Leaning against a pillar, hands in his pockets, ankles crossed, and those weary crushed glass eyes on me.
Another huff escapes me, but this one subdued, quieter, and my steps are slower now.
He watches me approach.
Doesn’t speak a word.
Just watches, and the closer I get, the better I see the faint red of his eyes, and so I know there definitely was a flask being passed around under the table in study hall.
It’s when I reach the mouth of the corridor, an arm’s reach from him, that he asks—
“Where were you?”
Such a simple question.
But nothing is simple with Dray.
“Getting told off by a master,” I say, and arch a brow. “Am I now to be told off by you? Or are you going to stick to the deal, and let me pass?”
Dray’s smile is small, fleeting. But the drink has it too fatigued, and it’s quick to fade. “I recall the details of that deal—and sass was not allowed.”
Technically he said I shouldbehave, not that I’m banned from sassing.
But I don’t argue.
I just stare dully at him.
Dray pushes off the pillar. That single move brings him a whole step closer to me. “Is that what has you in such a sour mood?”
My neck arches just to allow me to meet his gaze. “The deal?”
His hand lifts for a strand of my hair.
Gently, he threads it through his fingers, toying with it, but his eyes are on mine. “Your grades.”
My shoulder lifts with a shrug. “Might be.”
This conversation is so utterly inconvenient right now.
Sass is rolling through me, residual bites from my lashing of Eric, and now I have to wrangle it all back—in case Dray throws me into one of the closets down the corridor and locks me in for the whole weekend.
“Your grades don’t matter too much,” he says, then slides the strand of hair out of my face, letting it settle down my temple. “It’s all just lace trim.”
I bite down on my tongue, hard.
“You would be better off spending your time on things that matter to you,” he says, soft, and I know he’s on the verge of drunk. “You could write music, or work on all those new friendships of yours—the ones you seem to be avoiding.”
My smile is small, inching far too close to the attitude I’m not supposed to have, and I add to it, “There’s no piano at Bluestone.”
His hum is gentle, distracted, as his fingers slip from my cheekbone, down to the curve of my chin.
My lips tingle under his gaze, a look that’s so familiar to me now.
I thin them, as if that’ll banish his thoughts.
All it does is lure his gaze to mine.
“You promised,” I remind him.
