Little Drays begging for my attention, for my praise, because they swam a lap in the pond, or because they managed to tie their own laces.
My insides chill.
Suddenly, I’m not feeling so well.
I sputter the answer, unenthused, “Yeah—it… it was good. You got the answers right.”
He did.
His practice exam was to pinpoint moments in history based off old maps and coordinates of planetary alignments.
I’m not so sure what the purpose of it is, like how that is going to help him in our world, in our society, but the pride burns in him like a blaze.
“I know a lot of people favour print prediction to star-based prediction, because it’s more localised, but,” he shakes his head, the grin ear-to-ear, “I feel like I showed the value of generalised prediction in that test. And if I can prove that value, it adds prestige to the print, you know?”
For a beat, I just stare at him, like his audacity has frozen me in place.
Then I force a smile to pin to my cheeks.
I force on the mask.
“That’s great,” I say, and the words are yucky in me. “You certainly did. If you focus on future predictions and past ones,” I add, “for the final exam—then that showcases the contrast.”
His smile fades, but his eyes are wider, brighter, hungrier. Then he nods, too fervently. “Right… Right! That’s,yes, I could showcase past predictions with accuracy and detail—then how that implicates future predictions.”
I don’t like Asta one bit.
But I feel sorry for her a little.
Does she have to fluff this guy up often? Pat him on the head and tell him how wonderful he is?
My insides are twisted, sickly, and it’s an effort to keep the polite, soft smile on my face.
“That’s just perfect,” I tell him. “You should do that. Carve out a place for your print in this world if no one else does.”
The grin splits him, the dazzling kind on such a handsome face that I feel little for.
Then my shoulders bolt.
Dray’s voice comes down the corridor from the atrium, his tone cool and firm, “Olivia. Come here.”
I don’t look over my shoulder at him.
The image flashes in my mind, hands in his trouser pockets, cashmere sweater perfectly fitted to his form, brogues coming down on the floorboards softly, quietly, but a feathered jaw and diamond-daggers for eyes.
Eric’s darkening stare aims right over my head, his face hardening as he slips a step to the side, allowing me passage to the dorms all of a sudden.
Without a word, Eric stalks off to the mess hall and leaves me with my not-so-secret fiancé.
‘Come here.’
How he takes to prematurely ordering me around.
But I’m not his yet, so I start down the corridor.
Longer legs mean longer strides, and in seconds, Dray has caught up to me with a leisurely pace.
I was right about the hands in the pockets thing, and the feathered jaw.
