lilah asteria

Nesta loved the music and dancing, Elain loved the romance, and Feyre loved the costumes and color palettes of scenes. Cassian wanted to see Nesta smile, and Rhysand would do just about anything Feyre asked of him. 

In all his 500 years of life, Azriel had never thought to go to the theater. When he was a child he heard of his parents going but of course, he never got to go. As he grew the idea of going to see a show simply never crossed his mind.

When the lights went down and the orchestra came to life he spent most of his time watching Cassian, who was watching a very intrigued Nesta. He stayed that way until a clap and a spark echoed throughout the room. At first, he thought there was danger, but as soon as he turned his attention towards the stage he saw the large chandelier raise itself to life bringing the dilapidated stage with it. Golds, reds, and vibrant colors filled the room. 

Still, Azriel had trouble following the plot. But as he watched Nesta and her sisters become entranced by the music and dancing. The loud organ had stirred something in him, but he didn’t truly feel moved until her. 

Think of me, think of me fondly when we’ve said goodbye…

Azriel was sitting in a box at the edge of the theater, but even from this distance, he could tell that she was the most beautiful female he had ever seen.  He scooted to the edge of his seat a tad just to be that much closer to her. Her voice was that of a siren, no not a siren, an angel. His shadows danced around his ears and his wings at the sound of her ballad. Even the rest of the inner circle seemed to be entranced by her spell. 

As the play went on he found himself becoming irrationally jealous of Raoul. The pretty Viscount had not given her a second look at the beginning of the play. It wasn’t until the organ sounded again that the sound of her voice graced Azriel’s ears. The woman walked through a mirror towards a masked man. 

Who was this masked man? Where was he taking her? It wasn’t until Mor rested her hand to where he was gripping his chair with white knuckles that he remembered it was just a play. He sat back in his seat more, trying to tell his shadows to calm down. But as her voice climbed and climbed that beautiful crescendo they twisted and turned around him. 

Azriel spent the rest of the play being utterly entranced by the beautiful singer’s relationship with the Phantom. The masked man was dark and radical, staying in the shadows where no one could see him. He observed her from afar. Much like the shadowsinger did himself in every aspect of his life. 

It was clear to him that the Phantom was in love with Christine. So when Raoul and Christine kissed he nearly felt his heart shatter. The way the Phantom mourned, and cried, it felt all too personal to Azriel. 

I  gave you my music, made your way. And now how you’ve repaid me, denied me and betrayed me…

  From there on out Azriel found himself rooting for the Phantom, the man he saw so much of himself in. He nearly shed a tear when he found out why the man wore a mask. A scared child in a cage made to perform. 

He looked down at his mangled hands sitting on the arms of his chair. He had known a similar childhood and had suddenly wished he had something like a mask to cover such torn flesh. Maybe then the beautiful woman on stage might look at him with that same lovesick gaze, she wore now for Raoul, but he knew that could never be.

For a moment he felt joy, seeing her kiss the Phantom with such passion, such love. Only for that joy to be extinguished like a candle when she walks out with the Viscount. Of course, she would choose him, life does imitate art after all. It wasn’t until the curtain went down and the crowd erupted in thunderous applause that Azriel broke from his trance, standing to applause with them. 

“Well that was wonderful,” Feyre beamed, linking her arm with Rhysand’s. 

“I’ll say, that girl sang like an angel,” Mor gushed, fanning herself with her program as we all made our way out of the box. “Even Azriel seemed to enjoy it,” the female smirked, bumping Azriel with her shoulder. She had seen the lovesick gaze in his eyes. 

“It was so romantic the way Raoul came to rescue her,” Elain swooned, grabbing her sister's other arm. 

“Oh please, the Phantom was the obvious choice!” Nesta huffed at her sister's comment. 

“Nesta, would you like to meet the cast? Maybe talk to some of the dancers?” Feyre asked, changing the subject quickly before conflict arose. 

Nesta thought for a moment and spoke again, “Yes I would.” all she said. 

Of course, it was an easy task for Rhys to sweet-talk his way backstage, the inner circle sticking out like a sore thumb as they weaved past props, costumes, and the ensemble. Azriel’s eyes stayed ever vigilant, unable to let go of years of training as they walked down a dark hall. A cast member opened a door at the end of the hall to reveal mirrors with glimmering faelights around them. Vanities with every manor of makeup and costume jewelry. Two men he recognized as the actors who played the Viscount and the Phantom. 

The Phantom had washed off the makeup that made his face look scarred. Once again Azriel wished he too had that ability. Rhys and Feyre shook both their hands introducing them to the whole inner circle, but Azriel paid no mind. His hazel eyes were searching for a hint of her.

“Oh y/n there’s someone who wants to meet you!” called out one of the actors. 

“Oh, really who?” called a voice so melodic Azriel just knew that she had to be an angel. 

His shadows wisped around him frantically, calling out her name in his ear, like they were excited to finally know it. Rhys and Feyre’s eyes looked to their friend and smiled at one another. 

She walked around from a changing screen, tying the strings of the robe she was wearing that looked similar to the one she had worn on stage. She nearly stopped in her tracks as she saw her High Lord and Lady staring at her. 

“My Lord, My Lady,” she bows. “It is an honor.”

“No, no, please don’t bow,” Feyre rushes over, bringing the singer upright. “If anything we should be bowing to you. You sang like a goddess out there, you are truly talented.”

“Why thank you, my Lady, I’m truly happy you enjoyed the show,” she smiled and Azriel’s heart all but glowed. 

“Please call me Feyre,” the High Lady smiles, extending her hand. 

“Y/n,” the singer replied, taking her hand and shaking it. 

Azriel kept to the sidelines as the inner circle conversed with the cast and crew. Feyre and Rhys praised the play director and claimed they would be purchasing their box for the rest of the season. Nesta picked the brains of the dancers and their instructor, Cassian listening dutifully behind her. Elain chatted up the Phantom and Raoul, both actors seemingly falling for her, once again showing how life imitates art. 

Mor talked to y/n, about what? Azriel didn’t know. But the second Mor caught Az gazing at y/n she held out a hand to him. 

“Y/n I’d like you to meet Azriel, spymaster for the night court,” Mor said, beckoning Azriel over. 

Azriel quickly put his hands behind his back, not wanting to scare her with his scars. He could’ve sworn he saw her cheeks tint a shade pinker as he approached, looming over her in size. 

“How do you do?” y/n asks.

It takes a second for Azriel to realize that her angelic voice is speaking to him.

“Oh um, very well thanks.” he stutters, already feeling like a fool. Gods she was even more beautiful up close, he found himself suddenly longing for the box that offered him sanctuary, or a mask like the Phantom had. 

“Did you um, enjoy the show?” she probed and Azriel realized that Mor had conveniently dismissed herself. 

“I did,” he said quickly. “You have a beautiful voice, I could’ve listened all night.” 

Once again he swore he saw y/n blush as she looked down at her feet, “Thank you, though I think I fell flat a little in the first song. Opening night and all,” she laughed nervously and oh Cauldron, the sound of her laughter was enough to make Az take one step towards her. 

“No it was perfect, all of it.” he spat out, not standing to hear her say one more bad thing about herself. 

“Well thank you Azriel,” she said and by the fucking Cauldron she smiled at him. His name fell off her perfect lips and she smiled at him. He must’ve been dead and somehow gotten to heaven, there was no other explanation. 

The rest of the inner circle watched the pair intently. Feyre sank further into Rhysand’s side as they both realized they were watching Azriel fall in love in real-time. The yin and yang of the pair was near poetic and Feyre told herself she would pain this exact moment tomorrow morning. 

“Y/n why don’t you come to dinner with us? We would love to hear more about you,” Rhysand smiled.

His words broke the trance y/n was in, “Oh my Lord I truly wish I could, but I have an early day tomorrow and my apartment is clear across town.” She apologized. 

“No worries, it sounds like we will all be back for tomorrow night's show as well. Though I would hate for you to walk home alone,” Rhys smirked trying to get Azriel to bite at the bait.

“Not to worry I make the trek all the time,” she smiled, picking up the many vases of flowers people had left for her on her vanity. 

“Azriel could walk you home, couldn’t you Az?” Mor chimed in and Azriel shot her a look. 

“Uh, yeah I could if you’d like,” Azriel mentioned stuttering over his words as he scratched the back of his neck. 

“Oh no I wouldn’t want to take you from dinner with your family,” she assured him, picking up two large vases of flowers. 

“Not at all, I would be honored to walk you home,” the shadowsinger said a little too quickly. Feyre tried to stifle her laugh in Rhys’ side, she had never seen her spymaster so flustered. 

“Okay then,” the girl smiled and soon enough they were off down the cobblestone street, their way lit by dim faelight. 

y/n’s pov:

“Your shadows are incredible,” I smile watching as the dark wisps carry the various vases of flowers down the road. 

I had been more than happy to have the High Lord’s shadowsinger walk me home. In all honesty, I was captivated by the male the moment I set eyes on him. Sure he was hard, dressed in black, and over a foot taller than me. 

A sane woman might’ve kept her distance from the male, he was dangerous after all. But I knew the moment he spoke that he wasn’t a threat. There was a quiet and gentle calm underneath all that darkness.

“Thank you,” he says and I swear I see him blush. “They seem to really like you.” 

“They do? How can you tell?” I laugh as one of the little fellas brush against my cheek like a cat brushing against an ankle. 

“They went wild when you were singing tonight,” he chuckles, seemingly remembering how they danced. 

“Really?” I ask balking a bit. 

“I’m serious, give it a try,” he smiles, motioning for me to sing again. 

I shrug and clear my throat before singing a line from the play, “Angel of Music, hide no longer. Come to me, strange angel,” I sang softly and sure enough the little shadows danced and swirled around me. Threading themselves through my hair and around my arms where they held my vases of flowers. 

“That’s amazing,” I breathe finally watching the small wisps die down, hiding behind their master like they were shy. 

“You’re amazing,” their master spits out and then blushes. ‘

I can’t help but feel myself blush too, shying away from the hulking Illyrian. He didn’t look so tough as his shadows carried dozens of flowers behind him. He had walked down the street with his hands behind his back the whole time, not needing to lift a finger. 

The little purple door I’m so used to seeing comes into view. Outside the cottage are dozens and dozens of roses and the light inside is out. 

“I leave these here,” I say gesturing to the flowers I’m holding as I set them on the front porch. 

“Why not take them home? Were they not gifted to you?” Azriel cocks an eyebrow as his shadows place the flowers neatly next to the ones I set down. 

I laugh starting back down the path towards my place, “I get so many, I can’t possibly keep them all. Marla is an elderly woman who lost her husband years ago. It brings her joy to have them, so I leave them for her. Besides it’s not like they’re from anyone special,” I shrug, subtly dropping the hint to Azriel that I’m not otherwise engaged. 

Azriel pauses beside me and approaches a rose bush blooming near one of the cottages. Drawing his dagger, he carefully slices off a vibrant red rose. Before offering it to me, he painstakingly removes every thorn with the same blade, as if to protect my hands from even the slightest prick.

“You deserve to have at least one flower,” he says offering me the rose. 

I blush and go to reach for it when I catch sight of his hand. The mangled and marred flesh. I can’t help but feel my breath hitch as I wonder who could’ve done such a thing to such a gentle soul. The scarred hand pulls back a bit as if realizing my staring. 

“I guess I’m more Phantom than dashing Viscount,” he utters sadly, referring to my play and my role in it. My heart shatters as I see his broken expression. 

“You know,” I smile, taking the rose from his scarred hands. “I always thought that Christine should end up with The Phantom, he was clearly the better choice.” 

His head whips up as if I’ve uttered an inconceivable phrase. “Even though he had ugly scars?” Azriel inquires, his face tight like he might not want to hear whatever answer I provide.

“Who said he was ugly?” I laugh, did this beautiful specimen of a male truly believe he was ugly because his hands bore scars? 

“So you would choose the Phantom?” he cocks an eyebrow as if trying to read if I was telling the truth.

“In a heartbeat,” I affirm confidently and honestly.

He takes a step towards me, his form getting even bigger, “and what about scarred hands? Is that a deal breaker?” he probes, holding out his hands so I can see that they both harbor similar markings.  

I shake my head taking another step towards him, appreciating the beauty that is him. From the white scars that ran up his hands, to the shadows that danced around him like they they were whispering to him.

“So if I asked you to dinner after your show tomorrow?” he queries taking a step towards me as well.

“I would ask you where we are going?” I reply feeling my cheeks heat up. Was he asking me out? I tried to push the butterflies down in my stomach.

“Rita’s ?” he shrugs, stepping forward. 

“Sounds like a plan,” I smile moving towards him more, like I was compelled to.

“I’ll swing backstage after the curtain closes,” he smiles, seemingly becoming more confident in himself as we step closer together just a few feet apart.

“I’ll put your name on the list,” I say, feeling his presence pull me in. 

“And if I were to send you flowers? What kind would you like?” he interrogates further. 

I think for a moment, no one had ever asked me what flowers I might like to receive. My eyes look around as if searching for inspiration until they land on a blue siphon adorning his chest that’s right in front of me. 

“Something blue,” I blush knowing that when I see the cobalt flowers on my vanity I will know they are from him. 

“Consider it done,” he smiles and I suddenly realize that we’re mere inches apart now. 

I turn to my right where the blue door to my house beckons to be opened. Pulling out my keys I unlock it and use my shoulder to shove it open as it always gets stuck. 

“Well,” I say shyly. “Thank you for walking me home,” 

“Anytime,” he smiles looking down at his feet. 

The sight of the bashful warrior on my front doorstep has me melting. His face is so beautiful and perfectly carved I can't help but lean up on my toes and kiss his cheek. I almost regret it when it’s over but the violent red of his cheeks makes me smile again.

“Well goodnight,” I say, trying not to let my words shake in the process. 

“Goodnight,” he smiles, brushing a hand against his freshly kissed cheek.

I close the door and place the single, thornless, rose he cut for me in a vase. It isn’t until I turn on a light that I hear him take off into the night and I swear I hear him let out a grand whoop from way up in those clouds.

The sun had disappeared beneath the horizon not long ago, leaving the Forest House wrapped in deepening shadows and the warm glow of faelight.

The fire in the hearth still burned strongly, filling the private solar with enough heat that you had abandoned your slippers beneath the chaise and tucked your feet beneath the folds of your nightgown. A robe rested forgotten across a nearby chest. The book in your hands had ceased to hold your attention several pages ago, though you continued staring at the same passage as though the words might eventually arrange themselves into something meaningful.

Clover lay beside your feet. The smokehound took up a considerable portion of the carpet, her long gray body stretched toward the fire. Sleek as smoke and nearly as silent, she appeared perfectly content to remain there for the rest of the night. Her ears occasionally twitched at distant sounds within the Forest House, but she made no move to rise.

Eris had told you he would return later than usual.

He had said he intended to walk with his mother after supper, something that had not struck you as unusual at the time. He and Lady Penelope frequently escaped the court together, sometimes wandering the gardens and other times taking their horses beyond the Forest House grounds. Those outings were among the few opportunities they had to speak without Beron or his spies lingering nearby.

You respected that time. Still, it was growing late. You lowered the book into your lap and glanced toward the closed chamber doors.

“Where is he, Clover?”

The smokehound released a slow breath through her nose. A moment later, her jaws stretched wide in a lazy yawn.

You narrowed your eyes at her.

“Helpful.”

Clover’s tail struck the carpet once.

With a sigh, you closed your book and set it aside. Perhaps Eris had accompanied his mother back to her solar. He had been doing that more often lately, especially on evenings when Beron had been particularly cruel during dinner.

