Summary: when Azriel finally returns home from a mission that lasted three weeks instead of one, you confront him with your worries and fear. But doing so, you open up a new part of your soul to him.
Warnings: talks of murder, talks of abandonment, smut, p in v, unprotected sex, shadow kink, just fluff and angstâŚ
Authors note: this request came in my box I wanna say a month ago, and I have been working on it since then wanting to get it the exact way I wanted for you guys. I hope you guys enjoy this story as much as I do. This is just a small love story for the pain about to happen in the arrangement story⌠BUT, as always hope yall enjoyđŤśđť. Find request, here.
ŕźââË･âđâ･Ëââŕź
The memory doesn't feel like a story someone else tells. It feels like a wound that never quite knitted shut, a jagged piece of glass you still carry tucked against your ribs.
You can still smell that night, the metallic tang of blood cutting through the crisp, biting scent of pine and fresh snow. You were only fourteen, practically still a small fae baby, who thought she knew the shape of her own life. Then came the ambush. It was surgical, quiet, and over with a terrifying, hollow finality. One moment your mother and sister were there, the next, there was only the suffocating silence of the forest and a grief so sharp it felt like it might actually carve you open.
But the real, quiet destruction happened afterward, inside the walls of your own home. Your father, the High Lord, didn't reach for you. He didn't pull you into his arms to share the crushing weight of what you'd lost. Instead, he looked at you and recoiled. Every time he caught sight of you, his face would drain of color, his jaw tightening until the bone nearly snapped.
You were young, you were terrified, and you were starving for his comfort, but you realized, slowly and painfully, that he wasn't looking at his daughter. He was looking at a ghost. You had your mother's eyes, her jaw, the way she tilted her head when she laughed. You were a mirror he couldn't bear to look into, a living, breathing reminder of the mate he'd failed to keep safe. He didn't just mourn them, he began to treat you like an unwanted memory, disowning you in all the ways that didn't require words.
It wasn't until the very end, the night he and Rhysand left to hunt down those responsible for the massacre, that the truth finally spilled out. You stood in the foyer, your heart hammering against your ribs, and for one brief, agonizing second, he looked at you. There was no softness in his eyes, only a jagged, raw pain.
"I cannot look at you," he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel. "You look exactly like her."
That was the last thing he ever said to you. He walked out into the dark, and he never came back.
You were left in the wreckage of a house that no longer felt like a home, but you were not left to rot. The Night Court claimed you, and in the process, three men essentially became the architects of who you are today.
Cassian took that raw, jagged grief and shoved a blade into your hand. He didn't have the patience for your weeping, and thank the Cauldron for that. He taught you that the world didn't care about your broken heart, it only cared about whether you could stand back up. He spent years bruising you, pushing you to the brink, ensuring that if someone ever came for you the way they came for them, you wouldn't just be a victim. You'd be the one they should have feared.
Then there was Azriel. If Cassian was the fire, Az was the cool, quiet shadow. He never asked you to be anything other than what you were. He was the one who sat with you on the nights when the silence was too loud, his hand a steady weight on your shoulder. He was your person, the one who learned the language of your stillness and knew exactly when you were about to shatter. He didn't need to be loud, his presence was the anchor that kept you from drifting away entirely.
And Rhys... your brother. He understood the darkness better than anyone. He took the volatile, terrifying power of your Daemati gifts and taught you how to harness the storm. It was a delicate, intimate process, sharing minds, building walls, learning where your thoughts ended and the world began. He didn't just teach you to use your power. He taught you to own it, to keep it as a shield so that you would never again be caught defenseless.
They took a girl who had been hollowed out by her own father's hate and they forged you into iron. They didn't just raise you; they breathed life back into you, one lesson, one touch, and one hard-won victory at a time.
You are a product of their love, and even on the days when the ghost of that fourteen-year-old girl tries to take over, you look at the scars on your palms or feel the familiar hum of your power, and you remember, you are not a mirror for anyone else's pain anymore. You are your own.
ŕźââË･âđâ･Ëââŕź
Centuries have passed since the blood stained the snow, and the girl who once trembled in the foyer of a cold, empty house is long gone. You are the Princess of the Night Court, a woman carved from starlight and shadow, forged in the fires of the Illyrian mountains and the deepest secrets of Velaris. You are not a victim, you are a force.
But even princesses have vulnerabilities, and yours has been sitting in the quiet, empty spaces of the training ring for weeks.
Azriel has been gone too long.
The shadows he commands have left Velaris strangely muted, but it is the silence in your own mind that is truly agonizing. You have been pushing your Daemati abilities to the absolute brink, stretching your awareness across borders and through the veil, trying to snag a thread of his consciousness, a flicker of his presence. Each time you reach, you find nothing but a hollow echo. Your mind is frayed, your nerves are raw, and your brother, Rhysand, has been pacing your chambers for days, his own worry bleeding into your link, demanding, hounding, you to try again, to find him, to bring him home.
