Wrong. Not possible. “Think harder, Astrea,” he urged.
The command of Magic struck her brutally. She gasped, her eyes widening. “I misspoke,” she breathed, confusion on her tongue. “It’s been three years.”
Three years.
Three fucking years.
“But,” Astrea began, working her way through whatever lie Mal had just destroyed in her mind. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Mal ignored her revelation. It wasn’t Astrea’s confessions he longed for.
“Why did she stop taking her potions?” he asked, misleading her to divulge more information as her puzzled expression remained.
Astrea shook her head. “She hates taking them. She has, in the past, refused them for a day or two, but never gone without like this. Not since the first time she had such a breakdown over Maxius.”
“When was that?”
“About two years ago.”
“And what happened a year ago?”
Astrea stumbled over her words for a moment, then said with clarity, “She was in pain, said something sharp was splitting across her mind. She could barely move. When I finally got the pain under control, she was able to speak. She kept crying, saying she’d made a mistake. That Maxius would never forgive her. She was hysterical and inconsolable.”
“What did you do then?”
“I did all I could think of. I knocked her out with a sleeping potion and then figured out how to calm her mind from the things she was seeing. She was miserable for over a month while I did everything I could to calm her.”
Maxius.
He’d seen only a fragment of the boy’s birth surface in his mind, what he’d shared with Maeve moments ago. The thought had lingered since then, the possibility of what he saw. The boy was never alone, not truly. If he wasn’t being guarded by Maeve or Alphard, it was the Elven girl who watched over him.
Zimsy. Mal remembered her in bits. She was once Maeve’s servant on Earth. That had clearly changed. Still, she’d not stand in hisway if he wanted to take the boy himself, to see what lingered in his young mind.
But Maeve. . .
Her Magic swarmed Maxius like a blanket of metal. He hadn’t even been able to lay a hand on him at Christmas. His fingers touched electric steel as he tried to brush the boy’s face.
“It’ll be weeks before more potions are ready for her,” said Astrea as her hands hovered over Maeve’s body, checking her.
“She won’t be taking those anymore.”
Effortlessly, his Pathokenis abilities took hold of his healer. Astrea’s hands stilled. She glanced up at him. With a nod, her only reply was. “Yes, my Prince.”
At least his gift worked on his healer. He looked down at Maeve, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, and wondered how the woman before him was immune to his sway. Each time he had tried to manipulate and affect Maeve in such a way, he failed.
Little Viper. He remembered he’d called her that once. Was that her title in his Court? Or something else entirely? Regardless, she harbored secrets. She kept the chains in his mind intact, and he was going to shatter them all.
He’d never loved taking by force. Being given had come to be much more satisfying. He craved her submission. Her willingness. He’d take it all from her if he had to, but just like his war with the Elven Lands, he enjoyed a little play.
If it meant she’d glare at him again, he’d thoroughly enjoy watching her squirm.
“What happens when she wakes? I have no idea if she’ll be out of her mind or. . .”
Mal anticipated Maeve’s anger. Even now, as his Magic felt for hers, he knew he was awakening something catastrophic. Perhaps that’s why she called to him so persistently. He had to know just what had been buried. Andwhy.
Mal’s fingers moved towards her, slow and steady. His index finger traced the underside of her jaw with meticulous memorization.
“That won’t concern you from here on,” he replied. “Though before I relinquish Maeve from your care, I have one last thing I need you to do.”
