Page 148 of Prince of Masks
His lashes flutter.
He looks down at the joint burning away in his pinched fingers, smoke wisping off into the midnight air.
“I think you know,” he says, soft.
My throat thickens. It’s wet with restrained sobs. I swallow,gulp, and my trembling hands fist at my sides.
“No.” The word is squeaked, a whisper. “No…”
“Yes.” Landon lifts his hard gaze to mine. “Your Mr Monopoly is Dray Sinclair.”
27
There is a war in me, a violent flurry of roaring flames and the crashing waves of ice-cold water. They battle, from the churn of my gut to the ache of my heart.
And it’s all I can do to just keep upright.
That is a challenge in itself.
My head is dizzy, pulsations striking from my brain all the way down to my bare toes.
The shoes hooked around my fingers, straps dangling, knock off my side with every rushed step I stumble through the gardens.
But none of that is my concern, not even that I think it’s suddenly impossible to breathe, that there’s an elephant standing on my chest, crushing me, and I can’t manage more than a single small, sharp breath at a time.
The concern isn’t how I’ll get back into the palace without being noticed in this state, makeup running down my cheeks, dirt smearing my bare feet, the layers of the dress still stained with the fountain water.
My concern is that one true horror.
Your Mr Monopoly is Dray Sinclair.
I don’t refute it.
I don’t spiral into doubt or denial—because I knew it, deep down, somewhere, I knew that things had shifted.
Dray’s new approach to me.
Theassaultschanging from pain to kissing, to soft touches and dances, even just to conversation.
A drawn-out hum of despair thrums me.
I stagger up the edge of the heat bubble, following it all the way to the palace.
I’ve got to get out of here, out of the gardens, away from prying eyes. There’s only so long I can keep to the border, hidden from the gazes of the guests, shielded from the gossip that will undoubtedly spring at the sight of me. The path will spill out to the Bacchus Pool, and it will be bustling up there.
I pause, snivels rattling me, and drop to the concrete.
I swat at the dirt on my feet before I wrangle on my heels, then clammer to stand.
My legs are wobbly under my uneasy weight.
I push onwards, shoes scraping over the concrete path, the skirt of my dress in a shambles.
My fingers glide over the wetness of my cheeks, as though I can do something, anything, about the streaks stained there.
It’s all useless.
Everything is useless.