"You're going to burn yourself out," a rough voice interrupts your frantic pacing.
Cassian stands in the doorway of the ring, his wings tucked tight against his back, his eyes searching yours with that annoying, persistent brand of concern. He knows you need to bleed off the tension before you snap, and he knows exactly how to make it happen. He offers you the ring, a silent invitation to take your frustration out on his ribs.
You don't hesitate. You launch yourself at him with a ferocity that would have terrified you centuries ago. You drive him back, your strikes precise and lethal, a symphony of violence that serves as the only language you can speak right now. You beat him until your knuckles are white and your breath is coming in ragged gasps, and he takes every hit, dodging just enough to keep you coming.
But then, the banter starts. It's his way of trying to keep you tethered to the living, to pull you out of the spiral of your own terror.
"You know," he grunts, parrying a blow that would have shattered a lesser man's jaw, "if you spent half as much energy actually relaxing as you do obsessing over our Spymaster, you'd probably have found him by now. It's not just the mission, is it? You're terrified he's never coming back to you."
He wears that infuriating, lopsided smirk, he one that usually makes you want to drive a blade through his boot.
"Shut up, Cass," you hiss, your voice sharp enough to draw blood.
"Or what? You'll tell him?" He chuckles, ducking under a sweeping kick. "You've been pining for him since the dawn of time, and honestly, it's getting exhausting watching you stare at the horizon like a lovesick acolyte."
The heat in your chest flares, white-hot and blinding. You don't need his analysis, and you certainly don't need his pity. Without warning, you drop your physical guard and reach into his mind, sharpening your focus into a single, jagged needle of psychic energy.
You drive it straight into his mental soft spot, a pointed, intrusive jab that makes his breath hitch. Cassian lets out a strangled groan, stumbling back and clutching his temples as the psychic feedback ripples through him.
You don't wait for him to recover. You turn on your heel, your chin held high, your composure iron-clad despite the frantic, aching worry still humming in your veins. Behind you, you hear him recover just enough to flip you the bird, his dark laughter echoing off the stone walls of the ring.
You don't look back. You just walk away, the princess of a court that feels entirely too quiet, carrying the weight of a man who hasn't come home yet, and a heart that is far too exposed for your own good.
The stone corridor feels unnervingly long tonight. Your boots click rhythmically against the floor, but the sound barely registers over the static-like hum of your own frayed nerves. You are halfway to your bedroom, determined to finally surrender to the exhaustion that has been hounding you since you left the training ring, when you stop dead.
It starts in the center of your chest, a phantom tug, like an invisible hook buried deep in your sternum. It's a rhythmic, insistent pulse, a magnetic pull dragging your focus away from the comfort of your bed and toward the heavy, oak-paneled door of your office.
You stand there, your hand coming up to press against your chest, kneading at the dull, aching pressure beneath your ribs. It's been three years of this, three years of that same, maddening tug. At first, you thought it was a lingering side effect of a training injury, or perhaps some residual trauma from your early years, but the consistency of it is terrifying.
Every time you've dared to mention it to Rhys, the reaction has been... telling.
You remember the first time you brought it up. You had been sitting in his study, and the pull had been so strong it actually made you gasp. You had looked at him, confused, and asked, "Rhys, do you ever feel like... like something is calling you? A pull, right here?"
His reaction hadn't been a dismissal. It had been a revelation. His eyes had gone wide, that flicker of raw, panicked realization crossing his face before he slammed his mental shields down so hard it felt like a door being bolted in your face. He had immediately changed the subject, launching into a lecture about court logistics or trade routes with a forced, manic intensity that told you more than his words ever could.
He knows. He knows exactly what this is. And he is terrified of it.
You stand in the hallway now, caught in the gravity of that pull. The office door seems to loom, almost as if it's breathing. Your heart hammers against the palm pressing over your chest. Every instinct screams at you to go to your bedroom, to lock the door, and to hide under the covers until the world stops spinning. But the tug is relentless, a physical command that bypasses your brain and pulls at the very marrow of your bones.
You take a shaky breath, your fingers tightening into a fist against your tunic. If you turn and walk toward your room, you can pretend this is just fatigue.
But, this pull was so tight on your soul that you turned to the right and opened the door to your office.
The air in the office is different the moment you cross the threshold, it was charged, heavy, and smelling of ozone and Illyrian pine. The door clicks shut behind you, the latch turning with a finality that seems to seal you off from the rest of the world. Before you can even adjust to the dim light, the shadows in the room behave like living things. They uncoil from the corners, slithering across the floor to dance around your boots, before rising to press soft, cool caresses against your cheeks, a welcome home from the only part of him that has been present while he was gone.
