Page 128 of Reign

I hate him.

“Third,” he says, “I need honest answers from you. That includes telling me when you don’t know the answer yet. You don’t omit information that could change what I’m willing to do with you.”

The bathroom immediately enters the conversation without being invited.

“I know,” I mutter. “Virginity. Relevant information.”

“Excellent. We’re learning.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

At least he’s honest.

I write:

Do not lie. Relevant omissions count.

Beneath it, I add:

Rude.

His gaze lowers to the page again.

“You’re reading my private notes.”

“They’re written in large letters.”

“I believe in accessibility.”

“That’s admirable.”

I underline rude while he watches.

“Fourth, you tell me about discomfort when it happens,” he says. “Physical or emotional. If something frightens you, you say it. If something hurts in a way you don’t like, you say it. You can be embarrassed and honest at the same time.”

That feels unfairly targeted.

“Curious is allowed,” he continues. “Nervous is allowed. Wanting something while being afraid of it is allowed. Your pride doesn’t get to answer for you.”

I write:

Be emotionally naked. Pride doesn’t get a vote.

Then:

Rude again.

“You’ve already used rude,” he says.

“You continue earning it.”

A quiet laugh leaves him. “Very thorough.”

“I believe in keeping an accurate record.”

“Then add this: sarcasm is allowed. Using it to avoid an honest answer isn’t.”