Page 19

Bronwyn

A nother stroke of dark blue paint blended with the black, creating the surface of a calm lake at night. Bronwyn’s wrist ached from painting all day, but she wasn’t about to stop yet. It was all she’d done for the better part of three days, to the point that Wynni had asked on multiple occasions if she was really all right. Perhaps Bronwyn was becoming a decent actress after all, because she almost believed herself when she said she was. With a brush in hand and a beautiful work of art taking shape before her, she could almost forget why she was doing it. Could almost forget the clock that ticked ever closer to the moment her sister’s time would run out.

Art had been a passion for as long as Bronwyn could remember, but when her mother had died, it became an obsession. She’d have wasted away before an easel if Jaina had let her. At first, their family still had a decent amount of wealth, plenty of coin to purchase many varieties of paints and canvases for her to work on. It had not taken long for that to change, though. Mother’s death had affected them all in different ways, from her father’s poor investment decisions, to her brother’s stalwart dedication to the military, to Ceridwen’s more reserved demeanor and dedication to her music. Even Jaina lost some of her joviality, as had her husband Gerard, who still rarely smiled anymore, save these last few months when things had taken a brighter turn. Until the aftermath of the wedding, anyway.

A soft knock came at the door of her workroom.

“Come in,” she called, not bothering to look away from her painting.

The room wasn’t large by any means, but there was more than enough space for a few people to work if needed. Not to mention that it had a window to let in natural light, one that could be opened if the smell of paint or other materials used in the set design became a little too overwhelming. The sets for the upcoming opera were already finished and in use for rehearsals, so Bronwyn had the space to herself. Thankfully, it wasn’t as cramped as it sometimes was, though one wall was still stacked to the ceiling with old set décor and a few useful pieces. A faux-ruby-encrusted throne and a tufted swiveling stool, on which Bronwyn currently sat, were left out for anyone working.

The door opened and someone entered. Her hand stilled, brush hovering in front of the canvas. She knew who it was before he announced himself. A wave of sensation slid down her spine before curling into a warm ball low in her core. Goddess above . She never could reason why he had such an effect on her, why he loosened her tongue and elicited strong emotions with no more than a passing look. But he did. He had since the moment they’d met.

The door closed with a soft click. “Good morning, Princess.”

Bronwyn turned on her stool and scowled at Malik, who stared at her with a self-satisfied smirk. “You know I’m not a princess.”

His only response was a half shrug.

Bronwyn sighed and spun back toward her work. “Why are you here, anyway?” she asked. “More work to do? I thought you’d completed it all.”

He’d gotten much more efficient with the detection spell and had completed the last of the areas she’d marked out the day before. Rather than cutting his hand or arm, he’d brought a few vials of blood tucked in his coat. She couldn’t summon the courage to ask if they were his or, if not, where he’d gotten them from.

“I did. But I thought I’d stop in anyway.”

Solely to annoy her, probably. What fun.

“I get more work done when I’m alone,” Bronwyn replied.

“Yes, I know. Though you’ve done quite a lot already. It would do you well to take a break.”

“No time.” She added a few more strokes to the lake, blending the colors until they were seamless.

He made a low grunt. “Have you even eaten today?”

“I had an early breakfast before I left the castle this morning.”

“It’s mid-afternoon.”

Was it? She stilled before dipping the brush in black and adding a few more shadows amid the trees near the lake’s edge. “I’m fine.”

There was a crinkling and rustling, followed by the sound of footsteps as Malik neared. He plopped a little brown package on the table next to her palette. “I brought you a little something, just in case.”

Bronwyn frowned as she stared at it from the corner of her eye. “What is it?”

“Why not take a break and find out?”

Her wrist did ache… Bronwyn set aside her brush, snatched the package, and unrolled the top. The scent of something sweet and tart hit her square in the nose. Saliva pooled in her mouth.

“Jam puffs. From my favorite bakery just up the street,” Malik said. “They were still warm when the owner packed them up for me.”

Her stomach gave a loud rumble, which made her want to sink through the floor and vanish.

“Looks like I was right to bring a snack.” He crossed his arms, that smug smirk pulling at the corners of his lips again.

She did love jam puffs, and they were so delicious this time of year with berries being available fresh in the markets. It had to be a coincidence that he’d picked those, of all sweets, to bring her. It was something most people liked, right?

Bronwyn started to reach for a puff, caught sight of her paint-stained fingers, and stopped. Goddess, she probably looked a mess. But there was nothing to be done about it and a whole little pile of puffs in the bag. With a mental shrug, she dove into the bag, took a puff between two fingers, and popped it in her mouth.

