Page 26 of The Artist and the Dragon

At the thought, his stomach dropped, and he rubbed the heel of his palm against his chest to ease the ache there.

“You’re here to discuss the dragons?” Bronwyn stared at him from the center of the room, her arms crossed. “I thought it would be better when we were both rested and more clear-headed.”

“No. I agree, tomorrow would be better.” He hadn’t even begun to sort out what to tell her. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh?” She blinked at him, cocking her head.

“I…” Damn it all, why was it harder to talk to this woman than any other in the kingdom? “I want to ensure you’re okay with this.” He gestured vaguely. “Helping to source out the dragons. It’s dangerous work.”

It seemed impossible for her to scowl further, but she did. “You don’t think I can do it.”

“No!” He stepped forward, hand outstretched. “That’s not it at all. Iknowyou can do it.”

Her eyes widened, her mouth falling open.

“I know you can,” he repeated. “What other woman would dare as much as you have already? When chaos broke out and Drystan dueled my father, you could have run. Should have, really. But you didn’t. You stayed.”You defended me. You knelt beside me and faced down a monster knowing we could both die.

That last part was forever etched into his soul. If he hadn’t already desired her, that would have sealed it for him.

She looked away, over at empty fireplace that wouldn’t see use for months with the warmth of the summer evenings. “My sister dared as much.”

Two brave women cut from similar cloth and bound by threads of blood.

Bronwyn hugged herself tighter. “Which is why I will do everything I can to save her. I have to.” Her voice cracked on the last sentence.

Drawn by the sorrow pouring from her, Malik neared, stopping just short of pulling her into his arms and holding her close.

“Just because youcando something doesn’t mean youhaveto. There are other ways—”

“No.” She shook her head and looked up at him. “I cannot work spells. The ruse is set with Lydia acting as the queen. That only leaves taking down the dragons, or at least the one who laid the curse. I can’t do that sitting around. Not at Merryweather Hall, and not here.” She gestured jerkily with her hands, each time pulling them back to hug herself like she might fall apart if she didn’t.

Malik started to reach for her when she continued, “Besides, I already have an in of sorts. Lord Griffith asked to see me again and mentioned that he would write.”

Bloody Lord Griffith. If only he had reason to hate the man other than his connection to Bronwyn.

“He was quick about reaching out to me last time and seems to know many people. I can”—she swallowed—“make an effort with some of the women. Host a tea or something.” Her lips wrinkled like she tasted something foul.

Without warning, a tear leaked down Bronwyn’s cheek. She hastily wiped it away, sniffing and turning her face.

That single drop of water cut at him like a shard of ice in a winter storm. All the horror they’d been through, the risk of death they’d faced, and he’d never seen her cry.

Plans and goals be damned. Malik laid a hand on her upper arm and gave it the smallest squeeze.

A sharp intake of breath filled the silence. She flinched under his touch but did not pull away. Instead, she looked up at him, suddenly vulnerable. Open. “Malik.” His name was a whisper, a plea, one that nearly brought him to his knees.

“You’re always so strong in front of everyone,” he said. “But you can be weak in front of me. I would never think less of you. Never speak of it. Everyone needs someone to hold them together at times. Let me be that for you.”

The slightest tremor wobbled her bottom lip. It took everything he had not to press his thumb there. He leaned in despite himself, desperate for the closeness he craved but shouldn’t want … not yet. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but he swore she moved closer as well.

Once, only once, had she looked at him like she did in that moment. It was a moment he thought about often. Dreamed about. Though, in those fantasies, the outcome tended to be different than reality.

Before the battle against Malik’s father, he had needed blood to work the spells necessary to ensure their success. He preferred his own, but bleeding himself out to the point of weakness was a risk in itself. It was then that Bronwyn had done something he never expected and certainly would not have asked for: she’d offered himherblood.

They’d done it at his apartment, his sanctuary, the place where Bronwyn and Ceridwen had stayed when they’d first come to the capital. That night, it had been only Bronwyn and him—an awkward enough thing, but being close to her, holding her wrist as she bled, had been nearly enough to drive him mad with need.

She hadn’t mocked him. Hadn’t prodded or barbed. Rather, she’d been oddly quiet, a slight flush clinging to her cheeks. If he had any talent in the arts, he’d have painted the way she looked then. Perhaps that lack of talent made him appreciate her art even more.

When he’d finished taking her blood, he’d healed her, but only a little. She would allow no more, refusing to let him use the precious blood he’d collected to make sure she did not scar. So, he’d closed the wound only and bandaged it for good measure. With his work complete, holding her hand in his, the tension between them became so thick it felt like a rope around his chest drawing him toward her. She’d stared at him with such openness, such raw vulnerability that it nearly cut him far deeper than his little blade had sliced her. She’d whispered his name, her lips parted, eyes blinking. He’d leaned in, ready to kiss her, to tell her how much he desired her. His lips had been a breath from hers…

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