No one else has fucked you, Maeve, because you know they’d never be crawling through your skin like I am.
No one else had touched her when those words were said. The venom in his voice as she begged it to play again and again in her mind was just as intoxicating as the words themselves.
The implications.
She hadn’t even realized her fingers touched down on the Dread Ring until her head shot back, her eyes rolling with it. Consequence be dammed, she gripped the ring fully, sliding it onto her finger with a breathy exhale. It fit perfectly. Maeve smiled at the triumph. Wicked thoughts flooded her mind. She couldn’t tell where surfacing memories ended, and where new ideas began. It didn’t matter; they were all centered around one singular desire: Mal’s body with hers.
A bright green glow interrupted her fantasy. The cabinet with hundreds of blank pieces of parchment illuminated the study with heavenly green light. She crossed back towards it, and this time, the cabinet opened for her.
Black ink filled each sheet in hasty script, until the words they held were fully visible to her.
She hadn’t even made it through all of the papers, all of the endless scrolls of parchment, when Mal stood before her in the darkened study, silent, and not questioning why she was seated behind his desk.
The Dread Ring remained on her finger.
He ran an exhausted hand across his face. He was thinner. His skin was pale. So pale the deep purples of his veins were stark against his skin, exposed by his rolled back sleeves. Beneath his eyes were shadows.
“You shouldn’t be here,” was all he said.
“What are these?” she asked without hesitation.
He stopped and surveyed her. His expression changed. He crossed the space between them and didn’t touch the stack of letters piled on the desk.
“You went through my things?”
She could feel the tether on his temper go taut.
“There are no dates,” she continued, ignoring his question. “Only endless ramblings and paragraphs of years’ worth of writings. Years of you apologizing to me. Years of your regrets listed again and again.”
“Maeve—”
His voice was nothing but a warning. She didn’t heed it.
She picked up one of the letters and read it aloud. “‘If you will not save Maeve, deliver her from this darkness. It is I who cannot be saved. It is I who cannot be saved’.” She set it aside and read another one. “‘Something that is buried deep in one who is not mine calls to me. She breathes across the room and my pulse rushes’.” Maeve looked up at him. “What is it that haunts you? Even now, I feel its ever-present gaze.”
Mal’s voice shook with breaking control, “Maeve, stop—”
Maeve ignored him, continuing to read his entry. “‘Dark hair, blazing blue eyes. Skin, smooth and warm. The darkness has her eyes, but she is cold and her hair is white’.” Maeve slammed the paper down and looked up at him. “You know more than you have told me.”
“I do,” he seethed, that temper a breath away from shattering.
“Then why are you keeping me in the dark?”
Mal drew the breath in, and shatter it did.
“Because we both know it wasyouwho did this!”
Maeve swallowed. Mal continued.
“And I have yet to determine if you did it with my consent or not.”
Maeve fell still, suddenly aware of the dangerous Magic pressing down on her.
“Why didn’t you tell me from the start?” she offered softly.
“There is Magic holding my tongue, and you are lucky it allows me to speak to you at all.”
“That Magic I felt here before? The darkness you refer to in these writings? The one that caused your eyes to burn green and your skin to—”
