“You heard the little prophet,” she muttered, a mocking tone in her voice. “They’ll be one again.”
“The holy three,” said Mal, his mind running over Emerie’s prophecy, “joining as one.”
Shadow’s cold lips trailed along his shoulder. The weight of her was crushing, as it had been since the moment she chained herself to his Magic.
“Holy three,” he muttered, his fingers still tracing his crown.
He stood, putting distance between himself and the woman at his back. Forgetting the new prophecy and placing his crown on its stand, he reached for his robe, desiring at least the illusion of warmth.
Or maybe to prevent Shadow’s lips from assaulting his skin further. Her skin was nothing like Maeve’s. It didn’t heat where he kissed. It didn’t blush where his fingers traced.
Shadow groaned and lay back on the bed. The sound was like that of an animal. “How many times am I going to have to rid your mind of this brat?”
Mal stilled.
“It’s becoming tedious,” continued Shadow, staring up at the ceiling. “Maybe I should just let the pair of you break the spell, and you can see for yourself what a traitorous snake she is.”
Mal did not move towards her. Shadow’s blue eyes landed on him. She grinned, delighted. “Poor little Dread King. So lost between two deceivers.”
Mal was on her in a blink, a mist of black Magic in his wake as he Obscured on top of her. His hand pressed into her throat, a warning.
“Leave her out of this.”
“How can I when you intend to fight for sweet Maxius to remain close?”
Mal’s jaw tightened.
Shadow reached up, brushing his hair from his face.
“I don’t care if Maxius inherits the throne. The crown,” she said, taking his hand from her throat and placing it on her flat stomach. “I just want your blood, Dread blood, in my children.”
“More than one?” asked Mal, his dead eyes locked on where she held his hand in place.
“I’ll create as many little Dreaded ones as you give me, my King.”
Mal looked back up at her. “Why? If you don’t intend to see them rule?”
She smiled, but her eyes hardened. She sighed and dropped his hand. Mal pushed off her, his head dizzy, as she moved across the room without making a sound or leaving a single trace of Magic. Her voice was no longer coated in sweetness. “I’ve told you before, my motives aren’t really relevant to you.” Another sigh. “I hate when you’re so ungrateful. I have given you so much, and promised so much more.”
“And when do you propose we move on Earth?” he asked as a wave of her Magic crashed over him, muddling his thoughts. He struggled to remain upright and could have sworn he heard a distant laugh.
“Earth is not next, young King,” she replied.
Mal glared up at her. “Then what is? The Dark Planet is nothing to rule. It’s a barren wasteland.”
She turned back to him, her long white hair swishing at her waist. “I’m going to tell you the truth about your dear Little Viper, now, Malachite. And all the things she, and that wretched Immortal, have taken from you.”
Mal’s eyes remained devoid of any hint of feeling, but his mouth turned down at the second mention of Maeve. “Immortal?” he questioned, no idea who she referred to.
Shadow nodded. “He gave me the very name you call me,” she said, a satisfied and toothy smile creeping across her pale face. “And soon your Little Viper will remember him, too. And then she will remember the vow she made with me.”
Mal’s scowl deepened. Oh, how he regretted Shadow’s existence. Her chokehold and her attention. “Why would she have made any arrangement with you?”
“Because she,” said Shadow, stepping back towards him and taking his face in one hand, “does not love you.” Magic stiffened through him, slowing his breathing and rinsing his mind in rushing cold water. “Does she?”
His eyes closed, succumbing to the deadly thrum of Shadow’s power. “No. She does not.”
Shadow’s grip tightened fractionally, all-consuming numbness spreading from her fingers like vines. “Do you love her?”
