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The heating in the dorms was notoriously temperamental and overnight, the radiator had evidently decided to take a holiday. The air in the room was crisp, biting at the tip of her nose. Elain burrowed deeper into her duvet, pulling the blanket up to her chin, seeking the lingering warmth of her own body.

As the fog of sleep cleared, the memories of the previous night rushed back; not in a linear narrative, but in a series of vivid, sensory flashes.

The smell of cedar and old leather.

The vibration of a heavy truck engine beneath the soles of her feet.

The orange flare of a lighter in the dark.

"I have death hands, Elain."

Elain's eyes snapped open wide. She rolled over, her heart performing a sudden, clumsy somersault in her chest. It hadn't been a dream. She hadn't concocted the entire scenario in a fever of loneliness and stress-baking.

Azriel.

She reached a hand out from the warmth of the covers, fumbling blindly on the bedside table until her fingers closed around the cold metal of her phone. She pulled it into the sanctuary of her duvet fort, the screen lighting up the small, dark space with an artificial glow.

There it was.

Azriel: I'm back at Rhys's.

Elain: Good.

Elain: Thank you for the evening. You made me smile.

And then, the response that had come in just as she was drifting off, the words that had woven themselves into her dreams.

Azriel: I'm looking forward to seeing you smile again.

Elain stared at the pixels. She read the sentence once, twice, a third time. It was a simple sentence. Grammatically standard. Polite, even. But the weight behind it felt heavy, significant in a way that made her chest tight.

I'm looking forward to seeing you smile again.

It wasn't a hypothetical. It wasn't a 'hope you smile again.' It was an intention. A promise. He planned to see her. He planned to be the cause of it.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. The cursor blinked at her, a rhythmic demand for a response. She should say something. A simple emoji? Too childish. A 'Me too'? Too eager. A witty retort? Absolutely not!

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She was paralyzed by the sudden, terrifying reality of being seen. For months, she had been invisible, a ghost haunting the library stacks. Now, she was a person who had exchanged numbers with the most intimidatingly beautiful man on campus and he was looking forward to seeing her. Smiling.

"Oh, gods," she whispered into the stale air of her duvet cocoon.

She clicked the phone off, leaving the message unanswered for now. It felt safer that way. If she didn't reply immediately, she couldn't ruin it. She couldn't say the wrong thing and watch the delicate, blooming thing between them wither before it had even taken root.

Elain threw the covers off, braving the arctic air of the room. She moved quickly, her bare feet padding across the cold floor. She grabbed her robe and wrapped it tight around her, shuffling toward the small bathroom.

The shower was a mercy. The water pressure was weak, but the heat was constant. Elain stood under the spray for a long time, letting the steam fill the tiny cubicle, softening the edges of reality. She scrubbed her skin, washing away the hairspray from the party, the scent of the champagne she'd barely touched and the lingering, phantom sensation of the cold wind on her legs.

She closed her eyes, tilting her head back. In the darkness behind her eyelids, she saw him again. She saw the way the dashboard lights had carved shadows into the hollows of his cheeks. She saw the scarred knuckles resting on the steering wheel. She saw the way he had looked at her when he asked for her number—not with the predatory assessment of the men her father usually introduced her to, but with a quiet, intense curiosity.

You made me smile.

She hadn't lied. She couldn't remember the last time she had laughed like that, freely, without the weight of expectations pressing down on her lungs. With Azriel, in the cab of that stolen truck, she hadn't been Elain the disappointment, or Elain the merger asset. She had just been Elain.

She turned the water off, the sudden silence of the bathroom ringing in her ears.

Dressed in thick fleece leggings and an oversized cream sweater that hung off one shoulder, Elain felt comfortable. She towel dried her hair, letting the golden-brown waves fall naturally around her face. She didn't bother with makeup.

She made herself a cup of chamomile tea, cradling the warm mug between her palms as she moved to her desk. She watered her plants methodically, checking each one with the focused attention of a nurse doing rounds. The peace lily on her desk was drooping slightly, a silent accusation.

"I know, I know," she murmured, tilting her watering can. "I was distracted."

She checked the calendar tacked to her wall. December 22nd. No classes. No exams. Just the vast, empty stretch of winter break. Usually, she would be at the estate by now, helping arrange the poinsettias in the grand foyer, wrapping gifts in silver paper, listening to her father talk about quarterly reports over breakfast.

A pang of guilt, sharp and familiar, twisted in her gut. She pushed it down. She couldn't go back. Not yet.

Her stomach gave a low, protesting rumble. The fridge in her kitchenette was a tragic landscape of condiments and a single, questionably dated yogurt.

"Right," Elain sighed, setting down her tea. "Provisions."

She pulled on her heavy coat, winding a thick scarf around her neck until she looked more like a fabric cocoon than a human being and headed out into the winter wasteland.

The campus was a ghost town.

Stepping out of the dormitory building was like stepping into a snow globe that someone had shaken and then abandoned. The paths had been shoveled, piling dirty white mounds high on either side of the walkways. The trees were skeletal black fingers reaching up into a sky the color of old pearls.

It was beautiful in a desolate sort of way. Elain walked with her hands shoved deep in her pockets, her breath puffing out in white clouds. She liked the anonymity of the break. She liked that she could walk to the convenience store without running into anyone from her botany cohort.

The university convenience store was a beacon of fluorescent mediocrity on the edge of the quad. The bell chimed cheerfully as she pushed the door open, a jarring sound in the quiet morning.

The clerk—a bored-looking student with headphones dangling around his neck—barely glanced up from his phone. Elain drifted through the aisles, the hum of the refrigerators oddly comforting. She picked up a basket. A bag of pretzels. A package of dark chocolate almonds. An apple and a box of chamomile tea to replace the tin she'd depleted last week.

She reached the dairy section and paused.

Banana milk.

It was a guilty pleasure, sugary and artificial and bright yellow, but it tasted like childhood. Like Saturday mornings before her mother got sick. She grabbed two bottles.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket just as she reached the counter.

Elain juggled the basket and her wallet, fishing the device out. The screen flashed: Feyre.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second. A part of her wanted to ignore it, to protect the fragile peace she had found this morning. But ignoring Feyre was like ignoring a sunrise; eventually, the light would find you.

"Hello?" Elain answered, tucking the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she placed the banana milk on the counter.

"Elain?" Feyre's voice was breathless, as if she had been pacing. "Oh, thank god. You didn't text last night. I was... I was worried."

