Page 132 of A Heart of Bluestone

The bulk of blankets pins me down on the couch and, with it, the solid weight of an arm. A hand is soft on my back, fingertips lightly glued to my skin.

The core of the dizziness comes from the pulsing behind my eyes. I blink them open and squint at the barrier pressed up against me: smooth skin, pulled taut over muscles and lightly touched by the sun. A chest, shirtless.

Dray.

Cold dread pools in my gut.

I drag my gaze up the bare chest to the face of my nightmare chiselled from muscle and stone, given a beating heart, and a face so beautiful that the breath is tugged out of me at the sight of him.

Dray’s lips are parted slightly, the pink hue of them warmer under the glow of the simmering fire in the hearth. His usually tense jaw is relaxed, soft, and his long lashes are shut over the shards of glass he has for eyes.

If I was the foolish sort, I might think him not so dangerous right now. I might melt into the firmness of his hold on me, leaninto his chest and find my sleep again, as though I’m safe in his arms.

But even beasts sleep. Nightmares disappear for a while when the devil returns to hell.

I plan on being gone when those lashes flutter and he wakes to a deadblood snuggled on the couch with him.

Whatever shit he got into last night, whatever powders and potions he indulged in before he found me in the maze, that’ll be long out of his system now. So when he does wake, it will be to disgusted outrage—and that will aim right at me.

‘I loved you.’

Those words echo through me, and I still. They are a sword striking through my gut, ice and frost.

I wish he never spoke those awful words at all.

I wish I could melt into the couch and disappear.

I hate that he said it.

I hate that he spoke this truth that once existed between us, even if he only did so because he was high or drunk.

This puts me in some serious shit.

Dray’s wrath.

My breath releases with a shudder.

Now, he’s really going to seek retribution.

I loosen a steadying breath and, gradually, pluck his wrist then lift the weight of his arm from my side. As much as I itch to scramble over him and bolt out of here, I just can’t risk waking him. I doubt I’ll make it to the safety of the girls’ dorms before the attack comes.

Best to just hide out for the rest of the weekend, then pretend like this never happened.

I rest his wrist on the pillow I push up from.

I’m twisted at the oddest angle, my spine moans in complaint, and I’m pushed up against the cushions. One wrong move, and I’ll crash back down, right onto his wrist.

Need to move slow, need to be careful.

Reaching out for the back of the couch, I steel my grip and dig my foot into the cushions. I find the leverage to lift myself up to crouch on the couch. But I move slow, gradually, and watch Dray’s relaxed face for any hints of movement.

At the slightest frown, I’ll topple over the edge and scramble out of here.

Dray has never struck me. Out of all the attacks, the torments, the pranks, he’s never raised his hand and smacked me.

But that’s not a comfort.

Right now, it feels like more of a threat.

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