Page 33 of Labyrinthine
“Would you rather I kill him next time?” I murmur, low enough for only Mallen to hear.
His snigger is quiet and rich. “I’d rather you didn’t ask permission.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Evie setsthe final pin in my hair, admiring the way the moonstone catches the light before placing her hands on my shoulders and smiling at me in the mirror. Silver and jade have always suited me, highlighting my chestnut hair and making my hazel eyes appear greener.
“Beautiful, Highness,” she says. “The Prince will be pleased.”
Behind us, Mallen sets his cup down with a clink. Not slammed. Not messy. Just…firm. Exact. A full stop.
Evie carries on, oblivious.
“He’s so handsome, Princess. The ladies say his eyes remind them of the ocean, and the gods must’ve?—”
“He’s waiting.” Mallen’s voice cuts in—smooth, cool, and unmistakably final. “You have other duties, Evie.”
She blinks and then gathers her things quickly. “Of course, Commander. Enjoy your afternoon, Highness.”
The door clicks shut.
I cross the room slowly, aware of the quiet weight of Mallen’s gaze. I reach him just as he lifts his head to meet me—no hesitation. His hands settle at my waist, firm and familiar, and he pulls me gently to him. He doesn’t bury his head in my stomach. He keeps his chin up, his eyes on mine.
“You’ll get through this,” he says, his voice low and certain. “I’ll see to it.”
I start to speak, but he beats me to it, a wolfish grin ghosting his mouth.
“Darian learned his lesson yesterday.”
I arch a brow.
“You should’ve seen his face when you walked away. And the court.” He leans in, brushing a kiss just below my jaw. “You were magnificent. They should know it. You shouldn’t doubt it.” His fingers flex against my waist. “Magnificent. And mine.”
His words settle over me like armor.
I nod.
“Do you regret it?” he asks.
I pause, fingers curling lightly around his wrist as the last few days play through my mind. I do not know which part he means: the prince I humbled before the Court, the kiss I allowed, or the promise I made.
“No.”
“You regret something.”
The silence hurts. It goes on a beat too long.
“I don’t like the way you were last night. It felt like anger.”
His gaze holds mine—steady, unflinching.
“I wasn’t angry,” he murmurs. “I was jealous. It was controlled, measured, and entirely justified.”
He kisses my hand once, and then again, slower.
“I’m not asking you to like it,” he murmurs. “But you’ll never be unsure where I stand. I’ll do better, Azhara. But I won’t stop protecting what’s mine.”
He brushes a hand down my cheek and then leans back, as if the conversation is complete.
