#acotar fluff

Eris Vanserra was a walking, talking danger.

At least, that’s all you’d ever been told.

You weren’t entirely sure what to believe, anymore. After all, perhaps danger was only a preconceived notion.

You lived amidst danger every day. The fae lands you’d once had no choice but to call home was filled with danger. The people who you now called friends were dangerous. Cauldron, even your sisters had become like living, breathing weapons in their own ways.

Which was probably why despite being grown, your three sisters still hovered over you, protected you, kept you from immediate danger—especially after being turned fae. It was even worse now than when you were mere humans.

Legend had it that before your mother died, it was Elain that was once the most protected one of the Archerons—at least by Nesta. You were so young when you’d lost your mother, you’d barely remembered her or what life had been like when she still lived.

Being a little more than a year younger than Feyre, you were just shy of your seventh birthday when your mother had passed. Somehow, at some point—you were never clear on how—your sisters had banded together to protect you, the baby.

As if they realized since you’d no longer had a mother to tend to you, they would be the mother you lacked.

Even if they always didn’t get along—Feyre and Nesta the most—they tried, for you. At some point, it was no longer Elain the one that was coddled, it became you. At a point so early in your life, you hardly remembered that either.

Even when your sisters bickered, they’d always rally around to make sure you were taken care of. Especially when your father had lost his fortune and your family fell into poverty. You were always the one your sisters made sure had enough food, had the warmest blanket, was always in the middle of the bed, cocooned by them.

But your lives now were so far removed from that dilapidated cottage. Just four of you remained from your original family, having lost your father in the war with Hybern—killed by the King, himself, in front of Nesta.

Life being protected by your sisters was all you’d known.

When your family was destitute, you’d let them. Back then, you were a mere girl who didn’t know how to take care of herself, didn’t have a need or desire to.

Everything had changed when you, Nesta and Elain were forcibly turned fae by the Cauldron. That was following Feyre becoming immortal herself after months spent in the faerie lands of Prythian, living and experiencing horrendous things that you’d once only could dream of.

But in the aftermath, after all of your sister’s trauma and healing journeys combined—plus yours, you supposed—they still continued to rally around you tighter, closing in ranks.

You weren’t the same person you were when you were human. You weren’t the same female as the one that had went into that Cauldron.

For now, you despised being smothered.

Their insistence to keep you from harm's way was inevitably what led you to noticing a specific male, after all.

The first time you’d met him—been allowed around him more like—was at the Winter Solstice ball in the Hewn City almost a year ago now. The only way you’d even been allowed to go was because you’d insisted your sisters take you.

Even if you’d despised having to beg to do something.

So you had accompanied the group to the Hewn City.

You, Nesta and Elain were all dressed in Night Court black—Nesta in more of a revealing dress, Elain more modest. You, on the other hand, had somehow fallen in the middle.

Though you’d had to argue just to wear the semi-loose black dress you’d donned.

It had shorter, ruffled sleeves—unlike Elain’s long sleeved dress—and a billowy skirt of sheer black gossamer. The fabric was layered over a black satin lining that lay underneath, fitting closer your body. Though more risqué in comparison to Elain’s dress, it was nowhere near as tight or revealing as Nesta’s or Feyre’s outfits. But what had caused the argument was the neckline that had plunged, just enough to show off a decent amount of your breasts.

You’d clearly won the argument.

You may have been their baby sister, but you were an Archeron—you didn’t come without bite.

You and your two eldest sisters had entered the throne room after the two Illyrians and Mor, but before Feyre and Rhys. The crowd murmured as the three of you approached the dais.

Which was when you’d first caught a glimpse of the male—one of two that stood at the dais, awaiting the arrival of everyone.

Tall, long red hair, dressed in Night Court black—seemingly coming with an air of arrogance and self importance.

Eris Vanserra, the heir of the Autumn Court.

You had been intrigued almost immediately.

Nesta was supposed to dance with him tonight—all for a plan you’d had little knowledge of. As per usual, your sisters kept you out of the loop when it came to most courtly matters.

It was only after Feyre and Rhys had been seated on their thrones—and dismissed the gathered court to their festivities—that the two males had finally approached the dais. One was a tall, blonde male that resembled Mor too much to not be her father. Keir, you’d taken it.

Your sisters may not have involved you in much, but your snooping and deduction skills were immaculate because of such behavior.

The other one—Eris—had been the one who’d kept your attention.

Feyre and Rhys had spoken to Keir, dismissing him, but you’d hardly heard them, as your eyes had kept wandering to the heir. Though he never once turned to you in that short amount of time, something told you that he had been aware of every peek and glance you’d sent his way.

You couldn’t help the way your stomach had swooped in reaction to how attractive he was.

Sure, you’d been surrounded by beautiful males from the moment you’d been turned fae, but he was different. Off limits. Dangerous in a way you’d never been allowed to touch.

You’d had a brief recollection of the first time you’d met his younger brother, Lucien. At how you were practically smitten with the handsome face and well mannered male—all to find out that this was the male that was your second eldest sister’s mate.

Clearly you’d been too traumatized after being turned to be able to remember that it was Lucien that was your sister’s mate—had hardly remembered the fact that he had whispered to Elain that she was his mate.

Perhaps it was fury that drove you to act out more. Disdain for the fact that even Elain—the one who was the most gentle sister and once even briefly coddled—could have a mate and spend a few years ignoring him with little repercussions.

But had you ever been allowed to experience anything like that? Of course not.

Which is why you’d allowed yourself to look at Eris Vanserra that night. Maybe out of sheer foolishness, maybe as a way to invite trouble.

Maybe out of something far deadlier.

His amber eyes had roamed the three of you—snagging on Elain, assessing. He’d known good and well his little brother’s mate was standing in front of him.

He was to dance with Nesta, but before he’d turned to your eldest sister, his eyes fell to you. Something sparked in them as his eyes raked over your form. The corners of his mouth curled upwards in a smirk.

“Now, who do we have here?”

It was the next to youngest Archeron who had spoken, your sister only a year older than you—your High Lady.

“She is none of your concern.”

You’d wanted to grimace at the dismissal. Wanted to argue against the statement—to say you could speak for yourself. But amber eyes still remained steady on you.

“Can you not speak for yourself, dove?”

You hadn’t shown your surprise, but you’d certainly felt it, hearing the heir voice the words you’d just been thinking.

“Eris.”

There was a warning growl in Rhys’s tone. You’d practically sighed dramatically. If there was anything worse than overprotective sisters, it was overprotective brothers.

Having mated sisters also meant you’d gained a small army of overprotective males—which wasn’t anything you weren’t used to from your own blood, the overprotectiveness, that was.

But Eris had turned from you, finally offering Nesta his arm.

You’d watched his retreating form all the way to the dance floor, something sparking in you by his mere existence.

Later, you had wandered from the dais under the pretense of getting refreshments. While that was partially true, you had been growing bored standing on the dais simply watching the festivities. You wanted to join, wanted to explore.

Your wandering had resulted in you running into Eris. You’d been slightly shocked he hadn’t still been glued to your eldest sister. They’d already danced three dances together—or more—by that point.

But his attention had snagged on you, borderline predatory as the corner of his mouth curled up. You’d almost run right into his strong build and one of his hands had hovered over your waist, so close to touching your body, but not. You’d felt the way his touch had skimmed the material of your dress though before he’d dropped his hand, finally speaking.

“Where have they been hiding you?”

You’d only tilted your chin up, in defiance, not in the slightest intimidated by the boldness of his direct question.

“Maybe I haven’t seen a need to trouble myself with such boring, courtly matters.”

It had been a flat out lie. You’d have done anything even for the monotony of a boring meeting or courtly discussions. Even Elain—a warrior in quieter ways than your other two sisters, preferring baking and gardening in her spare time—somehow managed to be more involved in the dealings of the Night Court.

She certainly seemed to have more of a life than you did.

Perhaps it was because like Feyre and Nesta, she too had extraordinary powers granted by the Cauldron or in Feyre’s case, gifted from the High Lords.

You’d never developed any sort of Cauldron blessed powers.

If the Cauldron seemed to think Nesta was a thief and hated her for stealing something from it—if the Cauldron seemed to love Elain and gave her something, it seemed to have been pretty apathetic towards you. Its indifference had left you with nothing more than the normal High Fae powers. Nothing grand. Like it, too, had conspired with your sisters and didn’t deem you trustworthy with something as powerful as your sisters’ powers.

It was one in a long list of things that infuriated you.

Not necessarily the lack of powers, but the fact you always seemed to live in the shadows of the other three Archeron females.

As for the matter of your life…there seemed little for you to do really, other than just exist for them to protect.

