Wicked Beauty (Wicked Evermore #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Mal stood at the edge of her garden, her dark eyes scanning the shadows for the disturbance that had dragged her from sleep.

Something was wrong—something pressed on the horizon, in the direction of the castle.

It pushed against her thoughts like a dream that refused to fade, or perhaps a nightmare with tendrils that clawed at her mind, desperate to take hold once in the waking hours.

She inhaled deeply. The heady scent of night-blooming jasmine filled her lungs. Its sweetness was overwhelming—cloying, almost suffocating. Beneath the saccharine aroma lay a sharp bitterness, faint but undeniable, leaving a trace of regret on her tongue.

Mal knelt, her claw-tipped fingers sinking into the rich earth. The fertile soil mirrored the color of her skin, deep and brown like the essence of life itself. The feel of the dirt grounded her, even as unease stirred within her chest.

A sound broke the stillness—a faint rustle.

She lifted her gaze to the sight of a proud stag standing at the edge of the clearing.

Its intricate antlers arched like the branches of an ancient oak, powerful and imposing, daring anything to challenge it.

The stag's dark eyes locked with hers, its breath visible in the cool air between them.

Mal raised her head, the movement slow and deliberate.

Her black horns curved upward in elegant spirals.

As the full might of her presence became visible, the stag faltered.

Its muscles twitched. Its hoof stamped once as tension rippled through the air.

Then, with a sharp exhalation, it turned and cantered away, vanishing into the trees.

She watched it go, a frown tugging at her lips. Clearly the stag didn't know who she was, otherwise it wouldn't have run. It would have bowed low enough to the earth that its dark nose grazed her feet.

It took only three years for a deer to grow into its maturity. Three years for antlers like that to form. Three years for a stag's antlers to arch like the boughs of an ancient tree.

Had it been three years?

The forest beyond her small cottage stirred with life.

Trees groaned as they shifted in the evening breeze.

Leaves unfurled, and night-blooming flowers opened their petals, whispering secrets to the stars.

A sharp cry of prey falling to a predator's hunger echoed through the canopy before dissolving into the soft hum of night insects.

A new day was dawning. The sun's rays picked their way over Mal's roof before quickly moving on. Mal's home sat at the Enchanted Forest’s border, deliberately removed from the cluster of cottages deeper within. Their roofs, thatched with moss and woven leaves, could be seen in the distance, clustered like a family huddled around a fire. Laughter drifted from that direction, faint but persistent—a reminder that others found solace in one another’s company. Solace Mal had long since given up on.

Three years?

An elf and a sprite strolled along the forest path, their fingers entwined in affection.

The tall, lithe elf carried themself with a graceful ease.

Pastel eyeshadow adorned their lids, the soft hues catching the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees.

Beside them, the smaller sprite walked with a confident, grounded stride.

Their compact, muscular frame exuded a quiet strength.

Their curving silhouette was balanced by delicate, shimmering wings, each flutter casting iridescent glimmers onto the mossy ground like fleeting stars.

Quiet laughter floated between them, light and intimate, carrying an air of unshakable trust and shared joy.

"Good morning, Guardian," trilled the sprite.

The elf's colorful brows rose at the sight of Mal. The elf shushed their love, putting themself between the sprite and Mal. "Beg pardon, Guardian."

Mal forced her expression into something cold and unmoved, as if it didn’t matter. She’d perfected this—watching without wanting, listening without longing.

After all, she told herself, it was easier to be alone. Safer. Loneliness was predictable. You couldn't miss what you never let in. And Mal hadn't let anyone in for three years.

She watched the elf steer the sprite around an unsteady bit of earth.

Once out of the path of danger, they pressed a kiss to the sprite’s forehead.

The gesture tried to stir up memories inside Mal.

But it couldn't get past the jagged thing inside her to get at the memories she pretended she’d buried long ago.

The ache spread through her chest. Mal welcomed it. It was an old wound she’d learned to live with. The ache was proof that she was still standing. That the walls she’d built around herself hadn’t crumbled—not yet.

Better to be alone, she reminded herself. Better to carry the ache of solitude than risk the agony of opening her heart again. His absence had taught her that. Love was a cruel teacher, and she wasn’t eager to relearn the lesson.

It had been three years.

She had barely noticed a single day go by since she'd last seen him.

She ran her hand along the rough bark of an oak tree, feeling the patterns beneath her fingertips.

The forest reached out to her, asking for her guidance, for her leadership, for her protection.

It was in the rustling of leaves, the faint glow of will-o'-the-wisps bobbing over the underbrush. But no matter how much magic lived within these woods, it couldn’t fill the ache where his presence used to be.

