Her father’s blood pooling on the marbled floor.
“Look at me.”
She shook her head, still buried in her knees. At the disobedience, a whip of Magic pierced her mind, the shock ringing through her whole body. Her head shot up, back slamming into the wall behind her as she looked up at him.
Her head throbbed. Her body took the blow like a full-force curse filled with malice. Sweat pooled at her forehead and neck, between her breasts. She nearly toppled sideways.
The pain of Mal’s Magic was entirely different without her own. Exaggerated and so, so deadly.
“Still so rebellious,” he murmured. “I doubt that will last long, judging by how that small act of defiance seemed to affect you.”
How had Zimsy ever survived this feeling? Had Zimsy even survived Mal?
She held his gaze, hot tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.
“Pathetic,” he said dryly.
Such uncaring cruelty from the lips that had once promised her nothing but affection pushed tears from her eyes. He was lost to her. She pushed down on the guilt that it was her fault.
Shadow’s possession was so paramount within him, she could barely sense anything of the Mal she’d once shared a life with. Created life with.
Mal’s hand reached forward and pressed against her temple with not an ounce of tenderness. “Incredible,” he said, though it was far from a compliment. “Those shields in your mind are even stronger.”
His hand withdrew, and he remained crouched before her.
“Give me the spell,” he commanded.
Maeve’s jaw tightened and her eyes squeezed shut, anticipating a long blow as a result of her disobedience. But it never came. That oppressive chain in her mind lay still. She waited another moment and slowly looked back up at Mal.
He nearly rolled his eyes. “You are infuriating.”
Mal stood and stepped away from her. “Where is Maxius?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, truthfully and without hesitation.
No whip of Magic bore down upon her.
“Then I guess we’ll find him together.”
She remembered it then, that thread of warm Magic she’d begged to take Maxius. To keep him safe. It was there, barely burning, like the edge of a wet leaf struggling to maintain a fire.
Her mouth fell open as she remembered him fully.
Reeve.
Too many thoughts. Too many colliding thoughts.
“Come,” said Mal, extending his gloved hand for her. “My right hand is needed.”
His right hand?
“How am I to be your right hand if my Magic is gone?” she asked, taking his hand at once, fear of another shattering blow sharpening her reflexes.
Mal’s frown remained as he pulled her to her feet and steadied her with his Magic. It formed around her like a second skin and did not lift. “You have an eternity with me, Maeve,” he said. “I plan to make it count.”
The words rang true, like another piece of the puzzle that her mind had forgotten.
“An eternity?” she questioned.
