Page 61 of Labyrinthine
My eyes stay on the page.
He walks closer, slow enough that tremors roll up the base of my spine. One hand slides over mine, light as breath, and only when I don’t pull away does he gently press the book shut. I don’t flinch, but I don’t look at him either.
“I made a mistake,” he murmurs. “You did too.”
My gaze lifts. Slowly.
“I promised to give you time. To win your affection—and to let you breathe. To let you feel whatever this is. I meant it.” His jaw tenses. “But I didn’t know how much it would cost me.”
“You broke your word. Gods, that fight…my room…my mother’s chair…”
He flinches. Just a flicker of pain in his eyes, so raw and human that I almost forget how furious I am. But he doesn’t defend himself.
“It shouldn’t have happened,” he says. “None of it. You have every right to be angry.”
I set the book down with care. “You think I’m angry?”
He breathes in like he’s bracing himself for impact.
“I’m not angry. I’m afraid.”
That gets his full attention. The heat drains from his face.
“I won’t live like this,” I add, voice flat.
There it is. So simple. So ordinary. But it breaks something between us.
“I would never hurt you,” he says quietly. “Not now. Not ever. But I know how it looked. I know what I sounded like. That wasn’t the man I want to be for you.”
I don’t speak. I can’t.
“I am not my jealousy,” he adds. “But I carry it. I carry it every time he looks at you like you’re already his. Every time he dances with you, while I stand in the shadows. Every time he makes you laugh like I don’t exist.”
His control is starting to fray. He takes a breath and his shoulders tighten, as though physically restraining the urge to reach for me.
“Don’t run from me because I failed once,” he says. “Don’t throw yourself at Darian because I lost control. That boy will use this. I know his kind. I’ve seen it before. He’ll smile at you while he locks you in chains and takes what he wants while pretending it was always yours to give.”
There’s no venom in his tone. Only knowing. And something like fear.
“I’m not throwing myself at anyone,” I say.
He exhales sharply. Relief.
“Least of all you.”
His knuckles whiten as they grip the edge of a table that survived the carnage like he’s grounding himself in the wood.
Evie arrives before either of us can say another word. She gives me a knowing look and helps me dress, her movements brisk but gentle. Mallen doesn’t speak and doesn’t watch as I dress, but his gaze burns anyway—like a low flame flickering through the quiet hours of the night—especially when Evie chooses the emerald green gown.
It matches his eyes. But it’s not for him.
“Darian will like this,” Evie murmurs as she fastens the gold bangle around my wrist. It sits too tight, and I wince, and Mallen shifts, his attention fixed on me.
The heat of his gaze is unmistakable, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t explode. He looks like a man teetering on the edge of reason, as if it’s taking every ounce of restraint he has not to act on the fire burning beneath his skin. His fingers cling to the table, and he stays there, immobile, while I glide to the door.
I stop and turn.
“Are you coming?”
