Page 141 of Reign
I stare at him. “Lower.”
His smile becomes almost helpless. “There’s my love.”
I should not soften. I am not done being angry. The anger is still there, bruised and pulsing, but it no longer knows how to stand upright against the sight of him in my bedroom, looking like he crossed half a continent because the idea of me not speaking to him scared him more than pride.
I hate that I ask the next question softly. “How did you get here so fast?”
“Jet,” Nikolaj says.
“Of course.”
“And a helicopter.”
I close my eyes briefly. “Of course.”
“And maybe two traffic violations.”
“Nikolaj.”
“Okay, three,” he admits.
The laugh gets out this time. It is small, tired, and entirely against my will, but it gets out. His whole face changes when he hears it, not with triumph, but relief so raw it almost makes me angry again on principle.
He really was afraid. Not annoyed or inconvenienced. Afraid that the silence between us could become something larger if he didn’t break it first.
The fear has not left his eyes. It has only learned to stand beside the apology. He does not move when I reach him. He lets me decide the contact. That alone finishes off the last clean edge of my anger.
I lift one hand and press my palm to his cheek, just below the bruise, and his eyes close instantly.
The response is so immediate, so stripped down, that my throat tightens around it. This man—this terrifying, impossible man—crossed borders to apologize and now stands in my bedroom with his eyes closed because I touched his face.
How am I meant to stay furious at that? How is anyone supposed to survive loving someone who can be both a weapon and a wound at the same time?
“You frightened me,” I say quietly.
His eyes open again, frost-bitten and glassy. “I know.”
“That is what I couldn’t forgive yesterday. You made me feel like I was outside again.”
His hand comes up slowly, wrapping around my wrist where I touch his face. “Never,” he says, and his voice breaks around the word enough to make my chest ache. “Never outside. Not anymore. I’m sorry, My King.”
My King.
The title hits the old place; it always does. I close my eyes for one second because I cannot look at him while that name moves through me and still maintain any useful shape of anger.
When I open them again, he’s watching me like his entire world is balanced on whether I step closer or away.
So, I step closer. “I’m still angry,” I say.
His mouth curves faintly. “I’d be disappointed if you weren’t.”
“I may yell later.”
“I deserve that.”
“You do.”
He nods seriously. “Fair.”
