Page 53 of Reign

The longer his stare lingered, the more riled up I became—annoyed and heated.

At last, Fitzroy broke the hold, turning back to Emma and muttering something under his breath, lost amid the dispute at the bar. As he whispered, Emma’s sweet smile faded. She rose, slipped behind a nearby curtain, and vanished into the shadows—into where I assumed the sordid activities took place.

Fitzroy glanced back at me, tilting his head toward the space he’d cleared beside him. For a moment, I pretended—even to myself—that I was contemplating whether to join him. But when he gave me that irritating smolder, I couldn’t resist finding out why he so desperately wanted my company.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” I told Tom.

He didn’t respond—too busy biting the skin around his bony fingers, eyes locked on the curtain as if his life depended on it.

“That fair-haired girl keeps staring at me,” he murmured, nodding toward the partition. “She’s making me uncomfortable.”

I looked over and saw Emma’s youthful face peering out, her expression pained as she watched Tom.

“She probably thinks you’re handsome,” I said.

Though as I beheld his complexion—seeded with spots and red like a strawberry—I doubted that was the case.

As Emma shifted into the shadows, Tom sighed with relief.

“Save my seat,” I said as I rose, feeling like a hypocrite for judging the men for succumbing to their vices while I was steadily marching toward mine.

I leaned forward and peered down my nose at Fitzroy. “I thought men from well-to-do families were taught manners,” I said.

Fitzroy didn’t reply—instead, he gestured to the seat beside him.

“Sit,” he commanded.

“I’m not a dog,” I scoffed.

He chuckled sardonically. “I know exactly what you are, boy,” he replied, smirking. “Sit.”

Fearing Fitzroy might reveal my true identity, I reluctantly complied and perched on the armchair beside him.

“What was that about, the other day?” he asked.

“I don’t follow—”

“Your performance on the training field—you humiliated me in front of men I need to have unwavering faith in my strategy,” he snarled under his breath.

I leaned in, my irritation mirroring the furious glint in his eyes.

“I’m sure you’re accustomed to people feigning incompetence to make you look more talented than you truly are,” I whispered, my aggravation barely contained. “But wars aren’t won with inflated egos. The enemy won’t care about your lineage, and neither do I.”

Fitzroy punted his boot into a coal scuttle on the hearth. The metal bucket emitted an earsplitting clang as it bounced along the tiles, scattering ash across the floor. The sudden noise silenced the Anchor. Curious, cautious eyes turned to the source—even Fletcher, still held by Mr. Bednot, peered over his shoulder to see what had caused the commotion.

I scanned the watchful faces and caught Bash’s concerned one. He mouthed, “Are you all right?” I gave him a subtle nod of reassurance.

The men resumed their conversations, their interest waning now that the prospect of a brawl had vanished. Bash shot me a wink—sending my stomach into a giddy flip—before returning his focus to defending Fletcher.

“Look at me,” Fitzroy hissed beneath his breath.

But I was captivated by Bash, who was expertly charming his way out of trouble.

Fitzroy clicked his fingers in front of my face. “Do as I tell you,” he commanded, louder this time.

Reluctantly, I obeyed, meeting his intense gaze while keeping my distance.

Then, leaning in close, Fitzroy closed the gap between us until he was near enough to whisper. “I suppose you’re used to men overlooking your snarky remarks because of your fragile femininity. But now, you’re a man. Act like one.”