Elain winced, guilt flaring. "I'm sorry. I got back and just... fell asleep. I was exhausted."

"But you got back okay? The Uber was safe?"

The lie tasted like ash on her tongue. "Yes. Safe. The driver was... very professional."

Professional. She thought of Azriel crushing a cigarette into the snow because she said it smelled. She thought of him stealing his best friend's truck to drive her across the city.

"That's good," Feyre exhaled, relief evident. "I'm so glad."

Elain paid the clerk, offering him a polite smile that he didn't return, and gathered her plastic bag. She pushed back out into the cold, the wind immediately biting at her cheeks.

"How are you?" Elain asked, spotting a metal bench near the store. It was covered in a thin layer of frost, but she sat down anyway, needing to ground herself.

"I'm... I'm okay," Feyre said. There was a pause, weighted with hesitation. "Listen, Elain. I wanted to apologize."

"Feyre, you don't have to—"

"I do," Feyre cut in, her voice firm but gentle. "I shouldn't have ambushed you like that last night. With Dad. I know how you feel about it, and I let Nesta push the conversation and... I felt terrible after you left. It was my birthday and I made you feel like you had to run away."

Elain stared at the frozen quad. A solitary crow landed on a nearby branch, shaking loose a dusting of snow that fell like confetti.

"You didn't make me run away," Elain said softly. She opened one of the banana milks, the plastic cap cracking satisfyingly. "I just... I couldn't be there, Feyre. I couldn't sit there and pretend everything is fine when Dad and everything..."

"I know," Feyre said, her voice small and sad. "I told him, you know. After you left. I called him this morning and told him that if he pressures you about the Vanserra dinner again, I'm not coming home for Christmas either."

Elain's chest tightened, emotion clogging her throat. "Feyre, no. You love Christmas at the estate."

"I love my sister more," Feyre said simply.

Tears pricked Elain's eyes, hot and sudden. She blinked them away, taking a sip of the sweet, yellow milk to steady her voice. "Thank you. But please, don't start a war for me. I'm fine here. Really. The quiet is... nice. I have my plants. I have my books."

"And you have friends," Feyre added, her tone brightening slightly. "You said you have friends nearby? Nuala and... Cerberus?"

Elain let out a wet laugh despite herself. "Cerridwen. And yes. I have friends."

"Well, you have new friends now too," Feyre said, enthusiasm returning to her voice. "Everyone loved you last night. Even Amren said you had 'acceptable composure,' which is basically a marriage proposal from her. And Cassian thinks you're hilarious, though I have no idea why since you barely spoke to him."

Elain smiled, tracing the condensation on the milk bottle with one gloved finger. "They seem... intense. But loyal. You're lucky, Feyre. You found a family that chooses you."

"You can choose them too," Feyre said softly, earnestly. "Rhys meant what he said. You're always welcome."

Elain fell silent. She thought of the text message sitting on her phone, still unanswered. I'm looking forward to seeing you smile again. Maybe she had already started choosing, in small, terrifying ways.

"Speaking of your friends," Elain started, her heart giving a nervous little flutter. She needed to ask. The question had been gnawing at her since she saw the blonde woman drape herself over Azriel's shoulders at the party. She tried to make her voice sound casual, breezy. Just normal sisterly gossip. "That woman... Mor? The one in the red coat?"

"Oh, Mor!" Feyre laughed, warm and fond. "She's a force of nature, isn't she?"

"She is. She's... incredibly beautiful." Elain picked at a loose thread on her glove, her pulse quickening. "I mean, stunning. Does she... does she have a partner? A boyfriend? I imagine she has people lining up around the block."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. A beat of silence that lasted just a second too long, and Elain's stomach dropped.

"It's complicated," Feyre said finally, carefully.

Complicated. Elain's chest constricted. Complicated usually meant 'Yes, but we're fighting,' or 'Yes, but it's a secret.' Complicated could mean Azriel.

"Oh?" Elain managed, her throat tight. "How so?"

"Well," Feyre's voice dropped, becoming conspiratorial. "It's not really a big secret or anything, and we don't make a big deal about it because Mor values her privacy, but... she's not into men, Elain. And complicated because her family is very much traditional.“

Elain froze. The banana milk bottle paused halfway to her mouth.

"She's... not?"

"No," Feyre said gently. "She's single right now, but she's definitely not looking for a boyfriend."

The relief that washed over Elain was so profound it nearly made her dizzy. The knot of jealousy that had been sitting heavy in her stomach since the previous night unspooled instantly, replaced by a warm, buoyant lightness that made her want to laugh.

Mor wasn't his girlfriend.

The touching, the smiles, the easy closeness. It was safety. It was family. It wasn't romance.

"Oh," Elain breathed out, unable to suppress the smile that spread across her face. "That's... wow. But I feel bad about her family situation.“

"Yeah," Feyre chuckled, clearly amused by her reaction. "Surprised?"

"A little," Elain admitted. She thought of Mor's vibrant energy, her confidence, the way she commanded space without apology. "But... honestly? That makes perfect sense. And it's wonderful. She's far too magnificent for most men anyway."

Feyre burst out laughing, the sound bright and delighted. "You are absolutely right. I'm going to tell her you said that. She'll adore you."

"Please do," Elain said, giggling along with her.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, connected by the invisible thread of the phone line.

"I'm glad to hear you laugh," Feyre said softly, warmth saturating every word. "It sounds like music."

Elain's smile softened, her heart swelling with affection for her sister. "Thanks, Feyre."

"Go get warm," Feyre instructed. "It's freezing out there. And eat something real, not just banana milk."

"I have pretzels," Elain protested weakly.

"Elain."

"Fine. I'll eat the apple too."

"Good. Call me later?"

"I will. Say hi to... everyone for me."

"I will. Love you."

"Love you too."

Elain hung up the phone. She sat on the freezing bench for a moment longer, clutching the half-empty bottle of banana milk. The campus was still empty, the air was still frigid and her future was still uncertain.

But Mor wasn't dating Azriel.

And that small, ridiculous fact made the world feel a little less heavy.

The bench beneath her was conducting the freezing temperature straight through her fleece leggings, and the wind had picked up, swirling loose snow around her boots. Logic dictated that she should return to the dorms immediately. Her nose was numb, and the tips of her fingers were beginning to sting despite her gloves.