An embarrassing moan slipped from her lips as sweet pastry and tart blackberry burst across her palate. Her eyes slid closed. It might be the best thing she’d ever tasted. Not even the castle chef was this talented. She swallowed the tasty mouthful and smiled. “Delicious.”

When she opened her eyes, Malik’s grin had fallen away. He stood stone still, staring at her. If not for the slow blink of his eyes, she might have thought he’d been frozen by some strange spell.

He continued to stare, and the back of her neck heated. “Apologies. They are just very good.”

The comment had his body relaxing, a hint of mischief returning to his face. “There’s no need to apologize. I’m glad you enjoy them. Please, have more.”

He didn’t need to tell her twice. One taste and her hunger made itself known with force; she was half tempted to sit there and eat the whole bag. The next one she pulled out was larger. She took a bite. Some of the jam filling smeared onto her lips, and she licked them, barely muffling another groan of pleasure. “Have you tried these?” She waggled the half-eaten one at him. “They’re incredible.”

Malik chuckled. “So very demure.”

“You think I’m demure?” she asked skeptically before finishing off the remaining piece.

“I think you pretend to be sometimes. That you want others to think you are.” He advanced, stopping so close his legs nearly brushed hers and she had to crane her neck to look at him. “But no. I don’t think you’re demure at all, and I hope you stay that way.”

The compliment made her stomach flip. Her chest was suddenly tight and warm. She grabbed the bag of pastries. “Please.” She offered them to him. “You purchased them, after all. It would be a shame to miss out.”

“A shame indeed.” He reached forward—

But not for the bag.

Bronwyn pulled in a sharp breath. Her back went ramrod straight.

Malik’s thumb swiped across her lips, coming away with a small smear of blackberry jam that she must have missed. He brought that thumb to his mouth and licked … slowly. All the while, his focus never left her face, nor could she manage to look away.

It was the single most arousing and unsettling thing she’d ever experienced.

“You’re right.” He closed his eyes as if in pleasure. When he opened them a moment later, they were hooded and filled with mischief that stunned her to the core. “Delicious.”

“I…”

Bronwyn’s body felt like it might ignite. Goddess above, he’d…

The bag nearly fell from her limp fingers. She took hold of herself just in time and set it back on the table. “I meant from the bag,” she mumbled.

When he continued to stare at her like a wolf about to pounce, she turned back to her art. It was the only thing she could think to do in answer to the inner voice telling her to run far, far away.

“That’s a lovely little painting.” Malik stepped nearer, so close now that she could feel the warmth of him behind her—or maybe she was imagining it, her emotions continuing to run wild.

“Yes, thank you. I’m quite pleased with it.”

“I don’t think I bespelled that one, though, did I? A side project?”

“Somewhat.” She’d decided on it late yesterday afternoon and hadn’t yet had the chance to ask him to bespell it, though she’d planned to. At least, she thought so. It was hard to think at all, to remember what color she’d even planned to use next, with him so close. “It’s a gift for Lord Griffith.”

The warmth behind her vanished. The hint of a subtle breeze touched her skin. So sudden was the change that she looked back over her shoulder.

Malik stood a few feet away, now wearing a scowl that could rival one of her own.

“What?” she asked, genuinely bemused. “He invited me to a party at his home later this week. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary to give a gift to the host, and I thought you could enchant it so that we can see if anyone at the party might be a suspect. Like Lord Osric.” She frowned and quickly amended, “If he attends.” Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately in this case, she had a feeling he would.

“Oh.” Malik looked toward the window. Though the curtains were tied back, the panes were old, grainy, and hard to see much through.

“I thought it was a good idea.”

He glanced back at her. “You’re right, it is.”

“But?” It still felt like a belt was tight around her middle, but the sensation was different than moments before, almost like she had made a misstep and was falling, though she couldn’t for the life of her understand where she’d gone wrong.

Malik shook his head quickly and grinned again, but something about the action looked off. “But nothing. It’s a grand plan. I wish I’d thought of it myself.” He all but ignored her as he drew near, gaze fixed on the painting. “Were you thinking I should work the spell on the moon? Or one of the swans? It might be a little tight, but I could probably make it happen. Though I wish you’d asked me to work the spell beforehand as with the others.”

Bronwyn blinked at him. He was still rambling about the painting, and Malik never rambled. “Malik?”

“Or I could maybe see about doing something in the light reflecting off the water. A blood stain would be easier to cover with black if the spell doesn’t hold. Or we could—”

“Malik!”

When he turned to face her, he suddenly seemed so much closer, especially bending over to inspect the painting as he was. Their faces were only inches apart, and a whiff of his slightly musky and woodsy scent cloaked the delightful smell of the pastries and the less delicious but familiar one of paint.

