Page 84 of Labyrinthine
“I haven’t chosen him,” I say quietly.
He stops in front of me. His breath touches my skin. “That doesn’t matter. He has the crowd. The favor of the gods. The scent of victory all over him. All he has to do is pass the final trial.”
My father lifts a petal from the desk—a single, dried remnant from the first trial. “He gave this to you. Declared it to the crowd.” He drops it at my feet. “He’s in love.”
I step forward and crush the petal beneath my boot.
“Then let him prove it.”
His fingers tap the dagger against his palm. I meet his eyes and say nothing.
“You’re bold today,” he murmurs.
“I don’t want to waste your time with small talk.”
His smile sharpens, edges drawn in hunger, and turns the dagger in his fingers, lowering it to the map spread across his desk. Slowly, almost gently, he drags the point through the inked borders of the Northern Reach. The blade cuts a jagged line through the territory like he’s already carving out blood.
His gaze never leaves mine.
But I feel it—his power, his fury—coiled like a whip waiting to strike.
And I don’t flinch.
My father grabs my throat before I can react. His fingers press in—not wild, not frenzied, but deliberate, methodical. I claw at his skin, eyes wide, lungs burning, but there’s no fury in his face. Just the same patient, practiced calm of a man who’s done this before.
“Stop,” I rasp.
I lash out blindly, land a punch—but pain explodes in my cheek. His strike is fast, sharp, a flash of heat that blinds me with tears. He lets go just long enough for me to gasp air before wrenching my arm behind my back. His grip coils in my hair, steering me like a puppet as he marches me toward the balcony.
My chest hits stone. The cold marble bites through silk and skin alike as he forces me forward. His weight settles behind me—not lecherous, just heavy, immovable. I twist, but there’s no leverage. No escape. My scalp burns as he yanks my head back.
“You forget yourself,” he says softly. “You breathe because I let you.”
Below us, a prisoner is dragged into position. Her hands are bound tight. Her back is bared, hair wrenched up and out of the way. Relief flickers because it is not Evie, and shame follows in the same breath. It gutters at once. It is still a woman with her hands bound. Dread fills the space relief left, and my stomach knots.
The guard approaches with a coiled whip.
“This is because of you.” My father’s voice stays low, even. “Your defiance costs blood. That blood stains you.”
He doesn’t need to shout. The silence is heavier. Crueler. My limbs go still. He wants me to see. Wants me to understand.
He wants me to watch.
The whip cracks.
The sound alone sends a jolt through me—before the scream even starts. The second lash cuts deeper. The girl jerks against her bonds, and the smell of copper rises into my throat.
I can’t look away. I try. My eyes don’t obey.
Don’t flinch.
Crack.
Another scream. The whip slices across her back, ribboning skin into ruin. My nails dig into the stone wall. A scream builds in my throat but doesn’t escape. Not yet.
“If Darian survives the labyrinth, he’ll have to marry you,” my father murmurs. “I can’t allow that—not while you think your spine’s intact. Not when you believe you’re stronger than you are.”
The whip cracks.
