Page 35

Malik

W hat an absolutely bloody fucking nightmare. This premiere would be remembered all right, but for all the wrong reasons.

Two dragons were dead. That should be a victory, but it had shaken Bronwyn, who looked more haunted than joyous. She was silent the entire time he led her to one of the lounges. Some of the castle guards had found their way inside and tried to lend assistance, but he ordered them to either aid Wynni or stay outside the door. One, he sent with a message to Jackoby, to inform him of what had happened and that they were safe. Hopefully, the message would reach him before hearsay from patrons who had fled the performance.

Malik needed time alone with Bronwyn—to heal her, and to talk.

Thank the Goddess Lord Griffith had finally left. Malik was starting to wonder if he’d need to literally toss the man aside. It was almost funny, the way he wanted to be the gallant hero, but didn’t he know that putting his need to shine over getting Bronwyn help put her health and safety at risk?

It grated on his last nerve.

The moment a guard shut the door to the lounge, leaving them blessedly alone, Malik settled Bronwyn on an ottoman and knelt beside her to inspect the wound on her arm. She’d faced a dragon—or, more accurately, an ally of them, for the man had no magical lineage that Malik knew of—and survived mostly unharmed. That was a feat. Not to mention that she’d likely prevented him from setting off even more accidents, and had kept him from getting away.

She was the hero of the night, not that you’d know it from her downcast expression.

“Hold still and I’ll have this healed in a moment.”

That seemed to snap her out of her stupor. “I’m fine.” She tried to pull her arm away, but he held tight. “Please, you’re much worse than me.”

True. The wound was agonizing, and he’d lost more blood than he cared to think about, but she was his priority. “Not until I heal you first.”

“Malik—” She squirmed in his grip to no avail.

“Why do you have to be so stubborn?” He tsked. “This will only take a moment.”

“Why do you?” she countered with a scowl.

“Perhaps I just enjoy getting under your skin.” He used the blood from her wound to trace the healing pattern across her arm.

She frowned but stopped wiggling. “Like a damn splinter.”

“Mmm,” he acknowledged, quickly painting the spell again and watching it sink into her skin. “And even harder to get rid of.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“I think you like my particular brand of prodding, and may like another kind I could show you even more.”

She snapped her head up, eyes wide. A deep flush raced to her cheeks. “Malik!”

The smile on his lips died. Her blood had vanished, but the wound failed to close, the angry red line still running across her forearm.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It … failed.” He shook his head, dumbfounded. “The spell didn’t… It took, but it did not heal you.”

“It’s really no problem,” she said, jerking her arm away successfully this time. “Please, focus on yourself. You’re ruining the rug, and Wynni is already going to kill us both for this mess.”

He did need to do something about it. “Fine. But I need to get this jacket off first.” It would be hard to work the spell through the tattered slit in his clothing.

Bronwyn hopped to her feet immediately. “Here, let me help.”

“So eager to undress me?”

She swatted his healthy arm. “I swear, if you weren’t injured…”

Malik stifled a laugh at the frustration in her voice. Then he gritted his teeth in pain as he rolled up the sleeve of his once-white—now heavily stained crimson—shirt.

Bronwyn gasped, then under her breath muttered, “Idiot. Never thinking of yourself.” He thought he might see the sheen of tears in her eyes but couldn’t be sure, and she wouldn’t quite look at him then.

Just as well. It gave him a moment to work the healing designs on his own arm. Once again, they faded into the mess of his arm, but the soothing wave of relief he expected didn’t come. “Fuck.”

Bronwyn gaped. “It didn’t work on you, either?”

It was then he recalled the sheen on the blade Lord Lewis had wielded. “There was something on the blade I was stuck with. It may have been rubbed with oil infused with the diaval plant. It’s a rare weed. Powerful, if you know what you’re doing. It would be enough to block the use of magic on the area it touched for a short time.” Long enough for someone to bleed out if the wound were bad enough, which was likely exactly what the dragons had had in mind.

Either they were being overly prepared and willing to waste precious resources, or they had expected someone to try to stop them. The latter notion sent a chill of foreboding creeping down his spine.

“We need to get you help at once!” Bronwyn tried to gently steer him to the door.

“You are worried about me,” he all but crooned.

She wacked his good arm again—more lightly this time. “You know I am. Wynni must have a medic on hand somewhere,” she mused.

“I have a salve at my apartment that should counter this.” He’d stored some away years ago, worried that his father might think to teach him a lesson using the diaval plant. He hadn’t needed it then, thank the Goddess. “I’ll treat myself and bring some to the castle for you. I’m sure you’ll want to check on your sister just in case she…”

The energy seemed to go out of her all at once, and she looked at the ground.

“It’s possible,” he started.

Bronwyn shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I can … I can almost feel it.” Her voice cracked over the admission. “Mr. Davies mentioned something about the Dragon he served, the head of all this. I would bet all the gold in the castle that whoever that is is the one who worked the curse.”

Malik stilled. “What did Davies say?”

“He…” Her brow pinched, and she finally looked up at him. “He taunted me. Said I had no idea. And then he started to say something else, that he was … somewhere. But then you…” She trailed off, throat bobbing.

Then he killed him, and whatever Davies had planned to say was lost.

Bronwyn looked adrift, uncertain. She hugged her arms around herself, and with stray hairs pulled from their pins and spots of blood on her pale gown, she resembled a woman tossed about in a storm and left to wander aimlessly toward home.

