Page 42 of Prince of Masks
He doesn’t come out, not even as the jet starts to make its way to the runway, and the vibrations deafen the already tight, compressed air in the cabin.
Dray reclines in the chair. It creaks under the shifted weight and flickers my gaze his way.
As though sensing that he lured in my attention, he asks, with a gentle sigh, like he’s relaxing at the beach, not at all like he’s just bullied me right out of Bluestone, “What are you reading?”
My tongue darts over my lips before I suck them inwards.
Swiftly, I chance a look beyond the divider to Mr Younge, a diagonal reach from me. Any ugly word I might aim at Dray, Mr Younge could perhaps hear and tell Father.
It’s not the place. It’s not the time.
Dray knows it, knows I’ll be forced into conversation with him, that I can’t get up and move without Father or Mother noticing and chiding me for it.
For the length of the flight, I’m trapped—and at Dray’s mercy.
I sigh, defeated, and turn the book cover to him.
He reads the title aloud, “The top one hundred piano compositions of the twenty-first century.”
I drop the cover back to my lap and pretend to read.
I’m at the introduction page for the composer Portman; a krum whose talent is positively witchy. I’d rather be studying his scores than talking to Dray. Mind you, I’d almost rather jump out of this jet that’s soaring down the runway than talk to Dray. Tempting enough that I eye the emergency exit more than once.
The jet tilts.
The nose lifts in the air, and since I’m at the rear, my weight shifts to the left—closer to Dray.
My face tightens and I force myself back into place.
It isn’t long before the plane steadies and I can pop my ears against the pressure.
And still, Oliver hasn’t returned.
My glower shifts to the door where, beyond, there are two bathrooms and a small bedroom for long-haul flights.
Oliver uses it most, since he gets the absolute worst hangovers. But that’s because he drinks the absolute most. Not to mention his migraines. He only gets them when he pushes his print to the limit.
Magic always has a cost.
Maybe that’s where he is, and not the bathroom. Could be that he’s sprawled out over the bed through there, even something as simple as sleeping off the veil fatigue from yesterday’s travels from Bluestone.
I don’t know how long I stare at the door, waiting for Oliver’s return, almost hoping it comes quickly as though that means he will act as some sort of buffer between Dray and I, a role he never employs.
But I know that, before I can act on the thought of turning my attention back to the pocketbook, Dray’s hand reaches through my peripheral vision.
I stiffen.
His fingertips touch my cheekbone, a gentle touch, a whisper that prickles my skin. “Have you been to the spa?” he asks, his voice a murmur. “Your complexion is very clear today.”
The breath that cuts through me is shaky.
I am frozen as throw my wild stare at him.
Dray has touched me before, touched my face, forced his mouth against mine. He’s done all that and more.
But never in front of our parents.
I mean, they aren’t looking, they are all the way on the other side of the jet, but Mr Younge and Mr Burns are right fucking there.