But the air was fresh. It was sharp and clean, scrubbing the inside of her lungs in a way the recycled, overheated air of the dormitory never could. It felt like a reset button.

She took another sip of the banana milk, the artificial sweetness coating her tongue, and unlocked her phone.

Her thumb hovered over the message thread. The last bubble was still there, waiting.

Azriel: I'm looking forward to seeing you smile again.

The cursor blinked. A rhythmic, demanding pulse.

She had to answer. Leaving it on 'read' felt rude, especially after last night. But words felt clumsy. Every sentence she drafted in her head sounded wrong. Me too seemed desperate. I smile all the time was a lie. Thank you was too formal, closing a door she desperately wanted to keep open.

She bit her lip, looking down at the metal table beside the bench. The bottle of banana milk sat there, a bright, cheerful splash of yellow against the gray metal and white snow. It was ridiculous. It was childish. It was exactly the kind of thing the "Shadowsinger"—a man who seemingly subsisted on black coffee and brooding silence—would probably find perplexing.

On impulse, before her anxiety could talk her out of it, Elain opened the camera app. She framed the shot carefully: the half-empty bottle of fluorescent yellow milk, the bleak winter campus in the soft-focus background and her own gloved hand resting beside it.

Click.

She didn't add a caption. She didn't add an emoji. She just hit send, her heart hammering as the image swooshed away into the digital ether.

Elain put the phone down on the bench beside her, face up and stared at it. Her heart was doing something strange and fluttery against her ribs. What if he thought it was stupid? What if he didn't reply? What if he was currently showing it to Cassian and laughing at the girl drinking a toddler's beverage in sub-zero temperatures?

Buzz.

Elain snatched the phone up so fast she almost knocked the milk bottle off the bench.

Azriel: Is that... banana milk?

A small, involuntary giggle escaped her lips, visible as a white puff in the cold air.

Elain: It is.

The reply came almost instantly. Three little dots dancing on the screen, then:

Azriel: I haven't seen one of those since I was twelve.

Azriel: I assumed you drank exclusively herbal tea.

Elain laughed aloud this time, the sound startling a squirrel foraging near a nearby trash can. It was so easy. Why was this so easy? Talking to him in person had paralyzed her, turning her brain into a static-filled mess. But here, behind the safety of the screen, he wasn't the terrifyingly handsome mystery man. He was just... a person. A person with a dry sense of humor who texted back immediately.

Elain: I contain multitudes. And it's delicious, actually.

Azriel: If you say so. Just don't get a sugar crash before noon.

She was grinning. She was grinning so hard her cheeks hurt and she was entirely alone in the middle of a frozen campus. She brought a gloved fingernail to her mouth, chewing nervously on the edge as she waited for the next vibration.

Azriel: Where are you? That background looks like the quad near the convenience store.

Elain: It is. I'm sitting on a bench outside.

Azriel: It‘s freezing.

Elain: The fresh air is nice! It wakes you up.

Azriel: It's going to give you a cold. Go inside.

Elain stared at the command. It wasn't a suggestion; it was an order, delivered with the same quiet authority he had used when he told her to wait last night.

Heat flared in her stomach, not anger, but something darker, more confusing. It was a thrill. A dangerous, unfamiliar thrill that made her want to push back just to see what would happen.

She didn't know how to do this. She didn't know how to flirt. Her romantic history was embarrassingly sparse; just Graysen, an old family friend her father had practically gift-wrapped for her. Graysen was safe. Graysen wore knit sweaters and talked about his golf handicap and always, always opened doors. Dating Graysen had been like eating plain oatmeal: acceptable, inoffensive, and utterly forgettable.

But this? This pull toward a man who had scars on his knuckles and secrets in his eyes? This was entirely off-script.

She remembered her mother, before the illness took her. She remembered sitting at her mother's vanity while her mother brushed her hair with gentle strokes, whispering lessons about propriety and attraction. Be demure, Elain. Be soft. Men like to feel needed, but never let them think you're difficult. Her mother had spent years trying to mold both her and Nesta into perfect society wives, teaching them which fork to use, how to laugh quietly at jokes that weren't funny, how to disappear into the background when men were talking about important things.

Elain had learned those lessons well. Too well.

But she didn't want to disappear with Azriel. She wanted to be seen.

His bossiness, that casual assumption that he could tell her what to do, sparked something reckless in her. He wasn't her father. He wasn't her keeper. And she wasn't the obedient daughter anymore.

Her fingers moved before her brain could catch up.

Elain: Yes, daddy. Going inside now.

She hit send.

She took a triumphant sip of her banana milk.

And then, approximately three seconds later, her brain caught up with her fingers.

The bottle slipped from her hand, hitting the metal bench with a hollow thunk.

Daddy.

She stared at the word glowing on the screen, her blood draining so fast she felt lightheaded.

"Oh no," she whispered, her voice trembling with horror. "Oh no, no, no."

She hadn't meant it like that. She had meant it sarcastically. Like a petulant child mocking a parent. Yes, father. Yes, sir. It was a retort to his overbearing command, nothing more.

But she remembered. The memory hit her like a physical slap.

Three weeks ago, huddled in a corner booth at the campus coffee shop, Nuala and Cerridwen had been giggling over someone's Instagram, their heads bent together conspiratorially.

"He is such a zaddy," Nuala had groaned, fanning herself dramatically.

"Total daddy energy," Cerridwen had agreed, sighing dreamily.

Elain had looked up from her botany textbook, genuinely confused. "Why are you calling a twenty-five-year-old actor your father?"

The twins had looked at her with identical expressions of pitying amusement.

"Oh, Elain," Cerridwen had said, trying not to laugh. "Sweet, innocent Elain."

"It's not about being a father," Nuala had explained, her eyes dancing with mischief. "It's... it's a vibe. It's sexual. It means he's dominant. Commanding. It means you want him to... take charge. In... various contexts."

Elain had been mortified then, her face burning as she'd buried it back in her textbook.

She was catatonic now.

She had just called Azriel, the man she had been secretly in love with for months, the man who was currently being protective of her, the man who made her heart do acrobatics just by existing… daddy.

She frantically tapped the screen, desperately searching for an 'unsend' option.

Read.

Her phone buzzed.

Elain actually flinched, as if the device had delivered an electric shock. She peered at the screen through her fingers, one eye squeezed shut like she was watching a horror movie.

Azriel: Hmm.

Just Hmm.