You crossed the room and collected the robe draped over the chest. The fabric was soft and heavy, reaching nearly to the floor once you slipped your arms into it and secured the belt around your waist.

Clover immediately rose.

“No.”

She followed you toward the door.

“Stay.”

The smokehound stopped reluctantly. Her ears lowered, and a small, displeased whine escaped her.

You resisted the urge to laugh.

“I will return shortly.”

Clover clearly did not believe you, but she remained where you had ordered her as you stepped into the corridor and quietly shut the door behind you. Sir Colin stood stationed outside. The young sentry immediately straightened, one hand moving instinctively toward the hilt of his sword.

“My lady, where—”

“I am going to Lady Penelope’s chambers.” You had barely taken three steps before the clink of armor sounded behind you. Colin followed.

“Forgive me, Lady Y/N, but I believe the Lady of Autumn has retired for the evening.”

You stopped.

Colin nearly walked into you before catching himself.

You turned slowly. “You know this how?”

“I saw Lady Penelope enter her bedchamber nearly an hour ago.” His brows drew together faintly. “She usually retires around this time.”

Confusion settled heavily within you.

If Penelope had been in her chambers for the past hour, then where was Eris?

“Have you seen my husband?”

“No, my lady.” Colin’s answer came quickly enough that you believed him. He shifted, perhaps noticing the concern forming across your face. “Perhaps Lord Eris has gone to visit the hounds.”

The suggestion was reasonable.

Unlike Clover, the other eleven smokehounds remained outside the Forest House. Beron had only tolerated Clover’s presence within the residence because she seldom left Eris’s side and because even he understood the value of keeping the alpha of Autumn’s prized hounds close to its heir. The others occupied grand kennels beyond the gardens.

Perhaps Eris had gone to them after leaving his mother. Yet the explanation did not settle properly within you.

For the past several months, Eris had made a habit of bringing you whenever he visited the pack. He knew how fond you had become of the hounds, and how thoroughly they had attached themselves to you in return.

“Very well,” you said. “I will go and see.”

You tightened your robe and started down the corridor. Colin followed, again. 

You stopped and glanced over your shoulder. “I am capable of reaching the gardens by myself, Sir Colin.”

“I am certain you are, my lady.”

“Then why are you still behind me?”

“Lord Eris instructed me to accompany you whenever you leave your chambers after dark.” Of course he had. You rolled your eyes and turned away before Colin could see.

The constant guard had become increasingly frustrating, especially now that you were capable of defending yourself. Eris claimed the precaution had nothing to do with doubting your abilities and everything to do with the number of enemies residing beneath Beron’s roof.

You suspected the distinction mattered far more to him than it did to you.

“Come along, then.”

You moved through the Forest House together, passing servants extinguishing unused faelights and guards beginning their nightly rotations. No one stopped you. No one seemed alarmed by Eris’s absence.

Outside, the air was cool and damp from the rain that had passed through earlier that afternoon. Small faelights lined the garden paths, their glow reflected in the moisture clinging to leaves and flower petals.

The farther you walked from the house, the darker the grounds became. Eventually, the path widened around the smokehounds’ kennels. Several sleek heads immediately lifted at your arrival. A few tails began striking the ground. One of the younger hounds surged to his feet and approached the fence with barely contained excitement.

“Hello, Onyx.”

You crouched beside the enclosure.

Onyx was only two years old, considerably younger than the rest of Eris’s pack. Though he had yet to grow into the full height of the others, he was already enormous. His gray coat gleamed silver beneath the faelights as he pushed his muzzle through the bars and nuzzled insistently against your palm.

You laughed softly and scratched beneath his jaw.

“Has Eris come to see you?” Onyx pressed closer. 

Behind him, the remaining smokehounds watched you with varying degrees of interest. All eleven were accounted for. None bore the restless energy that usually followed a run through the woods.

Eris had not been here.

You rose slowly. Colin remained several paces behind you, scanning the kennels and surrounding paths.

“My lady,” he began carefully, “perhaps we should return to your chambers. Lord Eris will likely arrive before the night is over.”

The suggestion should have been enough. Eris was allowed to spend an evening away from you. He did not need to account for every moment of his time. You knew that. Yet something felt wrong. You could not explain it. The feeling sat beneath your skin, sharp and restless, warning you that Eris’s absence was not accidental.

Your attention drifted toward the path leading beyond the kennels. The rain-softened ground held several fresh tracks. Boot prints. You moved closer, studying the shape and depth of them. The marks began near the outer garden wall and continued toward the tree line.

Eris’s boots.

You knew them well enough by now.

Colin stepped beside you. “My lady?”

You straightened.

If you intended to follow the tracks, Colin could not accompany you. Whatever Eris was doing, he had clearly gone to considerable trouble to do it privately. Arriving with one of his sentries at your back would only announce your approach.

You gathered your magic before Colin could stop you.

The world folded. Cold air rushed over you, and your stomach lurched as the kennels vanished. You reappeared just inside the forest. The jump was hardly graceful, but you managed to remain upright. Several yards behind you, Colin shouted your name.

You glanced back.

He was hurrying down the garden path, panic visible even at a distance. Guilt flickered through you. Eris would be furious.

You turned away before that realization could persuade you to return.

Winnowing was still new to you. Eris had been teaching you for months, first within the safety of your shared chambers and later across greater distances. Your first attempt to reach the kennels had landed you near the front steps of the Forest House instead.

Eris had nearly torn the residence apart searching for you. He would likely do worse when he discovered you had winnowed into the woods alone at night.

You found the boot prints again and followed them.

The trees grew denser as you walked. Branches snagged at your robe, and damp leaves clung to the thin soles of your slippers. You had not dressed for a trek through the forest, but turning back now seemed impossible. The farther you traveled, the colder the air became.

You were nearing the border between Autumn and Winter.

Then you heard voices.

Both male, one belonging to Eris.

You slowed immediately. He was too far from the Forest House for this to be an ordinary meeting. Too close to another court’s border.  You moved quietly between the trees, following the sound until orange firelight flickered through the branches. Keeping yourself behind the thick trunk of an ancient oak, you peered around it.

Eris stood in a small clearing. The male facing him was impossible to mistake. Shoulder-length black hair moved in the wind. Seven ruby siphons gleamed across his dark armor. A long sword had been strapped down the column of his spine, resting between two enormous membranous wings.

Cassian, the General of the Night Court.

Your breath caught. What in the hell was an Illyrian warrior doing inside Autumn’s borders? More importantly, why was your husband meeting him?

You took one startled step backward. A branch cracked beneath your slipper, and both males turned. Power erupted through the clearing. You barely managed to duck before a blast struck the tree where your head had been. Bark exploded outward. You threw up one arm to shield your face, magic roaring instinctively beneath your skin.

A blade flashed.

The edge stopped against your throat.

“Who the hell are you?” Cassian demanded.

You did not cower. White-gold light flooded your vision as your power rose in answer to the threat. Flames curled into your palm, bright enough to illuminate the Illyrian’s harsh expression. Before you could release them, someone seized your arm from behind. You were pulled sharply away from Cassian’s blade.

Your feet slipped on the damp earth. You hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from your lungs.

“Y/N?” Eris stood over you. For once, his carefully controlled expression had shattered completely. Alarm sharpened every line of his face.

Cassian lowered his sword slightly. “You know her?”

Eris ignored him. He bent and hauled you to your feet, both hands closing around your arms. His grip was firm, almost painful, as his eyes moved rapidly over your face and body in search of injuries.

“What are you doing here?” His gaze snapped toward the trees behind you. “Where is Colin?”

“I left him near the kennels after I found your tracks.” You tore yourself from his grasp. “What are you doing here with the General of the Night Court?”

Cassian sheathed his sword. He looked between you and Eris, clearly attempting to determine whether you were a threat, a spy, or something else.  Eris’s face went still, the alarm vanished behind the cold mask he wore so easily before the rest of the court.

“Vanserra,” Cassian said, impatience roughening his voice, “who the hell is she?”

Eris sent him a lethal glare. “None of your concern.”

“Bullshit.” Cassian stepped closer. “She just walked into a meeting neither of us can afford to have witnessed. Is she is going to cause problems?”

“Will one of you tell me what is happening?” Your voice cut across the clearing.

Cassian looked at you, but Eris did not. He stared into the forest as though calculating how quickly he could undo what had happened.

“Eris,” you said more quietly. “Please.”

His jaw tightened. “You should not have followed me.”

The words struck harder than you expected. “That is your answer?”

“This is neither the place nor the time. Go back to the Forest House.” The command was delivered in the same tone he used with servants, soldiers, and courtiers he did not trust.

Heat flared beneath your skin.

You stared at him. “No.”

Cassian’s brows rose. Eris’s gaze finally met yours, the coldness there was deliberate.

“Y/N.”

“What are you doing with him?”

“That does not concern you.”  For a moment, you could only look at him.

A year and a half.

You had lived beside him for a year and a half. Shared meals. Shared rooms. Shared long silences that had gradually become something gentler, something safer. You had given him truths you had never imagined placing in another male’s hands. He had asked for honesty from you. He had promised there would be no more quiet manipulations, no more hidden cruelties dressed up as necessity.

And now he stood in the middle of a dark forest with the Night Court’s general and told you it did not concern you.

Something hot and sharp cracked through your chest. You did not wait for him to say another word. Power rushed up beneath your skin, answering your anger before your mind had fully caught up with it. The clearing vanished in a burst of heat and wind.

“Y/N—”

Eris’s voice snapped after you just as the world folded.

You landed hard inside your bedchamber.

The force of the winnow sent you stumbling two steps across the carpet before you caught yourself against one of the carved bedposts. The room swam for half a heartbeat. The familiar warmth of the hearth hit your face, sickening after the cold bite of the forest air. Your lungs still burned from the fall. Your arm ached where Eris had seized you. Damp leaves clung to the hem of your robe, and your slippers had tracked mud onto the polished floor.

Clover surged upright from where she had been dozing near the fire.

The smokehound crossed the room in three long strides, pressing herself against your side with a low sound in her chest. You dragged a shaking hand over her sleek head, more to steady yourself than to comfort her.

The room still smelled of cedarwood, firelight, and the faint floral oil you had rubbed onto your wrists after bathing. Everything looked exactly as it had when you left.

You did not.

Power rippled behind you almost instantly.

Of course he had followed.

Eris appeared near the chamber doors, breathing harder than he should have been, his red-gold hair windswept, his expression carved from pure fury and strain. Clover moved at once, stepping between the two of you with her ears flat and a warning rumble vibrating through the room.

Eris looked at the hound.

“Out.”

Clover did not move.

His jaw tightened. “Clover.”

You swallowed the heat stinging behind your eyes and forced your voice steady. “Go.”

Clover turned her head toward you, reluctance plain in the angle of her body.

“Go,” you repeated.

The smokehound huffed, displeased, then padded toward the door. Eris opened it just enough to let her slip through before shutting it firmly behind her. A pulse of power followed. Wards clicked into place around the room.

You stared at him.

“You are locking me in now?”

Eris turned from the door. “I am making certain no one hears this.”

“That implies there is something worth hearing.” His gaze sharpened, but he did not answer.

You ripped the robe from your shoulders and threw it across the foot of the bed. Damp leaves scattered over the coverlet. Mud stained the pale carpet beneath your slippers. You did not care.

For one strained second, neither of you spoke.

Then Eris said, “You should never have gone into those woods alone.”

You gave a disbelieving laugh. “That is what you have to say to me?”

“You winnowed into the forest at night with no guard, no weapon, and no idea what you were walking into.”

“I was looking for my husband.”

“You should have remained where it was safe.” The words hit you like a slap. Safe, as though that was still a thing he could offer you while standing there with another secret tucked behind his teeth.

Your voice dropped low. “Do not say that to me right now.”

Eris stepped farther into the room, every line of him rigid. “You could have been killed before I reached you.”

“But you did reach me.” You took a step toward him too. “And then you stood there and looked at me as though I were the problem.”

His nostrils flared. “Because you were.”

The answer made your temper snap.

“You told me you were with your mother.”

“I was.”

“And after that?” Silence.

You laughed once, short and brittle. “Exactly.”

Eris dragged a hand over his jaw, already looking as though the conversation had exhausted him, though it had barely begun. “This is not a discussion to have while you are angry.”

You stared at him. “I am angry because you are refusing to discuss it.”

“That male was not a matter for you to concern yourself with.”

“Cassian, General of the Night Court, standing on Autumn soil with my husband in the dead of night is absolutely my concern.”

“It is not.” The words rang cold and absolute. For a heartbeat, hurt nearly overtook your anger. You crushed it down before he could see it.

“It stopped being only your concern the moment I saw him.”

Eris’s expression did not shift, but tension flickered at the corners of his mouth.

“That is precisely the problem.”

There it was. Not denial, not reassurance, not even an attempt to smooth it over.

You crossed your arms tightly over yourself, as though it might hold the pieces of your temper together. “Then tell me what is happening.”

“No.” It was so blunt you almost thought you had misheard him.

“Excuse me?”

“I am not discussing this with you.”

“You are not discussing it with me,” you repeated slowly, “after I just found you having a secret meeting with the Night Court?”

“Yes.” You looked away from him, suddenly unable to breathe properly in the heat of the room. The fire snapped in the hearth. The sound seemed unnaturally loud.

“No more secrets,” you said quietly. Eris’s gaze flicked to you. “That was our agreement.”

His mouth hardened. “This is different.”

You turned back toward him so quickly the movement made your head spin.

“No, Eris. It is not.”

“It concerns court matters.”

“It concerns you.” Your voice rose. “It concerns your father. It concerns the Night Court. It concerns whatever in the hel you are doing behind Beron’s back. How dare you stand there and tell me it does not concern me?”

Eris’s own temper flashed at last. “Because the less you know, the safer you are.”

You froze. The room seemed to go quiet around those words. Safer. Kept in the dark for your own good. Decisions made above your head because some male had deemed you too vulnerable to be trusted with your own life. Aven had called it protection too. So had others, in their own ways.

Your voice came out thinner than you wanted. “You promised me.”

For the first time since following you into the room, something shifted in Eris’s face. Not enough to soften him. Just enough to show he knew exactly which promise you meant.

“There would be no more secrets between us,” you said.

His answer was immediate. “This is not needless.”

You blinked.

The rage that rose then was steadier than what had come before, colder.

“That is not what you promised.”

Eris did not reply.

“You asked me for honesty,” you continued. “You asked me to trust you. You asked me to stop waiting for the knife in your hand because you swore you would not hide things from me anymore.”

“This is not the same.”

“It feels exactly the same.”

His jaw tightened. “Do not compare me to him.”

“I did not say his name.”

“You did not need to.” The hurt in his voice nearly undid you, nearly.

You stepped closer until barely two feet separated you.

“Then do not behave like every other male who has ever decided he knows what I should and should not be allowed to know.”

Eris went very still.

When he spoke, his voice had gone dangerously quiet. “You think that is what this is? If my father learns you know anything—”

“Anything about what?” His mouth snapped shut.

You spread your hands in disbelief. “That is exactly my point.”

Eris looked away for one brief second, like he was restraining himself by sheer force.

Then he said, “You are asking questions I will not answer.”

“What happens if Beron finds out?”

No response.

“What are you planning?”

Nothing.

“What happens to Lady Penelope if this goes wrong? To your brothers?” You stepped closer still, the words tumbling out faster now. “What happens to me?”

His gaze flashed back to yours.

“If this goes wrong, my mother—” Then he cuts himself off.

“That,” he said, voice colder now, “is exactly why you were never meant to know.”

