Page 47 of The Artist and the Dragon

Malik chuckled. “So very demure.”

“You think I’m demure?” she asked skeptically before finishing off the remaining piece.

“I think you pretend to be sometimes. That you want others to think you are.” He advanced, stopping so close his legs nearly brushed hers and she had to crane her neck to look at him. “But no. I don’t think you’re demure at all, and I hope you stay that way.”

The compliment made her stomach flip. Her chest was suddenly tight and warm. She grabbed the bag of pastries. “Please.” She offered them to him. “You purchased them, after all. It would be a shame to miss out.”

“A shame indeed.” He reached forward—

But not for the bag.

Bronwyn pulled in a sharp breath. Her back went ramrod straight.

Malik’s thumb swiped across her lips, coming away with a small smear of blackberry jam that she must have missed. He brought that thumb to his mouth and licked … slowly. All the while, his focus never left her face, nor could she manage to look away.

It was the single most arousing and unsettling thing she’d ever experienced.

“You’re right.” He closed his eyes as if in pleasure. When he opened them a moment later, they were hooded and filled with mischief that stunned her to the core. “Delicious.”

“I…”

Bronwyn’s body felt like it might ignite. Goddess above, he’d…

The bag nearly fell from her limp fingers. She took hold of herself just in time and set it back on the table. “I meant from the bag,” she mumbled.

When he continued to stare at her like a wolf about to pounce, she turned back to her art. It was the only thing she could think to do in answer to the inner voice telling her to run far, far away.

“That’s a lovely little painting.” Malik stepped nearer, so close now that she could feel the warmth of him behind her—or maybe she was imagining it, her emotions continuing to run wild.

“Yes, thank you. I’m quite pleased with it.”

“I don’t think I bespelled that one, though, did I? A side project?”

“Somewhat.” She’d decided on it late yesterday afternoon and hadn’t yet had the chance to ask him to bespell it, though she’d planned to. At least, she thought so. It was hard to think at all, to remember what color she’d even planned to use next, with him so close. “It’s a gift for Lord Griffith.”

The warmth behind her vanished. The hint of a subtle breeze touched her skin. So sudden was the change that she looked back over her shoulder.

Malik stood a few feet away, now wearing a scowl that could rival one of her own.

“What?” she asked, genuinely bemused. “He invited me to a party at his home later this week. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary to give a gift to the host, and I thought you could enchant it so that we can see if anyone at the party might be a suspect. Like Lord Osric.” She frowned and quickly amended, “If he attends.” Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately in this case, she had a feeling he would.

“Oh.” Malik looked toward the window. Though the curtains were tied back, the panes were old, grainy, and hard to see much through.

“I thought it was a good idea.”

He glanced back at her. “You’re right, it is.”

“But?” It still felt like a belt was tight around her middle, but the sensation was different than moments before, almost like she had made a misstep and was falling, though she couldn’t for the life of her understand where she’d gone wrong.

Malik shook his head quickly and grinned again, but something about the action looked off. “But nothing. It’s a grand plan. I wish I’d thought of it myself.” He all but ignored her as he drew near, gaze fixed on the painting. “Were you thinking I should work the spell on the moon? Or one of the swans? It might be a little tight, but I could probably make it happen. Though I wish you’d asked me to work the spell beforehand as with the others.”

Bronwyn blinked at him. He was still rambling about the painting, and Malik never rambled. “Malik?”

“Or I could maybe see about doing something in the light reflecting off the water. A blood stain would be easier to cover with black if the spell doesn’t hold. Or we could—”

“Malik!”

When he turned to face her, he suddenly seemed so much closer, especially bending over to inspect the painting as he was. Their faces were only inches apart, and a whiff of his slightly musky and woodsy scent cloaked the delightful smell of the pastries and the less delicious but familiar one of paint.

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