Page 12 of Labyrinthine
When I finally glance back, Mallen’s gaze is fixed on the torchlit stone—staring at the shimmer where the light hits the wall, as if the answer to every unspoken thought might rise from its surface if he watches long enough.
The water welcomes me, warm and calm. I pause at the waist, hands drifting to the tie at my hip, the last barrier between this strange new self and the man who’s trying not to watch. I freeze, the water lapping softly at my hips. The tension pulling at me is like a drawn bowstring. Taut. Dangerous. A game I shouldn’t be playing, but that makes it more exciting.
I take another step deeper into the heat.
And then I hear something else—his breath catching. Uneven.
A slow smile tugs at my lips. If this is what it feels like to be wanted, truly wanted, then I understand why people hunger for it. Why they chase it through fire. Why they surrender to its flames, offering their hearts as kindling.
I draw the knot loose and let the fabric slip from my shoulders. I turn to see it half-floating, half-submerged behind me. Entirely forgotten.
Mallen doesn’t move. His chest rises and falls, heaving and controlled, like a man fighting a battle he refuses to lose. His hand curls at his sides, white-knuckled. His muscles tense, as if restraint hurts him.
“Maybe you should turn around,” I mumble.
The water swallows me as I glide deeper and I close my eyes as heat seeps into my aching muscles. A moan slips from my lips. Not performative—just real. Honest. My fingers rub along my shoulder and neck, chasing away the tension, and for a heartbeat, I forget everything.
When I open my eyes again, he’s gone.
Panic flutters in my throat. I’m alone, and Mallen said he wouldn’t leave. Only now do I understand how much I need him. I turn, scanning the mist, and I’m disorientated when I find him standing at the edge of the pool—close now. Watching. Silent.
I inhale too sharply.
“Princess,” he says.
“Mallen.”
His arms fold across his chest, but not lazily, as though he’s bracing against a storm only he’s caught in. The motion makes his form more severe. Regal. Warrior-like. As if he’s holding himself together through sheer force of will. There’s nothing flirtatious in it. But his eyes—those piercing green eyes that trace the shape of me like a map he’s memorized and can’t stop revisiting—devour every inch of me with a reverence that makes me ache.
And this game—gods, this game—is a wicked kind of worship, a sacred tension drawn between us like a blade held at the throat of control.
“I told you. There’s no escaping me.”
His voice is rough, but the arrogance is tempered now, quieter. A truth, not a threat.
There’s a difference between being looked at and being seen. And Mallen sees too much.
I square my shoulders and lift my chin, unwilling to flinch beneath the intensity of it. The corners of my lips curl into a grin I cannot hide as my fingers trace my collarbone. Mallen sees that too, and I realize he’s also waiting. Not to win, but for me to want to play. This is invitation, not conquest. A challenge extended, not forced.
“A sponge,” I say, extending a hand. “Unless you’d rather I ask one of your soldiers for help.”
His lips press together. “We both know I’d kill them first.”
There’s no jest in his voice. But it’s not possessive in the way that once made me hesitate. It’s deeper than that. Protective. Instinctive.
He strides to a nearby table and returns with a sponge and a vial of oil. Instead of tossing them in, he crouches at the pool’s edge and crooks his finger.
“Come here.”
“I can wash myself.”
“You can,” he agrees. “But you don’t want to.”
He’s right, and he knows it. I glare at him anyway.
I swim closer, slower than necessary, just to see the flicker of frustration in his jaw. He’s still Mallen, after all. Still used to obedience. But he waits. His weight shifts a little, but he doesn’t move. His shoulders tighten as his breathing quickens, and my heart races, desperately trying to keep pace with itself.
I duck under the surface and emerge just in front of him, water streaming down my face. When I wipe it away, his gaze rests on my lips. There’s nothing soft in his eyes now—only heat and want and flame.
