Page 12 of Reign

My mouth parts.

“I’d tell them you don’t want to be there,” he says. “That’s not a lie.”

My brothers would tell me I’m being dramatic. Santo would say grief doesn’t excuse bad manners. Angelo would order me into the room because family doesn’t hide from family. My cousin Luca would probably offer me a drink and tell me to make everyone uncomfortable for sport.

“I’m not giving Angelo the satisfaction of thinking I’m fragile.”

“He already thinks you’re fragile.”

I whip my head toward him. “Excuse me?”

Now he glances at me, and Riot’s glances are never casual.

“He thinks everyone he loves is fragile,” Riot says. “Doesn’t mean he thinks you’re weak.”

I hate that answer.

I fold my arms and sink back against the seat. “I don’t need him hovering.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I have you.”

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

Riot’s eyes flick back to mine.

For one second, the car feels too small. Too full of the mistake neither of us is stupid enough to name.

Then he looks back at the road.

“True,” he says.

My breath catches before I can disguise it.

I turn toward the window again.

The city grows taller around us as we get closer to Angelo’s building. His penthouse rises above everything like a throne made of steel and glass. Fitting. Angelo has always had a flair for making himself unreachable.

Santo hides behind the brutality of his alter Scythe.

Angelo hides behind legacy and bloodshed.

And I—

I hide behind my mouth.

It’s served me well enough. Usually.

My fingers twitch toward my empty bag.

Riot clears his throat. “You’re thinking about it again.”

I still. “About what?”

“The journal.”

“I need to get it back,” I say.