“Are you…” She could hardly believe it, but she had to ask. “Are you jealous?”

That damnable glaze of mischief returned to his eyes. “That is an emotion I experience quite often, yes.”

She gave an exasperated sigh.

Malik chuckled as he retreated near the window.

“What I meant,” she said, unable to let it go, “is, are you jealous of Lord Griffith? Of the painting I’m working on?”

He stood with his hands behind his back. One might think he saw something of particular interest outside, except there was little to see but blurs of light and color. Finally, he looked back over one shoulder. “I’d think most people would be jealous of someone who received such a lovely and personal work of art, wouldn’t you?”

Insufferable man. He was toying with her, again. Bronwyn set her lips in a thin line and pushed to her feet. But as she did, she was a little too aggressive with the stool beneath her, and it rolled away before she’d quite got her footing. “Oh!” She wobbled, trying to find her balance, afraid of tumbling into her paints, or worse, the still-wet painting.

Suddenly, Malik was there. One strong arm looped around her back; another grabbed her arm and hauled her against his chest.

She barely grasped what was happening before he leaned in, his breath ghosting across the shell of her ear as he said, “Of course I’m jealous of him.”

“Malik…” Bronwyn clutched at his chest, the comment making her more off-kilter than her almost-fall. Her lips parted in wonder. “But you—”

The soft touch of something at the pulse of her throat made her gasp. Maybe she imagined it. Maybe it was nothing. But she would swear it was the brush of his lips against her skin.

A loud knock sounded at the door.

They sprang apart at once, Bronwyn nearly tipping over again in the process.

The door swung open, and Wynni entered with a flourish, wearing a dress that must have been an old costume for its excess of ruffles and glittering sequins. It wasn’t something that someone would wear on a normal day at the opera house unless one was a performer, or Wynnifred, with her love of over-the-top fashion and accessories.

“Ah, Malik, my doorman said you were here, and I—” Her head tilted to the side as she took them in. “Are you two quite all right?”

“Yes, of course,” they echoed at once.

“Mmm,” she mused, looking between them.

Bronwyn had never felt so guilty yet so unsure of what she’d done to feel that way. Her cheeks burned, and it took all her nerve not to storm off. Meanwhile, Malik looked completely fine, as if they’d been having a very normal, civil chat about the weather.

“Well, so long as you’re both fine.” The tone of Wynni’s voice said she considered the matter closed. “Malik, dear, since you’re here, I hoped you’d come and watch this next part of the rehearsal with me and give me your thoughts. Something isn’t quite right, and I can’t put my finger on it.”

He dipped his head. “Always happy to help a friend.”

“You’re welcome, too, of course, Miss Kinsley. In fact, I’d more than welcome another opinion.”

And sit next to Malik, pretending everything was fine after whatever had just happened between them? No, thank you. “I have some paintings I’d like to finish up, if that’s all right.”

Wynni sighed. “It’s important to have some fun in life, dearie. All work and no play,” she tsked.

“Perhaps soon.”

“I consider it a promise,” Wynni replied. “And I’m saving you a seat at the opening performance. You better be there.” She wagged a finger the same way she’d wave one of the fans she usually carried. “It’ll do you good to relax. I’ll never say no to a woman pursuing the arts, but expanding your horizons is healthy, too.” She turned to Malik and extended an elbow. “Well, come along, they’re about to get started.”

Malik joined Wynni near the door but stopped short of taking her arm and turned to Bronwyn.

Breath caught in her throat as she met his gaze. His throat bobbed before he said, “I’ll have what you asked for delivered to your room at the castle. Then you can affix it to the painting however you like.”

“Thank you,” she mustered. That did make sense. It would be easier to glue on the spell or something rather than potentially mess up her work, particularly since it was still wet. She really should have had him work the spell before she’d gotten started on it.

He gave a single nod in return, face expressionless.

“Ohh, what is this intrigue?” Wynni leaned in, eyebrows waggling.

“Just working on a present for a friend.” Malik looped his arm through hers and turned the opera house owner back toward the door.

“For me?” Wynni batted her eyelashes at him.

Malik chuckled. “It’s a secret. Though I believe you already have more of Bronwyn’s work than anyone else.”

Wynni gave a boisterous laugh. “That’s true.” She turned to Bronwyn at the threshold. “You know where to find us if you change your mind.”

And with that, she shut the door, leaving the room too quiet for all the thoughts racing through Bronwyn’s head.

She sank onto her stool and eyed the bag of pastries, but she couldn’t summon enthusiasm even for them.

Malik was jealous of Lord Griffith. He might have kissed her neck.

What in the name of the Goddess was she supposed to make of that?