Page 48

Malik

M alik rode his horse through the open gate of Thorngrove Hall and tugged her reins, bringing her to a halt in front of the main doors. He dropped to the ground, breathing hard. “There, girl. Rest now.” He patted the chestnut mare’s neck. She frothed at the mouth, stomping her foot. “Go.” He gave her one last pat and sent her off. With luck, she’d find water nearby, and he’d be able to see to her needs later.

A sudden gust of wind whipped at his hair and clothes. The temperature had dropped, and not just for the lack of the sun. The smell of rain clung to the air. It had yet to fall, but it would soon.

The manor towered before him. Though most of the windows were dark, two lamps glimmered on either side of the front door, and he could see distant light through some of the first-floor windows. If not for that, he’d have despaired of being in the right place, but no, something in his gut told him this was it. More so, he sensed that Lord Griffith waited for him. He only prayed Bronwyn was safe.

Malik pulled his favorite dagger and gripped it tight as he stalked toward the double-door entry. Some might prefer a sword in such situations, and he did have one strapped to his back, but he always favored his daggers, especially in close quarters.

The doors opened with minimal effort and swung wide, not even squeaking. It was eerily quiet, within the manor and without. Full dark had settled over the world. Normally, bugs would be singing their night chorus, possibly accompanied by a few owls. But not this night. Not here.

And within? He paused at the threshold, straining his ears. He was expected, that much was obvious. Lit sconces led the way ahead, into the heart of the manor. But there was no staff on duty. No sound of rushing footsteps coming to see who entered the house. A musty, aged scent met his nose. It was then he noticed the dust, the cobwebs. Though the exterior was immaculately kept, no one had bothered with the inside.

But someone was here, and every moment he waited wasted him when Bronwyn might be in danger.

Malik prowled into the building. He focused his heightened senses, listening, watching, reaching out with his instincts for any sign of traps or trouble. As he passed down a short hall, he found nothing strange. Ahead, light spilled from a room.

Adjusting the grip on his blade, he headed straight for it. The sight that greeted him around the corner had his blood running hot and cold in sharp flashes.

Bronwyn was alive.

Lord Griffith had a blade pressed to her throat.

Malik went entirely still. They were seated in the center of a large room with huge windows towering behind them. Lightning flickered in the distance, briefly illuminating the dark sky beyond the glass.

“So glad you could join us, most maleficent prince.” Lord Griffith grinned. “And you managed to come alone. How fortunate for our dear Bronwyn, here.”

Bronwyn’s lips thinned, her eyes flashing, but she said nothing. All her focus was on Malik; it had been from the moment he spied her. Though Lord Griffith seemed not to notice, she mouthed three unmistakable words.

I love you.

Malik’s chest rose and fell as those words echoed over and over in his mind, imprinting on his soul. But the reason she said them now caused more fear even than the moment he received the letter declaring her a hostage. She said them now in case she couldn’t later.

He’d be damned before he let the woman he loved come to harm—not while there was still breath in his lungs to stop it.

“Let her go,” Malik growled.

“I have no wish to harm Miss Kinsley.”

“Your dagger implies otherwise.”

Light reflected off the blade as Lord Griffith adjusted his grip. “Surrender yourself to me and I’ll gladly put it away.”

Don’t, Bronwyn mouthed. And her eyes … they begged.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Malik raised his hands but did not drop his weapon.

“Ah, but you’re still very much alive.” The smile that spread across Griffith’s face was pure evil. And to think he’d once thought the lord a decent man. He had never suspected the darkness that lay beneath his skin. “You want her alive? A life for a life. Give yours right here and now.”

“No!” Bronwyn lurched forward, coming preciously close to the blade.

Lord Griffith shoved her back against the sofa’s cushion. The sight of his hands on her, pushing her, had Malik snarling in fury. It was then he noticed the bandage on her wrist. The bastard had hurt her. He’d pay for that.

“To what end?” Malik asked. “The king will never let you live.”

Lord Griffith quirked a brow. “Disobeyed my orders, did you? Sadly, I’m afraid they won’t be here soon enough to help you.”

So, he did have spells placed nearby to warn him of anyone’s approach. It made sense. It’s what Malik himself would have done.

“Don’t listen to him,” Bronwyn snapped. “No one is here. We’re alone.”

Lord Griffith turned his attention to Bronwyn. “Inside, yes. But outside…” He glanced toward the windows.

Bronwyn did as well, her eyes widening as she stared into the gloom. Suddenly, lightning broke across the sky, and in the brief flash, something moved just beyond the windows—a lanky beast that looked very much like a wolf … a member of the dragons in their monstrous form.

Fuck.

