Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
I wanted to believe my father was lying.
That he’d twisted the truth in the horror of his stifling study and what happened beyond it—twisted it because he knew it would cut deepest. But when I asked Mallen—when I pressed him about the idea of keeping me here in Starsfall, even after the Reaping ends—he didn’t deny it.
He looked me straight in the eye and said yes.
He told me it was necessary. That it would protect me. That he couldn’t let me go.
The days since then have been quieter. Measured.
Distant. But underneath that stillness is a slow, suffocating burn.
I keep turning his words over in my head, trying to parse what was strategy and what was truth.
Wondering if the man I’ve begun to trust has been playing a longer, darker game all along.
Wondering if I should be afraid of the answer.
Mallen doesn’t push. He lingers like a shadow, always near, always watching.
He touches nothing, says little. Just tracks my movements with eyes that give away too much.
He’s controlled. But it’s the kind of control that feels like a dam in spring—cracked at the edges, holding back a flood that’s already begun to rise.
And it makes me wonder—who is he holding back for? Me? Or himself?
I don’t trust myself to ask. Not yet.
I’ve barely left my rooms in days, attending the formalities demanded by the Reaping—the ritual blessings and carefully choreographed appearances meant to signal strength.
At first, it was easier to hide inside them.
To retreat behind protocol. And Mallen agreed.
After what my father did, he insisted I stay close—where he could protect me.
But now the walls feel tighter. The ceremonies louder.
I need air. I need quiet that doesn’t feel like confinement.
So, I ask for the one thing that might help. “May I visit the library?”
He pauses.
That’s all—one beat too long.
“No.”
A simple word, but final.
His gaze lingers on my face, the emerald of his eyes scanning me like a threat he hadn’t decided how to neutralize yet. He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t touch me. Just refuses.
It’s the first time he ever has.
I could press him. Maybe I should. But I catch a flicker before he turns away—a raw twist of jealousy, taut and ugly, like an old wound rubbed open. That’s what gives him away. He’s not afraid of what I’ll find in the library. He’s afraid of what it might confirm.
I let him go. I let the moment pass. But I won’t forget.
Now, I’m left unraveling everything on my own—half-truths knotted through with careful silence.
My father spins stories in broad daylight and smiles as he does it.
But Mallen’s lies are quieter. He lies by omission and hides falsehood in truth.
He carefully constructs timing. He never quite answers what I haven’t fully asked.
The festivities of the Reaping drag on.
No one expected seven men to survive the second trial—least of all my father.
The court grows tense under the weight of too much celebration, and too little certainty.
The men are paraded, applauded, posed for effect.
Even Darian looks wearied by it. The cracks in his perfect composure are small but real—his hair always pushed back, his smile a little too quick.
He hides it well. But I see it. I think he knows I do.
We find each other in those brief, carefully guarded moments during events. A few breaths snatched behind rose-draped walls or between spiraling stairs. He doesn’t touch me—he can’t—but when our fingers almost graze, my pulse trips like it’s leaping from a cliff.
It’s stupid. Dangerous. I shouldn’t want it. Not with Mallen watching.
Darian’s voice is low against my ear, and no one’s looking. “I can’t keep pretending. I want more with you.”
“We have this,” I whisper, the words brittle in my mouth.
His expression falters, just for a heartbeat. That shine in his eyes dulls. “It’s not alone.”
He leaves before I can say anything else, slipping into the crowd with effortless grace.
He knows how to move through this world—knows how to charm, how to win people over.
Even the nobles who once sneered at him now tilt their heads to listen.
He’s collecting women without even trying—earning glances, curling smiles, the kind of attention that opens doors and silences doubt.
They follow him like moths toward heat, not realizing the fire isn’t meant for them.
It’s impressive. It’s calculated.
He’s everything Mallen is not.
Mallen is beside me before I notice him. His hand grazes the small of my back, not possessive, just present. “He’s playing a long game. Men like that don’t offer affection freely. Be careful where you step.”
