Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
The sessions had settled into something dangerously... consistent.
Predictable, in a way that should have comforted me but didn't.
Because every time I walked into that room, every time the door shut behind me and it was just the two of us, I felt it, that shift. That quiet, undeniable pull that had nothing to do with professionalism and everything to do with him.
And I knew. God, I knew it was wrong.
Every part of my training, every boundary I had ever been taught, every instinct that should have been screaming at me to stop—it was all still there.
I just wasn't listening to it anymore. Not when it came to Azriel.
I told myself it was more than what it looked like. That it wasn't just attraction. Not just impulse or recklessness.
Because when I sat across from him, when we talked, when I watched the way he thought, the way he chose his words, I saw something else. Something people here didn't care to look for.
He wasn't mindless. He wasn't cruel for the sake of it. There was control there. Intention.
Yes, there was anger. A temper that ran deep and sharp and dangerous when provoked.
But underneath it? He wasn't empty.
And somewhere along the line, that had become enough for me to justify staying. To justify wanting him.
Today felt no different. Or maybe it felt worse.
The door shut behind me with its usual finality, the sound echoing just a little too loudly in the enclosed space.
And just like that his attention was on me. Not subtle. Never subtle.
Azriel's gaze tracked me the entire way across the room, slow and deliberate, like he was taking his time committing every detail to memory.
It made my pulse quicken in a way I was starting to recognise far too easily.
"Hello, Azriel," I said, keeping my tone level as I took my seat across from him.
I crossed one leg over the other, automatic, familiar but the moment I did, I saw it. His eyes dropped. Followed. Lingering just a fraction longer than necessary along the length of my legs before returning to my face.
"Nice skirt," he said.
The corner of his mouth curved slightly, not a full smile, something quieter. More knowing.
My breath caught for half a second before I smoothed it over, placing my hands in my lap, then, without thinking, brushing them down over the fabric. It was shorter than what I'd usually wear here. I hadn't thought about that when I got dressed. Or maybe... I had.
"Thank you," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt.
His gaze didn't move. If anything, it sharpened.
"What's under it?"
The question came casually. Too casually. Like he'd asked me about the weather.
My heart stuttered. "What?" I breathed, caught somewhere between disbelief and something far more dangerous.
He tilted his head slightly, watching me, really watching me now. "Just curious," he said. "Professional interest."
There was nothing professional about it. And we both knew that.
My pulse was loud in my ears now, my fingers tightening slightly against the fabric of my skirt as I forced myself to hold his gaze.
"You're pushing boundaries again," I said, but there was no real bite to it. Not anymore.
"Am I?" he murmured. His eyes dropped again, slow, deliberate. Back to my legs. Then up. "You didn't stop me last time."
The reminder landed heavier than it should have.
Heat crept up my neck, my stomach tightening, not with discomfort, not with fear. With anticipation.
And that more than anything should have been enough to make me shut this down.
It wasn't.
"Can I have a look?" he asked, softer this time. Not demanding. Not forceful. Just... asking.
I swallowed. Didn't answer. Didn't move. The silence stretched just long enough to say more than words ever could.
Because I didn't tell him no.
Something shifted in his expression. Subtle but unmistakable. He straightened slightly in his chair, something focused settling into his posture now, his gaze darkening as it moved over me again, slower this time.
Intentional.
"One taste," he said. Quieter now. Closer to something raw. "Just one."
My breath caught. Everything in me knew what this was. Knew what it meant. This wasn't a slip anymore. Not a moment of weakness.
This was a choice. A line I could still step back from.
We had already crossed too many. I had let him get too close. I had let him touch me. I had let myself want it.
And still I hadn't stopped it. Hadn't stopped him.
This is wrong. The thought came clear. Sharp. I know this is wrong.
But underneath it why did it feel like the opposite?
I looked at him. Really looked. At the way he was watching me, not careless, not dismissive, not treating this like something meaningless.
There was restraint there. Expectation. And something else. Something that made my chest tighten instead of recoil.
My voice came out quieter than I intended. "Just one."
Not quite agreement. Not quite refusal. But enough.
His gaze held mine for a second longer like he was making sure. Like he was giving me one last chance to take it back.
I didn't.
"Fine," I said.
The word barely made a sound, but it was enough. The second it left my lips, I knew there was no pretending anymore, no way to undo this, no way to step back.
Azriel didn't hesitate. One second he was sitting, the next he was on his knees in front of me.
A wicked smile curled at his mouth as his hands slid over my thighs. His scarred fingers pushed my skirt higher and higher, then hooked into my underwear and dragged it down without the slightest pause.
"One taste," he breathed, his voice low, rough with promise.
I bit my lip and nodded—then gasped as his mouth found me, hungry and unrelenting. His tongue flicked out, teasing for only a heartbeat before devouring, all urgency and no restraint.
His hands spread wide, anchoring me in place as I trembled. He was relentless, every stroke of his tongue, every press deliberate, meant to unravel me completely.
There was no slow build. No gentle teasing. It was raw. Dirty. Focused.
Like he'd been waiting for this far too long.
"Az—" I moaned, my head tipping back as my body threatened to give in. "Oh my—don't stop."
A growl vibrated through his chest, like he enjoyed the sound of me breaking. He only intensified, his tongue moving with practised precision, his lips sealing over the most sensitive parts of me, sucking like he knew exactly how close I already was.
Because he did.
My legs started to shake, aching to close around him as the sensation built, and I grabbed at his hair just to stay steady but Azriel didn't falter.
"I can't—I'm gonna—" I choked out, almost sobbing from how overwhelming it felt, my thighs tightening around his head.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his voice rough, dripping with heat. "Give it to me."
Then he was right back, his tongue working harder, deeper, his grip on my thighs tightening enough to bruise but I didn't care.
I wanted it. I wanted all of it.
Pleasure tore through me like wildfire, and I shattered, moaning his name as I came against his mouth, my body convulsing.
But he didn't stop.
"Oh gods—Azriel, please—"
"I'm not done," he murmured, his lips still pressed to me, his tongue moving in slow, devastating circles.
I tried to protest, tried to tell him I couldn't take any more but I was already building again.
The aftershocks of the first orgasm hadn't even faded before the second started rising, slow and unstoppable.
He pulled away briefly, his eyes dark, wild as they locked onto mine. His lips were slick, his chest rising and falling quickly. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact.
"You taste like sin," he rasped.
I barely had time to catch my breath before he was back, spreading my legs wider.
"Azriel—" I whispered, completely wrecked.
"I'm not done with you," he growled again.
Then his mouth was on me, deeper this time, more obscene. His tongue circled with maddening precision, alternating between gentle and firm, while two fingers slipped inside me, pressing against that perfect, aching spot.
"Fuck—please—"
"That's it," he breathed, his lips brushing my inner thigh before returning to where I needed him most. "Let me hear you beg for it."
I gasped, my other hand tangling in his hair. "I'm begging—please don't stop—please—"
He moaned against me, like my words only fueled him further. The vibration sent stars bursting behind my eyes.
The second orgasm crashed into me even harder, blinding, shattering, completely consuming. I arched off the seat with a broken cry, my legs shaking uncontrollably around him.
Azriel didn't stop until I was left whimpering, completely spent, trembling, tears stinging at the corners of my eyes from the intensity of it.
Only then did he finally pull back, slowly, deliberately.
When I finally looked at him, my pulse stuttered all over again.
His lips were still parted, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast, his gaze locked onto me with something dark and consuming, something that made my stomach tighten all over again despite everything.
He looked... ruined. Or maybe not ruined. Satisfied.
Like he'd just taken exactly what he wanted and wasn't sorry for it. And worse, like he wanted more.
"Will you do something for me?" he asked quietly.
His voice was lower now. Rougher. Not teasing. Not playful.
I blinked at him, still trying to piece myself back together, my thoughts slow and unfocused, lagging behind the moment.
"Huh...?" I managed, barely coherent.
He watched me for a second, like he knew exactly the state I was in. Like he was counting on it.
"Will you do me a favour?" he repeated, softer this time. Closer.
I swallowed, my body still heavy, my mind still floating somewhere just out of reach. Anything felt easy to say right now. Anything felt harmless.
"Anything," I murmured.
And I meant it. In that moment I really did.
Something shifted in his expression. Subtle but unmistakable. He leaned in slightly, just enough that I felt it, that shift in the air, that pull that had gotten me here in the first place.
"Help me escape."
Azriel's POV -
She tasted fucking incredible.
Not just sweet, though she was. Not just soft, though she was that too.
It was something else entirely. Something addictive. Something that sank under my skin and stayed there, settling into my bones like it had always belonged.
I'd had control. I always had control but with her that had slipped.
Enough that I'd taken my time when I shouldn't have. Enough that I'd let myself enjoy it when I should have kept it calculated, contained.
I hadn't planned for that.
I had planned for this. The ask. That part had been decided long before today.
Long before I'd dropped to my knees in front of her, long before she'd said yes in that quiet, breathless way that made something dark in me tighten.
I just hadn't expected the timing to shift. Hadn't expected to want her first.
My gaze tracked her as she pulled herself back together.
Every movement was slower now. Not weak but affected. She adjusted her skirt, smoothing it down over her thighs, fingers lingering for just a second too long as if grounding herself back into something familiar.
Her hair followed, pushed back, tucked into place, though a few strands still framed her face in a way that made her look less composed than she wanted to be.
Good. I liked her like that. Unraveled.
She didn't look at me immediately. When she did, it wasn't soft. It was sharp. Focused.
And just slightly unsteady beneath it.
"Did you think," she began, voice controlled but edged, "that you could do that—" a brief, pointed glance downward "—and then ask me for a favour?"
There it was.
I leaned back slightly, watching her, really watching her, taking in the way her chest still rose a little too fast, the way her lips were still parted, still swollen.
She thought this had been transactional. A means to an end.
The corner of my mouth tilted.
"No," I said, and there was nothing casual in it now. No teasing. No deflection. Just truth, clean and direct. "If anything—"
I shifted forward slightly, just enough to close the space between us again. Not touching. Not yet but close enough that she felt it.
"I'd beg for that."
Her breath caught but I didn't stop.
"I'd get on my knees for you without asking for a damn thing in return," I continued, voice lower now, rougher. "I'd take my time. Do it properly. Do it until you couldn't think straight."
Her fingers tightened slightly at her sides.
"I didn't need a favour for that, Doc."
Silence stretched between us, thick and charged.
I watched the way that landed. The way it sank in. The way it unsettled her not in fear, but in something far more dangerous.
She hesitated. Then, quieter now, more careful she asked "then what do you want from me?"
There it was. The shift. Not rejection. Not refusal. Consideration.
My gaze didn't leave hers. "Something simple," I said.
I let the pause sit for just long enough to pull her attention tighter, to make sure she was listening, really listening before I gave it to her.
"There's a guard," I said slowly. "Officer River."
Recognition flickered immediately.
"He carries a key," I continued, my tone even, measured, controlled again. "Small. Gold. Always on him."
Her brows drew together slightly, confusion threading in now. "What kind of key?" she asked.
I held her gaze. "The kind that opens doors I'm not supposed to walk through."
There was a shift in her expression then. Subtle but unmistakable. Understanding. And beneath it, hesitation.
Real hesitation.
I leaned back again, giving her space this time. Letting her think. Letting it settle. Letting her feel the weight of what I was actually asking. Not rushing her. Not pushing.
I didn't need to. She was already halfway there.
I could see it in the way her mind worked through it, the way her lips parted like she was about to argue, then didn't. The way she didn't say no. Not immediately.
And that was all I needed.
So I waited and watched. As she thought about helping me escape.
A/N - So it happens... again!! She's realising she's losing her grip and control around him!
Azriel of course goes straight in with the big ask immediately after and she is, understandably, sat there like "you want me to do WHAT??" x
I'm leaving her answer hanging (because I enjoy chaos) but just to clarify—Azriel did in fact go down on her purely because he wanted to, no hidden agenda in that moment, he simply saw an opportunity and committed to it like a man on a mission :)
Also I've tinkered with this part a few times and it still feels a bit choppy, so apologies if it's not the best!
It was unfair, so utterly unfair for my heart to decide it loved Rhysand.
After crying, after yelling, after insisting I wanted nothing to do with him. After telling him he meant nothing, after convincing myself he was arrogant and manipulative and dangerous.
After ruining everything.
And yet somehow, despite all of that, somewhere between the arguments and the stolen glances and the night that had changed everything, my heart had betrayed me completely.
I loved him.
And I was almost certain he no longer loved me.
He had changed. Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would notice. To everyone else he was still charming when required, still composed, still clever, still quietly powerful in every room he entered.
But with me... he was different. Polite. Distant. Controlled.
He no longer teased me. No longer provoked arguments just to see me lose my temper. No longer leaned too close just to watch me forget what I was saying. No longer smiled that infuriating, knowing smile that used to make me want to throw something at him.
He bowed. He stepped aside to let me pass. He spoke to me as if I were a stranger.
"My lady," he would say, instead of my name.
He had never called me that before. And somehow that hurt more than all of our fights ever had.
Because fighting meant he cared. Fighting meant he felt something. Fighting meant I mattered enough to provoke emotion.
This polite, careful distance felt like nothing. It felt like I meant nothing.
We crossed paths often, balls, dinners, social visits, endless events neither of us could avoid now that everyone thought we were to be married. Every time, the same thing happened.
He would bow slightly. "My lady."
"My lord," I would reply.
And then silence.
Polite conversation. Weather. Music. Travel. Anything and everything except what actually mattered.
He never looked at me for too long anymore. Never stood too close. Never touched me.
It was unbearable. I would have preferred if he hated me.
I was sitting in Eleanor's drawing room one afternoon, pretending to listen to her talk about fabrics for a new gown when she said casually,
"You know Lady Maren has taken quite an interest in Lord Rhysand lately."
I looked up too quickly. "Has she?"
Eleanor watched me carefully. She noticed everything.
"Oh yes," she continued. "She asked me twice last week whether he would be attending the next ball. And yesterday she asked if he preferred music or hunting."
I tried to sound indifferent. "Perhaps she simply wishes to be polite."
Eleanor raised one eyebrow slightly. "She wishes to marry well."
My stomach twisted unpleasantly. "Well," I said lightly, "she will be disappointed."
"Why?" Eleanor asked. "You two barely speak anymore. Half of society thinks the engagement is purely political now."
That hurt more than she knew. I looked down at my hands. "Good," I said quietly. "That is what it is."
Eleanor said nothing for a moment. Then softly, "You're jealous."
"I am not," I said immediately.
"You are," she repeated calmly.
"I am not jealous," I said again, though my voice sounded weaker this time. "He may marry whoever he likes."
Eleanor leaned forward slightly. "He is going to marry you."
The words landed heavily between us. I swallowed. "That does not mean he wants to."
Eleanor studied my face for a long moment. "Oh," she said quietly. "You love him."
I didn't answer. I didn't need to. The realisation settled slowly, painfully, like something sinking to the bottom of deep water.
I loved him.
I loved the way he never lost control except when it mattered. I loved the way he watched everything and everyone like he was always ten steps ahead. I loved the way he argued with me like I was his equal, not someone to be managed or controlled.
I loved that he had climbed through my window instead of sending a letter. I loved that he had defended my name when people spoke badly of me. I loved that he had stopped when I was afraid. I loved that he had been gentle when he didn't have to be.
And I had told him he meant nothing. I had told him he was convenient. I closed my eyes briefly.
I had ruined everything.
A week later, at another ball, I finally heard the thing that destroyed whatever hope I had left.
I had stepped out into one of the side corridors to escape the noise and the heat when I heard familiar voices ahead.
I stopped immediately.
Rhysand. And with him, Cassian and Azriel. I shouldn't have listened. I knew I shouldn't have but I did.
"You cannot avoid her forever," Cassian was saying.
"I am not avoiding her," Rhysand replied calmly.
"You call her my lady," Cassian said. "You sound like a stranger at court."
There was a pause. "That is the point," Rhysand said.
Azriel spoke next, quieter than the others. "And when the wedding comes?"
Another pause.
I could not see them from where I stood, hidden just around the corner, but I could imagine him perfectly, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, expression controlled and unreadable.
"I will marry her," Rhys said finally. "If it is expected."
My heart dropped.
Cassian spoke again, more serious now. "But do you love her?"
There was a long silence. Long enough that I stopped breathing.
When Rhysand finally answered, his voice was calm. Controlled. Empty. "That is irrelevant."
The words hit harder than any slap ever could. Irrelevant. Love was irrelevant.
I felt something inside my chest crack quietly.
Cassian said something else after that, something I didn't hear because there was a roaring in my ears and my vision had gone slightly blurry.
I turned and walked away before they could come around the corner and see me.
I walked back into the ballroom, into the music and the lights and the laughter, and I smiled when people spoke to me and I danced when asked and I behaved exactly as I was expected to.
But inside, something had gone very, very still.
Because I finally understood. I loved him. And he was going to marry me anyway.
But he did not love me anymore.
Rhysand's POV -
I did not think I would find myself in this position again.
Yet here I stood in her bedroom, alone, having come because she had asked me to—and I had come immediately.
No hesitation. No question. No pride left intact where she was concerned.
I should have waited until morning. I should have refused. I should have remembered every cruel word she had thrown at me.
Instead, the moment her note arrived, I was already halfway to the door.
I would cross battlefields for less than what I felt for her. Climbing a wall in the dark was hardly an inconvenience.
She stood near the window when I entered, her back to me, hands clasped tightly in front of her as if she were holding herself together by sheer force of will.
She did not turn immediately when I closed the window behind me.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
I had stood in political rooms with lords and dukes and felt less tension than I did standing in that quiet bedroom with her.
Finally, she spoke. "I asked you here because we need to talk."
Her voice was calm. Too calm. Controlled in that way people are when they are about to do something that will hurt them.
I said nothing. Just waited.
She turned then, slowly, and faced me. Her expression was composed, but her eyes were not. Her eyes looked like she had not slept in days.
"You deserve someone who actually wants you," she said.
The words hit me like a physical blow, but I did not interrupt.
"You deserve someone who does not fight you at every turn, who does not make your life more difficult, who does not argue with you in public and insult you in private and ruin your reputation by association."
I still said nothing, though something tight and hot had begun to coil in my chest.
"I will speak to my father," she continued. "I will tell him I refuse the marriage. I will take the blame if I must. I will say I am in love with someone else, or that I am unsuitable, or that I am ill-tempered or mad or anything he wishes to believe. I will get you out of this marriage."
She swallowed slightly before continuing.
"You should be free to marry someone who you actually want to marry."
That was the moment something inside me snapped. Not loudly. Not violently. But completely.
"You think I do not want you?" I said quietly.
She looked slightly startled by my tone but continued anyway, as if she had prepared this speech and would finish it no matter what.
"I think you feel obligated," she said. "I think you are honourable enough to go through with it even if you no longer wish to. And I will not trap you into a marriage you do not want."
Trap me. Trap me?
The words echoed in my head, and suddenly I was very, very angry.
Not at her. At the situation. At her father. At society. At every person who had ever made her believe she was something to be traded and negotiated and forced.
"You think this is a trap?" I asked.
She hesitated slightly. "Is it not?"
I laughed once, but there was no humour in it.
Then I ran a hand through my hair and began pacing once across the room before turning back to her, because if I didn't move I was going to say something reckless—and then I realised I was going to say it anyway.
"You think I do not want you," I repeated slowly. "You think I am being forced into this."
She said nothing. That was answer enough.
And suddenly I was done being controlled. Done being careful. Done pretending this did not matter.
"I have tried not to want you," I said.
She blinked, clearly not expecting that.
"I have tried to hate you," I continued. "I have tried to convince myself you are arrogant, impossible, infuriating, and entirely unsuitable for me."
Her eyes widened slightly.
"I have tried to forget you. I have tried to stay away from you. I have tried to be polite, distant, cold, exactly what you seemed to want me to be." I took a step closer to her. "It did not work."
She didn't move.
"I burn for you," I said quietly.
The words seemed to still the entire room.
"You consume my every thought. You walk into a room and I forget what I was saying. You argue with me and I think about it for days afterwards. You insult me and I replay the conversation in my head like a man who enjoys his own suffering."
I took another step closer.
"I knew I would marry you the moment you tried to climb that wall to escape me."
She stared at me, completely stunned now.
"I knew then that no other woman would ever interest me half as much as the one who would rather scale a wall than marry me politely."
Despite everything, the corner of my mouth twitched slightly.
"I would rather fight you for the rest of my life than live one day without you," I said quietly. "Do you understand that? I would rather argue with you every morning, every evening, every year, than live a peaceful, quiet life with someone else."
Her eyes were shining now, but she still said nothing.
So I said the thing I had been holding back for weeks.
"You were never convenient," I told her. "You were inevitable."
Silence filled the room. Heavy. Thick. Almost frightening in its intensity.
She looked like she had forgotten how to breathe. I stepped closer until there was only a small space left between us.
"I never wanted to force you into anything," I said more quietly now. "Not the engagement. Not the marriage. Not that night. Nothing. I have been waiting for you to choose something—anything—freely."
I held her gaze, making sure she heard every word.
"If you do not want me, I will release you," I said. "I will speak to your father myself. I will end the engagement. I will take the blame. I will do whatever is necessary to make sure you are free."
The words felt like tearing something out of my own chest, but I meant them.
"But," I continued, my voice quieter now, "if you choose me... it must be freely. Not because of your father. Not because of society. Not because you think you owe me something."
I took one final step closer.
"If you choose me, it must be because you want me."
I looked down at her then, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Because I have wanted you from the very beginning," I said. "And I do not think I will ever stop."
A/n - She finally realises she's in love with him (bit late babe) and naturally convinces herself he couldn't possibly still love her after everything she said to him :(
She calls him over intending to "release" him from the engagement and he responds by delivering the most devastating, life-altering, burn-the-world-down confession imaginable x
I absolutely had to use Kate and Anthony in the header because their confession scene altered my brain chemistry and these two were giving major season 2 energy the entire time. We will always love and appreciate the blueprint!!
Thank you so much for reading <33
An Unwilling Match tag list - @sophieliz @azrielblue @whump-loverz @galacticoceans @lilah-asteria @niiickelodeon @justtryingtosurvive02 @rosie-posie08 @mis-lil-red @dnfhascorruptedme @justreadingfanficseveryday @spookypersondinosaur @chxosangxl @ivy-34 @thecrimsonstarofvelaris @cardiganconfessions @sleepyhumanhere @karolamurdock @blueeclipsepaperstudent @sunmoonsweets @cubanfire @caitm1 @meepmoopbadabeepboop @anongirl007
Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours of nothing.
No footsteps in the corridor that slowed outside the door. No calm voice cutting through the noise. No steady, unshaken gaze meeting mine like she wasn't standing in the middle of something dangerous every time she walked into that room.
Nothing.
She had said she would come back.
I remembered it clearly. The way she'd stood there, still trying to piece herself together, still pretending control hadn't slipped through her fingers and yet her voice had been certain.
I'll be back.
And for a moment I'd believed her. That had been the mistake.
Because she didn't come back. Not the next day. Not the day after that. Not at all.
And at first, I'd told myself it didn't matter. People left. They always did. They came in with their questions and their structure and their careful little systems and then they saw enough, felt enough, realised enough and they left.
