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Bronwyn

B ronwyn still stared at Mr. Yarwood’s letter as if it could somehow save her from the realization crashing down on her.

“It can’t be,” she said for about the tenth time.

“I’m afraid it is true, Miss Kinsley.” His voice held a touch of softness now, more than she’d ever heard from him. “I believe I did tell you to beware the prince? I’ve had my suspicions for some time.”

Goddess. He had, hadn’t he? It felt like so long ago, but really it had been mere days. Bronwyn clutched at her chest as if she could hold together the pieces of her that were breaking apart.

Malik. He’d cursed her sister. He sought Drystan’s throne.

Yes, he’d been present for so many accidents but never involved. At least, she hadn’t thought he was. He often stayed with her, protected her … or kept her from learning the truth? Was that it?

The dawning horror chilled her to the bone.

She’d never felt more complete than in the last few days, but maybe she hadn’t found her missing piece. Instead, she’d let in a monster who had destroyed her from within. It was her greatest fear.

He knew that.

Yet … yet…

Bronwyn bit her bottom lip hard to hold back a sob. Her teeth cut so deep she could taste the metallic tang of blood.

No, she could not break. She could be her own strength. She was a strong woman. She could get through this. However much it hurt, she would not—could not—fall apart.

Mr. Yarwood was speaking, asking her something. Had she handed him back the letter or had he taken it? She couldn’t be sure.

Bit by bit, the words started to come back, to register: “…Only figure out what Briar Rose was.”

Briar Rose . She’d heard it before. Part of a code. Something Malik had been working on with Drystan. Had he figured it out?

Foolish girl. She chided herself. Of course the Dragon would know his own code.

But he hadn’t really known, had he? His confusion had been genuine, or it had seemed that way.

So much seemed different. Do you really know him at all?

But Drystan thought he was on his side, too, and—

Suddenly, she remembered something else from the letter. “Give me that.” She snatched it out of Mr. Yarwood’s hand.

He barked in outrage, but she swatted him away, scanning until she found the part she was looking for. “‘Before the king returns from his wedding moon,’” she read aloud.

Those words were a light illuminating a dark cave, mortar to her crumbling heart.

“But he never left!” She stared at Mr. Yarwood, breathing heavily. “Malik knew that!”

He looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. “What?”

Mr. Yarwood didn’t know. Couldn’t. But that didn’t matter. She knew, and that knowledge was everything. “Malik couldn’t have written this. Or didn’t mean it. Or”—she shook her head—“I don’t know, but this isn’t what it seems!”

There was something else at play, something going on.

“It’s about a meeting. Where?” She scanned again. “The Briar Rose.”

“Doesn’t exist,” Mr. Yarwood said at once. “It’s a code. A cover.”

There were a few places Malik had thought it might be. What had he said? Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember. “Passelton’s? Or maybe Perrault’s? I have to go there at once. I’ll set this straight.”

Mr. Yarwood grabbed her arm. “Or you’re trying to protect him to throw me off.”

Bronwyn jerked free. “It’s not what you think.”

A carriage rocked to a halt in her periphery. “Miss Kinsley? Mr. Yarwood?”

Goddess above, she’d nearly forgotten they were out on the city street. Even more surprising was the man staring at her through the carriage window with a pinched brow.

“What’s going on here?” Lord Griffith was already opening the door and stepping out.

“Phillip!” Hope surged through her. Exactly who she needed. Someone who might help. And he had a carriage, too. She was in front of him the moment he stepped on to the cobblestones. “I need your help.”

“Of course, but what is—”

“Take her to the castle,” Mr. Yarwood called over her head. “Before she gets herself into trouble.”

She whirled on him. “Don’t go to the constable. Please. Just give me time.” She turned back to the carriage, grabbing Lord Griffith by the arm and all but hauling him back into the cab. “Hurry, we must go.”

To his credit, Lord Griffith did just that, ignoring the other man and climbing in across from her. Before he even had time to close the door, she took to filling him in. “There was a letter saying Malik is the Dragon, but that can’t be right. It’s some ploy. A con. I don’t know what he’s gotten himself into, but it can’t be true. I have to stop him. Perhaps if we go to his apartment straight away, there will be time.”

