Page 142 of Reign
“And I am not apologizing for the summit.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I’m going to handle Helena and Reyes.”
His eyes sharpen at the name. “The man I tortured yesterday mentioned he was involved.”
Of course, he did. “I believe so, too.”
The fear finally gives way, just slightly, to the lethal focus I know too well. “Then I want him.”
“No,” I say. “You get him after I know which of his hands touched this. Until then, you are not going in blind because your temper wants a throat.”
He looks at me for a long moment. The old Nikolaj would argue until the room caught fire.Thisone breathes through his nose once and forces himself to nod.
“Fine,” he says.
I narrow my eyes. “That was suspiciously reasonable.”
“I’m trying here.”
The bluntness of it almost hurts.
I touch the bruise on his cheek with my thumb. “I can see that.”
His face shifts at that, pride and vulnerability fighting in real time. “Don’t make it sound noble. I’m one bad look from you away from becoming completely fucking irrational.”
A helpless smile pulls at my mouth. “You mean more than usual?”
Nikolaj’s eyes drop to my mouth, and the air between us changes at once. Not enough to erase the argument, nothing that easy. Enough to remind us both of what waits under every fight now: not only heat, but relief. The knowledge that we are still here. Still choosing the room instead of the door.
He looks back up, expression sobering again. “I love you,” he says.
My anger takes another step back.
I hate it. I love it. Both are true.
“I love you too,” I say. “And you still owe me a better apology after I shower.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, and the sound settles something in me I did not realize was still shaking. “Yes, My King.”
That will do for now.
thirty-five
Vincenzo
Foralongtimeafter the argument, we don’t do anything dramatic.
Nikolaj stays because I told him to, and because, for once in his life, he chooses not to turn a command into a fight just to prove he still can.
I shower while he waits in my bedroom, and even through the bathroom door, I can feel him there, restless as a blade laid on silk, a dangerous thing trying to behave because he knows this night has already come close enough to breaking something important.
When I come back out with damp hair and sleep pants low on my hips, he’s standing near the window with his arms crossed, staring out over the courtyard.
He turns when he hears me. His eyes sweep over me once, and the heat is there—of course it is—because he has never known how to look at me without making a problem out of it. But underneath the heat is that same strained thing from earlier.
Fear.
