Mal observed the various plants and shrubs growing in the unusually warm space.
“Between Zimsy and Agatha, there’s hardly enough room for everything they grow,” said Maeve.
“Magic keeps them alive?”
Maeve shook her head. “Agatha enchanted the room to maintain the proper temperature, but they take care of the plants themselves.” Maeve ran her fingers over a large, green leaf. “But I’m certain you aren’t here to discuss gardening.”
When she looked over at him, his gloves were gone. He stepped farther into the atrium until he stood before a large hydrangea bush her grandmother had brought from Earth. His long fingers brushed against one of the blooms. His voice was smooth as silk as he spoke, not looking at her.
“Was there anything you discovered after my last visit?”
Maeve swallowed. “I’m sorry. No.”
“No?” he asked, a brow raising as his eyes landed on her. He turned towards her fully. “This will be so much easier if you are honest with me.”
Maeve chewed the inside of her lip, suddenly nervous under his impatient eyes.
“It seems like you already know the answer you seek,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
Mal crossed towards her, each step relaxed and unhurried. Maeve held her head high.
“I seek your cooperation, not your deception.”
She held perfectly still as his fingers moved towards her chest. They curled around the fabric of her shirt gently, pulling it aside with reverence, revealing the white starburst scar that sat over her heart.
His eyes fixed on her skin. “What is this from—” he began, his cold fingers brushing over the scar.
His question halted, his voice catching in his throat as she winced.
Her vision flashed white. The image that appeared in her mind flooded her blood with an overwhelming sense of panic. She sat on dark, silken sheets, completely naked, looking up at Mal withflushed cheeks and worship in her eyes. He kneeled before her with a single finger pressed against her chest. His toned and exposed stomach glimmered in the darkness.
The vision melted away as quickly as it had formed. Mal stood before her in the atrium once more. She slapped a hand over her mouth as her eyes widened. She looked up at him at once, and it was clear Mal had seen the same scene she had.
“That’s not real,” whispered Maeve beneath her hand, twisting away from him. “That was my uncle’s flat in London—” she rambled.
“The Hapswitch House.”
Maeve turned back towards him and shook her head. “Why would you know anything of that place?”
“Welcome to my mind, Maeve,” he said cooly.
Maeve’s breaths were quick. The thick, humid air stung with each jagged inhale. She’d never been more desperate to down one of Astrea’s potions, to soften the thoughts all talking over one another in her mind.
“Do you not feel it?”
Maeve looked over at him. His gaze was distant.
He continued in her silence. “Do you not feel the extraordinary signature your Magic holds?
“Could that be the future? What we saw?”
“No,” he answered plainly. “There’s no scar over my eye in what we both just witnessed.”
“Then perhaps it’s not real at all,” said Maeve.
Mal looked over at her. “That’s quite a jump just to rationalize the thoughts you are having. Tell me honestly that didn’t feel real to you. And remember when you answer, that I am your sworn Prince.”
“I don’t have the luxury of believing what I see in my mind.”