Azriel stands in the center of the room, his shoulders broad, his wings folded tight, and that familiar, brooding stillness radiating from him like a physical weight. The exhaustion that has been hounding you for weeks vanishes, replaced by a surge of adrenaline so potent it makes your vision swim.
He sees you, and that rare, small smile, the one he saves exclusively for the quiet moments between the two of you, flickers across his face.
You don't think. You don't ask why he's here instead of reporting to the war room, and you don't think about the protocol you've been conditioned to follow. You launch yourself across the room. The distance closes in a heartbeat, and his arms are already open, catching you with the strength and precision of a predator.
He lifts you effortlessly, his hands gripping your waist as you scramble, wrapping your legs around him to pull him closer. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him, the ink, the cold night air, and that underlying, sharp metallic tang of his shadows.
"I was so worried, Az," you whisper, the words breaking against his skin. Your voice is thick, raw with the weeks of silence you've endured. You press your forehead against his, your hands tangling into the dark silk of his hair, needing to feel the solid, beating reality of him. "I looked everywhere. My mind... I couldn't find you. I thoughtâ"
You can't even finish the thought, not when he is here, holding you so tightly you can feel the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heart against your own ribs. It is the only thing that matters, the only thing that silences the frantic, pulling ache that has haunted your chest for three years.
He lets out a low, ragged sound, it was a mix between a sigh and a growl, and pulls you even closer, his wings shifting to envelop you both in a shroud of impenetrable, velvet darkness.
He nudges his nose against yours, a small, grounding gesture that feels more intimate than any battle-scarred hug ever could. He doesn't pull away completely; instead, he slowly sets you down, but his hands linger at your waist, and his massive, leathery wings shift to form a private, velvet-dark cocoon around you both.
It feels like you've stepped into a sanctuary where the rest of the world doesn't exist. His shadows are practically buzzing with a manic, joyous energy, swirling around your ankles and darting up to brush against your cheeks like excited pets finally reunited with their favorite person. They aren't just his shadows, they're your shadows too at this point, and their frantic, happy dancing tells you everything you needed to know: they weren't just searching for him; they were trying to bring him back to you.
He begins to sway, a slow, hypnotic movement that pulls you with him. He hums, a low, vibration in his chest that you feel through your own ribs, and it's so grounding, so overwhelmingly him, that your head spins with the relief of it.
But the confusion hasn't left you. The weeks of silence, the way Rhysand avoided your questions and how you pushed your brain to the point of exhaustion, it's all still there, nagging at the back of your mind.
You draw back just enough to look up at him, your eyebrows furrowed in sharp contrast to the soft rhythm of his swaying. You search his eyes, those dark, unreadable pools that usually hide everything, but tonight, they seem to hold a flicker of something raw and exposed.
"Where were you?" you whisper, your voice thick with the frustration of the last few weeks. "Why did it take you this long, Az? I searched... I pushed until my mind felt like it was catching fire, and there was nothing. Not even a whisper of you."
You tighten your grip on his shoulders, needing him to be honest, needing him to bridge the gap between his long absence and the magnetic pull you've felt for years.
"I couldn't find you," you press again, your gaze searching his face for a hint of the truth. "It felt like you were behind a wall I couldn't climb. What happened out there?"
Azriel lets out a long, ragged sigh that ruffles your hair. His voice is a low, rough vibration against your forehead as he whispers, "I got caught up."
The simplicity of it feels like a slap. You let out a soft, jagged breath, your gaze dropping to the intricate pattern of the leather straps on his chest, unable to meet the intensity of his stare. "Where?" you press, your voice barely audible.
His finger hooks under your chin, firm but impossibly gentle, forcing you to look at him. His dark eyes search your face, scanning every detail, and you catch the flickerâa fraction of a second where his gaze drops to your lips, heavy and hungry, before he pulls his focus back to your eyes.
"Does it matter?" he asks.
The weight of the question is crushing. Your hands, which had been anchored to his shoulders, slide down, your fingers curling into your palms as you try to put distance between you. But the cage of his wings is absolute. They are warm, solid, and immovable, pressing you against him until there is no space left for your doubt.
When your body brushes against the sensitive inner lining of his wings, he lets out a sharp, shaky breath, his grip on you tightening. You look up at him, your eyes burning with the sting of unshed tears.
"'Does it matter?'" you repeat, your voice cracking. "Of course it matters, Az! I was worried sick. You were gone for three weeks when it was supposed to be a week, maybe a week and a half at most. We couldn't find you. My mind... I couldn't reach you. I thought you were..."
The word dead hangs in the air, too heavy to speak aloud. You look down again, the memory of those dark, silent nights of searching making your chest ache with that familiar, mysterious pull.
