Page 129 of A Heart of Bluestone

With a sigh, Dray leans over me and grips the hem of my top. He pulls it over my head.

I hear the slap of the material hit the rug.

My arms come around myself, a lame attempt to hide my bodice from his line of sight.

Dray doesn’t look. He’s drawn away from me and, reaching one hand back to the scruff of his neck, tugs off his sweater in one fluid move.

He hands it to me. “Put this on.”

“No,” I push at his hand. “Get off me.” And I feel like a witch stuck in a too-long ritual, just chanting the same words over and over.

He grunts, an annoyed sound, a crack in the mask, and grabs at me. He’s quick to shove the sleeves down my arms, then hook the collar around my head.

In two, three heartbeats, I’m in his sweater, glowering at him. “I’m going to my dorm room,” I mumble and, weakly, kick out at him. “Move.”

Dray shoots me a withering look before he sweeps his hand over the floorboards—and just like that, his makut conjures a bucket of soapy water and a washcloth.

He soaks the washcloth for a moment before he reaches for me. “With the state you are in, you’ll pass out before you make it there.” He brings the damp cloth to my chin and starts to wipe at the sick droplets. “Knowing your luck, Mildred will be the first to find you.”

“You don’t care,” I mutter and turn my cheek to him.

Dray just wipes at my cheek now, a slow, gentle run of the cloth over my skin, and I’m sure some of the makeup will be coming away. I probably look like a patchy, sickly racoon.

After a moment, I hear the faintness of his murmur, “Then why am I here?”

My lashes are heavy over my blurry sight, but I watch him.

He runs the cloth down the side of my neck before he turns and tosses it to the hearth. It lands in the simmering flames that heat me, that melt through the chill of the frost that was eating through me to the bone.

Dray reaches down for the bucket tucked between his legs. He tosses the water into a plant pot before he places it on my lap.

I watch him move for the pitcher and glasses on the sidetable. Fills me a generous serving of water, then he brings the glass to my mouth.

“Rinse,” he orders, firm.

I do.

He tips the glass, and the wave of fresh, icy water is smooth over my tongue. It rolls over the insides of my cheeks and burrows through my teeth.

I clamp my mouth around the water and,swish, swash, swish, swash, I spit it into the bucket.

He makes me do it again.

And again.

Then he yanks a blanket off the armchair and drapes it over me.

Mute, I watch him.

Too deep in the booze haze to have my mind sharp enough, to argue more than I already have.

So I slump on the stacked pillows as he drops onto the other end of the couch and pulls my feet onto his lap.

Weakly, I try to tug my feet back, but his hands clasp tight around my ankles.

“Lie down,” he tuts, an edge of annoyance to the look he lifts at me from beneath his long lashes. He holds my gaze as he tugsoff my boots, then tosses them to the floor. “I can’t leave until you’re all sicked out.”

“Can’t you just makut me to sleep,” I moan and roll onto my side, eyes on the friendly bucket.

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