Monarch

2. Elena

2

ELENA

L orne’s hands are already at his zipper.

He pulls it down, reaching inside. I make a squeaking sound.

“ Eep!”

He glances up, blue eyes quizzical beneath his untidy mop of hair.

“What’s wrong?”

“I…you know, I’ve just never…I haven’t…” He stares at me while I stammer.

Then he cocks his head as something computes. “Are you saying you’re actually a virgin?”

My face cheeks burn as I stare down at his pristinely vacuumed floor mats.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “I told you that…”

Lorne’s laughter jerks my head up.

“I’m sorry,” he says, still chuckling as he tucks himself away. “I didn’t take all that stuff seriously. You know, all the girls put that dedicated homemaker, pure as the driven snow bullshit on their profiles. I didn’t think you’d actually never…”

I shake my head.

“Not even, like, a blow job, or…?”

I don’t think he’s judging. I think he’s gauging what I might be willing to do.

I am willing. But there’s no way I’m going to be able to fake my way through this.

I shake my head. “I’ve never even had a boyfriend.”

The silence is painful. But Lorne doesn’t look angry. In fact, he’s staring at me in wonder.

“That’s amazing. And you’re really twenty-seven?”

“Yes.” I try not to sound annoyed. “Everything I told you was true.”

And I told you almost everything.

“Me too,” Lorne says, maybe a little too hastily. I don’t want to be suspicious. But if I’m not suspicious at all, am I an idiot?

Trust has to be earned, just like love.

Still laughing to himself, Lorne says, “You’d never see that around here.”

Lorne makes a lot of statements about things you’d “never see” where he lives. He seems to delight in my difference.

I hope that remains true when the novelty wears off.

“No big deal.” He restarts the engine, backs out, and returns to the road. His hand is relaxed now, draped across the top of the wheel.

I’m studying the side of his face in little bursts, making sure he really doesn’t mind.

Lorne doesn’t seem angry. Actually, he almost seems…excited?

The edge of his mouth is tugging in the right direction, and the energy in the car feels encouraging. When he turns on the music, the song he plays has a sensual vibe.

Lorne puts his hand back on my knee.

“I kinda like that you haven’t had any boyfriends before.”

This time, he lets his hand sit there instead of moving it higher.

That gives me time to relax. I take slow breaths, watching the forest spool by like one long, endless reel, always different but still one organism.

We have deep forests like this in Ukraine—giant pines, huge expanses with barely any people. But I always lived in a city. In a tiny apartment, actually.

Lorne told me all about the house he’s building, how there are trees all around, a writing room in the attic, a garden for Ivy…

We’re supposed to live in that house.

But a few minutes ago, he said something different.

“You mentioned that Ivy’s at a hotel?”

Lorne grimaces. His hands grip the wheel.

“Yeah.” His voice sounds different from before, tighter and lower. “The house isn’t finished. It’s not going to be finished for a few more weeks, actually.”

My stomach squeezes. We talked on the phone less than twenty-four hours ago, and he didn’t mention any of that.

Lorne notes my discomfort.

“It’s been really fucking stressful. I didn’t want to worry you, and I thought it was going to be done on time.” He hastens to add, “The hotel is beautiful; it’s the nicest one in Grimstone. I mean, there’s this new one up the bay, but all the locals hate it. Trust me, I got us into the right spot.”

He gives me a hopeful look, trying to earn back my approval.

What am I balking at–staying at a nice hotel? Look where I’m coming from—Mina and I shared a bunk bed. I had four cubic feet of closet space.

She’s got to be a little bit glad I moved out. And a whole lot jealous.

“That sounds lovely,” I say, putting my hand on top of Lorne’s.

He smiles at me, but then he takes his hand away at the next light. But maybe that was just to make the turn.

We’re heading into the actual town now, which is tiny and picturesque. Lorne told me only a few people live in the cluster of buildings around Main Street. Most built their cabins in the far-flung hills.

“People like their privacy around here.”

Including my fiancé, apparently. The house he’s building is nearly twenty minutes out of town. Longer, he said, if it’s been snowing.

“We didn’t pass by the house…” I should have realized we wouldn’t. I suppose I’m still fixated on the idea from when I thought that’s where we’d be headed first.

Lorne says, “I can take you to see it tomorrow.”