Something in you recoiled. Not because he had raised his voice. Not because he had threatened you. Because there was fear under the words. Real fear. And still—still—he had decided fear gave him the right to shut you out.

You laughed bitterly. “You do hear yourself, do you not?”

“You are upset.”

“I am furious.”

“Which is making you careless.”

“You are making me furious.”

His control slipped. “I am trying to keep you alive.” The shout cracked through the room. Fire leapt in the hearth.

Silence followed.

You stared at him. His breathing had gone heavier, yours as well.

When Eris spoke again, his voice was lower. Rougher.

“My father has already taken notice of you.”

That stole some of the heat from your anger, if only because it was the first thing resembling honesty he had given you.

Eris continued before you could speak.

“He tolerated you when you were merely Aven’s sister and my inconvenient bride. Then your power surfaced. Then your feud with Aven spilled into the open. Then Beron saw exactly what you are capable of.” His eyes dragged over your face as though he hated every word he was forced to say. “Do you think I have not noticed what changed after that? Do you think I do not see the way he watches you now?”

Cold prickled down your spine.

You had known Beron’s attention had sharpened. You had felt it in the dining hall, in the corridors, in the moments where his gaze seemed to linger too long. But hearing Eris say it aloud made it real in a way you despised.

“And your answer,” you said carefully, “was to lie to me.”

“My answer was to give him one less reason to use you.”

“You do not know that he will not use me anyway.”

“No,” Eris bit out. “I do not. But I know exactly what sort of male he is, and I will not hand him another weapon.”

You shook your head. “You do not get to make that choice by yourself.”

“I already have.” The words landed between you with brutal finality. You stared at him, feeling something hot and sharp rise into your throat.

“Yes,” you said after a moment. “You have.”

Eris looked as though he wanted to take it back, but pride kept him from trying.

You moved away from him then, if only because you could not bear standing that close while he dismantled everything the two of you had spent months trying to build. You stopped near the hearth, staring into the flames as though they might offer some answer he would not.

“We are supposed to be a unit.” Your voice came out quieter now. 

Behind you, Eris did not move.

“That is what we have been working toward,” you went on. “Every dinner, every conversation, every compromise. Every time I held my tongue before your father because we both knew what would happen if he suspected there was anything real between us. I let him believe I was still only a bargain because you asked me to.”

“We are a unit.”

“Are we?” You turned to face him again. “Because now I find out there are pieces of your life so dangerous you will not even speak of them to me, and I am meant to accept that this is somehow different?”

Eris’s eyes burned.

“Yes.”

You almost smiled. Not from amusement, from sheer disbelief. “Then perhaps I have been a fool.”

His expression sharpened. “Do not.”

“Do not what? Say aloud what you are making me feel?”

“This is not what I intended.” That did it.

“You are making me feel like an outsider in my own marriage.” The words rang through the room. Eris flinched. It was small, most people would never have seen it, but you did.

He said, more quietly, “That is not what you are.”

“Then stop treating me like I cannot be trusted to stand beside you.”

“It is not about trust.”

“Then what is it about?” 

His silence stretched too long, until at last he said, “Survival.”

You stared at him. There was no arrogance in it. Just a raw, ugly truth he clearly hated. Still, it did not make the wound vanish.

“You think keeping me ignorant is the same as protecting me.”

“In this case, it is.”

“In this case,” you echoed, “you sound exactly like the sort of male you claim not to be.”

His face hardened. “Enough.”

“No.” Power stirred under your skin again, hot and restless. “You do not get to decide when I have heard enough after I was the only one denied the truth in the first place.”

“I am deciding because this conversation goes no further.”

“Why?” Your voice cracked. “Because I might ask the wrong question? Because I might force you to admit that whatever you are doing could destroy every person in this house?”

Eris closed the distance between you in two strides.

His presence hit like a wall of heat and iron and fury held on too tight.

“Listen to me,” he said. “Whatever you think you understand, it is not enough. And if you continue speaking of this carelessly, you may place yourself in danger you cannot begin to imagine.”

Your chin lifted.

“Then perhaps you should have imagined that before making promises you had no intention of keeping.”

For a moment, the hurt in his eyes was worse than the anger. Then it vanished.

Eris stepped back. “I am not discussing this further tonight.”

You laughed hollowly. “Of course not.”

“I mean it.”

You stepped into him this time, heedless of the danger in his face. “I am your wife, Eris. I am not some courtier prying into business that does not belong to them. I share your bed. I bear your name. I have stood beside you while your father looked for weaknesses to exploit, and all this while you have been deciding on my behalf what I may survive knowing.”

His restraint snapped for a single heartbeat. “I would rather have you angry with me than dead.”

The room went still.

Your throat tightened painfully.

You looked at him for a long moment, taking in the tension carved into every line of his body, the way his hands flexed at his sides like he wanted to reach for you and did not dare, the way his eyes kept searching your face as though checking that you were still there.

It should have softened you. It did, a little.

It also made you want to cry.

Instead, you said, “You should sleep elsewhere tonight.”

Eris did not move, a single muscle ticked in his jaw. “Y/N.”

“I cannot lie beside you and pretend this is fine. I cannot let you put your arms around me after looking me in the eye and telling me I am better off blind.” Your voice shook now despite your efforts. “Not tonight.”

For several seconds, Eris only stared at you.

Then he inclined his head once.

A curt, wounded gesture.

“Very well.”

He turned toward the door and lifted the ward with a flick of power. The magic dissolved from the walls like mist burning off in morning light. His hand settled on the handle. You thought that would be it.

Then he said, without turning back, “You will not leave these chambers without a guard.”

You nearly laughed again from the sheer absurdity of it.

“You are impossible.”

“You are still a beacon to every predator in this court.” He looked over his shoulder then, and for a single terrible second the mask dropped completely. You saw the truth he refused to give you. Not in words, but in the strain of his face.

He was afraid, for you. Of Beron, of what might happen if any of this unraveled. Afraid enough to betray the very trust he had spent a year and a half building. It did not forgive him. It did make your anger ache.

“I will be in the east wing,” he said quietly.

Then he stepped into the corridor and pulled the door shut behind him. Silence rushed in after him. The room felt too large at once. A moment later, Clover slipped back through the barely latched door, as though she had been waiting for the exact instant she was allowed to return. The smokehound crossed the room at once and pressed herself against your legs.

You sank to the floor beside the bed and wrapped both arms around her neck. Only then did the tears come. Hot and humiliating and impossible to stop. Eris had not explained what you had seen. He had not trusted you with the truth.

But he had given you enough to understand one thing with awful clarity.

Whatever war he had been fighting in silence, Eris had decided long ago that he would rather lose pieces of himself than risk letting it touch you.

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!!

Thank you so much for reading <33

"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

Tonight, I was to become betrothed. Tomorrow, I would belong to a man I had never met.

My jaw tightened. Absolutely not.

With a quiet, determined breath that trembled despite my efforts, I gathered my skirts and stepped forward. 

My fingers found the first crack in the stone, sharp, unyielding and I hauled myself upward.

The wall bit into my skin immediately.

Pain flared along my palms, my fingertips scraping against rough edges that showed no mercy to soft, pampered hands. I bit down on the inside of my cheek to stifle a cry, forcing myself higher.

One step. Another.

My slipper slipped once, twice and my heart lurched violently into my throat.

"Steady," I hissed under my breath, pressing myself closer to the wall as though I could merge with it. "Steady, you fool—"

I dared a glance downward. 

A mistake. The ground seemed miles away, shadows pooling like ink beneath me. My stomach twisted violently, dizziness clawing its way up my spine.

"Mother above," I breathed, squeezing my eyes shut for a fleeting second. "Perhaps... perhaps I should not have looked."

But I had come too far to falter now. 

I pushed on. Halfway up hope sparked, fragile and flickering. My pulse thundered with it. I could do this. I would do this. I would—

My foot slipped. There was no graceful recovery. No heroic scramble.

Only the sickening sensation of air rushing past me, of gravity claiming what little dignity I had left.

I hit the ground with a force that rattled my bones.

The breath fled my lungs in a sharp, humiliating gasp, and for a long moment I could do nothing but lie there, sprawled inelegantly against the earth, staring up at the vast stretch of night above.

The stars blinked down at me. Cold. Distant. Entirely unimpressed.

"Oh, how I adore my life," I muttered hoarsely.

With a groan, I rolled onto my side and forced myself upright, wincing as aches blossomed across every inch of me. My cloak snagged on a stray stone, nearly toppling me again, and with a frustrated huff I tore it free and flung it aside.

It was more hindrance than help, much like everything else in my life at present.

I squared my shoulders.

"Again," I said aloud, because if I did not command myself, I might very well lose my nerve entirely.

And I refused to be defeated by a wall.

The second attempt was no kinder. My hands stung, my muscles protested, and my skirts seemed determined to drag me back down with every movement. 

Still, I climbed. Inch by stubborn inch. I was just shy of halfway when—

"What are you doing, my lady?"

I shrieked. There was no elegance in it. No refinement. Only pure, unfiltered alarm.

My grip vanished.

And for the second time that evening, I met the ground with all the grace of a dropped sack of flour.

I lay there, blinking up at the sky once more, wondering vaguely if the earth might simply swallow me whole and spare me further humiliation.

Footsteps approached. Measured. Unhurried. Infuriating.

A hand appeared in my peripheral vision, offered in assistance.

"Don't touch me!" I snapped, scrambling back as though his fingers might burn. The man paused, then slowly raised both hands in surrender.

Silence stretched between us for half a breath.

"What," he began, voice smooth with unmistakable curiosity, "are you doing?"

I turned my head, glaring up at him as I pushed myself onto my elbows. "Scaling the wall," I said sharply. "What, precisely, does it look like I am doing?"

He blinked. Actually blinked as though unused to being spoken to in such a manner.

Good. Perhaps someone ought to begin.

"Why," he continued after a moment, undeterred but now faintly amused, "are you scaling the wall at this hour?"

I opened my mouth to retort and then stopped.

An idea sparked. Bright. Sudden. Glorious. I sat up straighter, brushing loose strands of hair from my face as I looked at him again, this time with a smile far sweeter than I felt.

"Yes," I said, almost to myself. "Yes, that will do perfectly."

His brows drew together.

"You," I continued, gesturing toward him as though I had just discovered a most convenient tool, "can give me a boost. I need only a little assistance to reach that ledge, and then I shall be entirely self-sufficient."

I beamed. He stared. Then most inconveniently he took a step back.

"No."

The word landed with infuriating finality.

My smile vanished. "You are," I informed him coldly, rising to my feet, "a truly dreadful person."

His lips twitched.

"How," I pressed, brushing dirt from my skirts with sharp, agitated movements, "can you witness a lady in distress and refuse her aid? Have you no honour? No decency?"

At that, he laughed. Actually laughed.

The sound was rich, low and entirely unbothered by my outrage which only served to worsen it.

"If you explain," he said, folding his arms as though settling in for entertainment, "why you are attempting this... daring escape, I may reconsider my position."

I narrowed my eyes. "I see no reason—"

"None at all?" he prompted lightly.

I hesitated. Then sighed dramatically. "Very well. If you must know," I said, lifting my chin, "my father has seen fit to betroth me."

"How tragic," he murmured, though the glint in his eyes suggested he found it anything but.

"To a man I have never met," I continued, ignoring him. "A man of questionable reputation."

"Oh?"

"Lord Rhysand," I said, lowering my voice as though the title itself might summon something dreadful. "I have heard he is a rake—thoroughly shameless, endlessly surrounded by women, and entirely unsuitable."

His mouth curved.

I pressed on, warming to my indignation.

"And what if he is hideous?" I demanded. "Or dull? Or worse—both? What if he is cruel? What if he is insufferable? What if—"

My tirade faltered as his laughter returned. Not mocking. No, worse. Genuinely amused.

I blinked. Once. Twice.

"You promised to help me," I said slowly, gesturing toward the wall as though that were the true issue here. "So if you would—"

"I will not assist you over the wall."

The firmness in his tone sent a flicker of irritation through me.

"Of course you will not," I muttered. "Why would anything be simple this evening—"

"I will not," he continued, stepping closer now, his gaze intent in a way that made something in my chest tighten unexpectedly, "help my future wife escape our union."

The world... stilled. Every thought. Every breath. Gone. My mind struggled—refused, to make sense of the words I had just heard.

Slowly, I turned to face him fully. "No," I said faintly. "No, that is not—"

His expression did not waver.

"Rhysand?" I whispered.

He inclined his head, that infuriating hint of amusement still lingering in his eyes. "At your service."

The realisation struck like lightning. Sharp. Blinding. Impossible to ignore. This was the man I had been attempting to flee. The man I had just insulted. Repeatedly.

My gaze swept over him then, as though seeing him for the first time. And I faltered.

He was not monstrous. Nor dull. Nor even remotely tolerable in the ways I had hoped.

He was beautiful. Striking in a way that felt almost unfair, as though the world had conspired to mock me further. Dark hair fell carelessly across his brow, his frame tall and commanding, and his eyes—his eyes were violet.

Not merely blue. Not grey. Violet. And entirely, devastatingly aware.

"Oh," I breathed.

And then, because it seemed the only thing left to do—I gaped.

Rhysand's POV - 

The last thing I had expected tonight was to find my future wife halfway up a garden wall... attempting to escape me.

Yet there she stood before me now, staring as though I had personally risen from the grave to inconvenience her.

I waited.

Surely the shock would pass. Surely she would gather herself, apologise for calling me a rake, an idiot, and if memory served a "truly dreadful person."

Instead, she continued to gape at me like I was a particularly offensive painting.

I folded my arms and waited longer. Still nothing.

Up close, I could properly see her now. Moonlight spilt across the garden, catching in her hair, tracing the line of her jaw, illuminating wide, furious eyes that burned with enough fire to rival the torches along the estate walls.

She was beautiful. Unfairly so.

Not the quiet, delicate sort of beauty society praised and then ignored, but the dangerous kind, the kind that looked like trouble and knew it. 

The kind that climbed walls in evening gowns and insulted strangers in the dark.

And Cauldron help me, she had tried to escape an arranged marriage by scaling stone like a criminal.

I almost admired the effort. Almost.

Her shock finally broke, and instead of apology, embarrassment, or even basic politeness, she narrowed her eyes at me as though I were the one who had done something unforgivable.

"I would never marry you," she snapped, crossing her arms.

It was my turn to stare. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," she said, lifting her chin in a way that suggested she had never backed down from anything in her life. "You have a reputation. And such an ill one at that. I would rather become a spinster than marry you."

For a moment, I simply looked at her.

Most women simpered when they met me. Most flirted. Some pretended not to look at all. Many already knew exactly who I was before I spoke a single word.

None had ever told me they would rather die alone than marry me.

I let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Well," I said slowly, "you are certainly not lacking honesty."

"I am not lacking sense," she shot back. "You are exactly the sort of man fathers warn their daughters about."

"I am wounded," I replied dryly.

"You should be."

Her glare could have melted iron.

I studied her again, properly this time. Dirt smudged the hem of her dress, a strand of hair had escaped whatever pins once held it in place, and her hands were scraped from the wall. She looked nothing like the polished ladies who filled ballrooms and whispered behind fans.

She looked furious, determined, and entirely unafraid of me. It was... refreshing.

"You were truly going to run away," I said after a moment.

"Yes."

"You had no plan beyond climbing a wall."

"I had a plan," she said defensively.

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"Which was?"

She paused. Then said, "I would figure it out once I was on the other side."

I huffed a quiet laugh. "Ingenious."

She glared again. I was beginning to enjoy how easily I could provoke that expression. 

"You find this amusing," she said.

"I find you amusing."

