Page 117 of The Artist and the Dragon

Help had come. They were fighting the fake dragons that Griffith had called to his aid. She only hoped that whomever Drystan had brought, they were enough. The fighting was far yet. Too distant for her to see, to know—

The beast sprang back inside through the shattered window. He landed on Malik’s side, his claws ripping into a wing and eliciting a roar that nearly cleaved her heart in two. The dragon fell back, the beast still upon him.

Bronwyn snarled at the sight. “Oh, no, you don’t!” She charged forward, her sword raised with both hands.

Neither Malik nor Griffith looked at her, both locked in the battle as they were. But she watched. She was ready. Malik finally dislodged Griffith with a kick and sent him sliding across the floor, but he dug his claws in, splintering wood and leaving grooves in his wake. He ground to a halt a few feet from Bronwyn, his rat-like tail nearly whipping her as he spun to snarl at the dragon.

It was her chance. Bronwyn hurried forward and swung.

The beast leapt aside at the last moment, dodging most of her swing but not all of it. The blade bit through fur and leathery flesh, gliding down the beast’s side. He growled in fury.

Before she could recover from the momentum of the swing, he lashed out, swiping the sword clean out of her hands and sending it careening away.

The dragon roared and sprang, but not before the beast swiped again. Before she could lunge away, he caught her arm with his claws.

Fiery pain erupted. What might have been a fracture was surely a break now, and as she clutched the injury tight with her other hand, unmistakable wetness coated her fingers.

“Fuck!” she cried over the pain. So unladylike, but she’d wager most ladies were never clawed up by a monster.

The only bright side was that her attack had offered a distraction. Malik crashed into Griffith, pinning him to the ground. The dragon’s claws dug into fur. He snapped his fearsome jaws, trying to bite down on his opponent even as the beast struggled under him, swiping his wicked paws at the dragon’s face. Malik had the top position, an advantage.

Or so she thought. But Griffith wasn’t through. He kicked with his hind legs, claws slashing at Malik’s exposed and vulnerable stomach.

The dragon roared in agony and sprang away, blood spraying from its ghastly wounds as it did.

“No!”

Goddess, help us!

Bronwyn cast about, trying to find the sword amid the wreckage. “Shit!” It was lost in the mess, and there was no time to search for it. Only one thing nearby showed real promise. The splintered wood was nearly as long as she was tall, part of the frame holding a serene painting that had been knocked from the wall and ruined amid the fray. Bronwyn grabbed it.

Her heart lurched as the dragon slipped in his own blood. Malik was in there somewhere, bleeding out on the floor. Her Malik. And as the beast crouched, wiggling his hindquarters like a feline about to pounce on its prey, her sanity snapped.

She would not let the man she loved die.

“Over here!”

The monster stilled. His head turned in an entirely inhuman way, red eyes glinting.

“Are you in there, you bastard?” she snarled.

Her throat tightened as the beast turned fully in her direction, seeming to assess her anew. A low growl rumbled in the air. His lips pulled back to expose sharp fangs.

A tremor tried to take hold of Bronwyn’s limbs, but she notched her chin higher. She would not be afraid. She would not back down. “That’s right. Come and get me.”

The beast launched into the air.

Uttering a silent prayer, Bronwyn adjusted her hold on the wood and braced one end against the floor. Her knees slammed the ground as she dropped into a crouch, holding the sharp shaft as tightly as she could.

The impact wrenched the wood painfully from her grip. A sharp whine split the air, then a thud as the beast hit the ground, the broken frame sticking out of his chest. He thrashed, whimpering and groaning before dislodging the wood. But he did not rise. Blood ran. Pooled.

Bronwyn stared, frozen in shock, breathing hard.

The beast’s body twitched and shivered, then suddenly, it was no longer a monster but a man. Lord Griffith looked up at her, blood dribbling from his mouth. “Bronwyn?”

Of all things, he reached for her. As if she hadn’t been the one to stab him.

Some tiny speck of pity reasoned that he was a dying man. Beaten. What harm could he—

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