Mortalfae

The scent of vanilla and spun sugar in the river house’s kitchen was entirely innocent. Elain was entirely innocent.

Azriel, however, was currently burning alive in his own personal hell.

He sat at the long oak table, a whetstone in one hand, Truth-Teller in the other. He hadn't polished the blade in an hour. He couldn't. His shadows, usually so alert, so quick to whisper warnings of political unrest or enemy movements, were currently clustered near the hem of Elain’s dress, practically panting.

Vulgar, he thought, a dark wave of shame rippling through his chest. He was a spymaster. He was the shadowsinger. He should have been focusing on the intelligence reports piling up in his study.

Instead, he was completely, utterly down bad.

Elain hummed a soft, lilting Velaris tune, dusting a wooden cutting board with flour. She was wearing a new dress. She’d claimed Nuala and Cerridwen had tailored it for the upcoming summer solstice, but Azriel was convinced the half-wraiths were trying to murder him.

The bodice was modest enough, covering her collarbones, but the fabric was spun so tightly against her skin it was a sin. It hugged the sweet, sloping curve of her waist before flaring out over hips that looked agonizingly wider than they had last season. Every time she reached for a mixing bowl, the fabric stretched taut, accentuating the perfect, heavy roundness of her ass.

That magnificent ass. He’d spent centuries believing his preferences lay elsewhere, but Elain had effortlessly corrupted him, turning him into a male entirely enslaved by her backside.

Azriel’s throat went bone-dry. His knuckles turned white around the hilt of his dagger.

He imagined walking up behind her. He imagined his large, scarred hands gripping those deceptively wide hips, pulling her back against his groin until she could feel exactly what she was doing to him. He wanted to hook his fingers into that tight fabric, rip it down the center seam, and bury his face between those soft, pale cheeks. He wanted to mark her. He wanted to hear the sweet, breathless gasp she would make when he slid two fingers inside her, finding her already wet for him while the bread was still rising in the oven.

A drop of sweat rolled down his neck. Calm down, he told himself, the Illyrian beast inside him roaring at the restraint. She is a lady. She is sweet, and gentle, and not yours. "Azriel?"

Her voice was like silk, cutting through the heavy haze of his depravity.

He forced his expression to remain a mask of cool, unbothered calm, though his wings twitched tight against his back. "Yes, Elain?"

She turned around, wiping a stray smudge of flour from her cheek, entirely unaware that she had just spent the last ten minutes driving a centuries-old warrior to the brink of madness. She looked up at him through her lashes, those big, brown doe eyes wide and full of absolute trust.

Gods above.

Azriel’s mind fractured. His eyes nearly rolled back into his head as a violent surge of lust hit him straight in the gut.

Those eyes. Those beautiful, innocent, wide eyes.

A filthy, dark image flashed in his mind, vivid enough to make his vision blur. He imagined her. He imagined his thick, aching cock sliding past her lips, stretching her mouth out as she swallowed him whole. He wanted to grip her soft golden-brown hair, his fingers tangling in the strands, to tilt her head back and look down into those exact same doe eyes while they watered from the sheer, unforgiving size of him. He wanted to see her blown-out gaze looking up at him, completely wrecked by his thickness, choking beautifully as he claimed her mouth, marking her throat with the rhythmic thrust of his hips until she was entirely marked by him. Until he was entirely done by her.

His cock throbbed painfully against the leather of his leathers, straining so hard it ached.

"Do you think Rhys and Feyre will like the blackberry tarts?" Elain asked softly, gesturing to the neat rows of pastry on the counter. "I used the honey from the night market.“

Azriel swallowed hard, his voice dropping an octave, thick and gravelly. "They will love them.“

"Are you alright?" She took a step closer, tilting her head. Her breasts, pushed up by the tight bodice, swelled temptingly. "You look a bit flushed. Is it too warm in here?“

"I'm fine," he choked out. If she came any closer, if he caught the scent of her arousal, he was going to lose his mind. He was going to throw her onto the floured table, push that tight dress up to her waist, and take her until they both forgot their own names.

"If you're sure," Elain smiled, a sweet, radiant thing that made him feel like the vilest creature in the Night Court for the thoughts running through his head. She turned back to her baking, her round ass shifting deliciously under the tight fabric as she reached for a dish towel.

Azriel gripped the edge of the table, letting the rough wood bite into his palms, praying for the mother to grant him strength. He was a patient man. He had waited centuries for many things.

But looking at Elain, he knew his restraint was ticking down to its final, agonizing seconds.