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.
HisLittle Life.
17
The dorm is a rustle, a clatter, a curse, and an air thick with the scent of coffee.
Three mugs are perched, stained and dripping, on my bedside table. I’ve downed one already, the second was knocked over by the frustrated throw of a shoe across the room, and I’m reaching for the third when Asta shrieks a shrill sound for the hundredth time in the past hour.
My bones cringe on instinct.
I’ve been pelted with dresses and shoes most of the morning.
I throw a braced look at her.
Still, she’s kneeling at the foot of her bed, where her ivory trunk is parted open, and she digs through all her snow gear.
“That bitch!” Her shrieks dip into vicious murmurs, then shoot back up again into a pitch that scrapes down my eardrums. “I told her to pack it! I told herthree times!”
It’s way too early for this.
My stare turns dull, and it’s a fight not to roll my eyes.
I steal the final coffee from the table and sink onto the edge of my mattress. As I sip, a stormy set of eyes lures in my attention.
Serena’s smile is snakish in the reflection of the tall mirror, a derisive jab at Asta behind her back that she shares with me, and before I can snub it, snubher, she flicks her gaze back to herself.
“No such thing as good help anymore,” Asta’s murmurs flood the dorm. “Curious that Lisa’s dedication to her job has all of a sudden faded.”
That one is a jab at me.
I’m sure of it.
Well, more a jab at Dray’s dumping of her and choosing me for his fiancé.
But Lisa, Asta’s handmaid, shouldn’t be slacking off depending on who Asta is engaged to.
My words echo into the mug of coffee, “So fire her.”
Asta stills.
Serena arches a brow and turns her back on the mirror. She waits—watches.
Slowly, Asta turns to look over her shoulder at me, eyes slitted like shards of glass.
I shrug. “If she isn’t loyal in unsure times, then she isn’t loyal ever. That’s not a good dresser to keep.”
Her lips thin as she considers me then, with a silky huff, returns to rummaging through the trunk.
