Page 48 of Prince of Masks
I practically wrench off my clothes before I climb into the king bed of feathery pillows and thick quilts.
The moan that’s lured from me is utterly involuntary.
I fall onto my side and curl up.
The best part about a hotel is the bed.
Can’t change my mind on that.
Iwouldn’tput that in the group chat I don’t have, because if I said it to Courtney, how much I love the beds at these places, she would either ignore me or whip out her snide side.
‘Must be nice’, Courtney would say. ‘To travel to all these exotic places, stay in the most luxurious hotels, have a family jet.’
But there’s a price to pay.
I should answer with that, if my imaginary conversation ever comes again.
Most of the time, when we do get into a squabble, I bite down my words with a forced smile, or just demand that she drops it and moves on.
I did that too often in the earlier days of our friendship. Smiled. I was afraid to lose her. Afraid to be utterly alone.
But often, in her company, I do feel alone.
So really, it never mattered.
10
Dray Sinclair was a shark in a previous life.
He loves the water and he’s absolutely vicious.
I think on it, tilting my head as I study him in the ripples.
Amelia and Harold Sinclair are staying in the penthouse—and that comes with a rooftop infinity pool.
I loathe rooftops, I’m jittery with heights, but if I don’t go near the edges, I’m just fine.
I stick to the poolside.
Dray does lap after lap after lap.
I don’t go in the water, I just sit on a towel at the edge, dipping my feet in every so often, but mostly enduring the heat bubble that Mr Younge created for us.
Elementals come in handy, particularly the powerful ones.
Father didn’t have heat bubbles in mind, I’m sure, when he plucked Mr Younge from the elite gentries. He likely valued the ability of clearing a tunnel in a storm so that the jet can get through or delaying earthquakes to stop them from interrupting meetings. That sort of thing.
A handy right-hand.
Whatever. At least the rooftop feels like it’s submerged in a sauna. Means I got out my bathing suit—a one-piece, of course, my family are sticklers about that sort of thing—and can loungeon the towel, pretend I’m on white-sand beaches in the midst of summer.
It’s Bluestone that does it to me.
Bluestone turns a summer hater into a summer lover. One goes in professing, ‘I prefer the cold’, and leaving in a run for the nearest hot beach.
The heat has become a treat.
And when it becomes a bit too much for me, a little dry on the skin, sweaty on the brow, I unfold my legs and dip my feet into the cool touch of the water.