There had been only so many times you could go to the quarters to shop. Or help Elain prepare a meal. Or even do menial housework like you were a servant.

You’d helped Elain in her garden so often, you were sick of the sight of it. Not that it wasn’t lovely—your sister was amazing at growing and tending beautiful flowers.

You simply just yearned for…more.

You knew your sisters loved you, but you were tired. You were so incredibly tired of this life.

Which is exactly why you’d set your sights on him.

He’d only grinned fully—likely not a comforting thing to most. It had been a cunning and mischievous smile. But it still sent a thrill through you anyway.

“You appear akin to the type to leap at any chance of excitement.”

His voice had been cool, amused, as he studied you.

You’d studied him right back, eyes roaming over the pale, freckled face, amber eyes focused on nothing about you. You tilted your head casually, innocently—perhaps a touch flirtatiously.

“You sure you’re not thinking of yourself, Eris?”

If his name on your lips had any sort of affect on him, he sure hadn’t shown it outwardly. He’d simply slipped his hands into the pockets of his black pants, that grin only sharpening even more.

If your sisters had been anywhere nearby they’d have probably fainted at your carelessness with the male—or likely exploded into balls of fury. Either would’ve been possible knowing them.

“So you can speak for yourself,” he’d chuckled, clearly amused at your quip back to him.

“I don’t see anyone else that happens to be a part of this conversation, do you?” you’d snarked.

That deep chuckle had sounded again and you’d luxuriated in the sound. The rich smoothness of it, like velvet.

“I noticed you haven’t taken to the dance floor. Is there any reason why?”

You had just quirked a brow at him.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a tad too bold and brash?”

“Every day of my immortal life, dove.”

That smile still hadn’t left his face, eyes taking you in as you’d been conversing with him.

“Perhaps I have no interest in dancing,” you’d lied smoothly.

“Perhaps you’re kept on a leash. One that you seem to thrash against.”

It had been incredible how much the male seemed to observe about individuals. You’d barely met him and he’d already seemed to have an incredibly accurate read on you.

“I think you happen to be dramatic, on top of thinking highly of yourself—and your skill set,” you’d drawled.

He’d known you were evading the truth. You saw it in the way those burning amber eyes sparkled. He was very aware that there was much you weren’t voicing.

Whatever he’d assessed about you in the following beats of his silence had him humming, eyes raking over you in interest.

“What a shame. You seem to be the most entertaining thing I’ve encountered yet.”

You’d simply grabbed a goblet of wine, facing him. You’d given him a sharp smile of your own before inflicting your parting shot.

“You must’ve lived an incredibly boring life for an immortal then.”

You’d left him there, still smirking at your retreating form.

It was then that the bare bones of an idea started forming in your mind.

Now, in the present, nearly a year later, your sisters still tried to keep you from Eris. Though so far, you’d managed to finagle your way into going to some meetings he was involved with.

While you’d had your fair share of trauma like your sisters, you were also the most restless of them. Perhaps it was due to the fact you remembered nothing but being coddled, sheltered and overprotected.

So you’d managed to get them to loosen their hold—slowly, at first—but even just a little bit. Enough to let you be helpful in small matters. To attend meetings. Listen to conversations.

To be around a certain Autumn heir.

Though that was for pure selfish reasons as an idea had been weighing on your mind since last winter.

Due to your sister’s overprotectiveness, you’d never taken a male to your bed. No male had stood a chance, not with three Archerons circling you like a pack of wolves.

You’d hated that fact.

Feyre had been allowed to make mistakes, learn from them. Nesta had been allowed to lose her maidenhead to a random fae male and keep male company in her bed for months on end. Elain had been allowed time to heal, explore her own options, even ignore her own mate while she processed her own trauma.

Two of your sisters were now happily mated. Even Elain was getting to know her mate, not entirely open to completely rejecting the bond yet.

Meanwhile, you felt like you couldn’t do anything without being treated like the child they clearly still saw you as. Despite the fact that they’d started allowing you to do small things just to appease you, you were still far from being involved. The tighter they’d tried to hold you, the more you wanted to rebel.

Which is how the idea truly came to form.

You’d been watching the male for some time—granted, only in the times you were allowed to be around him. The word allow always made you want to roll your eyes into the back of your head in annoyance and frustration.

But you’d had an idea. A reckless one perhaps, but one nonetheless.

And Eris Vanserra was the perfect male for it.

•••

You’d been waiting for him in the hall outside of Rhys’s study—leaning against the wall—for about an hour.

You’d known he was in Velaris to meet with Rhys for some things they needed to discuss—not like you had any knowledge of what, though you were half tempted to peek through the crack of the wooden doors to eavesdrop.

But you were above that.

Sometimes.

You weren’t sure what possessed you to approach him today, but when you awoke this morning, you’d vowed the next time you saw the male, you’d take the chance.

It turned out that opportunity just happened to come a lot sooner than you’d expected.

You straightened the moment you heard approaching voices, signaling one—if not both of them—were approaching the door. Then the heavy wooden doors opened and he walked out.

Mercifully, alone.

You glimpsed Rhys still at his desk, dark head of hair bent over as he scribbled something on parchment. Then the doors closed behind Eris.

The corners of his lips curved upwards, delighted by your presence.

“Well, if this isn’t a surprise. Should I flatter myself by thinking you’re waiting for me or were you waiting for Rhysand?”

You didn’t beat around the bush, you just blurted what was on your mind.

“I have a proposition for you.”

He looked at you, intrigue shining in those amber eyes. He assessed you briefly—likely weighing your words, your body language, your demeanor.

“Walk with me,” he finally said.

You chewed on your lip nervously, following the tall redhead. You were already starting to have second thoughts about going through with this.

But it was something different—exciting. Hadn’t you craved that for so long?

His long legs took him a few strides down the hallway and away from Rhys’s study doors. You followed, suddenly wondering how the hell you were gonna manage to put this request into words and not sound like a complete fool.

You finally caught up with him, coming up at his side, displaying a lot more bravado than you certainly felt.

“Do you preoccupy all your spare time with dull court politics or attempting to thwart your father?”

He turned to look at you, lifting an amused brow.

“My duties never seem to cease, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It’s a mere observation,” you replied casually.

At this point, the two of you had sauntered down the hall far enough from Rhys’s study so when he finally paused—crossing his arms and leaning against the wall to look at you with curiosity—you weren’t worried about eavesdroppers.

“Quite the curious thing, aren’t you, dove?”

You shrugged, seemingly unruffled.

He studied you for a moment, eyes narrowing infinitesimally.

“If you have something to say, I would encourage you to just voice it.”

Truly you had no idea where the courage came from.

“You haven’t taken a lover in a while.”

His eyes sharpened, something flaring in them that you couldn’t put a finger on.

“Been utilizing that shadowsinger, haven’t you?”

It was true. Somehow, you’d managed to convince Azriel to do some snooping. You’d convinced him—and the others, when they’d found out—that it might be good information to have, to keep him in line if he ever acted out. To see if Eris had any lovers, anyone that could potentially be used as a pawn.

Though it was born out of purely selfish reasons and you had absolutely no intention of using any potential individual in such a way.

You’d been shocked when Azriel’s intel had come back with nothing. As far as he could sniff out, it had been some time since Eris had taken a lover.

That was the final push you’d needed, determined to proceed with your plan.

“I— What if we— If I said—”

So much for the bravado you’d just had. That all came tumbling down like a house of cards. You were now stumbling over your words, awkward and nervous.

You tried again.

“I wanted to know if— I thought perhaps—”

The smug smirk on his face was annoying—and annoyingly attractive—as he watched you fumble for what you were trying to say. He wasn’t even bothering to put you out of your misery, happy to allow you to continue to stutter.

“Dove, if you can’t use your words, I’ll be leaving now.”

You blurted it out before you even had any idea what was coming out of your mouth.

“Take me.”

Gods, the words that came out of your mouth made you internally groan and want the floor to swallow you whole, simultaneously.

Those lips twitched in amusement—he was practically vibrating with it.

“Take you where?” he quipped, smoothly, absolutely unbothered.

The bastard probably knew exactly what you meant, too.

You just gave him an exasperated look resulting in one of those deep, sensuous chuckles of his.

It was enough to give you goosebumps.

“What if we made a bargain?”

Now, he certainly looked intrigued.

The male, who usually appeared so cold, face like stone, looked genuinely interested. The arrogant amusement from earlier had banked a tad as he eyed you. He wasn’t mocking you, wasn’t dismissing you. He was clearly waiting a moment before speaking—either to give you an opportunity to continue or to gather his thoughts.

Clearly it was the latter for he dropped his arms, straightening from where he’d been leaning against the wall. His face was now serious, giving you nothing but his full attention.