She was no different. She couldn't be different.
So I waited. Then I stopped waiting. And something in me snapped anyway.
It started small. A comment where there didn't need to be one. A refusal where compliance would have been easier. A look held too long, too direct, daring someone to react.
It didn't take much. It never did.
The first fight had been quick. Controlled. Efficient. The second wasn't. By the third, they'd stopped pretending it was incidental.
By the fourth, they were already dragging me down the corridor again, hands gripping hard, voices sharp with irritation instead of authority.
"Fucking animal—"
"—put him back in—"
"—he's doing it on purpose—"
They weren't wrong. I was. Because the anger didn't sit still. It didn't fade. Didn't settle. It built slow and relentless, coiling tighter with every passing hour she didn't walk back through that door.
It needed somewhere to go. So I gave it something.
Solitary became routine again. Cold walls. No sound. No distraction. Just silence and her. Her voice. Her eyes. The way she'd said my name like it wasn't something to be careful with.
The way she'd stayed. And then didn't.
I'd replayed it too many times. Every detail, every shift, every moment where I should have seen it coming. Where I should have known better. Where I should have stopped.
But I hadn't. Because for the first time in a long time I hadn't wanted to.
At one point, I'd considered it. Escape. The thought had come sharp and sudden, cutting through everything else with dangerous clarity.
I already had a plan. Had spent the better part of a year building it piece by piece, step by step, waiting for the right moment. Calculated. Precise. Controlled.
Not this. Not reckless. Not rushed. Not driven by something as unstable as... this.
And yet for a few hours, it had almost been enough.
The idea of walking out, of tearing through whatever stood in my way just to find her, just to see if she'd meant it.
I'd almost thrown it all away. For her.
That had been the moment I understood just how far gone I was.
So instead I stayed. And broke everything else around me instead. The cell didn't change. Same walls. Same suffocating stillness. Same place they put me when they didn't want to deal with me anymore.
Or when I gave them no other option.
My fist connected with the concrete again. And again. And again.
Skin split. Knuckles already raw from days of the same, reopening without resistance. Blood smeared across the wall in uneven streaks, dark and familiar.
I didn't feel it. Didn't care to.
The rhythm mattered more than the impact. The repetition. The brief, dull edge it gave to everything else clawing inside my chest.
Her. Always her.
Her voice cutting through the noise in my head. Her mouth against mine. The way she'd looked at me after like she didn't recognise herself anymore.
My fist hit the wall again, harder this time. A sharp crack echoed in the small space. Still not enough. Not even close.
The sound of the door unlocking barely registered at first. Metal scraping. Hinges shifting. Familiar. Irrelevant.
"Freakshow."
The voice cut in, low and sharp with irritation.
I didn't turn. Didn't stop. My gaze stayed fixed on the blood trailing down my hand as it struck the wall again, slower now but no less deliberate.
"Stop that, you psycho—" Another hit. "—you'll break your damn hand—" Another.
"—Doc's here to see you."
That one landed. Not like the others. Not noise. Not background. Not something to ignore. It cut clean through everything else.
My fist stopped mid-motion. Silence dropped heavy into the space. Slowly, very slowly, I turned my head.
The guard stood in the doorway, watching me with that same mix of irritation and unease they all wore around me.
But I wasn't looking at him. Not really. Because for the first time in two weeks something else had my full attention.
And just like that everything inside me went still.
Reader's POV -
I didn't know if I should have come back.
The thought had followed me for days, quiet at first, something I could push aside with logic, with professionalism, with every rule I had spent years building my career on.
But logic had a way of thinning out when left alone too long, and in its place something else had taken root.
Something far more dangerous.
Because no matter how many times I replayed it, the moment, the decision, the way I had said fine like it meant nothing, I couldn't undo the truth of it.
I hadn't been forced. I hadn't been manipulated into something I didn't understand.
I had wanted it.
That was the part that unsettled me the most. Not the fact that he had crossed a line but that I had stepped over it willingly.
I'd taken leave the next day. It had felt necessary at the time. Sensible.
A chance to put distance between myself and... whatever that had been. To clear my head. To remind myself who I was outside of that room, outside of him.
Days passed. Then more. And instead of clarity, all I found was repetition.
His voice. His hands. The way he had looked at me after like he already knew I wouldn't walk away clean from it.
I had tried to rationalise it. Frame it as a lapse in judgment. A moment of pressure in an already volatile environment.
But every explanation felt thin because underneath it all, there was something I couldn't ignore. Something that didn't make sense but refused to be dismissed.
Azriel. There was something about him that lingered. Not loudly. Not in a way that demanded attention but persistently.
Like a pull I couldn't quite explain.
Magnetic. That was the only word that came close. Not safe. Not right. Not logical. But impossible to ignore.
And eventually, inevitably, that pull had brought me back.
The prison felt different when I walked back through it.
Not physically. The same concrete walls, the same oppressive weight in the air, the same underlying tension humming beneath every locked door and passing glance.
But I felt it differently.
More aware. More exposed. Like I was walking back into something I hadn't fully left behind.
My heels echoed faintly against the floor as I walked beside Daniel his presence as solid and grounding as it had always been.
Too solid, perhaps.
"You really came back again," he muttered, glancing at me like he still hadn't quite decided if it was admirable or completely reckless.
"I told you I would," I replied, keeping my tone even.
He huffed under his breath, shaking his head slightly. "Yeah, well... I didn't think you meant it."
There was something in his voice, something edged with frustration, maybe even concern but I didn't press it.
We walked in silence for a few seconds before he spoke again.
"I'm telling you," he said, more firmly this time, "he lost his damn mind."
My steps faltered just slightly. Barely noticeable. But enough that I felt it.
"Azriel?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
Daniel let out a short, humourless laugh. "Who else?"
I frowned faintly, trying to keep my expression neutral even as something tightened in my chest. "But he'd been improving," I said. "His incident reports were decreasing. His behaviour was—"
"Yeah," Daniel cut in, glancing at me sideways. "That didn't last."
Something in his tone made me look at him properly. "What happened?"
He shrugged, but it wasn't casual. Not really.
"Started picking fights. Small stuff at first. Then not so small." He paused, jaw tightening slightly. "Got himself thrown into solitary more times than I can count in the last two weeks."
Two weeks. The same two weeks I'd been gone. A slow, uneasy feeling settled in my stomach.
"Maybe it has something to do with your leave," he added.
I turned my head toward him more sharply this time. "What do you mean?"
He didn't answer immediately. Just watched me for a second longer than necessary, like he was weighing how much to say.
Then he exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair.
"Look," he said, voice lowering slightly, "I don't know what it is you do in those sessions—don't wanna know—but whatever it is..." He shook his head. "It works."
"That's the job," I replied carefully.
"Yeah," he said, "except it's not supposed to work like that."
A beat. Then, with a dry, almost disbelieving edge to his voice—
"You're like some kind of psychopath whisperer."
The words landed heavier than they should have. I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry as my gaze shifted forward again, focusing on the corridor ahead even as my thoughts spiralled.
Psychopath whisperer.
It was meant as a joke. A careless label. Something to explain behaviour he didn't understand.
But underneath it there was truth in it. And that truth unsettled me more than anything else he'd said.
Because if Azriel had really unravelled like that, if his behaviour had shifted that drastically in my absence then this wasn't just about professional influence.
It wasn't just about therapy. It was something else.
Something I wasn't sure I fully understood. Or wanted to.
I inhaled slowly, steadying myself as we approached the next set of doors, my pulse just a little too fast, my thoughts just a little too loud.
"What condition is he in now?" I asked, keeping my voice controlled despite the tension coiling beneath it.
Daniel gave a short, humourless huff. "Solitary," he said. "Where else?"
Of course. A flicker of something, unease, guilt, something sharper, moved through me before I could stop it.
I pushed it down quickly. Professional. Focused. Controlled. That was what I needed to be.
Daniel slowed slightly as we reached the final door, his hand hovering near the control panel before he glanced at me.
"You sure about this?" he asked.
The question wasn't new. I'd heard it before, variations of it, layered in concern, in doubt, in quiet disbelief at my choices.
But this time, there was something else beneath it. Something closer to a warning.
I met his gaze evenly. "Yes."
A beat passed. Then he exhaled, pressing the button. The door unlocked with a heavy click.
"Don't take too long," he muttered. "And if anything feels off—"
"I'll call," I finished.
He didn't look convinced but he stepped aside anyway, pulling the door open just enough for me to step through before closing it again behind me with a solid, final sound that seemed to echo longer than it should have.
And then it was just us.
He was standing when I turned. Not sitting. Not resting. Standing. Facing the wall.
Azriel's fist was pressed against the wall, shoulders tense, posture rigid in a way that felt... contained, but only just.
For a second, he didn't move. Then slowly, very slowly, he lowered his hand. Turned. And looked at me.
Two weeks. It showed.
Not in some dramatic, obvious way but in the details. The tension in his jaw, the sharpness in his gaze, the faint bruising across his knuckles, split skin, healing badly, like he hadn't cared enough to stop reopening it.
His eyes found mine immediately. Locked. And didn't let go.
Silence stretched. Not awkward. Not empty. Heavy. Charged with everything that hadn't been said.
"Where were you?"
The question came out low. Controlled. But there was something under it, something tighter than I'd ever heard from him before.
Not anger. Not quite. Something closer to... demand.
I held his gaze, forcing myself to remain steady despite the way my pulse picked up under the weight of it.
"I took leave," I said simply. It was the truth. Just not all of it.
His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he studied me. "Leave," he repeated.
The word sounded different coming from him. Like he didn't quite accept it.
"I had time accumulated," I added, keeping my tone even. "It seemed like the appropriate moment to use it."
A pause. Then very faintly the corner of his mouth shifted.
"I thought," he said slowly, taking a step closer, "it might have been because I left too much of an impression on you."
The words landed softer than they should have. Not crude. Not mocking. Measured. Intentional.
My breath caught just slightly. Annoyingly noticeable. I forced it steady, lifting my chin a fraction as I met his gaze properly.
"You seem very sure of yourself," I replied.
There was the smallest flicker of something in his expression, satisfaction, maybe.
"Not usually," he said. "Just when I'm right."
Another step closer. Not enough to crowd me. Enough to remind me.
"You're making an assumption," I said, keeping my voice calm despite the subtle tension curling beneath it.
"Am I?" he murmured.
His gaze dropped briefly to my lips. Then back to my eyes. "You didn't come back," he continued, quieter now. "After that."
The shift in tone was subtle but I caught it. Not accusation. Observation. But it carried weight anyway.
"I came back," I said. Not defensive. Just factual.
His eyes searched mine for a second longer than necessary, like he was measuring something, truth, intention, maybe even resolve.
Then slowly, he exhaled through his nose. "Yeah," he said, almost to himself. "You did."
The tension shifted then. Not gone but... different.
Looser. Less sharp. Like something had settled just enough to allow something else to take its place.
"Disappointed?" I asked lightly, tilting my head just slightly. "That I didn't stay away?"
It was a risk, pushing like that. Testing. But I needed to know where we stood.
His gaze flicked back to mine instantly. There it was again, that faint curve of his mouth, sharper this time.
"No," he said. A beat. Then, quieter "I was starting to get bored."
The lie was obvious. And we both knew it.
I couldn't help it, the smallest hint of a smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it. "Is that what all the incidents were?" I asked. "Boredom?"
His eyes darkened slightly at that. "Something like that."
Another step. Closer now. Close enough that I could feel the shift in the air between us again, that same pull, that same dangerous, magnetic tension that had been there before.
Unresolved.
"We're here for a session," I said, more firmly this time, anchoring the moment before it slipped too far.
His gaze lingered on me for a second longer. Then slowly he leaned back. Just enough.
"Of course we are, Doc."
But the way he said it, the way his eyes didn't quite lose that edge made it very clear.
Nothing about this was just a session anymore.
A/N - So Azriel lowkey crashes out because his doctor did in fact... not return :(
Buttt she does come back, she just took some leave to process everything that went down (because girl was absolutely not okay after that last session) and when she returns?? Yeah. Things are... tense. Very tense. Very charged!!
I knew it not because I had counted the hours but because when the morning sun finally broke through my window, it felt like a punishment rather than a beginning.
The light was too bright. Too harsh. Too real.
It illuminated everything I had spent the entire night trying not to think about.
I stared at the ceiling for a long while, unmoving, as though if I remained still enough, time might reverse itself. As though I might wake and find it had all been a dream.
It hadn't.
Every part of me ached in quiet, unfamiliar ways. Not painful, no, not entirely but enough to remind me. Enough that I could not pretend.
I forced myself out of bed. Mechanically. Numbly.
I dressed with shaking hands, choosing fabrics that concealed, that covered, that hid every inch of me as though modesty alone could undo what had already been done. I pinned my hair tighter than usual, avoiding my own reflection until the very last moment.
And when I finally looked I did not recognise the girl staring back.
How could I have been so foolish? So reckless? So completely, utterly weak?
The memory came unbidden anyway, his voice, low and steady, the way he had looked at me like I was something worth losing control over.
I swallowed hard. No. I would not think of it like that. I had not been swept away.
I had made a mistake. A terrible, irreversible mistake.
I pressed my hands flat against the dressing table, steadying myself as the thought settled in my chest like a stone.
I was trapped now. I knew it. Completely. Inescapably. What if he used this? What if this had been his intention all along?
The thought turned my stomach.
He had a reputation. Everyone said so. Charming. Dangerous. A man who always got what he wanted.
And now I had given him the one thing I could never take back.
Of course it had meant nothing to him. Why would it? Men like him did not ruin themselves with moments like that.
Only women did. Only women paid the price.
I found myself at Eleanor's door before I could think better of it. I did not remember the journey there. Only the urgency. The need.
The moment she opened the door, her expression shifted instantly.
"Something's wrong," she said.
Not a question. Never a question with her.
I stepped inside, and the moment the door closed behind me, everything I had been holding together shattered.
"I've done something awful," I said, my voice breaking despite my best efforts.
Her face softened immediately. "Come," she murmured, guiding me further inside.
We sat in her drawing room, untouched tea growing cold between us as I tried and failed to compose myself.
"I've ruined everything," I whispered.
Eleanor reached across the table, taking my hands in hers. "Tell me."
So I did. Haltingly at first. Then all at once. The argument. The window. The things he had said. The way I had felt. The way I had not stopped it.
The silence that followed when I finished was unbearable.
"I am ruined," I said again, quieter now. Smaller. "If anyone finds out—if my father—"
"They won't," Eleanor said firmly.
I shook my head. "You don't understand—this is not something that can simply be ignored. He could—he could force the marriage now. He could tell my father and there would be no choice left to me at all."
Eleanor studied me carefully. "And do you truly believe he would do that?" she asked.
"Yes," I said immediately.
But the word did not feel as solid as I wanted it to.
I pulled my hands from hers, standing abruptly. "It doesn't matter what I believe. It matters what he can do."
"And what if he doesn't?" she pressed gently.
I let out a bitter laugh. "Then I am still ruined, Eleanor. It only takes one whisper. One servant. One wrong glance and it is over."
She stood as well, stepping closer. "You are not ruined," she said quietly. "You made a choice."
"A foolish one."
"A human one."
I turned away, wrapping my arms around myself. "It changes everything."
"Yes," she said softly.
I waited for the reassurance. For the comfort. Instead she added, "But not always for the worse."
I looked at her sharply. "Do not romanticise this."
"I am not," she said calmly. "I am simply saying that you may not yet see clearly what this means."
"I see it perfectly," I snapped. "It means I have handed him every advantage."
Eleanor tilted her head slightly. "Or perhaps," she said, "you have placed him in just as dangerous a position as yourself."
I frowned. "That makes no sense."
"It does," she said gently. "If he cares at all."
I scoffed, turning away again. "He doesn't."
But the words didn't land the way they should have.
By the time I returned home, the sky had darkened. The house felt too quiet. Too still. Like something was waiting.
I barely made it to my room before the door slammed open behind me. I flinched.
My father stood in the doorway, his expression darker than I had ever seen it. Not annoyed. Not disappointed. Furious. True, unrestrained fury.
A cold dread settled into my stomach.
"What have you done?" he demanded.
My heart stuttered. "I—"
"Do not lie to me," he snapped, stepping into the room. "Do you take me for a fool?"
"I don't know what you mean—"
His hand struck my cheek before I even saw him move. The sound cracked through the room like thunder.
For a moment, everything went silent.
My head snapped to the side, the sting blooming across my skin as shock rooted me to the spot.
He had never. Not once in my life. He had never raised a hand to me before.
"You will not disgrace this family," he said, his voice low and deadly. "Do you understand me?"
I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.
"I have heard enough," he continued. "Whispers. Speculation. Your name being spoken in ways it should never be."
My stomach dropped. No. No, no, no—
"You will marry," he said. "And you will do so before you have the opportunity to shame me further."
My vision blurred. "Father—"
"No," he cut in sharply. "You have had your freedom. You have squandered it."
Tears burned at the back of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.
"You will marry," he said, each word precise. Final. "And you will do so soon."
The room felt like it was closing in again. Trapped. Just as I had feared. Only now there was no escaping it at all.
I did not wait for an invitation. I did not send a note. I did not think.
Which, in hindsight, was perhaps the only reason I managed to make it all the way to his house without losing my nerve.
By the time I was shown into the drawing room, my heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat but the anger kept me upright. Kept me moving. Kept me from turning around and pretending none of this had happened.
The door opened behind me. I turned before the servant had even fully stepped aside.
Rhysand stopped just inside the room when he saw me, surprise flashed across his face before his expression settled into that usual calm, controlled mask he wore so well.
"Well," he said slowly, "this is unexpected."
That was all it took.
"You told him," I said.
He frowned slightly. "Told who—"
"My father," I snapped, stepping toward him. "Do not pretend you don't know what I am talking about."
Understanding flickered across his face briefly, followed immediately by something sharper. "I did not—"
"He knows," I cut in, my voice rising. "He knows, Rhysand. About us. About last night. He stormed into my room like I was a criminal and informed me I am to be married immediately before I 'disgrace him further.'"
Rhysand went very still.
"I told him nothing," he said, his voice suddenly cold. Controlled in a way that meant he was angry now too.
"You expect me to believe that?" I laughed bitterly. "Who else would tell him? The walls? The furniture? Perhaps the moon itself whispered it to him?"
"I did not tell your father," he repeated, more firmly this time.
"You are the only other person who knew!" I shouted.
"And you think I would ruin you?" he shot back, the first crack in his composure finally appearing. "You think I would hand him a weapon like that?"
"I think," I said, my voice shaking now despite my best efforts, "that this arrangement was not moving quickly enough for your liking, and this solved your problem very neatly."
His expression hardened. "You truly believe I would force you into marriage that way?"
"I believe you always get what you want," I snapped.
"And you think I want a wife who hates me?"
"I think you want control."
The words hung between us like a drawn blade.
His jaw tightened slightly. "You are wrong."
"Am I?" I laughed again, though it sounded more like a crack than anything resembling humour. "My father suddenly knows I am compromised and now I am to be married immediately. Forgive me if the timing feels convenient."
"I did not tell him," he said again, slower this time, like he was trying very hard not to lose his temper completely.
But I was already too far gone. Too angry. Too scared. Too hurt.
"You know what the worst part is?" I said, my voice dropping quieter now, sharper. "I actually thought for a moment that you wouldn't use it against me."
His eyes flickered slightly at that.
"I thought," I continued, "that perhaps you had some shred of decency buried under all that arrogance."
"That is enough," he said quietly.
But I didn't stop.
"I was wrong," I said. "You saw an opportunity and you took it. Just like everyone said you would."
His hands clenched slightly at his sides. "You are angry, and you are frightened, and so you are looking for someone to blame. I understand that. But you will not put this on me."
"I don't need to put it on you," I said. "It already is."
He stared at me for a long moment, and the silence stretched so tight it felt like it might snap in my face.
"You think very little of me," he said finally.
"I think exactly what your actions suggest."
"I told no one," he said again, quieter now. "And if I find out who did, they will regret it."
I shook my head. "It doesn't matter now. The damage is done."
He took a step closer. "Look at me and tell me you truly believe I would do that to you."
I refused to look at him. That was answer enough.
Something in his expression changed then. Something colder. More distant. "Very well," he said quietly.
I crossed my arms, holding my ground even though my heart was hammering painfully now.
"This was a mistake," I said. "All of it. The arguments, the engagement, last night—everything."
He didn't respond.
So I said the cruellest thing I could think of. The thing I knew would hurt him. The thing that hurt me just as much to say.
"You were just convenient," I said.
The words tasted like poison in my mouth. They hurt to say. They hurt because they were not true.
And I knew it but I said them anyway.
For the first time since I had met him, Rhysand looked like I had actually managed to wound him.
Not angry. Not amused. Not controlled. Just still. Very, very still.
"I see," he said quietly.
And somehow that was worse than if he had shouted.
"I hope," he added after a moment, his voice calm again but colder than I had ever heard it, "that you never find yourself in a position where someone you trust believes the worst of you without hesitation."
The words landed like a slap. I said nothing because I had nothing left to say.
And because a small, horrible part of me was starting to wonder if I had just made a terrible mistake.
Rhysand's POV -
I wanted nothing more than to return to my room and drink my way through the evening until I could no longer remember my own name.
But society is a cruel thing, and reputation even crueller, so instead I found myself standing at yet another ball, dressed in black, smiling at people I did not like and making conversation I did not care about.
Music filled the ballroom, bright and lively, violins carrying over the hum of conversation and laughter. Chandeliers glittered overhead, casting everything in gold and crystal and illusion.
I had been in the room less than a minute when I saw her. I always saw her immediately.
It did not matter how many people stood between us, how large the room was, how determined I was not to look for her—I always found her without trying.
She was across the ballroom, speaking to an older lady, her posture perfect, her chin slightly raised, her expression composed in that careful way she had when she was forcing herself to look unaffected by everything around her.
Anyone else would have thought her calm. I knew better.
She had not looked at me yet. That was deliberate.
I remained at the edge of the dance floor, one hand resting loosely behind my back, watching the dancers move in perfect circles while pretending to listen to whatever man beside me was talking about investments or horses or something equally dull.
But my attention kept drifting back to her.
She laughed politely at something someone said, but the smile did not reach her eyes. She looked tired.
I did that, I thought. That realisation sat heavily in my chest.
Our last conversation if it could even be called that had not left my mind for a single day since it happened.
You were just convenient.
I had heard many cruel things in my life. Very few had stayed with me. Those words had.
Because she had not meant them. And that somehow made them worse.
I dragged my attention away from her and moved toward the side corridor to escape the noise for a moment.
That was when I heard her name.
I slowed slightly, not enough to draw attention, just enough to hear the conversation coming from the shadowed alcove ahead.
A group of men stood there, glasses in hand, laughing in that low, careless way men do when they believe no one important is listening.
"... I'm telling you, I heard it from Collins himself," one of them was saying.
"He's full of it," another replied.
"Not this time. Said she's not nearly as untouched as everyone thinks."
They laughed. Something cold settled in my stomach.
"You're talking about her, aren't you?" another voice said. "The one who is supposed to be engaged to Lord Rhysand."
