Page 61 of Prince of Masks
Dray pinches the bridge of his nose, far up enough that he’s digging into the corners of his eyes. Can’t see them behind the shades, but they looked almost bloodshot when he was standing over me.
The fatigue of his night—and all the drink I’m certain they had—has beaten him down today. It’s all too much for him to muster any violent loathing towards me today.
My gaze lingers over the scar on his shoulder. So faint and small, little teeth marks, some deeper than others, white nicks that interrupt the smooth beige complexion he wears.
It’s a funny thought that my bite remains on him, my mark stains his flesh, and he has every available treatment at his fingertips to wipe it away like nothing more than a smear of ink.
But he seems to have no awareness of it at all, that my mark scars him, and he loosens a weary sigh.
He hands me the glass bottle of water.
I take it with a huff, because now that he mentions it, I am thirsty.
His face is angled towards the horizon. He watches the water rush by as he slumps against the under-cabin wall. “My mother mentioned your gown is Oscar.”
Suppose he thinks it a waste to have such an extravagant, special gown made for me, a deadblood, all so I can attract a gentry suitor.
He doesn’t have to say it.
“Yeah.”
“Couture?”
I nod, then screw the lid back onto the glass water bottle. Empty, I toss it aside and it thumps onto the towel I earlier discarded.
Dray’s back stays slumped on the polished wood wall. His face is still angled to the horizon, but he peels off his sunglasses and reveals that his gaze is on me.
Bloodshot eyes, a faint pink that’s not unlike the hue of his lips, but bordered by thick lashes. He keeps the shades pinched between his fingers, makes no move to put them on again.
His murmur comes with a swallowed yawn, “You’re sulking.”
My frown is mostly hidden by my own shades.
“Because you were denied an invitation to the casino?” His words are teasing, mocking, but his tone and the look he aims at me are serious—like he’s considering me, working me out, and I feel like we’re back at Bluestone again, where I’m cornered and he has too much power.
I fiddle with the edge of the page. “I hardly think it’s fair.”
He shifts to better recline against the wooden wall of the under-cabin. “Fairness is something children squabble over.”
Soft footsteps come down the way.
I look up as the steward carries a tray of fruit, cucumber-tuna sandwiches and a fresh pot of coffee. He sets it down on the bench I lean on, just within arm’s reach.
As the server pours us each a coffee, Dray says, “It was bold of you to ask your father if you could tag along.”
I thin my lips and, silent, take a mug into my clammy grip. “Will you let Asta play? When you are married, I mean.”
Dray reaches for a mug of his own. “Of course not.”
“Why not?”
“It isn’t the way.”
“But she can gamble in casual society—like our mothers were doing on the roof by the pool.”
“Yes.”
“How is it different?”
