Page 22

Malik

M alik’s heart stopped. His mind emptied.

He could have died in that moment, and he would not regret it, because she kissed him. His heart thumped again—hard—beating against his ribs and bringing him back to life, back to the press of her soft lips against his.

Something in him snapped. He slid his fingers into her hair, tugging her closer while shielding her skull from the hard shelf behind it. His other hand sought her waist and, finding it, jerked her hips against his. Before she’d even touched him, his cock had gone hard. Her nearness had that effect. But now? Now he ached, he needed, he craved.

She kissed him. She wanted him.

And fucking Goddess above, she tasted like the sweetest wine, the best dessert.

Truly, when he’d sought her out, he only meant to make sure she was safe. But then she’d had to go and insinuate that he might marry someone else. It had broken the last of his restraint. All the months of denial, of holding back, of refusing to tell her exactly how he felt. She lit the match, but he was the one who tossed it onto the pyre of his plans.

She had to know. Had to.

There was no other, man or woman, in a world where she existed. All thought of anyone else had fled months ago. It was a mad thing, falling so hard so fast, especially for a woman who seemed to loathe him at the best of times, but desire was often void of reason.

He’d poured out his feelings like a man on his way to the gallows, one last confession before the end. She would either hang him with it or cut him free of the noose.

He’d thought she might run. Might refuse to answer. He’d been prepared for that.

But a kiss?

That was beyond his hopes.

Malik licked at the seam of her lips, and she parted for him with the softest, sweetest moan that had his abs clenching. Her fingers were curled in the hair at the base of his neck. Her scent filled his nose. As he deepened the kiss, she leaned into him, her breasts pressed against his chest, their legs nearly tangled together. Were they anywhere else, he’d be tempted to steal her away and have his way with her—if she’d let him, if she wanted that much.

It would be a lie to say he hadn’t stroked himself to thoughts of just that. That he hadn’t spent far too many daydreams pondering what she’d taste like, how her lips might feel against his.

But he hadn’t been prepared for her eagerness, for the passion with which she embraced him now.

He should have been, though. She was all fire and fury, and the more she tried to contain it, the more she held back, the hotter she burned when she finally let go.

And Goddess did she.

No kiss had ever been so powerful, had ever consumed him until he could barely tell where he ended and she began. Her tongue teased his, and he trembled. Trembled like a damned lad who’d never touched another.

She might be the Goddess reborn for all that he wanted to drop to his knees and beg for more of her attentions.

“Miss Kinsley?”

The male voice cut through his reverie like a slap to the face.

Goddess fucking damn it!

He ripped himself away from Bronwyn so fast that his scalp stung where a few strands of hair were yanked free. She stared at him—wide-eyed, flushed, panting—frozen with her hands still hovering as if he’d vanished into thin air. With his unnatural speed, he very nearly had.

If someone found them, their plans truly were doomed. They’d be the focus of gossip for weeks. A scandal to be caught together in such a position, in the home of another, their companions jilted. There would be no subtle inquiry into the nature and alliances of others. The inroads they’d made would be destroyed with a single misstep.

There would be no path to slay the dragons except slow inquest through others—for which they did not have time if they were to save the queen and, by extension, the king—or brutal, bloody methods that sacrificed innocents in the quest to slay the guilty.

And that … that he could not stomach, not even to save the sister of the woman he cherished above all others.

“Bronwyn?” The voice was closer now. Griffith for certain. A passing figure obscured the light spilling in from the hallway.

We’re not done, Malik mouthed before retreating with silence and speed to stand behind the open door.

Bronwyn, seeming to realize the trouble they were in, poked at her hair and smoothed the skirts of her gown. A few heartbeats and she hardly looked the worse for wear.

She was a better actor than him. Far, far better. Enviably so.

His pulse still beat in his ears, his breath came unevenly, and his cock was so hard there would be no hiding it if anyone were to catch him. His excitement was not helped by his racing thoughts or the memory of the kiss on his lips playing through his mind over and over again, so bold it was hard to consider anything else, even the man in the hall.

Bloody bastard. Malik nails dug into his palms. He really did hate him.

Bronwyn strode to the threshold, pausing just outside the door. “Phillip?”

He nearly punched the wall. Were they so familiar now? Had she kissed him, too? Damn it all, if she had played him—

Malik shut the thought down immediately. He knew her kiss was genuine. It was the realest thing in his life, and no amount of jealousy would taint that memory.

Through the thin crack where the door hinged to the wall, Malik saw Lord Griffith turn with wide eyes on the woman he sought. “Bronwyn!” He hurried to her in three long strides. “What were you doing in the study?”

“I needed a moment to collect myself. I hope you don’t mind. I’d actually thought to hide for a moment in the water closet, but it was in use.”

