Page 14

Bronwyn

B ronwyn sat in the queen’s formal parlor, or the blue room as it was frequently called, for the blue-and-white wallpaper that decorated it. The furniture matched, from the pale table to the stiff cushions of the divan with their pastel fabric, shimmery gold legs, and swooping arm rests. A small chandelier twinkled overhead, throwing little rainbows onto the walls.

She hated the damn room, every formal, fluffy inch of it. Its only saving grace was that Ceridwen liked it, and it was a somewhat private yet acceptable place to meet a man, which was why she’d suggested it when she told the servants she’d be having an informal luncheon with Prince Alastair.

On the low table sat a steaming pot of tea next to a tiered stand of finger sandwiches and delicate pastries. An assortment of fruits had been laid out nearby. Two plates lingered on either side of the table, one in front of Bronwyn, the other eagerly awaiting its diner.

She awaited him, too, she supposed, though perhaps not eagerly. In fact, she found it quite hard to sit still, and even harder to focus her thoughts on anything remotely important. Her chest was heavy, her throat tight, and her skin pasty from the cosmetics she’d applied to try and hide the puffiness from the previous night’s tears.

Her sister was trapped by a sleeping curse, yet here she was, sitting like a noble lady, waiting on him of all people. The servants would whisper. They always did. But hopefully, they would think this meeting had an entirely different purpose than its true one—that perhaps she’d ordered privacy for some illicit flirting rather than to learn about the dragons still haunting the streets.

As she waited, she kept staring at her left wrist, at the little white scar there.

He’d given it to her … at her request.

Magic required blood, and Malik had required a lot of it to work the spells necessary to entrap Rhion and force his confession before the crowd. It had been part of Ceridwen’s plan, one in which everyone had a role. Everyone except Bronwyn.

Offering her blood for magic? That was something she could do, and so she’d jumped at the chance. She could help. She could play a part other than the useless background character. And Malik had accepted.

She thought of that night often. Sometimes while lying in bed, other times while painting, and occasionally while simply wandering, lost in thought.

It had been months ago, but the memory was always so fresh. She closed her eyes and she was back in that moment, sitting on the sofa in Malik’s apartment as she watched her blood drip into the glass container on the table before them—an arrangement not too different than the one waiting for him in the present, though Malik’s apartment was far more masculine, all dark wood and smelling of musk and leather.

The memory of that scent did things to her. It ignited a slow burn in her chest that radiated outward until it consumed her wholly, muddling her thoughts and sparking an aching need between her legs.

She’d ached then, too. Inexplicably. Unreasonably.

Who should want when they are bleeding out?

But he’d held her arm so gently, like she was a fragile treasure that might crumble to bits if he touched her incorrectly. His usual confidence was there, but his cockiness had muted into something genuine, something warm and utterly terrifying in equal measure.

It hadn’t helped that they were alone.

All other nights in that apartment, Ceridwen had been there, too, a comfortable cushion between them. But that night, she’d stayed at the opera house with Drystan. It was just Bronwyn and Malik. Alone in his apartment, his careful hands on her arm, the silence between them so thick she could cut it and spread it across bread.

When he’d deemed he had enough blood, he’d used a bit of it to seal her wound. She insisted that he only seal it, not heal it fully. She wanted the scar. She needed it. It was proof that she had done something. That, if all went to death and ruin, she had tried to help instead of being useless. Maybe she’d earn a new one in the days to come. Some new proof that she had tried to help, though she’d be damned if all she did this time was give her blood. There was more, so much more, that she could do. In fact, just that morning, she’d accepted an invitation to some noble’s tea despite the looming thought of that appointment making her want to flee to the countryside and never return.

The scar wasn’t the only thing she’d wanted that night, though.

Malik had looked at her like she was valuable, special.

Had any man ever regarded her that way? Any person outside those she counted as family?

More importantly, he made her feel it. And when he finished his magic, when his hands lingered on hers after, his thumb stroking along her palm, she’d wanted more. Had leaned in, ready to be devoured in whatever way he desired.

She still recalled the way his breath had hitched, the way his eyes widened. How his hand had tensed against hers. The bob of his throat as he swallowed thickly.

It had been that moment, that reaction, that sparked true fear in her heart—so much more terrifying than the battle ahead and the monsters they would face. Because the look in his eyes said that he wanted her, too. Not any woman. Her . Perhaps he craved her even more than she did him. Maybe he could even love her.

And love … that was the most terrifying thing imaginable.