A sharp tap-tap of wood on stone broke through the ambient noise. Mal didn’t turn. She knew the steady rhythm of Doran’s staff as well as she knew her own name. The elder dryad approached slowly. The weight of his expectations settled on her shoulders before he even spoke.

“You can’t keep hiding here, Maleficent.”

“You can see me. I’m not hiding.”

Doran came closer, his ancient bark-skin crinkling as he studied her with quiet patience. “You are the Guardian of the Enchanted Forest. You weren’t meant to live apart like this. The forest needs you.”

“The forest is doing just fine without me.”

“The forest is not fine. Ever since…"

Mal pressed her fingers to her temple. She saw Doran's mouth move, but his words were garbled. The collection of consonant and vowel sounds he made pricked at her mind like a needle. Of course they did. Anytime anyone said his name, it caused her heart, her head, her very being pain.

Then Doran said another name. A name full of soft vowels and rolling Rs that Mal heard quite clearly. That three-syllable collection of sounds pained her in an entirely different way.

"… It is your duty to Princess Aurora as the forest's representative."

Mal made a growling sound like the monster humans thought she was. Her lips curled, and her canines flashed as though she could taste the red blood of that snowy white princess on her tongue.

"The balance between humankind and forest folk is breaking, Maleficent. Your mother—"

“I am not my mother.”

Unlike the stag or the sprites or fairies or even the humans of old, Doran was not afraid of her.

He let the tempest of her words roll over him like a breeze through the leaves of his hair.

“You are her daughter. Morwyn left Guardianship of the forests to you.

As well as the flora, fauna, and folk who dwell here. "

Mal opened her mouth to reply, to deny it, to damn them all to hell—but a sudden flicker of movement caught her eye.

A youngling darted through the trees. The child didn’t see that crumbling bit of ground the sprite and elf had skirted.

It was hidden by roots and shadows, its edges slick from the recent rain.

The child would fall, perhaps even fall through the cracks with that small, viny body of theirs. Without thinking, Mal moved.

She sprinted toward the child, her bare feet barely skimming the earth. Magic surged under her skin. She reached out with a flick of her wrist. Roots twisted and shot from the ground like serpents, weaving themselves into a net just as the youngling stumbled and fell.

The child let out a startled yelp as they tumbled into the cradle of roots. Mal skidded to her knees, pulling the child to safety just before the ground gave way beneath them.

Wide-eyed and trembling, the youngling clung to Mal, throwing small arms around Mal's neck in a desperate hug. The warmth of the child’s embrace seeped into Mal. For a heartbeat, she hovered on the edge of something dangerous—connection.

Her hands flattened on the child’s back. Her fingers settled and claws extended. Mal shoved the child away. “You need to be more careful."

"We were playing storm the castle." Though the child was small, her voice was booming and bright. "I'm the princess."

"Learn this lesson well, child; no prince is coming to save you."

"Of course not," huffed the child, coming to stand on her own two feet.

"I was coming to rescue the other princesses.

" She pointed to two small girls on the opposite side of the clearing.

The young tykes had sharpened twigs in the belts over their tunics.

"They're my friends. They would've come for me if I fell. "

The child patted Mal's forearm as though to comfort her.

Mal stood stiffly, brushing dirt from her hands as the youngling scurried away to rejoin her friends.

The warmth of the child's embrace lingered on Mal's skin. She gave a shiver at the unwelcome sensation. The feeling clung stubbornly, like a ghost she couldn’t shake.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Doran watching her. He said nothing. The look on his face was enough. He had seen everything—her instinct to protect, the spark of care she tried so hard to smother.

Without a word, Mal turned on her heel and strode back toward her cottage. The door slammed shut behind her. A sharp sting broke through her thoughts. She hissed softly and looked down at her hand.

There it was again—a scar. She had the vague memory of a needle pricking her fingertip some time ago. She'd wrapped the wound in a bandage, but it constantly throbbed as though a splinter were stuck there.

She rubbed at the spot absently, feeling the ache pulse from her fingertip all the way to her chest. The old wound never stopped hurting.

It was a constant reminder of everything she’d lost. Though now the pain felt sharper, more immediate—like the universe itself was driving the point deeper into her soul.

Like the dream that woke her and brought her to the door was looming over her, ready to turn dark.

Mal's hand drifted to her chest. Her fingers curled over the hollow ache she pretended didn’t exist. It had been three years since she lost Phillip.

Three years since she had let anyone get close enough to matter.

And for three years, she had told herself that loneliness was better than loss.

But for the briefest of moments, when she'd held the child in her arms, she hadn’t felt lonely.

And that scared her more than anything.