Elain made a sound somewhere between a whimper and a groan, burying her face in both hands. What did Hmm mean? Was he disgusted? Was he laughing at her? Was he telling Cassian and Rhysand right now? You won't believe what Feyre's weird sister just texted me.

Or—and this thought made her entire body flush hot despite the frigid air—did he like it?

The possibility made her want to melt into the snow and disappear forever.

She couldn't reply. The only logical solution was to throw her phone into the nearest snowbank, change her name to something ungooglable, and transfer to a university in a different hemisphere. Maybe Hybern.

The phone buzzed again.

Elain lowered her hands just enough to peek at the screen.

Azriel: What are your plans for the rest of the day? Besides freezing to death, I mean.

Elain stared at the message, relief flooding through her so intensely her knees went weak.

He had changed the subject. He had moved right past the catastrophic slip-up as if it hadn't happened. Or perhaps he was letting her off the hook. Giving her an out.

Gratitude, immense and overwhelming, washed over her.

Elain: Just... catching up on some reading. Maybe going to the library later.

She typed it with shaking fingers, desperate to sound normal. See? I am normal. I am a regular university student who goes to the library and reads books and definitely does NOT accidentally proposition men via text message.

Azriel: You know that patient I mentioned?

Elain frowned for a second, her brain sluggish with residual embarrassment. Then she remembered. The fern. The dying plant he had mentioned in the truck.

Elain: The one on death's door?

Azriel: The very same. I don't think it's going to survive another night in my apartment. It's looking gray. Grim, actually.

Azriel: Do you mind if I bring it over to you today? Emergency transfer?

Elain's heart stopped, then restarted at triple speed.

Today.

He wanted to come over today.

She looked down at herself. She was wearing fleece leggings that had seen better days, an oversized unattractive sweater and her hair was currently being whipped into a wild tangle by the wind. She looked like a bog witch who had just emerged from a winter hibernation.

And her room. Oh gods, her room.

She had left it in a state of post-party depression. There were clothes piled on the chair. Open textbooks scattered across the floor. Her bed was an unmade nest of tangled blankets and too many pillows. It wasn't dirty, exactly, but it was chaotic. Personal. It was not a space you invited the most beautiful man in the world into.

Elain: Sure! When were you thinking?

Azriel: I need to shower and grab Cassian's keys again. Maybe an hour? Is that okay?

An hour. Sixty minutes.

She could rebuild Tamlin’s Spring Court in sixty minutes if she was motivated enough. And right now, she was extremely motivated.

Elain: Perfect. You're coming to the dorms?

Azriel: Yeah. I'll text when I'm downstairs.

Elain: Okay! See you then.

She added a smiley face emoji at the last second, then immediately deleted it. Then added it again. Then deleted it again and just hit send on the plain text.

Elain shoved the phone into her pocket and ran.

She didn't walk back to the dorms. She sprinted, her boots slipping slightly on the icy path, her breath coming in white gasps. She burst through the lobby doors like she was being chased, startling the RA at the front desk.

"You okay?" he called after her.

"FINE!" Elain shouted over her shoulder, already hitting the stairwell door because waiting for the elevator would waste precious seconds.

She took the stairs two at a time, her thighs burning by the time she reached the fourth floor. She fumbled with her key card, her fingers numb and clumsy and finally got the door open.

She stood in the doorway, surveying the disaster zone that was Room 402.

"Okay," she breathed, tossing her coat onto the bed. "Okay. Priorities."

She grabbed her laundry basket and began what could only be described as aggressive tidying. Clothes on the chair? Into the closet. Books on the floor? Stacked with aggressive precision on the desk. Loose papers covered in doodles and half finished essays? Drawer. Candle wax drippings on the windowsill? Scraped off with a butter knife.

She stripped the bed with the efficiency of a hospital nurse, yanking the duvet smooth and tucking the corners with military precision. She fluffed the pillows, arranged them artfully, then rearranged them because the first arrangement looked "trying too hard."

She opened the window for exactly thirty seconds, letting the fresh air cycle through and chase away the stale smell of sleep, then slammed it shut before all her heat escaped.

She grabbed her watering can and speed-watered her plants, whispering frantic apologies.

"Look alive," she hissed at her peace lily. "We have company. Make me look competent."

Room: Acceptable.

Elain: Disaster.

She checked her phone. Forty minutes left.

She stripped off the leggings and the sweater like they were contaminated. She stood in front of her open closet in just her underwear and a camisole, staring at her limited options with the focus of a general planning a military campaign. Her underwear wasn't pleasing either. She sighed and then realized. Get a grip, Elain. It's not like you're going to strip for him. He's only bringing a plant over.

It couldn't look like she tried. If she wore a dress, it would scream "I'm expecting a date." If she stayed in loungewear, it looked like she didn't care. She needed the mythical middle ground: I just happen to look effortlessly beautiful while casually existing in my own space.

She pulled out a pair of high-waisted jeans, the good ones that made her legs look longer and fit perfectly without being uncomfortable. Then, a sweater. Not the oversized one. She chose a soft, cream colored cashmere knit that she'd gotten as a gift from her mother three Christmases ago. It was fitted enough to have shape, but soft enough to look touchable. The neckline was wide, showing the elegant line of her collarbone and one shoulder.

She pulled it on, the fabric whispering against her skin.

She looked in the mirror.

Good. Cozy but intentional. Approachable but pretty.

She rushed to the bathroom.

Teeth: brushed. Again.

Face: She had washed it this morning, but now she applied a light layer of moisturizer that smelled like roses. A tiny dab of concealer under her eyes to hide the evidence of her restless night. Mascara just one coat. Just enough to make her lashes look naturally dark and curled. A touch of cream blush on her cheeks. And finally, tinted lip balm. Rose colored, subtle.

She brushed her hair until it gleamed, letting the waves fall over her shoulders in what she hoped looked effortless. She spritzed a small amount of perfume—jasmine and honeysuckle—into the air and walked through the mist.

She stepped back into the main room, catching her reflection in the mirror by the door.

She looked... pretty. Soft. Like herself, but the best version.

She checked her phone. Twelve minutes.

She stood in the center of her room, her heart racing. Everything was ready. The room was clean. It smelled like flowers and fresh laundry. She looked presentable.

Now she just had to figure out how to act normal when he arrived.

She sat on the edge of her bed. No, that looked too inviting, too intimate.

She moved to her desk chair. No, too studious, too formal.

