Page 98 of Queen of Nothing

The way he considers me.

Even now, years later, it all floods back to me, like no time at all has passed, and I’m just a deadblood at Bluestone that he has cornered.

He studies me, the sharpness of my cheekbones, the ashy pallor of my complexion, the dark circles around my hazel eyes, then his gaze shifts to the sagged ponytail that leans on my shoulder.

He considers the frizzy strands and split ends.

Dray looks at me like he’s inspecting me, learning every detail of my face, committing every crease and blemish to memory.

But there’s that inherent coldness in him, the kind that makes me think he’s going to caress my cheek, then snap my neck.

My voice is rough, “Why are you here?”

I clear my throat and snare a cup of coffee from the table. I take just one sip—and my lashes shut on the bliss.

The lush brew pours down my throat and warms my insides.

I open my eyes—

And Dray’s unflinching gaze hooks mine.

He lifts the tumbler to his faint pink lips. The sip he takes is small, it’s to savour.

He brings the glass down to rest on his thigh, his thumb gliding over the rim, back and forth. “Why wouldn’t I be here?”

I set the coffee cup down, then drag the glass of water closer to myself.

My throat is so hoarse, it feels as though I haven’t had any water in days. Maybe I haven’t. It’s hard to stay on top of things like that between raising a kid and working and generally being on the run.

Now, I feel… lighter.

No confliction in me, no dread or panic.

I wish I was better.

Because I just feel relieved.

Dray’s gaze tears from mine and he looks down at the glass in my loose grip.

A faint frown tugs his brow.

“You finish three coffees before you take water,” he says.

His observation churns something old and ugly inside of me.

I would think that it’s obvious, that life on the run might have affected my morning routine.

Life, it turns out, is different when I have to work for everything I have. Even bad coffee.

I sip the water, and I endure his piercing blue stare, a silent accusation.

A sigh grates me before I set the glass down. “Shouldn’t you be up there, sitting with them?”

Ignoring me, like the others do.

Father has barely spoken a word to me.

Actually, he hasn’t said a damn thing.