Page 41 of Reign

Men like me.

She has no idea.

Not yet.

“And what kind of man am I?” I ask.

Her lips part. For once, she doesn’t answer immediately.

I like her sharp, but I like her sharper when she has to think.

Then she says, “The kind who makes women feel like they’re choosing, even when you already decided how the night ends.”

My attention fixes on her completely.

She’s so damn close to correct.

Close enough to make me wonder what else she might see if I give her time.

I smirk. “And how do you think this night ends?”

Her smile returns, but it’s different now.

Less practiced.

More dangerous.

“That, I haven’t decided yet.”

“Liar.”

Her lips part.

“You were walking away from me,” I say. “Then you turned around.”

“I can change my mind again.”

“You can.”

She steps closer instead.

Now I can feel the warmth of her through my suit. Even in those heels, she fits beneath my chin, inside my reach, against every bad idea I’ve entertained since she turned around.

I could lift her. Restrain her. Suspend her from the ceiling and watch all that bright defiance dissolve into breath.

The image comes easily.

What doesn’t is permission. I know nothing about her limits, her appetites, or where her yes ends.

An inconvenient gap in my knowledge.

One I suddenly want the opportunity to correct.

“Elena.”

Her name cuts through the space between us, cold enough to frost the glassware. Her expression changes before she turns. The spark doesn’t disappear, exactly. It hardens.

“Santo,” she spits, and there’s enough irritation in the single word to tell me this is not a man she fears.