Page 74 of Made for Reign

I look up and arrange my features into what I hope passes for a pleasant smile. “You found me.”

He stands in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. The bruising on his face has faded to yellowish-green, the stitches above his eyebrow now removed. His left arm remainsin a sling, and he moves with the careful precision of someone managing multiple healing fractures. Still, there’s nothing weak about his presence. If anything, the injuries have made him more dangerous. More entitled to attention, more expectant of care, more insistent on gratitude.

“Always with your nose in a book.” He smiles and moves into the room with deliberate steps. “Lucille said I’d find you hiding in here.”

“Not hiding. Just enjoying some quiet time.”

He crosses to where I sit, bypassing three perfectly comfortable armchairs and the entire length of a leather sofa to sit beside me on the window seat.

I shift slightly, creating an inch of space that he immediately reclaims by adjusting his position. “How are you feeling today?” I ask.

“Better now.” His hand finds my knee and his fingers curl possessively around the curve. “The doctor says I’m healing ahead of schedule. Strong constitution.”

His thumb traces small circles against the fabric of my jeans. I resist the urge to pull away, knowing from experience that obvious rejection only makes him more persistent.

“That’s great news.” I place my book between us as a barrier. “Lucille will be pleased to hear it.”

“Lucille has been incredibly supportive.” His hand slides slightly higher on my thigh. “I couldn’t ask for a better future wife or mother-in-law”

I manage a smile that feels brittle on my face. “We’re just glad you’re recovering well.”

“Speaking of recovery. I think I’m well enough now to start resuming more normal activities.” His voice drops lower. “Or maybe even try some new ones.”

My stomach clenches. I’ve been dreading this moment since he moved into the guest suite down the hall from my bedroom.For a week, I’ve used his injuries as a shield, careful to show appropriate concern without encouraging anything physical. That shield is crumbling now, along with my excuses.

“The doctor said you should avoid exertion.” I try to keep my tone light. “At least for a few more weeks.”

“There are many ways to be close that wouldn’t strain my injuries.” His fingers tighten slightly on my thigh. “I’ve missed you, Audrey. You’ve seemed distant since the accident.”

“I’ve been worried about you,” I say, which isn’t entirely a lie. I’ve been worried about what his presence in my home means for my plans, for my freedom, for my future. “Recovery is your priority right now.”

“My priority is always you.” He reaches up with his good hand and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Though I’ve noticed you’ve been quite busy lately. Lucille mentioned you’ve been going into town almost daily.”

My pulse quickens. “Just errands. Wedding details, mostly.”

“Without your phone?” His eyebrows rise slightly. “I tried calling you yesterday afternoon. It went straight to voicemail.”

The question seems casual, but there’s nothing casual about the way he watches my reaction. I keep my expression neutral, though my heart hammers against my ribs.

“The battery must have died while I was out.” I shrug, and the movement dislodges his hand from my face. “I didn’t notice until I got home.”

“You should be more careful. I worry when I can’t reach you.”

Before I can respond, he shifts closer and slides his arm around my shoulders. The movement brings his face inches from mine. I fight the instinct to pull away.

“I’ve been thinking about the wedding,” he continues. His fingers trace patterns on my upper arm. “With my recovery progressing so well, there’s no reason to delay. In fact, I think we should consider moving the date forward.”

“Forward?” My voice rises an octave. “But we’ve already booked the venue for October. What about the deposits?”

“Money is no object.” He waves away my concern with his good hand. “Lucille agrees that a summer wedding would be lovely. July, perhaps.”

July. Less than a month away. Panic rises in my throat, threatening to choke me.

“Gio, that seems very rushed,” I manage. “There’s so much planning still to do.”

“Lucille assures me she can handle the accelerated timeline. I don’t want to wait any longer to make you mine,cara. Not after coming so close to death.”

The dramatic statement would be more convincing if I hadn’t overheard the doctor telling my mother his injuries, while painful, were never life-threatening. But Gio has been milking the near-death narrative since he arrived, using it to secure both sympathy and compliance.

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