Page 110 of A Heart of Bluestone

His brow arches. “Oh?”

I lift my chin before I parrot him. “Oh.”

“And who is your intended gentleman?”

“My contract is open to the gentry now.” I sniff. “Give it a year, and I’ll be someone else’s responsibility. You won’t have a say in anything. It won’t be your place.” My gaze cuts around his arms, carved from muscle, then hidden by the sleeves of the black sweater—both blocking my only path out of here. “So,” I add, firm, and hope he moves out of my way, “I am not your problem.”

“And yet you areaproblem.” His hand lifts, honeyed under the dim lantern light that flickers above. His fingertips graze over the arch of my cheekbone. “One that affects me. So what would that equate to?” He flicks me square on the head. “Think you can calculate that?”

I swat at him, but before a hiss can even escape me, a crushing pressure binds my throat, and my back is smacked against the phone.

I suck in a choked, dense breath.

Dray shoves me against the phone and brings his nose to mine. The tips of his fingers cut into my flesh. The tendons in my neck pop from the pressure.

A guttural sound escapes me.

I latch my hands onto his wrist.

I writhe and, as though I can get a foothold and climb up, my boots scrape against his shins.

“I give you props for the inventive manner you disconnected that call.” The warmth of his breath tickles my tight-pressed mouth. “But your duty is to your family, Olivia.Always.”

My teeth bare in a silent grimace.

The air restricts in my throat. Not quite suffocated, but with a mere flex of his hand, my air will be cut off.

“Allow me to add, while I have you here,” he says, soft, and brushes the tip of his nose over mine, “that if you ever pull that stunt with me again, it will be more than a call from your father that you have to fear.”

Any response I might have is silenced as his grip tightens.

The blood pools in my head, my heartbeat throbbing too violently through my body—

Then he releases me.

He doesn’t step back, just opens his hand, and the breath that sucks through me is razored.

My boots smack down on the booth’s floor, hard, and I stagger into his solid chest.

Dray is an unmoveable statue in front of me. His hand comes to my waist—and holds, as though to steady me.

I throw him a weary glare and back into the phone. I touch my fingers to my aching neck, like I can feel the promise of bruises already blooming.

I manage another steadying breath before his hand returns to my face and, gently, forms around my jawline. He lifts my face to angle his.

A dark brow arches, disappearing behind the strands of sandy hair that fall into face. “Do I need to be clearer with you?”

No.

No you fucking don’t.

Hit Dray again, and he will be the nightmare, the call I avoid, the fear thundering through my veins.

I get it.

I sag against his hold and try to shake my head. But in his grip, my jaw doesn’t budge.

He doesn’t wait for another response. The faint tug of my chin in his grip is enough. But he keeps his hand formed around my jaw as he reaches around me for the phone.

---