Page 138 of Prince of Masks
It walks alone, a tall posture, shoulders framed, and there is no wandering pace as it draws closer to me.
I get the niggle that the silhouette is actually coming for me.
Oliver, Father, Mr Younge—I can’t yet tell, not with the distance and the darkness of the midnight skies.
Sagged on the stoop of the fountain, I nibble on a piece of Belgian chocolate and watch as the silhouette advances.
Minutes pass before I start to make out the sandy blond hue of his hair, combed into place; the gleam of black diamond cufflinks winking at me; the crispness of a tailored suit; the shine of polished shoes; and, as always with him, the crystalline gleam of his eyes.
Moonlight washes over Dray Sinclair as he approaches the fountain. “Your father is looking for you.”
I dust off the crumbs from my hands. “And of course,youfound me.”
“You do owe me a second dance.” He looks as enthused about that as I feel.
I consider him from beneath my lashes.
I should feel at least a trickle of ice climbing up my spine, or a writhing gut that tells me to run, run away from this quiet spot of the gardens, escape Dray and his constant tortures.
Instead, I am utterly numb. Dazed, almost.
That dull look of mine is still aimed up at him. “Wouldn’t you rather drown me in the fountain?”
Dray slips his hands out of his pockets. “Maybe another night.”
He offers his hand to me, painted the smoothest beige and ridged with veins.
I slap my hand onto his with a sigh.
He tugs me to my feet.
My unwillingness comes in the weight of my body as he draws me into him.
It’s the defeat that does it, douses the flames of fight I keep in me no matter the torment.
I give into his hold, the dance, the debt.
The distance of the orchestra softens the pleasant, slow melody.
Dray’s hand is firm on my back, his other clasped around my fingers, and I am lured.
I feel impossibly heavy as I sag into the hardness of his chest, chiselled from stone.
Dray lowers his chin to my head. His murmur is as soft as the moonlight cascading over us, “Tired?”
A hum is all I manage in answer.
My cheek turns to press on the suit jacket, as black as spilled ink, and I will surely smear some of my makeup over it.
Still, I rest my cheek there and watch the silhouettes move ahead on the path.
The party is starting to splinter off, wander into the deeper areas of the gardens, and I should feel a bud of relief blossoming in me at that, in the length of the fifteen-minute walk to this fountain, others will be around—and so Dray probably won’t turn on me.
Not with this sort of audience.
Is that why my defences are so low this night? Is it that I bank on the sort of event this is, the sort of witches here—or is it that lethargic fatigue that has been draping over me, heavier and heavier, since Teddy spewed the truth?
My face crumples into a frown.
