Page 64 of Prince of Masks
His face hardens to stone.
I watch it happen, slow, gradual, like icicles forming in a cave. But his face does harden, and for a moment, he just stares at me,intome.
The boat sways, rocks with the waves.
The engine is loud, turbulent, as we venture farther away from populated land, deeper into the sea.
Waves knock against the side of the boat, some manage to reach up high enough that water sprays us. Just some droplets, a drizzle, a mist, but enough that every other moment, I’m watching water droplets hit my knee, then run down the meat of my thigh.
And Dray juststaresat me.
Solid, unmoving, a statue sat on the bench, arms braced on his thighs, feet planted on the floorboards, and his hard stare latched onto me.
I think it has never occurred to him before now. He’s never considered that I might have had sex.
Maybe he thought I didn’t have the opportunity. And that’s a fair assumption, because there hasn’t been much of those. I’ve also had to be considerably sneakier than any other aristos. The target isn’t just on me, it can switch to anyone I’m with, especially those I’m fucking.
Oliver would kill them.
Looks like Dray would, too.
At least he wants to.
Or is that me he wants to kill?
Me, definitely me.
In a heartbeat, a flurry of swift movement, he’s pushed off the cooler and dropped to a knee beside me. The flare of his eyes areblue blazes as his hand shoves between my legs and grabs the inner meat of my thigh, hard.
A gasp cuts me, and I clench my legs shut.
His hand is trapped between my thighs, but he makes no move to retreat. His fingertips press harder into my flesh.
That grip tightens, tightens, tightens—until I’m cringing back into the bench, as though I can sink into it and be swept away from him.
But there is no escape, not from that searing, cold stare.
“Who?” His jaw clenches, tight, those slashed shadows down his cheeks darkening. “How many? How many have had you?” His fingertips dig into the meat of my thigh, pushing the flesh into muscle and bone. “Where? At Bluestone?” His voice lowers into a seethe. “It’s Harling, isn’t it?”
The bite of pain turns into a roar.
That snaps me out of my shock—and I’m grabbing at his wrist, pulling it, pushing it.
My face is twisted around a grimaced cry, trapped in my chest. “Let go,” I grunt, shoving and shoving at his arm.
I throw my gaze down the way to our parents. So far, just shadows and silhouettes—and none of them angled towards us.
“It wasn’t Eric,” I wince, then whack his wrist, over and over. “Let me go, Dray.”
“Answer me, and I’ll release you.”
“No,” I hiss. “It’s none of your business.”
His grip tightens, fingers digging all the way to the bone now. “Eric?”
A groan thrums through me. “No, he wouldn’t. He loves Asta.”
That doesn’t ease his violent, lashing rage, that same rage that turns his stare into blizzards and flares his nostrils around deep, heavy breaths.
