Page 109 of A Heart of Bluestone

I rush down the side of the queue.

Without looking over my shoulder, I know that Oliver watches me go. He doesn’t follow.

For that, I am glad.

Slowly, I peel aside the curtain and step into the booth. My movements are cautious as I reach for the receiver left on the wooden shelf.

My fingers clasp the sleek handle, and my face twists.

I’m careful to be as quiet as possible.

I bring the wrapper to the microphone.

I rustle it gently at first. Then, the closer I bring it, the firmer my fist coils and tightens, then loosens, the louder the crackle goes down the line.

If Father says anything, I don’t hear it over the crackling wrapper.

I just hope he thinks that the magic is interfering with the line. It happens. Not all the time, but there are occasions the lines will cut out, or drop entirely for a night. Anything from magic interference to storms and rains can cut the phone lines.

I pray my father thinks that’s what is happening.

Rustling the plastic, my hands are full, and I lean across the booth to touch my chin to the hanger. I push my chin into it.

It clicks down—and the line disconnects.

I huff a breath of relief.

Close call.

Ha. Get it?

I slam the phone down and twist around in the booth. My mind is on dinner, and I need a fresh tray.

But my way out of the booth is blocked.

A grunt catches in my throat, a curt groan of despair.

Shoulder leaning against the curtained frame, Dray’s arms are folded over his chest. The frost that lightens his eyes is unkind.

Not in his uniform, I guess he’s about to head to the sparring club. His plain black sweatpants are matched with a woollen sweater that’s razored and pilled around the neckline from, what I suspect to be, someone’s hand pulling the delicate material. Whether that happened in sparring club or it was Melody’s desperation to get a taste of him, I don’t know.

I just know he’s in my way.

Sandy blond hair brushes over his dark brows. His full mouth parts around the words, “That was creative. How many times have you done that?”

My mouth thins on the insults I ache to shoot at him.

“The mistake your brother made with you,” Dray starts and, with a single step, moves into the booth, “was letting you out of his sight.” He reaches back for the curtain—then tugs it closed. “Trust is given too freely to you.”

That fucking snark, it can’t be swallowed down, can’t be restrained for too long. And so it lashes out, quick. “Would you have them keep me on a leash of pearls and diamonds?”

His lashes lower. “Once you earned it. Even a pretty leash is a freedom I would not trust you with.”

“Good thing for me I’m notyoursister,” I say, but the heart, the courage, it doesn’t find its way into my voice, and so it trembles into a whisper as I add, “I’m not your problem.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No, Dray, I’m not.” I fold my arms and cock my head. “But the Cravens and Sinclairs—blah blah blah. It doesn’t matter Dray. I’ll be married soon.”

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