Page 163 of Labyrinthine
The orgasm hits like lightning, arcing through me, leaving nothing untouched. I scream his name, barely aware of anything beyond the pleasure tearing through me. Mallen follows a heartbeat later, roaring my name as he thrusts deep and comes with a force that shakes us both. He collapses against me, chest heaving, arms trembling as he holds me close.
Neither of us speaks for a moment. The only sound is our breathing, the frantic pounding of our hearts slowly easing.
Then Mallen shifts, easing onto his side, never letting me go. He wraps his arms around me as though I might disappear if he loosens his grip.
I curl into him, one hand stroking the back of his neck, the other resting over his heart.
He kisses my temple. “Still good?”
“Better.”
His smile is soft, sleepy. “You terrify me.”
I blink. “What?”
“How much I love you.”
I press a kiss to his collarbone.
“I’d raze kingdoms for you, Azhara.” His voice is quiet. “Burn the world to keep you and tear down every star for you. And you…you could break me with a word.”
I lift my head. “I wouldn’t.”
“But you could.”
“You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”
He closes his eyes and leans into my touch. “I know.”
We lie tangled in each other, breath and skin and heartbeat slipping into rhythm, the afterglow dimming into stillness—quiet and steady.
His thumb rubs lazy circles on my lower back. “I like this.”
“What?”
“You. In my arms. Safe. Whole.”
I smile and tuck my face into his neck. I like it too. And he knows it, without me having to say it. It’s in the way my fingers curl at the nape of his neck, in the warmth burning through my chest when his heartbeat drums against mine. I feel him through the bond—contentment, relief, the soft ache of wonder.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs, voice heavy with emotion. “Always loved.”
And because it’s him, I believe it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Mallen pacesthe length of our chamber, hands clasped behind his back, as if he’s measuring the floorboards for war.
He’s spent the week rooting out those with lingering loyalty to my father with swift and exacting precision. There were few, and they’re already dead. Mallen offered no mercy, no trial. I considered intervening. But the look he gave me—grim and steady—spoke of gangrene that was too far gone for anything but amputation.
He left me the court instead. Alone. My chance to establish myself as ruler not just in title, but in presence. The nobles know my face, but not my strength. My father made sure of that. He spent years whispering poison—calling me weak, touched by death, unfit to rule. They flinch when I enter the hall. They avert their eyes. The few who witnessed me kill him understand now that I am not powerless.
But respect? That will take time.
It isn’t how I want to govern.
But death holds sway over mortals, and, for now, Mallen lets the rumors spread. They say I brought untold darkness into the throne room. That the fire my father rained down burned away everything but me. That the dead listen when I speak. Some say that they obey me.
They say Mallen is the only one who steadies me—that without him, I’d burn too brightly, too wildly. That the gods were wise to demand the Reaping, to force my hand and control me. They say Darian was too perfect, too golden, that I was never meant to be his. That power has always belonged to the ones who the gods deem worthy, and that somehow, I am only worthy because of the man standing beside me.
