Page 95 of Reign

She’s changed too.

The boots remain. Tall, sharp, expensive. A deliberate choice from a woman who doesn’t enjoy being reminded that she has to look up at me.

A purple top. A matching skirt. Bare legs beneath the hem. Comfortable enough for dinner in a private house, polished enough to make it clear she hasn’t surrendered an inch of vanity.

The color should soften her.

It doesn’t.

Elena Amato is a pretty girl, and already prepared to draw blood.

She takes the chair at the far end.

Marisol pours water. Elena thanks her, because her manners survive even when her attitude doesn’t. Then Marisol leaves us alone with dinner, the quiet glow from the fixture above us, and enough distance between our seats to make Elena’s expression turn openly offended.

She looks down the table.

Then at me.

Then back at the table.

“This is ridiculous.”

I lift my glass. “The food?”

“The furniture.”

The furniture.

My gaze moves over the table. I chose it because it suited the room. Clean lines. Dark wood. Balanced proportions. There’s nothing excessive about it except the length, and that was intentional.

Still, I find myself looking again.

“What’s wrong with the furniture?”

“This table’s a problem.”

I take a sip of water.

“It’s a table, Elena.”

“It’s a runway with plates.”

“It serves its purpose.”

“What purpose? Do you host medieval councils here? Are your men supposed to sit in descending order of murder ranking?”

“No.”

“Do they all live here?”

“My men?”

“No, Luciano. The ghosts of your emotionally unavailable ancestors.”

She almost gets a laugh out of me.

“My men are around.”