"Yes," the first man said. "Apparently she's already been... persuaded."
More laughter. My jaw tightened.
"Poor Rhysand," someone else added mockingly. "Buying a horse that's already been ridden."
They laughed again, louder this time. I did not move. Did not interrupt. Not yet.
Then one of them said, "If the rumours are true, I'd say she's probably more interesting than she pretends. I wouldn't mind finding out myself."
Another voice chimed in, "Perhaps we should all line up. See if the rumours are accurate."
More laughter. That was when I stepped into the light. The sound of my shoes on the marble floor was enough to make them turn.
One by one, their laughter died.
"Gentlemen," I said calmly. They went still immediately. They all knew who I was.
"Lord Rhysand," one of them said quickly, straightening slightly. "We didn't see you there."
"No," I said. "You didn't."
Silence fell over the group. I looked at each of them in turn, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make them uncomfortable.
"I am going to give you one opportunity," I said quietly, "to tell me that I misheard what you were saying."
No one spoke. One of them shifted uncomfortably. Another took a drink from his glass to avoid looking at me.
"I did not mishear," I concluded.
"Now see here—" one of them started.
"No," I interrupted calmly. "You will listen."
My voice was still quiet. That was what made it dangerous.
"You will not speak her name again," I said. "You will not repeat those rumours. You will not joke about her, speculate about her, or discuss her in any way that is not respectful."
"And if we do?" one of them asked, trying for bravado but not quite managing it.
I looked at him for a long moment. "Then we will have a problem."
He scoffed slightly. "You cannot fight every man who talks, Rhysand."
"No," I agreed calmly. "But I can start with you."
He smirked. "You're defending her honour now? Bit late for that, isn't it?"
That was the moment I hit him. I did not think about it. I did not plan it. My fist connected with his jaw hard enough to send him stumbling back into the wall. His glass shattered on the floor.
Everything exploded into motion after that.
Someone grabbed my shoulder. I shoved him back. Another swung at me and caught my cheek. I returned the favour. There was shouting, crashing, someone trying to pull us apart, someone else joining in for reasons I didn't care about.
It was messy. Undignified. Exactly the kind of behaviour I usually avoided.
I did not care.
By the time servants and a very alarmed host finally dragged people apart, my lip was split and one of the men had a very broken nose.
I straightened my jacket, wiped the blood from my mouth with the back of my hand, and left before anyone could attempt to lecture me.
I was walking down one of the darker corridors toward the exit when I heard footsteps behind me.
I didn't need to turn to know who it was.
"You're bleeding," she said.
I stopped but did not turn immediately. "I will survive," I replied.
She came around to stand in front of me then, looking up at me with a mixture of anger and confusion.
"Why would you do that?" she asked.
I looked at her for a long moment. There were a dozen answers I could have given.
Because they were insulting you. Because I wanted to break his jaw long before tonight. Because I cannot stand hearing your name spoken like that.
Because I am in love with you.
I did not say any of those things. Instead I said quietly, "That night meant something to me." She went very still.
"You said I was just convenient," I continued. "I thought I should correct that misunderstanding."
She swallowed but said nothing. So I met her eyes and said, very calmly—
"You weren't convenient to me."
And before she could respond, before I could say something far more dangerous, I walked past her and left the corridor without looking back.
A/n - Eleanor tried to talk some sense into her... unfortunately it lasted all of five minutes before everything completely fell apart :(
Her father finding out, the confrontation with Rhysand, the accusations, the "you were just convenient" line—this part was pure emotional chaos from start to finish x
Despite everything she says to him, Rhys still steps in to defend her reputation!! Very messy, very angsty... all my favourite things wrapped into one!
Thank you so much for reading <33
An Unwilling Match tag list - @sophieliz @azrielblue @whump-loverz @galacticoceans @lilah-asteria @niiickelodeon @justtryingtosurvive02 @rosie-posie08 @mis-lil-red @dnfhascorruptedme @justreadingfanficseveryday @spookypersondinosaur @chxosangxl @ivy-34 @thecrimsonstarofvelaris @cardiganconfessions @sleepyhumanhere @karolamurdock @blueeclipsepaperstudent @sunmoonsweets @cubanfire @caitm1 @meepmoopbadabeepboop @anongirl007
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary - Cassian, the warrior of the sky. Strong. Protective. A male whose might was unmatched. His mate, soft and steadfast, became the centre of everything he would fight for.
What began with awe and anticipation became something far more tender—nurturing.
From the shock of twins, to first words and tentative flight—they laugh, they love, they endure.
He thought he knew what love was. Then he held his daughter and son.
A story of love and wonder, of a warrior realising the bravest thing he could ever be was gentle when it mattered most.
He was their strength. They were his warmth.
Tags - new parents, family dynamics, fluff and feels, Cassian as a dad, Azriel and Rhys as uncles, wholesome chaos, tender moments
Contents -
ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ One
ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ Two
ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ Three
ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ Four
ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ Five
ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ Six
ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ Seven
ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ Eight
ACOTAR Masterlist
A/n - As always content warnings will be at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.
As promised... here's the Cassian version of the baby stories!
This story jumps forward in time—starting from the day of the birth, then a week later, a few months after, and so on, following their chaotic, love-filled, slightly messy, and utterly adorable family as they grow together :)
Please don't hesitate to vote or comment along the way, it truly means the world to me <3
The fact that I was sitting in my office again, one week later, in the same prison that had nearly swallowed me whole was something no one seemed capable of understanding.
They looked at me differently now. Not with admiration. Not even with concern.
Something closer to disbelief edged with quiet judgment. As if staying made me reckless. Or worse... unbalanced.
"Most people don't come back after something like that."
Daniel had said it this morning, his voice careful, measured in that way people use when they think they're being subtle. Most people.
I wasn't sure if that was meant to reassure me or warn me because the truth was, I didn't entirely understand it either.
I should have left. That would have been the logical decision. The safe one. The expected one.
And yet I was still here.
Sitting behind the same desk. Walking the same corridors. Hearing the same distant clang of metal doors and echoing voices that hadn't felt quite as threatening before.
But now I knew what lived beneath that structure. I knew how quickly it could unravel.
And still... I came back.
My fingers traced absent patterns along the edge of the file in front of me, though I hadn't turned a page in several minutes.
Because my thoughts weren't on the reports.
They were on him. Azriel.
The memory came back too easily, the ceiling tile shifting, the sudden break in reality, the way fear had gripped me so tightly I could barely breathe—and then his eyes.
Steady. Focused. Not wild. Not frantic. Not like the others. He hadn't hesitated. Hadn't questioned it. Hadn't looked at me the way the others had.
And that was the part I couldn't reconcile.
Why? Why me? He had no reason to intervene. No obligation. No gain.
If anything, helping me had cost him an opportunity most prisoners would have taken without hesitation.
The question lingered like something unfinished, something that refused to settle no matter how many times I turned it over in my mind.
I didn't have an answer but I intended to find one.
The walk to the session room felt longer than usual. Not because of distance but because of anticipation because this wasn't the same anymore.
Something had shifted that day. Something irreversible. And I didn't yet understand what it meant.
The door opened with its usual heavy click. He was already inside. Of course he was.
Azriel sat exactly as he always did, composed, still, his presence filling the space without effort. There was something almost unsettling about the consistency of it, the way chaos seemed to exist everywhere except where he was.
His gaze lifted the moment I entered. And held. It always did.
"Hello, Azriel," I said, my voice steady despite the faint tightening in my chest as I took my seat across from him.
"Hello, Doc."
The same tone. The same ease.
As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't pulled me through a ceiling and carried me through a riot like it was routine.
I set my notebook down, though I didn't open it immediately.
"I think..." I began, then paused, recalibrating slightly. "I think I should start by thanking you."
That caught his attention, not outwardly, not dramatically, but I saw it. A subtle shift. A flicker of interest sharpening behind his eyes.
"For helping me," I continued. "That day."
Silence settled briefly between us, but it wasn't uncomfortable. He leaned back slightly in his chair, one shoulder resting against the wall, gaze still fixed on me.
"I didn't think you'd come back," he said.
Not accusatory. Not even surprised. Just... observational.
A small breath left me, something close to a smile brushing the edges of it. "I'm beginning to realise that's a common assumption."
"It's a correct one," he replied.
"For most people," I said.
His eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion but in focus. "Which you're not."
"No," I admitted quietly. "Apparently not." Another pause. Softer this time. "I meant what I said," I added, my voice more deliberate now. "I am grateful. You... didn't have to do that."
Something shifted in his expression then. Small. Almost imperceptible. But it was there.
"I know," he said.
That should have ended it. That should have been enough. But it wasn't. Because the question was still there. Sitting between us. Unspoken, but heavy.
Why? I didn't ask it. Not yet.
Instead, I held his gaze, letting the silence stretch just long enough to acknowledge the weight of what had happened without dissecting it too quickly.
His lips curved slightly then. Not a smile. Not quite. Something more knowing.
"You could thank me another way," he said.
The words were quiet. Measured. And they landed.
A slow, unexpected warmth spread low in my stomach before I could stop it, my breath catching just slightly, not enough to be obvious, but enough that I felt it.
I should have dismissed it.
Should have redirected. Maintained the structure, the boundary, the role I was supposed to occupy in this room.
But I didn't.
Because something about the way he said it, it didn't feel crude. Didn't feel like the threats I'd heard during the riot, didn't carry that same ugly weight.
It was deliberate. Controlled. Intentional. And somehow... that made it worse.
"What way?" I asked, softer than I intended.
His gaze didn't leave mine. Not even for a second.
"One kiss."
The air shifted. Not dramatically. Not visibly. But I felt it.
My heart kicked harder against my ribs, my mind scrambling to catch up with what he'd just said, what he was asking.
Because it was asking. Not demanding. Not forcing. And that made it far more dangerous.
I stared at him. This was wrong. There was no version of this that wasn't wrong.
He was a prisoner. Violent. Calculated. A man with a history that should have been enough to keep me firmly grounded in logic.
And I was supposed to be the one with control. With boundaries. With reason.
"This is manipulation," I said quietly, more to remind myself than to accuse him.
His expression didn't change.
"Is it?" he asked. The calm in his voice made it harder to hold onto certainty.
"You're a dangerous individual," I added, my tone steadier now, clinging to something clinical, something structured.
"I am," he agreed. No denial. No justification. Just truth.
And yet I didn't feel unsafe. That was the part that made my chest tighten.
Because I should have. Every instinct, every piece of training, every logical thought should have been screaming at me to shut this down immediately.
But they weren't.
Instead, there was something quieter beneath it all. Something steady.
Something that remembered his hand reaching for mine in the dark. The way he'd said "I won't let anything happen to you" and meant it.
"Then why," I said slowly, my voice barely above a breath, "do I feel... safe?"
It wasn't really a question for him but he answered anyway.
"Because you are."
Simple. Certain. And completely unhelpful.
I let out a quiet, almost disbelieving breath, my gaze dropping for a fraction of a second before lifting back to his.
This was a mistake. I knew it. And still—
"Just one?" I asked.
The words felt surreal even as they left me. His eyes darkened slightly, something unreadable settling deeper behind them.
"Just one," he said.
A pause. A choice. A line I could still walk away from. I didn't.
"Fine."
The word came out barely audible, but it was enough.
He rose from his chair, towering over me effortlessly, and just to grasp some semblance of control, I stood too.
We were only inches apart, and the second our lips met, any trace of rational thought disappeared completely... as if it had never existed.
The kiss wasn't hesitant or unsure, it felt inevitable, charged with something wild and unrestrained.
The world narrowed to nothing but breath and warmth and want.
Azriel responded immediately, like he'd been waiting for permission he no longer needed.
His lips moved against mine with undeniable hunger, a quiet groan escaping him as one hand slid into my hair, fingers tightening at the back of my head to hold me firmly in place.
The touch sent a sharp shiver through me.
With a quick movement, he pressed me back against the wall.
His hands pulled me closer, his body settling between my legs as though it belonged there.
The kiss deepened, turning desperate and breathless, as if stopping wasn't just impossible but catastrophic.
My hands moved over his arms, solid and warm beneath my touch, committing the strength there to memory before sliding up to grip his shoulders.
I traced down his back, nails dragging lightly over the fabric of his clothes, pulling a low sound from his throat that made my pulse spike.
"Fuck—" he exhaled under his breath, his grip tightening slightly.
A soft, urgent moan slipped from my lips as he pushed into me, his presence overwhelming, his body pressed so close there was no room left for doubt or denial.
His hand left my hair and moved lower with quiet confidence, skimming along my thigh before slipping beneath my skirt, his fingers tracing the waistband of the flimsy underwear I wore.
Then he cupped me, slow, deliberate strokes between my legs that sent sparks racing up my spine.
My breath hitched, my body responding before my mind could even begin to catch up.
"Yeah," he whispered, almost to himself. "That's what I thought."
Every inch of me felt exposed under his gaze.
I knew exactly how fast this was escalating, but I didn't care. I was already too far gone.
I shifted instinctively, spreading my legs wider, a desperate sound falling from my lips as my eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed by sensation and the weight of what we were doing.
He leaned in closer, impossibly close.
"You're soaked for me, Doc," he whispered, his mouth brushing along my jaw, his voice so low it felt like a secret meant only for me.
"Look at you," he added softly, almost reverent. "Can't even pretend you don't want this."
"Oh fuck—" I mewled as his fingers pushed my underwear aside and finally slid inside me, one at first, then two, moving in a smooth, deliberate rhythm while his thumb circled my clit with maddening precision.
"That's it," he muttered, voice roughening. "Take it—just like that."
The tension inside me built quickly, winding tighter and tighter with every practised movement, every filthy promise murmured against my skin.
I clung to him, grounding myself in the solid reality of his body, my thoughts dissolving into nothing but sensation, heat, and want.
"You sound so fucking pretty like this," he breathed, the words sending another shiver straight through me.
I was unravelling in his hands, every boundary I'd so carefully built slipping away.
"Don't stop," I insisted, as his fingers hit a spot inside me that had me seeing stars. The only sound echoing in the room now, was his fingers moving in and out of me.
My breathing turned shallow, my body trembling as the pressure inside me coiled tighter, sharper, until holding it back felt impossible.
"Oh god," I panted, barely managing the words. "I—I can't—"
"You can," he said immediately, low and certain.
His grip tightened, his voice low and commanding, laced with something dangerously soft. "That's it. Come for me. Let go. Come on my fingers—ride it out."
That was all it took.
Everything inside me snapped at once, my body arching as a breathless cry tore free, pleasure crashing over me in a dizzying, overwhelming wave.
"Yeah—there it is," he murmured, voice quieter now, but no less intense.
For a moment, there was nothing but him, nothing but the echo of his name on my lips and the undeniable truth that this line could never be uncrossed.
What the fuck had I done?
Azriel's POV -
The moment it was over I let the silence settle.
My hand lingered beneath her skirt for a fraction longer than necessary before I finally withdrew it, my gaze never leaving her face as I brought my fingers to my mouth, slow, deliberate, watching her the entire time as I licked them clean.
I hadn't meant to get carried away like that. That had been the intention, at least.
One kiss. A line. A test.
But she'd tasted too good. Responded too easily. Given too much without needing to be asked twice.
And I'd taken it.
Because a taste like that, soft, willing, warm, had never once in my life been something I'd been offered without a cost.
So yes... I got carried away. And I didn't regret it.
I expected it to break her. The moment where reality came crashing back in, where logic reasserted itself, where she would remember exactly where she was... and who I was.
I expected distance. Panic. Regret. I expected her to leave.
Instead, she stayed.
Her back was still pressed to the wall, her chest rising and falling too quickly, her breath uneven as she stared at me like she was still trying to catch up to what had just happened.
There was colour high in her cheeks, her lips parted slightly, swollen from the kiss, her composure fractured in a way I hadn't seen before.
And still she didn't run. Interesting.
I watched as something shifted behind her eyes. Not clarity. Not quite. Control.
Slowly, deliberately, she straightened. One hand smoothed down the fabric of her skirt, the other lifting to push her hair back into place, fingers trembling only slightly before she steadied them.
She swallowed. Composed herself.
And then like none of it had just happened she stepped away from the wall and walked back to her chair.
I didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched.
"Let's... carry on," she said, her voice quieter than usual, but controlled. Measured.
There was a faint tightness beneath it, something she hadn't quite managed to hide but she held it together well.
Better than most would have.
I tilted my head slightly, studying her as she gestured for me to sit. And I did. Because now I was curious.
"One kiss," she added, more firmly this time, as if grounding herself in something structured. Something safe. "That was the agreement."
A slow smirk pulled at the corner of my mouth as I leaned back into the chair, stretching my arms out along either side of it, completely at ease.
"Was it?" I murmured.
Her gaze flicked to me, sharper now, warning, but not retreating. I let the silence stretch just long enough before adding, casually—
"You taste sweet."
There it was. The reaction. Subtle. Controlled. But unmistakable.
Her breath hitched just slightly, her composure slipping for half a second before she forced it back into place.
"Like strawberries," I continued, voice lower now, more deliberate, watching her carefully, "and mint."
I didn't clarify. Didn't need to. The ambiguity did the work for me.
Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the edge of her notebook, her lips pressing together as she tried and failed to fully mask the effect it had on her.
Good.
I leaned forward slightly, resting my forearms on my knees now, closing some of the distance, not enough to crowd her, just enough to remind her I could.
"We still have a session to continue," she said, grounding herself again, clinging to it.
My smirk deepened, something quieter settling beneath it, something more dangerous.
"Of course we do, Doc."
She inhaled slowly, steadying herself, and finally opened her notebook, pen poised, posture straightening into something more familiar.
Professional. Controlled. As if she could simply step back into it. I let her. For now.
The session continued but it wasn't the same. It couldn't be.
Every question she asked carried an edge now, every glance held a fraction too long, every silence felt heavier than before.
And I watched it all, the way she recalibrated, the way she fought to maintain that balance, the way she refused to acknowledge just how far she'd already crossed the line.
It was... impressive. And dangerously addictive.
Time passed, how much, I didn't track. I only noticed the shift when she began to close things again, her movements slower now, more deliberate than when she'd started.
Controlled but not untouched. She stood. So did I. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
"I'll be back," she said. Not uncertain. Not hesitant. Certain.
My gaze held hers, steady, knowing.
"I know," I replied quietly.
A/N - Azriel did, in fact, chance his luck... and somehow walked away very, very successful ;)
She is absolutely for it. Like, very for it. Just also standing there like "why am I doing this... why do I want this so bad??" Very valid confusion on her part x
Azriel is obviously thriving in the aftermath. Smug levels are off the charts. The man is practically purring about it while pretending he's being casual about the whole thing (he is not!!)
The only thing stopping me from jumping out of my window to escape my father's endless lecturing was Valerie's worried glance and the promise I had made to Eleanor that I would see her tomorrow.
Otherwise, I might have done something dramatic and irreversible.
"You embarrassed me to no end," my father continued, pacing my bedroom like a general preparing for war. "Do you have no limits?"
"I didn't mean to embarrass you," I sighed, though I knew that would not help.
"Dancing with a lord who is not your intended is seemly behaviour to you?" he snapped.
"Lord Richard is merely a good friend—"
"I do not wish to hear it," he cut in sharply. "You are already promised. Your behaviour reflects on this family, and I will not have our name dragged through society because you refuse to behave like a lady."
I looked away, jaw tight.
He stopped pacing and looked at me, really looked at me, and his voice went cold in a way I had only heard a handful of times in my life.
"Do not force my hand," he said. "Do not make me force you into a marriage sooner than you can blink."
The words landed like a blow. Force you into a marriage sooner. Sooner.
My stomach dropped.
He turned without another word and left my room, slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the walls.
Silence fell. Heavy. Suffocating.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed door, my chest tight, my hands slightly shaking.
Then I walked slowly to my bed and fell back onto it, staring up at the ceiling.
I had always known this was coming. The pressure. The expectations. The arrangement. But now it felt like the walls were closing in.
Marriage was no longer a distant threat. It was becoming inevitable.
And I had never felt less in control of my own life.
I lay there for a long time, not moving, not thinking, just staring at the ceiling while my father's words echoed over and over in my mind.
Do not make me force you into a marriage sooner than you can blink.
A sudden noise at my window pulled me from my thoughts. I frowned and pushed myself up slightly on my elbows.
Another sound. The faint scrape of something against stone.
My heart jumped into my throat. I sat up fully just in time to see my bedroom window slowly open from the outside.
I stared wide-eyed, as a very familiar, very tall, very infuriating man climbed through my window and landed neatly on my bedroom floor like this was a perfectly normal thing to do.
I blinked at him.
He straightened, brushed imaginary dust from his coat, and then calmly reached back to close the window.
"Are you insane?" I hissed, jumping to my feet. "My father will have your head if he discovers you."
"Then do not let him discover me," he said with a small shrug, like this was entirely reasonable.
I stared at him in disbelief. I had expected many things tonight. This was not one of them.
He turned to face me fully then, and for the first time since I had known him, he did not look amused. He did not look calm. He did not look like he was enjoying this.
He looked... controlled. Controlled in a way that felt dangerous.
I expected mockery. I expected teasing. I expected some clever remark about my father's lecture that he had almost certainly overheard.
Instead, he just looked at me quietly. So, naturally, I attacked first.
"Come to ensure your prize is still intact?" I snapped, crossing my arms tightly across my chest.
His expression changed immediately, something hard flashing across his face.
"Whatever could you mean now?" he said, though his voice was already losing its usual amusement.
"You have scaled the walls of my home and climbed through my window like a common thief," I said, my voice rising slightly, "so I assume this must be very important. Did my father send you? Did you come to make sure I have not run away yet?"
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then he walked further into the room. "I heard what he said," he said quietly.
I looked away immediately. "Then you heard that I am apparently an embarrassment."
"You are not an embarrassment."
"That is not what he thinks."
"He is not marrying you," Rhys said sharply.
I laughed bitterly. "No. He is just deciding when and to whom."
Silence stretched between us. I could feel the anger rising again, sharp and hot and defensive. Everything was slipping out of my control. My life. My future. My choices.
And he was standing here in the middle of all of it.
So I did the only thing I knew how to do when I felt cornered. I lashed out.
"Well?" I said. "You must be pleased. This is exactly what you wanted, isn't it? A wife delivered to you whether she wants it or not."
His eyes darkened slightly.
"Do you really believe that?" he asked quietly.
"I think," I said, lifting my chin, "that you fight me at every turn, you argue with me, you interrupt my dances, you ruin my chances with other gentlemen, and now when it actually matters—when my father is threatening to force this marriage—you do nothing."
The words came out sharper than I intended but I did not take them back.
"You do nothing," I repeated. "So yes, I think this is exactly what you want."
He went very still. Dangerously still.
Then he spoke, and his voice was quieter than I had ever heard it. "Do you think I want you like this?"
The question caught me off guard. I frowned slightly. "Like what?"
"Trapped," he said. "Angry. Forced into something you do not choose."
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. He took a slow step closer.
"You think I do nothing," he continued, his voice still controlled but something intense burning underneath it. "You think I am not fighting."
"Then fight," I said immediately. "Tell my father you do not want this marriage. End it. You have power, influence—end it."
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he said quietly, "If I fought for you... I would not stop."
