I shoved his hand away, already feeling the pull of his unnatural gravity.
“How does one heal from such a loss?” My voice trembled with fury, my fists curling at my sides. “My child died because Balthazar assaulted me. You think I can ever recover from that?”
I took another step back, desperate to shake his influence, spell, and suffocating presence.
“Why are you asking me these questions?” My breath came in ragged beats. “What do you want?”
Malik stilled.
His expression turned to stone and steel, something unreadable, unshakable.
Then, he moved.
Slowly. Stalking.
Circling me.
A predator with infinite patience.
“Are you saying,” he mused, “you could have healed yourself?” His voice slid around me like a chain tightening around my throat.
“That no assistance was required?”
He blurred.
One moment in front of me.
Then, behind me.
Then back again.
The effect was dizzying. Disorienting.
“Why did you come here, hmmm?” His voice snaked through my mind, a whisper of liquid silk wrapping around my thoughts before I could bat it away.
I pivoted, trying to track him and trying to anchor myself.
“I came for the journal,” I said, my voice clear, though my head felt weightless. “You have Alina’s journal—and I need it.”
He appeared behind me, his breath ghosting along my ear.
“You came here because you think I can defeat Balthazar.”
His words were too close, too warm, seeping beneath my skin.
I nearly swayed back into him.
Nearly.
But I caught myself, stiffening, locking my body in place.
“I can help you defeat him,” Malik murmured, his voice like a promise dipped in darkness.
“You mustn’t be afraid of me.”
“Who says I’m scared?” I challenged, my eyes drifting closed, drinking in—damn me, savoring—his effect on me.
A soft laugh followed.
