Page 3 of The Artist and the Dragon

“No, I’m not married.” That kind of love was foolish. It had almost gotten Ceridwen killed, not to mention the way their father had fallen apart after Mother died. No, she didn’t want that. But still, it was nice to be the object of warm attention rather than curiosity.

His features froze, eyes widening ever so slightly before his expression smoothed out with practiced ease. “By chance are you Miss Bronwyn Kinsley?”

Bronwyn swallowed her sigh. She slipped her hands from the parapet before clasping them behind her back to still her nerves. “I am.”

And there it went. In a moment, he’d pry for information on her sister or the king. She’d be an object of curiosity for her relations rather than herself.

“Well, I am honored.” He dripped a small bow. “And so glad to find a like-minded, bright heart among this nonsense”—he swept his hand toward the ballroom—"if you don’t mind my company.”

“That…” She straightened her back, prepared to tell him no, but the refusal would have been dishonest. Her body relaxed as her arms fell to her sides. In that moment, he earned her second genuine smile of the evening. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

Chapter 2

Malik

Malikhatedweddings.Especiallyones where, rather than slip away the moment the ceremony ended, he was forced to linger and pretend to have the best of times. He couldn’t even afford the luxury of getting lost in his cups and waking up in a strange place the next morning with little memory of the night before or how he’d ended up there.

Instead, he had to be pleasant. Likeable. The playful, carefree prince he’d pretended to be for so many years. It had become so easy, so natural, to smile and laugh with people whose names he hardly remembered and faces he yearned to forget that, if it weren’t for the hollow hole in his chest, he could almost convince himself it was real.

Oh, he was happy for Drystan. Of all people, his cousin had earned some joy in life, and he’d doubtless found it in his new wife. Ceridwen was a gift from the Goddess come to life, considering she’d tamed Drystan’s monstrous side and quite literally saved them all from the darkness Malik’s father had planned to wreak upon the world.

But every now and then—or rather often, of late—he wished he could show the crowd his true self and tell them all to go to hell. Just like a certain brunette lingering alone like a storm cloud a few feet away.

She hadn’t noticed him yet. Or pretended not to. He wasn’t sure. It could be either with Bronwyn Kinsley.

Malik sipped at his drink, fighting the urge to down it all and lose himself. A young woman reeking of rose-scented perfume had all but planted herself on the arm of his chair and was insistent upon regaling him with meaningless gossip. Nothing useful, unfortunately. Not tidbits he could apply toward his goals. The information flowed in one ear and out the other just like her name had. He knew the important things about her, of course—which family she belonged to, their apparent disinterest for which king ruled—but her name was as forgettable as the rest. She was another woman who wanted his crown, his title. Or perhaps her family wanted it for her and had shoved her in his direction. It didn’t much matter. After all these years, he’d become numb to such advances; he’d learned exactly how much attention to give to not be seen as rude. After all, if her gossip shifted to something of note … well,thenit would be worth learning her name and whatever else she could tell him.

The woman leaned in, nearly choking him with her perfume, and whispered something in his ear that he supposed was meant to be funny. Malik tilted his head back in a roar of laughter, and those around him joined in, though it was doubtful they’d heard what the woman said over music and conversation flooding the room.

He reined in his false humor and panned his gaze across the crowd, searching, as always, for that same face. It didn’t matter that his focus should be elsewhere. She drew him like a beacon, and he was helpless not to look for her.

When he found her this time, Bronwyn stared directly at him. She was a still island amid the throng of jovial guests just off to the side of the dance floor. The way she looked down at him even from a lower vantage point stripped the grin right off his face.

Goddess above, she hated him now. His fault. All of it.

But he had a goal yet to accomplish. A duty to uphold. With her by his side, it would be impossible. Worse, it would put her in even more danger than she was in now. Simply being associated with the new monarchs placed a target squarely on her chest. He wasn’t about to add another.

Drystan may have slain King Rhion, Malik’s father, but his followers—his so-called dragons—lingered still, with one arrogant, misguided fool even calling themselftheDragon. These cultists had been responsible for the threatening letters the crown had received, most after anaccidentor promising a new one. Whether this “Dragon” was truly their leader or a name for the collective, he couldn’t be sure, but his instincts said the former. Rather unoriginal, in Malik’s opinion. He’d tracked down and ended some of the known dragons, Drystan a few others, but most had scattered like snakes into the grass. Rooting them out and finding who led them was a painful, time-consuming task. Yet, an urgent one.

If only he could tell Bronwyn. Then she might not look at him as she did now, curling her lip in disgust before tipping back her glass and draining it. Like he was a pile of spoiled meat. And that—her regard for him, or lack thereof—was armor he needed in his quest, even if it made him ill.

Another woman near him, the more demure Lady Siân Yarwood, draped her gloved hand on his arm. Quite bold for her. She was the sister of a certain noble he hoped to learn more about, a Mr. Rees Yarwood. That was why he lingered, pretending to bask in the attention of these young women. Too bad she hadn’t been as forward as the woman with the rose perfume. Until now, anyway.

“I’ve heard you’re a fan of the arts. Is it true?” Lady Siân asked.

“I am.” It was a truthful answer, one he didn’t even need to think about. Little in life gave him as much joy as art in all its various forms.

It would be so easy to dismiss her. And, oh, how he wanted to, if only so Bronwyn would realize it wasn’t these women he was after, but then his work this evening would be for naught. He tore his gaze away from Bronwyn, focusing on Lady Siân.

“The opening of the new exhibit at the Talia Gallery is coming up soon. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to accompany me and my brother?” Siân asked.

“Why, Lady Siân, I would love to.” He sealed his acceptance with a kiss on the back of her hand.

Her apparent goal achieved, Lady Siân gave a dramatic curtsey and drifted away into the crowd. The woman with the rose perfume huffed, clearly tired of being ignored, but that only made Malik more determined to take his time, sipping his drink and scanning the crowd once more.

This time, however, he couldn’t find the face he sought. A sigh tried to slip out as his shoulders slumped. Her disappearance from his line of sight was likely for the best, but that did nothing to soothe his disappointment.

The woman lingering on the arm of his chair tried to garner his attention once more, but thankfully, an officer of the castle guard appeared, looking a bit ruffled. He made a beeline for the prince. Malik waved for the woman to be quiet and focused his attention on the guard, who stopped a few feet in front of him and bowed. “Your Highness.”

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