Page 57 of A Heart of Bluestone

Behind him, in black sweatpants and a t-shirt, Dray comes down the stairs. His hands are fisted around a cigar case and a bottle of scotch.

His gaze is fast to pin me.

Diamond eyes, the sharpness of them scraping down me, his mouth hot on Melody’s—

I blink on the surged memory.

Then, not a heartbeat later, Landon is jogging down the stairs, his steps as booming as his annoying laughter. Dampness clings to his hair, remnants of a shower, and he shoulders past Dray.

I watch as he drops onto the couch with Mildred, the one pushed up against the wall, the one with a prime view of me, and yet he doesn’t even glance my way.

He’s too focused on the playing cards that he has started to shuffle on his lap.

My boot slides back, and I make to retreat, as I should.

But Serena isn’t so quick to let me go.

“If you join us for one drink,” she says and lifts her finger, a fresh manicure glossing under the dim, cosy lights, “and one game, no one will bother you tonight—or the rest of the weekend.”

It’s Saturday night. Not much weekend left.

Still, it’s the teeniest bit tempting.

Oliver throws himself over the spine of the couch. He slams down on the cushioned seat and kicks up his legs. His head lolls back and he looks at his betrothed.

“You make that promise for the rest of us?” he says. “That’s confident.”

My boot slides back again, and I hope to go unnoticed.

Asta catches the retreat.

Her gaze narrows on me… and yet she says nothing about it. Almost like she wants me to leave as much as I do.

“Or,” I start as Serena’s gaze finds me, “I could leave now and go unharmed.”

“I could chase you,” Mildred challenges, but then she turns back to Landon.

He flips over a playing card. She flips the next, and it’s an ace.

Landon curses and runs his hand through his curls. No interest in this tension whatsoever.

I can outrun Mildred.

I’m faster and more agile.

But if she does catch me, that’s a headbutt or a knockout punch. And there are no enchantments keeping her out of my dorm room. There’s no way to escape.

Not to mention that Dray is still standing. Beside the arm of the couch that Oliver lounges on, he leans his weight on the sidetable and watches me. An arm’s reach between us, he could snatch me by the arm before I could twist into a run.

And I am certain that’s why he still stands,

I slide my narrowed eyes to Serena. “What game?”

There’s a procession of shouts, fromnever have I evertospin the bottle(I make a twisted face at that one). None of the options seem targeted on me, on making my life hell.

Asta has turned to Serena now, engrossed, suddenly, and she murmurs her barely audible suggestion, “Most likely.”

Oliver is uncorking a bottle of ice-cold vodka. He doesn’t look at me. I pray that he does, that he gives me a sign, gives me an out—but he doesn’t.

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