Page 105 of Reign

I hate that it understands me back.

“This is stupid,” I whisper.

Then I sit on the couch and groan. The couch is perfect too.

I tuck one leg beneath me, open my notebook, and try not to think about the fact that this house and its owner are trying to swallow me whole.

I take a pencil from my pocket and I flip my book to a blank page.

At first, I sketch nonsense.

A neckline. A sleeve. The curve of a bodice. A fall of fabric that could become a dress if I stop being irritated long enough to let it.

But irritation is good for design sometimes.

Anger gives shape to things. So I let my pencil move.

I sketch a gown with a high neck and an open back. Something severe from the front and devastating from behind. Black silk. Long sleeves. A waist that cinches like a warning. Then I add a row of tiny buttons beginning at the small of the back and disappearing into the skirt, because I’m apparently in the mood to make things difficult for imaginary women.

My shoulders loosen. The house goes quiet around me.

Peaceful.

I don’t know how long I sketch before footsteps cross the room behind me.

I know it’s him before I look up.

Luciano comes into the living room carrying my bowl in one hand and utensils in the other.

My berries are darker now, frosted at the edges. The coconut water has been poured over them, turning the bottom of the bowl pale and icy.

But there are cherries on top. All bright, glossy and deep red.

My throat tightens. I stare at them. Then at him.

“You put cherries in it.”

“You like them.”

“I said I shouldn’t have them.”

“You didn’t say you didn’t want them.”

That should annoy me.

It does annoy me.

It also makes something strange and warm open beneath my ribs, which is worse.

He sets the bowl on the coffee table in front of me. Beside it, he places a fork and a spoon.

“Both?”

“I didn’t know which one you needed.”

“So you brought both?”

“Yes.”