Page 41 of The Artist and the Dragon

No. No!Her whole body seemed to hollow out. She darted forward, sprinting as fast as she could. “Malik!”

He turned toward her, mouth slightly parted, eyes widening. She whipped her whole arm toward the danger looming above him.

Groaning wood sounded overhead. Gasps rang out from those around, a startled yell. There was no time to explain, to pause. He’d barely begun to look up.

With a cry, she slammed hard into his chest. A deep grunt escaped him. Then his arms were around her, holding her close as they tumbled backward.

The impact knocked the air from her lungs and whacked her head against his strong jaw.

The beam landed with a heavy thud and a sickening crunch. Someone screamed.

It had all happened in seconds that stretched like minutes. Then, suddenly, time snapped back to normal. The hard male chest under her head issued a groan.

Bronwyn tried to push up, but he still held her close. “Malik.” His name was a breathy whisper as she gazed down at him.

Malik’s closed eyes popped open. His chest rose and fell as he stared up at her. Strong palms slid up and down her body, one planting on her hip and pinning her there. “You saved me.” Desperate emotion sparked in his emerald-green eyes.

Suddenly, she was all too aware of the body beneath hers—his solid chest, powerful thighs, and devilishly handsome face. Heat raced to her cheeks. “Of course.”

Bronwyn did her best to squirm out of his grasp and rise. When she glanced at the fallen beam, charred but still thick and mostly whole, her heart plummeted straight to her feet. A man was trapped under the heavy beam, and he howled in pain, his leg bent at an unnatural angle. Others were already there, trying to lift it and help him.

He’d been out to enjoy the races and likely stayed to help when the fire started. Now look at him. An injury like that could affect him forever. And how many others were hurt equally as badly?

Malik had just regained his feet when she turned to him. “Can you do something?” She looked between him and the man. “Please?”

The moment Malik’s features paled and his shoulders dropped, she wanted to cry. To scream at the injustice.

Everyone knew that the royals and some nobility had power beyond common people. Greater strength, heightened senses, and the ability to wield the Goddess-given gift of magic. But the how, the method of it, the spells they worked and the blood they used, was a carefully guarded secret, one cloaked in shadow. The injured man was a commoner. She could tell from his clothes. By the rules of magic the nobility followed, they didn’t share the practice of their magic with those who did not already know it.

There was a reason for such censorship. Drystan had once told her that if everyone knew about the blood, they’d certainly fear magic wielders more than they did. Worse, they might think blood sacrifice could grant them powers, too, which could lead to all sorts of horrible atrocities. And then, of course, there was the fear of bastard children, of what people who thought they had no magic could do if they learned it ran in their bloodline from a forbidden tryst.

Bronwyn thought differently. Why hoard the magic and limit to certain families? Why not let magic spread as it willed?

She supposed that was the danger of power. Once people had it, they never wanted to give it up. They’d fight, plot, scheme, and plan to make sure that never happened.

“Please,” Bronwyn heard herself utter. She swallowed thickly and dropped her voice even lower. “There’s already plenty of blood.”

He wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t. Not in front of so many. But she had to try. Malik had ignored the rules before. He’d used magic in front of her—healed her. Would he do it again for another? For someone he likely did not even know?

Then the strangest thing happened. Malik gave a short, curt nod.

Bronwyn blinked at him in stunned silence. He turned to the nearby guards, who, in the meantime, had managed to remove the beam from the man’s leg. “Find the culprit! Keep searching.”

As they rushed off to comply, Malik knelt before the man. Someone had already torn the leg of his pants trying to inspect the grisly wound. The man’s leg was mangled, the bone snapped and protruding. Bronwyn gasped and hurriedly averted her eyes, but still she came near, attention firmly fixed on Malik lest she see the broken leg again and faint.

“I’m going to help you,” Malik told the man in a steady voice.

“M-My prince?” he muttered.

“This will hurt, but it will help.”

Bronwyn hazarded a quick glance, just enough to see Malik’s fingers tracing subtle patterns on the man’s leg.

“Don’t look. Focus only on me.”

Those nearby were too busy rushing for help or comforting the injured man to focus much on the prince’s hands.

Blood. Shape. Intention.

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