“Okay.” I shouldn’t get so set on things; it’s one of my worst traits, Mina always says so. It’s not Lorne’s fault the house isn’t done. He’s probably really stressed. We’re supposed to get married there in a few weeks. “Will the house be done in time for the wedding?”

“It better be,” he mutters. “Ugh, sorry, it’s been a fucking nightmare. You’ll like the Monarch, though; it’s like old Italy in there. The owner’s such a character, really dour and ogreish, but he’ll treat you like royalty. The restaurant’s incredible, and there’s a café down the street… Honestly, this might be for the best. You’ll have a lot more to do staying in town while I’m finishing the book.”

Lorne warned me that he’s working against a tight deadline, and he’ll need to spend a lot of time writing over the next couple of months.

I can’t say that I mind. I’m not used to spending all day long with someone, and I can’t get a job myself until I upgrade my visa.

The only question is, what will I do all day? I can’t remember the last time I had three days off in a row, let alone weeks, or even— gulp —months.

It’s thrilling and terrifying.

I scan the rows of shops, knowing I’ll probably have time to wander through every single one.

Grimstone is like a gingerbread village, if someone bashed it around a bit and spray-painted the alleyways. The slight dinginess is cheering after Lorne’s intimidating car. The tattoo shop looks just as likely to give me tetanus as the ones back home.

“Planning all the cute clothes you’ll buy?” Lorne teases me.

I’m embarrassed that he thinks I’m already imagining swiping his credit card. We’re both aware it’s going to have to be his card—I doubt I can afford a pair of socks in this place. Not without breaking the one and only American hundred-dollar bill I tucked in the sole of my sock, the proceeds of selling my beloved library.

“I don’t need a lot of stuff.”

“Of course you do! And that’s okay, Elena. I told you, I’m not hurting for money. Look, I already got this for you.”

He hands me an impossibly shiny credit card with my full name printed on it, Elena Daryna Zelenska.

The card is shiny because nobody has ever touched it or used it before. Lorne got it just for me.

It’s surprisingly heavy in my hand.

“Buy yourself some pretty things. Stuff like this.” He gives my dress an approving nod.

This dress is not actually what I would buy, given the choice. Especially not in October in Grimstone. It belonged to Mina, as did the dress I wore the day I met Lorne.

I guess that’s where I was just a little bit deceptive—I never told him I live in jeans. Now I have to deal with the consequences.

“Sure,” I say, adding hopefully, “and maybe some pants…”

Lorne is magnanimous. “Whatever you need.” He pulls the car to the curb, takes my hand, looks into my eyes. “I want you to be happy here, Elena.”

I gaze back at him, this man who’s been nothing but nice to me. The man offering everything I’ve ever wanted…

I smile, squeezing his hand. “I know I will be.”

He kisses me softly on the mouth. It’s probably the lightest kiss he’s given me—he’s definitely treating me more gently since the v-word.

We’ve only ever kissed six times total, counting this one and the one at the airport. The rest were all on that very first, magical day. Lorne flew home early the next morning—he said he never leaves his daughter for long.

I’d like to kiss him back like I’m not an awkward virgin, if such a thing could be managed, but my car door unexpectedly opens.

A bellman holds out a gloved hand. He’s wearing the classic short-cropped jacket with braid and brass buttons, even the drum-shaped hat. Lorne was right; this place is old-fashioned.

I gaze up at the Gothic facade of the Monarch Hotel. It towers overhead, by far the tallest building on Main Street, weathered black stone with intricate scrolling around its cavernous doorways and pointed-arch windows.

The carved double doors might have been taken off a cathedral. But we enter a space as cool and dark as a sumptuously draped cave.

Walls, carpets, curtains, and furniture in shades of the deepest peacock green are contrasted by silver candelabras and ebony wood. A stone fireplace dwarfs the check-in desk, the birch logs cold. The windows don’t let in much light. Though it’s only four o’clock, we’ve entered immediate evening.

Lorne said old Italy…more like old Transylvania.

I smile to myself.

“You like it?” Lorne is pleased. He squeezes my hand.

A petite and pretty girl with pink cheeks and brilliant dark eyes greets us from the front desk. “Welcome back, Mr. Ronson! I have a few messages for you.”

Lorne steps forward to read them. I interest myself in a jewel-toned stuffed parrot inside a gilded cage taller than myself. Even in my highest heels, the parrot’s perch is right at eye level. When I bend in for a better look, its extreme stillness becomes an enraged squawk.

