Chapter 3
“Alphard Mavros,” said a cool voice.
The voice split across Maeve’s mind like a whip, duplicating itself over and over, growing in its intensity until Alphard’s hand took her own subtly at their sides. His right hand formed a fist and pressed into his chest, where a bright red brand of the Dread Mark lay beneath his clothes.
Malachite lowered his head, and Alphard dropped his salute.
“And Maeve Mavros,” said the Prince, turning his attention towards her. “Formerly Sinclair.”
His eyes moved quickly to the black lightning bolt-like lines that danced up her neck, but Maeve didn’t miss it. She was used to the stares of curiosity at her unique markings, but being beneath his gaze felt like an honor.
“I was hoping to steal her for a dance, Alphard,” said Malachite, slipping his black leather gloves off one finger at a time.
Maeve’s stomach flipped.
Alphard took a swig of his drink and didn’t miss a beat. “That’ll save me the trouble.”
Malachite didn’t humor him with a laugh. He merely extended his now ungloved hand to Maeve, his bright green eyes on her. Her eyes lingered on the scar that ran across his eye, splitting his brow.
He was devastatingly dark.
Realizing her stare, she quickly placed her hand in his. She nearly recoiled as a crack of Magic sliced down her throat and settled at her heart.
The Dread Prince’s eyes shot to their hands.
Maeve took a steadying breath as his icy fingers curled beneath hers, trapping her in his grip.
He guided her gracefully onto the ballroom floor, never dropping her hand.
He rounded on her and stopped. She looked up at him, certain by his glance down at her chest, and the small smile of victory that played at the corner of his lips, that he could feel just how unsteady her heart was.
His Magic had calmed since his arrival, like he was keeping it close to himself.
Malachite closed the gap between them. In one step, Maeve instinctively lifted her free hand and allowed him access to her waist. His hand did not settle above her hip as she anticipated.
His slender fingers reached around her fully and pressed against her exposed back, drawing an involuntary inhale through her lips and bringing them closer than necessary for such a formal dance.
He was bold.
His eyes followed her hand as she placed it on his shoulder.
Magic swelled between them. Maeve looked at their joined hands and realized his Magic trickled down her arm in soft waves. The feeling settled into her bones. With a contented exhale, she allowed herself a breath closer to him.
An image slipped across her mind, something dreamlike and impossible, as her thoughts often were.
“Have we danced before?” she asked softly, already certain of the realistic answer.
Malachite’s chest rose and fell, his eyes also on where their hands joined. “No,” he answered simply.
Their heads turned back to one another in synchrony, and he began to move her across the ballroom gracefully, joining those already in their dance.
“Thank you for coming,” he said.
Maeve didn’t move her attention from him. “It’s an honor to be here.”
Malachite chuckled.
More Magic swelled between them. She ignored it, doing everything she could to write it off as his own, overflowing power.
“You sound like your cousin,” he elaborated. “So political.”
Maeve smiled softly. “Given unto us from a young age.”
His gaze slid to her hand that rested on his shoulder. The one stamped with three stars. “Pureblood divinity.”
Maeve’s smile faltered. His eyes returned to hers.
“Are you ashamed of your Father’s house of Magic?”
“No, my Prince,” she replied, feeling the weight of too many eyes on her.
“Then it is your mother’s unknown heritage that haunts you?”
Maeve nodded softly.
“You requested special permission from the crown to visit Earth, correct?”
“I did, yes.”
“Your father is buried there.”
She nodded. “He is, yes.”
“How did he die?”
Maeve swallowed, grateful he continued to send calming Magic through her, intentional or not. “I wasn’t there. My grandmother was with him. His heart gave out.”
Mal’s mouth pulled into a thin line. “Such a strong Magical. A Supreme. The Premier. Taken down by something that plagues Humans.”
Maeve broke their gaze at last and stared straight ahead at his chest. Laughter from a couple near them drifted into her ears.
Malachite spoke softly and gently. “My apologies, Mrs. Mavros.”
She didn’t look back up at him. The song came to a close. They stopped dancing. Light applause filled the room as Maeve prepared to pull away from him and thank him for the dance.