Her eyes flashed. "I am not amusing. I am being forced into a marriage with a man I do not know, who spends his nights in gambling halls and ballrooms surrounded by women."

"Your information is slightly exaggerated," I said.

"Is it?"

"Yes."

She waited.

I shrugged lightly. "I do not gamble every night."

She stared at me in disbelief. "That is your defence?"

"It seemed sufficient."

She made a sound of pure frustration and began pacing in front of the wall, muttering to herself. "This is a disaster. A complete disaster. Of all the men in all of Prythian, it had to be you."

I raised a brow. "You wound me again."

"I do not care."

"Yes, I gathered that."

She stopped pacing and turned on me again, pointing a finger as though delivering a declaration of war. "I will not marry you."

I tilted my head. "You may not have much say in that."

"Then I will refuse."

"That would cause a scandal."

"Good."

"You could ruin your reputation."

"I would rather ruin my reputation than my life."

The words hung in the air between us, sharp and honest. For the first time since I had walked into the garden, I stopped smiling.

She meant it. She truly meant it. She would burn her own future to the ground before walking into a marriage she did not want.

I studied her in silence for a long moment. Bold. Stubborn. Reckless. Beautiful.

This was going to be a very interesting marriage.

"I should make something clear," I said finally.

She crossed her arms again. "Yes?"

"I do not particularly wish to be married either."

That caught her off guard. She blinked. "You don't?"

"No."

"Then why agree to this?"

"Family obligation. Alliances. Expectations. Traditions. The usual tragedies."

She stared at me for a long moment, as though trying to decide whether I was lying. "Well," she said at last, "that changes nothing. I still refuse."

I stepped a little closer, lowering my voice slightly. "And what do you propose we do, my lady? You have already attempted escape. Poorly, I might add."

"I did not ask for your critique."

"And yet you are receiving it."

Her glare returned in full force. For a moment we simply stood there in the moonlight, staring at each other like opponents before a duel.

Enemies, already.

"And for the record," she said suddenly, "I do not like you."

I smiled slowly. "That is unfortunate," I said. "Because I suspect we are going to be seeing a great deal of each other."

She looked like she might shove me off the wall if given the opportunity. "I would still rather be a spinster."

"And I," I replied calmly, "would rather not have a wife who tries to escape before the wedding."

"Then we are both disappointed."

I laughed quietly. Yes. This was not going to be a polite courtship.

This was going to be a war.

A/n - Yes, the opening scene was inspired by Queen Charlotte!!

What begins as one very determined escape attempt quickly turns into absolute chaos the moment she discovers who the stranger in the garden actually is... and unfortunately for her, it is NOT good news :)

We've got two stubborn people, one arranged marriage, endless arguing, terrible first impressions and the start of what may become an all-out war disguised as courtship x

Thank you so much for reading <33

Cassian huffed as he noticed the glances thrown at the table he shared with his brothers—only that the vast majority of them were directed at neither him nor Rhys.

"Az, would you stop it?" Cassian snapped at his seemingly oblivious, shadow-wielding brother.

Azriel lifted his gaze from where it had rested on the edge of his glass, his thumb absent-mindedly wiping little drops of condensation off the rim.

He blinked slowly, studying the Lord of Bloodshed without saying a word, waiting for him to continue.

Cassian waved a hand through the air, vaguely gesturing at the plethora of crowded tables surrounding their booth at Rita's.

"Please just put these people out of their misery and pick one."

Azriel's eyes darted to the side for but a split-second before locking onto Cassian again, a confused crease now carved into the skin between his brows.

It was Rhys who spoke next, a low tone of amusement in his voice. "What are you going on about, Cassian?"

"They're all thirsting for this dumbass," Cassian said. "And he just sits there like the embodiment of innocence."

Azriel gave a soft snort, lifting his glass to his lips as Rhys barked a laugh.

"Aren't you mated as of late, brother? What do you care if Az gets some attention?"

"I've had to watch this since Windhaven," Cassian said. "Everywhere he goes, people trip over themselves when they see him, and he never uses it, never even seems to notice." Angling his body to fully face Azriel, he narrowed his eyes at the shadowsinger in question. "Why is that?"

A beat of silence, then Azriel spoke in a calm voice. "Are you asking me to take more lovers?"

Rhys smirked into his drink. "Didn't know you were that concerned with his sex life, Cass."

Cassian did his best not to pout as he turned his attention back to his drink. "It bugs me."

"Don't worry," Rhys sighed, slapping his palm on Cassian's back. "Back when we met, Feyre had a little crush on him too and thought I didn't notice. I'm sure Nesta will grow out of it. It's the shadows. The eyes. The broody little frown he carries around all the time. Pick a feature."

Azriel blinked. "What?"

"I'm just saying," Rhys lifted his hands in defence. "I get it."

Both Cassian and Azriel stared at the High Lord of the Night Court, both equally speechless until Cassian gave a quiet sigh and muttered something under his breath that sounded like "Not you too."

Rhys laughed. "But to soothe your worries, brother," he said and directed his words at Cassian. "As someone who shared a room with him at Windhaven, I can attest that you shouldn't worry too much about a shortage of lovers. Azriel’s doing fine."

"Azriel’s sitting right next to you," the shadowsinger in question said with a raised brow.

It was then that a new voice suddenly broke through the noise of the crowded pub, and all three Illyrians turned their heads to find a beautiful faerie with her hands on her hips and a smirk on her lips as she tracked her gaze down Azriel's face. A waterfall of white-blonde hair lay perfectly straight on her shoulders and from there flowed right down to her waist.

"Hello there," she said, the tip of a tongue shooting out to wet her lips before she continued. "I'm Lumina. Would you care to dance?"

Azriel opened his mouth to respond, but Cass beat him to it.

"He'd be overjoyed," he said, kicking Azriel's leg beneath the table when the shadowsinger glowered at him.

"Fantastic," the faerie spoke, tilting her head and offering a hand without ever taking her eyes off the spymaster.

Azriel gave her a polite smile, mixing a hint of an apology in there for good measure. "I apologise, but I was just about to leave."

Where he'd expected her smile to drop, it changed tones instead, and her eyelids seemed to grow a bit heavier.

"Would you like some company where you're going?"

"Thanks, but I'm picking up a friend." His smile never shrank, but as the pretty faerie gave a deep sigh and turned to rejoin her friends a few tables down, he finally shot Cassian a glare, who in return scoffed.

"Bloody liar."

Azriel couldn't fight the hint of a smirk that stole itself onto his face as he emptied the last of his drink and rose from his seat.

"You need to keep your nose out of other people's business, Cassian," Rhys reprimanded, eyes tracking Azriel's movements. "Now you drove him away."

Azriel waved a dismissive hand. "It takes more than Cass to drive me away."

Cassian lifted a brow. "Then why are you leaving?"

"Early training."

"I'm training with you, and you don't see me leaving at," Cassian checked the clock over the bar, "7:42! It's not even eight yet, Azriel. That's embarrassing. We practically just sat down."

Azriel patted his brother's shoulder as he left. "And if you'd go to bed at a reasonable time once in a while, perhaps you'd be winning for a change."

Rhys snorted, but Azriel left before Cassian had a chance respond.

-

Velaris lay cloaked in darkness, the nights much longer at this time of the year, and Azriel revelled in the starlight reflecting from the smooth surface of the Sidra. It hadn't begun to snow just yet, but he was convinced that the first frost of the year would come any day now.

Walking along the eastern riverside, he kept to the shadows of night as he'd been doing for centuries. Old habits die hard.

It was a ten-minute walk, eight if he took less-scenic backroads, eleven if the streets were crowded. Which, to his delight, they were not.

Passing brightly lit shops and laughing groups of faeries, Azriel headed straight north before turning into a narrow little street that connected the Sidra to the Rainbow. The cobblestones where shinier here—polished by hundreds of pairs of shoes taking this route to reach either one of the two most beautiful sights in Velaris on a daily basis.

He stopped at a bakery, a warm-golden glow shining through the windows and into the night. The shelves he could spot from here, the displays in the windows, were almost entirely empty. Closing time was approaching fast.

Warmth welcomed him as he opened the door to be greeted with the clear ring of a bell and the scent of freshly baked bread that never seemed to leave this place.

The faerie behind the counter looked up from the pages of a book she'd propped up against the register, and Azriel's heart gave an involuntary jolt when her lips twisted into a smile. It seemed it grew with each of his visits.

"Azriel," she said, her voice trickling down his spine like warm honey. "You're lucky, I was just about to close up for tonight."

Azriel gave a few nods, and suddenly he didn't know what to do with his hands. Where did he usually keep his hands?

He let them hang loose by his sides, and when that made him feel stupid, he interlocked them behind his back.

"I ... won't take long," he said.

"Oh, don't worry about it," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "Take all the time you need. I'm afraid there isn't all that much left to choose from, though."

Her face took on an apologetic look and Azriel wanted to do anything to get rid of it. But how could he without explicitly telling her that it hadn't been the pastries that brought him here, anyway?

"I'm glad business is good."

She tilted her head and beheld him with a look he couldn't quite read, though the smile never left her lips. "Well, we have some very loyal customers."

Azriel cleared his throat and took his eyes off her for only long enough to scan the last remains of today's assortment. Two big loafs of bread, a faerie tart, and half a dozen donuts.

"I'll take it all."

Surprise coloured her features. “Oh, are you sure?”

“Ah, yeah. I’ll have Cassian polish off those donuts in no time.”

She smiled to herself as she moved to pack his order and Azriel never took his eyes off her as she did. Mother, he was smitten.

“You know…” she started after a few moments of silence, and Azriel thought he saw her look a little harder at her working hands, as though they required all her concentration. “Molly—you know Molly, right? She works here too. Blueish complexion, curly hair? Well, anyway, she seems to think you have a little crush on me and that’s why you keep buying our leftovers.”

Azriel kept his eyes on her, ignoring the heat crawling up the back of his neck. When her own eyes flickered up to meet his gaze, they carried a gentle look in them, a soft note of curiosity.

“Does she now?” Azriel asked, fighting an impending smile.

She hid a smile herself, carefully placing his baked goods in a brown paper bag. “Yeah, she’s really excited about it.”

“Can’t leave her hanging, then.”

Azriel’s fingers brushed hers as he took the bag from her, and it was only with the utmost willpower that he managed to suppress a shiver.

“Thank you,” he said, though he didn’t move from his spot by the counter. He didn’t want to leave just yet. “Are you closing up now?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, grinning. “Now that we’re all out of stock.”

Azriel nodded, clearing his throat, eyes darting through the room before locking back on her. His palms grew clammy and a part of him cursed internally. His palms never grew clammy. He was the spymaster of this damn court, for Cauldron’s sake.

He swallowed before finally forming the words.

“Would you like me to walk you home?”

Her smile grew wide, revealing rows of pearly white teeth, and Azriel’s heart skipped a beat at the sight.

“Yeah,” she said. “That would be nice.”

-

Azriel had always loved Velaris, but somehow everything seemed a bit more beautiful now. Lights gleamed on the surface of the Sidra, starts twinkled above, and by his side walked the most beautiful faerie he’d ever laid eyes on.

She was laughing at something he’d said, and the sound rang through his very bones. All the while, his eyes tracked the way the skin by her eyes crinkled with joy, teeth gleaming in the light of a streetlamp.

Gods, she was breath-taking when she laughed.

“She was right, you know?” Azriel heard himself say quietly.

Y/N looked at him, the smile still edged into the corners of her lips. “Who?”

“Molly,” Azriel said, his own smile soft as they crossed one of the bridges spanning the Sidra. It was right at the centre of it that Y/N suddenly stepped into his path and his feet came to a halt.

She looked up at him with a glint in her eyes, her head tilted in that way that made her look like she was trying to figure out something about him that he hadn’t quite managed to figure out himself.

She smiled. “Really?”

Azriel’s eyes briefly darted down the length of the Sidra before he made himself meet her gaze again. “I don’t usually eat that many baked goods if I’m honest.”

She grinned openly at him now, and before Azriel knew it, he felt a gentle palm cupping the side of his face, a thumb running along his cheekbone.

“That’s really sweet,” she breathed. “And extremely fortunate.”

“Yeah?” Azriel’s voice was barely above a whisper, and right at that moment, she was his sole focus in the world. “Why’s that?”

“Well, because there’s nothing worse than an unrequited crush.”

When she pushed to the tips of her toes to meet his lips in a sweet kiss—a kiss framed by starlight and the gleaming surface of the Sidra—Azriel’s heart might have stopped all together.

-

Feyre’s smile was honest, if a bit cautious. She was still adapting to life at the Night Court, though she looked healthier than she had upon her arrival. The bones no longer protruded from her clavicle, and she warmed to the presence of the inner circle a little more with each passing day.

From the corner of her eye, Y/N could see Cassian snap his attention to the glass in his hand. The laugh that had previously fallen freely from his lips due to a drunken patron at Rita’s had ebbed away quickly. He knew of the tension that flowed into each of Y/N’s muscles at Feyre’s question, though she did her best not to show it.

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Azriel and I aren’t mates,” she said, her tongue heavy as she formed the words she’d had to speak to herself over and over again to accept them as the truth.

Feyre seemed surprised. “Oh? I never would’ve guessed. You two seem so … in sync.” She hesitated, and Y/N could see the question in her eyes. “Do you think the bond just hasn’t snapped yet? I’m sorry if that’s overstepping a line, you don’t have to answer, of course,” she added quickly, a faint touch of red tinting her cheeks.

“Don’t worry, I don’t mind,” Y/N said, her smile gaining in warmth at the newly turned faerie before her. Despite all the things Feyre had had to endure Under the Mountain, she was still so … curious. So new. “My mate died centuries ago. That’s how I know it cannot be Azriel.”

“Gods, I’m so sorry.” Feyre looked truly grief-stricken at the thought. “I can’t imagine how terrible it must have been to lose your mate.”

It was Cassian who snorted into the brief silence that followed Feyre’s words. “Good riddance,” he muttered before downing the rest of his drink.

Y/N tilted her head as she observed the uncomprehending look on Feyre’s face at Cassian’s unsubtle words, and she wondered what Feyre had been told about the mating bond.

“Mates aren’t always chosen wisely, Feyre,” Y/N spoke. “Sometimes the matches are … unfortunate. I don’t know what Tamlin told you about it,” her voice became cautious at the mention of the High Lord of Spring, “but accepting the mating bond is not compulsory. Sometimes the Cauldron—wise as it is—chooses wrong.”

Feyre seemed to cling to every word she spoke, her eyes wide. “What happens if you refuse the bond?”

Y/N forced the air from her lungs in a deep exhale, signalling Rita for a refill of her drink. “Well, it depends. Seeing as the female is usually the one who must accept the bond, she’s also the one who can reject it. There are very, very few instances in which a male refused a mate.”

“And the few we know of have not been pretty,” Cass added, picking apart a napkin with rough fingers. “No matter who rejects it, the other one usually goes mad with grief. Our nature’s fun like that,” he added with a wink and a half-hearted grin.

Feyre blinked a few times before looking at Y/N with a mixture of hesitation and curiosity, though it seemed the latter won the upper hand.

“So, I take it you were the one to reject your bond?”

Y/N grinned at that, though her insides were churning. “Do I not look mad to you?”

Feyre gave a sheepish smile. “Not particularly, no.”

Y/N sighed, and her grin died as fast as it had appeared. “I did reject it. He wasn’t very nice.”

Cass snorted again. “Understatement of the year.” A frown took over his features, making him look every bit as deathly as he was. “The cruel bastard.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“It’s the only way of putting it.”

Feyre’s eyes darted from one to the other, and Y/N could see the question arise within them before she so much as formed the words.

