5

Him

What a priss. Thinking she's so high and mighty with her fancy speaking and fancy styles. The only upside to having her in the house is she's fun to annoy. Life around here was unbearably boring before—nothing like Slavokrainia. 

Every time I walk down these polished hallways, I think of home—the cracks in my old leather work boots, the dirt under my fingernails. Even the stables here are uppity. Everything is so… suffocating. 

So many rules. Not that there weren't before, but I was a farmhand more than anything else—none of this "footman" nonsense. Stupid uniforms, titles, and serving order. As if dressing up like a penguin makes you more respectable. 

Of course, when the Mistress asked me to come with her, I didn't hesitate. I thought Angloria would be a new adventure. Instead, I traded my nights of drinking and days of working with animals for the uppity ways of Anglorian life. 

Annoying her is at least a way to pass the time. 

Teasing her is just too easy. She flushes with anger, purses her lips, and that look in her eyes—an absolute riot. She is just so small, and she looks so funny when she's angry, like an irritated barn kitten woken from a nap in the hay. 

I've had to be careful, though, only making small jabs and never around Stephens or Hobbs. I know they can't really fire me since the Mistress brought me here, and they shouldn't scare me because I could easily take them, but something about the way they stare you down all stern-like gives me chills. Must be the Anglorian air getting to me. 

The cold winter sunlight filters into the stairwell, the faint scent of wax polish lingering in the air. I lie in wait, standing where I know she'll pass. 

I've learned her schedule, her routes, carefully placing myself where we'll cross paths—just out of the wardens' sight. Through meticulous elimination, I've discovered the best ways to get under her skin—the best of which seems to be simply being myself. 

I also make sure I say things properly in Anglorian so she can't act superior about my speaking. Not that her thinking I'm an oaf would bother me, I tell myself. That would be silly. 

Although she does try her best to insult me, too. I'd rather have to swim naked in the middle of winter than admit she gets to me. 

Her biting comments aren't anything I haven't heard before, but the way she says them makes me want to prove her wrong. 

Hearing the telltale steps above me, I straighten up and try to appear casual. 

 ---------------------

Her

I hear the soft scuff of boots and sigh. Of course, he's waiting for me on the stairs again. 

Honestly, you'd think he'd realize I'm smart enough to know when someone is following me. 

Every day, he situates himself on my path, and if I dare to confront him about it, he smirks and makes up a flimsy excuse about a task nearby—on top of calling me paranoid and self-important. 

Even changing my routes doesn't work— he just learns those too, like it's a game.

Infuriating doesn't even begin to describe him. Vulgar, too. 

Despite all this, I don't believe I'm in any actual danger from him. He's just there—like an itch I can't quite scratch. 

Every step I take feels like a clock ticking down to the moment he'll open his mouth. I brace myself for our oncoming verbal sparring, lighting my head up a little higher as I round the corner and see him. 

"You know, I think I've figured it out." 

Already, I'm on edge. This can't be good. Still, I can't not rise to his challenge. 

"Oh? And what might that be?" 

"There's a Slavokrainian tale called The Unsmiling Tsarevna, about a princess who never smiles. You remind me of her, with that sour face of yours." 

He looks utterly triumphant, as if he's just discovered the secrets of the universe. I grit my teeth. 

"I smile plenty, just not around you." I remark swiftly, moving past him.

"Ha! I don't believe it. You always look as if you eat lemons for fun. Is that it, lady maid? A lemon-eating habit that makes you so bitter?" 

I look back at him, my brows bunching and my lips pursed. Too late, I realize I'm proving his point. 

He lets out a satisfied chuckle as I snap my head back to the door. I once again try to leave. 

"I'll have to start calling you Limonskiy." 

He knows what he's doing. Using my ignorance of his language against me. Ridiculous. And yet, it embeds itself in my brain like a thorn. 

Limonskiy. 

I stop abruptly on the stair landing and whip around to face him. 

"Do you always talk this much?" I seethe. " I feel as if I should be compensated for you wasting my time."

"Compensate you? And here I thought I was being generous—for not, as you Anglorian ones say, charging a penny for my thoughts." 

He gives me that stupid smirk that makes me see red. 

I scoff and step closer, staring him down. 

"I think I haven't heard anything from your mouth worth more than the dirt I track in on my shoes." 

Smiling ruefully, his jaw clenches, and I am suddenly acutely aware of how much larger than me he is. 

The space between us feels as thin as paper. Our breaths mingle as we stare each other down. 

My heart jumps to my throat, beating erratically. I smother the feeling, fighting the urge to cast my eyes away from his towering form. Every nerve is on edge, my senses acutely aware of the person in front of me. 

I brace myself, but I feel utterly small. A large part of my brain tells me to run, that it's dangerous to stay so close to someone so large—especially while he's annoyed. 

But another part whispers softly: See what he'll do. 

Caught between self-preservation and curiosity, I wait with baited breath. 

My feelings are only thrown into further confusion, instead of snapping back, he simply leans in slightly and softens his voice. 

"I'll try harder to please you more in the future then, Limonskiy." 

His eyes trap me. They still burn with something—but is it anger? Amusement? Or something else entirely? 

I hate that I can't tell. 

Is he testing me? Does he want to see me falter?

 I'm utterly bewildered, and I can't think of a reply. 

He hovers there a moment, his face only inches from mine. 

Then, suddenly, he moves away. 

The room exhales. His absence is as disorientating as his presence. 

Somehow, I feel like I lost—even though I had the last word. ​​

The air suddenly cools, his warmth leaving with him. I press my back against the smooth marble of the stairwell. 

I can do nothing but stand there, listening to the rare silence beyond my own heartbeat. 

I press a hand to my chest and feel the rapid rise and fall of my breaths. 

No one—no one—has ever had this effect on me. 

He always had to win. 

It's maddening how easily he gets under my skin. 

I hate it. And worse, I hate that I can't seem to stop him. 

I stare up at the spiralling floors of stairs. 

Damn it all.