Azriel pulls you closer, the movement fluid and desperate, his wings drawing tight, cocooning you in his scent and his heat. "I'll always come home to you," he whispers, the vow fierce and raw.
You shake your head, a hollow laugh escaping you. Your fingers move of their own accord, trembling as they trace the cold, familiar texture of the leather over his stomach, feeling the steady, powerful thrum of his heart beneath it.
"You can't promise me that," you whisper, the honesty of your fear finally spilling over. "Not when you're you, and not when the world is the way it is. You can't promise that to me."
Azriel just nods, his expression unyielding, his jaw set with a stubborn, ancient resolve. "I will always come home to you," he repeats, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly whisper that vibrates through your very bones. "I can promise you that."
You look up at him, the tears you've been holding back for three weeks finally spilling over. Your breath comes in ragged, broken hitches. "I don't know what I would've done... if we never found you. I just... I can't even think about it."
You cover your face with your hands, the shame of your vulnerability warring with the sheer, overwhelming relief of his presence. Azriel makes a soft, guttural soundâa coo of pure, unadulterated tenderness.
"Sweetheart," he murmurs, his hands gently prying yours away from your face. "Let me see that pretty face."
He moves your hands with infinite care, his thumbs brushing the salt tracks from your cheeks. He doesn't stop there, he lifts your palms to his lips, kissing the sensitive skin of your wrists, then the center of your palms, grounding you with every touch. He takes your hand, pressing it firmly against his chest, right over his racing heart.
"I promise you," he whispers, his eyes searching yours with a terrifying level of honesty. "With my heart... and my soul. I will come home to you. I don't care if it means losing myself, my body, my wings. I will crawl through the fires of the Cauldron if I have to, just to make it home to you. Because you are my home."
As the last word leaves his lips, a strange, electric heat flares at your wrists. You gasp, your eyes widening in shock as you look down. Around Azriel's wrist, a shimmering, intricate mark has etched itself into his skinâa band of dark, swirling starlight and shadow that pulses in rhythm with your own heartbeat.
"Az..." you whisper, your voice trembling. You look at him, stunned, then slowly rotate your own wrist. There, mirroring his perfectly, the same mark has manifested, glowing faintly against your skin.
He doesn't look surprised. He doesn't pull away. He just watches you with a serene, terrifying calm, his hand still cradling your waist, his other hand brushing a stray lock of hair back from your forehead with a feather-light touch.
"My wrist," you whisper, the realization dawning on you with the force of a tidal wave. You turn your arm, staring at the mark that binds you. "Azriel, what have you done?"
He doesn't flinch. He just nods slowly, pulling you even tighter against his hard, solid frame. "I know what it is," he says, his voice steady, anchored by a choice he clearly made a long time ago. "And I don't regret it."
You look up at him, your breath hitching. "Our souls are tied now... with this... you tied our souls together."
Azriel nods again, a faint, sad, but utterly devoted smile touching his lips. "I know, sweetheart," he says softly.
Then, the sharp sudden tug in your chest isn't painful this time. It's like the final snap of a heavy iron chain you hadn't even realized you were wearing.
A gasp leaves your throat as that familiar, agonizing pressure, the one that has dogged your every step, kept you awake at night, and haunted your thoughts for three long, grueling years, simply evaporates. The emptiness it leaves behind isn't a void, it's an open space, flooded with a sudden, overwhelming sense of clarity and absolute, unshakable peace.
It's as if you were holding your breath for a thousand days, and finally, you are allowed to exhale.
You look up, your eyes wide and searching, and find Azriel looking down at you. His expression is no longer the guarded, weary mask of the Spymaster. His smile is soft, genuine, and so profoundly relieved that it makes your knees weak. He's looking at you like he's finally seeing you through a clear lens, without the static and the distance that had kept him tethered away from you for so long.
He doesn't need to ask. He can feel the shift in you as clearly as he feels the bond pulsing against his own skin.
"You feel it too," he whispers, the statement vibrating against your forehead as he tucks you closer, his wings folding around you until you are entirely shut away from the rest of the world.
The air in the office feels different nowâstill and expectant. The frantic, happy dance of the shadows has slowed into a protective, undulating hum, vibrating in sync with the marks on your wrists. The mystery of the pull, the secret your brother was too terrified to name, the fear of the last three weeksâit all feels like a lifetime ago.
You aren't just the Princess of the Night Court, and he isn't just the Spymaster. In this closed-off, silent room, you are simply two halves of a whole finally standing in the same place.
"It's gone," you whisper, the realization echoing in the quiet office. "The ache. It's... it's actually gone."
