Page 114 of The Artist and the Dragon

“Does it not? It did for your father. Might made you a prince. Could have made you a king, if you’d wanted it.”

But he didn’t. He never had. His father’s lust for power had spoiled any desire Malik could ever have for it. In truth, he wanted nothing more than a quiet life with those he loved, but fate seemed determined to deny him that at every opportunity, snatching away those close to him until he was lost, adrift.

And then he’d foundher. Malik’s gaze settled on Bronwyn. While Lord Griffith was rambling about his destiny and losing his focus, she was sharpening hers. The dagger near her neck had dipped. Griffith didn’t notice the subtle way she adjusted her body.

Don’t,he yearned to tell her.It’s too risky.

The magic coursing through his blood would aid his speed, but it would aid Griffith’s as well. Bronwyn was at a stark disadvantage no matter her cunning and bravery. Whether Griffith’s father had been a royal bastard or a noble one, he passed that blood, and all the power it entailed, to his son.

Bronwyn swallowed and shook her head ever so slightly. Malik knew that resolute look in her eyes. Her fierce stubbornness. Damn it all, if he could not dissuade her, then he had to help her.

“So, you truly were the one who coordinated the accidents over the past months. Killing innocents. Striking fear into the hearts of the masses,” Malik said in an effort to keep the man talking, to draw his focus away from the woman at his side.

“Do you still doubt?” Genuine incredulity rang in his voice.

“I doubt only your aim. You thought, what, that you could scare the nobility into supporting you?”

Bronwyn leaned into Lord Griffith as if seeking comfort at his side. He hated the sight.Hatedit. Yet he couldn’t deny that the act seemed to affect the other man. The blade he held lowered another inch. The arm around her flexed and slid lower—the posture a lover might take. One that left Bronwyn free to move her arms.

“If their king could not keep them safe, then of course.” The calmness of the lord’s voice, his utter conviction, was as unsettling as the quiet manor. “The nobility are fickle. Surely, you know that. They will follow whomever sits on the throne and promises them an easy life. And the commons will follow their lead, as they always do. In fact, I planned to continue many of the works the new queen started to aid them. The people would love me for it, they already love me for merely being a patron of those works.”

Griffith’s arrogance alone threw the edge of Malik’s temper off balance. Oh, he’d enjoy slaying this dragon. And from the way Bronwyn’s features had gone hard, how her fingers bent like claws ready to rake across the man’s face, she would, too. Never, ever should a man take credit for the genius of a woman, and to do so to one as celebrated as Ceridwen wasn’t merely evil, it was idiotic.

Malik snapped, “You really think the country would follow a monster who murders and harms to get what he wants?”

A slow and satisfied grin spread across Lord Griffith’s face. “They followed your father, didn’t they? For years.” Thunder rumbled outside, as if to punctuate the statement.

Damn it all.Malik’s squeezed the handle of his blade painfully tight. Much as he hated it, it was true, though many people never knew the true depravity of his father. But there had been hints. Suggestions. People had not been completely oblivious, even if they pretended to be to avoid his wrath. Malik was guilty of that himself. That unspoken knowledge was probably why there had been such a smooth transition after Drystan killed him. Well, save for the dragons and their accidents. Had King Rhion been beloved, there would have been outrage. However, most had seemed relieved. There was no explaining that to this bastard, though.

Perhaps Griffith should have been King Rhion’s son. They were like enough.

And that lone thought, annoying and difficult as it was, made all Griffith’s claims suddenly very real. This man was just like Rhion, playing the jovial and proper noble on the outside while harboring a heart of darkness and selfish ambition.

How the fuck had he not realized it sooner?

“People follow the crown,” Lord Griffith continued, oblivious. “They care little whose head it sits on so long as he has the right blood, and I do. One of their own, plucked from obscurity and raised to his rightful place on the throne. Can you imagine it?” He raised his eyes to the ceiling, a dreamy, far-off look on his face.

That was the moment Bronwyn struck. She grabbed his hand with both of hers. Twisted. Shoved.

Lord Griffith howled as the blade sank into his thigh.

Bronwyn scrambled to her feet, and Malik raced across the room toward her.

What followed happened in the span of a heartbeat, but time had slowed painfully, as if taunting Malik for not being quicker despite the impossible speed with which he moved. He watched in horror as Lord Griffith latched on to Bronwyn’s arm before she could get away. With a roar of fury, he flung her to the side, sending her tumbling into a table that gave way with a sickening crack.

She lay motionless in a pile of shattered wood. Without conscious thought, Malik changed course, landing in a crouch by her side. He touched her neck, and upon finding her pulse, finally released the breath he’d been holding since the moment she struck.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Malik?”

Thank the Goddess. But they weren’t out of danger yet. Far from it.

“Get to safety. Hide. Drystan is coming.” Malik didn’t wait to see if she understood before rising to his feet and turning toward their enemy in one fluid motion.

Lord Griffith had pulled the dagger from his leg and clutched it in one hand. The other hand was covered in blood. But beneath that sheen of red was something worse—his fingers darkened; his nails elongated and sharpened.

Fuck.

He should have known the man was a monster. And the feral gleam in his eyes as he looked at Malik said he was in control of it. Had probably been looking forward to this moment, too.

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