Page 47

Bronwyn

W hen Bronwyn woke again, fingers of bright orange light lanced across the room. A soft sob rattled her chest as memories flooded back. Even though she knew what she’d find this time when she glanced to her side, it was impossible to prepare oneself for the reality of being in bed with a skeleton.

His mother. Goddess above, had he killed her?

Judging from the state of decomposition, she’d been dead some time.

After a dreamless sleep, Bronwyn was able to sit, some of her strength returned. Still, her head spun. She clutched it, squinting at the bright light streaming in through the window.

Sunset. But it had been night before. At least a day had passed, maybe more. The dry, cracked feeling in her mouth and ache in her belly only confirmed that.

A quick look around showed that the chair Lord Griffith had occupied before was empty. He did not appear to be anywhere in the room. A small blessing. It was an even bigger blessing that he hadn’t tied her up. If she had to linger near the corpse— She choked back a sob as she slid out of the bed.

Bronwyn’s legs wobbled a little as she gained her balance. Once she did, she rushed to the window. Unlocked! But a peek outside dashed her hopes. She appeared to be on the third floor and there was no easy way down. She could jump, but she’d probably break a leg in the process. Or worse.

Next, she tried the door. To her surprise, it opened. After hastily using a cobweb-covered chamber pot, she fled the horrid room, eager to be free of it. The musty, aged scent and the oppressive silence of the place continued in the hall. But here, tickling the edge of her perception, was the sound of a piano.

The sorrowful tune grew louder as she padded down the hallway, testing each door and finding them all locked. The tempo of the song quickened, as did her pulse. She made her way down the stairs, fingers running along the dusty banister.

A river of crimson carpet ran down the curved stairwell, which descended to the second floor and then the first. The music beckoned. An eerie invitation. She knew who played it—knew who was the only other person in this abandoned manor. Cobwebs clung to the sconces on the walls, but even the spiders seemed to have forsaken this place. The only sign of life was the new, lit candles illuminating her way down. All of it was a path, a beacon she was meant to follow.

Bronwyn ignored the second floor completely. Everything in her said the doors would be locked, same as above. Lord Griffith wanted her to come to him, and the dread blooming low in her gut said she had little choice. What other horrors lay in wait for her? What nasty spells might she encounter if she diverged from the path?

Resigned, she headed toward the music. As she did, she picked at the bandage wrapped tightly around her left wrist. He hadn’t healed her like Malik had, or had wanted to, when she’d offered him her blood willingly. She’d wanted Malik’s scar; if this bastard left a mark on her, or worse, if he obscured the one she’d asked for—a reminder of her courage—she’d be slow in her revenge. And she would have it. For all that Griffith had done, she’d find a way to end him, even if it meant haunting him after death. Perhaps she could bargain with the Goddess once she reached her. Beg for the chance to repay his ills before she entered the hallowed planes.

Up ahead, light flowed from an open set of double doors. With her heart in her throat, Bronwyn entered the room.

It was large, the ceiling arching high above, supported by thick wooden beams. The far wall was almost entirely windows, like one might see in one of the Goddess’s temples, though these were clear glass rather than colorful. It must be a study of sorts. At the far end sat a desk, but there was also plenty of seating in the center, as if it doubled as a formal parlor for entertaining. A few bookshelves rose high on the side walls between works of art and decorative little tables.

The very last place she looked—she had to force her head to turn—was the back corner of the room, near the entrance. Her nails dug crescents into her palms as she took in the sight of Lord Griffith seated at the piano bench, still hammering out the song he played with rare skill. His eyes were closed, but she had no doubt he somehow knew she had entered, especially as he turned his head her way and grinned.

It was an utterly chilling sight, one that might have made her ill if she had anything in her stomach. He continued to play, the song rising into a final flourish, his fingers flying over the keys. Finally, finally , he brought the tune to its end. The last notes still rang in the silence when Bronwyn started a slow, loud clap. It was the only thing she could think of that might truly annoy him.

Lord Griffith’s eyes snapped open. “Bronwyn.”

Goddess. How had she ever found comfort in those eyes? She glowered at him.

“Welcome to Thorngrove Hall.” He gestured to the room. “Please, have a seat.”

She huffed. “Like some guest? And here I thought you planned to bleed me out. But perhaps you prefer to starve me instead?”

He closed the piano lid and stood. “Patience, my dear.”

“I am not your dear!”

His grin twitched as he skirted the instrument and advanced on her. He had not changed clothing and was therefore a little disheveled. Whatever this kidnapping ploy was, she sensed he had not planned it, or had not planned it well. “Not yet. But things can change, can they not? I wonder. What would you give me to save your lover’s life?”

Malik . Her eyes flew wide. Her nails bit into her palms so hard she drew blood.

Griffith spared a glance toward the windows and the freshly fallen darkness beyond. “I assume he’ll be joining us quite soon.”

Not yet, then. Nothing has happened . She tried to calm her racing heart to no avail. Griffith stepped closer, but she refused to back down, simply holding her head high. “Did you kill her? Your mother?”

He flinched, drawing his hand to his chest. “Bronwyn. You wound me. Of course not.”