The room went completely silent. I did not move. I barely breathed.
He took another step closer, close enough now that I had to tilt my head slightly to look up at him.
"And if I started," he continued, his voice low and dangerously honest, "you would never be free of me."
My heart started beating faster, loud in my ears.
"I do not think you understand," he said. "If I decided I wanted you—truly wanted you—I would not step aside for your father, or society, or another lord, or even you."
I swallowed.
He was very close now. Too close.
"You say I do nothing," he said. "But what I am actually doing... is giving you the choice I was never given."
I stared at him, my mind struggling to catch up with what he was saying.
"You could walk away from this," he continued quietly. "You could marry someone kind and respectable and live a peaceful life."
"And you?" I asked before I could stop myself.
His expression changed slightly. "I would let you go," he said.
The words should have made me feel relieved. They did not.
"And that," he added softly, "would be the hardest thing I would ever do."
The words settled between us. Heavy. Final. Dangerous.
The room felt too small suddenly, like the walls had drawn closer without warning, like the air itself had thickened.
I did not know what to say.
For once, I had no sharp remark. No defence. No clever retort to throw between us like a shield. Just silence. And him. And something unravelling far too quickly beneath my ribs.
The air shifted. Not all at once. Not violently.
But like the slow tipping of a scale that had been balancing on the edge for far too long.
I did not remember deciding to move. Only that suddenly I was closer. And then closer still. Until there was barely any space left between us at all.
His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth. Then lifted again. That was the last moment we could have stopped. We didn't.
I kissed him. Not tentative. Not uncertain. Inevitable.
His breath caught just slightly before he kissed me back, and whatever fragile restraint had been holding between us gave way completely.
It was dizzying. It was consuming. It was everything I hadn't allowed myself to want.
I pressed into him without thinking, my hands fisting in his coat, and he answered instantly, eagerly, driving me backwards until the mattress met my spine.
The world narrowed to the heat of him, the solid press of his body, the way his heart beat unevenly against me.
His breathing matched mine, ragged, uneven, each inhale drawn like it cost him something.
His eyes had gone darker, the violet nearly swallowed by shadow, his lips parted as if he were on the edge of saying something reckless.
The space between us vibrated with tension. With need. With the kind of anticipation that felt dangerous simply because of how badly we both wanted it.
His thumb traced over my lower lip, now swollen from his kisses, the gesture almost reverent.
A shiver rippled down my spine at the softness of it, at the contrast between the gentleness of his touch and the intensity blazing in his gaze.
My heart pounded so hard I was certain he could feel it through my ribs. Each beat felt like a warning and a promise all at once.
Then his mouth left mine. He found my neck instead.
The first brush of his lips there stole the air from my lungs. He moved slowly at first, mapping a path along my skin as if memorising it, as if committing every reaction to memory.
My breath hitched despite myself, fingers tangling in his dark hair, holding him closer.
His hands grew less patient. They slid over my waist, up my sides, down again, learning the shape of me with growing boldness.
Fabric became an obstacle—an irritation.
His movements lost their careful control as he tugged at the fastenings of our clothes, a soft curse slipping from him when they refused to cooperate quickly enough.
The kisses deepened, more insistent now, less exploratory and more claiming.
He pulled back only long enough to look at me. Really look at me.
There was longing in his eyes. And something defiant beneath it, as if daring the world to challenge what was happening between us.
In one fluid motion, he stripped off his clothes, letting them fall carelessly to the floor. The soft thud of them hitting the ground felt like the shedding of a final barrier, like the last fragment of composure discarded with the fabric.
His chest rose and fell sharply.
"I hope you can keep quiet," he said, his voice low, roughened by desire and edged with challenge.
Heat flared through me at the sound of it.
I pushed myself up just enough to slide my nightgown the rest of the way off, the cool air kissing my overheated skin in stark contrast to the warmth radiating from him. Every nerve in my body felt alive, alert, aching.
His gaze travelled over me slowly. Hungrily.
His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, and the intensity in his expression made my knees threaten to give out even though I was already beneath him.
"And if I can't?" I asked, my voice softer now, breathless, not entirely from fear of being overheard but from wanting him to lose control.
His eyes lifted to mine again, the faintest smirk ghosting across his mouth.
"Then so be it."
And he kissed me again, fierce and consuming, all restraint finally shattered as if the consequences didn't matter, as if the only thing that existed in that moment was the heat between us and the reckless, breathtaking certainty that neither of us was going to stop.
His hands slid down, spanning the curve of my thighs before he lifted me as though I weighed nothing at all.
I wrapped my legs around his waist instinctively, locking myself to him.
The cool sheets met my spine, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body as he pressed me into the mattress, caging me there.
His mouth followed, descending slowly over my skin, leaving a searing path in its wake, each kiss deliberate, each drag of his lips branding me as though he meant to leave evidence of himself behind.
My head fell back against the pillows, a breathless sound escaping me as my fingers threaded into his dark hair.
I tugged him closer, unable to stop myself.
Every brush of his mouth, every heated press of his lips, pushed me deeper into a fog of want so thick it blurred the edges of reason.
It felt like another step into a shadowed place I both feared and longed for, a place where his touch could silence the guilt gnawing at me, where pleasure drowned out every whisper of doubt.
He shifted, adjusting our bodies with careful intent.
His breath fanned hot across my skin as he settled between my thighs but this time he didn't move immediately.
Instead he paused, his forehead resting briefly against mine, his breathing still uneven.
"Look at me," he murmured quietly.
I did. My heart pounding so hard it almost hurt.
There was something different in his expression now, still dark with want, still intense but threaded with restraint. With patience. As if he were holding himself back by sheer force of will.
"Tell me if it's too much," he said, his voice low.
The words sent a strange flutter through my chest, nerves, anticipation, fear, all tangled together but I nodded anyway, my fingers tightening slightly where they rested against his shoulders.
"I'm not going to break," I whispered.
Something like a faint smile touched his mouth at that but it disappeared quickly as his focus returned entirely to me.
When he finally moved, it was slow. Deliberate.
The rigid length of him brushed against my slick heat with unhurried purpose. The friction was maddening, slow, teasing, calculated to draw every soft sound from my throat.
A quiet moan slipped free despite myself.
Anticipation crackled in the air between us. I was trembling not from fear, but from the exquisite tension of waiting.
And then he moved.
The first push made me gasp sharply, the unfamiliar stretch sending a sharp sting through me that I hadn't been prepared for. My fingers dug into his shoulders on instinct, and he stopped immediately.
"Hey," he murmured, his voice softer now, almost soothing. "Breathe."
I hadn't realised I'd stopped breathing until then. I let out a shaky exhale, my forehead falling briefly against his shoulder as I tried to relax around the discomfort.
He didn't rush me. Didn't move, didn't push further, just stayed there, one hand sliding up my back in a slow, grounding motion, thumb brushing gently over my skin.
"It'll pass," he said quietly near my ear. "Just give it a second."
The sting slowly dulled, fading into a strange, tight warmth instead. Not painless but no longer frightening.
"I'm okay," I whispered after a moment, though my voice came out softer than I intended.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, as if making sure I meant it. Searching my face for any sign of hesitation.
Only when he seemed satisfied did he move again, still slow, still careful, like he was trying to memorise every reaction, every breath, every small sound.
The rhythm that followed was nothing like the earlier urgency. It was slower. Deeper.
Almost cautious at first, as if he was holding back, afraid of hurting me.
But the longer we moved together, the more the sharp edges faded, replaced by a growing warmth that spread through my body, loosening the tension in my muscles, turning discomfort into something else.
Something heavier. Hotter.
"Like that—just like that," I gasped, my voice fracturing as the head of him brushed against a place deep inside me that sent stars bursting behind my closed eyes.
My nails raked down his back, digging into his skin as if I needed something solid to hold onto, something to anchor me against the unfamiliar rising tide building within.
"Quieten down, darling," he murmured, his voice roughened to a husky whisper that sent another tremor through me.
He lowered his head into the curve of my neck, breathing me in.
The scent of him surrounded me, warm skin, desire, something primal and intoxicating that made my head spin.
I pressed my mouth to his shoulder, biting down to smother the cries threatening to escape. My breath came hot and uneven against his skin as I tried and failed to keep silent.
His hands tightened on my hips, fingers digging in possessively as he drove deeper.
His movements lost some of their earlier control, becoming sharper, more demanding, each thrust claiming more of me.
"Close," I breathed, the word barely audible, tangled somewhere between a moan and a plea.
My eyes squeezed shut as my body began to tremble. My walls clenched around him, each involuntary contraction pulling him deeper, urging him on.
"Good," he muttered against my collarbone, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there.
His mouth moved with hungry urgency, teeth grazing, nibbling lightly as his breath grew uneven and ragged.
Pressure mounted inside me, a delicious ache spiralling tighter and tighter. His voice murmured into my ear, low and gravelly, the words indistinct but soaked in need.
Each sound sent another pulse of heat pooling low in my belly.
My hands fisted in his hair, tugging him closer as if I could press our bodies together until there was no space left at all, until I could disappear entirely inside this reckless intimacy.
And then it broke.
A blinding wave crashed over me without warning, white-hot and overwhelming. My body arched sharply against his, tension snapping as pleasure tore through me. My cries were swallowed against his skin as the climax seized me, stealing every coherent thought.
My legs tightened around his waist, heels digging in as I pulled him even deeper, desperate to feel every inch of him while the tremors rolled through me.
His rhythm faltered.
His groans grew louder, less restrained, vibrating against my throat. I felt the shift in him, the way control slipped, the way he chased his own release.
"Yes—yes," I whispered hoarsely, urging him on, my voice broken and breathless.
His thrusts turned erratic, almost frantic, each one more powerful than the last.
And when he finally came, I felt it in the rigid tension of his body, in the sharp hitch of his breath, in the way his low moans shuddered against my skin.
Then everything went still.
Not completely. Our breathing was still uneven, hearts still racing, bodies still tangled together but the urgency was gone, leaving behind something quieter. Heavier.
He didn't move away immediately.
His forehead rested against my shoulder, his breath warm against my skin as he slowly caught it again.
One of his hands slid up my arm, not urgently now, not demanding, just there, as if he needed to be sure I was real.
As if this was real.
I stared up at the ceiling, my fingers still loosely tangled in his hair, my entire body feeling strange and light and heavy all at once.
Neither of us spoke. The silence was not awkward. Not empty. It was full of everything we were not saying.
Full of what this meant. Full of what this would change. Full of what we had just done.
Rhysand's POV -
The moment it was over, I knew. I knew before she said a word. Before she moved. Before she even looked at me.
I rolled onto my back for a moment, catching my breath, staring up at the ceiling as my pulse slowly began to settle. The room was quiet except for the sound of our breathing, still uneven, still too loud in the silence.
Then I turned my head to look at her. And the moment I saw her face, I could see everything she was thinking.
Not regret, exactly but something close to panic.
Her eyes were wide, unfocused, like she was somewhere else entirely, already thinking about consequences, about tomorrow, about what this meant for her, for us, for the arrangement neither of us had wanted in the first place.
It was the look of someone who had just realised their life had changed and there was no undoing it.
The remorse on her face was evident, even though she was trying very hard to hide it.
"Hey," I said quietly, my voice still rough, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from her face.
She flinched. Not dramatically. Not cruelly. But she shifted away from my hand all the same.
The movement was small. It still felt like a blade sliding between my ribs.
She sat up quickly then, gathering the sheets around herself, clutching them to her chest like armour, like if she held them tightly enough she could somehow take back what had just happened.
I pushed myself up onto one elbow, watching her carefully.
She wouldn't look at me. That worried me more than if she had started shouting.
"You're alright," I said quietly. "Look at me."
She didn't.
Instead she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, still wrapped in the sheet, still not looking in my direction. She moved around the room quickly, collecting pieces of clothing from the floor and handing them to me without meeting my eyes.
"You need to go," she said. Her voice was steady. Too steady.
I didn't move.
She finally looked at me then, and there was something wild in her eyes now, panic properly settling in.
"Rhysand," she said, sharper this time. "You need to leave. Now."
"It's fine," I said, standing slowly, trying to keep my voice calm, controlled, like I was talking to a frightened horse. "Nothing has happened that cannot be managed."
Her head snapped toward me. "Managed?" she repeated. "Managed?"
I could see the spiral starting in her head, the father, the engagement, the scandal, the servants, the house, the future she thought she had just destroyed in one reckless night.
I stepped closer slowly, careful not to crowd her.
"No one knows," I said quietly. "No one will know. You're not ruined, if that's what you're thinking."
Her expression flickered at that, which meant I had guessed correctly.
"I am ruined," she said, but her voice wavered slightly now. "If anyone finds out—"
"They won't," I said firmly. "I would never let that happen."
She shook her head, running a hand through her hair, pacing now like a caged animal. "This was a mistake," she said. "We shouldn't have—I shouldn't have—"
I caught her wrist gently before she could turn away again. She froze.
"This was not a mistake," I said quietly.
She finally looked at me properly then. That might have been the first honest moment we had ever had.
"No?" she asked softly. "Then what was it?"
I didn't answer immediately.
Because I wasn't sure I trusted myself to. Because if I said what I was actually thinking, this entire situation would become far more dangerous than it already was.
So instead I released her wrist and stepped back, giving her space again.
"You're panicking," I said calmly. "You'll feel differently in the morning."
"I doubt that very much," she muttered.
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
She shoved my shirt into my hands again. "Dress," she said. "Please. If someone sees you—"
That, at least, was a reasonable concern.
So I dressed quickly while she kept pacing, still wrapped in the sheet, still refusing to be still for more than a few seconds at a time.
When I finished, she was already at the window, pushing it open and looking out into the dark garden below.
She turned back to me and pointed toward it. "You have to go."
I walked toward the window slowly, stopping just in front of her. She still wouldn't quite look at me directly.
I stepped up onto the ledge, then paused and looked back at her.
She was still standing there wrapped in the sheet, hair a mess, lips swollen, eyes still too wide and she looked nothing like the sharp-tongued, composed woman who had argued with me in drawing rooms and ballrooms for months.
"Nothing has changed," I told her quietly.
She let out a small, humourless laugh. "Everything has changed." She wasn't wrong.
I studied her for a moment longer, then said quietly, "Get some sleep."
She crossed her arms. "Leave, Rhysand."
I nodded once. Then I climbed out the window into the night.
A/n - Her father is absolutely raging, Rhys is out here climbing through windows like a menace, and somehow his solution to comforting her turns into them sleeping together xx
In Rhysand's POV she immediately starts spiralling while he's trying to convince her the world is not, in fact, ending. Unfortunately there is no calming her down, so poor Rhys gets banished back out the window :(
This was just emotional damage, tension, terrible decisions and zero self-control!
Thank you so much for reading <33
An Unwilling Match tag list - @sophieliz @azrielblue @whump-loverz @galacticoceans @lilah-asteria @niiickelodeon @justtryingtosurvive02 @rosie-posie08 @mis-lil-red @dnfhascorruptedme @justreadingfanficseveryday @spookypersondinosaur @chxosangxl @ivy-34 @thecrimsonstarofvelaris @cardiganconfessions @sleepyhumanhere @karolamurdock @blueeclipsepaperstudent @sunmoonsweets @cubanfire @caitm1 @meepmoopbadabeepboop @anongirl007
It threaded into my awareness slowly, like something from a dream—distant, distorted, easy to ignore. I was slumped slightly over my desk, pen still in hand, eyes burning from hours of reports and observations that were beginning to blur together.
It had been a long day. The kind that settled deep into your bones.
The prison had been quiet, too quiet, in hindsight. That heavy, unnatural stillness that pressed against the walls like something waiting to break.
The alarm cut through it. Sharp. Violent. Relentless.
I froze, my pen halting mid-sentence as the sound finally registered for what it was. Not a drill. Not routine. Wrong.
My head lifted slowly, pulse already beginning to tick upward as the noise echoed through the corridors, loud enough to feel, not just hear. It vibrated through the floor, through the walls, through me.
I frowned, pushing my chair back slightly. No announcement followed. No calm, practised voice over the intercom.
Just the alarm. Blazing. Endless.
"What...?" I murmured under my breath, rising to my feet.
I waited. A few seconds. Then a few more. Someone should have come. An officer. A staff member. Anyone.
But no one did.
The silence beneath the alarm was what unsettled me most. Because it wasn't silence at all. It was building.
I moved toward the door slowly, every instinct telling me something wasn't right even before I understood why. My hand hovered over the handle for a second longer than necessary before I pulled it open just enough to look out.
The corridor had changed. It wasn't empty anymore.
Sound flooded in immediately, shouting, distant at first but growing, overlapping voices layered with something harsher. Metal clanging. Footsteps. Fast. Too many. Chaos.
My breath caught.
And then I saw them. A group of prisoners, five, maybe more, running down the corridor, movement erratic, uncontrolled. Not escorted. Not contained.
Loose.
My stomach dropped. They saw me.
It happened all at once, their heads turning, eyes locking onto mine through the narrow opening of the door. Their expressions shifted almost instantly.
Grins. Slow. Knowing. Predatory.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up. I slammed the door shut.
The sound echoed louder than it should have, my hands already fumbling for the lock as my pulse spiked violently.
Too loud. Too final.
I stepped back, breath coming faster now as I stared at the door like it might give way just from being looked at.
A beat passed. Then—BANG.
The first hit against the door made me flinch so hard I stumbled back a step.
"Hey!"
Another bang. Harder. "Open up, Doctor!"
My heart slammed against my ribs, panic flooding in sharp and immediate now as more voices joined in, louder, closer, overlapping into something chaotic and unhinged.
They hadn't kept running. They'd stopped. For me.
"This isn't funny!" another voice called, laughter threaded through it. "We know you're in there!"
I moved quickly, adrenaline kicking in hard now as I grabbed the edge of my desk, dragging it across the floor toward the door. The scrape of wood against concrete sounded deafening under the alarm, my hands shaking as I shoved it into place.
Another hit. Then another.
The glass panel beside the door rattled violently as something struck it.
I glanced at it, thick, reinforced, bulletproof but the way it shuddered under the impact did nothing to steady me.
More bodies gathered outside.
I could hear them now, too many of them. Their voices clearer, closer, spilling through the door and glass in fragments that made my stomach twist.
"Come on, Doc..." one of them called, voice dropping into something almost amused. "Don't act like you're scared of us."
A harder slam hit the glass.
"Open the fucking door," another voice barked. "Don't make us drag you out and remind you what happens when there's no guards around."
"We've been locked up too long," someone added, slower now, almost conversational. "You've got no idea what that does to a man."
Another impact, hard enough that the glass vibrated visibly, a thin crack beginning to spider out.
"Bet you're not so calm when we get our hands on you," one of them said, voice lowering. "Wonder how long you'd last in here alone."
My back hit the wall behind me as I stepped away from the door, my chest rising too fast, too shallow.
This wasn't contained. This wasn't controlled. This was a riot.
The realisation settled like ice in my veins.
Something else hit the glass, hard enough this time to send a sharp crack spidering faintly along the surface. Not breaking. Not yet.
But not untouched either.
"Let us in, Doctor," a voice called, closer now, almost coaxing. "We'll be real gentle with you..."
Another voice cut in, rougher, darker. "Yeah... been a long time since we've had something pretty to look at."
Heat flooded my face, not from embarrassment but from pure, unfiltered fear.
I backed up further, shaking my head even though they couldn't see it properly from where I stood.
"They're not coming for you," someone added, voice lowering. "No one's coming."
That was the one that landed because for the first time since the alarm started, doubt crept in.
Where were the officers? Where was security? Why hadn't anyone come?
The banging grew louder. More frantic. More aggressive. Something heavy slammed against the glass again.
My pulse roared in my ears. I didn't need to check it to know it was out of control. I scanned the room quickly, mind racing, searching for something, anything, that could help.
There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.
Another crack splintered faintly across the glass. Not enough to break it but enough to remind me it wasn't indestructible.
"Open the door," someone snapped, patience thinning. "Or we'll come through it."
My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I forced myself to breathe.
Think. Think. Think.
But there was nothing. No protocol for this. No calm, clinical response to a door that was seconds away from giving in, to voices that had shifted from taunting to something far darker, far more certain.
Another violent slam rattled the frame.
My breathing came too fast now, sharp pulls of air that did nothing to steady the frantic rhythm of my heart.
The room felt smaller with every passing second, the walls closing in as the noise outside grew louder, more chaotic, more dangerous.
I took another step back, gaze darting around the office again like something might present itself as a solution.
There was nothing. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
Another hit. Harder. The door groaned.
And then a sound that didn't belong. Not from the door. Not from the walls. Above me. A sharp crack. A shift.
I froze. For a split second, I thought it was part of the structure giving in, that the ceiling itself was about to collapse, that whatever fragile barrier existed between me and them was finally failing.
But then a tile moved. Not falling. Lifting.
My breath caught as my head tilted up slowly, dread coiling tight in my chest as light shifted above me, dust scattering faintly through the air.
Someone was there. Of course someone was there.
My body tensed, instinct screaming at me to move, to run but there was nowhere to go, nothing left between me and whatever was about to come through that opening.
The tile shifted fully.
And then I saw him. Hazel eyes. Not wild. Not unhinged. Focused. On me.
For a second, just a second, the noise outside dulled, everything narrowing down to that single point of contact.
Recognition hit a beat later.
"Azriel...?" My voice came out quieter than I intended, tight with disbelief and something dangerously close to relief.
He didn't waste time. "Come with me."
Simple. Direct. Urgent but not panicked.
His arm dropped through the opening, hand outstretched toward me, fingers steady despite the chaos bleeding in from every direction.
Behind me, a crack split louder across the glass.
Shouting surged, closer now, more aggressive, more certain. They were getting in. Seconds. Maybe less.
My gaze snapped back to the door, to the shadows shifting behind the fractured panel, to the shapes of men who were no longer waiting.
Then back to him.
Azriel. A man I had read about. Assessed. Watched. A man who had beaten another prisoner half to death without hesitation. A man every report labelled as dangerous. Unpredictable. Violent.
And yet he was the only one not trying to get in. The only one offering a way out.
"Grab my hand," he said again, lower this time, his voice cutting through the noise like it belonged somewhere steadier than the rest of this chaos. "I won't hurt you."
A promise. From a man who had given the world every reason not to believe him.
Another crash—the door buckled. My heart slammed hard enough it hurt.
This was insane. Every rational part of my mind screamed at me not to do it. Not to trust him. Not to choose the unknown over the obvious danger.
But the obvious danger was already here. It was breaking through the door.
And somehow somewhere beneath the fear, beneath the panic and the noise and the chaos there was a quieter instinct.
One that had been there since the moment I met him. Steady. Unexplainable.
I trusted him. Gods help me I did.
I exhaled sharply, the decision snapping into place before I could overthink it.
My heels clicked once against the floor as I stepped forward, rising onto my toes, reaching up toward him and the moment my hand met his, everything shifted.
His grip was immediate. Firm. Unyielding. Not rough. Not careless. Certain.
He pulled me up with an ease that stole the breath from my lungs, my body lifting from the ground as if I weighed nothing, the world below me tilting as I scrambled for purchase.
My heels scraped against the wall, then the edge of the opening and then I was through.
