Page 70 of The Maleficent Faerie
“He was weak and vulnerable the day I met him, when his magic ran out. I had a knife to his throat. I could have ended him then. You and Fitzell both saw us in that clearing, so you know I’m telling the truth. And truth be told, I am less inclined to kill him now, after everything.”
We exchange a long look, and then Andras ruffles up his brown hair with his fingers and says, “Shit. All right,” and continues down the hall. We take a left turn, then follow another corridor to a pair of heavy doors which stand open.
The Void King lies naked on the bed, his horned head nested in pillows, his wings spread out beneath him. His eyes are sealed shut, and his skin still bears that awful shade of gray—the mark of a Fae injured beyond his own powers of healing.
A tall Fae with milky eyes, feathery antennae, and pale moth wings bends over him, murmuring a spell and waving smoky incense through the air. The Fae casts me and Andras a rebuking look, but they don’t cease the healing chant or make any further objection to our presence.
Andras points me to a comfortable chair, and I sit down. I’m suddenly, heavily aware of my own exhaustion. I’m not sure how I stayed on my feet as long as I did. Despite my sturdy leggings, the insides of my thighs are chafed from the long ride, and every joint in my body is sore. I’m still earth-stained from when Reehan pinned me under his body, and from when the King shielded me. I smell like horse, and sweat, and the bitter afterburn of magic.
I am broken, and the last time I felt whole was with Malec. In his arms I was safe, and that makes no sense, yet it’s irresistibly true.
When Andras leaves to fetch food and drink, I slide out of the chair and crawl toward the bed, unable to resist the pull any longer. I need to be near Malec, touching him.
The tall healer raises their eyebrows, still chanting, as I kneel by the bed and push one of my dirt-stained hands across the covers toward Malec’s limply curled fingers.
I slide my fingertips across his palm, then grip his hand in mine.
A tremor runs through his body, and he sighs. The healer looks at me, surprised, and nods encouragement as they keep chanting.
Just holding his hand centers me, settles me. It’s a foolish response, weak, pathetic—I’m an idiot, an imbecile—
No.
No, I’m not weak for caring about someone, nor pathetic for wanting support. I’m not a fool for taking what I need, and giving back in return.
I won’t say those things to myself again. I will allow myself the freedom of needing more than this man’s lust, of craving more than his body.
I wanthim. All of him.
“Fuck you,” I whisper. Lifting his hand to my mouth, I place soft kisses on each of his knuckles.
The Void King’s chest rises with a deeper breath, and he moans.
“Keep doing that,” says the healer hastily, before picking up the chant again. “He’s responding to you.”
I kiss Malec’s knuckles once more. I press my lips to the back of his hand, then the inside of his wrist. The gray drains from his face, his natural pallor returning.
The healer ceases the chant and tips a bottle against Malec’s lips. When he swallows, the moth Fae sighs with relief. “He will recover within the hour.”
“Thank the goddess,” I breathe.
The healer looks at me quizzically. “You are the Princess of Caennith, are you not?”
“So it would seem.”
“Yet you—and he—” They raise an eyebrow, jerking their head toward the King.
Panic stirs inside me—the terror of my weakness being perceived. I have to stifle the urge to react with caustic words, or with violence. “Yes. He and I.”
“Well now.” The Fae’s antennae twitch. “Who would have thought?”
“Certainly not me,” I mutter.
“It’s fortunate Andras brought you in here. His Majesty was blocking me somehow, holding Void magic in place within his body. He was protecting himself. Your touch eased him and allowed my healing power to pass through.”
Tears pool in my eyes. “Are you sure?”
“I felt it happening.”
