Page 35 of A Heart of Bluestone

I just can’t help it.

My teeth grit around words I force out, “I remember a time you thought everything I did was magnificent, when you thoughtIwas magnificent.”

A dark look settles over Dray’s face, like a conjured storm settles down on the room.

I can’t stop the shiver from clutching me.

He takes a step closer.

My shoulders curve inwards, as though I can cringe away and fall back into safety.

Purely for survival reasons, the last thing I should have done is throw his old childish favouritism in his face. But it’s the only ammo I’ve got, and his sore spot is once fancying a deadblood.

Sometimes, my mouth gets the better of me.

This is one of those times.

“It seems to me,” Dray starts, and his voice is as hard as his steel gaze, “that you not only enjoy bringing dishonour to your family name by being what you are…” His full lips warp around the words, as though rancid on his tongue, “a rotten waif, no better than a krum,” he adds darkly, “but that you also disgrace your society by protecting unworthy shrews.”

“You’re the unworthy one,” I spit back at him, but he’s blurring right in front of me, and when I blink, and feel the heat of tears rolling down my cheeks, the flush of shame is quick to burn my face. I swallow, thick. “Deadbloods happen, and I still carry the magic inside of me. You’re the only disgrace here, Dray. All that power and society at your fingertips, but you waste your time on makingmylife a living hell. Can you spellpathetic?”

His eyes flash, and he moves for me.

The warmth of his beige complexion darkens as he leaves the firelight and backs me into the tapestry.

A shuddering breath catches in my throat as he closes in.

He raises his hand, fast.

A flinch strikes me. I stagger back, throwing my hands up to shield myself from a hit that doesn’t come.

That’s what I expect. Dray’s hand to strike across my cheek and knock me to the floor.

But his hand swipes in front of me, the air gusting at the tip of my nose—and I still.

I don’t blink. I don’t cry out.

I don’t move a muscle.

Because I can’t.

Fucking makut.

He froze me.

I’m stiffer than a marble statue against the tapestry.

The arches of my feet are lifted from the floor, all my weight pressing down on my toes, my back twisted to turn me away from him, hands raised to shield myself—and I am stuck this way.

The breath is strained in my chest, but my lungs still inflate and deflate. My eyes don’t move, they are fixed around the side of my hand, at him.

I’m locked in a solid stare with Dray and his mutinous face.

He draws in a long exhale through his nostrils, as if to steady himself. At his sides, his hands curl into fists for a beat, then relax.

But his face doesn’t.

He closes the distance between us in one final step.

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