Page 132 of Queen of Nothing

His smile is relaxed, too soft for the memory flashing in my mind. “You think that was my worst?”

“Oh, no you have other ways.” I move around the coffee table, avoiding him as I advance on the desk. But I give a pointed look over my shoulder. “I remember that, too.”

His shaped, dark eyebrow lifts, a contrast to his sandy blonde hair, loose and ruffled. He rests his hand on the mantel above the fireplace, his gaze following me to the cakes.

I pluck a midnight blue piece from the platter. “I remember the blackout, Dray.”

The surprise fades from him, and he calmly watches me pour myself a scotch.

I pop the cake into my mouth.

“And?”

I throw a dark look at him and force back a mouthful of cake. “I remember asking you to stop.”

Begging, more like.

Hitting out at him, grabbing, writhing—

He draws away from the mantel and snatches my tumbler of scotch before I can take it.

He says, “There is no sound in a blackout.”

My dark stare follows him to the arm of the couch. He drops onto it, like it isn’t rigid and stiff under him, like the pain doesn’t bother him at all, and he sips the scotch.

He brings the glass down to settle on his thigh, and he loosens a tired sigh. “What do you want me to say, Olivia? That I forced you? That it was a mistake—and I won’t ever do it again?”

Hesitation steals me. “Would you mean it?”

His smile is lined with perfect, white teeth.

He doesn’t answer.

My stare turns blank. It holds for a long moment, and he makes no move to look away. No shame written on him, no blush on his cheeks, just unabashed resolve.

I turn for the decanter and pour myself another. “I’m even less convinced my father let you come to my room.”

“Shall we call him?”

He teases me with that—a dare to call his bluff.

Because I won’t.

Knowing Father these days, knowing him better now than ever, I get the feeling that either way, I’ll be in trouble.

I’ll be in trouble for questioning Dray’s authority or some crap, or I’ll be in trouble for interrupting Father over something frivolous, or this would be a hugely scandalous visit to my room that I am entertaining, and that also would be my fault.

There is no winning here.

There is no winning with Father, and there never has been with Dray.

It just took me too long to figure that out.

He lifts the glass again. “Why do you do that?”

I watch him take too long of a sip, too generous, and then I steal my own glass.

I drop onto the windowsill opposite him. “Do what?”