Page 153 of Prince of Masks
Dray’s stare levels with mine. “You know there are no bacon sandwiches and cakes on an hour-long flight.”
Grandmother angles her sharp chin our way.
Oliver tugs out his earbuds, slow, careful.
“I know I didn’t askyou,” I snap back at him. “So mind your business.” I turn my glare up at the attendant. “Whatdoyou have?”
Her nerves betray her in the thinning of her mouth before she forces a polite smile. “Biscuits and scones, ma’am.”
Grandmother Ethel reaches over the arm of her chair—and closes her spidery fingers around her cane.
The dark look I spare that cane is quick to turn into a flinch.
She’s fast. Too fast.
In a blur, she’s leaning over her seat to strike at me.
The strike doesn’t connect.
There should be screaming pain on my thigh, a welt growing beneath my black slacks.
Instead, I blink on the cane—and the hand that took the hit, fingers clasped tight around the smooth blackwood, wrist turned.
I blink on the hand before I trace it to Dray.
He’s tilted out of his chair, his cheek turned to me, and his gaze on Grandmother Ethel’s fierce glare.
Slowly, his hand slips from the cane. “Respectfully, of course.”
Grandmother lifts her pointed chin.
Their gazes are locked, hooked like the antlers of beasts in battle.
And I just blink at them, as stunned as Oliver, motionless in his leather lounge.
My upper lip curls at the sight of my brother.
The look he returns to me is a soft sort of grimness, a dance between ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I had to, so get over it.’
My attention is swerved away from him at the shadows of movement.
Dray sinks back into his chair; Grandmother Ethel returns her cane to her side.
My jaw rolls.
I’m not dense. I know Dray stopped the cane from hitting me, and pulled out some hierarchal cards in a silent battle with Grandmother Ethel.
But thewhyis clanging through my bones.
I find the answer in a fresh memory of Landon.
It’s not care. It’s not protection.
It’s territory.
I am his.
It’s just that simple.