“What would motivate the precious, youngest Archeron sister to want to make a bargain with me?”

He was a head taller than you, face bent down to look at you. Those intense amber eyes bore into you, face free of anything he could be potentially feeling or thinking.

Gods, no wonder some were terrified of him.

“You have not had a lover in some time,” you began after taking a breath, steadying your nerves, “And I have never had one.”

The speed of which his brows flicked up surprised you—certainly coming from a male that had mastered the art of keeping a blank face as to never give anything away.

You pushed on anyway.

“You end a drought and I…” you trailed off, straightening your shoulders, “I make a choice that is for myself, for once.”

Something flashed in his eyes, there and gone before you could hardly register it, let alone identify what it was. He looked to be choosing his words carefully, as if he had much to say, but was sifting through all the possibilities—careful to pick the best answer.

“That isn’t a bargain. That’s theft.”

You gritted your teeth. You should’ve anticipated that he wouldn’t take what you offered so easily. He was a male that thought through things thoroughly, assessed every situation from every angle, observed what would and would not benefit him the most.

Which is why, completely unplanned, you added what you did.

“Then if you agree to this, I will owe you a favor. Of any kind. You need to win favor with Rhys? I’ll argue your case.”

You weren’t about to back down as you stared up at him defiantly. Even if he refused or gave you a hard time, you would see this through to the end at least.

“A favor of any kind. Whatever you want.”

He finally leaned back a little—you hadn’t even realized he’d been hovering so close. He once again folded his arms over his chest, fingers curling on his biceps.

Biceps you tried not to focus on—even if they were displayed quite nicely in his courtly finery.

You tried not to fidget under his gaze. You remained calm outwardly, though, willing to see this through.

“That is a fool’s bargain. You have little to offer me. After all, you cannot offer me what I truly want anyway.”

Likely his father’s throne.

You may have been kept from much, but you weren’t stupid.

“Anything you want,” you pressed.

“Anything I want?”

“Yes.”

He eyed you curiously, eyes trailing your form lazily, even slower on the way back up. When he spoke, his voice was the icy cadence you’d heard from him in the past—more on par with the horrible male your own family and friends made him out to be.

“Didn’t Morrigan tell you I torture virgins?”

You had to restrain the urge to roll your eyes. Your sisters, Mor, everyone had spun tales about Eris Vanserra like he was a frightening bedtime story. Yet they all seemed to interact with him fine. For Cauldron’s sake your own sister was a sister-in-law to him—sorta.

You betrayed none of your irritation or whirling thoughts, just leveling him with a piercing gaze.

“Is it truly torture if one wants it?”

He just hummed, saying nothing more, though he kept that unwavering stare directed on you. Gods, he could be intimidating.

You weren’t about to let him scare you though.

“Do your sisters approve of this?”

Irritation flooded your senses at the mention of them.

“My sisters have nothing to do with this.”

He hummed once more, eyes continuing to take you in, likely turning everything about this situation over in his mind.

“I only ask because I’d prefer avoiding the wrath of three Archeron sisters.”

You bristled further.

“This is my choice. I chose to approach you. If you haven’t picked up on it, today’s theme is my choice.”

At some point your hands had planted on your hips, fingers digging into the material of the pants you’d stolen from Feyre’s wardrobe. Mercifully, they didn’t dictate what you wore, but it was an unspoken sentiment that they assumed you’d prefer being much more like Elain—prim and proper and clothed in dresses.

You never minded the more feminine clothing, often having bonded with the eldest of the two middle sisters over beautiful dresses. But you diverged from Elain, desiring to not always be clothed in them.

Even more so now that Nesta often lived in pants.

You could see the thoughts churning in his mind, the unsaid things swimming in his gaze. It was an insane thing to ask of him—of anyone, yet you were.

But you knew if anyone would, Eris Vanserra wouldn’t make it a big deal. You knew he had knowledge of navigating deals however he saw fit—mostly ones that could benefit him.

This would most definitely benefit him. He was a male, after all.

You didn’t know what you would do if he said no. Likely try to save face and not slink away with your tail between your legs—not give him the satisfaction of your humiliation and desperation.

Though you supposed you likely already permeated the scent of desperation—if the fae could actually scent that, that is.

But you were tired, so tired of the shackles you’d been forced into.

So it came as a surprise when he finally spoke.

“Fine. I’ll…assist you for a favor. Of any size I wish.”

“Then it’s a bargain?”

“It is indeed a bargain.”

You extended your hand for him to shake—to seal the bargain—though it was a bit preposterous in the scheme of things. You were bargaining for Eris to be the first male you laid with, shaking his hand now almost made you want to laugh.

His large hand slid into yours and shook it firmly.

Then something happened that you hadn’t anticipated.

The feeling of magic zapped between you and Eris, like a shock. A slight burn-like heat—like flames—briefly consumed the skin of your right wrist. The same hand that had just shaken his.

At the first sensations, you’d jerked back, hand falling from his at the unusual magical reaction. Lifting your hand, you saw a tattoo on your wrist.

You briefly recalled Feyre and Nesta mentioning that Night Court bargains often came with a physical marking too—in dark as night black ink.

Yours was wildly appropriate. It was a tiny tattoo, perhaps barely over an inch big, but like a beacon of light on your once smooth, unblemished skin. The outline was of a singular flame—the ink, the darkest black.

Gentle fingers circled your wrist as he turned it to study it. A thumb ran over the newly marked skin, gently, sensually. Your breath hitched slightly at the movement.

“How very appropriate—flames right over the pulse that I’ll soon have speeding…from my own sort of fire.”

For indeed, right where the tattoo had been inked into your skin was just over your pulse.

Something caught your eye as you noticed an identical tattoo on his pale wrist—on his right wrist as well. The same hand he’d used to shake your own.

He seemed to track your stare, his own eyes following. Gently releasing your own wrist, he held up his own to admire.

“Huh—can’t say I’ve ever received a tattoo from a Night Court bargain before.”

“Well, glad to be your first,” you quipped.

You didn’t know why you felt so shaken, all of a sudden. You didn’t regret it, but you were left uncertain. Now that the bargain was quite literally inked into yours and Eris’s skin, you didn’t know what to expect.

He seemed to read your thoughts and he finally stepped away again, ready to make his exit, likely back to Autumn.

“Don’t you worry dove, our bargain will be fufilled—eventually.”

With that, he gave you no further inclination on just when that would be.

No, Eris just winked before he winnowed away, disappearing right before your eyes.

Leaving you with the realization that you now had proof of a bargain you would somehow have to hide from your sisters.

•••

Months passed.

Months.

You’d grown rather crafty with hiding the flame tattoo from everyone. Lots of long sleeves were worn or—when you were in shorter sleeves—a stack of jeweled bracelets sat on your wrist.

Feyre never questioned why you seemed so intent on occasionally raiding her massive jewelry collection. Likely, she was pleased that it was an inane, innocent interest. One that kept you preoccupied and safe.

Little did she know.

You’d borrowed a small collection of beautiful bracelets yet you’d barely made a dent in her own collection of jewelry. She did have quite an array between Rhys spoiling her and what he already owned prior to meeting her.

You’d concluded the pieces you’d taken were some of the cheaper ones, since Feyre seemed to have no issue with you wearing them.

Besides, you didn’t want anyone discovering what you’d done. Especially not Feyre, Nesta or Elain, though the males were to likely be as insufferable about it if they found out. Not only about the bargain, but who you’d made a bargain with.

You were already treading on thin ice.

You’d continued to conveniently appear any time Eris was around. If he was in Velaris to discuss courtly matters, you’d happen to be in the same location—or happen to have an important question for Rhys that you just had to ask him, while he was meeting with Eris. Sometimes it was a tiny lie that someone needed Feyre. Once, you pretended to need a book that Cassian had asked you to fetch. In Rhys’s library. Just as your next to youngest sister and her mate were happening to expect Eris.

You’d even managed to worm your way into a meeting—something about reinforcing Autumn’s borders that his father had turned into a bigger problem than necessary.

“How am I supposed to learn anything if you don’t let me learn?” you’d asked Feyre earlier that day.

You’d felt smug when she couldn’t find an answer for that question and had reluctantly let you join.

Admittedly, you weren’t that enamored with the business that required discussing.

It was nice to be included though, especially since two of your three sisters were included, along with the two Illyrians, Rhys and even Amren, though how Rhys managed to pull her away from her apartment and Varian was beyond you. Mor—probably grateful to be—had left for the continent again this morning.

No, you weren’t there for business, but to feel out Eris.

Every time you’d run into the male, he always smirked like he knew a secret. But, of course, he actually did.

