Page 13 of The Dread Prince (The Dread Descendant #2)

The newly wed Mr. And Mrs. Rosethorn had the distinct honor of being the first wed in Castle Morana in over three centuries. Mal officiated their vows with a smile he grew tired of long before the night grew long. He’d only just returned, and sleep desired to claim him. But as hundreds watched him with adoring, curious, and wary eyes, he did not falter.

He toasted the newlyweds. Juliet was a beautiful blonde bride. Abraxas was the most dashing groom anyone had surely ever seen. They both wore all white, as was the tradition for Magical weddings. Abraxas had opened his mouth shortly before the ceremony to suggest, perhaps, a pale blue, but one look from Maeve’s Grandmother Agatha had him quickly closing it.

As always, Abraxas ensured the drinks flowed, and the music played. Though, when Mr. Iantrose tried to take the stage to make a toast with a glass of Dragon Whiskey in each hand, Abraxas took his arm gently and muttered, “Absolutely not.”

Maeve wore green. The color she was crafted to adorn. Her marks of Vexkari peeked through the sheer fabric along her neck and arms. His marks.

They betrayed her anxious heartbeat.

His fingers ached with the desire to sedate the chaos running blindly through her.

Respecting her wishes was far more tortuous than listening to the endless flattery from Magicals and Kier and his council. If she had deluded herself into wanting separation, he’d play along. At least until she broke or he did.

Damn Roswyn and his constant opinions. A Supreme in the making with the thickest head and jealousy to match. Breaking his nose wasn’t punishment enough, but hearing the bone snap did give him some satisfaction. If nothing else, it reminded Roswyn that Mal was true to his word.

The apology flowed before Mal ever even twisted a finger.

It seemed the entire rank of Bellator knew of their distance.

But Mal knew it was only a matter of time before she broke. And when she did, he would be there to put her back together and show her just how infinite his loyalty was.

“Mal,” said Abraxas, touching his arm gently and pulling him from his thoughts. He balanced a glass of dark liquor and a cigar in one hand.

Mal attempted to listen as Abraxas introduced him to someone he was certain his Hand deemed rather important. But the only guest of importance to Mal had just slipped out onto the balcony.