Page 45 of Prince of Masks
And that leaves me with Oliver and Dray.
But in the Royce, neither of them speak a word to me.
I’m grateful, obviously, but it’s like a switch was flipped somewhere between London and Monte Carlo, and I suddenly don’t exist.
The pair of them sit across from me, flicking through photographs sent into a group chat, and this is one of those ugly gut churning moments I feel left out.
This is one of the moments I wish I was like them, I wish I wasinwith them.
I don’t have a group chat.
Even if I had a phone, my group chat would be made of myself, Courtney and James. Just the thought of it could put me to sleep.
Whatever their chat is flooded with, it’s enough to curve a half-grin on Dray’s face, and split Oliver’s with a wide smile.
My brother shakes his head with a snigger.
My voice is small, “What?”
Oliver lifts a look over the phone—right at me. His grin fades into something bewildered, then he’s looking at me as though I have sprouted a second nose on my face.
Dray lifts a brow and considers me for a moment.
I ask, soft, and heat burning my face, “What’s so funny?”
Oliver’s shoulders jerk with a huffed scoff, and he looks down at the phone again, ignoring me completely.
Dray lingers his stare over me.
His brow knits for a beat before he steals the cell into his hand, earning a scowl from Oliver, and—without looking away from me—flips the screen around to face me.
I glance down at it.
My face flames.
Landon, stark naked, hands clasped around his junk, standing in the middle of a vineyard.
“He lost a bet,” Dray says, then—still, watching me—flicks his thumb over the screen, and it shifts to a video.
I inch closer, to the edge of my seat.
The video kicks off with Landon running through his vineyards, but the audio is Mildred guffawing with that deep chesty laugh of hers, like she needs to see a witchdoctor to suss out those lungs. The camera moves, and I catch a glimpse of Asta, which digs a frown onto my face.
Then it ends.
Oliver snatches his cell back. “Happy?” Not asking sincerely, since he’s angled himself away from me, from both me and Dray.
Dray just sinks into the seat. He watches me, closely.
“Was that Asta?” Still, my voice is small, soft, as though if I speak a mere octave too high, they will throw me out of the car to be run over by the next; but I just can’t bite down the curiosity.
“Asta is often at Landon’s,” Dray says, and doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about that. “They are closer than most might think.”
Maybe he knows Landon likes men. Or does he like both? I could be working on presumptions here.
But if Dray doesn’t know that about Landon, then shouldn’t he be a bit more concerned about Asta spending more time in the holidays with Landon than with him, her actual fiancé?
I know they don’t see each other often. Outside of the aristos events, where a few families come together, I doubt Dray has much time to go and visit her. Most of the time, he is with us.