Azriel brushes his thumb over your cheek, his touch lingering, possessive and reverent. "It was never meant to be an ache," he murmurs, his voice a low, dark promise. "It was just the distance between us, waiting to be closed. And now that it is... I'm never letting you be that far from me again."
The realization hits you not as a shock, but as the final, missing piece of a puzzle you've been trying to solve your entire life.
Everything, the years of him being your steady anchor, the way his presence alone could silence your worst nightmares, the magnetic tether that had been pulling at your very marrowâit all snaps into place. He isn't just your person; he is your soul's counterpart.
Without a second thought, you grab the lapels of his tunic and pull him down, closing the remaining space between you. The kiss is frantic, born of three years of repressed longing and the sheer terror of almost losing him. Your lips meet his, and it's like coming home to a fire you didn't know you were freezing beside.
But as quickly as you started, you break away, your heart hammering, eyes wide. "Azâsorry, Iâ"
The apology dies in your throat. Azriel lets out a low, dangerous growl that vibrates through the entire room, his shadows swirling into a frenzied, dark mist around you. He doesn't let you retreat; he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pants, yanking you flush against him.
"Don't," he rasps, his voice rough and stripped of every bit of his usual, composed restraint.
He crashes his mouth back onto yours, his kiss hungry and aggressive, stripped of all caution. You feel your knees go weak, your body folding into his intensity, and before you can even register the movement, his hands are on your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. He deposits you onto the mahogany surface of your desk, scattering maps and inkwells to the floor with a clatter that neither of you cares about.
His hands are everywhere, they were urgent, possessive, and shaking with a need he's been holding back for centuries. When his fingers find the hem of your shirt, he doesn't fumble; he rips it away, the fabric tearing as he tosses it aside.
The cool air hits your skin for only a second before his mouth is there, tracing a burning path down your throat to your collarbone. You let out a broken, sharp moan that echoes off the office walls, your fingers tangling into his hair, pulling him closer.
He groans against your skin, a sound of pure, unadulterated want, and you can't help the bubble of breathless, bewildered laughter that escapes you. Watching the untouchable Spymaster, the man of infinite control, completely unravel the moment he touches youâit's intoxicating.
"You're a mess, Az," you giggle, your breath hitching as his hands trace the line of your waist, his shadows dancing over your skin like dark silk.
He pauses, looking up at you from where he's pressed against the desk, his eyes dilated until the irises are nearly gone, his face a mask of primal desire. "You have no idea," he growls, his voice a promise of what is to come.
The office door swings open with a sharp, insistent creak, cutting through the haze of the moment. Azriel is currently buried against the curve of your neck and chest, his lips tracing the sensitive skin right above your bodice, when the sudden intrusion hits.
He doesn't even let you look. In a blur of motion, his wings snap outward like a shroud, expanding to cover you entirely from the view of the door. He turns his head, his face twisting into a feral, guttural snarl that would make a warrior tremble.
"Get out," he growls, the sound is dark, possessive, and dangerous.
You hear a heavy silence, followed by two sets of footsteps stopping dead. When you peek over your shoulder, you see Rhysand and Cassian standing in the doorway. Their eyes are wide, Rhysand's, in particular, hold a mixture of shock and that terrifying, High Lordly recognition, while Cassian is mid-snicker, his lean against the doorframe already forming a joke.
Rhysand's expression shifts instantly. He takes one look at the way Azriel's wings are shielding you, the way the air in the room is vibrating with the raw, unmistakable static of a newly snapped mating bond, and his face goes unreadable.
"We'll talk later," Rhysand says, his voice flat, cutting off whatever Cassian was about to say.
"Wait, I justâ" Cassian starts, still grinning.
Rhysand doesn't let him finish. He grabs Cassian by the back of his leathers and hauls him out of the room, slamming the door shut with a flick of his fingers.
Azriel doesn't stop. As soon as the lock clicks, he turns back to you, his breathing slowly steadying, though his hands, that are large, calloused, and trembling, continue to map every inch of your skin. He presses his forehead against yours, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. "I have been waiting for so long for you to see."
Your heart skips a beat. You pull back slightly, blinking at him, your eyes wide. "How long?"
Azriel looks down, his dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. A rare, vulnerable flush creeps up his neck. "Over twenty years."
You gasp, the breath leaving you all at once. "Twenty... twenty years?"
He pecks your lips, his expression softening into something so tender it almost hurts. "I knew the bond was there, but I wanted it to hit you as well. I didn't want to force you, or make you feel trapped by some celestial whim. I wanted you to choose me on your own, without the pull making the decision for you."
A slow, shy smile spreads across your face, and you reach up to trace the sharp line of his jaw. "You idiot," you whisper, laughing softly. "I've had a small crush on you for a little over twenty years myself."
Azriel lets out a genuine, low laugh that rumbles through his chest, his eyes darkening with amusement. "Yeah? Think I'm pretty, sweetheart?"
