Page 87 of The Artist and the Dragon

She shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

“And if I do?”

A disappointed huff fled her lips. “I didn’t think you so shallow.”

“No, not like that,” he said at once, truly affronted. “No change in your appearance could affect how I feel. But you got this mark because I did not save you in time. It’s my failure.”

“It is not.” She jerked her arm back against her chest. “It … it shows that I did something. Or I tried to. I want to remember that.”

His features softened. “Like the one on your wrist?”

It had been on this same sofa, in the same room, just months earlier. She swallowed, remembering that night and cursing herself for being such a scared fool. If she’d kissed him then, how differently might things have gone? “Yes. Like that one,” she said, her voice gone thick and husky.

“Then, as my lady requests, I shall leave it.” He inclined his head in a mocking gallant bow.

Bronwyn sighed and rolled her eyes, but a smile crept to her lips all the same. “Just heal yourself already.”

And so, he did. Bronwyn unwound the tight, bloody cloth from Malik’s arm, managing not to get sick despite the viciousness of the wound. Still, she couldn’t quite look at it as he applied the cream, but she heard him sigh and knew something was working. There was enough blood still present for him to work a spell; a few minutes later, the wound had sealed shut and vanished as if it had never been.

“Satisfied?” Malik held the arm out to her.

She nodded, but her mind was full of a thousand questions that had sprung up in the short time he’d worked his spell. One shouted louder than all the rest. “Why me?” she asked, trusting he knew what she meant. “I’m no one special. Not really.” The sister of a queen, now, but that spoke to her sister’s greatness, not hers. She was just a woman from the countryside. A talented artist, she’d give herself that, but no great beauty, and certainly not a charmer. The opposite, really.

“You are special.” Malik took her hand in his larger one. “To me.”

“Malik…”

She tried to pull away, but he held her firm. “Let me tell you a story.”

Fine.She sighed and nodded.

A weak smile formed, then vanished as he began, “I told you about how visiting the opera house and seeing the plays there saved me. They gave me something to look forward to in my life.”

“Yes.” She would never forget that night, all that they’d shared in the carriage ride. When she’d arrived at Lord Griffith’s party, the world had been one way; by the time she went to bed that night, it had been irrevocably turned inside out—changed into something she could hardly imagine but loved even more than the world she’d left.

“Well, that was the first step on my path to falling in love with the arts and becoming Wynni’s favorite patron, as she likes to call me. Drystan … Drystan was already on the path toward darkness then. One of my father’s loyal would-be dragons. Such a mockery of the honorable beast of old,” he spat. “We were not close as we had been in our youth. My father favored him, which only made me loathe him for a long time. With Mother gone, I had no one else. Art, especially the theatre, was my only source of joy.”

To be so alone…Her heart ached for him, and she found herself scooting closer, closing the narrow distance between them until she leaned against his side.

“Far too early in life, I learned to avoid my father, to placate him, rather than stand up to him. If I did that, I could continue to pursue life’s pleasures. And, oh, how I sampled them.” He grimaced. “Sorry as I am to admit that at times. But none of those pleasures fulfilled me, especially not when I needed them. Except, perhaps, the arts. Most people—then and now—see me as a prince, a title. But when I watch a play, hear a song, or see a painting, I’m an observer like any other. My title doesn’t matter, nor the magic in my blood. I’m simply human. Nothing special.”

“But you are—”

The sad smile on his face stopped her cold. “I didn’t want to be.”

Her brows drew together, but he continued before she could ask more. “And then one day, a certain woman looked at me not like a prince but a pest.”

The shame of it had her shoulders hunching. If she’d known who he was, truly … well, she might have treated him the same way, if she’d had the courage.

Somehow, the memory sparked mirth in his eyes. “I’ll admit, I was curious. Intrigued. The more I saw, the more I wanted to know. During those days at the opera house, I was able to get a glimpse of the real woman within. I wanted her to look at me. To see me, the real me. I wanted to receive even a fraction of the love and dedication you showed Ceridwen. And then…” His thumb traced over the scar on her wrist. “You offered me your blood. Such absolute trust.” He raised her wrist to his lips and placed a kiss over that scar.

Bronwyn squirmed and glanced away. “I wanted to be helpful.”

He tipped her chin back toward him. “Is that all?”

The knowing look in his eyes had her insides melting. “No.” The confession was breathless. “Though I don’t know what else I wanted, really.”

Such a lie. She’d lied to herself over and over about that night. She’d wanted him. Even then. Even knowingwhohe was but not really knowing him yet, the man beyond the title. Danger clung to him; arrogance, but also mirth and humor. He was everything she wanted to be but didn’t feel capable of becoming. She might be capable now, but not then. Part of it was unexplainable, the way his soul called to hers. They should never have been possible, a prince and a commoner. Yet, deep down, that knowledge hadn’t stopped the yearning.

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