Page 151 of Prince of Masks
I wrench out of his grip.
You knew.
You knew.
And you’re only concerned aboutwhotold me.
I’m shoving off the settee in a stumble. My heels clack under my wobbling weight until the cold kiss of a mirror hits my back.
“Get out,” I grit the words between my teeth. Sagging over myself, I repeat them, again and again.
I slump, my scowl aimed at the bullshit concern my brother dares to wear on his face. A face I want to shred my nails down.
“Get outttttt,” my voice hitches, it cracks into something of a squeak. I swallow back a thick lump that’s wedged itself in my throat. “I hate you—I hate all of you!”
He doesn’t leave.
His jaw tenses for a moment, his spine straightening.
Slowly, he pushes up from the settee and advances on me. His steps are cautious, like he’s approaching a rabid beast.
I can hardly make out his features through the stream of tears. My makeup will be destroyed now, rotted away by the salty tearsstreaking down my cheeks, black mascara smudged to make me into something of a racoon.
“Liv,” he starts, reaching out for my arms. “I need you to focus—I need you to breathe.”
My mind is reeling.
I can’t make much sense of it, of anything, of my own existence, or the punishing thrum of my heart against my ribcage, like it knows the only way out is to tear itself free from my body and flee Dray, but leave the rest of me dead.
I’m sinking.
I’m sinking.
I only realise that the sinking sensation is real, and I am dropping down the wall, when my bottom thuds to the floor and I go limp, like a doll carelessly tossed onto a shelf.
Oliver crouches beside me.
His hand finds mine and holds, firm.
The reassuring squeeze does nothing to ground me.
“You don’t care,” I whine, my head shaking all on its own, and I am certain I have no control over anything anymore, not even my own body. “You don’t care.”
“I do,” he breathes the words with enough urgency to pull in my gaze. “I do care.”
“No, you don’t,” my whine is accompanied by a shake of the head. I bring my knees to my chin and hug them, firm. “You hate me, too.”
His mouth thins before he turns his cheek to me. “Let’s just take a moment. Let’s just breathe…”
There’s a slick wet sound to my swallow, of tears built up.
“Here.” Oliver fishes a hand into his pocket, then tugs out a small phial. “Drink this.”
I should fight it, shake my head, hit out at him.
But I can’t do much more than fight the choppy breaths that are aching my insides now, like when I throw up for too long, and the muscles are strained, and it hurts so bad that I cry.
That is the pain in me, blended with a deep aching anguish—a vicious cycle I’m trapped in.