“What did he—”

“I’m gonna go get a refill,” Cassian announced. He stood to head for the bar before Feyre could finish her sentence, and Y/N recognised it for the exit strategy that it was. Contrary to what one might have expected given his title, Cassian had never particularly enjoyed hearing tales of cruelty and suffering. Especially not when it came to the people he loved.

Y/N cleared her throat, and Feyre’s expression grew wary, her voice barely above a whisper when she spoke. “You really don’t have to tell me.”

“No, it’s fine,” Y/n said. “You’re one of us now. You deserve to know who we are.” She hesitated, then sought out Feyre’s gaze. “Rhys told you about what happened to Mor?”

A barely-there flinch ran through Feyre at the mention of Mor’s ordeal. She gave a single nod, and Y/N lifted a shoulder.

“My family doesn’t stem from the Hewn City, but our customs were pretty much the same. They planned to marry me off to the highest bidder, and when he turned out to be my mate as well, they saw an opportunity to squeeze him for the last of his riches. A mate—especially a male one—would do anything, give anything for the bond.” She hesitated. “Unfortunately, I wasn’t smart enough to get myself out of it … not like Mor did. I thought I’d got lucky, given that I’d be married off to my mate.”

Y/N tugged on the cuff of her dress. “I lived with him for a while, but it didn’t take very long to realise my mistake and I thank the Gods every day that I hadn’t yet accepted the bond.”

“Why hadn’t you?” Feyre asked, her voice laced with curiosity.

Y/N shrugged. “Intuition? It was during the war with Hybern, right after we’d freed our human slaves, and I told him I wanted to wait with the ceremony till the war was over. But even during the few good weeks we had, something always felt … off.” She cleared her throat again, her mouth suddenly dry. “Well, like I said, it only took a few weeks to realise my mistake. They don’t value women a lot, you see. The other High Lords, I mean. Never have. Except for breeding purposes, of course.” Bitterness twisted her mouth into a frown. “I’ll spare you the details, but it wasn’t … well, it wasn’t pretty.”

“Wait, you … you were married to a High Lord?”

“Well, not quite.” Y/N tilted her head. She’d assumed Rhys had told her this much at least. “To an heir. Nuvian. The heir of Spring.”

She could see the colour draining from Feyre’s face. “You were married to … to …”

“Tamlin’s eldest brother, yes.”

Feyre swallowed heavily, and Y/N observed her for a moment. She knew of the bond between Feyre and Rhys, of course. It was hard to miss. Or at least it was hard to miss for someone who’d spent her life resenting one bond and longing for another. She’d gotten very sensitive when it came to the detection of mating bonds. Only Feyre didn’t know it yet, of course. 

She briefly wondered whether she should tell her, but soon concluded that it wasn’t her place to interfere.

“And he—” Feyre broke off, shaking her head at the direction her thoughts had taken. “I always got the impression Tamlin was raised to … to respect.”

“Tamlin’s family values wives for their roles as wives. They’re supposed to be silent and pretty to look at and pop out a few heirs while they’re at it.” Y/N hesitated when she recalled that Feyre did once love the High Lord of Spring, and, softening her tone, she added. “I don’t know Tamlin very well. I believe you when you say he’s not like that.”

An emotion flickered across Feyre’s face—one Y/N couldn’t quite place. It was gone faster than it had appeared.

“So, you lived at the Spring Court? And you never accepted the bond?”

Y/N sighed, leaning back in her chair. “No. Never. He didn’t seem to care much at first. I mean, he got most of what he wanted from me even without a bond. Save for the heir of course—I made sure of that.”

“What do you mean?”

Y/N felt her jaw clench for a fleeting moment. “There are tonics even someone without much knowledge of herbs can brew. Over my dead body would I have bound myself to him with yet another chain.”

Feyre hesitated. “And what happened then?”

Y/N felt every muscle, every tense edge of her face soften as a sense of calm washed over her. “Then I met Azriel.”

Feyre was surprised. “Already?”

She nodded. “Rhys and Tamlin were friends back then. I’m sure he told you?” When Feyre nodded, Y/N continued. “Rhys visited the Spring Court a couple times. We didn’t know each other then, but I missed my home, and so I befriended him. He reminded me of the Night Court, and I felt a little better when I talked to him. He brought me little trinkets from Velaris, things you could only get in the Night Court … and then one time, he brought Azriel along. I think it was for spying purposes, but Gods…” Y/N shook her head softly, mesmerised as she allowed herself to sink deep into the memory. “I fell hard, and I fell fast, and I’ve loved him ever since.”

“Was he the reason you left Nuvian?” Feyre asked quietly, and the memory that had just warmed Y/N’s veins turned ice cold.

“One does not simply leave the Heir of the Spring Court,” she ground out through clenched teeth. “Nuvian noticed of course, he was bound to. He detected a scent he didn’t know, said I … tasted different.” She grimaced. “He didn’t know it was Azriel. He suspected Rhys, and so he— … he began to whisper, to scheme and manipulate his father into thinking Rhys would be a threat to his throne.”

Nausea twisted her stomach into a knot, and for the first time since knowing her, she didn’t dare meet Feyre’s eye. She didn’t have to. She knew that Rhys had told her this part.

“By the Mother,” Feyre breathed.

Y/N cleared her throat, desperately attempting to swallow the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. “Tamlin’s father slaughtered Rhys’ family, and it was all because of Nuvian’s jealousy. It was all because of me.”

Cassian chose that moment to reappear, bearing a beer glass he’d already half-emptied only to set it down on the table much harder than necessary.

“Stop talking like that,” he said gruffly, though the gentle hand that appeared on her back counteracted his harsh tone. “It wasn’t your fault. Tam’s old man would’ve come for Rhys even without your involvement.”

She offered a wobbly smile. She knew he truly believed his words—all of them did. Rhys had never once blamed her for what had happened. But she knew the truth, even if neither one of them wanted to see it.

Silence stretched on for a long while, only the soft murmur of a lazy crowd of patrons buzzing in the background of Rita’s pub. She felt a gentle brush of air on her ankle, goosebumps arising on the back of her neck.

It was Feyre who spoke first. “So that’s how it ended? Rhys and his father killed Nuvian along with his family, and you were free to go back to the Night Court?”

“Oh, Rhys didn’t kill the bastard,” Cass said, and Y/N smiled at the shadow curling over her hand.

Feyre looked confused now. “Then who killed him?”

“I did,” a low voice hummed from somewhere behind them—a voice deep as the night and smooth as shadow, and Y/N felt her heart pick up its pace as though on cue.

From the way Feyre’s eyes focused on something behind her, Y/N could tell that Azriel had emerged from his shadows, and sure enough, two broad palms appeared on her shoulders, heavy with comfort and warmth.

“Azriel,” Feyre said, her eyes briefly flickering to Y/N as though to make sure the topic was still okay to talk about, even with Azriel present. “You went with Rhys that night?”

Y/N lay her head back to look up at Azriel and watched as he inclined his head in confirmation.

When he caught her gaze, his eyes softened, and she felt his thumb brush against the side of her neck affectionately.

“Will you give us a moment, my love?” she asked softly, her hand coming up to find one of his, the pads of her fingers brushing over raised scar tissue. She knew he’d come to take her home. “I will be out in a moment.”

“Of course,” he said, and Y/N caught a flicker of concern in the depth of his eyes—one he always got whenever she dwelt on the past. He squeezed her shoulders, offering a polite smile to Feyre, and then vanished into the shadows once again.

Cassian was quick to rise from his chair as well. “I’ll go keep him company,” he proclaimed. “Would be a shame to have him freeze his balls off all by himself.”

Y/N snorted. “And you call yourself Illyrian.”

She hid a grin as Cassian gave her the finger before steering towards the door, half-empty glass in hand.

Y/N exhaled deeply, but she could see from the look in Feyre’s eyes that something was still nagging her. Tilting her head, she asked, “What is it?”

Feyre hesitated. She opened her mouth, then clapped it shut before opening it once again.

“It’s just,” she began. “The mating bond. It’s supposed to be this amazing, beautiful thing, and hearing that it was such agony for you, it’s … well, it’s a reality check I suppose.”

Y/N’s face softened as she sought out Feyre’s hands on the tabletop. “Most times, it is beautiful,” she said. “It’s just dangerous to romanticise it, as it is dangerous to romanticise literally anything else in life. It is important to remember that you have a choice. You can choose to reject it just as well as you can choose to embrace it. And if the latter, I’m sure that— … whoever you end up with shall be worthy of your love.”

Gods, she’d been this close to letting it slip. But luckily, Feyre was still distracted.

“But you and Azriel—” Feyre broke off, collected her thoughts, then opened her mouth again. “I truly don’t mean to pry, but while I was with Tamlin, I kept waiting … I kept thinking the bond would snap any day now. And when it didn’t, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he and I … that we—”

“That you weren’t meant to be,” Y/N finished for her, ignoring that sharp twist in her gut—that fear she’d now been carrying for centuries raising its ugly head. She nodded, searching for the right words before she opened her mouth. “I’m very sure of Azriel’s love for me, and yet every night before I fall asleep, there’s a part of me that fears that the next day will be the day that he finds his true mate. I dread the day his bond snaps in place because I know he’ll want to fight it. He’ll do anything in his might to fight it, and he’ll be torn between his love for me and every instinct telling him to love someone else. I dread it because that’s not what I want for him.”

She swallowed thickly. “I had my mate, and I’m glad he’s dead. Azriel carved him up, and I did not shed a single tear. I rejected the bond, and I chose to spend my life with Azriel instead. I choose him every single day, and even if one day it’ll end, I’ll know that it was real. No Cauldron, no Mother, no Gods. I love him, and he loves me, and we chose each other, bond or not.”

Tears were lining Feyre’s eyes as she stared at her, and Y/N smiled, tilting her head. “You’re still new to this, Feyre,” she spoke softly. “Unfortunately, when you live an immortal life, things are bound to get unfathomably hard at one point or another. But that doesn’t mean you don’t get to have a say in your own future.”

It was just a short while later that Y/N revelled in the starlight as she walked along the Sidra, her arm looped through Azriel’s, her head leaning against his shoulder. She’d always loved the night.

Cassian had taken off with Feyre earlier, flying her back to the House of Wind, but Y/N and Azriel had decided to walk to the home they shared by the river.

“My love,” Azriel spoke softly into the silence, his steps halting as he turned to face her fully.

She smiled as she looked up at him, at the starlight reflecting in his eyes, the dark strands of hair swallowed by the shadows of night. “What is it?”

She felt his palms on her cheeks, his warmth seeping into her skin, and when he kissed her, she felt the tingle right down to her toes.

“I love you,” he breathed when he broke the kiss, his face still close enough for her to feel the puff of his words wash over her skin. “I love you more than words can say. And I choose you, too.”

Her smile turned watery then, though she tried to play it off.

“Eavesdropping now, are we?”

“Marry me.”

Her heart stuttered to a stop at his words, her breathing suddenly laboured. “Azriel—”

“No, wait,” he said, his thumb brushing against her lower lip in a gentle request. “I know we’ve talked about it before, and I know you have this notion of me suddenly finding my mate and then being bound to you when I’d rather be with them. But that’s not going to happen.”

She swallowed thickly, her voice barely above a whisper as she spoke, for fear it could break entirely. “You don’t know that.”

“But I do.” Conviction lay in Azriel’s words, his eyes searching hers. “You said it yourself. We choose each other every day and we have for centuries now. The bond is rare to begin with, but what makes you think you’d be second choice if it ever came to the possibility of mine snapping in place?”

She was thankful for the thumb he smoothed across her cheek, catching a stray tear.

“You don’t know the power of a mating bond, Az. There’s no way you can be sure.”

He considered her for a moment. “Maybe not. But you told Feyre that we get to decide for ourselves. We don’t need to rely on the Cauldron. I get to choose, and I choose you.”

She felt her lip wobble.

“I choose you,” he said again, softer this time. “You’re my mate in every way that counts. Marry me.”

-

The day Azriel’s bond snapped in place was a few months after the second war with Hybern.

Solstice was nearing, and Rhys had invited representatives from every Court to celebrate early. Well, almost every court. He’d skipped Spring and Autumn.

The banquet hall in the House of Wind had been decorated for the occasion, artful ice crystals mixing in with dark fabrics and millions of tiny diamonds forming the illusion of a rich night sky.

It was in the middle of the main course that Azriel felt a sharp tug in his chest, a flinch running through him at the sensation.

To his left, Y/N threw a worried glance at him.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, her hand seeking out his, the diamond on her finger catching the light of the chandelier. Azriel thought of the day they’d stood before their friends, exchanging rings, vows, promises. It all seemed years away now, though it had only been months.

“Yes, I …” Azriel broke off, clearing his throat. “Excuse me for a moment, my love.”

He didn’t bother getting up from the table, but rather vanished into his shadows only to find himself in the comfort of his room seconds later.

Something felt … off.

He’d heard of heart attacks before, had even witnessed a few during the time he’d spent spying in the human realm, but he knew that that couldn’t be what was happening to him. Faeries didn’t get heart attacks. Short from a blade to the gut, there wasn’t much that could kill them.

Poison entered his mind. Poison was possible. Or a cold. Perhaps a bruise from his last training with Cass. Or an old war injury.

Anything. He was racking his brain, desperately searching for an explanation other than the obvious.

A new wave of warmth crashed into him, and Azriel gritted his teeth when a gentle knock on the door had him flinch.

Usually, he sensed anyone approaching within a mile thanks to his shadows.

“Az,” Y/N said as she entered the room, closing the door behind her. Gods, he loved the dress she wore tonight, the delicate earrings he’d gifted her years back. He tried to focus on them with all his might. “Are you sure you’re okay? You looked … spooked when you left.”

“Yes, I’m—” Azriel broke off and flinched when the sharp sensation reappeared, instinctively lifting a hand to his chest.

It seemed that gesture alone was enough for her to realise, and Y/N’s face fell as though drained entirely from energy.

Suddenly, silence lay heavy between them, thick as mud and unbearable in its duration.

“It’s your bond,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper, her expression almost numb. “Isn’t it?”

“No,” Azriel said, forcing the sensation back down and ignoring the rising panic threatening to clog up his throat. “No, it’s not.”

“Azriel—”

“No.”

Silence settled once again, and Azriel wanted to throw up at the distance she kept as though she had no right to step closer. As though she wasn’t the one who was supposed to be here right now.

He took the step instead, lifting his palm to her face, but before he could touch her, the sting in his chest intensified and Azriel huffed as he clenched his fist mid-air.

Her eyes softened, but the sorrow they held almost broke him.

“Azriel,” she spoke softly, quietly. “It’s okay.”

He shook his head, not trusting his voice.

“You’re suppressing it,” she said. “Allow it to snap in place.”

“No,” Azriel gritted through his teeth. He didn’t want this, and the fact that she looked like her worst fear had just manifested right before her eyes didn’t make it any easier. She made it seem final. She made it seem like she’d already given up hope.

“The longer you suppress it, the stronger it’ll get.”

“You just made that up.”

She smiled weakly. “Maybe.”

Azriel’s eyes watered. “I don’t want it.”

“That’s okay, baby,” she breathed, finally stepping closer, lifting her own hand to his chest. “Letting it snap in place doesn’t make it final. You can find out who you’re bonded to and decide then.”

“I have decided.”

No part of her seemed convinced at that, but she let it go without comment.

“Let it snap,” she urged instead. “You won’t be able to fight it forever.”

Azriel’s hands shot to her face, his grip a bit firmer than he intended as he held her cheeks in his palms.

