Page 43 of Prince of Masks
And still, his hand doesn’t retreat; it merely glides down to my jawline, then along the brush of my neck.
Dray caresses me.
The touch of a suitor. The touch of courting. Of affection.
My instinct is delayed, delayed enough that my cheeks are burning by the time I snap out of it.
I whack the pocketbook against his wrist, hard.
Dray stills for a moment, fingertips soft on the curve of my neck. Slowly, his lashes lower over the fierce cut of his eyes, daggers carved from glaciers.
He recedes his hand, then arches his brow, as though in challenge.
Still, I am staring at him as startled as the moment he first touched my cheek.
The door thuds open.
I look up, eyes still wide.
Oliver pushes over the threshold, then kicks back to slam the door shut.
A moody severity has his face resembling those sorts of brooding stone statues, the ones deep in thought. He drops onto the seat opposite me and is quick to fish out his cell from his pocket.
Without so much as a glance at me, he kicks out his legs, thighs spread, and unlocks his phone. The shine of the screen illuminates his face in the moody light of the cabin.
I steal the moment to swerve Dray’s attention away from me.
“How is your shoulder?”
Oliver doesn’t lift his gaze from the phone. “Fine.”
I nod, faint, and fight the gnawing urge to turn my gaze back to Dray, who I am certain is watching me, not staring a hole into my face, but rather running his gaze over me, the loose strands of my hair, the shell of my ear, the protrusion of my collarbone—I feel it, a cold burn dragging over my flesh.
“Do you feel better?” Oliver asks, but his eyes are fixed on the screen, glued there. The emerald hues of his irises dance with the reflection of tapping texts and changing apps.
It takes me a moment to realise he’s speaking to me. “What?”
“Do you feel better?” he echoes, dull. “After your premature leave.”
I murmur, “Is that what we’re calling it?”
Dray’s jaw clicks, his fierce stare darkening on me. “Do you?”
The firmness of his tone lures in my direct gaze.
“Iwasfeeling better.”
I almost grimace.
Risky.
But, with a quick glance at Mr Younge, who’s sorting through a list on his cell, the screen aimed at Mr Burns, I see that he’s too involved with matching up the families’ itineraries to hear my unkind words.
He only draws back into his seat when Rupert, the attendant, comes down the aisle. But the tray that Rupert carries is for us.
Three teacups and porcelain saucers, chocolate biscuits on each serve, and a single sachet of sugar. That’s for Oliver. Neither Dray nor I take sugar in our coffees or teas.
Probably the only thing we have in common.
