Page 139 of Queen of Nothing

I keep my legs clamped, my stare locked with his—and something ugly coils in my gut.

Father probably did let him come to my room. He held up the engagement I ran away from, the one I begged to be free of.

Years on, and nothing has changed.

Still just a pawn on this chessboard of the coven, of secrets and strategy.

I reach down for Dray’s wrist and grip it, tight.

I prompt, “What if I wasn’t a deadblood?”

His lashes lower, a faint frown etching onto his brow. Not the turn he expected.

My tone is a whisper, and it’s cruel, “What if I was a krum?”

He looks at me from beneath his lashes, shadows darkening his sharp eyes. “What an ugly thing to say.”

The softness of his voice is nothing short of appalled, like the disgust that threatens to curl his upper lip.

I double-down. “What if I was a krum, Dray?”

The words echo between us and our locked stares.

His hand is flat, trapped between my thighs, no longer gripping onto me.

I push, “What if I never was a deadblood… and all this time, I’ve really been a krum?”

Dray’s jaw tightens.

Then, after a heavy, thick moment, he tugs his hand out from between my thighs.

His tone is dark, “Is your mind normally rattling with utter nonsense?”

I loosen a trembling breath, the fear curling my toes against the tip of his shoes. “What if I wasn’t ever allowed to read the deadblood books, because then I would figure out that my blood is supposed to reflect the skies, just like witchblood, and so if I ever checked for myself, and I saw that it doesn’t glitter, not even a little, then I would figure out that there’s no magic in me, and so… that would mean I’m a krum. What then?”

Dray is stone.

He is a statue crouched in front of me.

His face, his hands fisted at his knees… then the mask cracks.

His eyes suddenly flare, crushed diamonds caught in the moonlight, and his mouth curls. “You would say anything to end the arrangement—"

I lean forward, closer, and hiss, “You always hated me for what I am. But you were hating me for the wrong reasons, Dray. Doesn’t it make sense?” I blink, and the tears roll down my cheeks. “My father doesn’t love me. You said it yourself. I was never allowed a phone or freedom, everything I did was monitored, and they never let Witchdoctor Urma treat me at Bluestone, not even for a scratch, and… I overheard them once.”

In a blink, Dray closes the slight distance between us. His knee digs into the floor and he snatches up my wrist, tight.

Through gritted teeth, his tone is dangerous, “What did you hear?”

I swallow down the thickness in my throat.

The danger of it, the risk of telling him, churns my stomach. Every bit of me aches to curl up into a ball and scream for help.

Just the sight of his fierce stare—

It shudders my spine.

But there’s a reason I’m telling him this.