Chapter 8
Just a little blood, Maeve, please. Please. Please. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat—
Abraxas’ laughter burst into her ears.
I need it, Maeve, please don’t do this to me—
“Did you hear me?”
Warmth drained from Maeve’s entire body as Abraxas slammed into view. She swallowed hard, digging her nails into her palms as the voice in her head echoed into silence.
“Did you hear the joke, Maeve?” asked Abraxas.
The Ballroom at Castle Morana flickered to life behind him.
He stood with a glass of liquor in his hand and an expression of expectancy.
But Maeve’s eyes were elsewhere. A wave of pain rolled through her head as her eyes remained locked on Mal’s across the hall.
He listened to Roswyn and Mumford with bored interest, his green eyes fixed on her.
She didn’t recall coming to Castle Morana. She didn’t remember getting dressed in formal attire. She didn’t know what the occasion was for a hall full of people. The voice in her head slipped through the cracks, returning as a whisper, growing louder with each word.
“Whoa,” said Alphard, his hand finding the small of her back. “You alright?”
Just a little blood, Maeve, please. Please. Please. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat—
“I just need a minute,” she choked out, turning on her heel and squeezing one eye shut to dull the ache in her head.
“Bring me another brandy, then, will you?” Abraxas shouted after her.
Neither of them followed after her, for which she was grateful. She passed through the hall with her head down, her nails so deeply embedded in her palms that the skin was torn.
She rounded one, two, three corners until she stopped. White light tore at the edge of her vision as she held herself upright against the wall. The firelights flickered in the dark, driving her eyes closed.
Just a little blood, Maeve, please. Please. Please. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat—
She pressed her back against the cold marble wall, desperately searching for something to ground her.
“You seem quite distraught.”
Maeve pushed off the wall and turned sharply in the shadowed corridor. She swallowed quickly as Mal moved into the flickering glow of the firelights.
She fell back against the wall once more, looking away from him, as a roll of pain rippled through her head and down her neck.
“It’s. . . none of your business,” she said at once. Hearing how sharp her voice was, she sighed. “Apologies, I only meant—”
“I know what you meant,” he replied casually. “Your husband’s sister is my personal healer. Perhaps you should pay her a visit.”
Maeve nodded. “Perhaps I should,” she replied, unwilling to tell him Astrea couldn’t offer her any help. Unwilling to admit to him that the medicine she needed was gone.
A small smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “Deception comes so easily for you.”
Maeve’s control of her expression dropped. She didn’t care that he was her Prince as she glared at him.
Mal chuckled lowly. “It was a compliment.”
“Allow me to accept it and take my leave,” she said, feeling a wave of light flickering towards her. The voice grew more desperate with each pass it made through her.
Just a little blood, Maeve, please. Please. Please. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. She’s consuming me completely.
Mal’s chin lifted as his Magic searched her. “You’re in quite a state. Your Magic is completely unstable.”
Maeve took a lengthy inhale. “Why does my state concern you?” she asked breathily.
Mal’s eyes moved down her entire body. The action caused her head to slam back against the wall as that same voice cut across her mind again.
No, not voice.
His voice, she realized at last.
It had been his voice all along. She squeezed her eyes shut, begging his voice in her head to shut up. To stop whispering things she knew not to believe. “You,” she whispered.
“Judging by your expression, I’d say right about now you’re realizing that I’ve been in your head for quite some time. I must say it accelerates my ego that I figured out it was you in my head first. Would you like to see what currently plagues me where you are concerned?”
Maeve shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut even tighter.
“Too bad,” said Mal.
He closed the gap between them faster than she could register and placed both his hands on the side of her temples. She didn’t resist, curiosity getting the best of her as she allowed the memory to play out across her mind.
Her birthday at Sinclair Estates. Before her father’s death. A small party where only a handful of family gathered for dinner. But Mal’s memory did not match her own. He himself sat, one leg crossed over the other, in a large armchair, watching her open gifts as her family drank and conversed.
Maeve pushed back on Mal’s Magic that slid into her mind. With a groan, she flung herself back to the darkened hallway at Castle Morana. Mal did not retreat. His hands hovered over either side of her face.
Maeve didn’t care that he was her ruler, her superior. She felt everything from deceived to toyed with. And so she spoke far more boldly than she should have. “How did you come to this memory, for I know it is not yours. That was my birthday. My party. You were not there.”
She waited for his reply, and when it didn’t come, she pressed him further, her voice demanding and her heart fast. Too fast.
“How did you get this—”
Mal cut her off, his voice deadly calm. “I did not answer the first time.”
Maeve groaned, a mixture of pain and anger, as she pushed off the wall and made to slam her hand into his chest. The corridor tilted slightly as she attempted to push him away. Electric Magic burst from her fingers as she made contact, sending her back into the hard wall.
He pressed another vision forward. And another. Each one was more intimate than the last. Each one showed time that couldn’t possibly have passed, private moments she was certain were lies. His protection. His possession.
His hand in hers at her father’s funeral.
Despite her knees buckling beneath her, Maeve threw up what little energy she had to force the vision away. Mal loomed over her once more in the darkened corridor at Castle Morana.
Just a little blood, Maeve, please. Please. Please!
“Get out, get out, get out,” she cried, gripping the sides of her head as dozens of his words filled her mind. Some tender and some furious.
His fingers pressed against her throat, tracing her dark veins.
“And one more, for good measure,” said Mal, his voice too calm. Too sinister. Too deadly.
With ease, he forced another vision into Maeve’s mind. The darkness around her vanished and was replaced by a hazy morning light.
Mal held Maxius, moments after his birth, in one gently cradled arm, as Maeve remained collapsed against him in the large bed. He continued to hold her tight, sending visible, calming, and healing Magic through his fingertips.
“A boy, Malachite,” said Irma Mavros with pride. “Just as you said. Congratulations.”
Mal didn’t tear his eyes away from the small life in his arm.
“Well done, Astrea,” muttered Irma, giving her daughter, who had delivered Maxius and kept Maeve completely calm, a soft smile.
Mal looked down at Maeve and adjusted himself to press a kiss to her hair.
“My Little Viper,” he praised. “Look what you have given us.”
The vision shattered like glass, falling in a hundred reflective pieces and plunging her into darkness.