Page 26 of Labyrinthine
I glance at Darian. He’s draped in the chair like this is a lovers’ quarrel and not a political war.
“He’s protective,” I say. “And rarely wrong.”
“I wonder if that makes two of you,” Darian murmurs, and his smile turns strange—softer than I expect.
I’m more off balance than ever. I glance at Mallen, looking for reassurance. He’s too busy talking to my father. So I speak and let the lie come easily—we’ve woven its threads with just enough truth to make it gleam. The story unspools. The woods and the thieves. The kidnapping. The too-quiet shadow from Moonrise.
Darian listens with one brow raised, half-amused, half-intrigued.
Everything I say is a deception. Lies, polished and practiced, thread through truth so seamlessly they cannot be untangled.
Darian’s hand brushes mine—barely a touch. I freeze but let it linger. His voice drops. “You should have told me sooner.”
“Why?”
His fingers glide around the rim of his goblet. “Because I could have helped.”
“It’s a bit late to stop?—”
“I meant tonight, Princess.”
There’s a flicker of something different in his voice now. A gentler note, almost rueful.
“Between the pageant and the politics, I haven’t made it easier for you.”
His voice is quiet now, no trace of mockery.
I don’t answer. Just breathe in and out. The candlelight flickers. The dancers pirouette in their jeweled blur. And for a moment—we’re no longer sparring. We’re just tired.
But somewhere behind the smiles and performance, we’ve stopped playing at opposition. The lines between ally, adversary, and suitor blur with every flicker of his lashes.
Then Mallen returns.
The heat of him reaches me before I see him—the shift in air, the way the tension in my spine draws tight as a bowstring. His palm finds the curve of my back, steady and warm through the chiffon, and I turn toward him. A quiet check, a question without words.
“Are you all right?”
His voice is low, too low for anyone but me. It curls under my skin like a promise, and I nod. The glance we share is brief, but it roots me more than any reassurance could. His eyes are darker than they were when he left—still storm-lit, but quieter now. Focused.
“I told Darian about the attempt a few days ago,” I say, keeping my voice level.
Mallen’s gaze shifts past me toward Darian.
He wears his restraint like armor, and our lie is his weapon. “This stays between us. For her safety.”
A command concealed in velvet.
Darian raises both brows, unoffended. “Naturally. I had no idea she was in danger, or I never would have been so frivolous. I only want to help.”
He even leans slightly closer, and now I’m bracketed between them again—heat and shadow, crown and blade. Darian’s voice lowers, threading through the air between us.
“If you need anything, Princess, you only have to ask.”
The next course arrives in a swirl of citrus and roasted herbs. I manage a few more bites, more out of duty than desire. My stomach knots too tightly to enjoy anything, but I chew, swallow, pretend. Around us, celebration spins—laughter, glass, the clamor of pageantry. Women gaze at Darian like he’s divine. The tributes from Larksbind shine with wine and emptiness.
Mallen and I hold steady—quiet islands in a sea of revelry.
And Darian watches us both, calculating.
