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Malik

M alik hated weddings. Especially ones where, rather than slip away the moment the ceremony ended, he was forced to linger and pretend to have the best of times. He couldn’t even afford the luxury of getting lost in his cups and waking up in a strange place the next morning with little memory of the night before or how he’d ended up there.

Instead, he had to be pleasant. Likeable. The playful, carefree prince he’d pretended to be for so many years. It had become so easy, so natural, to smile and laugh with people whose names he hardly remembered and faces he yearned to forget that, if it weren’t for the hollow hole in his chest, he could almost convince himself it was real.

Oh, he was happy for Drystan. Of all people, his cousin had earned some joy in life, and he’d doubtless found it in his new wife. Ceridwen was a gift from the Goddess come to life, considering she’d tamed Drystan’s monstrous side and quite literally saved them all from the darkness Malik’s father had planned to wreak upon the world.

But every now and then—or rather often, of late—he wished he could show the crowd his true self and tell them all to go to hell. Just like a certain brunette lingering alone like a storm cloud a few feet away.

She hadn’t noticed him yet. Or pretended not to. He wasn’t sure. It could be either with Bronwyn Kinsley.

Malik sipped at his drink, fighting the urge to down it all and lose himself. A young woman reeking of rose-scented perfume had all but planted herself on the arm of his chair and was insistent upon regaling him with meaningless gossip. Nothing useful, unfortunately. Not tidbits he could apply toward his goals. The information flowed in one ear and out the other just like her name had. He knew the important things about her, of course—which family she belonged to, their apparent disinterest for which king ruled—but her name was as forgettable as the rest. She was another woman who wanted his crown, his title. Or perhaps her family wanted it for her and had shoved her in his direction. It didn’t much matter. After all these years, he’d become numb to such advances; he’d learned exactly how much attention to give to not be seen as rude. After all, if her gossip shifted to something of note … well, then it would be worth learning her name and whatever else she could tell him.

The woman leaned in, nearly choking him with her perfume, and whispered something in his ear that he supposed was meant to be funny. Malik tilted his head back in a roar of laughter, and those around him joined in, though it was doubtful they’d heard what the woman said over music and conversation flooding the room.

He reined in his false humor and panned his gaze across the crowd, searching, as always, for that same face. It didn’t matter that his focus should be elsewhere. She drew him like a beacon, and he was helpless not to look for her.

When he found her this time, Bronwyn stared directly at him. She was a still island amid the throng of jovial guests just off to the side of the dance floor. The way she looked down at him even from a lower vantage point stripped the grin right off his face.

Goddess above, she hated him now. His fault. All of it.

But he had a goal yet to accomplish. A duty to uphold. With her by his side, it would be impossible. Worse, it would put her in even more danger than she was in now. Simply being associated with the new monarchs placed a target squarely on her chest. He wasn’t about to add another.

Drystan may have slain King Rhion, Malik’s father, but his followers—his so-called dragons—lingered still, with one arrogant, misguided fool even calling themself the Dragon. These cultists had been responsible for the threatening letters the crown had received, most after an accident or promising a new one. Whether this “Dragon” was truly their leader or a name for the collective, he couldn’t be sure, but his instincts said the former. Rather unoriginal, in Malik’s opinion. He’d tracked down and ended some of the known dragons, Drystan a few others, but most had scattered like snakes into the grass. Rooting them out and finding who led them was a painful, time-consuming task. Yet, an urgent one.

If only he could tell Bronwyn. Then she might not look at him as she did now, curling her lip in disgust before tipping back her glass and draining it. Like he was a pile of spoiled meat. And that—her regard for him, or lack thereof—was armor he needed in his quest, even if it made him ill.

Another woman near him, the more demure Lady Sian Yarwood, draped her gloved hand on his arm. Quite bold for her. She was the sister of a certain noble he hoped to learn more about, a Mr. Rees Yarwood. That was why he lingered, pretending to bask in the attention of these young women. Too bad she hadn’t been as forward as the woman with the rose perfume. Until now, anyway.

“I’ve heard you’re a fan of the arts. Is it true?” Lady Sian asked.

“I am.” It was a truthful answer, one he didn’t even need to think about. Little in life gave him as much joy as art in all its various forms.