You nod, your eyes searching his, filled with a decades-worth of unspoken longing. "The prettiest," you tease.
The playfulness vanishes instantly. He growls, a sound of pure, unadulterated hunger, and crashes his mouth against yours, kissing you with a desperate intensity that makes your head spin. You reach for the buckles of his leathers, tugging frantically at the straps, whining against his lips for him to get rid of them, to be closer, to finally, finally be yours.
"Take it off," you breathe against his lips, the words a desperate, breathless command.
Azriel lets out a low, dark chuckle that vibrates right through your chest. "My greedy mate," he whispers, the possessiveness in his tone making your pulse skyrocket.
You shudder, a visible tremor racking your body, but you meet his gaze, nodding with a shy, defiant heat that makes his smirk widen. He doesn't waste another second. A wall of living shadow erupts around you, thick and velvet-black, swallowing the room, the desk, and the world outside. When the darkness shifts and thins, the scenery has changed entirely. You are no longer on the hard wood of your desk; you are sinking into the soft, familiar linens of his bed.
Your clothes are gone, he's stripped them away with a speed and precision that speaks to years of suppressed want. Before you can even catch your breath, he's between your thighs, his presence solid and grounding.
He doesn't hesitate. As his mouth finds you, his shadows, the dark, silken tendrils that have been with you your entire life, begin to writhe and coil. They brush against your sensitized skin, teasing your nipples with a cold, electrifying precision that makes your back arch off the mattress.
"Azâ" you gasp, the name tearing from your throat as he begins to work on you.
The sensation is overwhelming, the heat of his mouth, the impossible softness of the shadows dancing over your sensitive points, and the sheer, focused worship in his movements. You moan in genuine surprise, your head falling back against the pillows as your fingers tangle into his dark hair, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to him as the world dissolves into nothing but the friction of his tongue and the dark, intoxicating magic of his shadows.
Azriel's voice is a low, guttural vibration against your most sensitive skin, muffled by the heat of his mouth. "Taste so good," he groans, his tongue swirling with a deliberate, maddening expertise. "Better than I ever imagined... and I've imagined it every night for twenty years."
The raw confession sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core. You let out a broken, needy moan, your hips bucking instinctively. "Az... please," you gasp, your voice trembling as he slips a long, calloused finger deep inside you, stretching you, claiming you.
He rises up then, his eyes burning with a dark, predatory hunger. He captures your lips in a bruising, possessive kiss, his mouth tasting of you. He pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips, his voice dropping to a gravelly, indecent register. "You don't want to know the number of nights I've had to wrap my hand around my cock, biting my tongue so I didn't scream your name into the dark, just thinking about how you'd taste."
You smirk, despite the dizzying haze of pleasure, and arch your back, presenting yourself to him with a bold, wicked grace.
"Good girl," he growls, his voice thick with approval.
He slips a second finger inside, the invasion slow and agonizingly perfect. As your breath hitches, his shadows suddenly surge upward. Before you can react, they coil like thick, velvet rope around your wrists, binding your hands firmly to the headboard above your head.
You whine, a sound of frustrated, delicious helplessness, pulling against the cool, dark restraint. "Azriel, you can't justâ"
"I can," he cuts you off, his voice a dark, velvety promise. He drops his head, his mouth latching onto one of your nipples, his tongue swirling around the peak while he sucks with a rhythm that matches the sliding of his fingers inside you.
"Look at you," he murmurs, pulling away for a second to watch his fingers slide in and out of your slick, hot heat. He watches your eyes roll back, your skin flushing a deep, aroused crimson. "Look how wet you are for me. Bound to me. Entirely mine."
"Yours," you pant, your chest heaving as his shadows tease your sensitized skin, wandering down your stomach and back up to trace the line of your throat. "Always yours, Az. Just... make me finish. Please."
He chuckles, a dark, dangerous sound, and begins to thrust with a measured, lethal precision that threatens to snap your composure in two. "Not yet, sweetheart," he hums against your ear, his breath hot. "We have twenty years of hunger to settle. I'm going to make you beg for every single second."
The tension in the room is a physical weight, thick with the scent of arousal and the hum of your connection. As his fingers work inside you with expert, rhythmic precision, you feel the tide rising, an uncontrollable swell of pressure blooming deep in your belly.
"AzâI'mâI'm close," you gasp, your head thrashing against the pillow.
"I know, sweetheart," he murmurs, his lips tracing the sensitive column of your throat, his voice dripping with pride. "Show me. Give it to me."
He picks up the pace, his fingers driving into you, and when you finally shatter, your body arching and locking into a high-pitched, breathless cry, he doesn't stop. He keeps the pressure there, relishing the way you shudder, the way your muscles clench around him. He lets out a low, satisfied chuckle at the sight of your unraveling.
