Page 11 of Prince of Masks (Hearts of Bluestone #2)

I ignore the swell of people invading my fleetingly peaceful space, and I read. The background noise of luggage being tucked away into the narrow cupboards, of seats creaking as weight is shifted around, the murmurs of conversation, it tries to distract me from the pages on my lap.

Then, above the pages, movement rustles by me.

I look up from under my lashes as trouser legs pass me, then another pair.

I lift my frown higher and see Oliver making his way to the bathroom through the door—and Dray fucking Sinclair moving for the seat beside mine.

My throat thickens. A ball, wedged.

Dray drops into the seat with an air of exhaustion.

I blink at him once, twice, and he doesn’t notice, not as he lifts his hand to summon the attendant.

Before the suited attendant can squeeze by the partition, Dray orders, “Three teas. One unsweetened almond milk, two skim, and one sugar.”

My mouth puckers.

The glare I aim at him is swift and cautious before I quickly throw it over the shoulder-high divider.

There, Mr Younge and Mr Burns push their personal bags into the storage cupboards.

So I guess they are taking the middle section now that they have been pushed out of this one.

I crane my neck to look across the plane, but I can only make out the top of my father’s head, the sleek black hair combed into place.

My breath comes out in a huff.

I sink back into my chair and keep my cheek to Dray.

It does little to remove him from my sight.

With the angle of the chairs turned towards each other, but sharing a wall, he is in my peripherals as he tugs off his black shades, then tosses them to the small table wedged between us.

They clatter on landing.

Dray’s cold voice is a snake moving around me, “How has your vacation been?”

Out the corner of my eye, I catch movement. He pinches the button of his suit jacket, unhooking it, then peels it off.

My jaw ticks.

I keep my eyes on the pages of my book, but I don’t read the words, I don’t even see them beyond a blur.

I ignore him.

“Such a sudden departure,” he says and hangs the suit jacket on the hook next to his chair. “You were missed.”

I chew on the vile words flooding my mouth.

Before anything can spit out of me, before I can dig myself into another hole with Dray, the speaker dug into the ceiling starts to crinkle, like paper in a fist.

Then comes the usual take-off ‘ please be seated for your safet y’ announcement.

I tune it out.

I’m not the only one to dismiss the pilot.

Oliver takes his time in the bathroom, and I don’t doubt he’s enjoying a private space to call Serena before we’re in the air.

He doesn’t come out, not even as the jet starts to make its way to the runway, and the vibrations deafen the already tight, compressed air in the cabin.

Dray reclines in the chair. It creaks under the shifted weight and flickers my gaze his way.

As though sensing that he lured in my attention, he asks, with a gentle sigh, like he’s relaxing at the beach, not at all like he’s just bullied me right out of Bluestone, “What are you reading?”

My tongue darts over my lips before I suck them inwards.

Swiftly, I chance a look beyond the divider to Mr Younge, a diagonal reach from me. Any ugly word I might aim at Dray, Mr Younge could perhaps hear and tell Father.

It’s not the place. It’s not the time.

Dray knows it, knows I’ll be forced into conversation with him, that I can’t get up and move without Father or Mother noticing and chiding me for it.

For the length of the flight, I’m trapped—and at Dray’s mercy.

I sigh, defeated, and turn the book cover to him.

He reads the title aloud, “The top one hundred piano compositions of the twenty-first century.”

I drop the cover back to my lap and pretend to read.

I’m at the introduction page for the composer Portman; a krum whose talent is positively witchy.

I’d rather be studying his scores than talking to Dray.

Mind you, I’d almost rather jump out of this jet that’s soaring down the runway than talk to Dray.

Tempting enough that I eye the emergency exit more than once.

The jet tilts.

The nose lifts in the air, and since I’m at the rear, my weight shifts to the left—closer to Dray.

My face tightens and I force myself back into place.

It isn’t long before the plane steadies and I can pop my ears against the pressure.

And still, Oliver hasn’t returned.

My glower shifts to the door where, beyond, there are two bathrooms and a small bedroom for long-haul flights.

Oliver uses it most, since he gets the absolute worst hangovers. But that’s because he drinks the absolute most. Not to mention his migraines. He only gets them when he pushes his print to the limit.

Magic always has a cost.

Maybe that’s where he is, and not the bathroom. Could be that he’s sprawled out over the bed through there, even something as simple as sleeping off the veil fatigue from yesterday’s travels from Bluestone.

I don’t know how long I stare at the door, waiting for Oliver’s return, almost hoping it comes quickly as though that means he will act as some sort of buffer between Dray and I, a role he never employs.

But I know that, before I can act on the thought of turning my attention back to the pocketbook, Dray’s hand reaches through my peripheral vision.

I stiffen.

His fingertips touch my cheekbone, a gentle touch, a whisper that prickles my skin. “Have you been to the spa?” he asks, his voice a murmur. “Your complexion is very clear today.”

The breath that cuts through me is shaky.

I am frozen as throw my wild stare at him.

Dray has touched me before, touched my face, forced his mouth against mine. He’s done all that and more.

But never in front of our parents.