I stumble back. It would have been all the way backward if not for the immense hands that catch me at my waist and wrist.

“Allow me, Mrs. Ronson…”

I’m easily steadied, a doll set back on the shelf.

I felt the oversized hands and even sensed his bulk behind me. But I’m still stunned when I turn around.

The man who caught me is enormous, shoulders stretching the limits of what must be a custom-made suit. He’s got tar-black hair and even darker eyes, deeply set under thick brows. A permanent shadow stains his jawline. His face is surly, heavy like a boxer’s, and his voice is low and rough. But his manners are as elegant as his dinner jacket.

It’s me who’s clumsy. And embarrassed, because I can’t tell a living creature from a toy.

“I’d apologize on his behalf, but he does it on purpose,” says the Goliath man, tilting his head toward the parrot. “I’m Atlas, by the way.”

Stupidly, I say, “This is your hotel.”

“It is.” There’s emotion in those two little words. Pride, maybe. Attachment, most definitely.

He looks like he belongs to this hotel, as if he grew here like one of the immense pillars at the foot of the staircase.

With feeling, I say, “It’s beautiful, like a jewel. So’s your little devil parrot.”

I examine him again now that I know he’s alive, the undersized bird with the beady black eyes. He had his head tucked under his wing before. Now he gives me a superior look.

When I glance back at the hotelier, his expression has softened. Probably from looking at the bird. This cage is nicer than some people’s houses. Add the array of fruit in the dish and it’s clear he’s partial to this parrot.

“What’s his name?”

“Toulouse.”

“Like the painter?”

“Exactly like him—he once broke his leg, and he loves to drink absinthe.”

I laugh. The laugh is what makes Lorne turn around.

“Atlas!” He strides forward, holding out his hand, leaving the girl behind at the desk.

“Mr. Ronson.”

The hotelier shakes hands with my fiancé, who seemed to shrink the closer Atlas walked. Lorne has to tilt up his head to look at him, almost as much as I do.

Atlas must have been a gargantuan baby to earn his name so soon. Or it’s a nickname. I won’t be asking. Regardless of what Lorne said, the vibe here is not royalty/peasant. It’s more like two lords conversing, and only one of them owns this castle.

I’m the serving maid posing as a princess. And I think Atlas knows it. People who work in hospitality can tell the price of your shoes in an instant. He’ll know my red bottoms are fake, just like I know Lorne’s sunglasses are real.

But Atlas doesn’t give me that look, like Pretty Woman snuck into his hotel. He’s just as respectful to me as he is to Lorne.

“Would you like me to show you to your room, Mrs. Ronson?”

“I’m sure Lorne can.”

“I booked you a separate suite,” Lorne says smoothly. “So I have my own space to work.”

“Right. Of course.” I try to act like it’s not a surprise, but I’m sure Atlas notices that, too. His eyes rest on my face like he’s determining what sort of wife drives her husband to request his own room.

Did Lorne tell him we’re married already? We will be in the next ninety days…before my visa expires.

If not, I’ll be shipped back home.

Back to my problem.

So, let’s hope nothing goes wrong.

Atlas scans my face. Before he turns away, the edge of his mouth quirks up. It almost feels like a message passing between us, a return to the amusement we shared over his parrot, though I’m not sure why.

He says, “I think you’ll like your room. It looks out over the rose garden and the ocean.”

Grimstone is a coastal town, the shops perched on a cliff too high to hear the waves below. You have to take stairs down to the beach.

Lorne described it all to me, though nothing gave me a sense of the scale: the vast, dark woods dwarfing the tiny gingerbread town, hours away from any other place.

America is a land of wilderness still, like Russia, like Ukraine. You can get lost here. You can disappear.

That’s what I wanted. But disappearing sounds comforting when you’re still at home, like tucking into your favorite hiding spot. When it’s actually happening, it feels like falling down a long, dark hole.

Atlas takes us into a filigreed elevator only a little bigger than his parrot’s cage. It sinks several alarming inches beneath his bulk.

“Jesus,” Lorne mutters. The elevator barely dipped when he stepped inside.

I really, really don’t want to get inside. I don’t like elevators. Especially not small, metal ones.

Lorne and Atlas stare at me, waiting.

“Climb in,” Lorne says.

Atlas promises, “It’s stronger than it looks.”

His rumbling bass is oddly calming. And credible. I suppose if Atlas trusts his bulk to this elevator each day, I shouldn’t worry.

