Page 110 of Prince of Masks
I turn my cheek to Dray before his gaze can touch me. I pretend I don’t notice him at all, that he stands with my brother about six witches ahead of me.
I force a smile up at Eric. “So what are the rest of your season plans?”
The flush of his cheeks is too obvious, too guilty. He blinks down at me, a tad slow.
With a bob of his throat, he answers, “Teddy just solidified his engagement, actually. He’ll be married in the coming wedding season.”
He told me that already, over drinks.
But that’s not a complaint, since this is only a charade under the steel stares that latch onto us from up the queue.
They watch us, both of them, I know it; I feel the searing of my cheek.
My false smile is polite. “Oh, that’s lovely. I didn’t know he was in pursuit of anyone.”
Eric nods. “We are celebrating next weekend.”
I’m wildly aware of the two sets of eyes burning into me from ahead.
A guilty smile steals Eric’s lips. “We are taking the veil to Mallorca.”
Party central for the gentries. Krums love it, too.
My face tightens, but I fight the tension. Can’t be too uncool, not yet, not until I have secured him, stolen him from Asta, and nudged my father into approving his offer.
Oliver’s voice booms, “Liv!”
I flinch—though I knew it was coming.
It’s that horrid in-between tension, like when you know a smack is coming in a game of hands, but each second, your muscles clamp tighter and tighter, and when the slap does strike, even if it isn’t so hard, the fright of it jerks through your whole body.
I lift my chin and look over the shoulders of the witches between me and my brother.
His stormy look isn’t kind.
Like Dray, his gaze bores into me, hard. He doesn’t so much as spare a look on Eric, no acknowledgement of his existence whatsoever.
I raise my brows at Oliver, then wave.
“Come here,” he snaps, cross. His fingers click, the summons to give a dog.
My scowl is crumpled.
I throw a look at Eric. “It was nice to see you. Give Teddy my congratulations.”
Eric’s smile is pained and tight.
He inclines his head.
Without another word, I push through the blockade of witches.
Some are brave enough to fire glares at me, hiss profanities under their breaths, but I make it to my brother and Dray without anyone daring to stop me.
I only just reach them when Oliver’s low voice lashes at me, “What were you doing with him?”
I blink, an innocent flutter of the lashes. “Oh—nothing. I just bumped into him on the street, maybe ten minutes ago.” I shrug, lame. “We use the same veil, so…”
Oliver gives a slow, gradual nod. But the suspicion dances in the forestry he has for eyes as he cuts his gaze over my head.
