Page 31 of The Artist and the Dragon

“No. And we’ll keep it that way. The other accidents have been meant to incite unrest amid the nobles. To sow instability and question my authority to protect them. Which is why they cannot know the damage they have done. And why Bronwyn would not be a target. What would hurting her achieve?”

Malik ground his teeth, both at the thought of her coming to harm and the insinuation that she was not as valuable a target. A good thing, he knew, but devaluing her in any sense angered him. “Either way,” he snapped, “I will meet with her shortly and tell her all I know. It will help, both to keep her safe and with hunting the remaining dragons.”

Another argument brewed behind the older man’s eyes, and Malik spun on his heel, ready to be away.

“Malik,” Drystan called.

He halted, hands flexing into fists then relaxing before he looked at the king. “Yes?”

Drystan lifted a stack of paper from the desk. “Later, I need your help with these.”

Ah, yes. Drystan had been scouring a number of old books and papers belonging to Rhion, anything to source the identities of his followers. Malik had looked at them briefly a few days ago, before everything had gone to shit. The volume the king currently held was full of nothing but deranged nonsense. How it could help, Malik did not understand. “They’re nonsense,” he replied. “Scribblings my father must have written in some fugue state.”

“They’re in code.” Drystan dropped them back onto the table in a ruffle of paper.

Malik reared back. “Code?”

The king nodded. “One used by Rhion’s followers.”

A huff caught in Malik’s throat. Of course Drystan would know that where he did not. It stung. It shouldn’t. His bastard of a father’s regard wasn’t something he would want, but maybe all sons craved their father’s favor in some way, no matter how horrible the man.

“I still remember most of it,” Drystan continued. “Perhaps you can pick up something I’ve missed.”

Unlikely.“I’ll try,” Malik replied with a nod. “For now, I have an impatient princess to educate.”

Drystan’s brows knit together. “She refused that title.”

Malik shrugged. “She’s a princess to me.”

Chapter 14

Bronwyn

Bronwynsatinthequeen’s formal parlor, or the blue room as it was frequently called, for the blue-and-white wallpaper that decorated it. The furniture matched, from the pale table to the stiff cushions of the divan with their pastel fabric, shimmery gold legs, and swooping arm rests. A small chandelier twinkled overhead, throwing little rainbows onto the walls.

She hated the damn room, every formal, fluffy inch of it. Its only saving grace was that Ceridwen liked it, and it was a somewhat private yet acceptable place to meet a man, which was why she’d suggested it when she told the servants she’d be having an informal luncheon with Prince Alastair.

On the low table sat a steaming pot of tea next to a tiered stand of finger sandwiches and delicate pastries. An assortment of fruits had been laid out nearby. Two plates lingered on either side of the table, one in front of Bronwyn, the other eagerly awaiting its diner.

She awaited him, too, she supposed, though perhaps not eagerly. In fact, she found it quite hard to sit still, and even harder to focus her thoughts on anything remotely important. Her chest was heavy, her throat tight, and her skin pasty from the cosmetics she’d applied to try and hide the puffiness from the previous night’s tears.

Her sister was trapped by a sleeping curse, yet here she was, sitting like a noble lady, waiting onhimof all people. The servants would whisper. They always did. But hopefully, they would think this meeting had an entirely different purpose than its true one—that perhaps she’d ordered privacy for some illicit flirting rather than to learn about the dragons still haunting the streets.

As she waited, she kept staring at her left wrist, at the little white scar there.

He’d given it to her … at her request.

Magic required blood, and Malik had required a lot of it to work the spells necessary to entrap Rhion and force his confession before the crowd. It had been part of Ceridwen’s plan, one in which everyone had a role. Everyone except Bronwyn.

Offering her blood for magic? That was something she could do, and so she’d jumped at the chance. She could help. She could play a part other than the useless background character. And Malik had accepted.

She thought of that night often. Sometimes while lying in bed, other times while painting, and occasionally while simply wandering, lost in thought.

It had been months ago, but the memory was always so fresh. She closed her eyes and she was back in that moment, sitting on the sofa in Malik’s apartment as she watched her blood drip into the glass container on the table before them—an arrangement not too different than the one waiting for him in the present, though Malik’s apartment was far more masculine, all dark wood and smelling of musk and leather.

The memory of that scent did things to her. It ignited a slow burn in her chest that radiated outward until it consumed her wholly, muddling her thoughts and sparking an aching need between her legs.

She’d ached then, too. Inexplicably. Unreasonably.

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