He waits until your shudders subside before his shadows loosen, the one binding your right hand snapping back like a whip. He catches your wrist, guiding your trembling fingers down.
"Touch me," he rasps, his eyes dilated, pupils blown wide as he watches you. "Touch my cock, baby. Feel how hard I am for you."
Your fingers close around him, and he's hot, thick, and pulsing with a desperate need that matches your own. He lets out a ragged groan, his head falling into the crook of your neck, his breath hitching against your skin.
"I need you, Az," you whine, your voice strained and desperate, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Please, I can't take this ache anymore. I need you inside me, nowâplease, put it in."
"I'll give you what you want," he growls, his voice barely audible, vibrating with suppressed intensity. "I'll give you everything."
He moves up, his hands shifting to your hips, his palms scorching against your skin. He aligns himself with you, the tip of his cock pressing against your heat, and with a slow, agonizingly deliberate motion, he helps guide himself inside. You gasp, the sensation of him filling you so completely that it feels like you're being put back together.
He pauses, his breath hitching, his forehead pressed against yours. You both let out a synchronized, shuddering moan that dies in each other's mouths as he waits for the two of you to settle, his body adjusting to the tight, slick warmth of your interior.
"God," he rasps, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that feels like a claim. "You have no idea how long I've dreamt of this. Of being exactly where I belong."
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, anchoring him. "Then stay," you whisper against his lips. "Don't you dare go anywhere."
He lets out a dark, hungry sound, shifting his weight. "I'm not going anywhere, my beautiful mate. We're just getting started."
The friction is intoxicating, a primal rhythm that seems to echo the very beating of your combined hearts. Azriel begins to move, his hips driving into you with a power that takes your breath away. Each thrust is deep, possessive, and agonizingly slow before he picks up the tempo, his movements becoming increasingly frantic and uncontained.
You arch your back, your entire body humming with the force of his rhythm. You watch as he leans up, his face flushed with the exertion and the sheer, raw pleasure of claiming you. His magnificent wings flare out wide, a massive arc of midnight velvet that fans across the room, his control completely shattered by the intensity of your pleasure.
With your other hand finally freed from the lingering shadows, you reach up, your fingers tangling into the dark silk of his hair. You pull him down, desperate to bridge the distance, your lips meeting his in a bruising, heated kiss.
"Please," you moan into his mouth, your voice thick and ragged. "Let me come. Just... just fuck me, Az."
He lets out a guttural, broken sound of surrender. He nods against your lips, his jaw tight as he fights to maintain the last shreds of his composure. "Come for me, sweetheart," he rasps, his voice trembling. "I won't be able to last long now."
You don't need to be told twice. As his pace quickens, driving into you with a relentless, driving hunger, you let yourself go. The climax hits you like a tidal waveâa white-hot explosion that ripples from your core, causing you to clench around him with every ounce of your strength.
The sensation of you shattering against him is the final catalyst. Azriel lets out a feral, guttural roar, his body locking rigid as he drives into you one last, deep time. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his entire frame shuddering as he spills his release inside you, his shadows swirling in a violent, ecstatic storm around the bed.
You both lie there, gasping for air, the world outside this room forgotten. He keeps his weight anchored on you, his breath heavy and wet against your skin, while the mating bond between you pulses, bright and absolute, in the quiet aftermath.
Azriel draws back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with an adoration that is almost painful to witness. He presses a kiss to your lips, and itâs not the hungry, frantic kiss of a moment ago, but something soft, slow, and reverent. As he sighs into your mouth, you feel him harden again deep within you, a silent, stirring promise that he is far from finished.
He lifts your legs, draping them over his hips so you are completely open, completely his. He settles his weight, resting on his elbows beside your head, framing your face with his body as he begins to move again. This time, there is no rush. Every thrust is a slow, rhythmic slide, a deliberate act of worship.
"So beautiful," he murmurs against your temple, his breath hitching as he draws back and fills you again. "I have spent lifetimes just wanting to hold you like this. Just wanting to be this close."
You arch into him, your own hands finding his shoulders, tracing the heavy muscle there. "Az," you whimper, the name feeling like a prayer.
"I'm here," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his hips rocking in a steady, loving cadence. "I'm right here, and I'm never leaving. You are my home, my sun, my shadow. Everything I am, everything I've ever done, it was all just leading me to this moment. To you."
He drops his head to the crook of your neck, his lips grazing the pulse point there. "Do you have any idea how much you're loved?" he asks, his voice vibrating against your skin. "I love you. I have loved you since the moment I saw you, and I will love you until the mountains crumble into the sea."
