Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Flashes of bright color trail around the room, swirling and flowing effortlessly. The sheer fabrics float as if they’re weightless, a dazzling display of freedom I can only dream of. The dancers move with a grace that mocks my confinement.
My father leans over my shoulder, plucking grapes from the center of the table. “Darian seems more than capable of keeping you under control.”
His words are a dagger cloaked in silk. I force a smile, the practiced mask of obedience. Inside, resentment coils tightly. But I can’t afford to let it show. Not when eyes are always watching, and every flicker of emotion is ammunition to be used against me.
For the first time in a decade, someone has made it this far.
Darian could survive the final challenge.
He could take me away from here. But his victory this morning has unsettled the court.
They don’t seem worried that their magic will be lost forever if he wins.
I’ve heard the whispers. It’s not that he lived, it’s that he defeated Obcasus—single-handedly.
For the first time in a decade, they’re exhaling.
Not with relief, but with recognition. Because Darian reminds them of the lie they’ve learned to believe about themselves: that they are beautiful, unshaken, made to win.
My father returns to his table, surrounded by sycophants who laugh too loudly and drink too deeply. He basks in their adoration, oblivious to the undercurrents of greed and ambition. Or perhaps he isn’t affected by them because they’re so similar to his own.
Mallen sits to my left, his posture rigid, eyes scanning the room with calculated precision. “He wants to provoke you,” he murmurs. “Don’t let him.”
Another dance begins, faster than the last. The remaining tributes watch with newfound vigor, their near-death experience igniting a lust for life, while the ladies of the court fawn over them. Darian catches my eye, a flicker of understanding passing between us. We look away simultaneously.
I turn back to Mallen.
“I thought you’d discovered the trial was Obcasus and warned him,” Mallen says, leaning closer. “But your reaction was genuine. Shock, then horror. You didn’t know.” He swirls his wine, contemplating. “Are you going to stop lying to me, Azhara?”
“What do you want, Mallen?”
“Your honesty. Your respect. For you to honor our agreement.”
The dance ends, applause erupting. I clap, smiling at Mallen, noting the jealousy simmering in his eyes.
“I can’t talk to you like this,” I murmur.
“Like what?” he growls.
“There are too many people, too many interruptions.” I let my hand graze his thigh. Subtle. A provocation. A dangerous one.
Mallen stiffens, his gaze fixed on the dancers. He exhales and waits for the dance to end before setting down his goblet. His hand brushes my arm, a touch that sends a shiver through my core.
The music changes.
He signals for more drink.
And the servant spills wine into my lap.
I gasp, jumping to my feet—and the hall falls silent. My cheeks burn as I attempt to brush off the red stain. Darian’s on his feet. My father wears a grin that curves with both delight and irritation.
“What are you doing?” Mallen’s voice is a controlled snarl, directed at the servant.
“I’m soaked.”
Mallen stares at me, and I can’t understand the emotion swirling through those green irises. It’s too intense. Too raw. He offers me his hand as he announces he’ll be escorting me to my rooms.
My cheeks burn hotter as we leave.
Mallen thanks him, then turns to me. “You wanted to talk.”
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?”
“Because you were the only one I had.”
The admission makes my throat tighten. I didn’t mean to say it. But now that it’s out, I can’t take it back.
Mallen’s expression shifts—barely—but enough. Not with pity. It’s quieter than that.
A kind of ache held too long behind the ribs. Something patient. And ruinous. Understanding, maybe. Or restraint.
“You didn’t lose me, Azhara,” he says quietly. “I haven’t gone. I’m not standing where I used to, but I’ve not stopped being yours. I’ve always been yours. You’re just starting to see how things have always been.”
My breath hitches.
“I don’t know what we are anymore,” I whisper.
“We don’t have to name it,” he replies. “Not until you’re ready. But don’t pretend it’s nothing. Not after everything. Not after the way you look at me when you think I won’t notice.”
“I’m afraid,” I admit. “That if I let myself believe you mean it, I’ll fall. And this time, no one will catch me.”
