Page 88 of The Artist and the Dragon

He huffed and grinned but didn’t push her on it. The more time she spent around him, the surer she was that he could pluck every thought from her head if he wanted to, though there was no magic she knew of that could allow someone to do that.

“And when I lay injured,” he continued, “you stood at my side.”

More like sat.She bit her lip, cheeks flaming.

“You could have run. Hidden. But you stayed. You fought in your own way. You were courageous. Strong. Brave.”

She glanced away. “I’m not—”

Malik cupped her cheek, tipping her face back toward him. “You were, and you are. I knew then that I wanted you at my side, not just for that moment but in all the days to come.”

Her eyes flew wide. “Even then…”

He nodded. “I realized it fully after my father was defeated. My vengeance was complete. I should have been satisfied, but I was not, because I had something I wanted more than that, more than any play, or party, or title.” He held her face in both hands, leaning in until his breath ghosted across her lips. “I wanted you. I still do.” His lips brushed hers. “I always will.”

The press of his lips against hers was slow and tender, so much so that the gentleness of it threatened to break her. It was reverent, holy, the way one might worship the Goddess. And though she could never compare herself to a deity, he almost made her believe she was one in that moment. Incomparable. Beloved. And she worshiped him in return, clutching at his shirt in fear that he might disappear or she might open her eyes to find he was some dream. But the strong arms wrapped around her were very real, as was the warm, musky scent that enveloped her. One by one, he pulled the pins from her hair, and it tumbled in waves down her back. Malik kissed her like they had all the time in the world, and only when her head was thoroughly buzzing did he pull back.

“I wanted you, too,” she admitted once she caught her breath. “But I was terrified.” During their kiss, he’d half pulled her into his lap even as they sat facing each other on the sofa. “Letting someone in gives them the chance to hurt you, and I never wanted to feel that. I didn’t want to be broken the way my father was after Mother died. But I realized something this evening.”

“Only this evening?” He grinned.

She shoved him back onto the cushions and climbed fully into his lap. A deep groan tore from his lips as she settled on him, all too aware of the bulge in his pants that pressed up against her most intimate area. “When you think you might die, you cannot lie to yourself anymore.”

That sobered him. Even so, he grabbed her hips, holding her in place atop him. “What did you realize?”

Bronwyn pulled in a shuddering breath as his hands slid up and down her sides in a slow rhythm. “I realized that it would be far worse to never tell you how I feel, to never truly be yours, than to savor every moment we could have together, even knowing that they might be our last. I would rather have you and lose you than have never had you at all.”

“I am yours,” he promised.

Not fully, not yet. And the words got stuck when she tried to voice what she really wanted, so she simply said, “I want everything, Malik. All of you.”

His grip on her hips tightened, and he pulled her snug against his erection, eliciting a gasp from her. He understood. He understood completely. “I may ruin you for other men,” he teased.

But the look in his eyes said they both knew there would be no others.

“Then ruin me.”

Chapter 37

Bronwyn

MalikliftedBronwyninhis arms in one fell swoop and carried her to his bedchamber. His strength, even after his injuries and the events of the night, was astonishing. But then, the discovery of her art and his confession had long since burned away any hint of tiredness she felt, so perhaps it was the same for him.

He laid her upon the bed with reverence before letting his gaze travel slowly down her form and back up again. Then, he grabbed a fistful of the skirt of her pink dress. “Now, what shall we do about this monstrosity?”

The description was far too accurate, especially now that it was stained with blood, likely not all of it hers.

“Rip it. Shred it. I don’t care.”

“Oh?” The hint of a smirk rose to his lips again. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

“You know I hate pink.” That was only part of it though. Blood stains marred the cloth, and even if they didn’t, she wouldn’t be able to wear it again without remembering the opera disaster. She slid off the bed and offered him her back. Tugging her hair forward, she said, “A little help?”

A soft gasp slipped from her as he placed a light kiss at the top of her spine. Leave it to Malik to be slow when she desperately wanted him to hurry. “Why wear it, then?”

With a frustrated sigh, she replied, “It was Wynni’s idea. I’d planned to wear blue, but she said pink would be the best color for that particular opera, though I have no idea why.”

“I suppose we’ll have to ask one day.” He stepped back, and the sudden loss of his warmth left her bereft.

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