Page 133 of A Heart of Bluestone

Every fibre of my niggling body, the writhing in my gut like it’s nothing more than a pit of worms, tells me thatthiswill be the day.

Because unlike the other days, Dray didn’t spend the night holding a deadblood in his arms. He didn’t tell her he loved her once, didn’t hold her hair while she was sick a bucket…

The shame of it will ignite the sort of anger in him that silences me, the kind I don’t bite back at, but rather flee from and plead with.

The mere thought of what his outrage will be, it’s enough to shudder my breath with my shoulders.

I point my toes—where the fuck are my socks?

Oh.

That’s right. Dray took them off. Warmed my cold, red feet in his hands under a blanket.

Fuck, he’s going to kill me.

He’d going to drown me in the rockpool. Throw me down the stairs. Makut me straight to the fires of hell.

My toes touch the course fabric of the Moroccan rug.

A breath of relief deflates me. I lean my weight onto that foot, then gradually bring the other to join it.

Then I am standing, firm on the rug, hands outstretched as if to reach for balance, between Dray’s back—and a bucket of sick that’s slightly tucked under the coffee table.

My mouth twists at the sight of it.

I turn my back on it, my foot lifts from the rug to take a step, to leave—but I freeze all over.

Muscles bolt to bone.

Then I frown at the sleeping witch on the armchair.

Tousled brown hair, some leaves and dust disturbing it. Smears of what I think might be blood and bruises on his cheekbone.

Oliver.

Sound asleep.

Boots crossed and perched on the edge of the coffee table, he is melted into the plush armchair. His arms are folded, and they shift with his steady, sleeping breaths.

The frown is pinned to my face.

I consider him, then flick my stare back to Dray, then back to Oliver, over and over as I take soft, slow steps towards the door.

Oliver doesn’t stir.

Chin tucked to his collarbone, sleep keeps him under.

The skin of Dray’s back is water over bouldered muscles, his breaths are so gentle. And that eases me as I creep towards the door, because I know he’s still deep in slumber

I step over a crumpled black t-shirt. It’s stained with sick, and so I guess I puked all over him sometime after I blacked out.

I scowl at it before I sneak out the door. Gently, I close it over. And the relief is instant.

Still, the hangover has me fisted, seized, and I stagger down the corridor to the narrow staircase. My head hums like the string of a pulled guitar string. Each step I hike up the stairs threatens me, threatens that I’ll quickly be heaving up a whole lot of last night. Booze and water, really, that’s all I had.

The realisation that I downed all those potions and drank all the vodka and guzzled all that tequila, all on an empty stomach, it worsens the sickly sensation stirring through me.

I’m almost sick on the stairs.

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