Into the ceiling.
Dust filled the air, tight and suffocating, the narrow space pressing in on all sides as I barely had time to orient myself before he shifted behind me, replacing the tile with swift, practised precision.
Sealing us in.
Below the door finally gave. Wood splintered. Metal groaned. Voices flooded the room. Too late.
My breath came in sharp, uneven bursts as I crouched awkwardly in the confined space, my pulse still racing, my entire body trembling with the aftermath of adrenaline and fear.
For a second, I couldn't move. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but exist in the sudden, suffocating quiet above the chaos.
Then I looked at him.
Azriel was already watching me. Close now. Too close.
In the dim, filtered light, his expression was harder to read but his eyes... his eyes were still locked on mine. Steady. Assessing.
And something else. Something I couldn't quite name.
Azriel's POV -
I couldn't help myself. I knew I wouldn't.
The moment the alarms started blaring, the moment the corridors broke into chaos and control slipped through the guard's fingers like it always eventually did—there had only been one clear thought in my head.
Not escape. Not survival. Her.
I knew her schedule. Had memorised it without meaning to at first, just patterns, observations, the way she moved through the day like she belonged somewhere better than this place.
Her office. Her sessions. The times she walked alone.
I knew exactly where she would be. And I knew exactly what would happen if someone else got there first.
Men like the ones in this prison didn't forget what she was. What she looked like. What she represented.
Soft. Untouched. Different. Something to take. Something to ruin.
So I moved. Before the guards could lock things down. Before the corridors flooded beyond control. Before anyone else thought to look for her.
I got there first.
And now she was here. In front of me. In the ceiling, of all places. Breathing too fast, eyes too bright, fear clinging to her like something tangible.
"You came for me?" she whispered.
There was something fragile in the question. Something that didn't fit with the version of her I knew.
"I did," I said simply.
No explanation. No justification. There wasn't one I was willing to give.
My gaze swept over her quickly, cataloguing damage the way I always did, tear tracks down her cheeks, her hands shaking despite her effort to steady them, the tight way she held herself together like she was one breath away from breaking.
She'd been close. Too close.
"We need to move," I said, already turning, already making space for her to follow. "Now."
"How?" Her voice caught. "There's—there's men everywhere—"
"I'll figure it out."
I didn't stop moving because stopping meant thinking and thinking meant picturing exactly what would've happened if I'd been a minute later.
"Azriel, wait—"
I paused just enough to look back at her.
She looked smaller like this. Folded into herself in the narrow space, eyes glassy, fear written openly across her face in a way I'd never seen before.
"I'm scared," she admitted, barely audible.
The words hit harder than they should have.
She was never scared. Not in front of us. Not in those rooms where she held her ground like she had nothing to fear at all.
And now it was all there. Raw. Real.
Something in my jaw tightened. "I won't let anything happen to you," I said.
It came out lower than intended. Rougher. Not a reassurance, something closer to a promise.
Before I could think better of it, my hand closed around hers. Warm. Soft. Too soft for this place.
I expected her to pull away. She didn't. Her fingers tightened instead, just slightly, just enough to tell me she was holding on. Good.
We moved.
The crawlspace stretched on, narrow and suffocating, dust thick in the air as the noise of the riot echoed beneath us, shouts, crashes, distant alarms still screaming through the structure like something alive.
I navigated by memory. By instinct. By the layout I'd learned over years of being locked inside these walls.
Eventually, I slowed, shifting toward a vent and glancing down through the narrow slats. Clear. For now.
"We're dropping," I murmured. "There's a side corridor. Leads to an exit."
Her breathing hitched behind me but she nodded.
I didn't hesitate. I shoved the vent loose and dropped down first, landing in a controlled crouch before rising immediately.
"Come on."
She hesitated at the edge, staring down, the height suddenly very real to her. I stepped closer without thinking, reaching up, my hands closing around her waist.
"Let go."
She did. I lowered her carefully, her body brushing mine, warmth, softness, something dangerously out of place against everything I was.
For a second, just a second, she stayed there. Close. Then she stepped back.
"Thank you," she whispered.
I didn't respond. Didn't have time to.
Footsteps. Voices. Too close. My head snapped toward the corridor, every muscle in my body tightening as three figures rounded the corner. Inmates.
One of them had a metal pipe slung lazily over his shoulder. They slowed when they saw us. Grins spread.
"Well, look at that," one of them drawled, eyes lighting up as they caught sight of her behind me. "Pretty little doctor got herself lost."
"And if it isn't the freak," another added, eyes sliding past me, trying to catch sight of her.
I shifted slightly, blocking their line of sight completely. "Move," I said. Calm. Flat. Final.
They didn't.
"Come on, Azriel," the first one laughed, stepping closer, metal pipe tapping against his palm. "Don't be selfish. Why do you get to keep something like that all to yourself?"
His gaze dipped deliberately past me.
"Let us have a turn."
A second voice, lower, filthier, cut in—"Yeah... bet she screams real pretty when you pin her down."
Something in my chest went still. Another step closer.
"She ain't dressed for nothing either," the third added, eyes dragging over her like he was already imagining it. "We'll take her somewhere quiet. Spread her out nice and slow—"
Behind me, I felt her flinch. Felt her move closer.
That was it. Something snapped. "Stay behind me," I said quietly.
Not a request. An order. They didn't hear it for what it was. Or maybe they did and didn't care.
"What?" one smirked. "You gonna kill us for it?"
Yes. I moved before the thought even finished forming. Fast. Precise.
The first one didn't get another word out, my hand closed around his throat, slamming him back hard enough to crack bone against concrete, cutting off whatever he thought he was going to say next.
The second swung. Too slow.
I ripped the pipe from his grip and drove it into his skull with brutal efficiency. Once. Twice. Enough.
The third tried to grab me. Tried to get past me. Toward her.
That was a mistake.
I caught him mid-motion, drove him into the wall hard enough to knock the breath from him, my forearm crushing his throat as he struggled, hands clawing uselessly at my arm.
"You should've stopped talking," I said quietly.
Then I ended it. There was no hesitation. No second thought. Just the same cold, focused certainty that had always been there.
Silence followed. Thick. Heavy. My breathing steady. Theirs wasn't.
Behind me, I could feel her stillness. I turned.
She was staring. Not at them. At me. Shock. Yes. But something else threaded through it, something sharper. Something that hadn't been there before.
Understanding. Or the beginning of it.
"We're leaving," I said.
My voice cut through whatever she was stuck in, pulling her back just enough.
She swallowed, forcing herself to move, to follow as I guided her down the corridor, away from the bodies, away from the chaos.
We moved quickly after that. Turns. Doors. Narrow passages most didn't even know existed.
Until finally a door. Metal. Reinforced. Leading out to a restricted exit. Freedom.
I pushed it open and froze. Guards. Armed. Alert. Positioned just beyond the threshold, weapons raised toward the open exit, scanning for threats spilling out from inside.
I moved instantly.
Stepping back into the shadow of the wall, out of their direct line of sight, grabbing her wrist just long enough to stop her from walking straight into the wrong kind of attention.
Her eyes snapped to mine. Confused. Breathless.
"Listen to me," I said low, fast. "You walk out. Hands up. Slowly."
Her brows pulled together. "What about you—"
"I'll live," I cut in.
There wasn't time for that. Voices echoed closer behind us. More inmates. More danger.
I stepped back further into the blind spot beside the door, already disappearing into the structure of the corridor.
"Go," I said.
She hesitated. Of course she did. Her eyes searched mine again like she was trying to understand something I wasn't giving her.
"Why?" she asked, breath uneven, eyes searching mine like she needed something, an explanation, a reason, something to make sense of this. Of me.
I held her gaze for a second. "Don't question it, Doc."
She stepped through the doorway slowly, exactly like I told her to, hands lifting, posture open, non-threatening.
The guards reacted immediately, weapons lowering just enough as they rushed toward her, pulling her further out, voices overlapping, securing her, checking her, getting her away from the door.
Safe.
I watched from the shadows. Just long enough to see her glance back. Just once. Then I was gone. Back into the prison. Back into the chaos.
Exactly where I belonged.
A/N - This wholeee part was inspired by Prison Break... Sarah and Michael are in fact the blueprint x
The general idea here is Azriel slowly earning her trust in the middle of absolute chaos, and proving very decisively that he's willing to get her out no matter what it takes including violence... he's not exactly negotiating his way through a riot :)
There's a growing understanding between them. She starts to see that he's not just "dangerous," he's protective in the most extreme way possible, and he starts to realise she's not fragile, just not built for this world he's dragging her through x
"My lady, there is a gentleman caller waiting to call on you."
Valerie, our sweet elderly maid who had worked in our household longer than I had been alive, stood in the doorway with her hands clasped together and her cheeks slightly pink, as though she were personally invested in this mysterious caller.
I looked up from the book in my lap slowly.
I lifted one brow and looked toward my father, who was seated across from me in the drawing room, reading correspondence. Then I looked back at Valerie.
"No, there isn't, Valerie," I said calmly. "But thank you for the offer."
I closed my book and began to stand, already planning to escape to the garden before whatever disaster this was could reach me.
I did not make it two steps.
My father grabbed my arm and pulled me back down into my chair. "Sit down," he said firmly.
I turned to him in disbelief. "You cannot force me."
"I can," he replied, not even looking at me, "and I will."
I lowered my voice immediately, leaning toward him so the servants would not hear. "What are you doing?"
He finally looked at me then, his expression hard and completely unimpressed by my anger.
"Do not think," he said quietly, "that I have not heard the rumours whispering through society of your rain-soaked endeavours."
I froze. My stomach dropped. "What rumours?" I asked carefully.
He stared at me.
"I hear everything," he said. "Everything. You, alone, in the street, in the rain, with Lord Rhysand. Him kneeling. Your dress lifted. Witnessed by servants."
I gaped at him in horror. "It was not like that," I said immediately.
"It does not matter what it was like," he replied sharply. "It matters what people think it was like."
I sank back into my chair slowly. "Oh no," I muttered. "Oh no, no, no."
"Oh yes," he replied. "And because of this, I have already handled the situation."
I did not like the sound of that at all. "What do you mean you handled it?"
"I have publicly announced," he said calmly, returning to his letters, "that Lord Rhysand will indeed begin calling on you."
For a moment, I genuinely thought I had misheard him. "You did what?"
"I have publicly announced that Lord Rhysand will begin calling on you," he repeated, as though discussing the weather. "It explains the rumours and protects your reputation."
"You cannot do that," I said immediately.
"I already have."
"You cannot announce my courtship without asking me!"
"I just did."
I stared at him in complete disbelief.
"You are lucky you are my daughter," he continued. "If any other family name had been associated with such rumours, there would already be social ruin. This way, it becomes a courtship instead of a scandal."
"I do not want to court him," I said through clenched teeth.
"That is unfortunate."
"I do not want him calling on me."
"That is also unfortunate."
"I will refuse to see him."
"No, you will not," he said, standing up and walking toward the drawing room door. "Because he is already here."
My heart dropped straight into my stomach. "You did not."
"I did."
"You invited him here without telling me?"
"Yes."
"You are unbelievable."
He opened the door before I could say another word.
And there, standing in the hallway like he had been born specifically to ruin my life, was Lord Rhysand.
Dark coat. Dark hair. Violet eyes. Completely calm. Completely composed. Completely insufferable.
He bowed slightly when he saw me. I stared at him like I might throw something.
My father stepped aside. "Lord Rhysand has come to call on you."
I did not move. "I can see that," I said flatly.
"Then I shall leave you to it," my father said, already walking away.
"Do not leave me," I hissed.
He left anyway. The door closed behind him. And just like that, I was alone in the drawing room with the man I had argued with in gardens, ballrooms, and rainstorms.
Rhysand walked into the room slowly, completely at ease, as though he had not just become the centre of a social scandal with me.
"You look upset," he said mildly.
"You knew about this?" I demanded.
"Yes."
"You knew my father was going to announce this courtship?"
"Yes."
"You agreed to this?"
"Yes."
I stood up so quickly my chair nearly fell over. "You are unbelievable," I said. "Truly unbelievable. You said you did not want this marriage either."
"I don't particularly enjoy being the subject of scandal either," he replied calmly, taking a seat on the sofa like he had every right to be there. "This solves both problems."
"This does not solve my problem," I snapped.
"And what is your problem?"
"You," I said immediately. He smiled slightly at that. "You are far too calm about this".
"I have accepted my fate," he replied.
"I have not."
"That much is obvious."
I began pacing the room. "I cannot believe my father did this," I muttered. "Now you are going to come here every week and we are going to sit in this room pretending we like each other while servants spy on us and society waits for an engagement announcement."
"That is generally how courtship works," he said.
"I hate courtship."
"I know."
"I hate rumours."
"I know."
"I hate you," I added.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, watching me pace like an angry cat. "I know," he said again.
I stopped pacing and turned to look at him. He was still completely calm. Completely relaxed. Completely unbothered.
"How are you not angry?" I demanded.
"Oh, I am," he said. "I simply do not show it by threatening to climb walls and terrorising suitors."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "This is not funny."
"No," he agreed. "But it is happening whether we like it or not."
I crossed my arms. "I am going to make these visits unbearable for you," I said.
He smiled slowly. "You already do," he said.
I glared at him. He only smiled like this entire situation amused him.
I was beginning to realise that Rhysand found my anger entertaining, which only made me angrier.
"This is a disaster," I muttered, dropping back into my chair. "An absolute disaster."
"And yet," he said calmly, "we will survive it."
"I might not," I replied. "I might throw myself into the river before the season ends."
"I would strongly advise against that," he said. "It would be very inconvenient for me."
I narrowed my eyes again. "Everything is inconvenient for you, isn't it?"
"Most things," he replied easily.
The door opened then and Valerie entered with tea, looking entirely too pleased with the situation. She set the tray down between us and gave me a look that clearly said "be polite," then gave Rhysand a look that clearly said "please marry her."
I wanted to disappear.
The calling visits became routine far too quickly.
Once a week turned into twice a week. Twice turned into chaperoned walks. Chaperoned walks turned into carriage rides with my father or Valerie sitting directly across from us like a guard determined to prevent scandal.
It was unbearable.
He was always calm. Always composed. Always polite to the servants. Always perfectly behaved in front of my father. Infuriatingly perfect.
I, on the other hand, made it my mission to be as difficult as possible.
I disagreed with everything he said. I walked too fast on purpose. I refused his arm half the time. I corrected him when he spoke. I ignored him when he tried to be polite.
He endured all of it with far too much patience.
Which was suspicious.
On one particularly cold afternoon, we were walking through the park with Valerie trailing several steps behind us, pretending not to listen while very obviously listening.
"You are walking too fast," he said.
"You are walking too slow," I replied.
"You are still limping slightly."
"I am not."
"You are."
"I am not."
"You are very stubborn."
"You are very arrogant."
We walked in silence for a few steps. Then he said, "You are doing this on purpose."
"Doing what?"
"Trying to make me dislike you."
I stopped walking and turned to him. "It should not be difficult."
"It is," he said simply.
That caught me off guard. I looked at him for a moment, trying to decide if he was joking. He did not look like he was joking.
I turned and started walking again.
"You should know," I said after a moment, "this courtship will not end the way my father wants."
"And how will it end?" he asked.
"I will either scare you away, ruin my reputation, or convince you I am entirely unsuitable."
He thought about that for a moment. "You are already doing a very good job of convincing me you are unsuitable."
"Good."
"But unfortunately," he added, "I am beginning to think I like unsuitable."
I stopped walking again. "You are impossible," I said.
"I have been told."
We resumed walking, and for a while we did not speak.
We passed several ladies walking in the opposite direction, all of whom greeted Rhysand politely, some shy, some flirtatious, some very obviously interested.
He nodded politely to each of them but he did not slow down. He did not stop. He did not flirt. He did not even turn to look back.
I noticed. I told myself I did not care but I noticed.
After we returned to my house later that afternoon and he prepared to leave, I walked with him to the front hall while Valerie conveniently disappeared to give us a moment that she would absolutely pretend she had not intentionally created.
He picked up his gloves from the table near the door. "Until Thursday," he said.
I crossed my arms. "Do try not to seduce the maid on your way out."
He paused, then looked at me slowly, one eyebrow lifting slightly. "Jealousy," he said calmly, "is not a becoming colour on you."
"I am not jealous," I said immediately.
"Of course not."
"I simply have eyes and a memory of seeing you in the street with that blonde woman."
"Ah," he said. "We are still angry about that."
"I am not angry."
"You sound angry."
"I am observant."
He stepped a little closer then, close enough that I had to tilt my head slightly to maintain eye contact.
"I have not looked at another woman once during our time together," he said quietly.
My heart did something very inconvenient in my chest. "That," I said carefully, "sounds like a you problem, not a me problem."
His mouth twitched slightly like he was trying not to smile. "Thursday," he repeated.
Then he turned and walked out the door, leaving me standing in the hallway, very aware that something about this situation was becoming far more complicated than I had planned.
And I did not like complicated. Not at all.
Rhysand's POV -
The masquerade ball in the Spring Court was not an event I particularly enjoyed.
Too many masks. Too many secrets. Too many people pretending to be something they were not.
I preferred honesty, even the unpleasant kind.
And there was nothing honest about a room where half the guests were unrecognisable beneath feathers, silk, and gold-painted lies.
Music swelled through the ballroom, light and lilting, as couples danced beneath cascades of flowers and glowing lanterns. Spring had been woven into every corner of the estate, lush greenery, soft petals drifting through the air, warmth replacing the sharp bite of winter.
It should have been beautiful. It was, objectively.
I still did not enjoy it. I stood near the edge of the room, a drink in hand, scanning the crowd more out of habit than interest—and then I saw her.
Of course I did.
It did not matter that every woman in the room wore a mask. It did not matter that her face was partially hidden behind silver filigree.
I knew her instantly. I would have known her anywhere.
Her gown shimmered like starlight, pale silver catching every flicker of candlelight as she moved. The mask only made her more striking, drawing attention to her eyes, to the curve of her smile—her smile.
I stilled because she was laughing. Not the sharp, cutting laugh she reserved for me. Not the dry, unimpressed huff she gave when I said something she disliked.
No. This was different. Light. Warm. Effortless. Real.
The sound carried across the space between us, soft and bright, and something in my chest tightened in a way I did not appreciate.
I followed her line of sight. And found him.
Lord Richard. Of course. A respectable name. A respectable family. A respectable man.
He stood beside her, close but not too close. His posture attentive without being overbearing, his expression open, kind. Safe.
He said something to her, and she laughed again, her hand briefly brushing his arm.
My grip on my glass tightened slightly.
"He seems to be doing well."
Cassian's voice appeared beside me, far too knowing. I did not look at him.
"I am not watching them," I said.
"You are," Azriel said quietly from my other side.
"I am not."
"You haven't blinked in the last thirty seconds," Cassian added.
I took a slow sip of my drink. "I am simply observing the room."
"You are observing one specific part of the room," Azriel corrected.
I said nothing.
Across the ballroom, Richard offered her his hand. She took it. Without hesitation. Something unpleasant twisted low in my chest as he led her onto the dance floor.
"You're staring," Cassian said.
"I am not."
"You look," he continued, leaning slightly closer, "like you are about to commit a crime."
I let out a quiet breath through my nose. "I am perfectly calm."
"You are absolutely not calm," Azriel said.
They were both silent for a moment as we watched her begin to dance.
She moved easily, gracefully, her laughter fading into a soft smile as she followed Richard's lead. He guided her gently, respectfully, giving her space, watching her like she was something to be valued rather than conquered.
It was everything a woman should want in a husband. Everything she had claimed to want. Kind. Patient. Respectable. Not me.
My jaw tightened slightly.
Why him? The thought came uninvited.
Why did he get that smile? Why did he get her laughter, her ease, her softness? Why did I only get her anger?
"You don't want to marry her," Cassian said casually.
"I don't."
"Then why," he continued, watching me carefully now, "do you look like you want to drag him off the floor?"
I didn't answer because I didn't have an answer I liked.
I didn't want this marriage. I hadn't. Not at the beginning. Not when it was first arranged. Not when I found her climbing a wall trying to escape me.
And yet the idea of her marrying someone else—
The thought hit fully then. Clear. Sharp. Unavoidable.
Her standing at the altar with someone else. Her laughing like that with someone else. Her choosing someone else.
Something in my chest tightened violently. Unbearable. That was the only word for it. Unbearable.
"She would be happy with him," Azriel said quietly.
I snapped my gaze toward him. He didn't look at me. He was still watching the dance floor.
"He would treat her well," he added.
I looked back at them.
Richard spun her gently, her dress flaring around her, her laughter returning again, soft, genuine, unguarded.
And something in me snapped. Before I could think better of it, I was already moving.
"Rhys—" Cassian started.
I ignored him.
The music swelled as I crossed the ballroom, weaving through dancers and guests without slowing, without hesitating, my focus locked entirely on one thing.
On her. On them.
They were midway through the dance when I reached them. I did not wait. I did not ask.
I stepped directly between them, my hand closing around hers and pulling her slightly toward me as the music faltered around us.
Richard blinked in surprise. "Lord Rhysand—"
"You seem to forget," I said, my voice low and far too controlled, "you are already promised."
The words hung in the air between us like a challenge. Like a claim.
Her eyes widened behind the silver mask, shock flashing across her face, then fury, hot and immediate.
Lord Richard, to his credit, recovered quickly. He looked between us, clearly understanding far more than had been said aloud.
"My lady?" he asked her gently.
She pulled her hand from mine immediately, as if my touch burned.
"I apologise, Lord Richard," she said, her voice tight but polite. "Would you excuse us for a moment?"
He looked at me once more, measured, calm, assessing, then bowed slightly to her. "Of course."
He left without argument.
I watched him go, something dark and possessive still coiled tight in my chest.
Then I turned back to her. That was a mistake. She looked furious. Truly furious. Not annoyed. Not irritated. Furious.
"Walk," she said through clenched teeth, not even looking at me.
She turned and moved toward one of the side corridors without waiting to see if I followed.
I followed. Of course I did.
She walked quickly through the hallway, past portraits and tall windows, until she found an empty sitting room and pushed the door open, stepping inside before spinning around to face me.
The moment I entered, she shut the door behind me.
"You," she said, pointing at me, "are the most insufferable, arrogant, unbelievable man I have ever met."
I leaned against the door, crossing my arms. "Good evening to you too."
"You had absolutely no right," she continued, voice rising, "to interrupt that dance."
"You are promised."
"That does not mean you get to drag me off a dance floor like I belong to you."
"You do belong to me," I said before I could stop myself.
Silence. Dangerous silence.
Her eyes went wide in disbelief. "I beg your pardon?" she said slowly.
I straightened from the door. "You know what I mean."
"No, I do not think I do," she said, her voice now very quiet and very dangerous. "So I suggest you explain very carefully."
I ran a hand through my hair, already irritated with myself.
"You are promised to me," I said. "Society knows it. Your father knows it. My father knows it. If you dance like that with another man, people will talk."
"People always talk," she snapped. "You have never cared about that before."
"That was before it involved you."
She blinked at that. I took a step closer without meaning to. "You were laughing," I said.
"I am allowed to laugh."
"You never laugh like that with me."
"That is because you are infuriating."
