Page 86 of A Heart of Bluestone

“Dray,” I manage, a choked undercurrent to my wavering voice.

Still, he watches my lips move around the words.

“Dray, please—what do you want? I… I can give you something if you let me go, like… Like I can let you pick your New Year gift and, I promise, I’ll get it for you, I will.”

Still—

His blue eyes are lowered, just watching my lips move.

“Or I can do all the work for Brews—” I’m rambling now, desperate, and if he cared to actually listen to anything I am saying, then he would know it. “You can tell me what to do inclass, and boss me around and I’ll listen, I’ll get all the supplies and…”

I’m out of desperate pleas. Out of trades.

What canIofferhim?

He has everything and more.

This isn’t about trades.

The truth of it shines in the tear that falls from my left eye.

I blink on it, a thickness lacquering my throat. The tear rolls down my cheek—and Dray’s gaze traces it.

One hand firm on my throat, he reaches up his other and drags his fingertips down my cheek. He smears the tear away before he returns to my lips.

His murmur is soft, slick with a whisky haze, “Your mouth is a bit crooked.”

A frown tugs at my brows, fleeting.

I ache to arch against him, to buck and throw myself out of this trap. But to do that, totryit, is to grind myself against his leg, and I won’t, I would rather burn.

A sharp breath sucks through me.

He nudges his nose against mine, the searing blue of his eyes burning through the night’s shadows in the corridor.

“Right here,” he adds, a murmur, then drags his fingers along my smushing cheek to the corner of my mouth. “When you talk, it lifts highest here, like you are always on the verge of snarl.”

My lashes flutter, and more tears spill.

Hands flat against his chest, as though to block his sweater touching mine, his chest touching mine, I force all my bitter strength into my arms—and push.

It does nothing.

Nothing at all.

He doesn’t even lift his gaze from my lips, his fingers pressed into the flesh, then—a muffled cry arches me.

He pushes his fingers into my mouth.

I arch, pulling my head back into the hard wall. The back of my skull aches, fast, and my face twists as though mangled.

I can’t pull away, trapped between him and the wall, my tongue tastes the remnants of fallen whisky drops and peppermint.

I don’t have the heart to bite down on his fingers. Not the heart in that sense, but in courage. If I bite down…

I shudder to think of what he’ll do.

But then, his hand is gone. Fingers out of my mouth, his taste slipped from my tongue.

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