Page 33 of Prince of Masks (Hearts of Bluestone #2)

There is a war in me, a violent flurry of roaring flames and the crashing waves of ice-cold water. They battle, from the churn of my gut to the ache of my heart.

And it’s all I can do to just keep upright.

That is a challenge in itself.

My head is dizzy, pulsations striking from my brain all the way down to my bare toes.

The shoes hooked around my fingers, straps dangling, knock off my side with every rushed step I stumble through the gardens.

But none of that is my concern, not even that I think it’s suddenly impossible to breathe, that there’s an elephant standing on my chest, crushing me, and I can’t manage more than a single small, sharp breath at a time.

The concern isn’t how I’ll get back into the palace without being noticed in this state, makeup running down my cheeks, dirt smearing my bare feet, the layers of the dress still stained with the fountain water.

My concern is that one true horror.

Your Mr Monopoly is Dray Sinclair.

I don’t refute it.

I don’t spiral into doubt or denial—because I knew it, deep down, somewhere, I knew that things had shifted.

Dray’s new approach to me.

The assaults changing from pain to kissing, to soft touches and dances, even just to conversation.

A drawn-out hum of despair thrums me.

I stagger up the edge of the heat bubble, following it all the way to the palace.

I’ve got to get out of here, out of the gardens, away from prying eyes.

There’s only so long I can keep to the border, hidden from the gazes of the guests, shielded from the gossip that will undoubtedly spring at the sight of me.

The path will spill out to the Bacchus Pool, and it will be bustling up there.

I pause, snivels rattling me, and drop to the concrete.

I swat at the dirt on my feet before I wrangle on my heels, then clammer to stand.

My legs are wobbly under my uneasy weight.

I push onwards, shoes scraping over the concrete path, the skirt of my dress in a shambles.

My fingers glide over the wetness of my cheeks, as though I can do something, anything, about the streaks stained there.

It’s all useless.

Everything is useless.

That numbness that held me tonight was a blessing, and if I could beg for its return, I would get on my hands and knees now, under the moonlight.

Anything is better than this.

The shuddering, wet breaths that come out of me too choppy, too sore in my chest; the scrape of them down my throat as I stagger onto the winding paths of the upper gardens.

Beyond the one, single thread of thought I hold onto, to return to my private chamber, to hide there, I am utterly aimless.

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know what my next move should be in this chess game of my life.

I don’t know how to hide from the gazes that are sliding to me from all over as I stagger to the palace.

And—as I catch sight of Eric over by the La Loire sculpture, his soft grin much too close to Asta’s lovely mouth—I don’t know how to stop the sob from bubbling up me.

It chokes me.

Spurs me, and I’m suddenly running up the path for the rear doors into the palace.

The whirl of my panicked run draws in more looks; and the more that look at me, the more tears fall.

I barrel into the old embellished door and shove through it, hard enough to bruise my shoulder.

But I don’t stop.

Not as my breaths turn ragged, and my head dizzies from the lack of oxygen, I just keep running—up the stairs and down corridors—until I’m blasting through the door to the private chamber, and slamming it shut behind me.

It doesn’t shut.

It doesn’t slam.

The door doesn’t close.

Heaving, I stare at it through the murky gloss of my tears. I stare at the tanned hand gripping its edge.

Then, in a strangled heartbeat, it’s pushed open, and Oliver slips inside.

His wide gaze is on me, standing in the middle of the room, my chest heaving with grated breaths.

He shuts the door behind him.

Oliver moves for me, panic glittering in his eyes.

Everything is a blur. The white walls, the black framed mirrors, the emerald velvet seats—it smears into a painted canvas that’s been left out in the rain, and I can’t make sense of it.

“What?” he heaves the words and tugs me around to face him. “What do you know?”

I can’t breathe…

I can’t breathe…

“Breathe, Liv, breathe .”

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

I can’t even move my lips. I can’t move my tongue. I am petrified, stiff, and I can’t summon enough energy to move a muscle just to ask the fucking word screaming in my bones.

Dray…

Dray…

Dray…

I’m shaking my head. Or at least hair is whipping at my cheeks, lashing at my eyes, sticking to my temples, and the room is swaying too fast, too violently.

The heels of my stilettos are clacking on hardwood floors. I wobble with my rushed backsteps as Oliver steers me.

I think he guides me to the settee, lowers me onto it, but the thundering beat of my heart just pumps blood too fast through my veins, and through the dizziness, I can’t quite latch onto my surroundings.

Oliver is an anchor in a storm.

His hands are gripped onto my shoulders, tight; the gleam of his emerald eyes are lights in the dark.

I latch onto him, my hands too tight on his forearms, nails cutting into his flesh.

The waves are violent, ripping me away, but he holds me firm.

“Breathe,” he says, and I feel the command of it.

He imitates, one long breath inwards that swells his chest. Then he softens it with a pursed mouth around an exhale.

“Breathe,” he echoes, soft.

I focus on him.

Hands tight on his forearms, I blink against the disorientation crashing down on me.

I mimic him.

It lures air out of me like a hooked ribbon; then a slow, choppy inhale serrating through me.

My bottom lip juts with the sobby breaths.

“D-d-d-d… ray ,” I heave the name and look around the marble and gold room, as though I’ll see him in the mirrors around me, on the faces of the portraits lining the walls.

“D-d-d-d… r-r-r-ray…” I choke on it, something between a sob and a retch.

“What about him?” He lures in my wandering gaze, the panic in me. “Liv, focus, look at me. What about Dray? What did he do?”

A hand abandons his forearm.

I touch it to my chest, over and over.

Still, Oliver just considers me. Tries to work out my charades.

I close my hand, curl my fingers into a fist—all except my ring finger.

I lift it to him. “ Drayyyy .”

Oliver’s face pales.

He blinks at my ring finger once, then lifts his darkening gaze to me.

“Who told you?” he urges. Desperation clings to the wild greens of his eyes, and his fingers dig a bit deeper into the flesh of my shoulders. “Who told you that?”

There’s a dazed sort of look to me, I’m sure of it, but I look at him from under my lashes. I see the urgency in him, like he gives a damn.

My face twists with a cry.

I wrench out of his grip.

You knew.

You knew.

And you’re only concerned about who told 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 tears streaking 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.

Oliver touches the phial to my mouth. He tips it.

The moment it hits my tongue, a sludge of copper and ink, my face twists. I make to spit it out, but Oliver’s hand smacks onto my face, and holds, tight.

I swerve my wide gaze to him, my cry muffled by his palm. I choke on it, the potion stuck in my throat.

His face is hard. Steel. Determined.

And slowly, my fight fades.

The coppery, inky sludge falls down my throat.

“Sleep,” he tells me.

That’s the last thing I remember before, at some point, I wake in the bed, constricted by the dress that’s damp against my cold skin.

Oliver is nowhere to be seen.

I drift off again, knowing he drugged me into slumber.