I took another step closer. "And he is not?" I asked.
"No," she said immediately. "He is kind. And polite. And he does not interrupt dances like a jealous husband."
"I am not jealous."
She laughed then short and sharp. "You are the most jealous man I have ever seen."
"I am not jealous," I repeated slowly and carefully, though it sounded less convincing even to my own ears.
"You practically declared ownership of me in the middle of a ballroom."
"I was reminding him of an arrangement."
"You were being insufferable."
"You were enjoying his company."
"Yes," she said stubbornly.
Something in my chest tightened again. I took another step closer. She did not step back. "You should marry him then," I said quietly.
Her expression changed slightly. "Maybe I will."
That did it. I closed the distance between us before I had fully decided to move. She looked up at me, clearly startled now by how close we were standing.
"You are infuriating," I said quietly.
"You have mentioned," she replied, but her voice had lost some of its sharpness.
"You argue with me constantly."
"Yes."
"You try to scare away every suitor."
"Yes."
"You say you hate me."
"Yes."
I was very close now. Close enough to see the small hitch in her breathing. "And yet," I said softly, "you never walk away."
Her eyes flicked to my mouth for the briefest second. Then back to my eyes.
"I am walking away right now," she said quietly.
She did not move. Neither did I.
The room felt very small suddenly. Very quiet. The music from the ballroom distant and muffled through the walls.
"You should not have interrupted that dance," she said, but her voice was softer now.
"He was looking at you like he wanted to marry you."
"Maybe he does."
The thought made something dark twist in my chest again. Before I could think, before I could stop myself, before I could be rational or polite or sensible—
I kissed her. It was not a gentle, planned thing. It was sudden. Impulsive. Reckless.
For a split second she froze in shock. Then she kissed me back. Slow at first. Careful. Like neither of us quite believed it was happening.
Her hand came up to my coat, gripping the fabric slightly as if to steady herself.
I moved one hand to her waist, pulling her a little closer, and the kiss deepened without either of us meaning it to. It stopped being careful. Stopped being hesitant.
It became something else entirely. Weeks of arguing. Weeks of tension. Weeks of almost saying things we didn't say.
All of it was suddenly there between us.
Then suddenly she pulled back. Just as quickly as it had started.
Her breathing was unsteady, her eyes wide, her hand still gripping my coat before she realised and let go immediately.
We just stared at each other for a moment. Neither of us spoke. Neither of us moved. Then she stepped back.
"This," she said, slightly breathless, "was a mistake."
She turned before I could respond, walked to the door, opened it and left.
Leaving me alone in the silent room, staring at the door she had just walked through, with the very strong and very inconvenient realisation that I was in far more trouble than I had ever been before.
A/n - Her father decided forced proximity was the solution to the scandal and she's two seconds away from throwing herself into the nearest river over it wheras Rhys is absolutely thriving. The man gets to annoy her multiple times a week now and calls it "courtship" xx
Rhys got jealous. Publicly. Dramatically. Which naturally led to a heated private argument, some accidental feelings, and a kiss that was definitely a mistake... probably... maybe :)
Rhys is in trouble, she's in denial, and Valerie is already planning the wedding in her head!!
Thank you so much for reading <33
An Unwilling Match tag list - @sophieliz @azrielblue @whump-loverz @galacticoceans @lilah-asteria @niiickelodeon @justtryingtosurvive02 @rosie-posie08 @mis-lil-red @dnfhascorruptedme @justreadingfanficseveryday @spookypersondinosaur @chxosangxl @ivy-34 @thecrimsonstarofvelaris @cardiganconfessions @sleepyhumanhere @karolamurdock @blueeclipsepaperstudent @sunmoonsweets @cubanfire @caitm1 @meepmoopbadabeepboop @anongirl007
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
My steps were quicker than usual, the sharp rhythm of my heels echoing down the concrete corridor in a way that felt far too loud for my liking.
The prison had a way of amplifying everything—sound, tension, presence. Even the smallest noise seemed to linger longer than it should, bouncing off walls that had absorbed far worse over the years.
Behind me and, increasingly, far too close beside me was Officer River. Talking. Still talking.
"I'm telling you again," he said, his voice edged with irritation that had been building steadily since I'd made my request. "This isn't a good idea."
I didn't slow. Didn't respond. Because I'd already heard it, every variation of it over the last five minutes.
Too dangerous. Too unpredictable. Too much risk. As if I hadn't considered that myself. As if I hadn't chosen it anyway.
"I don't think you understand what you're asking for," he continued, his tone shifting into something that bordered on condescending. "Those three aren't like the others. They work together. They push. They test—"
His hand landed on my shoulder. That was where I stopped. Not abruptly. Not dramatically.
Just enough.
I turned my head slightly, my gaze dropping to where his hand rested there, firm and unwelcome against the fabric of my blazer.
"Officer River," I said, my voice calm but unmistakably firm, "remove your hand."
For a second, he didn't move.
Then his jaw tightened, and he pulled it back, though the look he gave me made it clear he wasn't pleased about it.
"Doctor," he corrected under his breath, like it was a reminder meant more for himself than for me.
We reached the door.
I didn't hesitate. My hand moved to the handle, pushing it open before he could continue whatever argument he was building toward.
The room revealed itself in a single, quiet moment.
Three men. Three very different presences. And yet undeniably connected.
Their attention shifted immediately.
Cassian first, sharp, alert, like a coiled spring. Rhysand second, slower, more deliberate, something almost amused flickering behind his gaze.
And then Azriel. Last. Not because he was slower but because he didn't react the same way.
His attention settled on me with a stillness that felt heavier than the others combined. Focused. Unmoving. Like he'd been waiting without knowing he was waiting.
I stepped fully into the room. Behind me, River followed. Of course he did.
"I'm not staying out there for this," he muttered, low enough that it was meant for me alone.
I didn't turn immediately. Didn't respond right away.
Instead, I moved further into the room, allowing the door to remain open behind us as I positioned myself where all three of them were within my line of sight. Only then did I speak.
"You won't be staying in here either."
The words were calm. Even. But they landed.
I turned slightly, meeting his gaze properly now. "This is a controlled session," I continued. "And your presence changes that dynamic."
His expression darkened almost instantly.
"With all due respect," he said, though his tone suggested there was very little of it, "you're not equipped to handle them on your own."
There it was again. That assumption. That quiet dismissal dressed up as concern.
I held his gaze, unflinching.
"With all due respect," I replied, my tone matching his but far more controlled, "my role here is to assess, manage, and understand high-risk individuals. I cannot do that effectively with an armed officer in the room altering their behaviour."
Silence stretched for a fraction of a second. Not empty. Not passive. Charged.
Behind him, I was aware, acutely aware, of three sets of eyes watching the exchange unfold. Measuring it. Interpreting it.
Important. Everything here was important.
Daniel let out a short, humourless breath, running a hand through his hair as he glanced briefly toward the men behind me before looking back at me.
"They're not like your textbooks, Doctor."
"I'm aware," I said simply.
"And when this goes wrong—"
"If something goes wrong," I cut in, not raising my voice, not losing composure, "you will be exactly where protocol requires you to be. Within immediate response distance."
That stopped him. Not because he agreed. Because I was right.
"And if I require assistance," I added, just as evenly, "you'll be the first person I call."
A beat. Another. His jaw tightened again, something sharper settling into his expression now, less concern, more calculation.
"Right," he said slowly. "So when this inevitably blows up, at least we'll both know you made the call."
The wording was careful. Too careful. Not a warning. A setup.
My gaze didn't waver.
"If it inevitably blows up," I replied evenly, "then we'll address it as it happens. Not before."
Something flickered in his eyes then, brief, but telling. Like part of him expected, maybe even wanted to be proven right.
"You're making a mistake," he muttered.
"Noted," I replied.
Polite. Final. That was the end of it.
For a moment, it looked like he might argue again. Then he exhaled sharply, stepping back toward the doorway.
"Fine," he said, his voice lower now, edged with something that sat somewhere between warning and irritation. "But don't come running to me if this goes sideways."
A pause. Then, quieter, almost under his breath, but not quite enough to miss—
"Wouldn't be the first time someone thought they could handle them."
There it was. I held his gaze for a second longer. Not confrontational. Not yielding either.
"I won't need to."
That did it. He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head as he stepped fully out into the corridor.
"Your funeral," he added, quieter this time.
The door didn't close completely. He left it just ajar. Close enough to intervene. Far enough to make a point.
Silence settled into the room again. Different this time. Heavier.
When I turned back, all three of them were still watching me. Cassian looked amused. Rhysand looked interested. And Azriel—Azriel hadn't looked away once.
Something about that steadiness pulled at my attention for half a second too long before I forced myself to refocus.
I moved toward the chair positioned opposite them, setting my things down with the same deliberate calm as before.
"If we're all finished posturing," I said lightly, glancing between them, "I'd like to begin."
And just like that the session started.
Azriel's POV -
Killing a correctional officer was the kind of offence that guaranteed a life sentence.
At minimum. Sometimes worse, depending on how much the prosecution wanted to prove a point.
It wasn't something I'd done but it was something I'd thought about. More than once.
Officer River, specifically. Long before she arrived. Long before this room, this arrangement, this... shift.
And yet watching her handle him just now. Calm. Controlled. Precise. Not loud. Not emotional. Not trying to overpower him in a way that would've backfired immediately.
She hadn't raised her voice. Hadn't backed down either. She'd simply... taken control of the situation and expected it to hold.
And it had. That was new. That was interesting.
I hadn't looked away once. Not when she'd corrected him. Not when she'd stood her ground in front of three men he clearly thought she couldn't handle.
Most people either pushed too hard or folded too quickly. She did neither.
She adjusted. Calculated. Choose her ground carefully and then held it.
Cassian shifted beside me, a low sound of amusement slipping under his breath as the door settled behind River.
"Well," he drawled, leaning back in his chair, "that was fun."
"Mmh," Rhys murmured, his gaze still fixed on her. "I almost feel bad for him."
I could feel the quiet interest rolling off him, the way he was already dissecting everything he'd just watched.
"You don't," Cassian said.
"No," Rhys agreed lightly. "I don't."
She turned back to us then, composure already back in place as if the exchange hadn't mattered.
"Come on," she said, her tone light but edged with something intentional, "I'd like to begin."
Cassian huffed a quiet laugh. "Straight to it, huh?"
She didn't respond to that. Didn't need to.
She sat, crossing one leg over the other, her attention settling across all three of us evenly. No favouritism. No hesitation. Just... focus.
That was when I spoke. "You handled him well."
The words cut cleanly through the room. Simple. Direct. And enough.
Her attention shifted. Not dramatically but I saw it. The brief flicker of surprise before she smoothed it over, her expression settling back into something composed.
I held her gaze. Letting it linger just long enough to make it intentional.
"You didn't escalate," I added, my voice quieter now, more measured. "Most people would have."
A beat. Then I leaned forward slightly, just enough. Lowered my voice. Not for the room. For her.
"Beauty and brains."
The words were quiet. Measured. Not thrown out carelessly but placed.
Her reaction was immediate. Small. Controlled. But real. A pause that shouldn't have been there. A fraction too long before she recovered.
Cassian's head snapped toward me, grin widening. "Well, that's new."
Rhys's brows lifted slightly, interest sharpening. "Careful, Azriel," he murmured. "You'll start making her think you like her."
I didn't look at them. Didn't take my eyes off her.
"Wasn't talking to you," I said.
That earned a soft huff of amusement from Rhys.
She straightened slightly, not defensive, not flustered enough to lose control but there was a shift. Subtle. Tightened.
"Thank you but flattery isn't necessary," she said, her tone neutral but not dismissive. "I find escalation tends to make things worse in environments like this."
"Depends on the goal," Cassian muttered.
Her gaze flicked to him briefly. "And what would you say your goal usually is?"
Cassian's grin sharpened. "Depends on who I'm dealing with?"
"Answering a question with a question isn't an answer," she said calmly.
I leaned back slightly, watching her more closely now. She'd taken it. Acknowledged it. And redirected without losing control.
Better than most.
She glanced between us, her posture shifting just slightly, subtle, but purposeful.
"Since this is the first time I've had you all together," she began, "I'd like to understand the dynamic between you."
Cassian snorted. "Dynamic?"
Rhys's gaze sharpened faintly. "Careful, Doc. You're starting to sound like you're studying us."
"I am," she replied simply.
That earned her a pause. A small one but it was there.
"Then study this," Cassian said, leaning forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. "We don't do anything we don't want to."
Rhys added, quieter, "And we don't answer questions we don't respect."
Her gaze didn't waver. "Then I'll make sure my questions are worth answering."
Cassian grinned at that. Rhys's interest deepened. And I—I watched her. Still. Always still.
"What about the violence?" she asked, her tone shifting just slightly, not softer, not harsher. Just more focused. "Is that something you also choose?"
Cassian's grin sharpened. "You were there that first day, Doc. What do you think?"
"I think," she said evenly, "that it wasn't random."
Rhys leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing in quiet interest. "Go on," he said.
She didn't rush. Didn't fill the space unnecessarily.
"I think there was intent behind it," she continued. "Control. Precision." Her gaze flicked to me briefly before returning to the group. "Not loss of it."
Silence settled. Not empty. Measured.
"You're saying we're not impulsive?" Cassian asked.
"I'm saying," she replied, "that what you do has purpose."
Another pause. Longer this time.
Rhys tilted his head slightly, studying her now in a way that mirrored my own. "And what kind of purpose do you think that is?" he asked.
She held his gaze. "Not meaningless," she said. Careful. Not absolving. Not accusing. Just placing it.
Cassian's jaw shifted, something unreadable flickering across his expression before it disappeared behind something easier.
"And if it's not?" he challenged.
"Then you tell me what it is," she said. Just like that. No pressure. No demand. An opening.
Rhys's gaze flicked to me. Then to Cassian. A silent exchange. A decision.
Cassian exhaled through his nose, leaning back again, tension rolling off him in a way that looked casual but wasn't.
"It's not for nothing," he muttered.
There it was. Not much but enough.
Rhys's lips curved faintly. "Careful, Cassian. You'll give her something to work with."
Cassian shot him a look but didn't take it back.
She noted it. I could see it in the way her focus sharpened, the way she filed it away without making it obvious.
Smart. Very smart.
The session moved from there, not quickly, not dramatically but steadily. Small questions. Smaller answers. Nothing concrete, nothing fully given.
But not nothing either.
And all the while I watched her.
The way she adapted her approach depending on who she was speaking to. The way she never let the conversation tip too far out of her control but never forced it back either.
She understood balance. That was rare.
Time passed. I didn't track how much. Didn't need to.
I felt it when she began to close it. She gathered her things slowly, her movements as controlled as they'd been when she entered.
"That's enough for today," she said.
She stood. Paused. Her gaze moved between us one last time before settling briefly on me. Not long enough for the others to notice. Long enough for me to.
"We'll continue soon."
A/N - She schools Daniel in front of them and very unintentionally, earns herself a solid dose of respect in the process x
Anddd we get the introduction of Azriel quietly admitting that she is, in fact, someone he's interested in :)
Also, it's not super obvious but the boys do basically admit that they didn't kill their victims out of pure malice—more intent/control than mindless violence. I kept it lowkey on purpose because they're not exactly the "open up emotionally in a group therapy setting" type x
Three | Compromising Positions | An Unwilling Match
Pairing - Rhysand x reader
Word count - 2.7k
Warnings - Mild injury
<- prev || series masterlist || next ->
"Marriage is not as horrible as you think."
The words were said with entirely too much sincerity by my traitorous best friend.
I turned my head slowly to look at Eleanor as we walked side by side through the busy market streets, my arm linked through hers as vendors shouted prices and children ran between stalls.
The smell of fresh bread, flowers and spices filled the air, and sunlight warmed the cobblestones beneath our feet.
Eleanor looked radiant in that quiet way happiness gives a person. Marriage suited her. Love suited her.
But Eleanor had married for love. Eleanor had married Henry. That was entirely different from my situation.
"That is very easy for you to say," I replied dryly. "You married the kindest man in Prythian."
She smiled at that and I watched the expression soften her entire face.
Henry was kind. Patient. Loyal. Handsome. Entirely devoted to her. He was also, unfortunately, the exception.
"Not everyone is fortunate enough to find a love match," I continued, adjusting the basket on my arm as we stepped around a fruit stall.
"You cannot say that," Eleanor replied, clicking her tongue lightly, "when you do not even allow gentlemen to call on you."
"I allow them," I said defensively.
"You terrify them," she corrected.
"Semantics," I huffed.
She laughed softly and shook her head, but she did not argue further. We continued down the street, stopping occasionally to look at ribbons, pastries, and fabrics, laughing over nothing and everything like we always had before she married and became a respectable married lady.
For a moment, walking beside her, I felt like things were normal again. Like I was not being forced toward a marriage I did not want. Like I still had time.
We had just turned onto a quieter street when a familiar voice called Eleanor's name.
Henry approached from the opposite direction, smiling the moment he saw her, and she practically lit up.
"Come to steal my girl?" I hummed, raising an eyebrow as he reached us.
"I ask politely," Henry replied with a grin, wrapping an arm around Eleanor's waist as she laughed and leaned into him naturally, like she belonged there.
I tried not to notice how easy it looked.
"I shall see you at the fair next week?" Eleanor asked me.
I nodded. "Of course."
She squeezed my arm before letting go, and a moment later the two of them were walking away together, heads bent toward each other, already lost in their own little world.
I watched them go for a moment longer than I meant to.
Then I turned and continued down the street alone.
The market noise faded behind me as I walked, my thoughts wandering somewhere I did not want them to go, toward marriage, toward expectations, toward a certain dark-haired lord who seemed determined to appear in every part of my life lately.
As if summoned by my thoughts, I heard laughter. Female laughter. Light. Flirtatious.
I turned my head instinctively toward the sound and immediately wished I had not.
Rhysand leaned casually against a stone wall across the street, looking entirely too comfortable in the middle of the afternoon. One boot was braced against the wall behind him, his posture lazy, confident, entirely at ease.
A very pretty blonde woman stood in front of him, laughing as he twirled a lock of her hair around his finger while speaking to her in a low voice.
I grimaced immediately.
Of course. Of course this was exactly what he would be doing in the middle of the day. Rake. Exactly as everyone said.
I shuddered slightly and quickly looked away, intending to continue walking as though I had not seen him.
Unfortunately, at that exact moment, I felt it, that horrible sensation of being watched.
I looked back. He was already looking at me. Our eyes met across the street.
He said something else to the woman, smiling slightly, then pushed himself off the wall and began walking directly toward me.
I groaned under my breath and immediately sped up, turning the corner ahead of me and hoping, for once in my life, that luck would be on my side.
It was not.
I had barely walked halfway down the street when he caught up beside me. And as if the universe itself wished to make the moment more dramatic—the sky opened.
Rain poured down suddenly and violently, soaking the street in seconds, people running for cover, shopkeepers pulling in displays, carriages rattling faster over wet stone.
I stopped abruptly, staring up at the sky in disbelief as rain immediately soaked through my hair and sleeves.
Rhysand stopped in front of me, completely unbothered by the sudden downpour.
"You've cursed the weather," I hissed, glaring at him as water dripped from my hair.
"I have many talents," he replied calmly.
"This is not amusing."
"I am not laughing."
"You are smiling."
"I often do."
I crossed my arms, already soaked and now thoroughly annoyed. "Why are you following me?"
"I am not following you," he said. "I saw you and decided to speak to you."
"You were busy," I replied pointedly.
His mouth twitched slightly. "Ah. You saw that."
"I saw enough."
"And what did you see?"
"Exactly what I expected," I said sharply. "A man who proves every rumour about him true."
He studied me for a moment, rain soaking through his dark hair, his expression unreadable. I shook my head and stepped past him, continuing down the street through the rain.
After a moment, I heard his footsteps beside me again. "You are still following me," I said.
"Yes."
I sighed heavily. "Why?"
There was a brief pause before he answered. "I am beginning to think," he said slowly, "that if we are to be forced into this marriage, we should at least attempt not to hate each other."
I glanced at him sideways. "I fully intend to continue hating you," I replied.
He smiled slightly. "Yes," he said. "I suspected as much."
I rolled my eyes and quickened my pace, determined to end this conversation and this ridiculous evening as quickly as possible.
"I do not need an escort," I said. "Or conversation. Or advice about marriage."
"I am not giving advice," he replied easily, still walking beside me. "I am attempting diplomacy."
"You are very bad at diplomacy."
"I usually am not."
"Well, you are with me."
"I have noticed."
I turned down a narrower street that would lead toward my house faster, rainwater rushing along the edges of the road in small streams. The street was quieter, darker, and nearly empty now as people hurried indoors to escape the storm.
"Stop following me," I said again.
"I am walking in the same direction."
"You are not."
"How do you know?"
"Because you were leaning against a wall flirting with women ten minutes ago."
"That does not mean I do not also need to walk this way."
"You are insufferable," I muttered.
I took another step forward—and my foot slid on a slick patch of stone.
Everything happened too fast. My ankle twisted sharply beneath me, pain shooting up my leg as I lost my balance entirely. A small cry escaped me before I could stop it, and I fell hard onto the wet cobblestones.
Pain flared immediately, sharp and hot around my ankle.
I sucked in a breath through my teeth, trying very hard not to look as hurt as I felt.
Rhysand was beside me instantly. "Are you hurt?" he asked, already crouching down.
"I am fine," I said quickly, attempting to stand.
The moment I put weight on my foot, pain shot through my ankle and I stumbled again. He caught my arm before I could fall a second time.
"You are not fine," he said calmly.
"I am fine," I repeated stubbornly, trying to pull my arm away.
He did not let go. "Sit," he said.
"I will not sit in the middle of the street like an injured pigeon."
"You already fell in the middle of the street like an injured pigeon," he replied. "Sit."
I glared at him but another attempt to stand properly made it very clear my ankle disagreed with my pride.
Reluctantly, I allowed him to guide me toward the small stone step outside a closed shop. The rain still fell heavily but the awning above gave us slight shelter.
He crouched in front of me, gently reaching for my ankle.
I immediately tried to pull my foot away. "Do not touch me."
"If you wish to walk home on a broken ankle, be my guest," he said calmly. "Otherwise, be quiet for a moment."
"I do not take orders from you."
"And yet here you are, sitting," he replied, carefully lifting the hem of my dress just enough to examine my ankle.
His hands were warm despite the rain. His touch was careful. Far more careful than I expected.
I watched his face as he examined the swelling beginning around my ankle, his dark hair falling slightly into his eyes, his expression focused and serious.
"You've sprained it," he said. "You should not walk on it."
"I have to walk on it," I said. "I cannot sit here all night."
"I will help you home."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes," he repeated calmly. "You are not walking alone in the dark on an injured ankle."
"I would rather crawl home than be carried by you."
"That can be arranged if you prefer," he said dryly.
I glared at him again, but before I could argue further, he shifted slightly closer, one hand still lightly holding my ankle to keep it steady.
We both went very still. He was closer now than he had ever been before.
Close enough that I could see the rainwater caught in his eyelashes. Close enough that I could see the faint scar near his eyebrow. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of him despite the cold rain and evening air.
Neither of us spoke.
