The question was begging at the tip of her tongue. Did he expect her to marry Alphard and create strong Magical bloodlines. Fear of the answer kept her lips closed.
Mal spoke softly, in that intoxicatingly calm way he did. “If I was not the Dread Descendant, if I was not to assume power, what would you do?”
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly.
“Then figure it out,” said Mal. “Because it cannot be me that excludes you from the standards of your blood while I perpetuate them for others.”
The words slammed into her. He may have threatened Primrose for talking down to her, but he had said it plain as day. He expected Purebloods to continue to marry, produce heirs, just as Primrose and the Committee wanted.
And he made no indication that he would stand in the way for her. It was hers to fight. To decide.
He made no alternative suggestion.
His second. That’s what she was.
That night in Albania was for Magical purposes, that much was clear. They hadn’t spent a night together since.
He reached out and ran his thumb along her jawline before they bid one another goodnight.
Maeve didn’t sleep at all.
In the early morning hours she shot up from the bed, clutching her chest. Air moved tightly through her lungs.
Zimsy appeared at once with a light POP.
Maeve rubbed at her chest. The air was squeezing her from the inside. Zimsy grabbed her shoulders just as the pain passed.
Maeve sighed and leaned back, against the pillows, bracing her hands on the bed.
“What was that?” Asked Zimsy.
Her hair was loose. Not in the Elven braids she normally wore intricately weaved across her head and down her back.
“I have no idea,” said Maeve, running her fingers across her chest.
“Could it have anything to do with Alphard Mavros?”
Maeve’s eyes shot to hers.
“Nothing happens in this house the servants don’t know about.”
Maeve groaned and laid back on the bed. Zimsy crossed the footboard to the other side and climbed onto the plush velvet bedding.
“What does he have to do with it?” Asked Maeve.
“I’ve heard stories about your human counterparts having chest pains when they are overwhelmed.”
Maeve frowned. “Human counterparts?”
Zimsy smiled.
“You know you look like a human too,” said Maeve.
Zimsy’s smile dropped. “I most certainly do not.”
She was right, of course. The ethereal glow of the Elven people rivaled that of even the Immortals. Her eyes were larger than theirs, her hair shiny as silk and her body glimmered like moonstone in the right lighting. Her ears were delicately drawn to a tip at the top.
“No,” said Maeve, rolling onto her side. “You most certainly don’t.”
