The Rogue Not Taken

by Sarah MacLean

  No.

  Never.

  King looked to the statue behind them. “What do you know about the Minotaur?”

  The question set her back. She followed his gaze to the beautiful stretch of marble—a naked man with the head of a bull. “I know he was trapped in the labyrinth.”

  “He was kept at the center of an impossible labyrinth, the solution to which was known only by one person.”

  “Ariadne,” she said.

  He raised a brow.

  She blushed. “I know some of it.”

  He took her hand in his, turning it so her palm was open to the air. He dipped a finger into the water and painted the center of her hand with cool drops, the sensations thrumming through her with visceral pleasure. “As the only one who knew the secrets to the labyrinth, Ariadne was tasked with leading the virgin sacrifices to the Minotaur each year to keep the gods happy.”

  “That sounds like a terrible task,” Sophie said.

  “Her father gave it to her because she was too precious for anything else,” King said, tracing the lines on her palm as though learning her own secret labyrinth. “Making her so essential to the process kept her close to home. It had the added bonus of convincing her that she was not worthy of what was beyond the maze walls.”

  Sophie raised a brow. “And was she? Worthy?”

  He leveled her with his green gaze. “More than she could ever know. Beautiful beyond imagination, brilliant, and kind.” Her breath caught at the words as he continued. “The Minotaur never attacked her. It was said that he loved her.”

  He was not talking about her. She was going mad. Sophie cleared her throat. “Alternatively, he was intelligent enough to know that she was his line to dinner.”

  One dark brow rose. “Are you going to let me tell you the story? Or make jokes?”

  She put a hand to her breast. “My apologies, my lord. Of course. Do go on.”

  “On the third year, as the sacrifice approached, Theseus came to the labyrinth.”

  She looked up at the statue. “It seems as though he’ll be trouble.”

  “He vowed to slay the Minotaur, and Ariadne agreed to help him navigate the maze.”

  She snatched her hand back from him, the swirling touch unsettling. “That seems rather cruel, considering the Minotaur’s feelings.”

  “Love makes us do strange things.”

  She knew that better than anyone. “She’d fallen in love with Theseus?” At King’s nod, Sophie added, “He was most definitely trouble. The worst kind.”

  King continued with the story. “Ariadne led her love to the center of the maze, where he and the Minotaur fought.”

  “For their lives,” she offered.

  “You see? You’re not paying close enough attention. Theseus fought for his life,” He shook his head. “But the Minotaur, he fought for Ariadne.”

  At the words, Sophie went still, her gaze finding King’s, watching as he continued. “He fought to be with her in that world he could not escape, willing to take the years of solitude if it meant that he could see her, however fleetingly. She was the reason he lived; and if he could not have her, he did not care if he died. She was the only person in the world who understood him.” Sophie’s breath came faster and faster, and she leaned forward, listening intently. “The only person he’d ever loved.”

  “How tragic,” she whispered.

  “But Theseus didn’t have a lock on the fight—the Minotaur was stronger than ten men,” King said, watching her intently. “Theseus had brought the sword of Aegeus with him, the only weapon that could kill the Minotaur, but he lost it mid-fight.” He pointed to the feet of the statue and Sophie looked to find a sword discarded there, in marble. “The Minotaur would have won, if not for Ariadne. She entered the fray and returned the fallen sword to Theseus.”

  Sophie shook her head. “The poor beast.”

  “Betrayed,” King said, the word rough on his tongue. “By the woman he loved. It’s said that when he saw her choose Theseus, he laid himself down and submitted to the blow.” He paused. “Though I always thought the blow of the sword could not possibly have been as bad as the blow Ariadne dealt.”

  She shook her head, tears on her cheeks. “What a terrible story.”

  He reached up and brushed away her tears. “Death was likely the best outcome—he’d never have been free of the labyrinth, anyway.” There was a long, silent moment before he let her go. “Suffice to say, I have always been partial to the Minotaur.”

  Knowing she shouldn’t, knowing it was a mistake, she reached for him, putting her hand on his warm arm, willing him to look at her. When he didn’t, she came to stand directly in front of him, her skirts brushing against his knees. He did not look up, his gaze locked on her body, staring through it, at the tale he told. At something else.

  “King,” she whispered, and he met her gaze, the sadness in his eyes overwhelming her. Without hesitation, she put one hand to his dark hair, loving the feel of it, silk between her fingers. “What has happened?”

  He closed his eyes at the question, then did the unthinkable, putting his hands to her waist and pulling her closer, pressing his face into her midriff and inhaling, holding her as tight to him as he could.

  Her free hand joined the first, fingers threading through his hair, holding him as well, wanting him, wanting to hear everything he thought, wanting to tell him everything she felt.

  She should tell him she wanted to leave.

  Except here, in this moment, with his hands on her and his breath against her, she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay forever.

  “King,” she whispered.

  He shook his head at his name. “I want you quite desperately, Sophie.”

  Her heart stopped at the words. “You do?”

  He looked up at her, handsome and devastating. “I do,” he said. “I’ve wanted you from the start, you know. From the moment I nearly hit you in the head with a boot.”