She tried leaning casually against the wall near her bookshelf. Absolutely not. She looked like she was posing for an album cover.

She finally settled on sitting cross-legged on her bed with a book open in her lap—The Hidden Life of Trees—trying to look absorbed and naturally beautiful.

She read the same sentence four times without comprehending a single word.

Her phone buzzed.

Azriel: I'm downstairs.

Elain's stomach did a complicated flip.

This was it.

She closed the book, stood up, smoothed her hands down the front of her jeans one more time, and took a deep breath.

Just be normal, she told herself. Just be Elain.

She opened her door and headed for the elevator, her heart beating a rhythm that felt dangerously close to hope.

The elevator descent felt agonizingly slow, each floor number ticking down like a countdown to something momentous. Fourth floor. Third. Second.

Elain caught her reflection in the brushed metal doors, wide eyes, flushed cheeks, hands clasped nervously in front of her. She looked soft. She looked scared. She felt like she was vibrating out of her skin.

Ding.

The doors slid open.

Elain stepped into the lobby, her eyes immediately finding the glass doors and the figure standing just beyond them.

Azriel.

He was leaning against Cassian's truck, one ankle crossed over the other, looking completely unbothered by the biting wind. He wore a simple black hoodie layered under a dark jacket, and black jeans that should probably be illegal. It was casual but on him, it looked like armor.

And cradled in his large, scarred hands like it was something precious and fragile, was a terracotta pot.

Elain pushed through the heavy glass doors, the cold air immediately slapping her face. Azriel looked up as she approached, and his eyes did a slow, deliberate sweep of her; taking in the jeans, the cashmere sweater, the loose hair tumbling over her shoulders.

Something shifted in his expression. Something warm.

He straightened up from the truck.

"Hi," Elain said. Her voice came out smaller than she intended, nearly swallowed by the wind.

"Hi," Azriel replied, his voice that low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the pavement beneath her boots.

The silence stretched for a beat, thick and loaded. Elain's gaze darted to his face, then to his boots, then to the terracotta pot in his hands, and—

Her eyes widened.

All thoughts of embarrassing text messages evaporated instantly, replaced by pure, unadulterated horticultural horror.

"Oh my god," Elain breathed, stepping forward without thinking. She reached out, her fingers hovering over the sad, brown-crusted fronds. "Azriel."

"I warned you," he said and for the first time since she'd met him, he sounded genuinely defensive. He looked down at the plant with an expression somewhere between guilt and resignation. "I told you I have death hands."

"That was probably a thriving plant at some point," Elain said, her voice climbing with distress. She gently touched one of the brittle leaves. It crumbled slightly under her fingertip, disintegrating like ash. "Look at this soil—it's bone dry. Completely desiccated. And these leaf tips? It's been in direct sunlight, hasn't it?"

Azriel shifted his weight, looking remarkably like a large, dangerous man being scolded by his grandmother. "It... might have been."

"Ferns hate direct sunlight," Elain said, her tone sharp with passion. She looked up at him, her eyes flashing. "They're forest floor plants, Azriel. They need dappled light and humidity. You basically put a vampire on a tanning bed."

A slow, devastating smile spread across Azriel's face. It started at the corner of his mouth and grew until it crinkled the corners of his eyes, transforming his entire face from quietly handsome to absolutely unfair.

"A vampire on a tanning bed," he repeated, his voice warm with amusement. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "So what's the verdict, Doctor? First-degree murder?"

"Manslaughter at best," Elain muttered, though she was fighting her own smile now. The righteous indignation was warring with the fluttery feeling his laugh gave her. "Criminal negligence."

She looked back at the plant, her nurturing instincts taking over completely. It was in critical condition. If it stayed out here in the freezing air for another five minutes, the thermal shock would finish what the neglect had started.

"I need to get it inside immediately," she said, her voice firm with purpose. "It needs water… but not too much or the roots will rot… and I need to trim away all this dead growth so the plant doesn't waste energy trying to sustain tissue that's already gone."

She turned toward the building, taking a step, then stopped. She couldn't just take the plant and dismiss him. That would be rude. And more importantly... she didn't want to dismiss him.

She looked back over her shoulder. He was watching her with that half-smile still playing on his lips, patient and amused and waiting.

"Do you..." Elain started, her confidence wavering as the plant-focus receded and the boy-focus returned. "Do you want to come up? While I... perform emergency surgery?"

Azriel's eyebrows rose slightly, surprise flickering across his features. He clearly hadn't expected the invitation.

He glanced at the dormitory building, then back at her, his expression softening into something gentler.

"I'd like that," he said quietly. "I want to see the master at work."

"Right," Elain said, her voice coming out slightly strangled. "Okay. This way."

She led him back into the lobby, hyperaware of his presence behind her, the soft thud of his boots, the way he seemed to take up so much space. She swiped her card at the elevator with hands that trembled only slightly.

The security guard at the desk glanced up, clocked Azriel and gave Elain a look that clearly said good for you. Elain felt her face heat.

They stepped into the elevator.

Elain pressed the button for the fourth floor. The doors slid shut with a soft hiss, sealing them into a small metal box.

The air seemed to thicken immediately. The space was tiny and Azriel's presence made it feel even smaller. It smelled like her jasmine perfume and his cedar soap, a heady combination that made Elain's head spin slightly.

She stared resolutely at the floor numbers, her hands clasped in front of her.

Azriel stood near the back corner, giving her space, but she could feel his gaze on her. He wasn't looking at the floor numbers. He was looking at the back of her neck where her hair had fallen to one side, exposing skin. At the curve of her shoulder in the soft cashmere sweater.

"I've never been in this building before," Azriel said, his voice quiet and careful in the intimate space.

Elain glanced at him over her shoulder. He was studying the inspection certificate posted on the wall, the emergency phone button, the scuff marks on the floor, cataloging, analyzing, the way his mind always seemed to work.

"Makes sense," Elain said, turning back to watch the numbers climb. "It's the girls' dorm. Unless you were visiting someone, you wouldn't have a reason to be here."

"True," he murmured.

The elevator shuddered slightly as it passed the second floor.

"Are men even allowed in here?" Azriel asked, and there was a thread of teasing in his voice now, a low current of challenge.

Elain felt her pulse jump. "Technically, visitors are supposed to sign in at the desk after eight PM," she recited, her voice steady even as her heart raced. "And they're not supposed to stay overnight. But..."

