Page 164 of Reign

“More than I want to. The details don’t fade properly.”

He says nothing.

That’s somehow worse than if he said something comforting.

His thumb drags slowly along the side of my neck again, and my body melts another inch toward the seat. Annoying. Deeply annoying. I’m going to have to file a complaint with someone about how effectively this man uses his hands.

“Maybe you need better memories here,” he says.

My throat tightens.

I look back at the house.

The idea is so ridiculous it almost makes me laugh. Better memories here. In this place. With these walls. With this driveway and those lights and every ghost of my childhood sitting at the windows like they bought tickets to watch me fall apart.

“Oh,” I say softly. “If only.”

His hand tightens at my neck. I turn with it, breath catching as he pulls me closer across the space between our seats.

Then his mouth is on mine.

For one heartbeat, I don’t move.

Because I didn’t realize how much I wanted this.

His lips shift over mine, firm and controlled and warm, and every thought in my head goes beautifully, mercifully blank.

I make a small sound into his mouth.

His hand flexes at the back of my neck.

That’s all it takes.

My fingers lift to his face, sliding along the edge of his jaw. There’s stubble beneath my palms, rough and perfect, and my whole body tilts toward him like gravity has changed sides.

The kiss isn’t frantic.

That’s almost worse.

At the wedding, everything was heat and marble and poor decisions dressed up as inevitability. This is slower. Deeper. Worse because there’s no excuse. We’re not drunk on music and champagne and bathrooms with locks. We’re sitting outside my brother’s estate with my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest, and Luciano Castillo is kissing me like he has all the time in the world to make me forget where I am.

And for a second, he does.

Then realization hits as he eases back.

We haven’t kissed since the wedding.

His forehead rests against mine, and the intimacy of it is so sharp I don’t know where to put my hands. They’re still on his face. I should move them. I don’t.

His breath brushes my lips.

“Breathe, Elena.”

I inhale.

It’s embarrassingly immediate.

His thumb strokes once beneath my hair. “There’s my pretty girl.”