“Hide in the water closet?” He screwed up his face in bemusement.

“Well, it is private.” She glanced away in an attempt to be demure.

“You do appear flushed.” He touched the back of his hand to her cheek.

The simple touch made Malik’s jealousy surge again. He’d been right all along: now that he knew Bronwyn had feelings for him, being with another, or seeing her doing the same, was unbearable. Yet here they were, trapped in a painful web of their own making, at least for a little while longer.

“You haven’t taken ill, have you?” Griffith asked. “We could have a seat here in the study.”

“Oh, no,” she replied, almost a little too quickly. “I’m feeling much better now, thank you.” She looped her arm through his and angled them back down the hallway. “Perhaps you could see me back to the party?”

“Of course. If you’re sure.”

Malik lost sight of them as they moved past the doorway and back toward the drawing room. He’d need to find his way there, too. It was unlikely his absence would go unnoticed for too long, if it hadn’t already been accounted for.

Calming his body took more time than he would have liked, but thoughts of Bronwyn’s sorrow if they failed to save Ceridwen was enough to do it. After he slipped out into the hall, Malik opened the water closet door, careful not to make a sound. Then, he made a show of closing it with a bang loud enough to be heard by anyone around the bend.

When he sauntered back around the corner, the footman waiting outside the drawing room didn’t give away that anything was amiss. And if he later gossiped that the prince of Castamar took a long time in the toilet? Well, that was fine with Malik.

Charming smile in place, he reentered the room. Some of the ladies near the doorway looked his way, as they might at anyone, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary. A few men mingled with the women now, their game of cards seemingly forgotten. Lord Griffith was among them, Bronwyn at his side.

What he wouldn’t give to be in that man’s shoes…

He scanned the room. When his gaze passed over the little painting on the mantel, he did a double take. The last bit of warmth from Bronwyn’s kiss fled.

It was hard to tell from his position, but he’d swear it looked different.

The sight tugged him across the room, and the nearer he drew, the more the fine hairs on the back of his neck rose.

A black smudge covered much of the moon’s reflection on the water of the painting. He halted a few feet away and turned to pan the crowd once more. Someone here was either a dark magic user or was in possession of an artifact imbued with it.

“Malik?” The lithe figure of Lady Sian stepped in front of him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Damn. He had let his mask drop. “Not at all.” He grinned. “I just thought I might grab a drink.” He signaled a footman with a tray, who hurried over and poured him a glass of whiskey.

Truly, he hoped the pause might dissuade her from lingering, but she remained, staring at him like he hung the moon. He wrestled back a sigh, took a long sip, and said, “Shall we converse with our host?”

He wasn’t ready to let Bronwyn out of his sights, not after what they had shared and not with a dragon in their midst, quite plausibly the one they sought. Either she had not noticed the painting yet, or she hid it well.

For too many agonizing minutes, their conversation with Griffith and his friends centered on useless topics. Concentrating was almost impossible with Bronwyn a few feet away. All he seemed to notice was the bit of escaped brown hair curled around her ear, or the slight flush that still lingered on her cheeks. Occasionally, she would glance at him, then quickly away, that flush deepening. It almost made him laugh, and he had to cover the slip with a hefty drink of whiskey. The kiss had affected her, maybe more than anything he’d ever done, and he relished that, terrible timing and all.

While the women talked, he tried to remember where everyone had been sitting when Lord Griffith opened the portrait. The spell should have reacted quickly once exposed. It had been white when it was opened, and when it was passed around to a few others, , or he thought so.

If only he’d done a better job of cataloging everyone’s positions.

A few of the men wandered over. One clapped Lord Griffith on his shoulder. “Care to smoke with us?” Lord Osric asked.

Bronwyn visibly took a step further from the man. Malik couldn’t say he blamed her.

“I think I prefer the company of these lovely ladies.” That earned him a few chuckles and even a soft sigh or two.

Osric shifted his oily gaze to Malik instead. “Your Highness?”

A polite refusal was on the tip of his tongue. He didn’t care for the man, or for cigars, for that matter. He would certainly prefer to stay with the women. But he wasn’t learning much here. Away from the women, conversation often shifted to more serious topics of politics and such. Someone might let their preferences slip. He still remembered the old secret handshake his father’s followers used. Perhaps he’d give it a go now that he knew a dragon might be in their midst. Besides, Bronwyn should be reasonably safe inside. Griffith certainly kept an eye on her, and he had a feeling the man would see to her well-being if something went wrong.

Malik grinned. “Why not? Excuse me, ladies.”

He’d brought their plans too close to ruin that night to not do something to make up for it. A dragon was in their midst. It was time to find out who.