Page 133 of Labyrinthine
“Careful, Princess,” he teases, his voice velvet over steel. “Say one more thing like that, and I’ll be claiming you before we reach the next ridge. We are thread and blade and blood, and I won’t let you escape from me again.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
For the secondtime in as many days, I’m galloping toward a mansion abandoned now that autumn’s here. And it’s not desperation that drives Mallen forward now—but intent.
The estate rises from the hills like a sunlit relic of privilege, its windows drunk on dusk light, reflecting the gold like a secret too beautiful to keep. Officers ride behind us, silent save for the rhythmic pounding of hooves. Mallen rides ahead now, his gaze fixed on the road, jaw set like carved stone.
We’ve barely spoken since we mounted our horses.
There’s no need.
His body speaks for him—leaning too close, brushing my arm with deliberate carelessness when he’s not riding just far enough ahead to let everyone see who brought me here. He doesn’t need words to stake his claim. It’s there in the line of his shoulders, the protective tension in his frame.
And I let him. Because some small, reckless part of me likes it.
I should resent that—should chafe at the idea of being claimed like territory—but there’s a hush threaded through with hunger—no longer for battle, but for proof I’m still beside him. This isn’t a show of conquest. It’s possession, yes, but born of desperation. Of loss.
As if looking away might dissolve me back into dreams.
As if I’m still more ghost than girl in his eyes.
I’ve chosen to stay—but trust like his doesn’t surface without scars.
Servants scatter at our arrival, their confusion swallowed by the brisk orders of the officers dismounting behind us. Within moments, the house begins to shift—its quiet halls invaded, its staff repurposed, its rooms claimed by men in uniform. Tents will rise on the outskirts, and the barns will fill with the weight of an army.
But not us.
Mallen’s hand finds my waist as I dismount, the touch gentle, grounding. “The servants will run a bath,” he says, his voice a low rasp. “I’ll settle a few matters first. I have to make sure that Darian returns to Larksbind without declaring war and buy us time to deal with your father.”
“Do you want me there?”
“Not this time,” he replies, and the ghost of regret flickers across his face. “I’ll tell you everything soon.”
A familiar officer waits nearby—the same one who Mallen sent to bring me back. His expression is unreadable as he leads me through the echoing corridors, the hush of old stone closing in around us. The master suite yawns open before us, gilded and quiet, suffocating in its grandeur.
He checks the room quickly, his gaze never quite meeting mine. “I’ll be outside if you need anything.”
“You should join them. I’m not in danger.”
He stops short, as if I’ve struck him. Slowly, he turns back, his face unreadable but tight with something like pity. “You think that’s why I’m staying?”
I blink.
“He isn’t guarding you. He’s guarding himself. You don’t see it yet, do you?”
“See what?”
The man exhales, his silence sagging under the strain of truths he won’t share. “You’ll understand soon. When he lets you.”
“He’s not like that.”
“No,” the officer murmurs. “He’s worse when he cares.”
He doesn’t linger. The door closes behind him with a finality and the echo of it lodges somewhere deep—beneath the ribs, where secrets tend to settle.
Servants pour in, arms full of linens and water, scurrying like mice in the presence of an invisible god no one dares name, but all feel breathing down their necks. None look me in the eye. The room transforms around me—rugs rolled back, a brass tub dragged in, steam rising into the velvet hush.
One girl remains when the rest have gone. Her hands tremble as she reaches to help me undress.