Bronwyn let out a sharp gasp and snapped her attention toward Malik, likely coming to the same conclusion. He nodded once. He understood. The odds had just gotten a little more interesting.

“Why do all this?” Malik addressed Griffith. “What do you possibly hope to gain?”

“The throne, of course,” he replied, as if he sought something as simple as a cup of tea.

A humorless huff of laughter fled Malik’s lungs. “All this for some delusion of grandeur? You think the people will support a random noble claiming the throne?”

“Ah.” Griffith tsked. “But I’m not some random noble, cousin .”

What? He reared back in genuine shock. There was no way. Madness. True madness and delusion.

“Cousin?” Bronwyn echoed, as confused as he.

“You really don’t know?” Lord Griffith’s brows pinched. “Why else do you think my father was granted the title? King Jesstin the wise. King Jesstin the kind and just.” He scoffed. “King Jesstin the concealer, more like. Covering up not only his son’s darkness and misdeeds but also the actions of his late father?” He clicked his tongue over and over. “My father came to him as a brother, or half-brother as it were, but instead of acknowledging their shared lineage, the king granted him a middling title and sent him on his way as if they were not blood at all.”

Malik scowled, but it was Bronwyn who snapped, “And that wasn’t enough for him? To be given an easy life? To be elevated to a station most could only ever dream of along with the wealth and trappings that such a role demands?”

“It was not his due.” Lord Griffith slung an arm around Bronwyn, pulling her roughly into his side. “He was royal, not noble, my dear.” She snarled at him, but he glanced calmly back at Malik. “And firstborn. Did you know that? By right, the throne should have been his.”

“Except he was an unacknowledged bastard,” Malik said plainly. “He really expected the king to put his own crown down for this man he had never met with a claim that would have been near impossible to prove, especially given that their father was dead? What sane person would do such a thing?”

“He believed him enough to grant a title. Does that not speak to my father’s authenticity?”

Or he just wanted the problem to go away. Malik ground his teeth.

“I see your doubt,” Griffith said. “You think because I look like my mother that I tell a falsehood, but you’d have seen the likeness in my father. It was more than blood he shared with his brothers. But the important part is what lies beneath my skin. The magic in his blood was strong, as it is in me.”

“And might makes right?” Malik taunted.

“Does it not? It did for your father. Might made you a prince. Could have made you a king, if you’d wanted it.”

But he didn’t. He never had. His father’s lust for power had spoiled any desire Malik could ever have for it. In truth, he wanted nothing more than a quiet life with those he loved, but fate seemed determined to deny him that at every opportunity, snatching away those close to him until he was lost, adrift.

And then he’d found her . Malik’s gaze settled on Bronwyn. While Lord Griffith was rambling about his destiny and losing his focus, she was sharpening hers. The dagger near her neck had dipped. Griffith didn’t notice the subtle way she adjusted her body.

Don’t, he yearned to tell her. It’s too risky.

The magic coursing through his blood would aid his speed, but it would aid Griffith’s as well. Bronwyn was at a stark disadvantage no matter her cunning and bravery. Whether Griffith’s father had been a royal bastard or a noble one, he passed that blood, and all the power it entailed, to his son.

Bronwyn swallowed and shook her head ever so slightly. Malik knew that resolute look in her eyes. Her fierce stubbornness. Damn it all, if he could not dissuade her, then he had to help her.

“So, you truly were the one who coordinated the accidents over the past months. Killing innocents. Striking fear into the hearts of the masses,” Malik said in an effort to keep the man talking, to draw his focus away from the woman at his side.

“Do you still doubt?” Genuine incredulity rang in his voice.

“I doubt only your aim. You thought, what, that you could scare the nobility into supporting you?”

Bronwyn leaned into Lord Griffith as if seeking comfort at his side. He hated the sight. Hated it. Yet he couldn’t deny that the act seemed to affect the other man. The blade he held lowered another inch. The arm around her flexed and slid lower—the posture a lover might take. One that left Bronwyn free to move her arms.

“If their king could not keep them safe, then of course.” The calmness of the lord’s voice, his utter conviction, was as unsettling as the quiet manor. “The nobility are fickle. Surely, you know that. They will follow whomever sits on the throne and promises them an easy life. And the commons will follow their lead, as they always do. In fact, I planned to continue many of the works the new queen started to aid them. The people would love me for it, they already love me for merely being a patron of those works.”

Griffith’s arrogance alone threw the edge of Malik’s temper off balance. Oh, he’d enjoy slaying this dragon. And from the way Bronwyn’s features had gone hard, how her fingers bent like claws ready to rake across the man’s face, she would, too. Never, ever should a man take credit for the genius of a woman, and to do so to one as celebrated as Ceridwen wasn’t merely evil, it was idiotic.

