Chapter 16 #3
Turning my cheek to the soft touch of his mouth on the cigarette, the way he swaps it for the tumbler, a scotch that leaves the slightest of glistens on his lips, I look out the narrow gap of the window to the darkness beyond.
Can’t see anything.
Not the mountains, the clouds, the moon, nothing.
Just pure darkness out there.
“What do you think of James?”
I sip the burn of the scotch. “In what context?”
“An aide,” he says.
An aide, like Mr Younge and Mr Burns. A main assistant, a right-hand man.
But there’s a problem.
“Aides are always elite.”
The bloodlines matter that much.
Elites, even if they are gentry, understand the world, the things that have to be done, better than a made one ever can. They are raised in it, a loyalty that should extend to the aristos.
James was raised in an orphanage.
James as an aide is outlandish.
Dray’s shrug is slight. “Then what do you think of him as someone on the payroll.”
He throws back the scotch before setting aside the tumbler. It leaves him free to smoke the cigarette, to give it his full attention. But as he smokes it, his full attention is on me.
I slump against the window and look at him.
And I’m struck by it.
His appeal.
The soft light that glistens on his pale, pink mouth, the line of illumination down his perfect nose, the starkness of his cold eyes against the warmth of tousled sawdust hair.
But it’s so much more than that.
That is the beauty Teddy wears.
With Dray, under the dancing light that reaches us in the alcove, the beauty is statuesque, it’s a marble sculpture lovingly crafted by hand, it’s a lump in my throat as I stare at a painter’s muse whose essence can never be captured.
It’s suffocating.
The casual beauty of it all.
The cold winds breezing in through the window, the murmur of the grand parlour whispering with the crackling of fires, the secrets shadows of the alcove, the blanket around my shoulders, and Dray’s stare lifted from under his lashes—
The way it feels like it should be this, and only this, like we never should have been enemies.
It was meant to be this way before he derailed it all, poisoned it all, and left us rotten.
I know myself well enough, even the ugly parts, to know that if Dray never turned on me, he and I would be here now, comfortable in each other’s company, talking as friends, definitely engaged, probably lovers.
This familiarity between us wouldn’t feel so empty in my gut.
I hate that it comes naturally to us in a hidden alcove, dusted with faint lights from scattered lamps, and I forget anyone else exists.
Dray watches my sorrow work, my mind churn. It lures him to me, his steps soft and silent on the rug as he advances.
The light of the lamps fades from his face, stealing away the highlights of his cheekbones, until he’s in the shadows with me, and all that gleams is the sharp blue of his eyes.
Without tearing his gaze from me, he reaches the cigarette out the window and flicks the ash.
Silvery vapours ribbon from his lips, and it’s minty, a faint menthol fragrance.
Tension thickens my throat and I turn my cheek to him.
I throw back the last of the scotch before slipping off the windowsill.
My body drags down his—but I steel myself against the flurry of sensations, and scoot aside, until I’m free of the window, of him.
“James is powerful,” I say and set down the glass. “And useful. But he hates crowds, doesn’t like to be around people, and he’s always nervous.”
Dray turns to sit on the ledge, the cigarette half burned down, his eyes on me.
“It would be kinder to leave him to someone like Landon. You can already sense—you don’t need more than that.”
Dray’s smile is slow to form, but it does until his teeth are revealed. “Figured that out, then.”
My mind splits.
Figured out what exactly?
Landon and James… or Dray’s ability to sense?
I wait, tongue bitten, for him to elaborate.
He doesn’t.
I take the bait. “Your sense?”
He brings the cigarette to his lips and draws in a long, final inhale.
“That,” he starts, smoke billowing out of his mouth as he flicks the cigarette out the window, “and the other thing.”
I turn my cheek to him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
In a blink, he’s pushing off the windowsill and advancing on me.
Instinct steels me as he comes up to my side, his chest a whisper against my arm.
He reaches around me for the bottle.
I watch as he pours two more serves.
I don’t stop him.
I don’t know why I don’t stop him—I just don’t.
“Landon’s intentions in latching onto you are to keep himself afloat among the aristos.” Dray swaps out the bottle for my filled glass, and he hands it to me. “The sister of Oliver Craven is suddenly a very attractive friend to keep after graduation. Particularly when one might slip into gentry.”
“He’s your friend.” I take the glass, harsh. The liquid sloshes, but I snub the slight spill and frown up at him. “You could help him. You have that power. But you mock him.”
The second glass is ignored on the table.
Dray reaches for my jaw, turning my face to align with his, that soft smile still settled on his pink lips.
“If I were to give you a gift,” he says, his tone a gentle sort of mockery, “a favour, what would it be? To help Landon? Is that what you would choose?”
My mouth turns down at the corners.
His gaze drops to my lips, and I suffer the faint echo of a memory…
‘Your mouth is a bit crooked… right here.’
His eyes run over the shape of my mouth, a caress of ice and distance, of a cold abyss that yearns to swallow me whole.
‘When you talk, it lifts highest here, like you are always on the verge of a snarl…’
“Everyone in this society is out for themselves,” he murmurs the truth to me. “You have witnessed your friends, your own brother, me, throw you to the wolves—and no one stood up to defend you.”
His gaze lifts to mine, blue flames burning in the shadows.
“Maybe you should start doing the same.” Fingers still pinched firm on my chin, he inches closer, bringing his lips to mine. “Maybe it is time you thought about serving yourself, Little Life.”
Those final two words are a sword through a reinforced bubble.
I flinch at the reminder of that day, of what I had and what was taken, a reminder stronger than any words he can spin around me now.
I yank back with a firm step.
The hurt in me sears.
His mouth twitches, a smile taking root. “Don’t talk to Harling again. I don’t like it.”
Those words strike me as the command that they are.
Same old fucker, new approach.
I slam down the glass and leave.
Dray doesn’t stop me. But I’m sure he watches me go with that fucking smile, that victory, relishing in the hurt he brought me.
His Little Life.