Page 113 of Reign
Ruslan, beside him, looks older too, harder in some ways, softer in others. A contradiction I do not know how to process because it implies things I have not been briefed on and am not enjoying discovering through visual shock.
There’s a cane leaning against the chair beside Salvatore, and two glasses on the table between them. One of Ruslan’s hands is wrapped over Salvatore’s wrist as if he forgot the world was still watching and no longer cared enough to fix it.
Nikolaj sees my face, and the bastard actually has the decency to look slightly less smug for once. “Well,” he says cautiously, “that’s one reaction.”
I yank my hand free from his. “What the fuck is this?”
The words come out sharper than I intended, but honestly, given the circumstances, they’re remarkably restrained.
Both men on the porch look up.
Ruslan’s expression shifts first from mild irritation at being interrupted to something almost unreadable when he realizes who’s standing at the foot of the steps.
Salvatore stills in a way that hits me somewhere old and defensive, one hand tightening once on the arm of the chair before he schools it away. Neither man looks remotely guilty, which only offends me further.
I turn fully to Nikolaj. “You need to explain.”
“I was planning to,” he says.
“Planning implies time and context. I’d settle for immediate honesty.”
His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to enjoy me like this. “You always did hate surprises.”
I take one step toward him. “Nikolaj.”
He lifts both hands slightly. “All right. Fuck. Don’t look at me like that.”
“Then start talking.”
Behind us on the porch, Salvatore lets out the smallest sound that might be a laugh and is definitely not helping. I turn toward him immediately.
“You,” I say, pointing at him.
Salvatore lifts one dark brow, as if this is a reasonable way to greet your father after finding him draped around the old love of his life on a secret island named after his sister. “Vincenzo.”
The sheer composure of it is enough to make me want to throw one of Nikolaj’s carefully curated tropical rocks through a window.
“What are you doing here?”
Salvatore glances once toward Ruslan before looking back at me. “Sitting down.”
I stare at him in disbelief.
Ruslan, who at least has the decency to look a little grim about the whole thing, mutters, “He’s always been an insufferable bastard in moments like this.”
“You do not get to be dry with me right now,” I snap at both of them. “Either of you.”
That earns me a low, undeniably amused sound from Nikolaj at my shoulder, and I shoot him a murderous look. He doesn’t even try to hide the grin this time.
“My King,” he says, which is already enough to infuriate me before the rest arrives, “you have to admit this is funny.”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
He leans close enough that I feel his breath at my ear when he says, very quietly, “A little.”
I elbow him in the ribs without looking. He laughs and catches my wrist before I can do it again, the traitor.
On the porch, Salvatore is watching us with an expression I don’t have the emotional range to decode right now. Ruslan’s arm remains around his waist, solid and unconscious. It should be surreal. Instead, it feels like I’ve accidentally walked into a chapter of history someone hid from me and then had the audacity to furnish.