The intimacy is almost too much; it feels as if he is peeling back the layers of your soul and smoothing over the scars of your past. The friction builds, not with the fire of the previous release, but with a deep, consuming warmth that starts at your toes and radiates outward.
"I love you too," you breathe, your voice shattering in the quiet room. "I've loved you for so long."
He lifts his head, his gaze locking onto yours, intense and unyielding. The rhythm of his hips finds that perfect, agonizing sweet spot, and you feel the crest of another climax beginning to rise.
"Together," he whispers, his voice breaking. "Let's do this together."
As the pleasure takes you, pulling you both into that shimmering, silent void where nothing else exists, he thrusts deeper, harder, his shadows surging to wrap around you both in a final, protective cocoon.
"Gods," he groans, his voice trembling as he spills himself into you one more time. "I love you."
You press a lingering, weary smile against his lips and pull him down, burying your face in his neck. You lie there for a long time, the silence of the room no longer heavy, but filled with the steady, synchronized thump of your hearts. The shadows remain curled around you like a warm, protective blanket, keeping the rest of the world at bay.
Eventually, Azriel shifts. With a low, possessive hum, he scoops you up, keeping you flush against him. You let out a soft, startled whine as you realize he hasn't pulled away, but he's still buried deep inside you, and the movement makes your toes curl.
He chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates against your spine. "Still greedy, are we?" he murmurs, his voice playful as he navigates the short distance into the en-suite bathroom.
He maneuvers you toward the smooth marble vanity, bracing you against the cool stone and bending you forward. With a slow, deliberate withdrawal, he finally slips out, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. Before you can even turn, a firm, stinging slap lands on your backside, followed immediately by his lips pressing a searing, possessive kiss to the same spot.
"Wait here," he commands, his voice dropping into that dark, soothing register.
You lean against the counter, your legs feeling like jelly, watching as he moves with a grace that seems at odds with the lingering haze of your shared intimacy. He turns on the taps, the steam beginning to coil toward the ceiling as the water fills the large stone tub. He works with a quiet focus, and when the water is perfectly tempered, he turns back to you.
He doesn't say a word, he simply holds out a hand, his palm calloused and warm, his dark eyes fixed on yours with a silent, intense devotion. You take it, your fingers interlacing with his as he guides you into the water.
The warmth of the bath is an absolute balm, washing away the ache of the last few weeks. Azriel climbs in behind you, pulling you back against his chest until you are cocooned by his wings and his warmth. He picks up a sponge, his movements impossibly gentle as he begins to wash you, his hands lingering over your skin with a reverence that makes your breath hitch all over again.
"I have you," he whispers, his chin resting on your shoulder as he circles a patch of soap over your collarbone. "You don't have to carry anything tonight. Just breathe."
The sunlight filtering through the heavy drapes is soft and hazy, but it's the weight of the arm anchored across your waist and the warm, possessive pressure of Azriel's hand cupping your breast that anchors you to the world. You're still blissfully tangled in the linens, drifting in that half-asleep state where reality feels like a dream, and you instinctively shimmy backward, molding your spine against the solid, immovable heat of his chest.
The moment of peace is short-lived. The heavy oak door of the bedroom creaks open with agonizing slowness.
Before your eyes can even fully adjust to the light, you feel a shift in the air. Azriel's wing snaps out in a blur of velvet shadow, arching over your front to shield you from the doorway's view. A deep, frustrated sigh rumbles through his chest against your back, he doesn't even have to look to know who it is.
"So..." a familiar, amused voice drifts into the room. "She finally figured it out, huh?"
You freeze, your face flushing a deep, mortified crimson as Rhysand leans against the doorframe, wearing a look of pure, unadulterated smugness.
Azriel doesn't even bother to move his hand from where it's draped over you. He simply lifts his free hand and, with a bored, sharp flick of his middle finger, flips your High Lord off.
Rhysand erupts into a low, rumbling laugh, shaking his head at the display. As he turns to leave, his eyes linger on the way Azriel is practically claiming you beneath that wing. "Should I make plans for your absence for a week?" he calls back over his shoulder.
Azriel's growl is primal, vibrating through the bed and right into your shoulder blades. "Make it a month, Rhysand."
Rhysand's laughter echoes in the hallway, dripping with teasing incredulity. "A whole month? You're an animal, Az."
You let out a tiny, whimpering sound of pure embarrassment, burying your face in your hands to hide from the world. You can practically feel the heat radiating off your own skin. Azriel, however, seems completely unbothered by the scrutiny. He pulls the wing tighter, effectively shutting out the rest of the world as the door clicks shut, leaving you in the dim, private sanctuary of his room.
He chuckles, a low, contented sound, and his lips find the sensitive curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "Let them talk," he murmurs, his hand squeezing gently, possessively. "They're just jealous because they know I'm not letting you out of this bed anytime soon."
