CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Malice . . . that is your name isn’t it?”

Malice stared into the caverns made by the guttering candles. Yes, it was and bloody dreadful too. But to say so when she needed every ounce of her daring and serenity was not the way forward here. Taking a deep breath and sorting this to her satisfaction was the way forward here.

“Yes, Drottin.”

“Malice, this is an arrangement. If it’s not to your liking, if what you desire is to be a real bed slave . . .”

A real bed slave? Well, what did he think she was sort of trying to be. A Regency coffee pot? Even if she’d sooner swallow a whale, its nephew George, its niece Angela and its Aunt Sally, although she did keep her hand on his waist. This was about coming between him and Snotra after all.

“That’s very nice of you, Drottin, to offer—”

“Not really.” He yawned. “What I’m offering is to sell you on in the morning to someone who will see to it. Ari.”