Malik snapped, “You really think the country would follow a monster who murders and harms to get what he wants?”

A slow and satisfied grin spread across Lord Griffith’s face. “They followed your father, didn’t they? For years.” Thunder rumbled outside, as if to punctuate the statement.

Damn it all. Malik’s squeezed the handle of his blade painfully tight. Much as he hated it, it was true, though many people never knew the true depravity of his father. But there had been hints. Suggestions. People had not been completely oblivious, even if they pretended to be to avoid his wrath. Malik was guilty of that himself. That unspoken knowledge was probably why there had been such a smooth transition after Drystan killed him. Well, save for the dragons and their accidents. Had King Rhion been beloved, there would have been outrage. However, most had seemed relieved. There was no explaining that to this bastard, though.

Perhaps Griffith should have been King Rhion’s son. They were like enough.

And that lone thought, annoying and difficult as it was, made all Griffith’s claims suddenly very real. This man was just like Rhion, playing the jovial and proper noble on the outside while harboring a heart of darkness and selfish ambition.

How the fuck had he not realized it sooner?

“People follow the crown,” Lord Griffith continued, oblivious. “They care little whose head it sits on so long as he has the right blood, and I do. One of their own, plucked from obscurity and raised to his rightful place on the throne. Can you imagine it?” He raised his eyes to the ceiling, a dreamy, far-off look on his face.

That was the moment Bronwyn struck. She grabbed his hand with both of hers. Twisted. Shoved.

Lord Griffith howled as the blade sank into his thigh.

Bronwyn scrambled to her feet, and Malik raced across the room toward her.

What followed happened in the span of a heartbeat, but time had slowed painfully, as if taunting Malik for not being quicker despite the impossible speed with which he moved. He watched in horror as Lord Griffith latched on to Bronwyn’s arm before she could get away. With a roar of fury, he flung her to the side, sending her tumbling into a table that gave way with a sickening crack.

She lay motionless in a pile of shattered wood. Without conscious thought, Malik changed course, landing in a crouch by her side. He touched her neck, and upon finding her pulse, finally released the breath he’d been holding since the moment she struck.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Malik?”

Thank the Goddess . But they weren’t out of danger yet. Far from it.

“Get to safety. Hide. Drystan is coming.” Malik didn’t wait to see if she understood before rising to his feet and turning toward their enemy in one fluid motion.

Lord Griffith had pulled the dagger from his leg and clutched it in one hand. The other hand was covered in blood. But beneath that sheen of red was something worse—his fingers darkened; his nails elongated and sharpened.

Fuck.

He should have known the man was a monster. And the feral gleam in his eyes as he looked at Malik said he was in control of it. Had probably been looking forward to this moment, too.

“A little higher and I might have been felled by my own blade,” he laughed. “How careless of me. Enough talk. It’s time to finish this and move on to bigger prey.” He tossed the blade aside as his fingers lengthened into wicked claws.

“You’ll pay for what you’ve done, you bastard!” Malik roared. For Bronwyn. For Ceridwen. For every innocent he’d hurt and killed.

“Ack.” Lord Griffith reared his head back in a show of disgust. “I do hate that word.”

Malik smirked. “I’ll write it on your grave.”

Griffith’s eyes narrowed.

“What’s careless”—Malik spat the word—“is that you failed to realize one thing about me, cousin .”

Griffith’s eyes gleamed red now. “And what is that?”

“You thought I’d stick to the light, as I always have. Be easy to remove from your path. But you’re wrong.”

The lord’s smile faltered ever so slightly, even as Malik’s curled to satisfying life.

“You’ll find I’ll do any manner of things to protect the woman I love.”

He couldn’t stomach the darkness to protect himself, nor could he do so for revenge. For so many years, he’d feared what he could become, the dark path he might be led down, winding its way into oblivion until he no longer recognized himself and forgot all that he had once valued. But that had changed the moment a strong-willed brunette pointed a fire poker at him. Something had sparked at that moment and burned strong but slow, like one of the deepest embers in a low fire. It heated everything around it, spreading until it consumed him, mind, body, and soul. There was nowhere left in him for darkness to hide. Perhaps that was why it had whispered to him sweetly since he’d consumed the blood. The beast had cracked open its eyes for the first time, reared its head, and now longed to take a look at the world.

There was only one thing—one person—that could tempt him to walk willingly into darkness.

What wouldn’t he do for her?

Nothing .

Not even at the risk of his soul.

Without fear, Malik gave himself over to the beast that roused in the darkness within him.