  She smiled, small and sad. “No, you didn’t.”

  He tilted his head. “Maybe not just then. But definitely by the time I found you drinking with Warnick in the stables.”

  “In your footman’s livery?”

  “Ah,” he said. “So you admit he is my footman.”

  “Never.” She laughed, loving the feel of him. Loving the look of him.

  Loving him.

  She took a deep breath. “King, what—”

  “She didn’t love me,” he said softly.

  Her brow furrowed. “Who?”

  “Lorna. She wanted the title and nothing else.”

  She couldn’t believe it, not after the way he’d spoken about her. “How do you know that?”

  “Because I do.” He released her and stood putting distance between them. “The line ends with me,” he whispered, and she ached at the words even as he continued. “It was so much more than revenge. It was penance. I swore off marriage because I couldn’t bear the thought of betraying the girl I’d once loved.” Sophie ached at the words, tears threatening as he continued, devastating betrayal in his tone. “But now . . . she wanted to marry me for money. For title. For security. She lied to me.”

  He turned away from Sophie, making his way to the labyrinth’s path. He turned back before he entered the maze and looked at her for a long while, anger and frustration and disappointment in his gaze. “I thought she was the only person who had ever wanted me for me. And now I know the truth. She wanted me for my title and my fortune. Not for me. There’s never been anyone who wanted me.”

  Sophie did not hesitate, a desperate need for him to hear the truth propelling her closer to him. “That’s not true.” She wanted him. Desperately.

  He understood, his gaze turning predatorial. He, the hunter. She, the prey. And then he said, “I can’t love you.”

  A single tear slipped down her cheek as she nodded. “I know.”

  “I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay here. I want to keep you here, at the center of this labyrinth.
Even though it’s the worst possible thing I can think to do to you.”

  “I don’t think I can survive your betrayal.”

  He came to her then, quick and purposeful, lifting her face to his, staring deep into her eyes. “I don’t want you to go,” he said. “I want you to stay.”

  “And what happens if I do? What is my life if I stay?” Her throat ached with the words. Because she knew the answer. She knew he’d never be able to give her what she wanted. What she’d always wanted and somehow had never realized she wanted.

  He would never love her. He would never marry her. They would never have children, despite her ability to see them quite clearly, little dark-haired cherubs, with his beautiful green eyes and dimples that showed when they smiled.

  He didn’t ask her what she saw. What she wanted. He already knew. “Sophie . . .” he started, and she heard the knowledge. Heard the denial. She didn’t want to hear the words.

  Instead, she reached for him, her fingers trailing down his cheek, drawing him closer to her. “Tomorrow,” she whispered, so close to his lips that it felt as though he had spoken instead. “What if we return to the world tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” he replied, the word somehow a vow and a prayer and a curse all at once. “Yes,” he said again. “Tomorrow.”

  And then he lifted her in his arms and carried her back to the fountain.

  And she knew, this place, this man—he would always be home.

  Chapter 18

  LYNE LABYRINTH LOVERS!

  He knew it was a mistake, that he was the worst kind of scoundrel, taking what she offered. He didn’t deserve her. And she deserved infinitely better.

  But the knowledge didn’t stop him.

  Instead, it pushed him forward, the knowing that he shouldn’t touch her. The wanting her in spite of his keen awareness that he couldn’t have her. His path had been set out for him, a long, straight road without room for diversion. No place for the emotions she tempted, no place for the beauty she brought with her, for the promises she made.

  She called to him from beyond his labyrinth, tempting him with the promise of something more, making him forget—almost—what his life was to be.

  What is my life if I stay?

  The question had been rhetorical when she’d asked it; she’d known the truth, that he couldn’t give her what she wished.

  He couldn’t give her love.

  And Sophie would want love. She’d want it pure and unfettered, given freely, along with all its trappings. She’d want the marriage and children and happiness and promise that came with it.

  He could see it, the life she wanted. The line of little girls, blue-eyed and brown-haired, in love with books and strawberry tarts. For a moment, he imagined them smiling at him the way their mother did, filled with happiness and hope.

  For a moment, he let himself believe he might be able to give it to her.

  But she would want love, and he would never be able to give it.

  He didn’t have it to give anymore. And those children, they would never be his.

  He set her down on the edge of the fountain, coming to his knees, as though she was Ariadne and he the Minotaur, worshipping at her feet, adoring her even as he knew she could not survive in the labyrinth, and he could not survive beyond it.

  “Tell me about last night,” he said softly, looking up at her, his hands at the hem of her skirts.

  “What—” She caught her breath as his fingers explored the skin of her ankles. “What about it?”

  “I hated it,” he said. “I hated stopping.”

  She pressed her lips into a thin, straight line. “I hated that you stopped.”

  His hands were beneath her skirts, pushing them back, farther and farther, up and over her knees. He pressed his lips to the inside of her knee, swirling his tongue there, loving the little gasp of surprised pleasure that came at the touch. “I hate that I will have to stop today, as well,” he whispered at her skin.

