Page 163 of Reign

“No.”

“Then why is the car still on?”

“Because you haven’t decided whether you’re getting out.”

My mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

“I’m getting out,” I say.

“In a minute?”

“I don’t need a minute.”

His hand moves before I can brace for it.

Slow. Deliberate enough that my body notices before my brain finishes arguing. His palm settles behind my neck, warm and steady, fingers curving beneath my hair.

I go still.

Then immediately hate that I went still.

His thumb starts moving in slow, controlled strokes along the side of my neck.

My eyes almost close.

Traitors.

Every muscle in my shoulders loosens by a fraction, like my body has been waiting for someone to give it permission to stop holding the whole estate back with sheer spite.

I turn my head and glare at him. “Don’t do that.”

His thumb pauses.

“No,” I say too quickly. “I mean, don’t do that thing where you comfort me into being reasonable.”

“What do you need?”

“A lobotomy.”

He chuckles. His thumb moves again.

“Maybe after dinner.”

I look out the windshield.

The front doors blur slightly, and I blink hard because absolutely not. We are not crying before dinner. We are not giving this house the satisfaction.

“I hate how clearly I remember this place.”

His hand stays steady at the back of my neck. “That vivid?”

“I have a photographic memory, Luciano. Not every second of my life or anything ridiculous like that. But rooms, pages, faces, patterns—once something really catches, it sticks.” I look toward the estate. “This place caught.”

His attention sharpens.

“You remember everything you see?”