Page 28 of Labyrinthine
He steps in, slow and deliberate, until the wall is at my back and he’s close enough that I forget how to breathe.
“Then why,” he murmurs, lips brushing my cheek, “did it look like you were fawning over him?”
I swallow hard. His hands don’t force, they frame. His body is all restraint.
“I was stopping you from starting a war,” I say.
His jaw tightens. But he doesn’t pull away.
“I thought you trusted me,” I add, softer now. “You said you’d give me time.”
His eyes are as dark as a forest covered by a midnight shroud. I reach up, my palm resting lightly against his chest. Not to push him away—just to feel his heart stuttering under my touch.
“I need you to keep trusting me,” I whisper. “Even when it’s not easy. Especially then.”
He searches my face, like he’s searching for something to believe in.
“I can’t do this,” he says quietly, “if you don’t let me in.”
“I am. But it has to be when I’m ready.”
And I kiss him.
It’s not impulsive. It’s not delicate.
It’s slow and deliberate, and it’s mine.
My choice.
He doesn’t move for a breathless second, as if he’s stunned I crossed the line first. Then his hand cups the back of my neck. He kisses me back with the quiet devastation of a man who’s waited too long and wanted too much—but still holds himself back, just enough, as if he fears breaking what is sacred.
When we part, I keep my forehead against his, our breaths shared in the silence between us.
His hand slides down to my waist. He doesn’t pull me closer, but he doesn’t let go.
We stay like that for a long moment. The void between us is laden with everything we’ve said and everything we haven’t.
“I’ll be yours,” I say, barely louder than a breath. “But only if you believe I still get to be mine, too.”
He breathes out, almost a laugh, and kisses my neck. It’s a promise, not a claim. There’s no anger in it. No heat. Only patience at its limit as the waiting between us begs to break.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mallen moves with precision,and I hit the ground again, hard.
We chose a lesser courtyard off the inner colonnade, stone underfoot, and clipped yew along the walls. He sent the other guards away. The archways stay vacant. All that remains are our footsteps, the scrape of steel, and the morning wind.
He doesn’t hold back this morning. Not after last night.
This is not the man who cradled my face like it was some fragile sunburst of dawn, trembling beneath the first light. This is the soldier who would see me strong or not see me at all.
“Focus,” he says, low and sharp, as he offers his hand.
My fingers tremble a little as they slide into his. Pride has no place between us now. Not when I know what he’s trying to teach me.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. In war, apology is useless. He’s taught me that—over and over and over—and I haven’t forgotten the lesson.