It was always in the knowing looks, the sly smirks, eyes dipping to your covered right wrist. It was like he was burning with the knowledge of what had occurred between the two of you.

But he’d yet to approach it. You would still owe him any favor, but he’d not even fulfilled his part of the bargain yet. It was like he found the utmost enjoyment in keeping you on your toes, extending the suspense for as long as possible.

During said meeting, you busied yourself trying to listen to the flow of conversation, even if you only understood half of it. You sat lazily, chin resting in your hand, attempting to keep your eyes from straying towards him.

Eris noticed every time, amber eyes flicking to you and catching you in the act. Even if his face remained neutral, his eyes danced with amusement, intrigue and a whole lot of mischief.

Later, when he stood, stretching slightly, the material of his shirt pulled taught across his chest—just enough to give you an idea of the toned physique underneath. Accompanied by a deep chuckle at something that was said, you found your body reacting before you could stop it.

You felt heat curl low in your belly, your thighs pressing together. When he turned, eyes falling to you, you swore you felt that desire deepening.

If he truly went through with the bargain, he would be the first male you’d take to your bed. What started out as something born of a desire to clear this milestone in life had suddenly—and sneakily—turned into actual attraction to the male.

You no longer wanted Eris for what he could do for you, you wanted him because it was him.

“Is it too warm in here?”

You blinked, realizing he was talking to you.

“I’m sorry?”

“You look rather flushed. Mere observation,” he shrugged.

He strolled past you towards the door with no further comment. But you still caught the sly flicker of his eyes as they slid to you, just as he passed you, intent and promise in them.

Soon, he seemed to say.

You didn’t know what to make of it, but you knew the day was rapidly approaching that Eris would come knocking.

And you’d be prepared for it.

•••

The night that Eris appeared at your door followed a really horrible day.

You were still tense, your mood sour from leftover anger and frustration following a horrible fight with your sisters. What had started as an innocent question had resulted in your defenses rising—thus turning it into a whole ordeal.

“Is there something going on between you and Eris?” Feyre had asked pointedly, earlier that afternoon.

For once, you, she, Nesta and Elain were all in the same place. Something that was rarer nowadays with Elain kept busy flitting across different courts, falling into a natural emissary role—a title Rhys thought was perfect for her with her bubbly, social personality.

Nesta was usually off with Cassian or the Valkyries and priestesses. In the last months, she’d started finally merging into a teaching role alongside Cassian and Azriel—at least teaching the beginners.

You were no warrior, but sometimes you’d wished you were even allowed to desire the option to train.

Feyre, of course, was kept busy between being High Lady, mate, friend and sister.

All to say it was a rare occurrence that the four of you were gathered at the same time.

Nesta had been reading a book by the fire, content to relax with a good story after a busy morning. Feyre had been at a small desk in the room, reviewing correspondence from another court—not that she was likely to fill you in on just what it entailed. Elain was at her back, sipping her cup of tea and reading over her shoulder. Perhaps it had to do with a court that Elain had just returned from visiting.

You? You’d been sitting in the window seat, staring out at the beautiful day, unable to focus on the book of Nesta’s she’d lent you. You weren’t sure if you’d even made it past the first chapter yet.

Restlessness had always plagued you, but more days than not, lately, you felt like you drowned in it from sunrise to sunset.

You’d snorted, finding the accusation utterly ridiculous, even if there was a hint of truth to it.

“That’s preposterous!”

“Is it?” Nesta peered up from her book, putting a finger between the pages—to mark her place—as she closed it, “Because any time that male is around, you somehow find a way to be involved. Or make an appearance. Or happen to be passing through.”

You’d recalled that maybe you had been a bit obvious.

“Well he’s certainly more exciting than you lot are,” you’d mumbled.

It had been the wrong thing to say.

“Exciting doesn’t mean throwing yourself into danger at every turn,” Feyre had reprimanded, “We are trying to spare you from such things.”

You could’ve laughed—purely out of exasperation and frustration. You almost had. Which was likely why you had downright exploded.

You’d hopped up from the window seat and flung your arms into the air.

“I am not like you three! I don’t have any powers!” you’d screeched, “So what are you trying to protect me from?!”

Though you weren’t proud of your tone thinking back now—further proving you were no better than the baby they’d always seen you as—it’d felt good in the moment to unleash the anger and frustration.

“There are many dangerous things in Prythian,” Nesta said, icily.

You’d leveled your glare on her.

“Oh? You mean like the ones that Feyre has faced? You have faced? Even Elain has been involved in more than I am!”

It was true—though Elain wasn’t the long babied one, Nesta had always had a desire to protect Elain just a bit too. Wisely—unlike you—Elain knew when to speak up for herself and demand space to breathe.

Maybe if you’d done that long ago, you wouldn’t have been in this position.

“That is different and you know it,” Feyre had snapped.

“Oh really? How so?” you’d challenged the three.

Elain—sweet, sweet Elain, who was always the most gentle, even if she did possess an occasional edge to her—had still been gentle when she’d finally piped up. Until this moment she’d been silent, monitoring the conversation. Her perception of things was excellent, you knew many underestimated your second oldest sister.

“Not everyone in this land is a friendly face. There are dangerous individuals—males—around.”

You’d nearly snorted in disbelief.

“I’m surrounded by dangerous males every day! I have four brothers—three which you lot are mated to, need I remind you?”

“They would never hurt you, either. They only want to protect you, too.”

It had been Elain with her soft tone that only further kindled your anger—the way they were treating you like a child expected to throw a tantrum. Even if you sort of had. But it had been the condescension that made the conflagration in you burn hotter.

“Is this truly about Eris or the fact you just want to control every aspect of my life?” you bit out.

“Eris is not good. He’s—” Feyre had begun.

“Dangerous. Cruel. Awful. An arrogant bastard. A snake. Bid for Nesta’s hand once over a year ago,” you listed off.

That last one had been an intriguing development, back when you weren’t as invested in your interest in him. Unsurprisingly, Nesta didn’t even entertain the offer. After all, she had a mate. One she very clearly loved. But she was powerful and for reasons still unknown to you, Eris had wanted her as his bride.

Little had they known that his attention had shifted to a different Archeron.

“I know all of this. You’ve been over it with me so many times,” you groused, “But has it ever occurred to you that maybe you’re grossly underestimating him? If he was so awful, why do you continue to ally with him? And manage to interact with him just fine?”

“We know how to handle him. You do not,” Nesta had simply uttered.

That had almost made you laugh.

“He’s selfish. He will take advantage of anyone or anything if it will benefit him in some way. He’s cunning,” Feyre had tried to explain.

You hadn’t wanted to give anything else away, didn’t want to let on to the fact you were more closely connected to him than they were aware of. So, you’d pivoted to your next point. One that you knew would slice, one that you’d found wholly unfair for a long, long time.

“Why is it that Nesta was allowed to fuck strangers and drink as much as she wanted?”

They had actually flinched at your language and tone.

You were not the innocent baby sister they’d believed you were for so long—you hadn’t been her for a long time.

“Why is it that Feyre got to make the mistake of dying for a male that didn’t deserve her—one she thought she loved, almost married. Why did she—like Nesta—get time to process her trauma then get to fall in love and become High Lady?”

They’d all stared at you, an array of reactions on their faces. Elain had paled, eyes as wide as saucers. Nesta’s lips were set firmly, blue gray eyes blazing. Feyre looked pained—like she wanted to fix things for you, like she always used to.

“How come Elain was met with no arguments, no pushback when she spent years, years avoiding her mate. Never acknowledging the fact that she even had a mating bond. Was she not allowed to go about it the way she needed to?”

But it had been like once everything started pouring out of you, you couldn’t stop it.

“You all had the chance to go on your own journey of self discovery and make mistakes. That was fine. There were no issues. It was all: ‘Feyre’s healing. Nesta’s dealing with trauma. Elain just needs time’, well what the fuck about me?!”

You’d struggled plenty with your own trauma—even if in different ways than your sisters. Yes, you’d been chased from dreams many nights from the fear of being kidnapped from your bed, drowning in the Cauldron, the uncertain anxiety from the first weeks of feeling foreign in this new body.

But you’d found it easier than they first had with adapting to your new life. You’d gotten used to being fae—especially when you’d never felt like you’d fit anywhere else—never knew your own identity outside of being the youngest Archeron sister.

Which is why you’d been so desperate, so adamant for Eris’s help.

For once, you’d wanted to be allowed to do something for yourself—something you had control over.

No special powers. No mate. No journey of your own.

Earlier that afternoon, you’d finally reached your breaking point—a long time coming, too—and it hadn’t been pretty.

They’d had little to say to you after that, considering you’d stormed out of the room. You’d been locked in your room ever since, even skipping dinner.