He nods, slow and solemn. “Then fall,” he says. “I haven’t dropped you yet.”
He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him against my damp skin. His gaze drags down my body—nothing indecent, just observant, like he’s cataloging every bruise and frayed edge I’m trying to hide.
“Take it off,” he murmurs, nodding to my gown. “You’ll catch a chill.”
I hesitate.
“I won’t touch you,” he says.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
He lifts a brow. “Didn’t say you did.”
For a long moment, we just stare at each other. Then I reach behind my neck and slowly undo the clasps of my gown. I let it fall in a sodden heap, standing in the shift beneath. He doesn’t look away. But he doesn’t move either.
“Do you want me to leave?” he asks.
I don’t answer right away. I cross the room—deliberately—to the hook where a fresh robe waits. I slip it on, relishing the dry silk against my skin, and cinch it tight at the waist.
“No,” I say at last. “I want you to stop treating me like I’m broken.”
He tilts his head. “I don’t think that.”
“You act like I might shatter.”
“I act like you’ve been made to believe you should.”
I blink.
He sits down on the edge of the low couch, bracing his forearms on his knees. “I know you. I’ve seen you lie, manipulate, scheme, and survive. You don’t see yourself doing it, but you do. And I’ve seen you choose mercy when no one else would. You think no one sees that either. But I do.”
“I’m not the girl you first met, Mallen.”
“I know,” he says again. “Nor am I the man you thought I was.”
I cross the room, barefoot and slow. “Then who are you?”
He meets my gaze, and for the first time in months, he doesn’t look angry. He looks tired. And sad. And real.
“The man who’s tried to protect you for years without ever touching you,” he says.
“One who doesn’t know how much longer I can keep doing that.
I gave up everything that did not serve your safety.
I called it honor and I believed it. Now, I have nothing left to trade but the truth that I want you and the fact that I am breaking on the edge of it. ”
The breath leaves me.
I sit across from him, drawing my knees to my chest on the cushions.
I study him in the firelight—this man who has haunted the edges of every choice I’ve made. Who’s waited in the shadows, not to punish, but to protect. And now he’s here, close enough to touch, and I don’t know how to want that without hurting.
My pulse thrums, aching with a truth I’ve kept buried.
I’ve always wanted to be chosen.
Not out of duty. Not out of pity. Not because of some wicked game the gods set in motion long ago. But because I am worth being chosen, even after everything I’ve been through. After everything I’ve become.
I used to believe survival was enough. Now, I’m not so sure.
He watches me for a long time. “Darian isn’t just a threat to your father. He’s a threat to you.”
I frown. “Because he’s strong?”
“Because he believes he’s right.” He leans forward. “He’s not afraid of you. And you’re not afraid of him. That makes him dangerous.”
“Not every man who doesn’t fear me is dangerous, Mallen.”
“No,” he agrees. “But every man who wants to use you is.”
“You think he’s using me?”
“I think he wants to win,” Mallen says. “And I think you’ve convinced yourself that letting him would be the easiest way out.”
“Out of what?”
“This,” he says. “This prison. This power. This throne. This version of yourself that you hate so much you’d rather die than claim.”
The words split me open.
“I don’t want to die,” I say.
“I know,” he replies. “But you don’t want to live like this either.”
We stay silent. There is no defense I can make that doesn’t sound hollow. No retort sharp enough to wound him without also drawing my own blood.
“You could’ve let me fall a dozen times,” I say at last. “But you never did.”
“No,” he agrees. “I let you run.”
I glance at him. His posture has relaxed slightly, though his hands are still clenched between his knees.
“I didn’t want to be caught,” I whisper.
“Is that so?” he says softly. “Or did you want someone to chase you? Maybe you just didn’t think it would be me.”
My heart trips over itself. I hate how easily he sees me. Hate it and crave it.
“I thought I’d be safer with someone who couldn’t read me,” I admit.
“And now?”
I look at him. “Now I don’t know what’s worse—being read or being wrong.”
The air between us shifts. Heavy, but not stifling. A quiet understanding, old and tender, rises between our words.
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 ask what 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.