Page 81 of Labyrinthine
Mallen straightens slowly. “Come here.”
I hesitate. “Why?”
“So I can kiss you,” he says. “And then put you to bed before I do something more foolish.”
My pulse stumbles.
I rise, and he meets me halfway. We stop a breath apart, our shadows flickering in the firelight. His hand lifts, brushing my jaw, calloused thumb grazing the hollow beneath my cheekbone.
“You’re not broken,” he murmurs again.
“I know.”
His mouth finds mine—not greedy, not bruising. Just…patient. Starved. Reverent. I lean into him, fingers tangling in the fabric at his chest. For a moment, we’re nothing but the press of mouths and memory. The ache of what’s always gone unsaid.
He pulls back first. But his hand lingers on my face.
“When this is over,” he says, “when you choose—really choose—I’ll still be here.”
I don’t answer. I don’t know how.
Because some part of me still wants to askwhat if I don’t choose you?
Some part of me is afraid he already knows the answer.
But the rest of me—the tired, fractured, wholly human part—just wants this.
His mouth brushes mine again, softer this time. A question. An anchor. I kiss him back like I mean it. Like I haven’t spent years building walls just to keep these feelings out.
He makes a sound, quiet and rough, as his arms come around me and he draws me into the heat of his chest. I melt into him, into the quiet hush of firelight and shadows and the steadiness of his breath. My cheek rests against his shoulder. His pulse flutters just beneath my mouth.
I don’t know how long we stand there. Long enough for the questions to fade, for my doubts to hush. Long enough for me to forget I was ever afraid.
Still, when I finally speak, my voice is quieter than before.
“Tell me something true.”
He’s silent. For a beat too long.
“You’ve never left my thoughts. Not once.”
It’s a good answer. The kind you want to believe. One that fits too neatly into your ribs if you stop thinking.
“You’re mine, Azhara,” he murmured, voice low and certain. “But only if you choose me.”
I nod. Slowly, finally, I nod.
And Mallen, my warrior, my storm, simply holds me tighter.
He kisses me once more—slow, deep, like a promise. When he finally leads me toward the bed, I let him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I wake to warmth.A weight across my waist, a steady rhythm of breath at my back. Not a trap—an anchor.
“Morning, Princess,” Mallen murmurs against my neck, his voice rough with sleep.
“Did you sleep in my bed?”