She shrugged, aiming for casual. "No one really enforces it during the semester. And during break? There's barely anyone here to notice."

"So it's a lawless wasteland," Azriel said dryly.

"Something like that," Elain agreed, a smile tugging at her lips despite her nerves.

Ding.

Fourth floor.

The doors slid open onto a long, silent hallway. Elain stepped out, and Azriel followed, his boots soft on the thin carpet. They walked side by side toward Room 402 and Elain was acutely aware of every point where their arms almost brushed.

She stopped in front of her door, fishing her key card out of her pocket. Her fingers trembled slightly.

Azriel shifted the terracotta pot to one arm and leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. The movement was fluid, casual, and so attractive it should have come with a warning label.

He looked down at her, his hazel eyes catching the dim hallway light.

"So," he said softly, his voice dropping to that low register that did dangerous things to her nervous system. "Do you make a habit of it?"

Elain froze. She looked up at him, her heart suddenly in her throat. "Of what?"

His mouth curved into the barest hint of a smirk, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Sneaking boys into your room."

The air between them crackled. It was the text message all over again; the push and pull, the dare, the electric current of flirtation that she didn't quite know how to navigate but desperately wanted to try.

Daddy. The word echoed in her mind, making her face burn.

Elain looked at his mouth—those infuriatingly perfect lips curved in challenge—then up to meet his eyes directly. A sudden, reckless bravery seized her, fueled by adrenaline and the intoxicating realization that he was here, in her hallway, looking at her like she was the most interesting thing in the world.

"I'm doing it right now," Elain whispered.

She didn't wait to see his reaction. Couldn't bear to witness whether it was amusement or disappointment or something else entirely. She shoved the door open, and stepped quickly into her room.

Her heart was galloping like a runaway horse, thundering so hard she could feel it in her throat. Had she really just said that? I'm doing it right now. It was bold. It was flirtatious. It was something Mor would say with a confident laugh and a toss of her hair.

Elain felt like she might combust.

"Come in," she called, her voice slightly higher than normal as she moved quickly toward her desk, needing distance and activity to calm her racing pulse.

Azriel stepped into Room 402.

He closed the door quietly behind him, the soft click of the latch somehow thunderous in the sudden silence.

The atmosphere shifted immediately. Elain's room was small but carefully curated, a sanctuary of soft textures and living things. Despite the winter cold outside, it felt verdant. Pothos vines trailed from the top of her bookshelf, their heart-shaped leaves cascading down. Succulents clustered on the windowsill. A large peace lily commanded the corner, its white blooms elegant against dark green leaves. The air smelled of potting soil, vanilla candles that had burned low, and clean laundry with a hint of lavender.

Azriel stood just inside the door, and Elain watched from the corner of her eye as his gaze traveled slowly around the space. Over the neatly made bed with its army of carefully arranged pillows. The stack of dog-eared paperbacks on her nightstand—mostly fantasy novels and botanical reference guides. The collection of ceramic pots in various sizes and glazes. The fairy lights strung along her bookshelf that she'd forgotten to turn off.

He wasn't judging, she realized. He was learning. Absorbing the details of her private world, the parts of herself she usually kept hidden behind polite smiles and appropriate conversation.

"Put it here," Elain said, her voice steadier now as she pointed to a cleared space on her desk. She had already grabbed her plant mister and a pair of small, wickedly sharp pruning shears.

Azriel crossed the room and set the pot down with surprising gentleness. "The patient is in your hands, Doctor."

Elain let out a nervous breath that turned into a small laugh. But as soon as her hands touched the terracotta pot, the anxiety melted away. This she knew. This she could control.

"Okay," she murmured, her focus narrowing to the plant with laser intensity. She turned the pot slowly, inspecting the damage from all angles with the careful attention of a surgeon examining X-rays. "It's a Boston Fern. Nephrolepis exaltata."

"Bless you," Azriel said dryly from somewhere behind her.

Elain ignored him, already in her element. "They're actually quite resilient, which is good news. But these fronds..." She touched a brown, crispy leaf. "These are definitely dead."

She picked up her pruning shears. Snip. Snip. The satisfying crunch of cutting away dead growth. She worked with quick, efficient movements, clearing away the brown debris to reveal the struggling green shoots hiding underneath. It was like excavating a buried treasure.

She grabbed her mister, spraying a fine cloud of water over the remaining leaves, then carefully probed the soil with one finger to check the moisture level.

"I'm going to have to repot it eventually," she said, speaking more to herself than to him, lost in the meditative rhythm of plant care. "The roots are probably bound, strangling themselves. But not today. Too much shock all at once. For now, we focus on hydration and creating the right environment."

She retrieved a shallow ceramic tray from her shelf, filled it with smooth river stones and a small amount of water, and carefully positioned the pot on top.

"This creates a humidity microclimate," she explained, adjusting a leaf with gentle fingers. "The water evaporates around the plant, giving it the moisture it needs. The radiators dry out the air terribly."

She stepped back, wiping her hands on her jeans, and studied her work with a critical eye. The fern looked smaller now, stripped of its dead weight, but it looked... hopeful. There were new fronds beginning to unfurl at the base, tiny, delicate things, but alive. Alive.

"There," she said, letting out a satisfied sigh. "Now we wait and see if it has the will to fight."

She turned around, suddenly remembering she had an audience.

Azriel was leaning against the wall near her closet, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. He hadn't moved. Hadn't checked his phone or gotten bored. He had just been... watching her.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were soft, tracking her flushed face, her dirt-smudged hands, the strand of hair that had escaped and was now falling across her cheek.

"You're good at that," he said quietly.

Elain felt heat creep up her neck. She clasped her hands together, suddenly acutely aware of the dirt under her fingernails. "It's just gardening," she said, deflecting.

"No," Azriel said, and there was a firmness to his voice that made her look up. "It's not just gardening. You care about it. You see what it needs when no one else bothers to look."

He pushed off the wall, taking one slow step toward her, then another. The distance between them shrank but remained respectful, close enough to feel the gravity of his presence, far enough that she could breathe.

"I thought it was dead," he admitted, nodding toward the fern. "I was going to throw it in the dumpster on my way out. But you..." He paused, his eyes searching her face. "You saw something worth saving."

Elain's breath caught. They weren't talking about the plant anymore. Or maybe they were and that was the point.

"Nothing is ever really dead until the roots are gone," Elain said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Sometimes things just need... patience. And the right conditions to grow."

