Page 55 of Labyrinthine
My father’s eyes narrow. Barely. Almost imperceptibly.
Mallen moves instantly.
He steps between us, fast and silent, and grabs my wrist—firm, not painful, but unyielding. A barrier. A wall. A message.
Don’t provoke him. Not here. Not now.
His eyes lock on mine, and I see what he wants me to see:thisis protection.Thisis safety. Iamhisto shield.
But it’s not just that.
It’s a claim.
“Of course, Azhara,” he says smoothly, venom sweetening his voice. “How could I refuse anything you ask of me?”
He flicks his fingers. Healer. Immediately.
And then he turns, his face twisting into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Mallen half-leads, half-drags me from the royal balcony, his fingers tight on my wrist now as his gaze flicks back to my father like a man who’s just won a prize.
His grip doesn’t ease until we’re out of view.
Only then does his body relax—just barely. Like some essential part of him has unclenched now that I’m away from my father.
But I sense the possessiveness that coils beneath Mallen’s skin.
Silent. Burning.
He doesn’t say a word as we walk. Doesn’t let go.
And I don’t stumble or resist.
I don’t thank him either.
Because he protected me.
But I didn’t ask him to.
And we both know this wasn’t just about safety.
It never is.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The door swingsshut behind us with a quiet thud, and the silence that follows is sharper than any shout. I stand motionless, my breath ragged, my skin still thrumming with echoes I haven’t outrun—the flowers, the eyes, the cheers for Darian that sound like both ruin and salvation.
I wanted to hate it. That part of me wanted to smile back. The fragment of me that had reached for the light in Darian’s eyes—not because I trusted him, but because I was drowning and it looked like shore. And beneath a sky of painted lies, in a hollow arena full of false pageantry, I faltered.
And I hated that Mallen saw it.
He crosses the room slowly. His boots echo against the stone as he stops in front of the mural. He doesn’t look at me—only at the paint. His hand rises and lays his fingers on the painted sky. Then he applies pressure, then more, steady and deliberate. The plaster answers with a thin crack. A hairline seam runs throughthe clouds, cleaving a flock of doves mid-flight, severing wings and turning grace to ruin. He breathes once, twice, and presses harder until the wall yields with a low groan and the mural crumbles further.
“I watched him hold petals up to you,” he says quietly. “You smiled.”
His voice is level. Too level. I step closer, but he still won’t look at me.
“Mallen,” I say. “You can’t?—”
“Can’t what?” He turns now, slowly, like a winter tide deciding to come in. His eyes are the color of storm-drenched pine, dark with unspoken thoughts. “You would’ve let him kiss you.”
