Page 112 of The Artist and the Dragon

“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 sharptskslipped 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.”

Chapter 48

Malik

Malikrodehishorsethrough 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.

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