Page 8 of Labyrinthine
And then he says it again, quieter than before. “Do you care for me?”
The words root me in place. His voice is low, and dark with a different kind of danger—the danger of being seen. Of being known.
Every path is a risk. Every decision comes with consequence.
And in a life of never having choices, I don’t know how to handle having one.
“I don’t know if I’m allowed,” I say. “I’m supposed to marry someone from Larksbind. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to want what will hurt this many people.”
“You are,” he says, without hesitation. “You know you can choose.”
I wish I knew which one he meant.
My throat tightens. “You serve my father.”
“I serveyou,” he answers, leaving no room for argument. Or doubt. “Always you. Only you.”
He kisses me again—not hard, not wild. Just slow. And devastating.
And I let myself fall.
“Was that better?” he rasps as he breaks the kiss, and the words scrape over me like a knife sheathed in silk.
Mallen takes my chin, fingers firm but reverent, guiding my face back to his. He smiles like a man with the sun in his hands, like this moment is everything he’s ever wanted. His gaze drinks me in slowly, possessively, savoring the effect he has on me.
There’s no need to rush when you own the hourglass.
“You’re serious?” I whisper. “What about my magic? We can’t. It’s too dangerous to release. Even the gods?—”
He inclines his head, not in challenge but acknowledgment. Calm. Grounded. His gaze holds a storm, but it’s not fury I sense. I cannot name this emotion, only feel it, like a thunderstorm running along the edges of my skin.
“The only force that could turn me from this path,” he says, voice low and deliberate, “is you. Am I without hope?”
I shake my head, wordless.
His eyes search mine, fierce and vulnerable. As if he’s bracing for impact and hoping, quietly, that I’ll spare him.
“You’re in every breath I take,” he says. “You’re not a need, Azhara. You’re not even a want. You’re a truth. A foundation I build my soul around.” His voice softens. “I only hope I haven’t failed in showing you.”
His fingers graze my sternum, featherlight. A question, not a claim.
“I see no proof your magic is any more dangerous than your father’s,” he continues. “And if it truly is, I will face it. I don’t think your magic is wicked. I think it simply is. And I would far rather bear the consequences of having you than I would have you bear any man, any army, or any fate that tries to cage you.”
I blink up at him, speechless.
“I wasn’t expecting this,” I whisper.
“You expected to run,” he says, almost playful. “You still can try, but we both know your father won’t let you get very far. And if you stay, I won’t trap you. I’ll walk beside you, step for step, as long as you’ll have me. Until you decide otherwise.”
I believe him.
Not just because of his words. Because of the way he waits. The way he gives me time to decide. The way he needs me to know it’s still my choice.
“Let me earn a future with you,” he says. “I can’t stop the Reaping this year—but I promise you, next year, there will be none. Let me show you what you can have. Let me prove myself. Let yourself feel.”
And this is what I want.
It isn’t perfect, but Mallen isn’t asking for that.
