Page 88 of Labyrinthine
“No.”
His smile falters. “You’re refusing to accompany me?”
“Yes.”
He moves from my side and stands directly in front of me. His stance is casual, but my eye is drawn to the angle of his shoulders—it’s too perfect, too easy, like he’s practiced this a thousand times. The tilt of his head sends golden hair sliding forward to frame his face, and when his lips curve into a slow, confident smile, the crowd fades. It’s just him and me and the warm pressure of his presence.
And heaven help me, he’s beautiful.
“Charm won’t work on me, Darian.”
“No?” he asks softly, voice wrapped in velvet.
My fingers tighten on my glass. He catches the movement, and his smile stretches, not cocky, but knowing.
“I have competition,” he says, sipping his wine. I open my mouth, but he keeps going. “You truly care for Mallen.”
“He’s protected me for as long as I can remember,” I reply, and we begin a slow path through the garden. My smile is practiced, dutiful, for the nobles we pass, but I keep my eyes ahead.
“I know,” Darian murmurs. “Which is why we need to talk when no one else can overhear. Ride with me tomorrow.”
His words hang like smoke between us. I wait until we’re safely out of earshot before turning to him.
“So you can insult him?”
Darian’s gaze sharpens, but he steps closer, careless of the audience behind us. His voice is barely a breath, a seduction of sound. “So you can decide for yourself what’s real and what’s not.”
There’s a charge in the way he watches me—reckless, deliberate, brimming with the kind of danger that doesn’t announce itself. Not forceful. Not cruel. But willing. To take the risk. To step over lines.
“Do you love him?” Darian whispers, his breath brushing my skin, making me shiver.
I shake my head, too fast.
He lifts my chin. “I care for you too much to let anyone hurt you. I know I’m not perfect, but I swear this—you won’t be a pawn in my house. You’ll be honored. Protected. Worshipped.”
The word startles me.
My eyes flick toward the door, toward the memory of Mallen’s touch—possessive, secretive, aching—and the way my father’s voice trembled with fury when he told me that it was Mallen’s idea to keep me in Starsfall, no matter what the Reaping decided. I hadn’t believed him. But Mallen admitted it.
“Gods, you’re magnificent,” Darian murmurs, and there’s real hunger in it now. “I know it’s too soon. I won’t rush you. But it’s getting harder to pretend I don’t want you.”
Heat creeps up my neck and Darian’s eyes flare with delight. He sees it—my hesitation, my reaction—and he doesn’t gloat. He just watches, hopeful.
“Do you like this?” he asks, and I don’t answer. “Is it me, or is it the freedom? The danger? The secret?”
I glance down, caught off guard by how badly I want to say yes to all of it.
His voice lowers, coaxing. “Or maybe you just want to be chosen. For yourself. Not because of what you are, or what you can do, but because someone sees you. All of you.”
It’s too much. Too intimate. But he doesn’t touch me—he just waits.
“You don’t know me.”
The blue in his eyes brightens. “Then let me. Let me learn who you are when no one’s watching. What you crave. What you fear. What you would be, if you weren’t always choosing who to please.”
“I don’t know what I want,” I whisper, and the truth of it catches in my throat.
“I do,” he says, finally touching me—his hand a warm weight at my waist, carefully hidden from view. It’s not possessive. It’s reverent. And it leaves me breathless.