Azriel stared at her, and the air between them seemed to thicken, to pulse with unspoken meaning. He looked like he wanted to say something, something important, something that would change the careful balance they'd been maintaining.

But he didn't.

Instead, he took a small step back, giving her space, and looked around the room again.

"This suits you," he said, his voice returning to that casual register. "This space."

"It's small," Elain said automatically, apologetically.

"It's peaceful," Azriel countered. He walked slowly toward her bookshelf, his eyes scanning the titles. "It's... warm. Like stepping into a different world."

He picked up a small ceramic pot, one she'd made herself in a pottery class last semester, slightly lopsided but glazed in a pretty sage green. He turned it over in his hands carefully, his scarred fingers gentle.

"Did you make this?"

"Yes," Elain admitted. "It's not very good. The walls are uneven."

"It's perfect," Azriel said simply, setting it back down exactly where he'd found it.

The silence settled between them again, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was charged, expectant, like the air before a thunderstorm.

Elain's mind raced. He was in her room. In her private space. Looking at her things, breathing her air, existing in the same small container of reality. And he didn't seem in any hurry to leave.

"Thank you," he said, finally breaking the silence. His voice was low, sincere. "For saving it. For not giving up on something I'd already written off."

"You're welcome," Elain whispered.

He moved toward the door and Elain felt a sharp pang of disappointment. She didn't want him to leave yet. The room would feel so empty once that quiet, steady presence was gone.

He paused with his hand on the doorknob, then turned back to her.

"Will I get updates?" he asked, one corner of his mouth lifting. "On the patient's recovery?"

"Daily," Elain promised, a smile breaking across her face. "With photographic evidence."

"Good," Azriel said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'll be waiting."

He held her gaze for one beat longer, a lingering, searing look and then he opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

Elain followed him to the threshold, leaning against the doorframe as he walked toward the elevator. She watched the line of his broad shoulders, the easy confidence of his stride.

He reached the elevator and pressed the button, then turned back.

Their eyes met across the distance of the hallway.

He didn't wave. Didn't smile. Just looked at her with an intensity that made her breath catch, until the elevator dinged and the doors slid open.

Then he was gone.

Elain stood in her doorway for a long moment, staring at the empty hallway. Then she stepped back inside and closed the door, leaning her forehead against the cool wood.

"I'm doing it right now," she whispered to herself, and a bubble of slightly hysterical, absolutely delighted laughter rose in her throat.

She turned and looked at the fern sitting on her desk, already looking a little less sad, a little more alive.

When he’d landed in Velaris a half an hour later, he couldn’t bring himself to brave the marital bliss that permeated both the River House and the House of Wind, and instead turned towards the townhouse. He wanted nothing more than a long, warm bath and to winnow away to Rosehall before anyone could see him. He shoved his way inside the front door and was halfway up the staircase before his shadows deigned to tell him that he wasn’t alone. 

She’s here, they whispered, thinking of you. Go, go, go and see to her. Help her to understand. 

Every inch of Azriel’s being honed in on the door to the kitchen. He noticed it all, now: the slight glow underneath the door that indicated that someone was home, the scent of tea and heat from the kettle, the whisper of Elain’s skirts, heavy with rain, over the stones. 

He froze. Shifted his weight upwards. Prepared to slip through the shadows. 

Something–he doesn’t choose to meditate on what it was–forced him to hesitate, and in that split second, the door opened. 

And there she was. 

“Oh,” she breathed. Said nothing else. 

All Azriel could do was stare. Her dress was drenched. It clung tighter to her body than anything that he’d ever seen. 

“I heard the door,” she said, after a too-long pause. “Would you like tea? I was in the garden when the rain started, and it felt so nice that I stayed outside in it, for a minute, and–” she cut herself off, wringing her hands. “Would you like tea?”

Azriel’s tongue had never been heavier. He shook his head slightly. “No,” he choked out, voice rough. “No, I’m–I’m tired of these soaking clothes. I’ll just change and go. I’m sorry to–to barge in on you like this.” 

Elain moved slowly, like she was afraid she’d scare him away. “You don’t need to leave,” she whispered. “I can go. You’ve lived here longer than me.”  

Azriel swallowed the lump in his throat, shook his head, and winnowed away. Elain stood, staring at the puddle he’d left on the steps, until the rain let up. 

tell me that i’m good for you

The second time they saw each other, Azriel and Cassian were, admittedly, in Elain’s space. In the heat of the summer, they’d moved outside to the shade, pouring over reports and talking strategy in dealing with the latest Illyrian uprising. Elain stepped outside as the clouds parted, and Azriel immediately stood up, his body reacting to her presence before his mind could stop it. 

She startled at his movement, and offered the two males a wan smile. Cassian was quick to ask her questions about her tasks for the day, and Azriel stared at the patches on her dress, evidence of its love and use through the years since she’d turned fae. She flitted away after a few moments, and Azriel consciously tore his eyes away from her, wallowing in her afterglow. 

He would do unspeakable things to keep her close to him at all times. 

Azriel shifted through his thoughts as Cassian talked through the report they would send to Rhys. All he had thought about since that day in the rain–since Solstice, since the headache powder, since the final battle against Hybern, since the day Nesta and Elain were turned, since the day at the human manor–was her. His feelings had nowhere to go. He had no idea what he would do if he ever got the chance to tell Elain how he felt, and had no idea what he would do if he never got a chance, either. 

Cassian cut off his brooding with a cough. “Do you care what I have to say, or should I write it down and give it to your shadows to summarize for you later?” 

“No, I–” 

His brother smiled ruefully. “Something’s on your mind. It’s weird, that I can tell. Usually you’re so good at hiding it, but five hundred years of knowing someone does actually help you to read them.” 

Azriel sighed. Took another deep breath. Sat up enough in his chair that it looked like he cared. “I’m here,” he said firmly. “Finish running it through with me.” 

Cassian did, Elain lingering a stone’s throw away the entire time, pulling up weeds and cutting plants back. 

She came over to their table again before she went back inside, three dandelions in hand. 

“Make a wish with me?” she asked, holding a flower out to each of them. “I know it's silly, and they’re technically weeds, anyways, but it just feels like bad luck to throw them away without at least trying a wish.” 

Azriel took the flower silently, the corner of his lip barely twitching up. Cassian’s face split into a wide smile, and Elain hushed him before he could tell her his wish. 

