Page 181 of Reign

I’ve always hated sweat.

Apparently I’m a liar.

Because on him, it looks expensive.

His shoulders flex when he throws another punch, muscles shifting beneath golden skin, power coiled in every movement. He hits the bag again, and that low sound comes out of him, rough and controlled and very much not what I thought it was upstairs.

My mouth goes dry. I should leave.

I should absolutely leave before he catches me standing here like I’ve never seen a man’s body before.

Which is untrue.

Technically.

I have seen bodies.

In movies. In photos. In art.

Riot counts. Not like this.

Not six plus feet of dangerous Colombian man beating the hell out of leather with taped knuckles and sweat on his chest.

“Wow,” I breathe.

Luciano turns.

Fuck, he heard me.

His gaze finds me in the doorway, and one corner of his mouth lifts. “Enjoying yourself, princesa?”

“I was looking for you.”

“Missed me?”

I ignore that and immediately make the mistake of looking at his chest again.

Great job, Elena.

His skin is smooth except for a few scars, nothing like my brothers. No ink. No saintly tragedy stamped into muscle.

“You don’t have tattoos.”

His brow lifts. “Why would I?”

“My brothers do.”

A quiet chuckle leaves him. “I’m a businessman, Elena. Not a gangster.”

I look pointedly at the taped knuckles. “Could’ve fooled me, head of a cartel and whatnot.”

“If you’re not here for me, then what are you here for?”

“My sketchbook.”

“Ah, yes. I took it.”

My eyes follow him because I have self-destructive tendencies and apparently enjoy suffering.