The street had grown quiet, the rain softer now, the sky darker as evening slipped toward night.
For a brief, strange moment, the world felt very small.
Just the two of us under a narrow awning, his hand still around my ankle, my breath suddenly very shallow for reasons I did not care to examine.
He looked up at me slowly, and the expression in his eyes had changed, less amused, less argumentative. Something quieter. Something more dangerous.
My breath caught slightly.
A small gasp sounded behind us. We both turned at the same time.
Two maids stood at the end of the street, frozen in place, staring directly at us—at him kneeling between my knees, my dress lifted slightly, his hand on my leg, the two of us far too close, far too alone, far too improper.
My heart stopped. Oh no. Oh no, no, no.
They whispered something to each other, eyes wide, then quickly hurried off down the street.
Panic hit me instantly. I shoved his hands away and tried to stand too quickly, wincing as pain shot through my ankle again.
"This is bad," I muttered. "This is very bad."
"Relax," he said, standing as well. "It is fine."
"It is not fine," I snapped, my voice rising slightly. "You do not understand—if this gets back to my father—"
"It was raining, you fell, I helped you. There is nothing scandalous about that."
"There is everything scandalous about that!" I said, horrified. "You were kneeling, my dress was lifted, we were alone—"
"You are overreacting."
"I am not overreacting," I snapped. "You do not have a father who measures honour in marriage contracts and reputation."
He frowned slightly at that, but I was too panicked to notice.
"This is exactly what I did not need," I continued, pacing slightly despite my ankle. "First the ball, now this, next I will be forced into an engagement announcement and it will be entirely your fault."
"My fault?" he repeated, incredulous.
"Yes, your fault! You followed me, you insisted on helping me, you were the one kneeling in the street—"
"You were the one who fell."
"I fell because you were following me!"
"That is not how walking works."
I threw my hands up in frustration. "You are impossible," I said. "Truly impossible. You appear everywhere, you ruin everything, and now you will probably ruin my life as well."
He stared at me for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression again. "I was trying to help you," he said quietly.
"I did not ask for your help," I replied immediately.
There was a brief silence. Then I turned and began limping down the street before he could say anything else.
"Your ankle—" he started.
"I will manage," I said sharply without turning around. "And you should stay away from me, Lord Rhysand. Every time you appear, something goes wrong."
I did not look back but I could feel his eyes on me the entire way down the street.
Rhysand's POV -
There was a single realisation that settled in my mind as I walked home in the rain.
And I did not like it.
The street was nearly empty now, the rain driving everyone indoors, lantern light reflecting in long gold streaks across the wet cobblestones. My coat was soaked through, rain dripping from my hair and collar, but I barely noticed.
I could still see her limping away from me.
Stubborn enough to walk on an injured ankle rather than accept my help.
Too proud. Too angry. Too determined to hate me.
I exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through my wet hair as I turned down another street toward my house.
I had met countless women in my life.
Ladies who flirted because of my title. Ladies who flirted because of my money. Ladies who flirted because they had been told I was dangerous and wanted to see if it was true.
Some were kind. Some were clever. Some were beautiful. Most were predictable.
She was not predictable.
She insulted me the first time we met while she was halfway up a wall trying to escape our arranged marriage. She told me she would rather become a spinster than marry me. She spent an entire ball terrifying suitors just to avoid proposals. She yelled at me in the rain after I helped her when she fell.
And somehow I found all of it fascinating.
I let out a quiet, humourless laugh to myself. This was a disaster.
Somewhere between the garden wall, the ballroom arguments, and the rain-soaked street, something had shifted without my permission.
I liked her. Not in the mild, passing way one likes a pretty face at a ball. No.
I liked her sharp tongue and the way she glared at me like I was a personal inconvenience sent by the gods.
I liked that she wasn't impressed by me, that she argued with me instead of flirting and that she would rather ruin her reputation than be forced into something she didn't want.
I liked that she was furious and stubborn and entirely, completely alive.
And that was a problem. A very large problem.
Because she hated me. Not mildly disliked. Not uncertain. Hated. Or at least, she was very determined to.
I turned onto the long street leading toward my house, the rain finally beginning to soften into a steady drizzle.
The image returned to my mind without invitation, her sitting on the stone step, rain falling around us, her dress soaked, her hair coming loose, her breathing slightly unsteady when I had been kneeling in front of her.
The way she had gone completely still when I got too close. The way she had looked at me in that moment, not angry, not sarcastic, not defensive. Just quiet.
Then the maids had seen us, and she had panicked like the world was ending.
"My father will kill me."
The words echoed in my mind.
I frowned slightly as I walked. I knew her father. Stern. Traditional. Obsessed with reputation and alliances. The type of man who viewed marriage as strategy, not partnership.
Suddenly her desperation to avoid this marriage made far more sense.
She didn't hate marriage. She hated being forced. She hated losing control over her own life.
And I, unfortunately, represented exactly that.
Which meant I was not just an inconvenience to her. I was the enemy.
I stopped walking for a moment under a street lantern, rain dripping from the brim of my coat as I stared out at the empty street.
This was going to be difficult.
I did not chase women. I did not convince them. I did not need to.
And yet now, for the first time in my life, I found myself in a situation where the woman I was supposed to marry would rather climb walls, terrify suitors, and limp home in the rain than accept my help.
I laughed quietly to myself again. "This is going to be a nightmare," I muttered.
But the truth settled in again, quiet and unavoidable.
I liked her. Very much. And I had absolutely no idea how I was going to make her not hate me.
Which, I suspected, was going to be the hardest thing I had ever done.
A/n - So... compromising positions and very unfortunate timing :o
She's frustrated with him, he's exactly where he wants to be and society remains as nosy and dramatic as ever. Truly just another peaceful day in Prythian x
Rhysand is standing in the rain and realising he's catastrophically down bad for the woman who would rather crawl home than let him help her. We finally get his full opinion on her and honestly... he's struggling!!
Thank you all so much for reading <33
An Unwilling Match tag list - @sophieliz @azrielblue @whump-loverz @galacticoceans @lilah-asteria @niiickelodeon @justtryingtosurvive02 @rosie-posie08 @mis-lil-red @dnfhascorruptedme @justreadingfanficseveryday @spookypersondinosaur @chxosangxl @ivy-34 @thecrimsonstarofvelaris @cardiganconfessions @sleepyhumanhere @karolamurdock @blueeclipsepaperstudent @sunmoonsweets @cubanfire @caitm1 @meepmoopbadabeepboop @anongirl007
My first day in the prison hadn't just gone wrong. It had fractured.
Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—no. It had been quieter than that. Controlled, contained within concrete walls and procedural responses. But something about it had shifted under my skin in a way I couldn't quite ignore.
A line had been crossed. And I wasn't entirely sure on which side of it I now stood.
I sat at the small desk in my office, the overhead light humming faintly above me, casting everything in a sterile, unforgiving glow.
The room still smelled faintly new, untouched by years of occupation like the rest of the facility but even here, the weight of the place pressed in.
It lingered. In the walls. In the silence. In me.
The case file open in front of me was thick. Heavier than most.
Worn at the edges, pages slightly creased from repeated handling, as if people kept coming back to it, searching for something they never quite found.
Azriel. Even his name seemed to sit differently on the page.
I traced it once with my eyes before forcing myself to continue.
The early reports were clinical. Detached. Structured in the way all documentation was meant to be, facts laid out in neat lines, stripped of emotion but the content... it wasn't clean.
Childhood: severe abuse. That was how they summarised it. Two words. They didn't come close.
I turned the page slowly.
Cages. Not metaphorical. Physical. Confined spaces used as punishment. Extended periods of isolation long before the system had ever laid claim to him. Notes describing malnutrition, deprivation, conditioning that blurred the line between discipline and cruelty.
My stomach tightened.
Another page. Fire. I paused there.
The report was colder than it had any right to be, detailing the incident with clinical precision, as if describing a lab experiment rather than a child.
Severe burns to the hands. Permanent nerve damage. Extensive scarring.
I swallowed, my fingers brushing unconsciously against the margin of the page.
I hadn't seen his hands clearly yesterday but I remembered the way he moved. Controlled. Measured. Like every action had been learned the hard way.
I exhaled slowly and forced myself to keep reading. The file didn't soften as it went on. If anything it sharpened.
Adolescence blurred into violence. Early incidents escalating in frequency, then in severity. Names. Dates. Locations.
A pattern. Always a pattern.
I flipped another page. Then another. The numbers alone were enough to make most people stop reading.
Confirmed kills. Suspected. Unproven.
Each one documented with the same detached tone. No remorse noted. No emotional response observed. Clinical. Contained.
But something about it felt... incomplete. As if the file was describing what he had done but not why in any way that actually mattered.
A soft knock at the door pulled me from the page. I looked up.
Daniel leaned casually against the frame, arms crossed, gaze flicking briefly to the file before settling on me.
"Reading up on Azriel, I see."
There was something knowing in his tone.
"Yes," I replied evenly, closing the file slightly but not enough to hide it. "He's one of my patients."
His mouth curved, not quite a smile.
"Well," he said, pushing himself off the doorframe, "your patient sent Drake to the hospital."
The words landed heavier than they should have.
Hospital. That didn't happen here. Not unless it had to. Transporting inmates outside the facility was a risk, one they avoided unless there was no other option.
"How bad?" I asked.
Daniel shrugged, but there was a flicker of something more serious beneath it. "Serious enough. Brain injury."
My grip tightened slightly on the edge of the file.
Images from the day before flashed, blood, impact, the sound of bone under force. And the way Azriel had looked. Focused. Unrelenting.
"It's standard for him," Daniel added, almost dismissively. "He's always had bouts like that. Comes out of nowhere, ends the same way."
I didn't respond because it hadn't felt like nowhere.
"They're all like that," he continued. "Him and his brothers—Cassian, Rhysand. You saw them."
I had. Three different presences. Three different kinds of dangerous.
"They always cause trouble?" I asked quietly.
Daniel let out a breath, dragging a hand down his face. "They're a pain," he muttered. Then, after a beat, more deliberate, "No one's ever been able to get through to him."
That again. That certainty. That finality.
His radio crackled at his hip, sharp and abrupt. He reached for it automatically, already half turning away.
"I suppose that's where you come in, Doc," he added, glancing back just long enough to throw me a quick wink.
And then he was gone.
The door remained open behind him. Silence settled back into the room, heavier than before.
I looked down at the file again. At his name. At the pages filled with everything that had been done to him—and everything he had done in return.
A man shaped by violence. Defined by it. Reduced to it. And yet something didn't fit.
I closed the file slowly, the sound louder than it should have been in the quiet.
My decision came before I could overthink it. Not impulsive. Not careless. Just clear. If I wanted to understand him I couldn't do it from behind paper.
I stood, smoothing my hands over my skirt, grounding myself in the familiar motion.
A group setting hadn't worked. Of course it hadn't. Men like him didn't open up in front of others.
They didn't perform. They watched. They waited. They chose.
I moved toward the door, pausing only briefly as my hand rested against the frame. Then I stepped into the corridor.
It was time to meet Azriel again. Alone.
Azriel's POV -
The doctor came back. Most didn't. That alone made her worth watching.
I hadn't moved much since where they'd left me this morning, same chair, same position, hands resting loosely in my lap. The dried blood along my knuckles had split again where the skin never healed properly, darkened into something rough and familiar.
They hadn't bothered treating it properly. They never did.
The door opened with a dull click.
I didn't look up straight away. I didn't need to. I could already tell it was her. There was a difference in the way she moved, measured, controlled, unhurried. No hesitation in her steps, no attempt to fill the space with noise or authority before she'd even spoken.
She stepped into the room like she belonged in it. That was new.
I lifted my gaze.
She was already watching me. Her eyes moved over me carefully, not avoiding anything, taking in the bruising, the blood, the quiet stillness I'd settled into. They lingered on my hands, just for a moment longer than necessary.
Most people looked away from them. She didn't.
Something shifted in her expression, not pity, not discomfort. Something quieter. Not quite approval either.
Understanding, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
She sat across from me, setting her things down with deliberate calm, like routine mattered here. Like structure could exist in a place that had none.
Then she began.
Her voice was steady, even, controlled in a way that suggested she'd practised it, perfected it. She spoke about structure. About expectations. About sessions moving forward.
Regular sessions.
That word settled somewhere in the back of my mind. Regular meant she intended to stay. It also meant she hadn't been shaken enough to leave.
Interesting.
I didn't interrupt. Didn't respond. Just watched. Not just her words. Her.
The way her fingers rested lightly against the edge of her notebook. The subtle shift of her gaze when she was thinking. The way she didn't break eye contact first.
She didn't seem bothered by my silence.
When she finished, she let it stretch, not awkward, not forced. Just... there.
Then, quietly, "Let's start simple." Her gaze held mine, unwavering. "Why did you do what you did?"
Direct. No hesitation. No attempt to soften it.
I studied her for a moment, searching for something beneath the surface of the question, judgement, expectation, even curiosity twisted into something self-serving.
I didn't find it.
That didn't mean it wasn't there. It just meant she was better at hiding it than most.
I gave her nothing. Silence sat between us again, heavier this time.
She didn't rush to fill it. Didn't fidget, didn't shift uncomfortably, didn't try to pull control back into her hands.
She simply waited.
"Azriel," she said eventually, her tone unchanged, "if this is going to work, we need to communicate."
Work. The word lingered. As if she believed this could become something functional. As if she believed I would let it.
I leaned back slightly in the chair, letting my head rest against the wall behind me, eyes still on her.
"What do you want me to say?" I asked, my voice rough, unused.
It had the desired effect.
Not outwardly, she didn't smile, didn't show relief but something in her posture shifted, just enough to tell me she'd been waiting for that.
"I'd like you to answer my questions," she replied. Still calm. Still steady.
I exhaled slowly, letting my gaze drift briefly before returning to her. "Depends," I said, "if you ask anything worth answering."
There it was, that faint challenge.
Most would have taken the bait the wrong way. Pushed back harder, tried to assert something they didn't actually have.
She didn't.
"Are you implying I'm not intelligent?" she asked, one brow lifting slightly. Not defensive. Measured. Almost curious.
"Never said that, Doc."
Because it wasn't true.
She was intelligent. That much was already clear. It was in the way she held herself, in the way she let silence exist without trying to conquer it, in the way she watched rather than reacted.
She adjusted her position slightly, crossing one leg over the other.
"How about we start somewhere else," she said. "Your childhood."
There was a pause then. Not from her. From me. The word alone was enough. Childhood.
It dragged something sharp and buried closer to the surface, something I'd spent years learning to keep locked down where it couldn't interfere.
I didn't like that.
"Not much to tell," I said.
Flat. Dismissive. A lie, obviously. She didn't call it one. Didn't push back immediately.
She let the silence settle again, studying me in that same quiet, deliberate way, as if she was mapping the edges of something she couldn't see yet.
"Your file suggests otherwise," she said after a moment. Not accusing. Just factual.
I didn't respond. Her gaze didn't leave mine.
"You were confined," she continued, voice softer now, not weaker, just... more precise. "For extended periods. As punishment."
Images flickered, brief, sharp, unwanted. Dark spaces. No room to move. Air that felt too thin. I forced them back down.
"People exaggerate," I muttered. Another lie. This one thinner.
She noticed. Of course she did. "They also tend to minimise," she replied.
That was closer. My jaw tightened slightly, but I didn't look away. Didn't give her that.
"Fire," she added after a moment, her eyes dropping briefly to my hands before returning to my face. "That wasn't exaggerated either."
That one landed differently.
A flicker of something moved under my skin before I could stop it. Not enough to show, not enough for anyone else to notice.
But she did. I saw it in the way her focus sharpened, just slightly.
"You survived it," she said.
Not you were hurt. Not that must have been difficult. Just you survived.
Something about that phrasing sat differently in my chest. I didn't respond straight away. Didn't want to. Because answering meant giving something.
And I didn't give things. Not like that.
"Didn't have much of a choice," I said eventually.
The words came out quieter than the rest. Short. Controlled.
She didn't pounce on it. Didn't push for more immediately. She let it exist. Let it settle between us without trying to take it apart.
Most would have tried to dig deeper right then. Press, pull, demand more before the moment passed.
She didn't. She just nodded once, like that answer was enough for now. Like she understood that taking too much at once would break something she was still trying to build.
Time stretched. Not uncomfortably. Not empty.
There was something in it now, something steady, something quiet that hadn't been there before.
Eventually, she shifted slightly in her chair, glancing down at her notes before closing them.
"I think that's enough for today," she said.
No interruption. No outside voice. Her decision. She stood smoothly, gathering her things with the same composed ease she'd entered with.
"We'll continue tomorrow," she added, her tone leaving little room for argument.
Again not a question. A certainty.
She turned toward the door, then paused, just briefly. Not long enough to be obvious. Just enough.
When she looked back at me, her expression was still composed but there was something else beneath it now. Something quieter. More focused. Not fear. Not curiosity.
Something closer to intent.
Then she left. The door closed behind her with a soft, final click.
Silence settled back into the room but it didn't feel the same as before. It wasn't as complete. Didn't press in as tightly.
My gaze lingered on the space she'd occupied for longer than it should have.
Long enough to notice the absence. Long enough to recognise it.
And longer still before I leaned back in the chair, letting my head rest against the wall, eyes fixed somewhere distant and unfocused.
She hadn't pushed too hard. Hadn't backed off either.
She'd taken exactly what I gave her and nothing more.
That was new... so was the fact that I hadn't wanted her to leave when she did.
A/N - So she does her homework on him... and let's just say it doesn't exactly come with comforting bedtime reading. Finding out he sent another prisoner to the hospital? Yeah... she's not thrilled about that at all!!
Their first solo session is where things start to get interesting. Azriel is intrigued and for once he actually gives her something. Very small steps, very brief openings but progress is progress xx
Let's just say the dynamic is starting to shift in a way neither of them are really prepared for :)
Hiii beautiful, hope you feel better and inspo strikes you, to help you feel more motivated. It's totally okay if you take a break for yourself, it's well deserved. Don't stress out too much, you are doing great and the best. We all love you for it, okay, and your fics never disappoint, it's always a good day for u whenever you post. Ur fics are so comforting and ive read all of them, like muliple times, I looooovvveeee Afterglow, Constellations, Offside hearts and in sync.
I've had this idea floating around, it's a cop!azriel x criminal!reader. A very dark and toxic romance coded. Because I just want to see a powerful and independent reader, (red and silk is totally her thing, like she "sneaks" into galas and stuff undercover, and reader could already be famous as a end little plot twist so that's why she's invited and harder to catch her) like the feminine urge to run in heels from a delicious man (and maybe the reader has her hair up that slowly comes undone and her hair tie falls out, and she disappears, leaving it as evidence). Perhaps the reader is a "good criminal"/anti-hero coded, like she steals money and jewlery and stuff and donates it to charity and those who need it (and she obvi keeps some stuff for herself, bc every girl needs some bling). Also if possible, if u could include one of those scenes where she falls backwards from the roof, escaping onto a helicopter. And idk how it would end, haven't thought it out too much. But u can totes build up on it i would love to see it come to life, or disregard it if u hate it, whateves u want.
But plz remember to take care of urself, ur only human and we totes get it. We all love u and want what's best for u too bestie. All ur writing it great. Have a great day babes!
hii love thank you sm this is so sweet of you to say <3
i can add this to the list and hopefully whenever inspiration strikes i can begin plotting and writing because it does sound like a very fun request!!
it’s kinda lana myers and logan bennett coded and i LOVED the mindf*ck series sm :)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
The first ball of the season was always a spectacle.
Not merely an event, but a performance. A parade of silks and jewels, of calculated smiles and whispered alliances, of mothers hunting titles and daughters pretending not to notice.
Tonight, it was hosted in the Winter Court by Lord Kallias and Lady Viviane, which meant the entire aristocracy would be in attendance.
Which meant I had no escape.
I stood beside my father at the front steps of our estate, my arm looped through his as we waited for the carriage to be brought around.
The evening air was cold enough to bite, frost already forming along the iron gates and lantern posts. My breath fogged in front of me, and I watched it disappear into the night, wishing I could do the same.
Disappear.
"Stand up straighter," my father murmured beside me. I did not move. "People will see you the moment we arrive," he continued. "You must look confident."
"I am confident," I replied flatly. "Confident that I do not wish to attend this ball."
He ignored that entirely, which was typical of him.
The carriage finally rolled to a stop before us, and a servant stepped down to open the door. My father adjusted his gloves, then glanced at me.
"Your mother would be so proud of you," he said quietly.
The words hit like a slap.
I turned to him slowly, my expression hardening immediately. "Do not bring her up."
His jaw tightened. "She would want this, and you know it."
I climbed into the carriage without responding, gathering my skirts and moving to sit as far from him as the small space allowed.
He followed a moment later, shutting the door firmly behind him as the carriage lurched into motion.
"You are our only daughter," he continued, as though we were discussing the weather. "It was always her wish to see you married into a safe and secure household."
I let out a short, humourless laugh.
"Betrothing me to the most wretched man in Prythian is not safe and secure," I shot back.
"It is an admirable union," he replied sharply. "Lord Rhysand's father and I both agree it will be a most fruitful match."
Fruitful. As though I were farmland.
"I do not wish to marry," I said, my voice tightening despite my efforts to remain calm. "It is too soon."
"No, it is not," he snapped. "You are of age, and Lord Rhysand is a powerful, well-connected, and wealthy man. You could do far worse."
"I would rather do far worse."
His eyes flashed with irritation. "If not him, there will be plenty—plenty of other options tonight."
I turned to stare out the carriage window, watching the city lights blur past in streaks of gold and white.
"Then they will all be very disappointed," I muttered.
He pretended not to hear me.
The rest of the journey passed in heavy silence, the kind that pressed against your ribs and made breathing difficult. I focused on the passing streets, on the rhythm of the carriage wheels, on anything other than the conversation we had just had.
Other than my mother.
He always did that, used her like a weapon, like a memory I could not argue with. But my mother had loved me. She would not have forced me into a marriage like this.
At least, I hoped she wouldn't have.
The Winter Court estate looked like something out of a fairytale when we arrived.
Ice lanterns lined the long sweeping drive, glowing pale blue and silver. Snow dusted the hedges and marble statues, and music drifted out through the open doors—violins and pianoforte, bright and elegant and entirely too cheerful for my mood.
Carriages lined the drive, nobles stepping out in glittering gowns and tailored coats, laughter and polite greetings filling the air.
I pasted on a smile the moment our carriage door opened. Not a warm smile. Not an inviting one. A dangerous one.
If I was being forced to attend this ball, then I would make certain no one enjoyed courting me.
My father offered his arm again, and I took it reluctantly as we entered the ballroom.
It was enormous, all crystal chandeliers and white marble floors, the ceiling painted with winter skies and silver-winged birds. Couples already danced in the centre, skirts spinning, jewels catching the light like stars.
I could feel eyes on me almost immediately. Evaluating. Measuring. Calculating.
Eligible daughter. Only child. Good family. Large dowry.
I wanted to scream.
"Smile," my father muttered under his breath.
"I am smiling," I replied through my teeth. It was not a reassuring expression.
Within minutes, the first suitor approached. He was young, nervous, and clearly pushed forward by an ambitious mother hovering several steps behind him.