Sweating a little, I slip in next to Lorne.

Atlas closes the cage door, and the elevator rises slowly and steadily to the top floor.

Atlas leads us down a hallway of botanical wallpaper and iron candelabras. Lorne trails behind, examining the portraits on the walls. They catch my attention as well—black-haired girls in muslin dresses punting on a lily-strewn lake, a stern older woman in a man’s dark suit, and a slouching boy with his large, well-shaped hands spread over a piano.

“Did these people stay at the Monarch?” Lorne asks.

I already know that’s wrong before Atlas answers. “They’re my family.”

I noticed the resemblance.

“Is the one in the suit your mother?” It slips out too soft for Lorne to hear. Atlas’s nod is likewise too subtle to catch. Unless you were watching for it.

It feels like another secret between us.

I don’t want to have secrets. I’m trying to escape my secrets, actually. So I fall back until I’m walking with Lorne instead.

He says, “Told you this place was cool.”

“It’s gorgeous. Even nicer than the hotel in Lviv.”

“Well, that place was a dump.”

It was the nicest hotel I’d ever stepped foot inside before today, with a chandelier as big as a car in the huge central lobby. I experience another uneasy twinge of dread, trying to figure out just exactly how poor I am compared to Lorne.

It’s very confusing. I wish he had a normal sort of job even though, at first, I was thrilled when he told me he was an author. A bestselling author—he said it exactly like that.

I slopped my coffee onto the cafe table, squeaking out, “I work at a bookshop!”

I said it like it was destiny that Lorne and I met, even though that’s ridiculous. I’m not soul mates with the baker if I sweep up his crumbs.

But Lorne acted like it really was the same thing. “It’s fate,” he said, laughing along with me.

It did sort of seem like fate that we both gave up on the romance tour after an hour and went down to the same café. And sat at the same table. And even ordered the same pastry. It all felt so magical and perfect that first day.

The phone calls afterward were almost just as good. We seemed to have plenty in common. Lorne was so charming and easy to talk to; even just listening to him was nice. I looked forward to hearing his voice, escaping the Lviv sleet and the drudgery of stocking shelves and my aunt and uncle arguing to talk to my boyfriend. My American boyfriend.

When he proposed to me just a few weeks later over the phone, I felt a bolt of joy and relief. This is actually happening!

I was running out of time. The bookshop I worked at had been sold, ownership transferring in a matter of weeks. Which meant that my looming problem was about to come crashing down on my head.

Lorne saved me just in time. The plane ticket he bought me was a literal ticket to freedom.

And here I am, in the country of my dreams, holding hands with a man who wants to marry me.

So, what’s this strange awkwardness now that we’re finally together? Why do I suddenly feel so nervous?

Atlas reaches my room, the last door at the end of the hall.

“The ones by me were already booked,” Lorne notes without much apology.

“I can have you moved closer when a guest vacates,” Atlas offers.

Lorne considers. “That would be good.”

I ask, “Where’s Ivy?”

Lorne’s mouth tightens in a way that makes his lips go white. “Her room is next to mine. I’ll take you over after we drop off your stuff.”

Atlas unlocks the door with an actual metal key, not a card, and enters to open the drapes. The window looks out over a walled garden with a flat expanse of dark and distant ocean beyond, just like he said.

It’s a lonely view but peaceful, too, without a single human being in it.

The bed is an ornate four-poster, the ceiling higher than you’d expect.

“This room’s nicer than mine,” Lorne says, slightly annoyed.

“They’re the same square footage,” Atlas states. “The rooms on the top floor have vaulted ceilings.”

When Lorne still looks slightly piqued, I offer, “Do you want to switch?”

“No.” He frowns. “Because of Ivy.”

“Right, sorry.”

“I’ll let you get settled in,” Atlas says.

It feels like he’s leaving the room because we’re fighting. Are we fighting? There’s definitely tension.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt, trying to relax.

I’m blowing this out of proportion. I’m acting odd because I’m alone with Lorne in a way we weren’t at the airport or even in the car. Now we’re standing right next to a bed.

He’s obviously thinking the same thing. The scowl melts off his face and he crosses the room, taking me in his arms.

“Alone at last…”

He kisses me, and it’s not as gentle as before. Now his hands are running up and down my back beneath my coat.

“That turned me on, what you told me in the car.” He pulls me against his body so I can feel his erection through his jeans.