“Forgive me for thinking otherwise,” she replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“My hands have been relatively clean … until recently.” He looked at them and shrugged. “My mother died by her own hand. Not long after my father.”

Years, then. Her corpse had lain in that bed for years.

“They were so deeply in love. It seems she could not bear to be without him, not even for her only child.” There was true sorrow in his voice. Hurt. Longing.

And damn if she didn’t feel a slight twinge of sorrow for him. Losing one’s mother was a horror—one she knew well. Losing both parents to violent ends? There was little wonder he’d become twisted.

Lord Griffith wandered to the seating area, where he picked up a crystal glass filled with dark liquid and brought it to his lips.

Her stomach turned. Was it hers? Best that she didn’t know.

“But you killed Charlotte,” she said, tearing her gaze away from the vintage in his hand.

“Ah, yes.” He set the glass back down and stared at it. “Most unfortunate. She and her brother were quite useful. Elis was so determined for his family name to continue to rise, to build upon the foundation of wealth his father had created by elevating their status as well. And Charlotte? Well, she was always so devoted to her older brother. He was all the family she had left, after all.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “A shame that you caused both of their deaths.”

Bronwyn reared back, stunned. “Me?”

He nodded. “You poked your nose into things you shouldn’t have and encountered Elis. I assume he tried to kill you to keep you quiet, though I had told him, all of them, that you were not to be harmed.” He wagged a finger in the air. “That’s why the prince killed him, isn’t it? And Charlotte, dear Charlotte.” He clicked his tongue. “I thought she might crack after her brother’s death, so I kept an eye on things. You looked so downcast when you left her home the morning after the opera.”

“You were watching.” She’d missed that. Completely.

“I was. I’ll admit, I was surprised. I thought she might hold firm and earn a reprieve after all. But then I saw her maid leaving and followed her. Imagine how I felt when she went straight to the castle.” He shook his head. “There was no avoiding it then. Though I’d wager she didn’t spill my secrets in her note given your presence the next day.”

“You killed an innocent woman out of fear.”

With a little laugh, he threw himself down on a sofa. “I think we both know she was far from innocent.”

The barb stuck like a blade to the chest. No, she had not been innocent, but had she really deserved to die? And this man had the gall to laugh about it.

“You!” Fury seethed from her as she stomped toward him. She raised her hand to strike. “How dare—”

He lashed out with blinding speed and grabbed her wrist in a crushing grip. She yelped.

“That’s not how you should approach your future king.” The pressure lightened ever so slightly, but he did not free her.

“You’ll never be king,” she wheezed.

“We’ll see.” Griffith frowned as he took in the blood on her palm drawn by her nails. “What a waste.”

Disgust washed through her. She tried to pull away, but he drew a sharp dagger and pointed it at her throat.

“Do have a seat.” He tugged her toward the spot beside him.

Reluctantly, she went. She couldn’t kill him if she were dead herself. A thousand hateful words lingered on her tongue, waiting to be hurled at him, but those would get her nowhere. Instead, she said, “It’s true you asked the dragons not to hurt me?”

He blinked, lowering the blade ever so slightly. The smirk stretching across his lips softened. “I did.”

Bronwyn loosened the tightness in her jaw, and tried to make herself look delicate and unassuming. “Why?”

“My interest was genuine.” He brushed his knuckles along her cheek. “It still is.”

Gooseflesh raced across her skin, leaving her cold.

“I’ll not deny I initially sought you out for your connection to the royal family,” he continued. “It surprised even me that my intentions shifted.”

“Your followers didn’t question why you would keep one royal alive when you sought to destroy the rest?”

He shrugged. “You were common born. And from what I’d learned of you—what everyone seemed to perceive—you had no great love of nobility or the court. Such a woman would be a fitting queen for a new era, don’t you think?”

“Queen.” She leaned away. Goddess above, he was insane. Her lips thinned. “My sister is the queen. A good one. Common born and with the interests of the people at heart. Yet you would kill her in your quest for power.”

“Ah, yes, she may have been a good queen, but she’s also the king’s weakness. He could have saved her…” He drew the thought out, brows rising. “Still can, if my spell has not run its course.”

“If he sacrificed the whole kingdom to you,” Bronwyn spat.

“And died,” Griffith said, as if it were nothing. He tilted his head one way, then the other as his gaze searched her. “You don’t carry the sorrow of her death yet. She could still be saved. I would save her for you if the others were out of the way. A wedding gift, perhaps?”

He offered it like one, but his silken words were full of poison. Even if he was telling the truth—and she struggled to believe that—she could never go along with what he asked. The death of Drystan and Malik, handing the kingdom over to a madman, becoming his wife? Each facet was a nightmare in and of itself. No matter how much she loved her sister, no one person could be worth all that.

Lord Griffith perked up as if he heard something, but all that reached Bronwyn’s ears was eerie silence. Something glimmered in his eyes as his grin grew. “It seems our guest is almost here.”

Malik? Her heart leapt.

A sharp tsk slipped from his lips, and he angled the blade toward her once more, running the flat of it down her cheek. “Let’s hope he comes alone, as ordered … or I may have to rescind my proposal.”