It would be so easy to dismiss her. And, oh, how he wanted to, if only so Bronwyn would realize it wasn’t these women he was after, but then his work this evening would be for naught. He tore his gaze away from Bronwyn, focusing on Lady Sian.

“The opening of the new exhibit at the Talia Gallery is coming up soon. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to accompany me and my brother?” Sian asked.

“Why, Lady Sian, I would love to.” He sealed his acceptance with a kiss on the back of her hand.

Her apparent goal achieved, Lady Sian gave a dramatic curtsey and drifted away into the crowd. The woman with the rose perfume huffed, clearly tired of being ignored, but that only made Malik more determined to take his time, sipping his drink and scanning the crowd once more.

This time, however, he couldn’t find the face he sought. A sigh tried to slip out as his shoulders slumped. Her disappearance from his line of sight was likely for the best, but that did nothing to soothe his disappointment.

The woman lingering on the arm of his chair tried to garner his attention once more, but thankfully, an officer of the castle guard appeared, looking a bit ruffled. He made a beeline for the prince. Malik waved for the woman to be quiet and focused his attention on the guard, who stopped a few feet in front of him and bowed. “Your Highness.”

“Owen, wasn’t it?” Malik asked.

The man stood a little straighter, and he knew he’d remembered correctly.

“How can I help you?” he continued.

“Their Majesties have requested your presence, Your Highness,” he replied. “I believe it’s almost time for the toast.”

Thank the Goddess for that. Malik all but sprang from his chair, much to the dismay of the woman vying for his attention, who let out a very unladylike groan of displeasure.

“Excellent timing. Take me to them.” Malik passed right by Owen in his effort to get away from his company. The guard followed after him, hurrying to catch up.

“There is one other matter, Your Highness.”

“Oh?” Malik glanced over his shoulder. “Perhaps that my drink is empty?” He passed Owen his glass and winced when the poor fellow nearly dropped it. What a mess that would be.

“Y-Yes, of course,” Owen replied. “But also, I was instructed to fetch Miss Kinsley as well.”

Malik skidded to a stop. The guard nearly bumped into him at the abrupt change and took a healthy step backward.

“And?” Malik asked when Owen did not immediately continue.

“And she ignored the summons, as it were.” He wrang his gloved hands around the stem of glass. “I’d prefer not to tell Their Majesties that she rejected their request.”

“Ah, I see.” Couldn’t blame him for not wanting to relay such news, especially during the royal wedding festivities. Odd, too, that Bronwyn would deny a request made on behalf of her sister. After all, she’d risked her safety, her reputation, and her very life to aid Ceridwen in the past, and he had no doubt she would do so again if necessary. “And where is Miss Kinsley now?”

A nearby burst of laughter drowned out Owen’s response.

Malik scowled in the offending party’s direction, not that they noticed.

“That is to say,” the guard continued, gaze darting with nervousness, “I believe she headed toward the balcony.”

Of course she’d head outside. Hopefully, she hadn’t gone too far. “Thank you,” Malik replied crisply. “Tell Their Majesties we will both be along shortly.”

Malik could almost see Owen’s sigh of relief. His gratitude still hung in the air as Malik turned and wove through the crowd toward the balcony. Multiple times, people tried to snare his attention, a few so bold as to touch him, but each time he diverted their requests with a quick word or grin. Smiles had such power. One twitch of his lips and he could make someone’s evening, acknowledge, and dismiss them all at once.

Blessedly, the crowds thinned near the balcony doors. No one tried to snare his attention as he crossed the threshold to stand in the puddle of light streaming from inside. He stopped short at the sight beyond. Two figures lingered by the parapet with only a narrow distance between them. They gave the impression of lovers, or close friends, seeking each other’s confidence away from the maddening crowds.

The sight wrenched his heart in a tight fist. It wasn’t just any woman standing there but Bronwyn. His—

No, she was never his. The bitter truth of it soured his tongue as the most beautiful sound spilled from her into the night.

She laughed.

He hadn’t seen her do that in … too long.

Malik blinked slowly, convinced she was an illusion. But no, that was Bronwyn, standing with Lord Griffith, a fledgling lord of little consequence. He received the smiles Malik longed for, the easy words.

