Page 160 of Labyrinthine
I lean into him, every muscle aching, every thought unraveling now that it’s over. He senses it, I think. He always does. His arms go around me, lifting me without effort, and I don’t resist. My head finds the curve of his shoulder. My body folds into his without shame, without reservation.
We move through the halls like that, slow and silent. Soldiers bow their heads, clearing the way. He doesn’t pause. Just holds me tighter.
I don’t remember reaching my rooms. Our rooms now. Only the warmth of the bath, the scent of herbs, the way he washes me like I’m too precious to let go. A different kind of darkness takes me—softer than sleep, deeper than rest—and I sink into it, lulled by the hush of his hands and the heat of the water. No dreams. Just the slow release of fear I’ve held too long.
When I wake, I’m cradled against his chest, limbs tangled beneath soft blankets. His fingers trace the curve of my jaw, tender and rhythmic, like he never stopped touching me even while I slept.
“You’re awake,” he whispers.
I look up at him. His face is bruised, shadowed by exhaustion, but still—somehow—radiant.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” I say.
He closes his eyes like the words hurt. “Don’t apologize. Just…don’t disappear on me again.”
“I couldn’t stop.”
“I know.” He exhales slowly, brushing that rebellious strand of hair behind my ear. “I should be furious. It was reckless, selfish—all of it, and more. But all I saw was you, riding into fire, and I’ve never loved you more.”
I blink hard. “I was dying. Then you were there.”
“You’re never alone. Not while I breathe.”
A silence falls, heavy with all we can’t yet say. His hand finds mine beneath the blanket, weaving our fingers together.
“You’re hurt,” I say softly, noticing the stiff way he moves.
He shrugs. “Not enough to make a difference.”
I trace the line of a bruise on his ribs. “It matters to me.”
He catches my hand, bringing it to his lips. “And you to me.”
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe we both do. But suddenly our lips meet—not with hunger, but with the slow, reverent ache of two people who nearly lost everything. There’s no need to rush. No need to prove anything.
When he eases me back onto the pillows, it’s with the gentleness of an artist handling a masterpiece that might yet evade perfection.
His touch is careful, reverent. His kisses are soft and lingering, more comfort than passion, though the heat simmersbeneath. When he brushes his thumb over my collarbone, it’s not to take—it’s to remind me I’m still here. Still whole.
I let myself be seen.
And Mallen—gods, Mallen never looks away.
When I flinch, his hands still. “Too much?”
“No,” I breathe. “Just...slow.”
He smiles. Not wicked. Not haunted by jealousy. Just a flicker full of relief and worship. Of devotion. He leans down, resting his forehead against mine.
“I love you,” he says.
No demand. No expectation. Just a truth.
I press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Then stay. Like this.”
“Always.”
Desire stirs again—slow, insistent—as Mallen’s mouth trails heat along my neck. His breath ghosts over my skin, and I shiver, caught between need and a more fragile want. His lips find the hollow beneath my jaw, where he lingers, pressing soft, tender kisses that make my breath hitch.