You didn’t trust yourself to not say anything else hurtful to your sisters. There would be time to apologize, later when everyone had cooled off. You weren’t sorry for what you’d said, but you were sorry for the way it’d come out.

Despite the fact you’d wanted to get it all off your chest, you hated fighting with your sisters. All it did was dredge up bad memories of how tense the relationships between all four of you had been when you were destitute.

You sat in front of your vanity, in your room at the River House, running your brush through your long hair. Despite still being tense, you felt tinges of guilt creeping in. You still appreciated all your sisters had done for you, still loved them in what way you knew how.

You just wanted space, sometimes.

You were so caught up in your thoughts, you didn’t even hear a knock at your door. It wasn’t until you heard a more insistent, slightly louder knock that you’d realized someone must’ve just knocked and you’d completely missed it.

You stood, the hem of your satin nightgown brushing your thighs.

As ridiculous as it was, once you’d started rebelling against your sisters, you’d gone to the shop in Velaris and bought yourself comfortable—and more risqué—nightwear. Even if you wore them for yourself only, it gave you a sense of control.

You’d grown to love them, the silkiness of the satin, the straps that bared your arms and shoulders. Some were lacy and delicate, a tad more modest. Some were more scandalous, dipping low in the front and exposing what the other three would likely find to be an indecent amount of your breasts.

You thanked the Mother that you’d been in one of the latter when you opened the door and discovered who was on the other side.

Eris.

Calm, unruffled and looking positively delighted at the outfit you were currently clad in.

His eyes dipped and traveled, rather quickly, before he spoke.

“I do believe I have a bargain I still need to fulfill.”

His voice was deep, slightly raspy, enough to send a chill along your spine—not helped by the piercing gaze on you.

You managed to keep from gaping at the male though your hand tightened on the doorknob you still held.

“I didn’t realize you were in Velaris.”

“I’m a male of many surprises.”

The corner of his lips curled upwards, peering past your shoulder into your room.

“Oh, right,” you said, shuffling to the side awkwardly, inviting him in.

Despite wanting this—making a bargain surrounding this—you were suddenly unsteady at the fact that this was actually happening.

After you closed the door behind him, you turned to find him waiting in the middle of your room, intensity lining his features as he watched you approach him.

“Right. Okay. So we just do this then?”

You automatically reached upwards, going for his shirt, his face, something—to kiss him. To just launch yourself into this headfirst.

He halted you, a broad hand curving around your waist, the presence of it feeling heavy—like his touch seared through your thin nightgown. It was incredible how your body immediately reacted to him from a simple touch.

“Settle,” he murmured soothingly, not a hint of mocking in his tone, “I won’t bite.”

His other hand slid gently up your arm, over your shoulder and his palm caressed your neck, thumb barely brushing your jawline. His eyes stayed locked on your face as he continued.

“You’re not the little bird your sisters have diminished you to. But you still deserve to be treated with respect and care.”

Your breath came out in a whoosh, surprise filling your body at the unexpected comment from a male you’d been told was nothing but cold and cruel—even if you didn’t believe it.

“I know how to be more decent than those Illyrian brutes you’re used to,” his mouth curved in a grin.

“Watch it,” you glared.

Even if you were sick of your sisters, those Illyrian brutes were still your brothers and your friends.

He just chuckled, thumb brushing ever so lightly over your cheek before he bent his head, bringing his lips to yours.

You’d kissed plenty of men before—something you’d surprisingly managed to keep from your sisters, something you’d once thought was just for yourself, that your sisters couldn’t control.

Perhaps you’d never been able to lie with a man because the handful that you had kissed knew exactly what sort of protectors the other three Archeron sisters were.

But Eris…Eris kissed unlike any other before, though it could be likely due to the fact he wasn’t a man but was a fae male.

Whatever it was, you absolutely loved it.

His lips moved languidly against yours, savoring the glide, the press of them, the weight of yours against his pillowy soft ones. The hand on your waist slid further around to the dip in your lower back, pulling you closer to him.

You tilted your head, letting the kiss naturally deepen—letting his tongue brush effortlessly against the seam of your lips. Your lips parted, allowing it to sweep in and tangle with yours. As he kissed you, as the two of you shared breath, your hands found his chest, fingers finding the buttons of his shirt.

Your lips immediately moved against his faster, with more desperation and heat. He followed your lead with little issue, until he felt your hands scrambling over his clothes, trying to get him out of his clothes. You’d already managed to get his shirt halfway unbuttoned when he pulled away.

Your lips followed his, momentarily thrown off from his departure.

“Slow down,” he murmured, lips dropping a kiss on your jawline before moving back to look at you.

His hands rested on your hips, slightly bunching the fabric. His roaming eyes said he wanted to do anything but.

“As much as I want to enjoy you, it’ll be a lot better if we take our time. I’m free all night.”

He bent again, smirking against your jaw, where his lips had found purchase, sucking and nibbling. You gasped slightly, head falling back as he kissed a line forward, moving away from your ear.

You just wanted him to touch you.

Clearly, he wanted to as well for his hands slid up your sides, closing over your breasts, even through your nightgown.

“Mm,” you moaned, chest arching, strong hands kneading them, massaging them just right.

You pressed into his touch further, feeling the way your pebbled nipples pressed against the now irritating satin, how they felt against his palms, even through the fabric. You wanted—no needed his hands on your bare body.

All over your bare body.

The drumbeat increased in strength between your legs, arousal pooling in your underwear as his hands grasped and explored, as his lips traced over your neck, tongue coming out to lick over random spots of your skin. Growing impatient you pulled your arms out of the straps of your nightgown, connecting your lips to his again.

You pulled your other arm free, hand tangling in the lengths of his hair as your hand cupped his jaw, kissing him with more fervor. He grunted against your lips, reaching down to grab the backs of your thighs.

He lifted you in his arms, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist as you continued to kiss him.

He stayed there for a moment, hands spread across your ass, mouth hot on yours, then he was moving. Before you knew what to expect, you were yelping and freefalling. You landed on the bed with a dramatic bounce, eyes wide as you stared up at the smirking pale face—one full of heat.

“I should’ve warned you to expect a bit of excitement with me, dove,” he smirked as he joined you on the bed, crawling over you.

You weren’t in any mood to complain as you raised onto your elbows, reaching for him. Just as your mouth met his, your fingers finished off the rest of the buttons of his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders.

Despite your earlier nerves, you were slightly amazed at the fact that he put you at ease rather quickly, though you still felt like you were fumbling some.

When he broke the kiss to remove his shirt the rest of the way, you took the opportunity to take in the glorious sight of the pale muscled physique. Broad, strong shoulders, defined pectorals, biceps—and then your eyes dipped to the contours of his abdomen. The vee of his pelvis dipping into his pants.

You might’ve slightly been drooling.

He was…stunning. No other word could describe him.

“Keep looking at me like that. Does a male good,” he hummed, capturing your lips in a kiss again before his mouth was descending, long fingers coming to the neckline of your nightgown.

Hot presses of his mouth traced a path down your throat as his fingers hooked into the neckline and pulled it down, exposing your breasts. The cool air of the room hit them, making you shiver, but all you could focus on was the way his gaze fell to them.

You swore you heard him mumble something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a, “Mother above”. You didn’t have time to question him though because then his head was dipping, his tongue flicking over one of the nipples before taking it in his mouth.

The breathy inhale that came from you didn’t even sound like you. You’d had no idea you were even capable of such instantaneous reactions. Meanwhile, his other hand came to the opposite breast, fingers pinching the nipple.

As if the pulsing between your legs couldn’t get any worse, his teasing made it strengthen and you squirmed under his attention. His free hand pushed the rest of your nightgown up, bunching it at your stomach, revealing the matching underwear—made of the same fabric and the same color as the gown.

Of course, you’d bought these just for yourself but they sure came in handy now.

His eyes dropped to the item that hugged your hips, a devilish smirk barely gracing his lips as he peered up at you.

“It is too forward of me to say I hoped you weren’t wearing underwear?”

You snorted, but it wasn’t derisive. It was amused. You looked down at him, a smirk growing across your face.

“Maybe next time.”

He growled lowly in response and you saw his hips shift against the bed. If he was enduring anything like you were right now, he sure managed to allude to still managing to have some sort of control.

He certainly wasted no time in ridding you of both articles of clothing, leaving you bare to him.

You should’ve felt shy, but the way he was looking at you made the heat pool like molten lava in the pit of your stomach.

“So what, we just have sex now?”

The deep laughter that followed your comment made you want to scowl, but the reaction wasn’t at your expense, though he was genuinely amused.

“Dove, I’ve got much to teach you. I want to make sure you’re ready for me.”

“Ready for you?” you repeated dumbly.

