And I felt that now. Sick. Wanting to look away. But just like that night with Poppy, I made myself see what was before me. Something else that had become unrecognizable.
My brother.
What I felt was nothing like that night with Poppy when I had been choking on shame. I felt a brief burst of relief to see that he was alive, but that was quickly snuffed out. Now, there was only anger, and it crowded out any chance for denial to take root.
“Motherfucker,” I growled.
Malik smiled. It wasn’t a smile I knew. Wasn’t real. “Yeah…” His arms fell to his sides.
Several long moments passed. We just stared at each other. I didn’t know what the hell he saw. Didn’t care.
“You look well for someone who’s been held captive for a century,” I bit out.
Malik did look well. The light brown, shoulder-length hair was longer than I remembered him wearing it but clean. It even fucking shone in the candlelight. There was no gaunt paleness to his golden-bronze skin. No dullness to his amber eyes. The cut of his cloak was fine, the material sable in color and clearly tailored to the width of his shoulders. Closer now, I saw that he was thinner, but while Malik was a handful of inches taller than me, I’d always been broader.
“Can’t say the same about you,” he replied.
“Suppose not.”
He fell silent again. Just stood there, his expression unreadable. Poppy’s ability to read emotions would’ve come in handy. Unless he’d put shields up. Had he known to do so when we met in Oak Ambler? There had been no time to learn if she had picked up anything from him. To know if he was as empty on the inside as he appeared.
“Is that all you have to say to me?” Malik asked finally.
A dry, wracking laugh shook my shoulders. “There’s a lot I want to say.”
“Then say it.” Malik came forward, brushing aside his cloak as he knelt. The shafts of his leather boots were remarkably clean. They’d never been spotless before, always splattered with mud or covered with pieces of straw he inevitably tracked from the stables through the palace. He stared at my wrapped hand. “I’m not going to stop you.”
My lip curled. “I haven’t earned your visit. So, what did you do to earn it, brother?”
“I did nothing, Cas.”
“Bullshit.”
His gaze flicked up from my hand. That mockery of a smile returned, hinting at the one dimple in his left cheek. “I’m not supposed to be here.”
There was a moment, a quick one, where hope took form. Just like that Handmaiden had said, Malik was never where he was supposed to be. Growing up, we had to hunt him down when it came to our lessons, something that had become sort of a game for Kieran and me. We’d made wagers on who would find Malik first. Come suppertime, he was always late, usually because he’d been fucking with the food or drink—or simply fucking. On more than one occasion, I’d heard our mother telling Kirha that she had a feeling she would become a grandmother while still Queen. She’d been wrong, much to the surprise of all. Even me.
But hope fizzled out. His inability to be where he shouldn’t be wasn’t a sign that my brother, the one I knew and loved, was still in this shell of a man. It was evidence of something else entirely.
“You and the bitch that close now?” The band at my throat tightened. I forced my body to relax against the wall. “That you don’t worry about being punished?”
The divot in his cheek disappeared. “What I do and don’t worry about doesn’t change that we’re still brothers.”
“It changes everything.”
Malik went quiet again, his gaze lowering. Another long moment stretched between us, and gods, he looked like my brother. Sounded like him. I’d spent decades fearing I’d never see him again. And here he was—yet wasn’t.
“What did she do to you?” I asked.
The skin around his mouth pulled taut. “Let me see your hand.”
“Fuck off.”
“You’re starting to hurt my feelings.”
“What part of fuck off gives you the impression that I’m worried about your feelings?”
Malik chuckled, and the sound was familiar. “Man, you have changed.” He grabbed my left wrist, and I started to pull away, as pointless an endeavor as that was in my current state. His eyes narrowed. “Don’t be a brat.”
“Haven’t been one of them in a long time.”
“Doubtful,” he murmured, beginning to unwrap my hand. His fingers were warm and callused. I wondered if he still handled a sword, and if Isbeth would allow that. He uncovered the wound, letting the bandage slip to the stone. “Fuck.”