Page 140 of Labyrinthine
“Let go,” he whispers. “I’ll catch you.”
I fall.
My body seizes around him, a cry torn from my throat, and I shudder through the release, overwhelmed, undone. Tears blurmy vision, and I don’t know why I’m crying, only that I am, and that Mallen is there, not to rescue, not to claim—but to bear witness. To hold the edges of me when I can’t.
He lifts his head slowly, rests his cheek to my thigh, and exhales like he’s trying to quiet the storm in his chest. His hand stays on my hip, not possessive—anchoring. As if I’m the only thing keeping him here.
I brush his hair back, fingers trembling. He kisses the inside of my knee like a benediction.
“Are you all right?” he asks, voice hoarse.
I nod, unable to speak. My body’s still pulsing from the release, nerves buzzing like lightning caught beneath skin. I’ve never felt anything like this—like my soul stepped out of its own body and left me breathless in the aftermath.
I’m his. I always have been.
Even if I walk away.
Even if I choose another path.
This moment—this sacred, stolen moment—is ours.
And that, I think, is what undoes him.
He rises, eyes searching mine, and whatever he sees there—relief, trust, the shape of my heart—softens his features until he looks boyish again. That same boy who knelt beside my bed, whispering my name like a prayer.
“I’ve dreamed of this,” he says quietly. “Not like this. Not just this. I dreamed of being close to you. Waking up beside you. Hearing your voice in the dark and knowing you stayed.”
My hand finds his, fingers weaving through his. I squeeze once, and he brings our joined hands to his mouth and presses a kiss to my knuckles.
“I’m here,” I say.
His throat works around the emotion, and for a moment, he doesn’t speak. Then, as if a storm settles in him, he reaches for the drawstring at his waist. He moves slowly, as though eachbreath is counted. Not for show, not to tempt—but to give me time. A moment to decide if I’ll stop him.
I don’t.
He pushes his trousers off and then shifts closer. Candlelight casts him in gold and shadow, every scar a story written into flesh. I trace a line above his ribs, careful of the fresh bruising. He flinches—not from pain, but from the tenderness of it.
“Does it hurt?” I ask softly.
He shakes his head. “No. It feels like I survived what I thought I wouldn’t.”
I lift my gaze. “Me too.”
He shifts his hips, and I feel the press of him—hard and thick and terrifyingly real. My body tenses in instinct, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t force. Just rests there, breathing hard, waiting for me.
I nod.
He kisses me once, long and deep, and then begins to push inside.
It’s more than I expected. More than I’ve ever known. I gasp, clutching his shoulders. He stills instantly, his gaze locking on mine.
“I’ll stop,” he says, voice thick. “Tell me and I’ll stop.”
I shake my head. “I just need to breathe.”
He lowers his forehead to mine, sweat beading at his temple as he forces himself to stay still. His control astounds me. Even trembling, he waits for me.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