His hand slid over the expanse of your stomach, painfully slow and sensual. Your eyes dropped to the movement, even as he spoke.

“Aching. Desperate. Slick with need,” he murmured, hand dipping between your legs, fingers brushing along your soaked slit. You whimpered, hips automatically bucking towards his hand.

“And even then…I’m not taking this lightly. You’ll take all that I give you.”

You blinked, unsure of what he meant, but nodded anyway. His tongue came out slowly, moistening his bottom lip, just as fingers began to explore. You felt the gentle push of a finger into you and you gasped, hand flying to one of his biceps.

“You’re okay,” he cooed.

You knew he was right. It was just…new.

But you felt how you were gushing, your arousal dampening your inner thighs—all of this in reaction to him before he’d even done anything. So much so that he had little resistance inserting a lone finger. He groaned at the way you clenched around the digit as he slid it in and out of you.

Despite you never having experienced the sensation before, you suddenly ached to be filled—preferably by more than just his fingers.

“Gods, already so eager for me,” he mumbled, more to himself than anything.

You nearly quipped back that you’d have to be blind to be wholly unaffected by him, until he added a second finger. It was tighter, but not unpleasant.

You moaned quietly, the pump of his fingers already making your vision spotty. You felt a brief sting as his digits spread and came together again then he repeated the action, over and over until that initial brief discomfort had faded.

“What— what are you doing?” you asked.

You’d let go of all fear of appearing foolish, earlier. Whatever happened in this room between you and Eris would clearly stay in this room. You were curious and you were going to ask.

“Just stretching you a bit,” he hummed, placing a kiss to your hip bone, “Preparing you for my cock.”

You swore your mouth went dry at the thought.

Apparently that wasn’t the only way your body reacted and he flashed you a wicked smile and provided you with another languid pump of his fingers.

“I felt that. Getting you all excited for my cock, hm?”

And there it was again, the way your cunt contracted, squeezing around his fingers. All he did was chuckle, scooting backwards—touch not leaving you as he did so. You watched him curiously and then he was leaning forward, some strands of his red hair pooling against your bare abdomen as he licked over your clit before taking it into his mouth.

“Ohh, fuck,” you moaned, arching.

Another wicked chuckle—this time against you—and you moaned again at the vibration. He pulled away just enough to comment.

“I never realized you had such a mouth on you, dove.”

“Shut up and do that again,” you hissed.

He just smirked up at you, fingers curling within you as his mouth lowered again, tongue coming out to press flat against your clit—all while his eyes still remained on you.

Gods, you could’ve come from the sight alone.

“Eris,” you whimpered.

His eyes flashed—a hint of fire sparking to life in them as he groaned against you, clearly pleased to hear his name fall from your lips.

He shifted against the bed again and your eyes fell to the movement. Though his bottom half was still clothed, you had the good enough sense to know he was extremely aroused, himself, by this point.

You nearly cried when he pulled his fingers free of you. But he moved so quickly you barely had time to process the fact that he’d licked just over your entrance, as if tasting you for the first and only time before he slid his tongue in you.

“Gods!” you gasped, back arching clear off the bed, one hand automatically threading into his hair.

Your mind—your body—felt like it was on overdrive. You had known pleasure before, but it had been at your hand alone and nothing like this.

“Oh gods— that’s— Eris—” you whimpered.

You pressed closer to him, body having a mind of its own as your hips moved, grinding against his mouth, pushing your hand into his hair.

You couldn’t help it, you were greedy and it felt so incredible. You wanted to come, wanted him to make you come.

“Yes, yes, please don’t stop,” you chanted, losing all control of your mouth, too, “Feels so— fuuuuck.”

You were moaning louder, unabashedly as his tongue thrust, licked, swirled, lips kissed and sucked. He was winding you tighter and tighter and you weren’t sure if you were going to last much longer.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, pushing his head down further against your cunt. He licked his way back towards the apex of your thighs, giving a gentle kiss to your clit before beginning to lap at it.

“You— are— delectable,” he murmured in between pauses, licking against your clit with each pause.

“Please,” you whined.

He groaned, more than affected now by your responsiveness to him.

“Don’t worry, dove. I’ll take care of you.”

As his lips closed around the bud, sucking gently, you felt the building pressure deep within you—that had seemed dormant and far away—grow suddenly hotter, stronger. Your legs kicked against the mattress weakly—involuntarily—unable to control your body and the incredible amount of pleasure that was building.

He slid the two fingers back into you—with much less resistance this time around, you were so soaked for him. You heard the grunt deep in his throat as he noted that observation too.

“Eris, Eris, I can’t— oh gods you’re—”

You were babbling without even meaning to, words bubbling up before you could stop them, being interrupted by gasps, moans and other small sounds of pleasure.

You weren’t too far away from falling and once again you ground with more determination against his face, adding a tad more friction.

You came apart with a cry, that tension finally snapping so abruptly and swiftly that it sent the sound up and out of your throat before you could stop it. The feeling of euphoria swept through you with such force, all you could do was arch into him, press closer and grip a combination of his hair and the sheets at your side.

Your chest was heaving when it finally ceased enough for you and your body to relax. He gave one last lick along your slit, tasting your release and you whimpered, sensitive from what he’d just pulled from you.

“Cauldron,” he breathed, when he finally sat back, mouth still slick from you.

He looked devastated—though maybe devastated wasn’t the word for it, but Eris did not look unaffected. You briefly wondered if any of his past lovers ever showed such enthusiasm or appreciation for the things he’d done for them—or if he even did those things for them.

You knew you felt pretty damn appreciative for what he’d just done for you.

“I do believe someone once said you had a sharp tongue…I may have to reevaluate just what they mean,” you muttered.

You were still blinking, dazed from what had just happened. But Eris only chuckled, though you could’ve sworn it sounded strained to your ears.

He looked ready to eat you alive.

When he was at your head again, you pulled him down by the shoulders, kissing him hard. It was a hot, open mouthed kiss, tongues tangling with one another and you groaned, tasting yourself on his mouth. Somehow, it made the kiss that much hotter.

His mouth moved with yours, as his hand slid up your bare leg, opening you wider for him to settle between your legs. He kissed you with nothing but pure intent and urgency, his own desire for you bleeding into the act.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, tongue sliding against his. His hips pressed forward, letting you feel just how much he wanted you.

His hardness pressed roughly against you and you moaned, breaking the connection of the kiss.

“Gods,” he groaned, head falling, looking down to where the arousal in his pants pressed against your bare cunt.

You whimpered, squirming, pressing closer, canting your hips to rub against him. His breathing deepened as his hips jerked forward, grinding against you. If this had your lashes fluttering at how good it felt, you had no idea what to expect when he was inside you.

His arms braced the sides of your head as he kept kissing you, kept grinding against you. It was as if you were two young lovers that’d been separated for too long. When he pulled away for a moment, your eyes fell to one of the toned biceps in your periphery.

Perhaps because you’d lost all control of your senses, you turned, kissing a line along the sculpted muscle—from shoulder to the crook of his arm. The feel of the taut muscle underneath your lips nearly drove you wild.

You simply grinned up at him mischievously as his heated gaze burned on you, desire written all over his features.

He’d had plenty of time to explore you, perhaps you’d wanted to explore him a bit.

He pushed away from you, leaving you entirely as he stood from the bed. You mourned his presence for half a second until you realized what he was doing.

Strong fingers worked at the button of his pants as he unbuttoned them, pushing them off his hips. Your eyes stayed locked on his, breathing becoming labored, caught in his intense stare like if he’d tied you to the bed, making you unable to move.

Motion snapped you out of your trance only for you to realize he was fully bare now.

Your eyes dropped only so, then slowly rose up that powerfully honed body, lean muscle everywhere you looked. Your eyes dropped again—further this time—your chest expanding in a slow inhale.

Oh gods…

You had not been prepared for the sight that greeted you—even to the point of being slightly overwhelmed by it.

Not only by the obvious cock that was on full display—hard, the tip flushed the prettiest shade of red and leaking—but the entire sight of him.

“What’s the matter? Never seen a naked male, dove?” he purred.

Normally you’d have a smart remark to match his swaggering arrogance, but you only swallowed hard, face warming a bit as you sat up against the pillows.

While no, you hadn’t, you hadn’t thought it was such a big deal. But here—in this moment at least—you felt off kilter, vulnerable in a way you’d never expected to feel. You said nothing, just pulled your bottom lip between your teeth in slight apprehension.

You watched the smugness quickly dissipate from his features as he took in your unnatural silence. Perhaps thinking he’d gone too far in his comment—especially when you didn’t rise to challenge him like you normally would’ve.

