Page 44 of Prince of Masks
Rupert is quick to deposit the teacups onto the consoles wedged between the seats.
Oliver doesn’t look up or acknowledge his at all, he’s so deep in focus, thumbs whacking away on that screen of his.
Hard to tell if it’s business or getting Landon to pay up a gambling debt, or another fight with Serena who just loves to ice him out for a while here and there.
“Here.”
I frown at Dray as he steals the chocolate biscuit from his saucer, then places it on mine.
“My mother mentioned they have been starving you,” he says, as if he gives a shit.
But his mask and its lies don’t stop my gaze from drifting to the biscuit.
The chocolate glistening over it snares me—and for a moment, I almost forget that I am not allowed to eat anything of the sort right now.
I swallow, hard, then narrow my gaze on him. “No, thank you. I am stuffed.”
His lethal stare is unwavering. “You are never too full for a biscuit, Olivia. I once caught you hiding in the pantry, a stomach ache from all the sweets you ate, and you were still forcing them down.”
I scoff.
He leaves out the context—I was like seven years old, and I had just been released from Grandmother’s (and that Ethel does not like to feed the children properly).
I reach out for the biscuit, the one printed with his touch. I nudge it off the saucer. “Biscuits and stories aren’t the way to earn my forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness?” His dark brow arches, nudging under the sandy strands of his hair that have fallen into his face. “Do I need it?”
I look him up and down. “You’re sure as hell trying hard to get my attention.”
A snort comes from Oliver.
I blink at my brother, at the crooked grin snared onto his mouth as he glances between me and Dray. There’s something of approval in that look, but it’s gone quick, and he returns his attention to his phone.
“Back to normal,” Dray notes, delicately, but that doesn’t put me at ease, it only lashes a chilled sensation through my gut. “It’s a wonder what two weeks of rest and absence can do.”
I slam the book shut, hard.
Dray watches as I shove it back into the clutch, then fish out my MP3 player and, of course, the earbuds.
If he judges the dated music device, he says nothing of it. It’s not a secret that I use these old things. Father doesn’t let me have a phone, so it’s this, or cart around a CD player—and no fucking thank you.
I stick the buds into my ears, then shift around to turn my back on Dray. Probably not the best idea, to have my back turned, but I feel a little safer in the jet.
I flick through the compositions I had downloaded last week. I didn’t do it. I get Abigail to do that kind of thing for me. She’s more tech savvy than I’ll ever be.
She does well.
The full album comes up.
Portman.
I listen, I drink my tea, and I eat just one biscuit. Mine.
Two hours later, we are descending into Monaco.
9
Mother and Amelia ride with Mr Younge; Father and Harold are escorted by Mr Burns.