“Come to the apartment with me.” Malik held out his hand to her. “I can heal you sooner then,” he added, trying to make the comment a little more innocent than it was.

Healing her was a priority. But it would be a lie to say he didn’t want to soothe the wounds no magic could heal as well. Emotional injuries could be far more painful than afflictions of the body.

He braced for rejection. Some taunting barb.

Instead, Bronwyn placed her hand in his. “Thank you.”

His knees nearly buckled. If not for their injuries, he would have pulled her into his arms and kissed her right there.

They were almost to the door when he heard a commotion outside. The moment he opened it, he realized why. Wynni stood in the hall, arguing for one of the royal guards to let her in.

“There you are!” She brushed right by both the guard and Malik. “Are you all right? Truly? You ran off, then I got stuck in the back hall, and Goddess above! Your arm!” She turned on Malik with sudden ferocity. “You didn’t tend to her?”

“It’s really nothing,” Bronwyn said. “It’s Malik who needs help. We’re going to see about it right now.”

“You—” Wynni’s brow pinched as she glanced at his injured arm, but she wisely said nothing. She knew about his healing magic, and the failure of it shocked him, too.

“Very well. Yes. Go!” she said quickly. “We’ll manage here.”

Malik nodded to her, but they hadn’t even turned to go before she spoke again.

“And thank you. It—” She clamped her lips shut and seemed to mull over her words. Very rarely was she ever at a loss for words. “Things could have been so much worse, and it’s thanks to you that they are not. I am in your debt.”

“There’s no debt,” replied Malik.

“We’re happy to help,” Bronwyn said at the same time.

The opera had brought him back from the brink and given him joy when nothing else could. That was a debt he could never repay, even if he saved the place a dozen times over.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Wynni said, looking at the guards. “Help them or make yourselves useful here!”

*****

Malik held his breath as he unlocked the door to his apartment in the city. He was nervous. He shouldn’t be. She’d been there before, and the place was tidy enough. But it was hard not to think about the last time they were alone here together, months ago.

She’d offered him her blood to use for the numerous spells they’d needed to trap his father. He’d taken it as gently as he could and then healed her … as much as she would let him, which wasn’t much at all. She insisted on letting it scar no matter how he protested. He’d had a feeling that if he healed her fully, as he’d wanted to, she might slice herself open again just to spite him. So, he’d listened.

He’d wanted to kiss her. Kisses and more. They barely knew each other, really, but he’d never wanted any woman half so much. So, as he’d held her hand, he’d leaned in, prepared to show her the depths of his feelings. But before he could, she’d ripped her hand away and fled into the rarely used guest chamber, slamming the door behind her. He’d waited outside that door for long minutes, hoping, praying that she’d come back out.

She hadn’t. The moment had vanished and not returned before Drystan seized the crown and they began a campaign to hunt down the remaining dragons and secure the throne.

Now … once they’d left the carriage, she’d taken his hand again and had held it all the way up the dimly lit wooden stairs to his door. Rationally, he knew it was because he was still bleeding despite the bandages the guards had wrapped tightly around his arm. His adrenaline had ebbed during the ride, and sleepiness had gripped him despite the jarring bounce as they sped over the cobbled streets.

“Go sit,” Bronwyn commanded as she slipped her hand from his and hurried over to the gas lamp on the wall. That she still remembered exactly where it was stirred something low in his abdomen.

He listened, and went to sit on the sofa.

“We’ll need to clean the wound first, won’t we?” Bronwyn said, seemingly talking to herself as she hurried about the main room. “Ah, a pitcher.”

Malik leaned back against the cushions, holding his wounded arm over the side. It was nice to sit on something that didn’t jostle him around. And he was tired now that his body had had time to realize it.

“We need some cloth,” Bronwyn mused.

“The shelf over there.”

She found it with ease. “Very good. Now where is the salve?”

“My bedroom. Desk cabinet. Little jar with—” He sat up with a jolt, suddenly remembering why it would be a terrible idea for her to go into his room. “Wait! I’ll get it.”

She didn’t even flinch. “Nonsense, you’re hurt. Just tell me what I’m looking for.” She moved down the short hall.

Malik leapt from the couch and rushed across the room, head spinning.

Bronwyn grabbed the door handle. Turned it. Pushed.

He wrapped his hand around hers on the knob and jerked it shut again, nearly smacking her in the face.

“Malik!” She startled, looking up at him. “What in the world?”

He swallowed the lump in his throat and leaned against the doorframe for support. “Let me get it. Please.”

Her brow furrowed. “What don’t you want me to see?”

“Bronwyn…” he pleaded.

Her hand loosened from the doorknob. He withdrew his own with a sigh. And then, quicker than he could anticipate, she grabbed the handle again and threw her weight against the door as she turned it.

The door swung open, and she stumbled in, nearly tumbling to the floor in a heap of pink silk.

The room was dark, only a little light filtering in from the main room, but it was enough to damn him.

Bronwyn blinked at the sight before her. Ever so slowly, her head turned one direction, then the other. Malik’s heart dropped into his stomach as he watched her. She turned in a circle, taking in the entirety of the room, all of the damning evidence. Why, oh, why had he brought her to the apartment, again?

Finally, she looked at him, eyes wide. “Malik … is this…”

“Yes.” He took a deep, steadying breath as he met her gaze. “It is.”