He grew more serious, perhaps a shade softer, though his voice became rougher around the edges, like he was undone from this entire situation.

“Despite what you may have heard, I would never force you to do anything you did not wish for.”

“I realize that,” you said plainly.

You didn’t want sympathy or pity for your inexperience, but at the same time you felt very out of your depth. Mercifully, he didn’t push the matter, said nothing more—didn’t continue to tease you either—and stepped closer to the bed again.

Your eyes dropped to the movement of his hand as he reached out for yours. He then led it to his cock, his hand staying over yours.

Your fingers wrapped around him and you just barely repressed the gasp that crawled up your throat.

You hadn’t known what to expect, but if you had been told it was like velvet warmth, you'd have thought the individual crazy. But, it was. Though he was hard as granite, the skin was so soft and warm—a part of you wondered if it came from the fire that was in his blood.

If anything, he was definitely way more well endowed than you could’ve anticipated. Perhaps that attributed to his arrogance—he certainly had good reason to where that was concerned.

He groaned at your first touch, involuntarily arching into you, as if he had no control over his body. Your eyes flicked up to his face, a shade hesitant. His eyes didn’t leave yours as his had guided yours upwards in a slow, gentle stroke.

His lashes fluttered, a deep grunt coming from his chest. Your own lashes lowered as you watched the way he guided your hand along him, showing you what to do—what he liked.

You weren’t sure why you suddenly craved to put your mouth on him. You wanted him everywhere—in your hand, mouth and cunt.

“Your hand feels amazing on me,” was all he could rasp out, breaking you out of your thoughts.

Heat curled tighter within you, hearing how affected he was by your touch. But you didn’t continue as he moved from your reach, climbing over you, your body once again falling back against the pillows.

He stared down at you momentarily and you found yourself a tad shaken—even more left in awe—at the look on his face. The face you’d once known as nothing but cold, devoid of any joy, was now more at ease—you could even go as far as to say it was almost soft.

In an attempt to distract from the intense moment, you spoke.

“Now’s likely not the time for an utterly inane comment about it not fitting, is it?” you uttered.

Though you truly were wondering if it would.

He just chuckled deeply, bending to brush his nose in a short line along your cheek.

“You’re adorable,” he purred.

“Not exactly an answer,” you huffed.

“Believe me, dove, it’ll fit.”

One of your hands braced his thigh—palm flat against the muscle—and you had to bite back a moan at the reminder of the strength of him.

While he was preoccupied elsewhere—lips peppering kisses over your jawline and neck—your hand slid inward. You figured you might as well get acquainted with the part that would soon be inside your body.

You weren’t afraid, nor were you nervous. You were…curious. Treading unfamiliar territory, yes, but eager to learn and explore, even if you’d already touched him once. But that had been with his help, you wanted to try on your own this time.

It wasn’t like one touch would ever be enough for you either.

Once more, your fingers wrapped around his cock, dragging your hand in a slow pull upwards. Your thumb brushed over the thick head and you swore you watched his control crumble before your eyes.

Oh, this held power. You bit back a smirk at that discovery.

“If you don’t want this to be over before it even starts, I highly suggest you stop that,” he gritted out.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you grinned widely up at him, dragging your hand back downwards again.

“You’ll have time to play later,” he grunted, removing your hand.

You just cocked a brow.

“Oh? I will?”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “If I have a say in it, you will.”

You repressed a snicker, though your mouth curved upwards. His face loomed closer before he dipped his head, kissing you.

If there was one thing you knew for sure, it was you wouldn’t ever get tired of the way his lips felt—or tasted. You took the brief moment to explore other places on him as well.

Even if your hands were hesitant, they slid over his chest, up to his shoulders and down to his upper back as he kissed you, just enjoying the feel of your mouths connected.

He pulled back, tongue flicking over your bottom lip, sitting back.

His fingers circled your calves, pushing your legs up until they were bent, the soles of your feet flat against the mattress. Then, with gentle care, he pushed your knees further apart, giving himself room.

“I need you to relax for me, dove,” he murmured, a hand sliding under your hips, lifting them slightly to position you better.

“You know saying something like that is only gonna make me do the opposite,” you quirked a brow.

He gave you a half smile.

“Just trying to make it less…intense for you.”

“Isn’t sex intense to begin with?”

He almost looked exasperated at your questioning and you couldn’t help but bite back a giggle—especially since he didn’t look truly annoyed. More like amazed at your rapid fire questions.

“I meant there can be some discomfort,” he supplied.

You…hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t known that, though you figured that made sense.

“It’s going to hurt?”

You hated how small your voice sounded. So much for being confident and in control.

His brows pinched together ever so slightly, face tightening. His voice was rough when he answered you.

“Not if I can help it.”

Then he turned back into the matter-of-fact Eris you knew him to be.

“I will leave right now if you no longer want this.”

“I am no coward,” you scowled.

“I didn’t say you were,” Eris’s gaze was steady on yours, serious, “I’m giving you choice.”

“Then I choose to stop you from leaving,” you said stubbornly.

He chuckled lowly, as if impressed.

“I always knew there was fire in you.”

“According to you, I haven’t had enough in me.”

He snorted.

“I never said that.”

“It was implied.”

You gasped feeling the head of his cock press at your sensitive, untouched center.

He’d been distracting you through the last few traded remarks, loosening you up further. You couldn’t explain why that made you warm towards the male further.

He didn’t ask, but his eyes questioned one more time and you gave a short nod. Then he was pushing in, slowly.

Even with the slight movement, you felt a deep sting—not exactly painful, but unusual. Slightly uncomfortable, the deep stretch, but nothing you couldn’t handle.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, repeating his words from earlier.

He retreated, the sting easing before he pressed a bit further in. The dull sting grew but instead of fighting it, you kept breathing—kept trusting him.

Assessing amber eyes never left your face.

He repeated the action over and over—retreating and pushing a tad further with each movement. He leaned closer, allowing you to wrap your arms around him and with every inch you gave, your arms tightened just slightly.

He took his time, didn’t rush, accommodating his movements depending on how hard your touch dug into his back.

You weren’t sure how long it’d been, if he’d already filled you fully, but on the latest press forward, the burning sting was sharper this time, more noticeable and you inadvertently tensed.

“Hey, eyes on me,” he mumbled, thumb brushing your hip soothingly.

Your eyes found his and once again instead of panicking you kept your focus on him.

The hand that had fallen earlier—subconsciously gripping the sheets from the deep discomfort—reached up, fingers trailing softly over the splatter of freckles on one cheek.

“Your freckles are pretty,” you mumbled.

Eris looked like you’d slapped him across the cheek instead of caressed it. You smiled at his stunned expression, your thumb brushing over the top of his cheek.

The comment wasn’t meant for pure distraction, you actually meant it.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmured his praise.

He pulled out again, pushing the furthest he had yet, causing you to squeak the tiniest bit at the feel of him bottoming out.

The discomfort was still very much present, accompanied by a strange, foreign sensation of feeling full. Almost overwhelmingly so. To the point it seemed to radiate outward a bit.

His hips pressed flush against yours, in as far as he could go, as close as he could possibly get to you.

“Still with me?”

You couldn’t recall ever seeing him look so concerned and caring.

His hand shifted, planting on the pillow next to your head, stabilizing himself. He’d yet to move an inch since fully entering you, staying still, letting you adjust to the size of him. You studied him, felt him grip the pillow next to your head, watched the way his eyes closed, watched his brows slightly scrunch.

As if he was in pain. Suddenly a wash of fear and concern filled you.

“I’m not hurting you am I?” you bit your lip, worried.

After all, you weren’t exactly…familiar with the logistics of this. You knew you were feeling quite the deep and momentarily uncomfortable stretch and burn, but what if you were somehow hurting him too?

His laugh was more of an exasperated, strained exhale of breath than anything.

“No. You’re not hurting me, sweetheart.”

Something funny twisted within you at his abnormal nickname.

Your arms fell from around him, hands coming to rest on his biceps.

“You promise you’re not lying to make me feel better?”

You studied his face as he finally opened his eyes, heat burning within them.

“I’m just trying real hard not to push you past your limits,” he gritted out, “And it’s a…struggle.”

Perhaps you were a touch naive, but you asked anyway.

“Why?”

Those flames came to life in his eyes.

“Because you feel so good all I want to do is fuck you for days—and you’re not ready for that yet.”

You may have blinked in surprise. But then you tilted your head in curiosity.

“What does it feel like?”

Instead of answering, he pulled one of your hands away from where it rested on his bicep, taking it in his hold.

His lips brushed across your knuckles briefly before drawing one fingertip past his lips. The sensation of a warm, slow and gentle pull of suction surrounded the digit, making you gasp. He released your finger just as slowly as he’d brought it to his lips, tongue lightly flicking across the pad of it as he did so.