“Listen to me,” he ground out, the pressure in his chest intensifying. “Stop talking like that. Stop talking like this is the end. I have decided. I. Choose. You.”

She looked at him for a long while—so long that he thought his chest might burst into flames if she kept it up much longer. Finally, her gaze snapped to the ring on the hand that still lay on his chest, and she nodded.

“I know,” she breathed, fixing her eyes back on him. “I know, Az.”

Azriel exhaled as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and with his hands still on the one he loved, he carefully loosened the restraints he’d kept on the throbbing heat in his chest.

At once, it burst free, and Azriel stumbled a step back, his hands falling from her cheeks as though they’d been burned. Tension ran from the top of his head right down to his toes, and he felt it then—glowing deep within him, golden and hot, pulsing with energy, tethering him to … he didn’t know to whom, but the feeling was breath-taking. It was all-consuming, clouding his mind and numbing his senses as every bit of his focus turned inwards in an attempt to peer to the other side of that line. The side that still lay in darkness.

Her voice was the only thing that penetrated the fog in his head.

“Can you feel her yet?” she asked, her voice cracking at the end, and Azriel knew that he hadn’t controlled the mesmerisation he’d felt just then. He’d let it all show on his face bright as day for her to see.

He hesitated. “No.”

“Tug on it.”

He wanted to fight it, to refuse, but the sudden need to find out was overwhelming. It seemed like he no longer was in control, like his body was working against his mind, and so he did as she said.

It took a few tries. He never would have imagined it to feel like this, but when he finally managed to grasp the invisible thread within him, he gave a tentative tug. When that didn’t work, he gave a harder tug, and from one moment to the next, his heart stuttered to a stop.

Because standing before him, in the room he’d called his home for many years, was the one he loved. And as his eyes tracked the absent-minded look on her face, he noted her hand rubbing at a spot just beneath her left clavicle. She didn’t even seem to realise she was doing it.

He stared at her, and as he stared, he forced himself not to hope, because surely it was impossible. Unheard of. Otherworldly.

Azriel gripped that thread within him, and he tugged, and as he tugged, he flooded it with everything he felt for her, every bit of love he had to offer.

His knees weakened when she flinched, confusion on her face.

“What—”

“Look at me,” he interrupted her, placing his hands on her shoulders this time, his eyes boring into hers. He gave another tug, and he could see it then—see the realisation flicker deep within her eyes, the eyes that now flooded with unshed tears.

“What are you doing, I—”

Suddenly, a sense of calm overcame Azriel, and it seemed time slowed to a grinding stop. He saw her eyes then, the eyes he’d lost himself in right upon their first encounter in the Spring Court. The lips he’d kissed during stolen moments alone, the cheeks he’d held when she’d sobbed over the cruelty of the Cauldron for making Nuvian her mate and not him.

He’d wanted to kill Nuvian then. For everything he’d been doing to her, every bruise on her body and soul, every finger he’d ever dared to lay on her. Azriel had already had a plan, but he’d hesitated. He didn’t know what it would do to her if he killed her mate, and before he’d managed to convince himself to go through with it, Tamlin’s father had already sought his revenge for a supposed threat to his throne.

Afterwards, Azriel had held in his hands not only the shattered bits of his lover but also those of his brother, and he’d revelled in the way his dagger felt cutting through Nuvian’s throat like a knife through butter.

He spoke her name now, the name of a love greater than he’d ever dared to hope for. It felt soft on his tongue, and his wings shuddered with the sensation.

“Y/N. My love. It’s you.”

She stared at him, and when she took a step back, creating distance between them, Azriel’s heart gave a crack.

His fingers wrapped gently around her wrist, and he felt her hand tremble in his grip, her face stricken.

“Feel for it,” he insisted, lifting her hand back to his chest to press her palm over his heart. “Dig it up.”

“Azriel,” her voice was rough as gravel as she spoke, her head shaking frantically. “Don’t. It’s not possible.”

He urged closer, breathing her in, feeling the bond thrum thickly within him, and when he tugged again, she gave a choked sob in response to the sensation he knew now coursed through her as well.

“Let it snap,” he said, using her own words, his voice much calmer than he would have thought it would be in such a situation. He weaved his free hand through her hair, lowering his forehead to hers. “Allow it to snap in place.”

She hesitated, but when she finally allowed the tension to flow from her muscles, it seemed every fibre of Azriel’s being came to life with sizzling heat, and this time, when she sobbed, it was with joy barely contained.

-

- BONUS -

It was a little while later that Azriel stood in Rhys’ study, his fingers running along the bare curve of his mate’s back, revelling in every bump and dent of her spine. He truly loved her dress—her back bare for him to touch, her front glittering like his favourite constellation.

In the hour since the bond had snapped into place, his hands hadn’t left her once.

Rhys stared at them.

“Two mating bonds,” he muttered, his expression equally mesmerised. “I’ve never heard of such a thing before.”

“Do you think it’s because I didn’t accept the first one?” Y/N asked quietly. She was still buzzing with joy, but the overwhelming revelation had left her spent, her cheeks glowing, her tone calm. Her own hands were fiddling with a button on Azriel’s jacket.

Rhys considered her for a moment. “Perhaps,” he said. “Either that or the fact that Nuvian is dead. There could be a time factor to it as well, but—" Rhys halted in his speech, and his eyes snapped to the door behind Y/N’s back. “Feyre, darling. Have you heard the news?”

When Y/N turned, her gaze landed on the High Lady, and a smile curved her lips in response to the excitement shining in her eyes.

“Well of course. Your thoughts were very loud,” Feyre grinned, closing the door softly behind her. “Cassian and Mor are losing their minds.”

Azriel snorted softly, and Y/N felt his hand slip to her hip to give a gentle squeeze.

“I’m so happy for you two,” Feyre said, bouncing ever so slightly on the balls of her feet, her eyes bright. “I’m so glad it worked.”

Y/N and Azriel shared a look before Y/N looked back at Feyre and asked, “What worked?”

“Well, I wished for it.”

A beat of silence.

“Whatever do you mean, my darling?” Rhys asked from where he sat behind his desk.

Feyre tilted her head. “When you and I were mending the Cauldron, of course. I wished for them to be mated. Didn’t you hear?”

Silence settled, the clock by the door ticking loudly, and all Y/N could do was stare at the faerie that—in the few short months she’d been living at the Night Court—had not only become her High Lady but a dear friend.

For the first time since the bond snapped, Azriel’s hand left her skin, and she felt the loss of contact right down to her bones.

She watched carefully as he neared Feyre and smiled when he wrapped strong arms around her delicate shoulders, pulling her firmly to his chest, his head bowing as he pressed his cheek to her hair.

It was your turn to blush. Playful words aside, this truly did catch his beauty.

He met your gaze. “Teach me how to use it.” You demonstrated, pointing to shoot the nearby bookshelf, but Azriel shook his head. “I want one like that,” he nodded to his headshot.

Your nose crinkled. “I don’t photograph well, Az.”

He scoffed. “Why wouldn’t you?” He positioned the obscura over his eyes like you had.

You covered your face with your hands, hiding. “I don’t like the posing.”

 “Come on,” he cooed, laughing. He reached to move your hair where it fell forward as you ducked your head, then gently held your wrists beneath your chin, broad hand easily cradling them between a thumb and two fingers. He tilted your face up with his hold. You peered at him through your fingers, rosy cheeks peeking through digits. Still holding your wrists, he took the photo effortlessly.

You uncovered your face, still blushing. He wondered how you didn’t see what a perfect subject you’d be. How you could invent the obscura and deprive him of its most obvious benefit.

Azriel studied you, and you saw the gears turn in his head. “Can I borrow it for a while?"

You laughed. “Okay, Az.”

~

It started off rather clumsy, and it took a few tries for Azriel to figure out that lighting mattered. That snapping photos with light in the immediate background ruined the film. He tested his hypothesis by capturing a bewildered Cassian, the confusion frozen making Azriel chuckle. He understood why you’d been laughing at him before. Next, he found that distance was important; that he could shift the angle of his photography. A practice shot of Feyre losing herself in a painting, so focused that she didn’t turn to wonder about the shuttering sound. Rhys landing on a balcony after training. Nesta reading ferociously by the fire.

He got the hang of it and was ready to really begin.

I don’t like the posing, you’d told him. He had no issues with that whatsoever.

The first one happened in the kitchen. The early morning hours were typically shared by the both of you on the grounds of a close friendship. You’d been sipping on coffee like it was medicinal, the light of the sun softening everything. Eyes closed, hair still slightly undone from sleep. He loved seeing you in your fancy dresses, your fighting leathers, but something about seeing you in soft, utterly personal nightwear—linen pants, knit cardigans, slippers—it spread warmth through his chest brighter than your revered sunrise. Today he'd even caught you in his t-shirt you must’ve swiped. Carefully positioning the Obscura over his face where he stood at the doorway, he snapped his photo before inconspicuously joining you, inquiring about the theft he quietly adored. Adoring your answering smile even more.

The next shot was on the rooftop. He’d caught Cassian bandaging you up after sparring. You were sat on the bench, smiling bloody and beautiful. Laughing as Cassian cracked jokes, allowing him to tend to you. He was kneeling on the ground before you, cleaning the cuts on your brow, wrapping your bruised knuckles. The sheer glee in your laugh, the way you sat so comfortably with his brother had Azriel reaching into the pocket realm for the Obscura, capturing the sight of his favourite people bantering fresh out of the ring.

One night after Rita’s, Rhys had offered to fly you home after winning a drinking game against Azriel. He’d winked at the bested Shadowsinger, taking you into his arms and shooting to the sky. Azriel grumbled at first until he’d realized the opportunity he had mid-flight with Rhys ahead. You reached to the skies above, stretching like you could grab the very moon, safe in the High Lord’s arms. He wished the Obscura had the power to capture the sound of your laughter as well, but he’d gladly settle for your silhouette marked by the Night Court stars, their beauty dimmed in the face of your exquisite joy.

The next photo was stolen after a Hewn City mission. You’d been in a billowing dark gown, face so ethereal, so striking and utterly beautiful that he’d struggled to look at you face-on. Everyone had taken to sprawling on the couches after coming home, still in formal attire, helping themselves to drinks as they winded down. You’d fallen asleep at some point, stretched comfortably across the sofa with your head nearly hanging off, hair cascading around you like a halo and down the sofa to the ground. Feyre mentioned wishing she could paint the sight of you, sleeping like some spite or nymph, some woodland creature of beauty, your dress ballooning around you like a nightshade flower. Azriel silently pulled out the Obscura, taking his time levelling the device so the light of the hearth illuminated your face.

“What is that thing you keep doing?” Cassian asked lowly.

Azriel focused, capturing the shot. Taking another one just for good measure. “Nothing.”

His favourite photo was of you and Nyx. You’d been playing with the boy on the balcony, blowing bubbles as he tried dutifully to pop them. They’d land and settle in his hair, making you laugh boisterously, head tipping back as Nyx laughed with you unwittingly. It was like the sun loved you, how it always shone upon you, doing the work for Azriel. He took the photo, falling into the easy routine. Once that photo developed, his heart skipped a beat at its sight. At the promise it captured that he wished was his.

He was a lucky bastard to have this gift—a device that finally allowed him to freeze the light that you were in his life, to etch the sights he so sincerely loved. God, you were special. Azriel had to walk away from the balcony, still staring at the little strip of film, more invaluable than precious jewel. How lucky he was to witness you. Luckier still to capture you in still frames, while you unknowingly captured his heart.

~

Azriel found you in your room, sitting at your vanity. He handed the obscura to you. “There’s no more film.”

You laughed. “Wow. How many photos did you take?”

He shrugged, smiling roguishly. “A handful.”

“Can I see?”

He handed a few.

You rifled through them, gasping at the quality. “These are amazing.” He’d captured Feyre descending the stairs in her regalia, beautiful like a divinity of legend. Nesta pouting playfully, glaring right at the camera. Mor putting earrings in before an outing. “Their mates would love these,” you murmured.

“They would,” he agreed.

You shook your head, stunned. “God, they’re beautiful.” Azriel didn’t know if you meant the photos or who he captured in them. “I wish I photographed this good.”

He would’ve laughed at the absurdity if he could resist his scoff of disbelief. “You do.”

You just shook your head, sneaking a quick glance at yourself in the mirror before eyeing the photos again.

Azriel’s heart stuttered. “You do,” he repeated. “I—” he reached into the pocket realm. “I took some of you as well.” Handing over a few photos, he watched closely as your eyes widened. You took your time studying each photo, brows pinched. He didn’t know if it was in dislike, or—

“Wow,” you breathed. You met his gaze. The fragility in them told him it was awe. “Azriel,” you breathed again, assessing the shots. “Wow. You make me look…”

You faded to silence. “What,” he gently nudged you.

“Pretty.”

He tried to speak. A breath puffed out of him. “Y/n,” he couldn’t stop the reverence in his tone. “You’re beautiful. What do you mean?” He didn’t care how it came off, how saying it warmed his cheeks.

He’d only pulled out a few of the tamer photos. The ones of you with his family or in mundane solitude. He immediately pulled out the rest, laying them before you. The pinch deepened between your brows, looking at the one of you after Hewn City. “Oh my god,” you breathed. You had no idea you could look so… “beautiful.”

“Yes,” Azriel nodded. “Beautiful.” He pointed to the one of you in the kitchen, freshly woken up. “Here as well.” Always.

You took your time studying them, unable to find it in you to care about how stupidly vulnerable this struck you. Too busy grappling with the comfort of feeling this seen. You finally met his gaze, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d have thought that look in his eyes was…

If you were well and truly self-indulgent, you may have called it how you felt inside.

Azriel wished he had just one more piece of film to capture the look on your face. The depth of fondness in your eyes, like he was worth seeing. His heart stuttered again, holding that stare like he could pour his affection directly from his eyes to yours.

“Will you be keeping these?” you asked about the photos.

Azriel chuckled. “Yes. Try taking even one away.”

Oh.

You blushed, breaking his stare. A fine line to toe with your friend indeed.

But Azriel enjoyed that conviction on your face when you saw yourself as he did. “Okay,” he let up, exhaling in mock annoyance. “You can have a few.” He took most of the photos back, making sure to leave you with a copy of the Hewn City one. “I mean, I can always take more.”

You laughed, standing to retrieve your satchel, pulling out spare film. You showed Azriel how to load it in, but before handing the Obscura back, you eyed the first photo he’d taken, with his hands holding your wrists. “I want one like that,” you said, reaching for his face.

He laughed but didn’t bat your hand away, to your pleasant surprise. Only standing firm, albeit leaving his face uncovered. You cradled his face gently by the chin in one hand, resting your fingers on his cheeks, barely pressing. He smiled warmly at you, looking right through the camera at you. You captured him.

“There,” you handed back the obscura. “Now I got you,” you held up his matching photo.

He liked the sound of that. “I have you too,” he raised his collection of your photos in his hand in reminder. “And I’ll be keeping you with me.”

~

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“Y/N?” he asked again at your silence.

“Sorry,” you breathed, heart racing.

You cracked open the bathroom door, peering up at him. He searched your eyes patiently as you searched for your courage. “I can’t get my corset on,” you admitted quietly.

A muscle ticked in his jaw, eyes marginally widening.

You shook your head. “It’s fine,” you said quickly, voice tight. “I’ll just—I’ll try—”

“I can help,” he offered softly.

You looked up at him again, eyes pleading. Turn him down. “I—” you swallowed. Turn him down. A glance at the wall behind him with a clock revealed you were even later than you thought. Turn him down. You bit your lip and steeled your spine. Fuck. You were really doing this. “Okay,” you whispered, like you could hide the admission from even yourself.

