Page 121 of Labyrinthine
I shake my head, and my voice comes like splinters. “No.”
Because nothing about this feels like freedom.
Darian watches me carefully, the way someone watches a candle about to go out. He expected something different. He expected relief. Gratitude. A clean break. But I’m still bleeding. Still braced for a fight that already ended.
He sees the truth, whether I say it aloud or not.
He sees the pain I shouldn’t feel. The pain I shouldn’t let him see. And worse—he sees the doubt.
And worse—he sees I’ve lied. To him.
I made my choice.
But I can’t shake the feeling I buried the wrong man.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The manor risesfrom the mist like a half-remembered relic. Perched above the cliffs, it crouches in crumbling grandeur—stone walls streaked with salt, its windows dark and lifeless. Wind rattles the shutters like loose teeth. Ivy has clawed halfway up the south wing. A noble’s summer retreat, long abandoned.
Now it belongs to us.
We ride through the rusting gates in silence. The iron groans open and then swings shut behind us with a finality that prickles beneath my skin. My thighs ache from the saddle, my fingers stiff and blistered from too many hours holding the reins, but I stay upright as the men dismount around me—quiet, precise, a plan already in motion. No shouted commands. No need. Darian’s orders were given hours ago, and none of his soldiers question them now.
Of course they don’t.
He’s the last to dismount. When his boots hit the ground, I see the strain ripple through him—just for a moment. His limp catches him off guard, more pronounced than before, and he winces before smoothing it away. Then his eyes lift to mine, unreadable in the half-light. Pale as sea-glass.
“Inside,” he says, quiet but steady. “You’ll be safe here. We have until morning.”
Safe. As if I haven’t learned how dangerous that word can be.
Still, I follow him through the arched double doors into the house. The smell of age hits first—dust, old wine, the sharp tang of brine soaked into the floorboards. The kind of house that remembers everything. Footsteps. Secrets. Blood.
He gestures toward a wide corridor to the right. “You’ll find the main chamber down that hall. Take whatever you need.”
I nod but don’t wait for him. My boots echo against the stone as I walk away from him, shoulders straight, pace even. I don’t need help.
The door to the bedroom opens with a groan. Light slants through tall windows, faint and cold. The walls are papered in a fading floral pattern, corners curled like dying leaves. I strip off my gloves and drop them onto the vanity and then catch my reflection in the mirror.
For a moment, I don’t recognize the girl in the mirror.
Raw cheeks. Cracked lips. Eyes that haven’t looked like mine in days—wide, dark, rimmed in pain. And doubt.
This is what running looks like.
One of Darian’s men knocks and then enters with a basin and cloths. His gaze lingers too long. I ignore it. I peel off the layers of dust and dried blood, scrubbing my skin until it’s red and clean. When I emerge, I’m wrapped in borrowed riding clothes, my damp hair twisted into a knot. I feel lighter. Emptier.
I sit on the edge of the bed, staring again at the girl in the mirror. Trying to make sense of her. Not because I’m tired. Not because I’m hurt.
Because I can still hear the voice of the messenger who’d ridden alongside us on the road, breathless and hoarse from shouting.
I hadn’t meant to hear it.
Hadn’t meant to listen as the red-faced and dust-slicked rider reined in hard beside Darian.
“She didn’t kill him.”
The words hung there. Unearned. Impossible.