Phillip shouted to the driver, “Three-thirty-one Highgrove Street. At once!”

“Thank you.” Oh, she could have kissed him for that. Finally, someone who listened. “I don’t know what’s going on, but there has to be some mistake.”

“I heard about this letter.” Lord Griffith crossed his legs and leaned in. “You don’t think he could be the Dragon? He is the heir. Maybe he wants the crown?”

Bronwyn shook her head. “He doesn’t.” She knew it in her bones. “He only wants to help Drystan, er, King Tristram. He wouldn’t turn on him, on me.”

“Ah.” He sat back, nodding. “So, you’re rushing to the prince because you love him?”

The brutal straightforwardness of the question struck her straight in the chest so hard she winced. Guilt was stifling. “Phillip … I—” Shit. She should have told him. Long ago. It was cruel to have led him on so long, and now she was breaking his heart in the worst way.

“I know you went with him after the opera,” he said, eyes downcast.

And, oh, did she feel even worse then. Here she was asking the man whose feelings she couldn’t return for help saving the man she loved. If the carriage wasn’t moving along at a solid clip, she might seriously have jumped out.

“I thought you might have feelings for him. His interest was quite easy to see despite the other women he kept on his arm.”

Now that stung in a whole different way.

“After you disappeared with him at my party, I needed to be sure. And then you left with him and him alone after the opera. Went back to a private apartment, was it?” he asked. “It seems the ring I gave you is still there.”

Her brow knotted. The question was so jarring it was as if they screeched to a halt. “How could you—” The last word died, unspoken, as she sucked in a breath. “You followed us?” Oh, Goddess, had he known Malik’s address without her giving it?

“Close.” A smile bloomed slowly across his face, but it wasn’t the cheerful one to which she’d grown accustomed. “A tracking spell. Tucked in the setting of that pretty stone. Took a number of tries to get it just right.”

She shook her head. “A spell? But you’re not—”

“Of noble blood?” he finished for her.

He wasn’t. His father had been made a noble years ago. There was no magic in his blood. None that they knew of.

“But I am. Not just noble blood but something stronger.” Now there was an edge to his voice she’d never heard before. A sharpness as wicked as any blade. “My father wasn’t granted his title simply because the king was generous. Quite the opposite, in a way.”

Her trembling now had nothing to do with the swift crunch of the carriage wheels over cobbles.

“Oh, Bronwyn…” He lurched forward.

She gasped and jolted back, her spine digging into the backrest—but there was nowhere to go.

Lord Griffith cupped her cheek in a mockery of a tender embrace, his fingertips digging into her skin as he forced her to look at him. “You always were so clever, so insightful. You’re right. Your dear Malik is not the Dragon. A pity you couldn’t have simply fallen in love with me instead. The things we could have done together…”

“You’re him.” She clutched at his arm. “You’re the Dragon.”

The bloody villain was right here. The man who’d cursed her sister, who’d tried to destroy everyone she loved.

A little huff of laughter slipped past Lord Griffith’s lips. His fingers flexed on her cheek, tilting her jaw. “Clever. Just as I said.”

A wave of pure rage washed through her. She dug her fingers into his forearm, attempting to wrench his hand away. When that failed, she lashed out, raking her nails across his cheek.

He cried out in pain but did not let go. Rather, he jerked her head suddenly forward, then slammed it back against the wall of the carriage. Pain bloomed through her skull. Spots swam before her eyes. Finally, he let go, and she slid sideways, trying to gain her bearings, to push through the pain.

“No more of that,” he snarled.

Then a cloth was over her face. He fell atop her with his full weight, pushing her down onto the hard carriage bench, their arms flailing, both nearly falling into the floorboard.

Bronwyn gasped, trying to pull in a much-needed breath, but Griffith pressed the cloth tighter. A strange scent filled her nose. She swung her fist, but her fingertips merely slipped across his coat before her hand fell limp.

Darkness closed in around the edges of her mind. Then she knew no more.