Love, and the loss of it, had brought their family to ruin. Father had lost his health and his money. Adair had become consumed in his career. Ceridwen had turned quiet and stopped singing. And Bronwyn … she’d learned not to let anyone else in. She had too many people she loved already. Too many she could lose.

Ceridwen proved that. Her determination to run after the man she loved, to face down darkness and death to save him, showed the danger of love. And hadn’t Bronwyn run after her, determined not to lose someone else she loved to that weakness?

No. She couldn’t open her heart just to have it shredded apart again.

Death faced them. Hers. His. Who would live and who would die, she could not be sure, but the risk was too much. Too terrifying.

And so, she’d leapt off that couch, sprung away from the terrifying creature Malik had been in that moment: not simply Malik but a man who could claw his way into her guarded heart. Who saw her, appreciated her, treasured her. One she could love.

She’d said something—she couldn’t even remember what—and fled to the little room she and Ceridwen shared. She’d slammed the door behind her and slid down its surface, unable to do anything but pull in one breath after another and stare at nothing, reeling from what she’d almost done.

Thank the Goddess she’d run that night. The crown had barely settled on Drystan’s head before Malik had gone back to being the arrogant, flirty prince she’d first met.

She’d been right. If she had let him in, seeing him flirt and carouse with every man and woman in the court would have destroyed her. And she couldn’t allow that. Not then and certainly not now.

The door cracked open, jolting her from her thoughts. She sprang to her feet as it swung inward, pushed open by a footman. And then he was there, sauntering into the room like he owned it.

“Prince Alistair,” the footman announced before giving a little bow and departing, shutting the door behind him.

Malik stopped and stared at her. His lips quirked up in one corner, and his gaze coasted along her from head to toe and back up again. “No need to stand on my account.”

A heavy sigh fled Bronwyn’s lips, and she sank back down onto the sofa, warmth racing to her cheeks. She snapped her attention to the table, barely sparing another glance at the new arrival. “A light lunch has been provided for us, and tea,” she said, simply to fill the silence between them.

Though she refused to look at him, Bronwyn was acutely aware of Malik’s every step as he crossed the room, rounded the sofa, and took a seat across from her.

“So it has.” A hint of mischief clung to his words as he reached for the teapot and poured a healthy amount first into her cup, then his. The man had excellent form, and she briefly wondered at the prince’s ability to serve himself, a thing the servants still gave her odd looks for doing.

The cup looked especially fragile in his large hands as he lifted it to his lips and took a sip. “Chamomile. My favorite.” He offered her a rueful grin that formed a little dimple in his cheek. As if they were friends merely having tea and a chat.

Bronwyn frowned. “I did not pick it.”

Malik rolled his shoulder in a shrug, refusing to let her comment dim the mood.

She barely stifled another sigh as she reached for her own cup. “So, we were going to discuss something?” She raised one brow before taking a sip of her tea. It was a good blend. Calming and floral.

“Ah, yes.” He leaned back in his seat, hands wrapped around his cup as if settling in for a long tale. “Where to start…”

But start he did, and the information he conveyed—in low whispers, lest any of the staff attempt to listen in at the door—made her eyes widen, her blood run cold, and her appetite disappear. She drank plenty of tea, however, finding the soothing warmth and flavor an anchor amid all that he revealed.

The blood on his hands… She swallowed thickly. There was so much she was surprised it didn’t linger in plain sight. Some part of her had known of, or at least suspected, the measures taken to secure the crown over the past months, though she’d assumed most of it was carried out by Drystan or loyal members of the guard. Bronwyn had not realized how much of a role Malik played, then and now, in hunting down the monsters that still stalked the streets.

He told her about the accidents, too, many she knew of and others she did not. Some had been calculated, it seemed, designed to kill some of Drystan’s more vocal early supporters. A few had missed their targets. More had not.

When those early plots had failed to bring about the change the dragons hoped for, they’d turned to more public displays to stir unrest. And now … now they hit where they knew it would hurt the king most. A last, lethal strike by an enemy in their death throes … or an enemy that was far more calculating and vicious than they’d expected, who was not writhing but building toward their grand finale.

Strangest of all was the difficulty in tracking down who led the dragons now. Even the loyalists apprehended could divulge little, even under less-than-savory pressure to do so. Orders came in letters signed with a symbol. No one knew exactly who sent them, yet there was still enough fervor, enough loyalty to the dark ways and enough desire for power, that follow they did, even not knowing who pulled their strings.

