Page 33 of Reign

I was mean to him. Not entirely unfairly, but still.

Riot wants more than I can give him. I feel safe with him in a way I don’t feel safe with most people, but safety isn’t the same as love, and guilt isn’t enough to build something worth keeping.

My gaze drifts over the reception hall, past towers of flowers and candles trembling in glass, past women in silk and men pretending they haven’t all committed at least one felony before dessert.

The whole room glows with gold light, chandeliers dripping warmth over white roses and polished marble.

Everything looks soft from a distance.

That’s the trick of weddings, I think. They make even monsters look holy. My eyes continue their lazy path across the room.

Until they stop at the appetizer table.

On him.

He’s tall.

That’s the first thing I notice.

Tall men aren’t rare in this world, but he carries it differently—like height isn’t something he was given. It’s something the room agreed to out of respect.

Dark hair, cut clean at the sides and left thick on top. A clean, severe suit that fits as if someone tailored it with reverence and fear. Broad shoulders. Beautiful, large hands.

He’s holding a small plate. And on that plate is an empanada.

For some reason, that’s comical. Because a man who looks like that—like the devil dressed for dinner—shouldn’t be standing beneath fairy lights holding an empanada like he’s just another guest at my brother’s wedding.

He’s speaking to Luca.

My cousin cleans up well when forced. No tactical harness tonight. No visible guns. His dark suit is neat, his curls are tamed, and his expression is mostly tolerable. Still, I know Luca. There’s absolutely a weapon strapped to him somewhere. Probably more than one.

The man says something. Luca almost smiles.

Interesting.

Not many people earn that.

Luca walks away. And the stranger’s eyes lift.

To me.

Everything in me stills. My mind goes utterly quiet.

His eyes are hazel. Not plain hazel. Not the sort of hazel people mention because they can’t decide whether a man’s eyes are brown or green.

No.

These are impossible.

Green at the edges. Gold near the center. Darkened by something steady and knowing, as if he doesn’t just look at people. He collects every truth they’re foolish enough to reveal.

His eyes stay mine. My spine straightens.

I don’t mean for it to happen, but it does. One second, I’m lounging back in my chair with champagne on my tongue and sarcasm at the ready. The next, I’m sitting like someone has drawn a string through the crown of my head and pulled.

His expression shifts, quietly. Like he’s entertained. Heat blooms low in my stomach.

Annoying.