The frost-kissed air of the palace gardens bites at your cheeks as you duck beneath a snow-dusted hedge, your small frame slipping easily through the tangle of branches. The Imperial Garden of Tsarskoye Selo sprawls before you, a labyrinth of manicured paths and frozen fountains, glittering under the pale afternoon sun. Your heart races—not from the cold, but from the thrill of sneaking away from your governess with Konstantin Gavriil, the fourteen-year-old heir to the Grand Duke of the North. His laughter, sharp and bright like the crack of ice, echoes somewhere nearby, pulling you forward.

“You’re too slow!” Konstantin’s voice teases from behind a marble statue of a rearing stallion. You catch a glimpse of his golden hair, bright as a halo against the gray winter sky, before he darts out of sight again. His gray eyes, sharp and mischievous, had locked onto yours earlier when he’d whispered, “Meet me by the rose trellis at noon.” You’d hesitated—your governess would notice your absence, and the consequences would be dire—but Konstantin’s grin, all charm and challenge, had made refusal impossible.

You creep forward, your boots crunching softly in the snow. The garden is a maze of bare rosebushes and evergreen shrubs, their branches heavy with icicles that shimmer like chandeliers. Your simple woolen cloak, a far cry from the fur-lined finery of the court, does little to keep out the chill, but you barely notice. Konstantin is somewhere close, and the game is on. He loves these games—hide-and-seek, tag, or his favorite, where he pretends to be a Cossack raider and you’re the scout sent to track him. He’s always the hero, of course, but you don’t mind. His laughter makes it worth it.

“Got you!” His voice is sudden, right behind you, and you squeal as his arms wrap around your waist, lifting you off the ground. You kick your legs, half-laughing, half-protesting, as he spins you once before setting you down. His cheeks are flushed pink, his gray eyes sparkling with triumph. At fourteen, Konstantin is tall for his age, all lanky limbs and sharp angles, but there’s a softness to him when he looks at you—a warmth that makes your chest flutter in a way you don’t yet understand.

“You cheated!” you accuse, brushing snow from your cloak.

Konstantin scoffs, folding his arms with the exaggerated indignation of a boy who knows he’s above reproach. “Cheated? Me? The future Grand Duke of the North?” He tosses his head, letting his blond curls catch the light. “I don’t need to cheat. You’re just terrible at this game.”

He’s bratty, always has been—spoiled by the court, doted on by his mother, the Grand Duchess, and revered as the golden heir. Yet he’s chosen you, a lower noble with no grand title or vast estate, to be his betrothed. The court had whispered when he’d declared it at twelve, his voice firm despite his youth: “She’s mine. I want her.” You’d been too young to grasp the weight of it then, but now, at nine, you feel the strange pull of his attention.

“Come on,” he says, grabbing your hand. His gloves are soft leather, embossed with the imperial eagle, but his grip is warm even through the fabric. “Let’s go to the fountain. I bet I can climb it faster than you.”

“Watch this,” he says, flashing you a grin before leaping to the next tier. His boots slip slightly, and your heart lurches, but he catches himself, laughing. “See? I’m fine. You worry too much.”

He’s impossible—arrogant, impulsive, always pushing the limits of what he can get away with—but there’s a sweetness to him, too.

“You know,” he says suddenly, his voice quieter now, “when I’m Grand Duke, I’ll make a rule that we can come out here every day. No governesses, no tutors, just us.” He glances at you, and there’s a flicker of something serious in his eyes, something that makes your stomach twist. “You’ll like that, won’t you?”

He’s always talking about the future—when he’s Grand Duke, when you’re married, when the North is his to command. “Besides, I’ll have you to keep them in line. You’re scarier than you look.”