Page 39 of The Artist and the Dragon

“But what if he’s innocent?” Malik prodded. “Wouldn’t want to condemn a man simply because you don’t like him.”

She sighed and tucked a stray strand of hair behind one ear. “You’re right, of course.”

“Hmm, yes,” he mused. “Someone has to keep you from murdering men on first meeting.”

This time, he was certain that was a wry grin pulling at her lips. She pushed off the fence and looked up at him, a touch of brightness sparkling in her eyes that had been missing too often of late. “Perhaps I should have run you through with that fireplace poker. Think of all the trouble it would have saved me.”

He’d take a poker through the side right now if it meant she kept looking at him like that. It should have been a horrible first impression, her glaring at him like he was a thief come to rob them—or worse—and she might have to fight him off. But the fierceness in her gaze, the love she’d showed her sister in that moment, had sparked something entirely different in him. Never in his life had anyone stared at him that way. He should have hated it. Been repulsed, or at the very least offended. But instead, he’d been intrigued, and each meeting afterward only beguiled him more until he was trapped in her web and lost to anyone else.

Strangely, she didn’t even seem to be trying to ensnare him. Quite the opposite. Maybe that was the trick of it.

He stepped closer, planting a hand on the fence post beside her. “There’s still time.”

Her breath hitched. She reached for her fan, but his arm was blocking her path. She dropped her hand at once.

The breath held tight in his lungs pushed against his ribs, but he dared not loose it, not when her gaze darted, her cheeks flushed, and she opened her mouth to respond—

The cheering in the stands shifted. High-pitched screams and exclamations pierced the excitement.

All the hope building within him evaporated into a surge of fear and fury. An acrid scent drifted on the breeze.

Bronwyn cut her attention back toward the stands. “What—”

Malik scanned the outbuildings. His pulse pounded in his ears. There, back toward the stands, he caught his first sight of the flames.

“Stay here.” He threw out an arm, urging Bronwyn back toward the fence. Then he was running toward the disaster as fast as his legs would take him.

Chapter 17

Bronwyn

Stayhere?

As if she was some maiden to be coddled. With a huff, she lifted the skirts of her dress and hurried after him. The cheering had died completely; it jarred into a chilling chorus of cries and notes of panic that had become all too familiar.

Not again.

That refrain lived etched in her mind, an echo that was never far from the surface.

Past Malik’s sprinting form, she caught sight of flames licking across the grass near the edge of the stands. They sprang onto the dry wood, climbing with startling urgency. Malik darted past the stables a considerable distance ahead of her. The magic in his blood enhanced some of his senses and abilities, and he used it to advantage now, running far faster than the average human.

Fabric tore as the toe of her boot caught despite her efforts to hold up the hem. “Damnable dress,” Bronwyn swore. Worse was the tightness of her corset, restricting each breath she tried to pull in.

The closer she got, the more horror tightened the invisible band around her throat. Flames consumed one edge of the central stand, turning the wood black with smoke and char. Some of the men beat at the flames with their coats. Others raced with buckets of water, which they hurled onto the worst of the areas with seemingly little effect. People hurried this way and that, some in tears, some coughing from the smoke, some nursing wounds and being seen to by those around them. Here and there, some of the castle guard darted through the crowd. One guardsman spied her and called her name, heading her way. A second followed close behind.

In the middle of it all was Malik, in his shirtsleeves, using his coat to beat at the flames advancing on lower stands, which, from the sound of things, were still being emptied. His white shirt clung to his skin, accentuating his broad shoulders and strong arms. It was the last thing she should be staring at during such a time, but she found it hard to look away.

Mr. Yarwood said to beware of the prince, but he was wrong. He had to be wrong. Malik was trying to stop all this. He wasn’t part of it. Bronwyn skidded to a stop, panting, as the guards reached her. Immediately, they began asking to her welfare, but she urged them away. “I’m fine. Help them!” She gestured toward those battling the fire.

Not far from Malik, another familiar form had shed his coat and was carrying a bucket of water toward the fire. Light caught on Lord Griffith’s red hair, making it a dancing flame of its own. Much like Malik, his shirt was damp with sweat and the water he hauled, sticking to his skin in places.

Her mouth went dry.

Stop it, Bronwyn,she chided herself.

Said man hurled his water at the fire and raced back, but his gaze landed on her and he changed course. “Bronwyn! Thank the Goddess!”

He dropped the bucket. Then he was right in front of her, his hands on her shoulders, holding her in too familiar a way, his gaze searching her for injury. “I returned and you weren’t there.” He shook his head, eyes wide. “Then the fire—Goddess!” he swore again. “Are you all right?”

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