A breath loosens from my circled lips, a steadying exhale, before I shut my eyes.
I scramble for the patience, the courage, the mask I must wear—
And I turn around.
Dray hasn’t moved an inch away from me.
His proximity forces my back against the shelves.
I look at him from beneath my lashes.
And his stare is equally unkind.
The frosty blue of his eyes is sharper than shavings of diamonds and glass.
Sometimes, there is a hollowness in his stare, like the only thing behind those eyes is a sharp mind, calculation, manipulation—but no feeling.
That hollowness is there now.
“So close to graduation,” he drawls, “yet you’re picking out fiction. No wonder your grades only ever decline.”
I snatch the book from his loose grip. “My grades are not your concern.”
The quirk of his mouth is faint, a quick tug at the corner, then it’s gone.
I shove by him to the reading table by the window and drop the stack of books.
His voice follows me, “One might expect you would apply more effort in your final semester.” His tone is dull, as though none of it actually interests him. “A last-minute grab for improvement.”
I toss open the flap of my ivory backpack. The leather is silky to the touch.
It was one of the many gifts I tore through in my bedchamber, and I didn’t take note of who sent what.
Amateur mistake. New money behaviour.
That’s a faux pas waiting to happen.
“Your newly discovered concern for me is unwanted.” I dig into the bag, carving out as wide a slot for the books as I can, but it only stretches out so far. “Besides, I get by just fine.”
He knows otherwise.
My grades must have been in my file, part of myapplicationto be his future bride.
My mouth curls.
The soft padding sound of his oxfords on the rug approaches. “You get by so fine that you were disinvited to New Year. I can truly say, hand on my heart—”
What heart?
“—I have never heard of that happening before.”
I throw a dark look over my shoulder at him, then flip the satchel flap over.
“My mother missed you,” he adds, disinterested, then wanders to the window.
He cares so little about the conversation that he picks at a ball of lint on the sleeve of his black sweater before he looks out at the icy winds gathering over the mountains.
“She hoped you would join her in her tradition this year.” The crystalline blue of his eyes reflects sharply off the window. “She had the sweater custom made for you.”
