Page 134 of Prince of Masks
Dray’s eyes are calculative blue gems, piercing into me. “Who are you looking for?”
I shoot him a bored look. “Conversation wasn’t a part of our deal.”
Dray arches his dark brow. “But if we are not to speak, how can I tell you it isn’t cosmetics that make you beautiful?”
My tongue sticks out with a faux gag. “Save it for someone who will be fooled by your lines, like Melody.”
His fingertips brush down my spine.
My muscles clamp.
Even through the thick border of my bodice, I feel the caress.
Makut.
I glare up at him.
“If you insist on your secrets,” he says, his fingers brushing back up the curve of my spine, all the way to the prickling flesh of my neck, “I will find entertainment in watching you fail at keeping them. I sometimes enjoy the show—of you digging your grave then crying that you’re in one.”
The face I make at him is crumpled and obvious enough that, if Father was closer and saw it, he would chide me.
But Dray’s chiding is the one to respond.
His hand firms on the nape of my neck.
I watch the burn of his eyes sear into me.
His nose inches closer to mine.
“The only one who digs my grave is you,” I hiss, and my breath brushes over his mouth.
He steps into me, then dips me. “Room for one more?”
I blink up at him once before the soft flesh of his mouth grazes mine. His lashes don’t flutter, his eyes don’t shut—this is not romance. This is a statement. An almost kiss, his gaze searing into me.
He flicks me upright, like I am little more than a feather, and I stagger into his chest.
His arm hooks, tight.
And there is little wiggle room, no escape.
My lashes lower.
His eyes gleam like polished blades before they flicker over my head and drag over our watchers. “They are fortune hunters.”
“They are aristos,” I huff. “They have fortunes of their own.”
“Not like yours.”
I arch a brow. “Then what is your betrothed?”
His gaze lands on mine. “Worthy.”
I choke on a bitter laugh. “Are you worthy of her?”
A flicker of surprise steals his face, a fleeting look of uncertainty. It’s something he hasn’t asked himself, something he hasn’t considered—because Dray doesn’t need to think of anyone beyond himself.
He doesn’t answer.