  One of her hands came to his head, fingers threading into his hair as he began to kiss over her thighs, pushing her skirts higher, bunching the fabric on her lap as he bent over her, pressing long, hot kisses to soft, undiscovered skin—skin no one but he had ever touched. “King.” She sighed. “I won’t stop you.”

  He closed his eyes at the words even as he pressed her thighs apart, making room for himself between them. He pressed a long, lingering kiss to the soft skin of her inner thigh, drawing a little cry from her as her fingers clenched in his hair and held him to her.

  She was perfect.

  He smiled against her skin, scraping his teeth there at that private, untouched place. “You won’t stop me from kissing you here?”

  She opened her thighs wider, gloriously. “No,” she whispered.

  He stroked higher with one hand, his fingers finding soft curls that he’d touched before but never seen. “Wider,” he said, and the word came like a demand. “I want you open to this place.”

  She did as she was told, opening herself to his touch and his gaze, and he sat back on his heels, unable to stop himself from marveling at her, perfect and pink and his for the taking.

  His, full stop.

  He looked up at her, loving the flames in her cheeks—loving that even embarrassment was not enough to keep her from him. “Wider,” he said, letting the demand curl between them.

  Damned if she didn’t obey, making his mouth water.

  “Christ,” he whispered, reaching for her, running his fingers softly through those curls until they found the wet heat of her. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  She looked away. “It’s not true.”

  He hated that she didn’t believe him.

  “I know I said I wouldn’t tell you that. I know I said I would do as you asked, and find another way to compliment you, but I can’t.” He came up on his knees again, reaching for her, lifting her gaze to his. “You are beautiful, Sophie. More beautiful than you can imagine.”

  Before she could deny it, he took her mouth in a long, wicked kiss, as though they had an eternity to explore each other. As though time did not pass in the labyrinth. And it was an exploration, a long, lingering journey of tongue and teeth and lips, of sighs and cries and growls that promised more than they could ever deliver.

  Because he would not ruin her.

  If it killed him, he would not ruin her.

  He broke the kiss and ran his lips over her cheek, finding the soft skin beneath her ear, where he lingered before saying, “It’s true.”

  She sighed, but he could tell she did not believe him. “I want you naked here, in this place, on this grass open to nothing but the sun and the sky and this statue and my mouth. I want to explore every inch of you, and learn the sounds you make when you come, hard and fast and yes, love, beautiful.”

  He sucked on the lobe of one ear, long and lingering until she groaned her pleasure, her hands stroking across his chest, down his torso. “King,” she whispered.

  He grasped one of her hands and guided it to where he strained, hard and desperate, against the fabric of his trousers. “Feel what you do to me,” he whispered. “You make me ache for you. You make me want to lay you down and take you until there is nothing left but us and the labyrinth.”

  Her eager fingers explored. “Yes,” she said without hesitation, flattening her palm against him and making him want to show her precisely how to make him wild.

  Instead, he shook his head and pulled her away from him. “No. I won’t ruin you, Sophie.”

  Her brow furrowed. “But . . .”

  “This is not for me, love. This is for you.”

  She shook her head. “I want it to be for us both.”

  He couldn’t let it be for them both. If he did, he might never let her leave.

  Hating the thought, King returned his touch to her core, parting the folds there, baring her to the sun and air, loving her heat, her softness, her scent. “You’re so wet,” he marveled, dipping a single finger inside her
, adoring the way she responded, rocking toward him, eager for more of him. And he was so eager to give her more.

  “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t not taste you.”

  He pressed her thighs wide and leaned in, painting her pretty pink center with his tongue, adoring the feel of her against him, the way she sighed and moved and guided him without even knowing what she did. He lifted his lips from her and blew a long stream of air directly on the center of her, adoring her cry of pleasure.

  Her fingers slid into his hair, clutching him close, pressing him to the open, aching center of her, using him as he tasted her again and again, losing himself in her. He licked and sucked and stroked with tongue and fingers until she rocked against him, her breath coming faster and faster, her hips working to find that magnificent purchase that would give her release.

  And just before she found it, he stopped, lifting his mouth from her, knowing he was the worst kind of ass when she cried his name in frustration. He pressed his lips to the silk of her inner thigh once, twice, as she settled before looking up at her, finding her blue eyes glittering with desire and something more primitive. Something like need.

  “Poor love,” he said, the taste of her on his lips, teasing him as much as the feel of his words against the hot center of her teased her.

  “King,” she groaned. “What are you doing?”

  “I want you to talk.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Talk?”

  “I want you to tell me all the things you desire.”

  “I desire . . .”

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  He leaned in and licked, long and slow, and she sighed her pleasure. “Please.”

  He lingered over the place where she strained for his touch. “I like it when you beg, love. What more do you desire?”

  “That.”

  He blew a long stream of air across her aching skin. “What, precisely?”

  “Don’t make me say it,” she said.

  “Why?” he teased. “Because ladies don’t say such things?”

  She laughed at that, a little huff of air that made him adore her even more. “Ladies most definitely do not say such things.”