I mean, they aren’t looking, they are all the way on the other side of the jet, but Mr Younge and Mr Burns are right fucking there.

And still, his hand doesn’t retreat; it merely glides down to my jawline, then along the brush of my neck.

Dray caresses me.

The touch of a suitor. The touch of courting. Of affection.

My instinct is delayed, delayed enough that my cheeks are burning by the time I snap out of it.

I whack the pocketbook against his wrist, hard.

Dray stills for a moment, fingertips soft on the curve of my neck. Slowly, his lashes lower over the fierce cut of his eyes, daggers carved from glaciers.

He recedes his hand, then arches his brow, as though in challenge.

Still, I am staring at him as startled as the moment he first touched my cheek.

The door thuds open.

I look up, eyes still wide.

Oliver pushes over the threshold, then kicks back to slam the door shut.

A moody severity has his face resembling those sorts of brooding stone statues, the ones deep in thought. He drops onto the seat opposite me and is quick to fish out his cell from his pocket.

Without so much as a glance at me, he kicks out his legs, thighs spread, and unlocks his phone. The shine of the screen illuminates his face in the moody light of the cabin.

I steal the moment to swerve Dray’s attention away from me.

“How is your shoulder?”

Oliver doesn’t lift his gaze from the phone. “Fine.”

I nod, faint, and fight the gnawing urge to turn my gaze back to Dray, who I am certain is watching me, not staring a hole into my face, but rather running his gaze over me, the loose strands of my hair, the shell of my ear, the protrusion of my collarbone—I feel it, a cold burn dragging over my flesh.

“Do you feel better?” Oliver asks, but his eyes are fixed on the screen, glued there. The emerald hues of his irises dance with the reflection of tapping texts and changing apps.

It takes me a moment to realise he’s speaking to me. “What?”

“Do you feel better?” he echoes, dull. “After your premature leave.”

I murmur, “Is that what we’re calling it?”

Dray’s jaw clicks, his fierce stare darkening on me. “Do you?”

The firmness of his tone lures in my direct gaze.

“I was feeling better.”

I almost grimace.

Risky.

But, with a quick glance at Mr Younge, who’s sorting through a list on his cell, the screen aimed at Mr Burns, I see that he’s too involved with matching up the families’ itineraries to hear my unkind words.

He only draws back into his seat when Rupert, the attendant, comes down the aisle. But the tray that Rupert carries is for us.

Three teacups and porcelain saucers, chocolate biscuits on each serve, and a single sachet of sugar. That’s for Oliver. Neither Dray nor I take sugar in our coffees or teas.

Probably the only thing we have in common.

Rupert is quick to deposit the teacups onto the consoles wedged between the seats.

Oliver doesn’t look up or acknowledge his at all, he’s so deep in focus, thumbs whacking away on that screen of his.

Hard to tell if it’s business or getting Landon to pay up a gambling debt, or another fight with Serena who just loves to ice him out for a while here and there.

“Here.”

I frown at Dray as he steals the chocolate biscuit from his saucer, then places it on mine.

“My mother mentioned they have been starving you,” he says, as if he gives a shit.

But his mask and its lies don’t stop my gaze from drifting to the biscuit.

The chocolate glistening over it snares me—and for a moment, I almost forget that I am not allowed to eat anything of the sort right now.

I swallow, hard, then narrow my gaze on him. “No, thank you. I am stuffed.”

His lethal stare is unwavering. “You are never too full for a biscuit, Olivia. I once caught you hiding in the pantry, a stomach ache from all the sweets you ate, and you were still forcing them down.”

I scoff.

He leaves out the context—I was like seven years old, and I had just been released from Grandmother’s (and that Ethel does not like to feed the children properly).

I reach out for the biscuit, the one printed with his touch. I nudge it off the saucer. “Biscuits and stories aren’t the way to earn my forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?” His dark brow arches, nudging under the sandy strands of his hair that have fallen into his face. “Do I need it?”

I look him up and down. “You’re sure as hell trying hard to get my attention.”

A snort comes from Oliver.

I blink at my brother, at the crooked grin snared onto his mouth as he glances between me and Dray. There’s something of approval in that look, but it’s gone quick, and he returns his attention to his phone.

“Back to normal,” Dray notes, delicately, but that doesn’t put me at ease, it only lashes a chilled sensation through my gut. “It’s a wonder what two weeks of rest and absence can do.”

I slam the book shut, hard.

Dray watches as I shove it back into the clutch, then fish out my MP3 player and, of course, the earbuds.

If he judges the dated music device, he says nothing of it. It’s not a secret that I use these old things. Father doesn’t let me have a phone, so it’s this, or cart around a CD player—and no fucking thank you.

I stick the buds into my ears, then shift around to turn my back on Dray. Probably not the best idea, to have my back turned, but I feel a little safer in the jet.

I flick through the compositions I had downloaded last week. I didn’t do it. I get Abigail to do that kind of thing for me. She’s more tech savvy than I’ll ever be.

She does well.

The full album comes up.

Portman.

I listen, I drink my tea, and I eat just one biscuit. Mine.

Two hours later, we are descending into Monaco.