Page 119 of Reign

He’s still arrogant, controlling, impossible, and far too entertained by every reaction he gets from me.

But curious wasn’t a lie.

That part is inconvenient.

I lean closer to the mirror and swipe gloss over my bottom lip.

If Angelo is already considering men for me, eventually one of them becomes real. He’ll pretend I have a choice because I’m allowed to complain before everyone does whatever they want anyway.

Unless I choose first.

My reflection stares back at me, and Luciano slips into my thoughts before I can stop him.

The gloss wand stops against my lip.

Ridiculous.

Luciano enjoys provoking me. He likes watching me blush, argue, and accidentally answer questions I’m trying to avoid. That doesn’t mean he wants me.

He offered to train me because he knows this world. Because apparently reading sex questionnaires and memorizing strangers’ hard limits is a respectable profession when the furniture is expensive enough.

Besides, Luciano Castillo isn’t going to marry me. He disappears into private clubs and comes home with glitter on his shirt. I’m not built for the kind of womanhood that smiles while a man touches other people and then returns to me.

Not that Angelo is likely to find someone loyal, patient, sexually competent, familiar with consent, and willing to maintain a reasonable supply of frozen berries.

My standards are becoming inconveniently specific.

Still, Luciano could teach me what I need to know. Once I understand what I want—and what I absolutely don’t—I can make the decision before Angelo makes it for me.

Luciano knows the men in this world. He knows which ones understand control and which ones use it as an excuse for cruelty.

He can give me options.

A controlled list.

The idea settles some of the panic.

I finish my makeup and go downstairs before I can lose my nerve.

I find Luciano sitting in the living room.

With my sketchbook in his hand.

Every reasonable thought abandons me. I want to yell, snatch it away, and ask who the hell gave him permission to touch my things.

Instead, I stop in the doorway and inhale slowly.

I need a favor.

Unfortunately, strangling him would probably lessen my chances of receiving it.

“Excuse me,” I say with enough restraint to qualify for sainthood. “Hi.”

Luciano doesn’t startle or attempt to hide what he’s doing. He reaches the bottom of the page, closes the sketchbook carefully, and places it on the table beside him.

“Good morning, princesa.”

“You were looking at my sketchbook.”