Page 94 of Reign

Luciano

Ichange before dinner.

For her.

There’s no reason to insult both of us by pretending otherwise.

Elena notices details. Clothes. Hands. Watches. The exact shade of a wall. During the drive, her attention returned to my hand on the steering wheel every time she thought the road had distracted me.

It hadn’t.

I remove my jacket and tie, then replace the white shirt with a dark knit one. Fitted. Simple. The sleeves push easily to my forearms.

I know what looks good on me. False modesty has never been one of my weaknesses.

A suit would give her the version of me she already expects: polished, distant, and surrounded by enough authority to make a room uncomfortable.

This offers something else.

I roll the sleeves once more and look at my reflection.

She’ll notice. Or pretend she didn’t.

I’m interested in both reactions.

Downstairs, the dining room is already set. The table is new, though it matches the one I keep in Florida. Long, dark wood. Twelve chairs. Enough space for allies, negotiations, strategy, and silence.

Too much silence, perhaps.

I take the seat at one end.

Elena enters exactly three minutes late.

She doesn’t apologize. Her attention goes first to my face, searching for irritation before she allows herself to look anywhere else.

A test.

“Only three?” I ask.

She stops. “What?”

“Minutes. I expected a more ambitious entrance.”

Her nose scrunches. “I was changing.”

“So was I.”

Her gaze drops as if I summoned it. Then it returns sharply to my face with the wounded irritation of a woman who hates being caught noticing anything.

There.

The shirt was the correct choice.

“Comfortable?” she asks.

“Very.”

Her eyes narrow, as if she hears what I didn’t say.