Page 32 of The Artist and the Dragon

Who should want when they are bleeding out?

But he’d held her arm so gently, like she was a fragile treasure that might crumble to bits if he touched her incorrectly. His usual confidence was there, but his cockiness had muted into something genuine, something warm and utterly terrifying in equal measure.

It hadn’t helped that they were alone.

All other nights in that apartment, Ceridwen had been there, too, a comfortable cushion between them. But that night, she’d stayed at the opera house with Drystan. It was just Bronwyn and Malik. Alone in his apartment, his careful hands on her arm, the silence between them so thick she could cut it and spread it across bread.

When he’d deemed he had enough blood, he’d used a bit of it to seal her wound. She insisted that he only seal it, not heal it fully. She wanted the scar. She needed it. It was proof that she had done something. That, if all went to death and ruin, she had tried to help instead of being useless. Maybe she’d earn a new one in the days to come. Some new proof that she had tried to help, though she’d be damned if all she did this time was give her blood. There was more, so much more, that she could do. In fact, just that morning, she’d accepted an invitation to some noble’s tea despite the looming thought of that appointment making her want to flee to the countryside and never return.

The scar wasn’t the only thing she’d wanted that night, though.

Malik had looked at her like she was valuable, special.

Had any man ever regarded her that way? Any person outside those she counted as family?

More importantly, he made herfeelit. And when he finished his magic, when his hands lingered on hers after, his thumb stroking along her palm, she’d wanted more. Had leaned in, ready to be devoured in whatever way he desired.

She still recalled the way his breath had hitched, the way his eyes widened. How his hand had tensed against hers. The bob of his throat as he swallowed thickly.

It had been that moment, that reaction, that sparked true fear in her heart—so much more terrifying than the battle ahead and the monsters they would face. Because the look in his eyes said that he wanted her, too. Not any woman.Her. Perhaps he craved her even more than she did him. Maybe he could even love her.

And love … that was the most terrifying thing imaginable.

Love, and the loss of it, had brought their family to ruin. Father had lost his health and his money. Adair had become consumed in his career. Ceridwen had turned quiet and stopped singing. And Bronwyn … she’d learned not to let anyone else in. She had too many people she loved already. Too many she could lose.

Ceridwen proved that. Her determination to run after the man she loved, to face down darkness and death to save him, showed the danger of love. And hadn’t Bronwyn run after her, determined not to lose someone else she loved to that weakness?

No. She couldn’t open her heart just to have it shredded apart again.

Death faced them. Hers. His. Who would live and who would die, she could not be sure, but the risk was too much. Too terrifying.

And so, she’d leapt off that couch, sprung away from the terrifying creature Malik had been in that moment: not simply Malik but a man who could claw his way into her guarded heart. Who saw her, appreciated her, treasured her. One she could love.

She’d said something—she couldn’t even remember what—and fled to the little room she and Ceridwen shared. She’d slammed the door behind her and slid down its surface, unable to do anything but pull in one breath after another and stare at nothing, reeling from what she’d almost done.

Thank the Goddess she’d run that night. The crown had barely settled on Drystan’s head before Malik had gone back to being the arrogant, flirty prince she’d first met.

She’d been right. If she had let him in, seeing him flirt and carouse with every man and woman in the court would have destroyed her. And she couldn’t allow that. Not then and certainly not now.

The door cracked open, jolting her from her thoughts. She sprang to her feet as it swung inward, pushed open by a footman. And thenhewas there, sauntering into the room like he owned it.

“Prince Alistair,” the footman announced before giving a little bow and departing, shutting the door behind him.

Malik stopped and stared at her. His lips quirked up in one corner, and his gaze coasted along her from head to toe and back up again. “No need to stand on my account.”

A heavy sigh fled Bronwyn’s lips, and she sank back down onto the sofa, warmth racing to her cheeks. She snapped her attention to the table, barely sparing another glance at the new arrival. “A light lunch has been provided for us, and tea,” she said, simply to fill the silence between them.

Though she refused to look at him, Bronwyn was acutely aware of Malik’s every step as he crossed the room, rounded the sofa, and took a seat across from her.

“So it has.” A hint of mischief clung to his words as he reached for the teapot and poured a healthy amount first into her cup, then his. The man had excellent form, and she briefly wondered at the prince’s ability to serve himself, a thing the servants still gave her odd looks for doing.

The cup looked especially fragile in his large hands as he lifted it to his lips and took a sip. “Chamomile. My favorite.” He offered her a rueful grin that formed a little dimple in his cheek. As if they were friends merely having tea and a chat.

Bronwyn frowned. “I did not pick it.”

Malik rolled his shoulder in a shrug, refusing to let her comment dim the mood.

She barely stifled another sigh as she reached for her own cup. “So, we were going to discuss something?” She raised one brow before taking a sip of her tea. Itwasa good blend. Calming and floral.

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