Page 80 of Labyrinthine
The breath leaves me.
I sit across from him, drawing my knees to my chest on the cushions.
I study him in the firelight—this man who has haunted the edges of every choice I’ve made. Who’s waited in the shadows, not to punish, but to protect. And now he’s here, close enough to touch, and I don’t know how to want that without hurting.
My pulse thrums, aching with a truth I’ve kept buried.
I’ve always wanted to be chosen.
Not out of duty. Not out of pity. Not because of some wicked game the gods set in motion long ago. But because I am worth being chosen, even after everything I’ve been through. After everything I’ve become.
I used to believe survival was enough. Now, I’m not so sure.
He watches me for a long time. “Darian isn’t just a threat to your father. He’s a threat to you.”
I frown. “Because he’s strong?”
“Because he believes he’s right.” He leans forward. “He’s not afraid of you. And you’re not afraid of him. That makes him dangerous.”
“Not every man who doesn’t fear me is dangerous, Mallen.”
“No,” he agrees. “But every man who wants to use you is.”
“You think he’s using me?”
“I think he wants to win,” Mallen says. “And I think you’ve convinced yourself that letting him would be the easiest way out.”
“Out of what?”
“This,” he says. “This prison. This power. This throne. This version of yourself that you hate so much you’d rather die than claim.”
The words split me open.
“I don’t want to die,” I say.
“I know,” he replies. “But you don’t want to live like this either.”
We stay silent. There is no defense I can make that doesn’t sound hollow. No retort sharp enough to wound him without also drawing my own blood.
“You could’ve let me fall a dozen times,” I say at last. “But you never did.”
“No,” he agrees. “I let you run.”
I glance at him. His posture has relaxed slightly, though his hands are still clenched between his knees.
“I didn’t want to be caught,” I whisper.
“Is that so?” he says softly. “Or did you want someone to chase you? Maybe you just didn’t think it would be me.”
My heart trips over itself. I hate how easily he sees me. Hate it and crave it.
“I thought I’d be safer with someone who couldn’t read me,” I admit.
“And now?”
I look at him. “Now I don’t know what’s worse—being read or being wrong.”
The air between us shifts. Heavy, but not stifling. A quiet understanding, old and tender, rises between our words.
