Page 140 of Reign

“Finish your water, Elena.”

“Yes, Luciano,” she says, far too sweetly to be sincere.

I laugh.

I can’t wait to train that mouth.

Chapter 24

Elena

Three days into training, I’ve discovered Luciano Castillo’s cruelest talent.

Anticipation.

He teaches me how to kneel, how to hold his gaze, how to answer honestly when he asks for a color. He calls me princesa in that low voice of his, lets his eyes travel wherever they want, and stands close enough for my body to prepare for things he obviously has no intention of doing.

Three days, and he still hasn’t touched me anywhere that counts.

We’ve covered posture, kneeling, colors, honesty, eye contact, yes, no, maybe, try that again without the sarcasm, Elena, and enough hydration to sustain me through a natural disaster.

Somehow, he has turned introductory training into the longest edging session of my life.

He knows it, too. I see it in the slow curve of his mouth whenever my attention drops to his hands.

The east office has become my refuge.

Temporary, according to Luciano.

Apparently, temporary means moving an entire bed out of the room, bringing in two dress forms, clearing a wall of books I didn’t understand, and giving me enough space to organize my fabrics by color, weight, and emotional importance.

The room smells like cotton, silk, paper, and the faint clean bite of steam from the iron. Morning light pours through the windows and turns the pale fabric on the mannequin almost gold. I stand back with a pin caught between my teeth, studying the drape of the skirt.

It’s going to be gorgeous.

I can already see it. Structured bodice. Soft waist. A slit high enough to be interesting but not desperate. Something romantic without being helpless. Something feminine without looking like it’s asking permission.

Maybe that’s why I like it so much.

I pull the pin from my mouth and adjust the fabric at the hip, then step back again.

Things are shaping up.

That’s a dangerous thought, but there it is anyway.

Luciano has made being cared for feel dangerously intimate. The berries are in the freezer every morning. Coconut water waits in the pantry. At dinner, he remembers what I like, listens to everything I say, and flirts until heat crawls beneath my clothes. Then, at precisely the moment I think he might finally do something about it, he tells me goodnight.

The man is the devil. Living up to his moniker.

I’ve got an office full of fabric before the semester starts again, and for the first time in months, my hands are busy with something that feels like mine.

My hands, at least, are satisfied.

The rest of me is becoming a problem.

A knock sounds once against the open door.

I turn.