Page 11 of A Heart of Bluestone

Then Oliver curves around me.

As he makes to pass me, Dray’s hand glides around to my waist—then firms, like he is pinning me in place, and he is doing just that, right as my brother comes around my front.

I swerve my glare to the doors.

Only the servants stand there. Faceless and nameless ones. Our parents have gone to the cars, led by Mr Younge.

Well fuck me.

Slowly, I lift my dark look to my brother, then cut it aside to Dray, and my face crumples into a scowl. I have the sudden urge to shove him into the grand foyer fireplace.

“That’s a horrid dress,” Oliver purrs, then plucks at the black strap hard enough that it snaps my shoulder. “Made out of a bedsheet, is it?”

I jerk back with a sneer.

Distantly, I am aware of a grazing sensation at my back.

Dray, running his thumb over the material of my dress, I assume; Touching me in a way he wouldn’t dare to with prying eyes around, with my father’s eyes around; Feeling out the linen with a frown on his face, or smearing the blood of puppies and children all over me, either way.

My eyes narrow into slits that I aim right at my brother. “I’ll call for Mother,” I warn him. “I’ll call for them all. Then what will you do?”

I lift my chin with more courage than I feel. The nerves betray me, reveal themselves in the bob of my throat.

But Oliver just smiles and steps back.

A warmth brushes the shell of my ear and tickles the hairs that fall down the side of my face.

I cringe back from the touch of Dray nearing me, bringing his pink mouth to my ear.

“Who will call out for at the academy?” he murmurs, softly, and I hate it, I hate that his gentle tone can sound so much like love, like sweetness, like he gives a damn about anything more than tormenting me. “Will you be so brave there?”

My heart twists in my chest. It’s a wretched feeling that guts me, that spreads up to my throat and silences me.

The softness of lips on my ear would be welcome if it were someone else. Anyone else.

My brother tugs back with a step. His eyes twinkle with threats before he turns his back on us—and leads the way out of the foyer before any of the others come back in looking for us, seeing what the delay is.

I take a single step before Dray’s grip turns to daggers piercing into my side.

“Your lace is undone,” he tells me.

I look down.

And the lace I tied up at the car, it has come untangled again. I made too quick, too hasty a job of it.

I drop to my knee and, again, fasten it with haste. “It’s a wonder you didn’t let me find that out the hard way,” I murmur, then push up, “break my head open for your pleasure.”

Dray’s gaze latches onto me.

He considers me for a moment, and I’ll add it to the list of things I hate about him, the way he looks at me sometimes, like he’s considering the shape of my nose, the bow of my mouth,maybe a pimple that I’ve patched with concealer. He inspects me, but there’s nothing clinical about how it feels.

Feels more like he could paint me, now; sketch out all the perfects and imperfects, every detail, declare he loves me—then cut out my heart with a pencil.

Then he’s tearing his gaze from me and, hand delicate on the small of my back again, leads me out to the cars.

I’m grateful to find that we are joining Amelia and Mother.

Oliver rides with Father and Harold.

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