Page 91 of Reign

Her room.

Not a guest room. Her room. I refuse to react to that.

Marisol inclines her head. “Of course.”

I start after her, grateful for the excuse to escape the garden, the glass, and Luciano Castillo’s stupid, observant face.

Then he says my name.

“Elena.”

I stop because my spine has chosen to betrayed me and now takes instructions directly from his voice.

I look back.

He stands in the center of this perfect, impossible house like he belongs to every line of it. Calm and so annoyingly beautiful.

“Dinner in an hour,” he says.

“I’m not hungry.”

His eyes move over my face, taking in the exhaustion under my makeup and the panic beneath my attitude.

“You can be difficult at the table.”

I should tell him no. I should tell him I’m not one of his employees or his soldiers or whatever terrifyingly well-dressed people answer to him.

Instead, I say, “Fine.”

“Good.”

Good.

I’m going to throw myself into the nearest fountain.

Marisol leads me upstairs before I can commit a felony in designer boots.

The staircase curves along the wall, the dark wood smooth beneath my hand. I try not to look impressed. I fail privately, which is still failure, but at least no one can arrest me for it. The second floor is quieter, warmer, lined with more light colored walls and dark trim and art that looks expensive enough to have its own security clearance. Marisol stops at the end of the hall and opens a set of double doors.

“This will be yours,” she says.

I step inside.

And immediately hate everyone.

The room is enormous.

Not just large. Enormous. The kind of bedroom that should come with a map and possibly a small municipal government. A king-sized bed sits against the far wall beneath a wide, upholstered headboard. The bedding is white and cloud-soft, layered with soft gray and deep plum pillows that look arranged but not untouchable. A sitting area waits near the windows with two curved chairs and a little marble table between them. Beyond that, glass doors open onto a private balcony overlooking the garden.

But the walls—

The walls are the problem.

They’re lavender.

Not childish lavender. Not sweet. Soft, barely there, almost gray in the changing light. Elegant. Quiet. The exact shade I would have chosen if someone had handed me an empty room and a dangerous amount of money.

My throat tightens.