My heart sinks.
Not because I disappointed Amelia, but because she is so obviously part of theGrooming Oliviabrigade now.
Each New Year, the Sinclairs wear custom designer sweaters.
Last year, it was a set of cream Prada sweaters with moons stitched in golden threads around the cuffs.
The year before that, they were all black, the collars threaded gold and silver, and the hems delicately inked with the family crest.
But two things stay the same:
It’s always sweaters—and it’s only ever the Sinclairs who wear them.
Dray is dropping too many hints for someone who doesn’t want me to know yet. He’s dropping atomic bombs.
Still, I need to pretend.
Not for my family, not for their wishes, but to buy myself as much time as possible, so I can scheme my ass out of this engagement.
I make a face at the window, knowing his eyes are on me in the reflection. “Why would she want me in the tradition?”
He only considers my faint outline for a beat, then, “Perhaps she’s expanding to the Cravens.”
A lame answer.
One he doesn’t put much effort into—because Oliver must’ve been right.
Dray just doesn’t think I’m smart enough to put the puzzle together, even when he hand-delivers me each piece.
“Why weren’t you in attendance?” he asks.
“I was grounded.”
His sigh is soft. It fogs the glass, like the mist beyond, gathering over the snowy mountains. “Your fits are becoming more frequent and volatile. Why is that?”
Dray manoeuvres around the secret he thinks he’s keeping. He thinks I will dismiss him knowing about my ‘fits’ as something Oliver shared with him. Not a communication he’s obviously receiving from my father.
I let him believe that.
The mirror flickers under the warm glow of the lanterns.
Dray’s reflection glimmers in that warmth. It highlights the bridge of his nose, the shape of his cheekbones, the bow of his pink mouth. Yet it darkens his hair into a moody blond, casts him in shadows that suit him all too well.
“It was the book,” I confess. “The Impact of Deadbloods.”
For a beat, he doesn’t react. But then the oddity of my answer sinks in, and he turns around, settling a faint frown on me.
“It was clear when you asked to borrow it that it was something to avoid mentioning to your father.” He leans back against the windowsill, hands slipping into his pockets. “But I assigned that to the taboo nature of the book, the company on Rugby Sunday—and that you were sneaking around our library. To be grounded and disinvited from New Year… Now, that is either extreme, or I miscalculated the matter of the book.”
The glower I aim at him is accusatory, like this is all his fault.
And really, itishis fault.
If it wasn’t for my life suffering under his regime, then his hand stealing mine into marriage, maybe I wouldn’t have exploded the way I did, then I wouldn’t have been in so much trouble.
I fist my grip on the bag strap. “If you want the book back, you’ll have to ask my father. I don’t know what he did with it.”
Dray’s slow blink is dangerous.