The man was nice enough, the social, pleasant sort. Malik had attended several of his parties in an effort to get to know him better, especially given that his father, the late Lord Griffith, had been a supporter of Malik’s father at one time. The late Griffith had disappointed the corrupt king and was summarily executed, though rumors said he died from a quick and mysterious illness. For a time, Malik had wondered if the newly raised lordling followed in his father’s footsteps and supported the dark ways, but the bright young man showed little inclination toward much other than a good time.

Too bad Malik was about to ruin this one.

“I’ve heard you are quite fond of art.” Lord Griffith leaned closer to Bronwyn on the parapet.

She didn’t seem to notice how near the other man got as she replied, “Indeed, I—”

“Bronwyn?”

She startled and stepped back, turning to look at him. Damned if it didn’t please him that she did not reach for her companion or shelter toward him.

Where words seem to fail her, Lord Griffith had no such issue. “Your Highness.” He bowed at the waist. “This is a pleasure.”

Lord Griffith beamed at him with a smile bright as his red hair. Bronwyn, on the other hand, seemed to hug the shadows to her, to become a storm cloud given human form. It didn’t escape him the way she gripped the skirts of her dress or that her curtsey was stiffer than stone. But it was her gaze that struck the hardest blow, the fury-filled stare that painted him as the worst of villains. “Your Highness.”

If he hadn’t been so practiced, the bitterness in her tone might have wounded him, but he covered that weakness with a smirk, as he always did, and addressed the other man on the balcony. “Lord Griffith.” He closed the distance between them. “How nice to see you again. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

He was, of course, but the other man knew well enough to keep his manners. “Of course, it’s no bother at all, Your Highness.”

Appeased, Malik looked toward his real target, absorbing her fury. If that was all he could get, he’d take it. “Queen Ceridwen is asking for you.” He extended an elbow, inviting her to loop her arm through his.

How he craved her touch, even one so formal and reluctantly given. His arm nearly shook in anticipation. Bronwyn sighed and looked at Lord Griffith. Malik held his breath. If she rejected him…

“My apologies, Lord Griffith. I have enjoyed our conversation.”

“Not at all, miss. The pleasure was entirely mine.” His smile brightened. He reached for Bronwyn’s hand, but Malik was quicker, looping her arm through his before the other man could dare to place a gentlemanly kiss on the back of her hand.

“We are needed quite urgently.” Malik forced his smile wider as Bronwyn stared up at him, her mouth parted in shock. To Lord Griffith, he said, “I look forward to attending one of your gatherings again soon.”

“Of course,” the man said, seeming to swell with pride. “It would be an honor, Your Highness.”

Malik led Bronwyn back to the party, and thank the Goddess she followed without protest.

“Why were you out here alone?” he whispered as they neared the open double doors, the bright light inside making him blink.

“Is that a crime?” The retort was sour like early grapes.

Something about seeing her flustered, at ease enough to speak her mind, smoothed out some of the tension held between his shoulder blades. “It’s unseemly for a young woman to—”

She groaned. He fought back a chuckle.

“There were guards in the courtyard,” Bronwyn said. “We weren’t truly alone. Nothing unseemly happened, or would have. He was a gentleman.”

His arm tightened, drawing her closer. “It’s not just that. With all the threats recently—” He cut himself off as they passed near a cluster of people suddenly paying them too much attention. “If anything happened to you…”

Malik led her to a less crowded area on the edge of the ballroom. When he looked down at her, her features had changed. Gone was the pinch of her brow and the thinning of her lips. Some of the fire in her brown eyes had softened into the soothing warmth he’d grown accustomed to during the past winter. For a moment, he saw the woman who hadn’t wanted to be near him just because he was a prince. Who had taken his playful barbs and turned even more pointed ones back at him in a way that heated his blood with warring emotions. But mostly, he remembered her steadfast loyalty—to her sister and to him. When he’d been injured in battle, she’d braved danger to stay at his side. She cared. Somewhere beneath the armor she wore, she felt something for him.

“If anything happened to me…?” She blinked up at him.

Goddess help him, he would rip the world apart to avenge her. There was a carefully guarded, fiery light within her that he was determined to bask in again.

One day.

But not this day.

Malik swallowed thickly. “Our new queen would never forgive me.”

Oh.

He could almost hear her reply as she glanced silently at the polished floor. Damn it. Whatever happy illusion he’d seen in her gaze moments ago flitted away faster than the bubbles in the fizzy drinks being served. And he was to blame. As always.

“Come. We shouldn’t keep her waiting any longer.”