“Means?” He said quietly, never tearing his eyes away from his father’s body.
Maeve’s heart was kicking. “It’s fear.”
“Fear?” His voice almost sounded sad.
“Synonymous to Dread.”
Mal leaned forward and took his father’s hand in his own. Sitting on his finger was a black stoned ring. Mal’s head turned to one side, examining it.
He slipped the ring off his finger and looked at it closely.
“You’ve known,” said Mal, without turning towards her.
Maeve’s breath caught. His tone was laced with danger. The image of Valeria snapped to her mind.
Mal stood and looked down at his family, slipping the ring inside his pocket. “Is that why you wanted to get close to me?” He asked.
Maeve scoffed, insulted at his misplaced anger. “You are remembering things quite incorrectly.”
Malachite turned towards her, his face drained of all color and set in stone.
“I suspected,” relented Maeve under his intense stare.
He set towards her; she gasped as his face was suddenly close to hers. She stepped backwards, but he continued his pursuit.
“And you never thought it prudent to share your suspicions with me?”
Mal pressed her against the wall, pinning each shoulder beneath his hands. The small set of paintings behind her slammed to the floor. Maeve jumped as the glass shattered beneath them.
“You never felt it?” Retorted Maeve. “You never thought there was a chance-”
“Of course I thought there was a chance,” seethed Mal. “I have always known I was something bigger.”
“Good,” snapped Maeve. She swallowed hard and her voice grew quiet. “Good. Because you are something bigger. You are the true Dread Descendant.”
He didn’t speak again until his breathing returned to his normal pace. His eyes darted around her, studying her face. His expression was lost.
“How is that possible?”
“The line will be lost,” recited Maeve. “There is magic in his viens. It just lies dormant.”
“Was,” corrected Mal quietly.
She nodded.
“I killed them,” he said. He said it as though it was just occurring to him.
He looked up at the portrait of Artemis Orion. His cheeks slowly turned a light shade of pink. His eyes glassed over. His hands flexed at his sides.
He walked past her out the open doors off the back of the manor. He sucked in a sharp breath. Maeve took a few steadying breaths and followed him. He stood with his back to her, hands clutching the railing of the terrace. His knuckles white.
Maeve stepped to his side. “The one to free your golden blood will come when the Dread line is restored.”
“Sacred blood.” Mal didn’t look at her.
Maeve gently reached up and wiped the tears that slipped from his eyes and wet his cheeks, forcing him to face her. “Mal,” she whispered, feeling her own tears forming. “You were sent to save me.”
He cupped the back of her head and pulled her close. She brushed her fingers through his hair as his other arm snaked around her waist.
