His face shutters a mere second before he’s shouting in my face, “When did he fuck you?”
I flinch, cringing into the wall, my spine screaming as loud as my panicked shout, “London—in London… I’m sorry, it—”
The grip is gone from my neck.
My eyes snap open, and I expect to see my end coming down on me, but Dray has tugged away from me in a swift movement and intercepted Asta as she fucking lunges for me.
He catches her by the middle, one arm looped firm around her, and her flailing hands scrape and claw through the air, reaching for my twisted face.
I look to Serena, as though she has help, she has answers. But she doesn’t, and she keeps a safe distance.
At her sides, her hands flex then relax, flex then relax, over and over. She licks her lips nervously, swerving her gaze from me and Dray, then to Oliver—
He’s a blur of shadow moving for me.
And I’ve never felt so cornered in my life.
I press harder into the wall, hands splayed on the cold wainscotting, as though the wood will open up and suck me in, entomb me, and that’s still a better alternative than this ambush.
The wall doesn’t take me away.
And Oliver reaches me, snatching for the scruff of my sweater, and hauls me towards the phone booths.
“You want to defend that fucking waif?” Asta’s shrill cry lures in my stare.
She’s out of Dray’s hold now.
His stare swerves from me to Asta as she pushes by Serena.
Serena’s face is firm, tense, and her mouth is tight, as though Oliver’s command magicked her lips shut.
But the anger is in those eyes with the worry, the fear, stirring like storm clouds beneath her dark lashes.
Asta marches for Mildred—and snatches the newsletter from her grip.
The delight on Mildred’s face doesn’t even touch me. I only feel dread sinking my insides.
With the newsletter in her fist, Asta stalks towards Dray. She smacks the crumpled paper against his chest. “Take a look—and see who you’re defending. See what she has to say aboutyou.”
The chill threat in her voice wobbles me.
Oliver is struck still.
His grip is steel on my sweater, unyielding, but his boots are rooted on the rug, and his steady stare is fixed on Dray.
My bones chill, like icicles forming along them, as Dray frowns down at the paper, the article he hasn’t even read yet.
Fucking Mildred.
Her whisperings, her delighted gaze rushing over the article, telling Asta all the highlights…
So Asta used the arsenal she had left.
Now, Dray backsteps into the wall at the headline alone.
The paper rustles.
He slumps against the wall… and he reads everything I said about him.
