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Oh God, that’s what I want, isn’t it?
I want him to tell me that all those rumors, whatever people say and have always said is wrong. That maybe there’s a reason for it. A big, giant reason as to why he is the way he is, apart from him just being an ungrateful asshole.
I used to wonder about this too, way back when. But then he taught me that there was nothing to wonder about.
And finally he does say something, but not what I want him to. “Well, if people are saying it, I’m sure they’re right.”
“No, they’re not,” I tell him staunchly, despite the past and everything. “People can be wrong. People can be wrong lots of times. People can exaggerate. They can tell stories. They misunderstand. Because maybe they don’t know the real story. Maybe there’s a lot that they don’t know. And if they don’t, then they need to.Ineed to. I need to know, Reign. So you have to tell me. You have to say something, give me something. You have to —”
“Pretty little drama queen, aren’t you?”
I’m surprised that I stopped talking, given that his murmured words were a lot quieter than my own. They were a lot quieter than my heartbeats even.
My heart’s going wild right now.
Ready to burst out of my chest. Ready to explode.
Or it was, until he pumped the brakes.
Now I’m panting, barely able to drag in enough breath as he continues on a drawl, looking all kinds of amused, “You’re not going to pass out on me, are you?”
“E-excuse me?”
“Or worse,” he continues, moving his eyes up and down my body. “Drench me in your sparkly pink tears.”
“I —”
“Because I thought we just got past that.”
“You —”
“I’m sure you’re pretty as fuck when you cry but I have this one t-shirt and I’d rather you not ruin it with your girly snot.”
“There’s not… going to be any snot.”
His lips twitch. “Because then I’ll have to take it off, and I don’t think you can handle that.”
I blink.
And then think.
About him calling me pretty as fuck. Even when I’m dripping snot on him.
And then I think about that t-shirt he’s wearing that I’m supposed to be dripping snot on.
It’s a soft looking dark thing with a round neck.
It sits snugly across his broad shoulders, highlighting his arched and corded muscles.
And then I think about him taking it off.
How we got from my little outburst to this, I don’t know. That’s his sorcery I think, that he can make me jump through one emotion to the next so seamlessly.
But all I can think about right now is all the times I’ve seen him without his shirt on.
Playing soccer at school; working out on the manor grounds; running in the early morning on the streets.
All tanned and glistening, looking like the end of June even in the snow.