"My lady," he said, bowing slightly. "May I have the honour of this dance?"
I looked at him for a long moment without answering. He shifted nervously.
"Do you enjoy dancing?" I asked suddenly.
"Yes—yes, very much."
"How unfortunate," I said calmly. "I do not."
His smile faltered.
"I also dislike small talk, large crowds, and most people," I continued. "Additionally, I intend to either ruin my reputation or become a spinster, so I would advise you to save yourself the trouble and walk away now."
He blinked at me. Then slowly bowed again and retreated. I took a sip of champagne, entirely satisfied.
The second suitor lasted slightly longer. "My lady, I was hoping—"
"Do you gamble?" I asked.
He frowned. "No."
"Drink excessively?"
"Certainly not."
"Keep mistresses?"
He nearly choked. "Absolutely not!"
I sighed dramatically. "How disappointing. You sound dreadfully boring."
He left soon after that.
By the third, I did not even wait for him to finish introducing himself. "I bite," I told him pleasantly.
He did not return.
From across the ballroom, I could practically feel my father's disapproval burning into the back of my head.
Good. Let him watch every single opportunity disappear. Let him see exactly how desirable I could make myself.
I took another sip of champagne, scanning the room, already preparing to terrify the next poor man who approached.
If they were going to force me into this marriage market, then I would make certain I was the most unsuitable bride in all of Prythian.
I had just successfully frightened away what I believed to be the fourth or fifth suitor of the evening when I felt it.
That strange, prickling awareness that someone was watching me.
Not the usual glances. Not the polite, assessing looks from mothers or the awkward curiosity from young men.
This was different. Heavier. Intent. I lowered my glass slowly and turned.
And there he was.
Lord Rhysand stood across the ballroom, dressed entirely in black as though he had arrived for a funeral rather than a celebration.
The colour should have made him stand out in a room full of pale silks and silver embroidery, and yet somehow he looked as though he belonged more than anyone else there.
People gave him space without realising they were doing it.
He wasn't smiling. He was watching me.
I immediately turned back around. Absolutely not.
I reached for another glass of champagne from a passing servant and pretended with great dedication to be fascinated by the orchestra. If I did not look at him, then he did not exist.
Unfortunately, the universe had never once been on my side.
"Are you planning to insult every eligible man in Prythian tonight," a familiar voice said behind me, "or only the unfortunate ones brave enough to approach?"
I closed my eyes briefly. Then turned slowly.
Lord Rhysand stood far too close, one eyebrow slightly raised, amusement written plainly across his face.
"I was wondering when you would appear," I said coolly. "You seem to have a habit of finding me when I am trying to escape."
His mouth curved slightly. "And you seem to have a habit of trying to escape things that involve me."
"I cannot imagine why."
He picked up a glass from a passing tray and took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving mine. "You frightened that last one rather efficiently," he said.
"I am doing a public service."
"For whom?"
"Myself."
He laughed quietly. "I am beginning to think you would rather fight a duel than accept a dance."
"I would rather fight a duel than marry you," I replied sweetly.
His eyes flashed with something, amusement, irritation, I could not tell.
"Come," he said suddenly, gesturing toward a quieter corner of the ballroom. "You are causing a scene, and I would rather not have our potential engagement become tonight's entertainment."
"I do not recall agreeing to walk anywhere with you."
"And yet you are about to," he replied calmly, already turning.
I should have walked away. I did not.
I followed him to the edge of the ballroom near a tall window overlooking the frozen gardens, far enough away that our conversation would not be overheard but close enough that we would not attract suspicion.
I turned to him immediately. "You need to leave me alone."
"You are the one who has declared war on every man in this room," he replied. "I am simply observing the destruction."
"I am not declaring war," I said. "I am preventing proposals."
"Ah. Strategic."
"Yes."
He studied me for a moment, his gaze far too perceptive.
"You truly mean it," he said quietly. "You would rather ruin every prospect than be forced into this marriage."
"Yes."
"You dislike me that much?"
"I do not even know you," I said sharply. "But I know your reputation, and that is quite enough."
He sighed softly, almost as though he were tired. "You are determined to think the worst of me."
"You have given society every reason to think the worst of you."
"That is not entirely fair."
"I am not interested in fair," I replied. "I am interested in not becoming your wife."
He stepped slightly closer then, lowering his voice. "You may become my wife whether you are interested or not."
My temper snapped instantly.
"You are insufferable," I hissed. "Arrogant, infuriating, and entirely too sure of yourself. If you think I am going to quietly accept this arrangement, you are gravely mistaken."
"And if you think you can order me about like one of your servants, you are equally mistaken," he replied coolly.
"I was not ordering you about," I snapped. "I was telling you to leave me alone."
"You may be my future wife," he said, his voice dropping slightly, "but do not think that gives you leave to order me about."
I stared at him in outrage. Future wife. The audacity. The arrogance. The absolute—
"I will never be your—"
"My lord," a voice interrupted sharply behind us.
I closed my eyes briefly. Of course. Of course he would appear now.
I turned slowly to find my father standing behind us, his expression tight, his gaze moving between Rhysand and me with clear suspicion.
"Lord Rhysand," my father said, his tone immediately polite. "I see you have met my daughter."
Rhysand straightened slightly beside me, all arrogance smoothing into effortless charm.
"Yes," he said smoothly. "We have been... becoming acquainted."
I clenched my jaw. My father looked between us again, clearly sensing the tension but choosing to ignore it.
"Good," he said. "Very good. That is exactly what I was hoping for this evening."
I forced a smile so tight it nearly hurt. Rhysand glanced at me from the corner of his eye, and I could swear I saw amusement there.
This was a disaster. And the season had only just begun.
Rhysand's POV -
Somehow, and entirely against my better judgment, I had spent the entire evening watching one woman.
A rare feat for me.
Ballrooms were usually full of distractions, beautiful women, political conversations, rivals, allies, opportunities. I was very good at dividing my attention between all of them at once.
Tonight, however, my attention had been stolen the moment she walked into the room.
And she had not given it back since.
I stood near one of the marble pillars, a glass of amber liquor in my hand, appearing as though I were engaged in casual conversation with a lord while in reality my gaze tracked her movements across the ballroom with alarming consistency.
She was terrifying them. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Efficiently.
One by one, men approached her, young heirs, second sons, ambitious nobles and one by one they left looking confused, intimidated, or mildly afraid for their future.
She barely even tried to be polite.
At one point I watched her say something to a man that made him nearly choke on his drink before retreating so quickly he almost walked into a passing servant.
I had to look away to hide my smile.
Men were practically lining up to speak to her, drawn in by her beauty, her family name, her dowry, her reputation as one of the most eligible women of the season.
And she dismissed every single one of them without a second thought.
It was impressive. And incredibly inconvenient.
Because the more I watched her, the more I realised something I did not particularly want to realise.
She meant every word she had said to me in the garden. She truly did not want to marry me.
"Stop glaring."
Cassian's voice appeared at my shoulder, dragging me out of my thoughts. He followed my line of sight immediately and grinned.
"Oh," he said. "You are staring."
"I am not staring," I replied, taking a slow sip of my drink.
"You have not looked at anyone else in the last hour," he said. "That is staring."
Azriel appeared on my other side, silent as ever, his gaze also drifting across the ballroom until it landed on her.
She was currently speaking to another unfortunate man who looked both captivated and slightly terrified.
Azriel watched for a moment, then said calmly, "She just insulted him."
"Yes," I said. "She has been doing that all evening."
Cassian let out a quiet laugh. "I like her."
"You would," I muttered.
"If you weren't marrying her, I would," he said casually.
"I'm not marrying her," I replied immediately, my voice flat. The words came too quickly. Too automatically.
And the moment they left my mouth, something in my chest tightened slightly, like I had just said something that was not entirely true.
Cassian glanced at me sideways, clearly noticing the hesitation I wished I had hidden better. "Right," he said slowly. "Of course you're not."
"I'm not," I repeated. It felt like a lie.
Azriel was still watching her across the ballroom, his expression thoughtful.
"She's gorgeous," Cassian continued. "And clearly not impressed by titles, money, or reputation. That alone makes her more interesting than half the people here."
"She also told me she would rather become a spinster than marry me," I said dryly.
Cassian choked on his drink. "She said that to your face?"
"Yes."
"I definitely like her."
Azriel spoke then, still watching her carefully. "She seems approachable enough. What's the issue?"
I let out a quiet breath and leaned back against the pillar, watching as she deliberately turned her back on yet another suitor.
"The issue," I said slowly, "is that she has already decided she hates me."
Cassian grinned. "That's never stopped you before."
"This is different."
"How?"
I didn't answer immediately because I wasn't entirely sure.
I had known plenty of women who disliked me at first, usually because of my reputation, or because someone had warned them about me, or because they assumed I was exactly what society said I was.
But this was different.
She didn't dislike me because of rumours. She disliked me because she believed marrying me meant losing her freedom.
And she would burn the world down before she let that happen.
I watched her again as she laughed at something one of the ladies said, her expression bright for the first time that evening, her eyes alive, her posture relaxed.
She looked like she belonged nowhere near political marriages and strategic alliances. She looked like trouble.
Cassian followed my gaze again and smirked. "You're in trouble."
"I am not."
"You are."
"I'm not marrying her," I said again.
Cassian didn't respond this time. He just smiled in that infuriating way that meant he thought he knew something I didn't.
Azriel finally looked away from her and toward me. "You keep saying that," he said quietly.
I frowned slightly. "Because it's true."
Azriel tilted his head slightly. "Is it?"
I opened my mouth to answer immediately. The words didn't come as easily this time.
Across the ballroom, she looked up suddenly, as though she could feel someone watching her. Her eyes scanned the crowd, and for a brief moment, they landed on me.
She didn't look away. She didn't smile. She just held my gaze across the entire ballroom like it was a challenge.
Like it was a war neither of us had officially declared but were already fighting.
Then she lifted her glass slightly in a mock salute, turned her back on me, and walked away.
Cassian let out a low whistle. "Oh, you are definitely in trouble."
I watched her disappear into the crowd, something unfamiliar settling uncomfortably in my chest.
"I'm not marrying her," I said again, quieter this time.
But now it sounded less like a statement and more like I was trying to convince myself.
A/n - First ball of the season and she's already terrifying every eligible m*n in Prythian away x
Just to clear things up for plot purposes—technically she and Rhysand are already "promised," but it's more of an unofficial agreement between their families right now rather than a formal engagement. So yes, there are still other suitors and options involved for the drama!!
We end with the bat boys doing what they do best... annoying each other while Rhys slowly spirals into denial :)
Thank you so much for reading <33
An Unwilling Match tag list - @sophieliz @azrielblue @whump-loverz @galacticoceans @lilah-asteria @niiickelodeon @justtryingtosurvive02 @rosie-posie08 @mis-lil-red @dnfhascorruptedme @justreadingfanficseveryday @spookypersondinosaur @chxosangxl @ivy-34 @thecrimsonstarofvelaris @cardiganconfessions @sleepyhumanhere @karolamurdock @blueeclipsepaperstudent @sunmoonsweets @cubanfire @caitm1 @meepmoopbadabeepboop
The supermax rose out of the ground like something that had never belonged to the world of the living.
It wasn't just the height of it—the endless concrete walls crowned with coils of razor wire, the watchtowers perched like silent sentinels, rifles glinting faintly in the morning light.
It was the feeling of it. Cold. Impenetrable. Hungry, almost, as if it swallowed every man who entered and never quite gave them back.
I stood across the road for a moment longer than necessary, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag.
This was it. The job. The one I had chased through years of study, sleepless nights, internships that wrung me dry, and the quiet, stubborn belief that I could do something meaningful where others had already given up.
A psychologist in a supermax facility. The place where they sent the men no one else could manage.
My pulse fluttered, sharp and uneven, but I forced myself forward anyway.
The gates didn't just open, they unlocked. One layer at a time. Metal sliding against metal with a heavy, final sound that seemed to echo straight through my chest.
Each checkpoint stripped something from me. My ID examined twice over—Doctor printed neatly beneath my name, my bag searched, my body scanned, instructions delivered in clipped, practised tones that left no room for error.
By the time I stepped fully inside, the outside world already felt distant. Muted. Gone.
The air inside was different, sterile, yes, but not clean. It carried something heavier beneath it. Tension. Violence pressed down into the walls over years, maybe decades.
It clung to everything.
I smoothed my slacks out of habit more than necessity, lifting my chin as I tried to settle the nerves twisting low in my stomach.
I refused to let them see it. I hadn't worked this hard to walk in here and look uncertain.
"You'll get used to it," a voice said beside me.
I turned. The correctional officer assigned to escort me had introduced himself as River, though he'd corrected me almost immediately after.
"Daniel," he'd insisted.
He looked exactly like what people expected when they thought of a prison guard. Tall, broad-shouldered, built like he knew how to use his strength and had, more than once. Dusty blond hair, blue eyes that flicked over everything with a kind of quiet calculation. Observant. Alert.
And just a little too amused.
"So, Officer River," I began, deliberately ignoring his correction, "what exactly am I getting into?"
His mouth twitched, like he knew what I was doing.
"Daniel," he said again, slower this time. Then he shrugged, glancing ahead as he guided me down a long, echoing corridor. "And what you're getting into is a supermax. Meaning the worst of the worst. The ones no one else wants to deal with."
He let out a short laugh, like it was some private joke.
I smiled politely, though something about the way he said it sat wrong in my chest.
"I'm here for risk management, behavioural analysis and rehabilitation," I said evenly.
That earned me a look. Not dismissive exactly but close.
"Most of these men aren't getting out," he replied. "Not anytime soon. Some of them not ever. There's no rehabilitating that."
There it was. That certainty. That finality.
I'd heard it before from professors, colleagues, even other clinicians who had burned out somewhere along the line.
It was easier to believe people were beyond saving than to sit with the possibility that they weren't.
"I'm not here to save anyone," I said after a moment. "I'm here to understand them. To reduce risk. To figure out what drives the behaviour."
Even if it killed me.
I wasn't sure why I felt the need to justify it to him. Maybe because his doubt felt like a challenge. Maybe because some small part of me needed to say it out loud, to make it real.
He huffed softly, unconvinced.
We walked in silence for a while after that, the sound of our footsteps bouncing off the concrete walls. Doors buzzed open and shut. Somewhere in the distance, metal clanged hard enough to make me flinch before I could stop myself.
Daniel noticed.
"Nervous?" he asked, a hint of something almost like amusement slipping into his tone.
"No," I admitted.
"If you say so."
We stopped outside a heavy steel door. It looked no different from the others, but something about the way he paused made my stomach tighten again.
"I wouldn't recommend starting with a group," he said, glancing at me. "Not with this lot."
I met his gaze, steadying myself.
"A group setting lowers immediate pressure," I replied. "It gives them space. Makes the environment less confrontational than a one-on-one. Especially in a place like this."
He studied me for a second longer, then lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.
"You're the expert."
There was a flicker of something in his eyes then, curiosity, maybe. Or anticipation.
He keyed something into the panel beside the door. The lock disengaged with a sharp, mechanical click.
"Eight of them," he added, pushing the door open. "Handpicked."
For a moment, I couldn't see anything beyond the threshold. Just the harsh fluorescent light spilling into the hallway.
Then I stepped inside. And the room... shifted.
Eight men. Scattered in a loose circle of chairs, exactly as requested but nothing about them was relaxed. Not really. Some slouched like they didn't care. Others sat too still, too aware. Every pair of eyes in the room lifted toward me in slow, deliberate unison.
Assessing. Measuring. Waiting. The air felt thicker here. Charged.
Daniel lingered by the door behind me. "I'll be right outside if you need me," he said, though something told me he didn't expect I would ask.
The door shut with a heavy finality. And just like that I was alone with them.
My pulse steadied. My shoulders squared. I took a single step forward into the circle, offering a calm, practised smile that didn't quite reach the knot tightening in my chest.
"Good morning," I said.
Silence answered me. Not the empty kind, the kind that watched.
I moved anyway. Crossing the room, I took the only empty chair available.
I let my gaze drift across them, one by one, committing faces to memory, noting posture, tension, tells. Years of training slid into place like armour.
I introduced myself and began, my voice even, measured. "I'll be working with you moving forward—"
A faint shift rippled through the group at that. Interest, maybe. Or amusement.
"I'd like to start simple," I continued, folding one leg over the other, hands resting loosely in my lap. "Names. And if you're willing—something about yourselves."
No one rushed to speak. Of course they didn't.
I turned slightly to the man on my left, offering a small nod. "We'll go this way."
He looked at me slowly, dragged his gaze over my face, my posture, my composure. Not quite leering. Not quite neutral. Measuring.
"Rhysand," he said at last, voice smooth, almost bored.
And then nothing.
"Cassian," the man beside him added, quicker, his tone edged with something sharper, restless energy barely contained.
"Azriel."
The name came quieter. I looked at him. Really looked.
He wasn't slouched like the others. Wasn't trying to dominate the space either. He sat still, too still, like every part of him was held on a leash pulled too tight.
His hazel eyes were fixed on me, unblinking, intent. Not assessing. Studying. Like I was something to be understood... or dismantled.
Something in my chest tightened before I forced my attention onward.
"Victor," the next man muttered.
The introductions stalled after that, the momentum already slipping through my fingers.
"Anyone want to share something?" I prompted lightly, though I was acutely aware I was already losing control of the room.
A grin spread somewhere to my right. "I will."
I turned toward the voice. "Wonderful," I said smoothly. "Let's start with your name."
"Drake."
The way he said it carried too much ease. Too much confidence.
His eyes dragged over me slowly, deliberately, taking his time in a way that made my spine stiffen. His smile widened, like he'd landed on a thought he found particularly entertaining.
"And I'll share something," he added.
I nodded once. "Go ahead."
He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees.
"How about you unbutton that blouse and show me your tits," he said, voice dipping into something crude and suggestive, "and maybe I'll feel more inclined to open up."
A few of the others laughed. Low. Amused. Expectant.
Heat crept up my neck, sharp and unwelcome but I didn't let it show beyond the smallest tightening of my jaw.
"Being inappropriate isn't going to help you here, Drake," I replied calmly, meeting his gaze without flinching.
"It's not inappropriate," he shot back easily. "Just trying to make things... interesting." His hand made a crude gesture that didn't need explaining.
The room shifted. Something in the air pulled tight, like a wire drawn too far.
I opened my mouth to respond—and didn't get the chance. Movement. Fast. Violent. Sudden enough that my brain lagged a second behind my eyes.
Azriel was on his feet. And then he wasn't standing anymore—he was on Drake.
The chair went over with a deafening crash as he drove him to the ground, fists already flying. Not wild. Not uncontrolled.
Precise. Relentless.
Each hit landed with sickening force, snapping Drake's head back, cutting off whatever he'd been about to say. The room erupted, shouts, curses, chairs scraping violently across the floor.
I was on my feet without realising it, stumbling back a step as instinct took over.
"Hey—!" I started, but my voice was swallowed by the chaos.
Azriel didn't stop. Didn't hesitate.
It was like something had snapped, something quiet and contained now unleashed with terrifying focus. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes...
They weren't just angry. They were feral.
The door burst open.
"Break it up!" Daniel's voice cut through the noise as officers flooded in, grabbing, hauling, dragging bodies apart.
Hands found my arm, firm, insistent. "We need to go."
I didn't argue.
They guided, almost pushed, me toward the door as the room dissolved further behind me.
Drake was shouting now, blood at his mouth. Others were yelling over him. Orders were being barked.
And Azriel—it took three officers to pull him back.
He didn't fight them. Not really. But there was a tension in him, coiled and dangerous, like he might at any second.
I crossed the threshold.
And then I looked back. I don't know why. Maybe instinct. Maybe curiosity. Maybe something else entirely.
But I did. And I met his eyes. Hazel. Sharp. Locked on me like I was the only thing in the room that still mattered.
There was nothing human in them in that moment. Nothing calm. Nothing restrained.
Just something wild. Something dangerous. Something that made my breath catch and my feet hesitate for half a second too long.
Then the door slammed shut between us but the look didn't leave me. It followed me down the corridor.
And somehow I knew that wasn't the last time I'd see it.
Azriel's POV -
Death. Not metaphor. Not exaggeration. Just... certainty.
It pulsed through my veins with every strike of my fist, clean, focused, inevitable. Bone met bone in a rhythm that felt almost controlled, almost precise, even as blood split skin beneath my knuckles.
Again. And again. And again.
Drake's face gave way under it, features collapsing into something shapeless, something ruined. He made noise at first. Cracked laughter, curses, something slurred and defiant. It didn't last. It never did.
He deserved it.
That was the simplest part of it. The only part that didn't require thought. Men like him always thought they could say whatever they wanted. Do whatever they wanted.
Until someone reminded them otherwise.
My grip tightened in his shirt, dragging him up just enough to drive another hit into his jaw. His head snapped back, body slackening further with each impact.
I barely registered the room anymore. The shouting. The movement. The chaos.
None of it mattered.
There was only the target beneath my hands, only the dull, satisfying crack of impact, the warmth of blood, the steady unravelling of something that had needed breaking for a long time.
Hands grabbed me. Dragged. Voices cutting through, sharp and insistent.
"Break it up!"
The world rushed back all at once, noise crashing in, bodies moving, voices barking orders I didn't care to follow. It took more than one of them to pull me off, fingers digging into my arms, hauling me backwards.
Drake slumped to the floor in a broken heap, blood pooling beneath him, his breathing wet and uneven. Alive. Barely.
Pity.
"Fucking psycho," one of the guards muttered under his breath as they forced my arms behind my back.
I didn't respond. Didn't resist either. There was no point.
"Solitary for you," another barked in my ear, shoving me forward. Standard. Expected. Earned.
They called me a lot of things. Freak. Animal. Monster. Sometimes they got more creative with it.
Psychopath was their favourite.
I let the words pass through me the way they always did, empty, meaningless. Labels were for people who needed to understand something.
They didn't understand anything.
The walk to solitary blurred into something mechanical, cold corridors, metal doors, the echo of boots against concrete. My pulse had already steadied again, breath evening out as if nothing had happened.
As if it hadn't mattered.
The cell door screeched open. I was shoved inside. It slammed shut behind me with a final, echoing clang.
Silence followed. Thick. Complete.
I stood there for a moment, unmoving, staring at nothing. Then slowly I closed my eyes.
And for a fraction of a second it wasn't blood I saw. It wasn't Drake. It wasn't the fight.
It was her. The psychologist. The doctor.
Standing in the doorway, light spilling in behind her like she didn't belong to the same world as the rest of us. Composed. Controlled.
And then her eyes meeting mine. Not afraid. Not quite.
My jaw tightened. A slow breath filled my lungs, then left just as steadily.
When I opened my eyes again, the cell was exactly as it had been. Cold. Empty. Unchanging.
A/N - We're getting a bit of an introduction here, the supermax, our new doctor stepping into absolute chaos, and a not-so-friendly introduction x
Of course, things spiral immediately because how could I introduce prisoner Azriel without a little violence? It'd be sacrilegious :)
Azriel clearly had thoughts to contribute and decided the most efficient way to express them was a trip to solitary confinement... with only the very intriguing new doctor on his mind!!
