Page 45

Bronwyn

W aking up was usually slow and sweet, like a sigh or a cloud, before she opened her eyes and took in the world. At least, that’s how it had felt waking up next to Malik.

Now, she struggled. Consciousness was a glimmering light in the distance, one she fought to reach, kicking and clawing through something thick as honey. Every inch was a battle. It would be so easy to give up. Part of her yearned to do just that. To let herself slide into the sweet embrace of oblivion.

But someone waited for her in the light. He was there. And she had to get back to him. She had to fight.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. The area around her was blurred and dim, though a small light flickered somewhere off to the side. Her limbs tingled, but she found that she could move them. A little, anyway—a twitch of her fingers, a curl of her toes. The rest of her just felt so heavy…

As more of the room came into focus, she made out a dark canopy above her, wooden poles holding it up. A bed. That was the softness beneath her. But it was not a bed she knew. A strange, musty smell filled her nose, a scent that made her think of dried flowers, moths, and death.

“Awake already. Most impressive.”

She gasped and managed to turn her head to the side.

Lord Griffith reclined in a chair nearby, legs crossed, hands steepled in front of him.

“What have you done to me?” Bronwyn rasped, her voice thick and cracking.

“A little sleeping powder. Nothing serious.” He waved a dismissive hand.

“Not like what you did to my sister?” she snarled. Goddess, if only she could move. Never in her life had she wanted to hit someone more.

His eyes widened a fraction, and he sat a little straighter. “It worked?”

Damn it! He didn’t know?

“Most interesting.” He drummed his fingers together. “What a clever little trick you played. Perhaps you should be acting on the stage rather than killing my men behind it.”

“I’ll kill you for what you’ve done!”

“Ack.” He held a hand to his chest. “You wound me. And here I thought maybe you cared about me despite your little ruse. Not as much as your princeling, of course.” He shrugged.

She did—she had, in a way. Not in the way he wanted, but the betrayal, the knowledge that he’d been the villain all along, cut her deeper than he knew.

“Pretending to be me.” He tsked. “I’m afraid he’ll snare a few of my dragons with his trick, but not all of them.” He grabbed a glass off the side table and took a sip. When he lowered it, a hint of crimson lingered on his lips.

Her stomach rolled. Not wine. She could almost smell the metallic tang.

“The prince was right about one thing in his letter. With the king gone, it’s an optimal time to seize the throne.” He set the glass down hard. His red lips thinned. “But he’s not gone, is he? He wouldn’t leave his precious queen. An interesting little wrinkle, but no matter. The pieces are already in motion.” He rose from his chair, the oil lamp on the table casting his grim, flickering shadow against the navy-papered wall.

“What are you going to do to me?” Bronwyn’s heart raced. Though she gave it all her focus, she could barely lift one hand, much less fight him off.

He stopped at the edge of the bed and stroked her cheek with the back of one hand before withdrawing. A shiver of disgust rolled over her skin. “Keep you, perhaps? We’ll have to see if we suit each other.”

They most certainly did not. She clenched her teeth hard, willing him to try to touch her again. Maybe she could bite off one finger.

“But, for now, you do make the most delicious bait.” He licked his lips, eyes glimmering.

Realization struck her so hard that she could barely breathe. “That’s my blood.” Her own words sounded far away over the scream echoing through her head.

“As my magic requires.”

Dark magic. “But the painting didn’t—” She snapped off the thoughts that floated unbidden from her tongue.

His brows rose. “The painting?” He tsked. “Not just a gift after all, I take it. Was any of it real?”

Bronwyn had no answer for him on that. She’d valued his companionship, his friendship, but all of those memories were tainted by the revelation of who he was and what he’d done. If only the spell had worked at the party… Maybe he hadn’t used dark magic recently then. Perhaps it was all terrible timing, but his consumption of blood and his own admission was damning.

“No matter.” He took another sip. “I’ll need my strength when your lover comes for you. How soon will he be here, do you think?” he mused, gripping his chin. “Shall I let you reunite before I kill him? That would be quite poetic.”

She nearly screamed in frustration. How dare he threaten Malik? Use her as bait? She clawed across the bedclothes in desperation. Finally, her fingers grazed something cool and hard. She sucked in a sharp breath, hope thrumming alongside her fury.

Bronwyn wrapped her fingers around it and pulled. Something clattered. Then she flung the object toward Griffith with all her might. It hit him in the hip and fell to the floor.

All trace of humor fled his face as he scowled at the object on the ground.

“Oh, Bronwyn.” Lord Griffith bent and picked it up. The object was about the length of her forearm. Yellowed and streaked. Tapered in the middle. He tapped one end on his open palm.

Bone. It was a bone.

This time, a scream did hurtle from her lungs. She twisted her head to look to her other side.

The bed was not empty.

Another screech tore from her throat. She wiggled, thrashed, did anything she could to get away from the skeleton that lay next to her still wearing a stained, discolored nightgown.

“I always did want to introduce you to my mother.”

Then Griffith was on her again. He shoved a cloth over her nose and mouth, half-obscuring the horrifying sight. A sharp, tangy scent filled her nose, but this time, she nearly cried in relief as the world faded away again.