“I’m glad you’re not disappointed.”

“Are you kidding me?” His hands roam up and down my back and even cup my ass, casual and possessive. “That’s fucking hot. I’m going to be the first person to…you know. Everything.”

“Pretty much.”

He pulls back slightly to examine my face. “What have you done before?”

I’d really rather he didn’t ask. First of all, because my total amount of sexual experience could fill a teaspoon, and second, because I don’t want him to talk about his past partners. I’m nervous enough already.

“I’ve…been touched down there, once or twice.”

Drunken fumbling at a couple of parties, mostly over clothes. I got sick and puked before it went any further.

I’m wondering if I even should have admitted that. Is Lorne going to get jealous now that he’s decided he likes me all sweet and innocent?

But he only seems more aroused. His hand snakes up under my hair and seizes the back of my neck. “That’s sexy. Did you ever come when they touched you?”

“No.” I shake my head, as much as I can when he’s holding me like that.

“Have you ever had an orgasm?”

Once when Mina was sleeping, I got close. A tingling that seemed like it might turn into something more. But then it faded away to dullness instead.

“No.”

Lorne takes in a sharp breath. His shaggy hair hangs down over his eyes so all I see are his full, pale lips. Gripping me by the back of the neck, his other hand slides up under my skirt.

“I could make you come…”

My skin flushes. This isn’t like in the car—then, I was terrified, like I’d just been asked to step onstage and sing an opera. Now, safe and alone in a hotel room, I’m willing to give it a try.

I part my knees, arms wrapped around Lorne’s neck. I kiss him, highly conscious of his fingers sliding up my inner thigh, hooking in the gusset of my underwear, pulling it to the side. His fingertips touch my bare pussy lips. I’m not tipsy at a party this time—I’m completely conscious and extremely aware as he slides his fingers back and forth, searching for my clit.

It’s small and sort of hidden. I know that much from my own explorations.

Lorne rubs his fingers back and forth, softly at first, then harder like he’s starting a fire.

It feels good, but it’s pretty intense.

I lay my hand on the back of his, trying to indicate that slightly less friction might be nice, but much like in the car, he flicks it off.

“Lie down on the bed,” he orders.

I lie down on the queen-sized mattress, noticeably plush even in this moment. Lorne drops down next to me, a determined look on his face.

“Spread your legs.”

I open my knees again, but it’s hard to keep them open when he rubs hard. My reflex is to curl up like a crab.

“You’re not getting very wet,” Lorne observes, his hand working between my legs.

“I’m sorry.”

“Do you masturbate?”

“Sometimes.” This isn’t going well. I’m already disappointing him.

“You need to practice,” Lorne says. “You should be able to come when I touch you like this.”

My stomach sinks and my face burns. “I’m sorry.”

I apologize again because it does seem rude, my pussy barely responding when he’s kissing me and touching me like this.

Actually, it’s kind of starting to hurt a little, the incessant friction making me irritated and raw. It might be okay if I were wet, but I’m not.

It must be because I’m nervous. Lorne is really good-looking. Brilliant and charming. He even smells good, like soap. What’s wrong with me?

“I’ll practice,” I promise him.

Lorne takes away his hand and sits up on the bed, frowning slightly. “I’ll get you some good porn so you know what I like.”

“Okay.”

That seems…mature, I guess?

Married people have to be able to talk about sex. They should tell each other what they like.

If Lorne shows me, that’s even easier. After all, I really don’t know what I’m doing. I probably should have watched some porn before I came, like an instructional video.

“We’ll wait to have sex until our wedding night.” Lorne nods like it’s settled.

“Okay.”

I can’t tell if I’m disappointed or relieved. On the one hand, I feel slightly rejected. But on the other, it’s considerate of Lorne to give me space and time. Most dudes would be pressuring me to hop into bed this instant since we’re already engaged.

Not that I have a ring. I wonder if Atlas noticed my bare finger. Lorne didn’t want to risk mailing one to me through the Ukraine postal system. I wonder if he bought it already or if we’ll go shopping together.

A real diamond engagement ring…Mina will combust with envy. None of her boyfriends ever gave her anything like that.

I kiss Lorne, trying to convince him and myself that I can catch up in sex like I always caught up in school, by studying and cramming.

“Thanks for being patient.”

“I am patient.” He bites my lower lip. “For a little while.”