I study Darian as he charms a pair of councilwomen. He’s golden, effortless, too practiced. A man who could love you while planning your downfall.
Mallen’s words lodge behind my ribs and twist—tight, instinctive, protective. Because he’s not wrong. And yet—he is.
“You’re leaving,” I say, my voice too soft.
Mallen hums, low and sardonic. “Your father’s requested that I deal with a problem in the west. The labyrinth needs preparation. It’ll be two days, maybe less.”
“You think he’s trying something.”
“I think he’s always plotting. But this time, it’s about you.” Mallen pauses. “Don’t be surprised if he uses my absence to...test you.”
The silence between us is thick. His gaze drifts to my mouth and then back to my eyes. There’s a coil beneath his expression—tight, sparking, volatile. Not just want. Control held by a thread. Something that won’t be named unless I ask for it.
“Will you miss me?” he says lightly.
“I’ll manage.”
His mouth twitches. “But you’ll miss me.”
I should tell him what I’m really thinking. That trust is built, not demanded. But keeping things from me isn’t protection—it’s constraint. And if he wants to keep me safe, he should start by being honest. By telling me everything that is happening and why everything is changing this year.
But then he smiles—soft, dangerous, hungry—and for a moment, I forget every word I rehearsed. Because he looks at me like I’m the last thing tethering him to humanity. Like if I pulled away, he’d stop trying to be good at all.
And I don’t want to lose this. Or damage it.
Whatever this is, however dangerous it might be, it’s mine to navigate.
I’m not ready to tear it apart. Not yet.
I won’t ask for honesty with a blade at his throat.
I’ll wait—watch—decide for myself what parts of him are armor and what parts are weapon.
For now, I choose silence. Not because I’m afraid—but because I’m not done learning him.
I don’t say anything. His fingers linger just a little too long, and then he’s gone. A whisper of black disappearing between columns of silver stone.
I hate that I miss him already.
Darian is there before I can even exhale. “Thank the gods. I thought he’d never leave.” He hands me a glass.
“He’ll be back soon.”
“I don’t like him,” Darian says, smiling with his mouth and not his eyes. “You’re not safe near him.”
“Mallen wouldn’t hurt me,” I whisper, but the words taste like rust.
Darian leans in, voice low. “There are many ways to wound, Azhara.”
My throat tightens.
The way he says it—measured, quiet—sounds rehearsed. Not a warning. A verdict. I glance around, but the room and its decorations offer no comfort. The sunlight is too bright. The shadows too sharp.
“There’s a hunt tomorrow,” he adds. “Ride with me.”
“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.
“You’re riding with me tomorrow, Princess.” His smile returns, soft and certain. “I won’t push. But I won’t give up.”
My head nods before my mind can stop it.
A habit. One I need to break.
“Good,” Darian breathes. “We’ll talk properly. About everything.”
He releases me slowly, fingers sliding away, and guides me back toward the gathering. A few women glance up as we approach, and Darian slips easily into conversation, charming them with effortless grace. I try to match his ease, but I can’t settle. I can’t stop thinking.
My father’s words. Mallen’s silence. The way Mallen watched me with Darian earlier—stone-faced, still, every line of him taut with control. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t lash out. But his eyes followed every movement.
Darian, meanwhile, laughs at some remark, and I feel the ache of possibility in my chest. There’s a version of my life where this moment becomes normal.
Where I choose a future that isn’t trapped in shadows and secrets.
Darian’s right—I don’t need to fear him.
He’s offering freedom, and the fact that I’m thinking about it means something.
The party draws to a close, and the guards appear at my side. I murmur polite farewells and allow them to escort me through the winding halls and back into solitude.
Once, I would have relished the quiet. Now, it feels like exile.
I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the door. Trying to understand what’s happening. Trying to solve the puzzle of this year’s Reaping. Waiting for someone who doesn’t come.
Not Darian.
Not Mallen.
Only silence.
And the weight of choices I don’t yet know how to make.