Page 78 of Labyrinthine
I stare at him, drenched and humiliated. “You had that planned?”
He smirks, stepping closer. “A contingency.”
“For what?” I remove my bracelets, tossing them onto the table. “Public humiliation? You could’ve just asked me to leave.”
Mallen’s eyes go still. No flicker. No flash. Just a slow darkening, like dusk bleeding into midnight. “Would you have come?”
I pause. He knows the answer.
“Exactly.” His voice is quiet, but not unkind. “You’ve been avoiding talking to me. So I made sure we had this chance.”
“You could’ve waited.” I untie the wet sash at my waist, letting it fall. “You always do.”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” He closes the distance between us, slow and deliberate. “I wait. And wait. And now you’re circling Darian.”
I stiffen, fingers hovering at the first clasp of my gown. “You want to chastise me now?”
“I want to listen,” he says. “You’re not making it easy.”
I turn away from him, cross to the fireplace, and press my hands to the marble. My dress clings to me, soaked and heavy against my skin. I want to be out of it. I want to be out of all of this—my father’s games, the court’s eyes, Mallen’s relentless scrutiny. But most of all, I want to be understood.
“You think I’ve been lying to you,” I say.
“I know you have.”
The silence between us stretches long and thin. I close my eyes. “Fine. You want truth? I didn’t know about the second trial. If I had, I would’ve warned Darian.”
“Because you want him to win?”
“Because I don’t want him to die.”
Mallen exhales behind me, a sound half-sigh, half-snarl. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
His footsteps are quiet on the stone floor. He’s near again. Close. I can feel the weight of his presence behind me.
“You made me a promise,” he says. “No others.”
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Not tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m soaked in wine and court politics, and I can’t think. I’m barely standing. I can’t stop flinching at my own shadow.”
I hear the hitch in his breath. “You think I’d hurt you?”
“No,” I say, turning to face him. “I think you could.”
The words land heavy between us. His jaw tightens. He looks at me like he’s searching for something in my expression—for certainty, for choice, for everything that’s in between. I don’t know which he wants more.
“You’re not the same anymore,” I say, gentler now. “You used to be my friend. Now, you’re not. You’re more.”
“That bothers you?”
“Yes.”
He lifts a brow. “Why?”
