Page 56 of The Artist and the Dragon

She was a better actor than him. Far, far better. Enviably so.

His pulse still beat in his ears, his breath came unevenly, and his cock was so hard there would be no hiding it if anyone were to catch him. His excitement was not helped by his racing thoughts or the memory of the kiss on his lips playing through his mind over and over again, so bold it was hard to consider anything else, even the man in the hall.

Bloody bastard. Malik nails dug into his palms. He really did hate him.

Bronwyn strode to the threshold, pausing just outside the door. “Phillip?”

He nearly punched the wall. Were they so familiar now? Had she kissed him, too? Damn it all, if she had played him—

Malik shut the thought down immediately. He knew her kiss was genuine. It was the realest thing in his life, and no amount of jealousy would taint that memory.

Through the thin crack where the door hinged to the wall, Malik saw Lord Griffith turn with wide eyes on the woman he sought. “Bronwyn!” He hurried to her in three long strides. “What were you doing in the study?”

“I needed a moment to collect myself. I hope you don’t mind. I’d actually thought to hide for a moment in the water closet, but it was in use.”

“Hide in the water closet?” He screwed up his face in bemusement.

“Well, it is private.” She glanced away in an attempt to be demure.

“You do appear flushed.” He touched the back of his hand to her cheek.

The simple touch made Malik’s jealousy surge again. He’d been right all along: now that he knew Bronwyn had feelings for him, being with another, or seeing her doing the same, was unbearable. Yet here they were, trapped in a painful web of their own making, at least for a little while longer.

“You haven’t taken ill, have you?” Griffith asked. “We could have a seat here in the study.”

“Oh, no,” she replied, almost a little too quickly. “I’m feeling much better now, thank you.” She looped her arm through his and angled them back down the hallway. “Perhaps you could see me back to the party?”

“Of course. If you’re sure.”

Malik lost sight of them as they moved past the doorway and back toward the drawing room. He’d need to find his way there, too. It was unlikely his absence would go unnoticed for too long, if it hadn’t already been accounted for.

Calming his body took more time than he would have liked, but thoughts of Bronwyn’s sorrow if they failed to save Ceridwen was enough to do it. After he slipped out into the hall, Malik opened the water closet door, careful not to make a sound. Then, he made a show of closing it with a bang loud enough to be heard by anyone around the bend.

When he sauntered back around the corner, the footman waiting outside the drawing room didn’t give away that anything was amiss. And if he later gossiped that the prince of Castamar took a long time in the toilet? Well, that was fine with Malik.

Charming smile in place, he reentered the room. Some of the ladies near the doorway looked his way, as they might at anyone, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary. A few men mingled with the women now, their game of cards seemingly forgotten. Lord Griffith was among them, Bronwyn at his side.

What he wouldn’t give to be in that man’s shoes…

He scanned the room. When his gaze passed over the little painting on the mantel, he did a double take. The last bit of warmth from Bronwyn’s kiss fled.

It was hard to tell from his position, but he’d swear it looked different.

The sight tugged him across the room, and the nearer he drew, the more the fine hairs on the back of his neck rose.

A black smudge covered much of the moon’s reflection on the water of the painting. He halted a few feet away and turned to pan the crowd once more. Someone here was either a dark magic user or was in possession of an artifact imbued with it.

“Malik?” The lithe figure of Lady Siân stepped in front of him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Damn.He had let his mask drop. “Not at all.” He grinned. “I just thought I might grab a drink.” He signaled a footman with a tray, who hurried over and poured him a glass of whiskey.

Truly, he hoped the pause might dissuade her from lingering, but she remained, staring at him like he hung the moon. He wrestled back a sigh, took a long sip, and said, “Shall we converse with our host?”

He wasn’t ready to let Bronwyn out of his sights, not after what they had shared and not with a dragon in their midst, quite plausibly the one they sought. Either she had not noticed the painting yet, or she hid it well.

For too many agonizing minutes, their conversation with Griffith and his friends centered on useless topics. Concentrating was almost impossible with Bronwyn a few feet away. All he seemed to notice was the bit of escaped brown hair curled around her ear, or the slight flush that still lingered on her cheeks. Occasionally, she would glance at him, then quickly away, that flush deepening. It almost made him laugh, and he had to cover the slip with a hefty drink of whiskey. The kiss had affected her, maybe more than anything he’d ever done, and he relished that, terrible timing and all.

While the women talked, he tried to remember where everyone had been sitting when Lord Griffith opened the portrait. The spell should have reacted quickly once exposed. It had been white when it was opened, and when it was passed around to a few others, , or he thought so.

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