Page 62 of Labyrinthine
He looks up. The air is still. His nod is a single movement, tight and wordless. He follows me two steps behind, silent until we reach the edge of the garden path.
Then, just before the gate, he catches my wrist.
“Please,” he says. “Don’t give him ground because I lost mine.”
I lift my brows slowly and then glance down at his fingers still curled around my arm.
“I’m not giving anyone anything.”
I shake his hand off and step into the light, toward the prince waiting among the flowers. He’s waiting in a patch of pale light, bathed in gold and the faint perfume of roses. Up close I see the stiffness in his right shoulder, linen peeking under his collarwhere a bandage sits, and the purple bloom along his throat. He still looks almost too perfect to be real—like someone conjured him from a dream I once had and barely remember. Not like the man who was shouting yesterday. Not like someone who stormed into my room, hands clenched and voice shaking.
“Azhara,” he says, soft as silk.
“Darian,” I reply, holding his gaze but not stepping any closer.
His smile falters. “You’re not alright.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
He nods, hearing the edge in my voice without flinching. “I owe you an apology. For yesterday. For how I acted when I thought—” He breaks off, lips pressing tight. “I thought he was hurting you. And I snapped.”
His voice cracks, just faintly. He shifts his stance as if he’s suddenly uncertain. I don’t feel like I’m standing in the shadow of royalty anymore. Just that of a man who made a mistake and regrets it.
There’s a flicker of boyish charm in the way his weight alters—uncertainty or shame or both—but it makes him real. Fallible. Not a prince out of reach, but a person I might be able to trust, one careful step at a time.
“I’ll never forgive myself for it—but I will make it right. If you let me.”
His tone is even.
His words are what I needed to hear.
It sounds so easy. And tempting.
I nod, but I don’t say anything. My silence is an answer.
Darian watches me for a long moment before asking, quieter this time, “Did he hurt you? Last night. After I left?”
“No,” I say quickly, maybe too quickly.
His eyes narrow slightly, not in suspicion but in sorrow.
He steps closer, slow enough to make sure I’ll allow it.
“You don’t have to protect him. Or explain him.”
“I’m not.”
“Alright.” He dips his head, brushing a hand through his hair. “But I saw your face. You were scared. Not startled. Not overwhelmed. Frightened. And you were asking him to let you go.”
I close my eyes, and the image of the shattered mural returns.
“I’m not here to turn you against him. I’m not going to paint him as a monster. Maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s just...dangerous in ways he doesn’t see yet.”
I open my eyes and immediately look away. He doesn’t push.
“And maybe,” he adds gently, “you’re not ready to walk away from him.”
My gaze snaps back. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