But Malachite’s hold on her remained. She looked up at him. Another song began, and he began moving once more, this time in a much slower waltz. She moved in his arms once more without comment. His interrogation continued.
“Visiting your father’s grave is not why you travel there, though, is it?”
Maeve hesitated. “No. It’s not.”
“So you admit you lied to me?” he asked lowly.
She tensed beneath his grip. “I didn’t know it was to you directly that granted my request, but yes. I lied.”
“What is it you do on Earth, then? No lies this time.”
“I practice Magic I am developing,” she admitted.
His brows raised in a silent command. She continued.
“Memory renewal spells.”
“You are in need of those?”
Maeve didn’t respond right away. She swallowed and glanced across the hall.
Watching as her husband and Roswyn were swarmed by younger Bellator, hanging on their every word, honored to stand among the soldiers closest to the Dread Prince.
His command rang across her mind: no lies this time.
Her voice was soft as she said, “Sometimes I feel like I’ve forgotten large parts of my life.
There are memories I have that feel more like stories.
Discrepancies in them all. I’d like to develop a way to retrieve lost memories.
Humans have memory problems in their older age.
There is a woman in America who allows me to try and unlock her lost memories. ”
If he felt some emotion from her response, he did not show it. “She is aware you are a Witch?”
She looked back up at him. “Most days, we are meeting for the first time. It is rare if she truly remembers me.”
Malachite looked away from her now, observing his party with casual enjoyment.
“If you require something of the Crown, Mrs. Mavros. You need not lie. There is nothing happening in the seven realms that I don’t know about.”
“Forgive me,” said Maeve. “I’ll be more careful in the future.”
He looked back down at her, satisfied. “While we are being so truthful, I am interested in your memory work. I’d like to discuss it with you in a more private setting. Preferably at your earliest convenience.”
“I’ll have to see if I can squeeze you in between rearranging my library for the hundredth time and picking out new drapes with my grandmother Agatha,” she said dryly.
His head cocked to the side. “You sound rather bored with the golden life I created for you in these lands.”
“You’d be bored too if you never got to pick your own drapes.” Maeve sucked in sharply, realizing just how candidly she was speaking to her crowned Prince. “I’m sorry-”
Malachite smirked down at her. “I can assure you the work I have for you will interest you far more than window fabrics. Though I’m certain your son keeps you the most entertained. He appears to be what? Six now?”
Maeve’s smile blossomed, and Malachite’s performative charm faltered.
“Yes,” she answered. “He is my greatest love.”
Malachite’s grip loosened, as his expression returned to that of a Prince.
“That must be wonderful,” was all he said.
Maeve’s smile faltered then. Malachite had no heirs. No companion he shared his secluded and secretive life with.
“I’m told your son only uses one finger to produce Magic.”
Maeve nodded. “It happened once. He struggles to channel even the simplest of Magic most days.”
“Regardless, you understand how incredible that one moment is, I trust?”
Maeve nodded again, softly. “I believe the restoration of Magic is to your credit. He is able to flourish here.”
“You had him here, yes? And not on Earth? Before you were wed?”
“Yes,” she said with a small laugh. “I’m afraid I was carrying him. . .preemptively.”
The Magic pulsing through his fingers retracted, bringing her heart rate back to a racing speed as he withdrew his calming effect.
Maeve’s cheeks flushed at her own admissions.
Such bold things to confess to her Prince.
The song ended, and this time, Malachite let her go.
Her arms fell to her sides, and she took a small step back.
He reached for his pocket, pulling out the black leather gloves he had removed prior to their dance, and began working his long fingers back into the fabric.
“The surname Mavros feels so strange to call you,” he said, his voice detached and plain.
“You’re the crowned Prince,” she replied. “I’m certain you can refer to me however you please.”
“Is that so?” He asked, a hint of playfulness in his tone. His now gloved hands landed behind his back. “What would you have me call you?”
She hesitated. Words she couldn’t find on the tip of her tongue. “Maeve seems sufficient,” she settled on saying.
“I look forward to working with you. . . Maeve.”