Page 185 of Reign
That is the first sign that something inside him has begun to loosen.
The nightmares still come sometimes. I feel them before I hear them, the way his whole body goes rigid, the breath catching behind his teeth, the hand tightening at my waist until pain flashes through me and I have to carefully say his name.
But he no longer wakes shouting, “No, no, no!” as if the explosion is still tearing the line out of his hand.
He wakes hard, breathing fast, eyes wild for a second, and then he touches me. Once, he pressed two fingers under my jaw to feel the pulse there and looked so ashamed afterward that I took his hand and kept it there until his breathing steadied.
The tide rushes in higher than expected and curls around my foot. I hiss at the cold and step sideways, almost into him.
Nikolaj’s hand shoots out on instinct, catching my elbow. “Careful.”
I look at him dryly. “It’s water.”
“It’s sneaky water.”
A laugh catches in my chest before I can stop it, and his eyes flick to my mouth at the sound.
There. That look again. Not the hungry one, not exactly. Something softer and more startled, as if my laughter is still a thing he can’t quite believe he gets to hear outside memory.
It has been appearing more often these last few days, and every time it makes me want to kiss him and apologize in the same breath.
“That might be the most ridiculous thing you’ve said this week,” I tell him.
He considers that. “Unlikely.”
“You’re right. Yesterday you threatened a toaster.”
“It burned your bread.”
“It was doing its job.”
“It did it badly.”
“You said you’d have it replaced with something more obedient.”
“I stand by that.”
This time, his mouth curves, not fully, but enough. Enough that my heart stumbles over the sight of it.
I missed his almost-smiles in the month I let him believe I was dead. I missed his scowls too. His threats. His arrogance. His ridiculous certainty that the laws of weather, machinery, and international politics are personal insults if they inconvenience him.
I missed him while I was alive, hidden, and in pain, and the guilt of that still sits under my ribs, but tonight, I let myself feel the simpler part too.
I missed him, and I’m here.
He lets go of my elbow as if he realizes he’s still holding it, but then, a few steps later, his hand brushes mine. Accidental, maybe. But then it happens again.
Not accidental.
I keep my gaze on the water because if I look at him too quickly, he might retreat behind irritation and pretend he wasn’t reaching. His fingers graze mine once more, rough knuckles against my palm, and then his hand closes around mine.
My breath catches.
It’s ridiculous. We’ve done more than hold hands. We’ve done everything two men can do to each other and several things that probably qualify as war crimes in polite circles.
He has had his mouth on every inch of me. He has seen me bleed, cry, come apart, beg, lie, rule, fall, and return. But this—his hand sliding into mine in the open sunset—hits both of us harder than it should.
I look down at our joined hands, then at him. His face remains pointed toward the water, expression carefully blank, but the tips of his ears have gone faintly red.
