Page 11

Malik

I t was late—or, rather, early—by the time the plans were hashed out. It had become an unfortunate trend for Malik lately. Too many late evenings discussing plans or carrying them out. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken refreshed or taken in a sunrise that wasn’t viewed on his way to bed.

“In the morning, I’d like you to tell me everything you know about the dragons,” Bronwyn said by way of farewell, not waiting for a response before brushing past him toward the door.

Malik watched her leave, his mind stumbling over what to say to get her to stay. She’d exhibited so much strength and courage that night during such a tragedy, but her voice lacked its usual bite and her features were downcast, to say nothing of the vacant look that occasionally overwhelmed her gaze. She was hurting, hollow, and with all the family clamoring over Ceridwen, not a one seemed to notice the barely concealed pain of the eldest daughter.

How could he leave her like that?

Malik started to follow her when Drystan called out to him. The sound of his name rooted him to the rug.

“I need your help,” Drystan said, drawing near.

“What else can I do, cousin?” He meant it with every fiber of his being, though he truly didn’t know what else could be done that night.

“I’m going to unlock the wards on a few of the passages, show Jackoby the way through so Ceridwen’s family can visit and she can be cared for.”

“And you want me to help?” Malik asked.

Drystan’s gaze cut away, then back to him. “Not exactly, not with that.” He leaned in, dropping his voice to a whisper. “It shouldn’t take long, but once I’m done, I was hoping you could aid me with something else.”

Malik’s brows rose. “Which would be?”

Drystan shook his head and gave a meaningful glance toward Ceridwen’s father nearby. “I’ll explain later.”

Strange. And intriguing, especially after the accusations earlier that night, though Drystan’s tone no longer hinted at anger, more desperation. “All right, but I have an errand of my own to see to first.” If he wasn’t too late.

Drystan nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you.”

Finally able to pull himself away, Malik ventured from the royal quarters and down a nearby hall, stopping in front of a particular door. It wasn’t far from his own room in the castle, one that went unused far more often than not since he preferred his private apartment. Though he’d never knocked on this door, he knew it was the right one. He’d stopped in front of it before—several times, if he were honest, which he sometimes was—and contemplated knocking. Every time, he’d talked himself out of it. Giving in would have damaged his mission. It was a long game he played, and he had to aim for that ultimate goal, not a delightful temptation that would lead him astray and make what he had to do even more agonizing.

But tonight, he knocked.

And she answered.

Bronwyn was still fully dressed, thank the Goddess, though her eyes were a touch redder than he remembered, even if her cheeks were dry. The wondering look on her face twisted into a scowl. “Don’t you know it’s inappropriate to come to a lady’s room at night? Especially uninvited?”

Rather than turning him off, her disapproval lit a spark in his heart, a thing that had been cold and desolate far too often of late.

He smirked. “Finally calling yourself a lady now, are you?”

Bronwyn rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh. “What do you want?”

He leaned into the threshold. “May I come inside?”

She stared at him silently, barely blinking. Malik tensed, prepared to have the door slammed in his face. But much to his surprise, she stepped back, granting him entry.

The breath he’d been holding slipped out in a rush. He followed her in and closed the door behind him. Her sitting room was as dim as the hallway, only a single candle lighting it, but it was still enough to take in the details of the space and find it … empty.

Well, not empty. There was a small seating area, some tapestries, a cold fireplace, and a door leading to the bedroom. But the space contained nothing of the woman before him. The furniture was the same gaudy stuff that had existed in the castle since he was a boy. The tapestries were far from her taste. Not one knickknack or decoration of any sort hinted at who resided there. Had she done nothing to make it her own? It was almost like she didn’t plan to stay…

At the thought, his stomach dropped, and he rubbed the heel of his palm against his chest to ease the ache there.

“You’re here to discuss the dragons?” Bronwyn stared at him from the center of the room, her arms crossed. “I thought it would be better when we were both rested and more clear-headed.”

“No. I agree, tomorrow would be better.” He hadn’t even begun to sort out what to tell her. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh?” She blinked at him, cocking her head.

“I…” Damn it all, why was it harder to talk to this woman than any other in the kingdom? “I want to ensure you’re okay with this.” He gestured vaguely. “Helping to source out the dragons. It’s dangerous work.”

It seemed impossible for her to scowl further, but she did. “You don’t think I can do it.”

“No!” He stepped forward, hand outstretched. “That’s not it at all. I know you can do it.”

Her eyes widened, her mouth falling open.

“I know you can,” he repeated. “What other woman would dare as much as you have already? When chaos broke out and Drystan dueled my father, you could have run. Should have, really. But you didn’t. You stayed.” You defended me. You knelt beside me and faced down a monster knowing we could both die.

That last part was forever etched into his soul. If he hadn’t already desired her, that would have sealed it for him.

She looked away, over at empty fireplace that wouldn’t see use for months with the warmth of the summer evenings. “My sister dared as much.”

Two brave women cut from similar cloth and bound by threads of blood.

Bronwyn hugged herself tighter. “Which is why I will do everything I can to save her. I have to.” Her voice cracked on the last sentence.

Drawn by the sorrow pouring from her, Malik neared, stopping just short of pulling her into his arms and holding her close.

“Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you have to. There are other ways—”

“No.” She shook her head and looked up at him. “I cannot work spells. The ruse is set with Lydia acting as the queen. That only leaves taking down the dragons, or at least the one who laid the curse. I can’t do that sitting around. Not at Merryweather Hall, and not here.” She gestured jerkily with her hands, each time pulling them back to hug herself like she might fall apart if she didn’t.

Malik started to reach for her when she continued, “Besides, I already have an in of sorts. Lord Griffith asked to see me again and mentioned that he would write.”

Bloody Lord Griffith. If only he had reason to hate the man other than his connection to Bronwyn.

“He was quick about reaching out to me last time and seems to know many people. I can”—she swallowed—“make an effort with some of the women. Host a tea or something.” Her lips wrinkled like she tasted something foul.

Without warning, a tear leaked down Bronwyn’s cheek. She hastily wiped it away, sniffing and turning her face.

That single drop of water cut at him like a shard of ice in a winter storm. All the horror they’d been through, the risk of death they’d faced, and he’d never seen her cry.

Plans and goals be damned. Malik laid a hand on her upper arm and gave it the smallest squeeze.

A sharp intake of breath filled the silence. She flinched under his touch but did not pull away. Instead, she looked up at him, suddenly vulnerable. Open. “Malik.” His name was a whisper, a plea, one that nearly brought him to his knees.

“You’re always so strong in front of everyone,” he said. “But you can be weak in front of me. I would never think less of you. Never speak of it. Everyone needs someone to hold them together at times. Let me be that for you.”

The slightest tremor wobbled her bottom lip. It took everything he had not to press his thumb there. He leaned in despite himself, desperate for the closeness he craved but shouldn’t want … not yet. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but he swore she moved closer as well.

Once, only once, had she looked at him like she did in that moment. It was a moment he thought about often. Dreamed about. Though, in those fantasies, the outcome tended to be different than reality.

Before the battle against Malik’s father, he had needed blood to work the spells necessary to ensure their success. He preferred his own, but bleeding himself out to the point of weakness was a risk in itself. It was then that Bronwyn had done something he never expected and certainly would not have asked for: she’d offered him her blood.

They’d done it at his apartment, his sanctuary, the place where Bronwyn and Ceridwen had stayed when they’d first come to the capital. That night, it had been only Bronwyn and him—an awkward enough thing, but being close to her, holding her wrist as she bled, had been nearly enough to drive him mad with need.

She hadn’t mocked him. Hadn’t prodded or barbed. Rather, she’d been oddly quiet, a slight flush clinging to her cheeks. If he had any talent in the arts, he’d have painted the way she looked then. Perhaps that lack of talent made him appreciate her art even more.

When he’d finished taking her blood, he’d healed her, but only a little. She would allow no more, refusing to let him use the precious blood he’d collected to make sure she did not scar. So, he’d closed the wound only and bandaged it for good measure. With his work complete, holding her hand in his, the tension between them became so thick it felt like a rope around his chest drawing him toward her. She’d stared at him with such openness, such raw vulnerability that it nearly cut him far deeper than his little blade had sliced her. She’d whispered his name, her lips parted, eyes blinking. He’d leaned in, ready to kiss her, to tell her how much he desired her. His lips had been a breath from hers…

But she’d pulled away—all but leapt off the sofa, mumbling something about rest, and bolted for the guest room, slamming the door behind her.

She wanted him. He knew it. Yet something held her back.

And then after…

The moment had not come again. Threats of danger resumed. Drystan begged his help in tracking down the remaining dragons, and to do that, he had to be his old self, the carefree, solitary prince that people knew and might still associate with his father’s reign. The mask that they mistook for his true self.

A good ruse only worked when people believed it, and if he had Bronwyn on his arm? No one would. They’d finally see him for who he truly was, perhaps, but that would ensure he could never earn the trust of the remaining dragons.

The way Bronwyn looked at him now made him want to weep. It was his chance come again.

He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, savoring the soft intake of her breath. His palm lingered against her cheek. “Bronwyn.”

Rich brown eyes blinked up at him.

The shift in her gaze was almost instantaneous. The shield she so often hid behind fell into place like the curtain at the close of an opera, and he was helpless to avoid a crushing disappointment. The weight of that change knocked him backward and had him snatching his hands away.

“Thank you, but I’m fine.” She said it so perfectly, so evenly, that he almost believed it. “We’ll discuss the dragons tomorrow.”

Before he could manage a response, she turned on her heel and fled through the door to her bedroom.

But she didn’t slam it. It stood open. Taunting. Teasing. Begging.

Run through it. Go to her, damn it.

His hands clenched into fists at his side.

He’d taken two steps toward her when she appeared in the threshold. He stopped, heart in his throat.

Bronwyn leveled him with a flat stare, grabbed the door, and flung it shut.

Fuck.

This could not happen twice, damn it.

He marched the rest of the way to the door and halted, listening. Give me a whimper, the hint of a sob. Anything. The smallest sound of distress and he’d bang down the door if he had to.

He waited. But nothing came.

With a heavy sigh, he resigned himself to failure and returned to the royal suite.