“So, you have some leads as to who you think could be behind the recent incident,” Bronwyn said, keeping the attack on her sister carefully vague. Her words sounded distant to her own ears, almost like she was watching the conversation from a distance rather than speaking. Save for the occasional swallow of warm tea down her throat, her body was numb, and their pot was running low.

“Some,” Malik conceded, “but nothing substantial enough to act. I have an inkling that Mr. Yarwood knows something, though whether he is directly involved, I’m uncertain. And that still doesn’t explain the woman that the kitchen boy saw, or who she could be.”

“Is that why you’ve been spending so much time with Yarwood’s sister?” It was an honest question, but it came out laced with such bitterness that Bronwyn surprised herself.

Malik’s eyes widened a fraction. His form stiffened for the briefest moment before he replied, almost too casually, “Of course.” He sipped his tea, his gaze glued to Bronwyn in a way that made her squirm. “The family is an old one, and eager for advancement,” he continued. “Or, at least, they were when they shoved my mother in front of my father decades ago. Mr. Yarwood’s father was a second cousin of my mother, so we’re related, though not especially closely. When Lady Sian approached me at the wedding, it seemed a prime opportunity to ingratiate myself with them.”

“Hmm,” Bronwyn mused.

Malik set down his cup. “Are you not doing the same with Lord Griffith?”

The back of her neck heated. “You’re accusing me of using him for my own ends?” she scoffed. “I will admit he has helped me be in society in a way that is less … uncomfortable, but I do appreciate his company and did before my sis—before recent events,” she corrected.

The nerve to imply that she was using the poor man. She gritted her teeth. It would be infinitely helpful if Lord Griffith invited her out again soon. Much more so, she suspected, than meeting with women for tea and gossip. Well, easier, anyway, if not more useful. She’d always been too blunt around other women. Too eager to rile. Strangely, that made talking with gentlemen a bit easier. They weren’t as opposed to her frank assessments. Though it did set her apart as unmarriageable in many of their minds. Not that she cared about that.

Bronwyn licked her lips and sat a little straighter. “I’ll have you know that Lord Griffith has been a complete gentleman. He’s kind, witty, and has quite an interest in art.”

Malik raised one brow. “Oh, does he now?”

“Of course,” Bronwyn replied sharply, as if his comment were a personal affront. “He has extensive knowledge on the styles and history, and even knows quite a few famous artists and introduced me to some at the gallery.”

Malik frowned, leaning back in his seat. “Well, I’m glad his newfound interest has been pleasing to you.”

Her brow knit. “Newfound?”

He nodded. “As a patron of the arts myself, I can attest that he hasn’t been in such circles long. Why, I don’t recall ever seeing him at the opera house.”

Bronwyn huffed. “That’s a different style of art. Perhaps he simply prefers paintings.”

“Or he knows that you do.”

Arrogant, frustrating, no good… Bronwyn crossed her arms, her lips pressed thin to prevent her anger from spewing forth. Finally, she said, “If you have reason to think him an inappropriate suitor, simply say so.”

Malik flinched. The look was there and gone so fast she nearly missed it.

Oppressive quiet reigned as he set his tea cup aside and stood. He barely glanced at her, expression impassive. A little voice in the back of Bronwyn’s mind cried out in alarm. It urged her to apologize, though she couldn’t say what for, exactly. Nothing she’d said was untrue.

When his flat gaze finally landed on her, Bronwyn sucked in breath.

“No,” Malik said, the word like a death knell. “I have no reasons to think him ill suited. Yet. But we cannot be too careful. I will not lose y—” He grimaced, fists tightening. “The crown cannot afford disaster to befall another one of its own.” She started to speak, but he cut her off. “And whether you think of yourself that way or not, you are a princess in the eyes of the people. You are the queen’s sister. If anything were to happen to you, it would damage us all. I will not stop you from getting involved in this, but take caution. Dragons are not to be trifled with, and we don’t yet know whose skin they wear.”

She sat there like a scolded child, stewing in the frankness of his words and the callousness with which they’d been delivered. He’d never spoke to her so … coldly. Yet worse than the words was the look in his eyes, the utter disappearance of the carefree flirt of a prince she knew.

In that moment, Bronwyn wondered if that prince existed at all or if she was just now seeing the true man within.

A few blinks and shallow breaths were all she could manage before he said, “We’ll speak again soon.” Then he turned and left her with the cooling tea and platter of uneaten food.