“Yes! That duel!”
This brought a genuine smile to Maeve’s face. But as quickly as it arrived, it vanished when he continued speaking.
“You looked beautiful.”
Maeve scoffed and couldn’t help but shake her head.
“Were you impressed with the duel itself?” Asked Maeve.
“Oh yes,” said Xander flippantly. “I was hoping to see some of that rumored mind work. . .” He said it like he didn’t believe she could do it. He came to a stop at the gate as it opened for him, taking a step towards her. “But you looked so-”
“Beautiful yeah, you said,” sighed Maeve coldly. “Goodnight, Xander.”
She turned on her heel without waiting for a response and returned to the house. Hey may have been an Elven Prince, but he was a shallow one. She couldn’t bring herself to play the game. It only took her a moment to find Mal sitting in the study. He spoke first, not looking at her.
“Where did you get off to?”
“Just doing us all a favor, apparently.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all it would ever be.”
The silence between them was thick. Mal wasn’t reading the book in his hands. He stared straight at the wall. Maeve studied him for a moment before asking where Ophelia was.
“He is going to pursue you,” said Mal, ignoring her question. “Lithandrian sent him for that reason. You for her army.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “And the world looking at us would love to see that happen, wouldn’t they?”
It wasn’t a question, but a statement.
Maeve knew it was taking all his strength not to explode right there.
“Well, it depends on who you mean by ‘they’,” replied Maeve. “The Double O- oh yes. My father- completely torn over his political duties and my own happiness. The Elven Royals, obviously my blood status is the appeal. The common Magicals would eat up such an affair, yes. My mother- through the moon for one of her own to marry someone so powerful, only I’m sure she wishes it wasn’t me. Part of her whole campaign for my unhappiness, I suspect.”
Mal didn’t laugh at her joke. “And you?”
She sighed, impatient now, frustrated with how the entire evening had gone.
“Goodnight, Mal. You are welcome to see yourself out.” She paused, needing a moment to muster the courage for what she was about to say. “My bedroom fireplace will be open to you tonight, should you really need an answer to that question.”
She walked away without waiting to even gauge his reaction. She began climbing to the third floor as the last few guests were stumbling their way down to the foyer.
“Goodnight, Maeve!” January Johnson hiccuped.
“Safe travels,” replied Maeve weakly.
Once inside her bedroom, she locked the door with a wave of her wrist. It wouldn’t be the first time a drunken guest had stumbled in mistakenly, looking for a bathroom or a closet. She walked into her bathroom and began undressing. The oversized, circular tub was already filled with hot water and what appeared to be lavender, as bright purple bubbles were escaping the edges. Zimsy’s doing. Maeve thanked her audibly. The bubbles turned pink.
With a soft snap of her fingers, her hair was down, and she ran her fingers through it, massaging, frustrated. As the hot bath water hit her skin, her mind drifted.
It drifted deep into the memory of Mal’s hands on her, inside her. The feeling of their bodies pressed together, all the while knowing they shouldn’t, had been an intoxicating thrill.
But it had been weeks since that night in Albania. He had not pulled her close that way since.
Perhaps it was no more than a spell for him. A necessary duty to repair the Finder’s Stone. Maeve didn’t want to admit the pang in her heart at the thought. But it remained all the same.
Ophelia had his attention all night.
They didn’t dance. He didn’t kiss her before any of the guests. Abraxas was right. They had to do whatever it took to get Mal on that throne. Whatever it took to restore the Dread Lands.