He gave a slight nod of encouragement, stepping aside to let you come out.

“I—let me—one second,” you stammered, closing the door.

You were still undressed.

Right.

Another huff of indignation as you yanked on a slip to cover your bare legs. This was fine, right? It was just help he was offering. Necessary help.

You took a steadying breath and walked out of the bathroom.

Azriel had moved to stand near the fireplace, watching it with his back to you, like it would offer you privacy. He could surely see your panicked mortification.

You padded to him, placing a hand softly on his elbow to let him know you were ready.

He turned, face carefully neutral as he took in the sight of you.

Where corsets were typically worn over shifts, this one was fashioned to sit directly upon your skin. So you stood before Azriel, flushed cheeks and fidgeting fingers in just your corset and a skirt.

Azriel focused his gaze strictly on your face, didn’t dare let it fall to where the flesh of your breasts generously spilled over the delicate lace trim adorning the hem. Didn’t allow a glance at the thin shift mercifully—barely—covering your legs.

He’d never seen you so undressed.

You shifted your weight between feet beneath his hefty gaze. “Usually, Nuala or Ceridwen or Mor help me,” your voice was still tight. “I’ve never had to do it by myself.”

Azriel nodded. Your skin had a slight sheen to it in the light of the fire. A few pieces of hair had fallen out of your intricate upswept style, curling at the nape of your neck. Azriel might have bitten back a laugh at the endearing sight, at the physical evidence of your struggle—had you not struck him dumb with how beautiful you looked.

How you allowed him to bear witness to your exposed skin, to this intimacy.

He was no stranger to corsets—hell, he’d taken women wearing lingerie that made your attire look like a priestess’s robe, and yet—

He shook his head. This was just help. No matter how lovely you were.

He cleared his throat. He needed you to turn. “Would you—” He twisted a finger in the air, unsure how to ask.

“Oh,” you breathed, still donning that pretty blush on your cheeks. You took another step toward him, turning at last.

With the absence of your imploring gaze—one he’d scarcely forget—Azriel exhaled, allowed himself an assessing glimpse down your form presented before him. He bit back a curse. The laces across the length of the corset were haphazardly pulled. He wondered how Rhys overlooked something like this that clearly required assistance. The spaces between the undone laces revealed your bare back, curving all the way down to the slip resting on your backside.

He didn’t know how to begin touching you.

“Az?” you asked, voice still thin, your nervousness anything but subtle. But you’d been comfortable enough to ask him for help, and that made his heart soar.

“Sorry,” he cleared his throat again. Raised his hands hesitantly; a silent deep breath, and he began.

He carefully pulled at the laces starting from the top of your corset, loosening them to correctly adjust their security. Azriel keenly tried his best to pick up each lace without touching your skin. Tried not to consider how creamy it felt when he did graze skin, how warm and perfect. When he’d finished working his way down, he began tugging at the string to tighten it properly.

At the first firm tug, you gasped, stumbling backwards into him. “Oh,” you stepped away hastily. You’d landed directly onto his abdomen, trapping his hands between your bodies. Your own hands had landed on his thighs, bracing yourself. “I’m sorry, Azriel.”

“It’s alright.” Azriel tried not to think about how your softness felt. “It’s my fault.” He couldn’t recall the last time he’d helped a female with her corset.

You looked at him over your shoulder, doing funny things to his heart again with your eyes. “We need a bedpost.” There was sheepish mirth lighting your eyes, displacing the anxiety from before. He managed a reassuring smile back and nodded.

You walked to Cassian’s bed in the inn room you were sharing, gripping the post for stability. Azriel dutifully returned to your back, and you tried not to think about how the warmth from his body radiated so easily into yours from your proximity. How careful he was being with his hands, doing everything to make you more comfortable.

He yanked gently in warning. When you remained sturdily in your spot, his pulling grew stronger, working his way down. When he neared the base of your spine, he began tying the lace. Your hands moved to your waist, feeling snug but not quite as tight-laced as you’d wanted.

You turned to peer at him over your shoulder again. He met your eye in question. “Um, I was hoping to wear it a little tighter,” you admitted.

“Tighter than this?” His brows rose.

You nodded.

He undid the knot, pulling the laces tighter as per your request, waiting for approval.

Once again, you caressed your waist, pushing the corset to feel its give.

“Is it tight enough?” he asked, voice gravely.

“Can I have one more inch?” you asked, and he internally composed himself.

“I don’t know if it would work,” he said.

“Here,” you released your waist, reaching behind, wiggling your fingers for his hands. Azriel extended his hands to hover on either side of your waist, allowing you to guide them on your waist. You pushed onto his hands, making him squeeze your waist. “Can you hold it there?” you asked.

Azriel swallowed, holding your waist tightly, pressing the corset tighter to your body as you reached behind, pulling the untied lace. He tracked your every move, every careful twist of your fingers, how your arms brushed against his hands. Your hands worked dangerously close to his body as you worked to secure the ties at last.

When you finished, he regretfully released you, allowing you to turn, standing between him and the bedpost. He braced himself for the onslaught of your stare, the way he knew you’d look up at him.

Where there’d previously been jittery nervousness, there was something in your eyes now that set his nervousness off. A sense of open depth that swallowed him whole as you took him in. “Thank you,” you breathed. A small smile tugged your lips up.

He wanted to admit something stupidly vulnerable, like thank you for trusting me. So instead, he took a step back, ducked his head, and said, “You’re welcome.”

That pretty, trustful look returned to your eyes, a look he’d do anything to keep others from seeing. “Maybe you can help me zip up my dress too?” Your playful glint had him smiling back.

“Of course.”

You hurried to the bathroom and rustled for a bit before returning to him with the top half of a floor-length, black evening gown hanging off your torso. You stood before him, more confidently than before, and Azriel took his time zipping it up, tucking away the corset. Tucking away the knowledge, the memory of it. It was all his to cherish.

As you put your heels on, a knock sounded on the door. Azriel opened it to find Rhys and Cassian conveniently ready to go, all smug smirks.

“Sorry for making us late,” you said, rushing up behind Azriel. “I had a hard time getting dressed.” Azriel stepped aside, allowing you to exit, taking Cassian’s arm.

Rhys mockingly tsked. “Sorry to hear that. How’d you manage?”

“Azriel helped,” you said over your shoulder.

“Well, thank goodness for Azriel,” Rhys winked at him.

Azriel stood stunned, staring in disbelief at Rhys until you looked back at him blushing, a shy smile knocking the breath from his lungs.

“Yes. Thank goodness for Azriel.”

~

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He would come over at night and hold you as you slept, but only after the unseasonable warmth had vanished and your single-paned windows became evident. Those nights were accompanied by an overload of blankets being heaped onto your daughter’s bed, but still, there was often a knock that shortly followed Azriel’s arrival. There was enough room for three on the bed, anyways.

Azriel was not shy about touching you, but he was also adamant about not crossing any lines. You weren’t sure who had created those lines, but they kept his hands in your hair and at your waist and clasped to yours when you took Melanie out for walks. His lips stayed, again, at your hairline and on your cheeks and in the divots of your knuckles when he said goodbye. 

You thought, perhaps, he was waiting for you to fully kiss him before he allowed himself the liberty, but there never seemed to be a right time. And you were still often confused. 

In the time you spent with Azriel, you opened up more about your past. You told him of the perilous journey to Velaris and the difficulty of finding a job with your lack of skills. He inquired about your position back in Autumn Court, how you could have survived with no job, but there was no reason to have a job when you were a court lady, and you told him that. 

“My skills mostly lie in propriety. I know how to work a room—” you had explained. “—but that is hardly useful when you come to a new court as a common person.” 

“So, you were not common in Autumn?” he had asked. 

Your chest had started to hurt at that, so you only shook your head and stared down at his fingers intertwined with yours. 

Azriel hadn’t asked for more. He kissed the side of your head and told you about growing up in Illyria. He told you about Rhysand, Cassian, and Mor. He spoke of the Archeron sisters and their abrupt arrival in the court. He would brush your hair back and tell you about the nights he thought about his mate and how you had decimated every one of his expectations. 

“Because I came with so much baggage?” you had teased. 

Azriel had only smiled softly, the fire crackling in your hearth lighting up Melanie’s face as she slept against Azriel’s thigh. “Because you have offered so much more than I had imagined.” 

Each time he looked at you took your breath away. You had thought he looked at you with admiration before, but after he had become sure you wouldn't bolt at the first sign of his feelings, the pure adoration in his gaze was almost difficult to meet. He looked at Melanie in a similar way—softer, more fond than adoring, but you could pick out each difference and they made you feel lightheaded. 

You were going to kiss him today. 

You were going to drop Melanie off at the neighbor's next door for a sleepover with the other kids, and you were going to invite him to stay. And then you would tell him who Melanie’s father was. 

Maybe you wouldn’t tell him everything yet, but you had amped yourself up to tell him that much, and you wanted to kiss him desperately. 

Standing outside of Melanie’s school, you leaned against the pillar you claimed as your own and stared up at Azriel as he told you about the best places to get weapons in town. You were half listening, half simply admiring because you had no use for information on weapons sales, but Azriel didn’t seem to mind your lack of interest. He usually didn’t come with you to get Melanie, but he was tasked with picking up Nyx, which meant it was safe for the two of you to be here together. 

Well, according to Azriel, it was always safe. But this felt safe for you. 

“There is an elderly woman on the far side of the Sidra who offers the best prices but she’s rather prickly.” 

“Are you usually concerned about prices?” you posed, a knowing judgment in your eye that was mostly in jest. 

“Well, I would not enjoy being ripped off,” he countered with a laugh. He was only a short step away from you, craning his neck down slightly as you spoke of nothing important. 

“Oh no, we couldn’t have that,” you mocked, mouth twisting into a smile. “Something to finally put a dent in that bank account of yours? Couldn’t be.” 

Azriel scoffed, his eyes bright. “I’ve told you, countless times, that I would like to use some of that money to get you a new place. But you always refuse.” 

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not using you for your money, Azriel.” 

“I know,” he softly replied. He brought a hand up to tilt your chin. “I’ll still get you to agree eventually.” 

“I think you underestimate my resolve.” 

“Oh, I know I do. Give me time to get more acquainted with it.” 

You breathed out a laugh, opening your mouth to respond, to quip, to remain in this peaceful bubble Azriel seemed to have carefully curated when a confused shout of Azriel’s name sent terror washing through you. 

“Azriel?” the voice called again. You kept wide eyes locked on the Shadowsinger before you, the cause of your fear emanating from behind your back. “I thought I was getting Nyx today. I could have sworn—” 

Azriel quickly removed his fingers from your chin and straightened his stance, but it was too late. The man behind you let out a low, playful whistle, and you could hear his footsteps drag casually as he walked, but you had never been more tense in your life. 

“Cassian,” Azriel cleared his throat, looking over you to the man you knew to be the High Lord’s war general. You kept your gaze locked on the veins weaving intricate patterns in Azriel’s wings. “I was getting Nyx today.” 

“But I thought you had plans tonight.” 

“I do. I was going to get him and drop him off at Feyre’s studio. She’s teaching a class.” 

A pause. 

“Is your friend shy?”  

Azriel’s wing inched forward, but it didn’t enclose you. That would make this obvious. He wouldn’t want to make a scene. 

Azriel looked down at you and you could tell he was trying to convey so much with just that gaze. But above all, you knew this was unavoidable. Cassian would see you; he would only become more suspicious if you remained in this state, frozen and defiant. So you found the reassurance you needed in Azriel’s expression and you plastered a strained smile on your face. And you turned around. 

“Hi,” you greeted. Cassian was exactly as Azriel had explained, sly grin and all. “Not shy, just taken off guard a little.”

Now behind you, Azriel spoke your name introducing you and acting as if you had no idea who Cassian was. The General couldn’t seem to wipe the smirk from his face, eyes flitting back and forth between you and Azriel. “It’s nice to meet you,” Cassian nodded. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m guessing you’re the one taking up all of Az’s time recently? We’d love it if you came to us every once in a while. Maybe the guy would actually be present during our get-togethers if you were there.” 

You let out a nervous laugh, hands joining at your waist as you began picking at your fingers. In response, Cassian’s expression faltered. He uncrossed his arms. 

“She’s very busy,” Azriel answered for you. “She runs an apothecary.” 

Cassian’s brows shot up. “Oh? Maybe I could come by sometime to—”  

The school bell rang, punctuating the height of your anxiety. An overwhelming urge to cry heated your face and made your waterline sting, but you bit hard into your cheek instead, face twisting into another semblance of the worst smile imaginable. 

A few more minutes. 

The teacher was always late. 

“Is there a remedy or something you’d need from an apothecary?” you asked, the words sounding strange as you lost your breath behind fear. 

Cassian’s brows came together, an action so brief you almost missed it before he lowered his tone substantially. “I would mostly just like to see your craft. Having your own station is incredibly impressive.” 

He sounded soft now, unsure. You smiled again, but that didn’t seem to help. You had a small inkling that had you known who Azriel was the first time you’d met him in this exact location, the situation would have gone similarly. 

A warm hand met your back causing the air to vacate your lungs. 

Azriel was here. Azriel was here and although this was close to your worst nightmare, he understood and he wasn’t going to let anything happen to you or Melanie. 

Melanie. 

Cassian would see Melanie. 

Fears actualized and then amplified as your daughter’s soft tone formed the syllables of Azriel’s name. Her shout was happy and followed closely by Nyx’s, and it would have been clear to anyone observing the scene that your daughter was very familiar with the Shadowsinger. And that Nyx was very familiar with that relationship as well. 

Azriel, not wanting to confuse the five-year-olds now tugging at his pants, gave your shoulder a slight squeeze before kneeling to gather them in his arms. They giggled as he rose, rattling on about the events of the day, and you used the noise as an excuse to finally turn around and avoid Cassian’s baffled expression. 

“Mommy!” Melanie called, beckoning you forward until her small arm was wrapped around the back of your neck. “Maybe Nyx could come to my sleepover tonight. He’s my best friend, did you know that?” 

You fought past the quiver in your throat to put on a smile. “I did know that, Mel. But Nyx doesn’t know your friends at home and his parents might not be okay with him staying with strangers.” 

Melanie narrowed her eyes and gasped in revelation. She turned to Nyx, slapping Azriel in the face with her braid in the process. “You’ll have to meet my friends during the daytime then. So your parents can see them!” 

“That sounds like a good idea!” Nyx cheered. “I’ll ask my mommy later. Then maybe we can all be friends.” 

“I think that sounds like a good idea too,” Cassian sounded off from behind you. “Lots of new people to meet, it seems.” 

You winced, the expression hidden by your daughter's tight clasp on your neck. Azriel readjusted the children in his arms before clearing his throat. He caught your eye briefly, just a short glance, before staring up at his brother. 

“Can we do this later?” he asked, the question not sounding like a question. 

“Do what later? I’m not doing anything?” Cassian defended. “I was just meeting your new friend. That’s all.” 

“Ms. Y/n isn’t a new friend, Uncle Cassian,” Nyx almost boasted. “She’s just new to you.” 

“That right? Why didn’t you mention her sooner then, Nyx?” 

Nyx brought his finger up to his chin and shared a private laugh with Melanie, the sight making your anxiety lessen. Until Cassian spoke again. 

“Well, now I’m feeling left out. This isn’t fair.” He stepped forward enough to capture Melanie’s limited attention. “I’m Cassian. I’m like Azriel over here, but a whole lot better.” 

Azriel scoffed, but Melanie only smiled, finally releasing you from her grip to take the hand Cassian had outstretched towards her. “My name’s Melanie. And I’ll believe you only if you take me up flying 'cause Mr. Azriel never lets me.” 

