Page 57 of Made for Reign

"Nothing," he says, but the smirk deepens. "Just trying to picture you in one of those little sequined outfits, throwing a baton around."

Heat creeps up my neck at the way his voice drops on “little sequined outfits.” "You're terrible."

"I'm curious," he corrects, glancing at me with those devastating blue eyes. "Here I was thinking art was your thing, and it turns out my baby was out there performing in tiny skirts and white boots. Did you do those high kicks, too?"

"Reign!" I swat at his arm, but I'm laughing despite myself. "It wasn't like that."

"No? Because I'm getting some very interesting mental images right now." His hand squeezes my thigh in a way that makes me squirm. "Tell me you have pictures."

"Ugh, you're impossible." But I'm smiling, remembering how different those days were.

I think back to the hours of practice in the gymnasium, my muscles screaming as I perfected routine after routine. About the bus rides to away games, all of us crammed together, applying too much hairspray and glitter. The rush of performing under Friday night lights, the crowd’s energy feeding into every toss and turn.

"Art was my thing,” I tell him. “But Lucille... Well, Lucille had other ideas. She thought majorettes would help me 'mix with the right crowd' as she put it. Network with the daughters of important families."

Reign snorts. "Of course, she did."

"It wasn't so bad," I say quickly. “My dad never missed a performance,” I say, my throat tightening with the memory. “He’d sit in the same spot, third row behind our bench, wearing this ridiculous custom shirt with my picture on it. Lucille was mortified, but he didn’t care. After every game, win or lose, he’d be waiting with hot chocolate and a hug.”

Reign’s thumb stills on my thigh. “He sounds like a good man.”

“He was.” I blink away the sudden moisture in my eyes. “Even when I didn’t always catch the baton.”

Reign chuckles softly. “I feel like there’s a story there.”

“State championship, junior year.” I groan at the memory. “Biggest routine of my life, and I dropped it right in the middle. The sound it made hitting the gymnasium floor? I still hear it in nightmares sometimes. But I picked it up and finished, even though I knew we’d lost.”

“That takes guts.” His hand moves from my thigh to capture mine, interlacing our fingers. “Most people would have frozen.”

“Dad said the same thing. Said it showed more character than a perfect routine ever could.” I squeeze his hand, grounding myself in the present. “Mom saw it as a failure, of course. But Dad took me for ice cream afterward and told me he’d never been prouder.”

Reign brings our joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. The simple gesture makes my heart flutter.

“I would have been proud, too. Failure’s easy to handle when you never really tried. Taking a risk and recovering from a mistake? That’s what shows who you really are.”

His words settle into my chest, filling spaces I didn’t know were empty. I study his profile as he navigates a particularly sharp curve, wondering what made him so different from everyone else in my life. Why does he see strength where others see weakness?

“What about you?” I ask, curious about the man who’s turned my world upside down. “What were you like growing up?”

His jaw tightens slightly, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. But then he takes a breath, his grip on my hand firm but gentle.

“Complicated,” he says finally. “Ben and I had different fathers, which meant we were in competition before we even understood what that meant. My mom...” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “She was always chasing something better. Abetter man, a better situation, a better life. Ben’s dad had money, stability. Mine was just a guy passing through who left her with a baby and empty promises.”

My heart aches for the boy he must have been, always compared to his younger brother, always found lacking in ways he couldn’t control.

“She didn’t mean to play favorites,” he continues, his voice steady but distant. “But Ben was the golden child. Literally—blond hair, blue eyes, his dad’s money backing him up. I was the reminder of her mistakes. Dark, brooding, too much like the man who’d left her behind.”

“Reign,” I breathe, but he shakes his head slightly.

“It’s old history. But it shaped everything between Ben and me. He wanted my approval, and I resented him for needing it. He had everything handed to him while I had to fight for scraps of attention. By the time I was eighteen, I couldn’t wait to enlist. Get away from all of it.”

“But you came back,” I point out. “You’re here now, helping with his career.”

“Death has a way of clarifying things.” His thumb resumes its movement against my hand. “When Mom died three years ago, I realized I’d been punishing Ben for something that wasn’t his fault. He didn’t choose to be the favored son any more than I chose to be the disappointment.”

The vulnerability in his voice makes me lift our joined hands to my lips, returning his earlier gesture. “You’re not a disappointment. You’re extraordinary.”

He glances at me, something raw and unguarded in his expression. “You see me different than anyone else ever has.”

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