Page 127 of A Heart of Bluestone

Side-stepping my puddle of vomit, he leads me through the maze. I don’t know which way we’re going, but the air seems to get quieter the longer he drags me along with him.

My stomach runs cold and drops to my gut.

“I did get lost,” I say, staggering beside him. I can’t help but lean into him—he doesn’t complain.

“I know,” he says.

“Are you taking me to the party?” I try to untangle myself from him, but my boots slip on the ice.

I stagger back into a pile of stone and rock.

Dray snatches out for me before I can go tumbling over. He yanks me into him, then dips to hoist me over his shoulder.

The pressure on my middle is tight.

I face the ground.

The heels of his loafers cut into my line of sight with his steps through the maze. He really was at sparring club, then. He still wears his sweatpants, but the black material is speckled with blood at the ankles. Probably roundhouse kicked someone on the nose.

Prick.

I fist my hands in his textured sweater. The cashmere is so soft to the touch that my frozen raw hands slip as I try to push myself off his shoulder.

He huffs. “You’re only going to hurt yourself.”

I scowl at the moving ground. “Why are you helping me?”

“Why,” he echoes with a scoff. He even makes a scoff sound refined and elegant.

I feel like a muddy elephant slung over his shoulder.

“Consider yourself too valuable,” he says after a heartbeat. “I can hardly leave you out here, at the mercy of the elements and aspirers. You are still a Craven. I will honour my duty to our alliance.”

“Our alliance,” I parrot in a murmur.

He jerks his shoulder.

My middle bounces off the hard muscle.

And I’m sick all over the ground.

Still slung over his shoulder, I let the stream of sick pass, then it’s gone quickly because Dray doesn’t falter his pace.

“I’m not leaving you to pass out and freeze to death.” His voice is steel. “Now shut up before I change my mind.”

I do shut up.

Because what will I do, really, if he does dump me in the maze and abandon me?

He has my fate in his hands.

Still, I don’t stop wriggling.

No matter how hard I squirm or tug at his sweater, he carries me through the maze, then into the grounds around the cabin. Still, he doesn’t set me down—and I hear the murmurs.

I crane my neck to see the curious glances aimed at us.

Those glances are from the gentry, from the half-breeds, the made ones. Not the aristos.

---