“Ah-ah,” Azriel tsked. “Melanie, you know why I won’t take you.” 

Melanie groaned and knocked her head back. “Mommy doesn’t need to know everything we do. Sometimes she’s busy, Mr. Azriel.” 

“You guys all seem pretty close,” Cassian observed, turning his gaze over to you. “I think I’d really like to get you over to a family dinner sometime. See what’s been keeping Azriel so occupied.” 

“Melanie can come to our house?” Nyx screeched into Azriel’s ear. 

“Oh, um,” you stuttered, your skin prickling with uncomfortable heat. You stared up at Azriel, widening your eyes just a fraction to show your panic, but he was looking at Melanie as she screamed into his other ear. “I-I really don’t know about that. Azriel only really—what I mean to say is that Melanie only really knows Azriel from school events. She really likes his wings. I don’t think—” 

“Cassian, later,” Azriel emphasized once again. 

This had always been a terrible idea. 

What was Azriel going to tell Cassian during this undetermined period of time? 

And family dinner? With the High Lord and Lady? 

You felt like you would be sick, any and all comfort being ripped out from under you. 

And Cassian—Cassian looked so confused you weren’t sure his brow could twist any further. He lifted his hands in gentle surrender, opening and closing his mouth several times as if to speak but then thinking better of it. 

You should leave. You should leave right now. 

You coaxed Melanie out of Azriel’s arms, much to her protest, and calmed the calamity that was your breath as you nodded to Cassian. “Very nice to meet you,” you rushed. 

“Mommy, but I—” 

“No, honey. I’m sorry but we have to go home,” you cut Melanie off. 

Your feet took you further and further away from the disaster in front of the school, none of the fear and panic being left at the gates. You took it all with you, heavy on your shoulders as your daughter told you, multiple times, that she could walk beside you and she promised she’d hold your hand. 

But you were back in survival mode, as Azriel called it, and none of your daughter’s pleas were registering. 

Because now, a member of the court knew who you were. And he knew about Melanie.

Something compelled you to reach up and wrap your fingers around his wrists. You stared into his eyes with nothing to offer him but the uncertainty and poorly disguised hope edging considerably closer to the surface. 

“Why I what, Azriel?” 

Azriel licked his lips before he spoke, mouth dry at the prospect of the conversation. “Why you can tell me. Everything. You can trust me with everything there is to know about you and Melanie. I wouldn’t—I would protect the both of you. Over anything.” 

You felt a piece of you deflate. Azriel’s fingers slightly spasmed against your skin as your shoulders slumped. 

“You can’t promise me that, Azriel,” you sullenly replied. “You work for the High Lord. You can’t promise me you would keep things from him for my benefit. I can’t trust that—” 

“Y/n, you are my mate,” Azriel emphasized, eyes wide and pleading. “I know you can’t feel it yet within you but it has been carved into my chest from the moment we locked eyes. The way the bond pulls each time I see you—the way it screams at me to keep you safe. I can’t…” 

His words broke off as he spoke them—cracked and fractured and desperate. 

Azriel cleared his throat and started over. 

“There are two things you should know. First, the High Lord and Lady—Rhysand and Feyre—they would never do anything to put you in danger.” You opened your mouth to argue, but Azriel gently spoke over the rebuttal. “They would never. They do not even know you but you are my mate. As an extension, you are their family. Whatever it is you are running from, they would go to lengths to run with you.” 

“You can’t promise—” 

“I can. And I am. Because the second thing you should know is that I have waited for my mate for centuries. I have dreamed of you and wanted you and I don’t know if that scares you but I hope it can be some consolation.” 

The kitchen lulled into a silence punctuated by your heaving breaths, the unsteady sound countering Azriel’s flickering wings as he stood before you. You had no words for him, nothing to rectify the worried way he captured your gaze with his own. 

Your instinct fought against everything he said. 

To put all of your trust into Azriel—all of it. To make him an integral part of Melanie’s life, of yours. 

Could you? Was being his mate enough? You didn’t feel the pull yet, the indescribable ache that caused the desperation on Azriel’s face. 

“—and,” Azriel’s voice was low but startling as his eyes shifted to land on the wall behind your head. “It’s not just the bond. It’s you. I care about you, y/n. I care about Mel. I can’t go back to acting so casual about that. I want to be all in with two of you. My life has… it’s changed. It’s different now, because of you.” 

He found your eyes again.

Something shifted in your chest, but it didn’t snap. 

You wanted him to be all in, but something still needed to be aligned. 

You had heard stories about mates in the past—about mates that had children before the bond had made itself known. The stories did not end well and they certainly did not match the pleading way Azriel held you or the hopeful pool of hazel that his eyes had dipped into. 

“What about Melanie?” you whispered, squeezing his wrist with your fingers because although he had included her in all of his pinings, you needed to hear him say it. 

Azriel adjusted his stance and blinked at you as if you were speaking another language. “What about Melanie, angel?” 

His soft-spoken endearment was like a punch to the gut. “W-Would you love her the same? Even though she isn’t yours? I’ve heard what can happen with—” 

“I don’t care about that—I’ve never cared. I can’t imagine looking at her and not loving her, y/n. She is so much of you.” 

A loaded breath left you as you leaned forward and rested your forehead on Azriel’s collar. You were still sick, still exhausted, and this overwhelming display of affection and devotion was filling you more than you thought you could handle. You released your hold on his wrists to bunch your fists into the front of his shirt. Azriel acted instantly, one hand coming to the back of your head while the other rested along your back. 

“I want to trust you,” you promised. “I do. It just might take time. I can’t—I don’t think I can tell you yet. I don’t know why, I just—” 

“I know, y/n. You don’t have to tell me. Just… just let me in. Let me be here.” 

~~

The rest of the day moved slowly. 

Azriel stayed. 

When Melanie woke up from her nap, a walk was introduced, Azriel proclaiming that the group had spent entirely too much time inside and fresh air was needed to fight the remaining sickness. That suggestion was met with a raised brow from Melanie who argued that sleep was supposed to be what made us better, Mr. Azriel. Why do you keep changing it?

You had watched the interaction with new eyes; the way she squinted up at him with a skeptical gaze and the way he stared down at her with a smile so wide it looked as if it hurt. Did he smile that broadly all the time? You hardly saw him in any public context, so it was difficult to know. 

You doubted he did. 

He smiled at you the same way when you teased him for Melanie’s benefit. 

The walk was soothing and beautiful and Azriel had wrapped two scarves around Melanie’s neck before he let her get out the door. She had huffed and pointed at his own neck, frustrated that he wasn’t wearing a scarf, but his shadows answered for him as they whisked around Melanie’s eyes and turned her around. 

As she giggled, Azriel shrugged a jacket over your shoulders. 

“It’s not that cold, you know,” you commented later as footsteps echoed along cobblestone. “I don’t know if she needed both scarves.” 

“Can’t be too careful. Wouldn’t want her to get more sick.” 

“We aren’t that kind of sick, Az.” 

“I know.” He tore his gaze from Melanie and directed it towards you. “But I can’t do anything about Autumn fever. I can, however, make sure the two of you don’t catch a cold.” 

You pressed your lips inwards and breathed through the fluttering in your chest as he looked upon you. His gaze was unabashedly admiring and you couldn’t remember if he’d looked at you like that before he’d told you you were mates, or if he had been holding himself back before. 

“I am from the Autumn Court,” you thought to say, if only to quell some of the strange feeling in your chest. “Although, you already knew that. Your healer kind of gave it away.” 

“You don’t have to—” 

“I want to,” you interrupted. You looked out towards Melanie as you skirted along the Sidra, your daughter kneeling by the shore to look in at the fish. “Maybe not all of it at once. But for now, I’m from the Autumn Court. I came to Velaris when I found out I was pregnant.” 

You shoved your hands into the pocket of the jacket Azriel had placed on your shoulders. You realized it wasn’t yours when your knuckles swam in the space. And the scent of night-kissed air delicately wafted up.

Azriel said nothing as you collected your thoughts. He simply watched Melanie giggle and dip her fingers in the water. 

“Um, I came under duress, obviously. The circumstances of my pregnancy weren’t exactly optimal and there were several people that would have been… more than upset that I was pregnant.” 

“What does that mean—upset?” 

“Several things. They could have taken Melanie from me, made me end the pregnancy when I didn’t want to, sent me into hiding for shame. I didn’t stick around to find out which horror-fueled thought would come to fruition.” 

“Is that who you’re running from?” 

You tilted your head to the side as a light breeze swept past your skin. Azriel was already looking at you with an intensity that felt out of place compared to the joyful laughs that flowed from the child by the water. But that was good, you reminded yourself, you were keeping her away from all of these harsh realities for as long as possible. 

“Yes.”

“Can I ask—”

“No.” You were quick to cut him off. Your tone wasn’t mean or harsh; it was exhausted. “You can't ask who or why—not yet. I haven’t actually said any of those names aloud since I left. That part might… take me a while.” 

“That’s okay,” Azriel softly reassured. He took a half step towards you, hesitated, but then fought against that and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, tugging you into his chest. “I just need to know what I’m up against. If you think they know where you are or if they’re still looking for you.” 

Melanie had begun throwing rocks into the Sidra, the sound of the stones plopping into the water mingling with silence and birds chirping. 

“I don’t think they know where I am,” you mumbled into his chest. It was so easy to stay there. “But I think they’re still looking. I don’t think they’ll stop.” 

You felt Azriel’s lips press against the crown of your head. His chin found a home there as you both shifted to watch Melanie. 

“Okay. Okay, that’s fine.” 

“Is it? You didn’t exactly sign up for this.” 

“I signed up for you. Whatever that entails.” 

A calm silence washed over the scene by the Sidra. Azriel brought his other arm around to hold you closer to his chest and you let him, seamlessly sinking into his hold. Melanie was none the wiser to the conversations behind her as she began dropping sticks and leaves into the water. 

Azriel kissed your hair once more. 

“It could be safer—“ Azriel began, words laced with reproach. “—if some of the Inner Circle were involved.” 

You wrenched yourself back as quickly as the words left his mouth. “No,” you shook your head vigorously. It made an ache bloom at the base of your neck. “No, no court involvement. You can’t tell them anything. You can’t, Azriel. I know you said it was safe but you don’t understand. This can’t have anything to do with High Lords or court politics or, or—” 

“Okay, okay—hey, I’m sorry. Come here.” 

The panic had taken hold of your bearings and inched close to your heart. You reached up to place a hand against the pressure there as Azriel tugged you back against his body and glanced toward Melanie to ensure she hadn’t picked up on your stress. 

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” he comforted, running his hand down your hair. “Nothing with the court, okay? I won’t tell any of them.” 

“Do you promise?” you all but whimpered. A tinge of embarrassment seeped under your skin at your actualized panic, but the fear took precedence and Azriel showed no repugnance at your reaction. 

For a brief, fleeting moment, you considered that a promise didn’t really mean anything at all—not before. 

But, from Azriel, it felt like something. 

“I promise.” 

A small voice then sounded, facilitating the natural end to the sharing you had offered. “All of the fishies are gone.” 

Azriel didn’t even attempt to move you away from his chest as he spoke, his words creating vibrations along your body. “That’s because you keep throwing things at them, Mel.” 

“I wasn’t throwing things at them. I was trying to offer those things to them.” 

You turned to speak to your daughter, Azriel’s arms unmoving around you. “Why were you offering things to the fish?” 

“Just in case they’re water gods. Ms. Fern tolds us about them in school. If you make them offerings then they protect you.” 

Your laugh was echoed by Azriel. The two of you shared a smile before you slowly unraveled yourself from him and beckoned your daughter forward. “Well, I’m sure they were very grateful for your offering. It was probably just their bedtime. Just like it’s almost yours.” 

Melanie made a face but didn’t argue, instead taking steps past you to stand at Azriel’s feet. “Mr. Azriel, is it my turn to cuddle? I don’t want to walk all the way home.” 

You watched Azriel’s mouth twist into a small smile that was obviously in place of a much larger one. He looked over Melanie’s head to send you a wordless question that you were quick to nod in response to. 

As if you would tell him no. 

Azriel reached down to haul your daughter up, settling her against his hip as if he’d done so a hundred times. Melanie rested her head on his chest almost as quickly as he’d grabbed for her, fiddling with a stick she still held in her grasp. You made to walk alongside them and calm your pattering heart, but certain people had other plans. 

“You too, mommy,” Melanie called, peaking the side of her face out from Azriel’s chest. 

“Me too?” 

“Uh huh. You come too. Mr. Azriel has two arms. And I can hold your hand.”

You sent a knowing glance up to Azriel, but he forwent the snickering and already had his arm open by the time you looked. “In,” he prompted with raised brows. “And you have a hand to hold.”  

part seven

Melanie sat up in her bed with a small groan, the braid you had put in her hair earlier in disarray. “Yeah. Don’t wanna sleep. Where’s mommy?” 

Azriel hummed and pushed a wild curl behind her ear. “Mommy’s sick, so she’s sleeping. Like you should be.” 

“You aren’t sick, Mr. Azriel?” 

“No, I can’t get sick like you. Not right now, anyway.” 

Melanie’s brow furrowed and her head swayed. “Can you hold me like mommy does?” 

Azriel’s heart shattered in his chest at her request. Her sleepy eyes blearily stared up at him as he let out a shaky breath and attempted to push down some of his joy at her request. 

Maybe you didn’t fully trust him yet, but Melanie did. 

“Sure, sweetheart,” he replied, reaching out beneath her arms to hoist her up. When her head immediately found a home in the juncture of his neck, Azriel melted. “Are you feeling any better?” 

Melanie fisted Azriel’s shirt as he situated her against his chest. “Little bit.” 

Sometimes, when she spoke, Azriel could hear you in Melanie’s voice. 

He wanted so badly to be part of that connection. 

The want often scared him. 

“Can we go to mommy’s room?” she asked, pulling her head up to send him a sleepy question. “Not to wake her up. Mommy’s room is just nice.” 

The two of you always sought each other out—always found safety in being near. 

Azriel rubbed Melanie’s back and nodded with a smile that was fueled both by adoration and melancholy. 

Your room was dark when he entered. Melanie had taken a glance at your sleeping figure and then rested her head back into the crook of Azriel’s neck. He could feel each breath she took and felt each clench of her fists into his shirt. 

“Is this better?” Azriel asked, voice so low and careful he wasn’t sure if the five-year-old would hear him. 

But Melanie nodded and whispered back a small confirmation that made Azriel’s chest hurt. He held her closer to his chest and watched the rise and fall of yours as you slept an arm’s length away. When Melanie’s breathing didn’t even out after a few minutes, he placed a hand behind her head and started lightly swaying. 

“You have to try and sleep, Mel. That’s how you get better,” he whispered into her ear. 

“I’m trying,” she whispered back, strained and trying to keep quiet for her mom. “It’s hard, Mr. Azriel. My head doesn’t feel good.” 

Azriel tutted and hated that there was very little he could do for this illness. “I know, Mel. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” 

Her only response was to bury her face further into his shoulder. 

Azriel thought back to his youth, to the perils and hardships he had endured, and he sought after the light—the good moments. His mother’s singing stood out, the melody of a Night Court lullaby gently lulling in his mind. 

Azriel didn’t have much experience with children other than Nyx, but, with Melanie, that didn’t seem to matter. With Melanie, everything came to him with a practiced ease that didn’t feel deserved. But he took from it anyway. 

So, Azriel began to hum the lullabies from his childhood, wrapping a wing around the child in his arms to block everything else out. 

And she was able to sleep.