Chrysabelle knew that was what Mal had wanted to tell her. The very idea both elated her and made her want to shove her sacre through him. Not anywhere fatal, just someplace it would leave a mark. Why would he want to tell her such a thing like that at a time like this? She was about to have molten gold stitched into her flesh in a ritual that required her to be as calm and centered as possible. And he loved her. Holy mother, it was hard not to punch him. Or kiss him again. If that wasn’t what he’d meant to tell her… She’d just not think about that now. Or anything else. Instead she knocked on Atticus’s door. Thankfully, he answered without making her wait too long. “Good evening, Chrysabelle. And you’ve brought Malkolm with you.” His soft smile faltered. “You want him present?” “No. Yes. Maybe. Is that a problem?” Making him watch would be a great punishment. Especially if she squeezed his hands until she broke every bone in them. “It’s unorthodox to say the least, but as we are not under the strictest of circumstances, I believe an exception can be made.”
