Page 101 of Reign

I let her change the subject. I already have the answer I wanted.

There are still questions between us.

Why didn’t she tell me she was a virgin? Did I hurt her? Why did she send that questionnaire to Elite under another name?

They can wait.

Tonight, Elena has already been cornered by too many decisions she didn’t make. I have no interest in becoming another person demanding an answer before she’s ready to give it.

Beside me, she takes another angry bite and pretends to be deeply invested in her plate.

Elena seems to enjoy discovering how long people will wait before they become irritated with her.

She tested me with three minutes tonight.

I suspect she’ll become even more ambitious once she realizes I’m playing too.

Good.

I’ve always been excellent at waiting.

Chapter 18

Elena

The bed is too soft.

So damn perfect, like everything else in this perfect house with Luciano and his perfect face.

Ugh.

I throw the pillow over my face. The perfect soft pillow won’t even smother me properly with its breathable fucking fabric.

I toss it aside.

I get up. I shower. I take longer than necessary because stalling feels like the only power I have right now.

I dress carefully—not for him, I tell myself, but because I have standards. Black crop top, high-waisted jeans that fit like they were made for me, boots that add two inches to my height. I pull my hair back in a low ponytail, dark and sleek, and I take my time on my makeup.

Not for Luciano Castillo.

I grab my notebook-the small one I carry everywhere, the one with my sketches, while I tuck pencils into my pocket. If I’m going to be held captive in Architectural Digest, I might as well work on my designs.

I force myself not to look around too obviously. I don’t want to admit how perfectly this house suits me—or that Luciano Castillo has taste.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and I can hear him before I see him. The soft clink of ceramic. The pour of liquid. The kind of domestic sounds that make my chest tight because they remind me of everything I don’t have, everything I won’t let myself want.

I turn toward the kitchen, and there he is.

God. The man is annoyingly perfect.

He’s leaning against the counter, coffee cup in hand, dressed in dark jeans that fit him like they were tailored—which they probably were—and a casual shirt that somehow manages to look expensive and effortless. His sleeves are pushed up, exposing forearms that are unfairly distracting. His hair is still slightly damp from a shower, dark and combed back.

He looks like he belongs on the cover of a magazine about men who have never encountered a problem they couldn’t solve with money, violence, or both.

His gaze lifts when I enter.

It moves over me once. Unhurried. It stops at the narrow strip of skin between my waistband and crop top. Then returns to my face.