Page 97 of Queen of Nothing

But before she can go, a smooth, cold voice orders, “Three coffees, oat milk, no sugar—and a double scotch on the rocks.”

I throw my gaze to Dray as he advances on my little section.

The breath pins to my throat.

Time has altered him.

Not changed.

Altered.

His sawdust hair is still gently wavy, but dimmer, too. The light golden strands are darker now, as though the sun hasn’t touched his hair in a while. Once soft, it’s now the shade of a wet sand beach.

The sweater he wears is a soft, black cashmere, that looks as smooth to the touch as the feathers of a crow. It’s not exactly tight fitted, but it is formed and cut well enough to his frame that I can make out the work he puts into himself.

I can tell he probably still practices martial arts, and swims often, especially if they ever built that indoor pool at Thornbury Park.

He drops onto the chair opposite me.

I am so focused on him that I don’t even notice that the attendant leaves us and that time ticks by—not until now that she returns with a silver serving tray.

She lowers it onto the table.

Dray slightly flicks his hand the moment the tray touches down; a disinterested dismissal.

She leaves.

Dray considers me in that distant, cold way of his. Then he shifts for the table between us, black marble threaded with gold, and starts to pour creamy oat milk into the three cups of coffee.

Real coffee.

Not instant, granulated dishwater.

My mouth floods.

“I wondered when the illusion would fade,” Dray says, then sets down the cold metal milk jug, slick with beads of condensation, “and I would see your true face.”

Instinct has my hand lifting to my cheek.

But that’s pointless.

Illusions don’t change what I feel. My face is still my own, just distorted to the eyes of others.

But not anymore.

And… it’s strange.

It’s strange to think that Dray can sit across from me—and see my real face.

I lived my life for so long wearing a distortion. Another mask.

Now, there is no mask.

There is only me.

Dray sinks into his seat, bringing the tumbler of scotch to rest on his thigh—but his gaze sweeps every centimetre of my face.

It’s something I’ve always hated about him.