They blew their wishes away together, and Cassian nagged at Elain while he packed up his papers, begging to hear her wish. Azriel could hear their laughter drifting through the windows while he gathered his things. 

No one would ever know the truth of his wish. All he wanted, all that he was desperate for, was for Elain to stand in front of him and say that he was good for her. That they would be good together. An impossible dream, he knew, but wasn’t that what wishes were for?

how am i supposed to pretend i don’t know you? 

When Azriel saw Elain for the third time, he didn't have it in himself to pretend. She’d been walking through the streets with Lucien, arms looped together. He ducked into an alcove before they saw him. The love of his life walks past, and he pretends like he doesn’t know her. 

Azriel drew his shadows into himself, fighting for breath. He was fine, really. He was made to serve this court. Sharpened as a weapon since the day he came of age. If the fate of the Night Court rests on his ability to resist Elain Archeron, he should be able to do it. He would do it. For Nyx, and Feyre and Rhys, and Nesta and Cassian, and Elain and–

If it made Elain happy. If it kept her safe. He would keep to himself and let Lucien have her. 

do you think i’m pretty?

Azriel had already been having a bad day before Feyre asked him to pick up Elain for family dinner. The Illyrians were rebelling again, there had been no movement on Koschei for months, and he was fucking exhausted. He knocked on the door to the townhouse, pushing down everything within him that roared that he was acting like he was courting Elain. This was all for show. Not even for show; this was to prove to Rhys that he could act like a platonic brother figure. He would follow the bullshit orders for the sake of the court, if it was so fucking important. 

Every thought left his mind when Elain opened that door. Her dress is cobalt, her hair arranged so that her neck is exposed, and she looks, for the life of him, like every dream that Azriel has ever had. 

He stood, mouth open, for too long. Elain stared up at him, waiting for him to say something. 

“Do you like it?” she asked quietly. “I picked it out for you.” 

“You–” he whispered, breath leaving his body. “For me?” 

“I should have known,” she said, turning away to move back inside. “After Solstice, after this whole last year, I should have taken it as my sign and let you be. You’re obviously not interested.” She forced a laugh, and Azriel’s heart cracked open. He sunk down into the sitting room’s couch, watching her pace about in front of the fireplace. 

“Not interested?” he asked, voice barely audible. “Elain–” 

“It’s just–Rhys keeps asking me about Lucien, and all I do is think about you, and I know you can’t even stand to be in the same room as me, and all you do is leave and put yourself into mortal danger on assignments, and Mother, why would you ever give me a second thought? I know you said this was a mistake, but I just–I just thought that if I could try one more time, maybe you would think that I was pretty, and now I know I obviously overstepped, but Azriel. Azriel. You’re all I’ve ever wanted. I needed to try. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try again. There’s something in your eyes, something that made me think that I had a chance, but–” 

“Elain,” he said horsley. “Elain. Of course I think you’re pretty.” 

She stopped her pacing, turning to face him. “Then why–” 

“Rhys,” he breathed, tears welling up inside of him for the first time in centuries. “Saw us, and, really, Elain, the consequences of an rejected mating bond are not insignificant, and fuck, I’m so unworthy of you it never should have crossed my mind that you’d want me, and so I left, and it’s been agony and all I do is think about you, and I’m so sorry. You deserved a choice and you made it, I saw you with Lucien last week, and that is the kind of love you deserve, but–of course. Of course I think you’re pretty with your smile and your brown hair and your eyes and I’m so sorry.” 

Elain crossed to him, folding his upper body into hers, his face pressed into her stomach, tears soaking through the material of her dress. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, tears falling so quickly now that it was hard to understand him. His hands found her waist, twisted tightly into the material of that blue dress. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so–” 

She cut him off, leaning down to press a kiss hard against his mouth. “Azriel Shadowsinger, you may just be the stupidest male I’ve ever met.” Her forehead rests against his. “You never thought to tell me?” 

Azriel shook his head. His eyes are closed, but tears keep leaking down his cheeks. “I never–Elain.” He surges up to kiss her. “I never thought this would happen to me.” 

She forced him to look at her, hands cool on his cheeks. “Let me be very clear. You’re who I want. I’ve wanted you for longer than I wanted to admit. Lucien is–Lucien is nothing. You’re the one I’m in love with, Azriel.” 

Azriel tugged at Elain’s waist, and she came easily, settling into his lap, legs straddling his lap. Elain tucked her body around his, pulled his head into the crook of her neck, and held him. 

“I wasted so much time,” He breathed. “Hurt you so fucking badly. I’ll never make up for it.” 

Elain made a noise of protest. “You’ll make up for it every day if you let me love you. Every single day that I get to wake up and have you will make up for the ones we didn’t have together.” 

He stopped crying enough that he could take a deep breath without shuddering. He pulled his head out of her neck, tear tracks visible on his face. “I love you,” he said. “I’ve never loved anyone the way that I love you.” 

Elain smiled, and it was full of the promise of a life they could share together. “It was all worth it–the Cauldron, Greysen, Hybern–I’d do it all again if I would end up here with you right now.” 

It was more than Azriel could bear, and he could feel himself crying again. Elain wiped them away with steady, efficient movements. “None of that now, Shadowsinger,” she whispered. “You deserve every bit of the happiness I’ve Seen coming.” 

He laughed then, breathlessly. “You’ve Seen it?” 

She was shy, then, running her fingers over the scars on his hands. “The future is not so black and white. But..” 

“But…” he repeated, the corner of his lips twitching up. 

“But after tonight, I have to assume that the ones of me becoming the spinster witch of Velaris may have been exaggerated.” 

His laugh was joyful, clearer than Elain had heard it since that first Solstice they had spent together. 

“Elain,” Azriel sighed, pulling her into him again. They sat like that, quiet, hands drifting over each other, for more time than Azriel could keep track of. He pulled back suddenly, panic coursing through him. “Lucien–” 

Elain shushed him, dropping a kiss lightly onto his lips. “Rhys had us go out together. He spent quite a lot of time talking about Vassa, and I found myself distracted after I saw you run into an alley away from us. Something–it’s not a true mating bond between us, we don’t think. It’s more painful than anything else, and we’re planning to reject it the next time he’s here.” 

“You’ve thought of everything then, haven’t you?” 

“It meant that I could have you. I wanted to do everything I could to have you. I knew it would be hard for you to do it on your own. I wanted to do what I could to make it easier. You never let yourself have anything good.”