Page 137 of Reign

Praise was a yes on her questionnaire.

Now I understand how emphatic that answer was.

“Color,” I ask.

Her breath catches, then she seems to remember the system. “Green.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Annoyed, but green.”

“That may be your natural state.”

Her eyes narrow. “Careful. I’m being very obedient right now.”

“Yes,” I say. “You are.”

The words land between us. Her face heats. I love that.

I step back. “You can get up.”

She exhales like she’s been waiting for permission without wanting to admit it, then brings her hands forward and shifts off her heels.

I offer her my hand. She stares at it before taking it.

Her palm is warm in mine, smaller than it should be for a woman who creates so much disruption. I pull her up carefully. She wobbles once, tightening her grip until she finds her balance.

I don’t release her immediately.

She doesn’t let go.

“Elena,” I say.

Her gaze lifts.

“Your things are here.”

Whatever tension was beginning to form between us breaks cleanly.

“My things are here?”

“Yes. I had them brought over so you’d have what you need before the semester starts.”

Her whole face changes. It’s immediate—open and unguarded. I forget to breathe.

“Then my fabrics are here!” she says.

“Your fabrics?”

“Yes.” She looks toward the hallway like she can see through the walls to the service entrance. “My fabrics, my sewing machine, some of the pieces I finished, a few I’m still working on. I thought I wasn’t going to see any of it until the apartment was ready.”

“You sew?”

Her head turns back to me, and there is something in her expression I haven’t seen before. She looks lighter.

“I make things,” she says, and the words come out softer than the rest of her. “Clothes, mostly. Dresses. Some structured pieces. I sketch more than I finish because school takes over, but that’s what I actually want to do.”

“Fashion design.”