Maeve downed the water. Her throat turned dry and her head hit the feathered pillows before she could even complain.
Chapter 47
“Premier Sinclair,” started Mal but was quickly cut off.
“I’ve told you a hundred times, son, call me Ambrose.”
The Premier smiled cooly at him. He saw Maeve in that smile. He relaxed into his chair.
Mal gave him a polite smile back. “May I be candid with you, sir?”
Ambrose puffed on his cigar and laughed. “What have you been so far?”
Mal chuckled softly.
“Firstly,” started Mal, “I am sorry for dinner last week. This is your house. I worry I overstepped my bounds speaking to your Mother in Law in such a way.”
Ambrose puffed on his cigar. “Do you know what delights me?”
Mal raised his brows.
“My daughter being protected.”
Mal’s stomach turned.
He hadn’t seen her in a week. Not since he found out Alphard Mavros was to be her fiancée. Every time he pictured her face, he was on the brink of losing control. The foyer hallway in his flat had taken the brunt of that anger when he returned home that evening.
Maeve had no desire for Alphard. She desired power and glory.
Wealth maybe. . . Vain little thing that she was. And the Mavrosi were the richest Purebloods.
Perhaps that thought alone is what caused his anger to linger.
But that didn’t change the simple fact that he wanted to crush Alphard’s skull with his bare hands at the thought of their engagement.
Ambrose’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “She has always been rebellious, you know? Could never just do as she was told.”
Mal smiled softly in agreement. His eyes traveled to Ambrose’s mantelpiece, where a small photograph of Maeve was framed.
“What did you truly come here for today?” Asked Ambrose.
Mal wasted no time. He set aside the cigar he had only accepted purely to appeal to Ambrose. “What can you tell me about Di Inferi? I came across the term in a banned book, in connection to the underworld. It alluded that centuries ago necromancy was prevalent in the Dread Lands.”
There was a slight twitch in the corner of Ambrose’s mouth. He looked away from Mal and took his time finishing his cigar. Finally, after many long moments, Ambrose looked at Mal with a twinkle in his eye.
“This isn’t a Study conversation. What say you and I visit my basement?”
Mal eyed the tapestry on the far wall. Ambrose saw his gaze and answered before Mal asked.
“Dragonskin. The last Ironclad there was. My great-great-grandfather killed it himself on the Dark Planet. Killed him too.”
Ambrose nodded to the giant dragon skull at the center of the room.
The scales on the dragon skin glittered in the light of the torches that wrapped the hall.
“What do you think of my collection?” Ambrose plopped himself in a black leather armchair and pulled another cigar from his pocket, proudly gesturing around the basement.
“I think it will take me quite a bit of time to read all those books.” Mal smiled charmingly. “And that,” he pointed to a particularly tattered trunk, “one reminded me about a recurring nightmare I had as a child.”