“Like that.”

You were positive you’d gone utterly breathless.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” he smirked.

The discomfort had begun to ebb, your body adjusting to the new intrusion. You shifted slightly, impatience setting in.

“Okay,” you nodded, giving him the go ahead.

You were surprised at how gentle he was the first few times as he eased out and re-entered you. It was such an odd sensation, being so full in an area you’d never experienced such a thing—but it wasn’t unpleasant.

He groaned as he moved.

“Gods, you’re tight.”

The slow drag of his cock against your walls had you gasping, gripping his biceps harder. The discomfort had completely faded—had blossomed into something warmer and much more pleasant.

Then your next issue was you had no idea what to do.

Though he felt the way your body had relaxed, he also quite likely sensed what was running through your mind—the nature of your anxious, uncertain thoughts.

“Don’t overthink it,” he uttered against your mouth.

Which was easier said than done.

But as he kissed you, slow and gentle thrusts into you accompanying his kiss, you found your body taking care of that worry, taking over for you. As your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer to you to kiss him harder, your body shifted, clearly growing impatient.

The tiny movement provided extra friction as he moved, hips speeding up the slightest. You moaned against his mouth, fingers curling even tighter into his locks, hips experimenting again.

A small rock of them had him groaning, breaking the kiss.

“There you go,” he murmured around another groan.

His hips pulled back and thrust forward again, a little faster with a tad more power. You were still feeling the overpowering pressure, that fullness of him filling every inch of you, but your lashes fluttered, starting to enjoy it.

“Gods, you—”

He growled lowly, clearly trying to hold back as he moved forward again repeatedly, head dropping towards you, a strand of his hair falling along the side of his face.

But you didn’t want him to be careful with you.

“More.”

His head lifted, gauging if you truly meant the command. Your body felt warm, tingly, the sensations pleasurable. But despite whatever you tried to do, it didn’t seem to satiate you enough.

Since you were still so unfamiliar with the act, you were more than content to let him take the lead.

The hand not braced by your head slid down your side, sliding under your hips once again, hand splayed across your backside as he shifted you again.

The way it gripped your ass—quite cheekily, you might add—made you moan as his hips thrust forward again. He was deeper, the angle different from before and you were definitely beginning to see why people raved about the act.

His own moan of pleasure ignited the fire in you and your eyes fell closed as you did nothing but let the incredible feelings—ones you weren’t sure you could even describe—sweep you away. With your eyes shut, you didn’t see his approach, but you felt his lips close over yours, capturing them with his and you groaned, automatically kissing him back.

Your hands slid down the length of his back, feeling the way the muscles shifted and moved as he thrust repeatedly into you.

You felt his groan against your lips, the way strands of his hair fell to your bare skin, brushing it as he moved over you. Your body completely relented to him, giving over to the pleasure that was unlike anything you could’ve imagined.

Then his lips were moving beyond yours, attaching to every inch of skin in his reach he could. They left hot kisses against your jaw, down your throat, nipped harshly at your collarbone.

You were so close to him, hard muscles pressed against your soft skin and it was driving you wild. You needed more and more and more.

You had the sneaking suspicion that this was only a fraction of what he was capable of, but you swore you still saw stars as his pace sped up, cock hitting spots within you that you’d never imagined could exist.

If it could always feel this good, you never wanted it to end.

You heard a low grunt come from his deep in his throat as your body finally rejoined his movements, needing more of something—though you couldn’t pinpoint what. His head dipped, mouth coming to one of your breasts.

“Eris,” you gasped, arching into him.

He was slowly driving you mad with each and every movement. He timed every thrust of his cock perfectly to the flick of his tongue over your nipple. You felt your own body inadvertently react to him, inner walls tightening around him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, fingers digging into your hips as he pulled your hips to meet his.

You’d never heard him sound so utterly undone and it made you spiral, lose all sense of your mind as your fingers dug into his back. You felt the sensations of the pleasure and was clearly enjoying it, but thought it was odd that you weren’t feeling the building of it like you had earlier, when his tongue had been between your legs.

He was cursing again, the sentiments falling from his lips repeatedly. You could feel his body tensing underneath your touch, a low groan falling from his lips as he stilled.

Then you felt warmth, slick on your thighs and it was over.

You blinked, coming back to reality, not sure if you were disappointed or not. It hadn’t been awful but it hadn’t really been quite what you’d expected either.

Your heart was still racing though, breathless from exertion as he finally moved again, pulling out of you gingerly. Which was a blessing because suddenly it hit just how sore you were.

It was quiet as he sat back, detangling himself from you and you lay there, peering at him, unsure what you should even say. You watched as he stood, bending for his pants. As he pulled them on, he peered over his shoulder at you, as if assessing your state after such a life altering event. You had sat up by this point—sheets pooling at your waist—and those eyes roved every inch, as if just to make sure you were alright.

“Expect some soreness tomorrow,” Eris murmured, a cocky upturn of his lips accompanying his remark.

You rolled your eyes, mumbling under your breath.

“Cocky bastard.”

When it fell silent again you knew at the very least you should thank him. He had actually come through with his end of the bargain and helped you.

You had no idea what possessed you to do it when you stuck your hand out to him.

Eris turned around to face you fully, still shirtless—with said shirt dangling from one hand—brows high. You didn’t balk, even if you cringed internally at your action. But truly, what did one do in this situation anyway?

You pushed your hand out further, refusing to let him dismiss you.

“Thank you,” you said pointedly.

His lips twitched, amusement evident on his face.

“Can’t say I’ve ever had anyone thank me for fucking them with a handshake before.”

You were about ready to drop your hand when he reached out, sliding his own into yours, giving it a firm shake. But before he let go, his thumb brushed your wrist once and your eyes dropped to the black as night ink still present on your skin.

“Why is it still there?” you scowled.

“Because it’ll only disappear after I’ve called in my favor. Not a moment sooner.”

You huffed, pulling the covers up over your bare chest to chase away the chill, looking up at him as he finally pulled his shirt on, buttoning it up.

“And that will be when?”

“Soon, dove. When the moment’s right.”

He gave you a wink and winnowed away before you could even question what his vague, cryptic remark meant. In turn, you were left staring at the space where he'd just been standing, long after he’d left. Swirling thoughts and emotions warred within you, along with the knowledge of an unfulfilled bargain that would remain a secret.

Until whenever Eris Vanserra decided to call in his favor.

An Illyrian male, older, brutal by reputation alone. A reward for loyalty. A transaction dressed up as honorary. She was told it would protect her family that this was the way of things, that fear was merely the cost of being born female in a world that prized strength above mercy.

She didn't cry when she heard.

Crying would have meant hope. And hope, she had learned, was the most dangerous thing of all.

She ran away the night before the ceremony.

No jewels. No farewell. Only a blade she barely knew how to wield and a cloak stolen from a servant's peg. The city gates were unguarded at that hour, the sentries half-asleep and drunk on routine. By the time dawn broke, she was already bleeding--hands torn raw from climbing, lungs burning from running without rest.

She did not stop until the world narrowed to survival.

It was in a nameless village near the mountains that the idea took shape. Not all at once--nothing so dramatic--but piece by piece, stolen from overheard conversations and the way soldiers moved through the streets without being questioned. Men were allowed to be angry. Men were allowed to fight. Men were allowed to leave, to do as they please. Men were allowed everything.

Men were allowed to live.

The transformation was not elegant.

She cut her hair herself, hands shaking as the strands fell into the dirt. Bound her chest until breathing hurt. Learned to walk heavier, to take up space instead of shrinking from it. She practiced lowering her voice, roughening it with disuse and hunger, until it sounded passable enough to avoid scrutiny. Every movement became deliberate. Every instinct--rewired.

She chose the name Bran because it was simple. Because it did not invite curiosity. Because it could belong to anyone.

The Illyrian camps did not ask many questions. They never did. A body willing to bleed was more valuable than a story. She arrived thin, bruised, eyes too sharp for her age, and claimed she had nowhere else to go. The male who recorded her name barely looked up.

"Bran," he repeated, scratching it down. "You'll either last or you won't."

That night, lying on a thin cot among strangers who smelled of steel and sweat, she stared at the ceiling and felt something unfamiliar settle in her chest.

Not safety but possibility.

She did not know then who she would meet in those camps. Did not know how deeply a lie could root itself, or how dangerous it was to be seen for the wrong reasons. All she knew was that she had chosen survival over submission.

And for the first time in her life, the choice was hers.

Life as Bran was...surprisingly tolerable. Not easy, but tolerable.

The camp was brutal in the ways it had to be--cold stone or muddy floors, yelling instructors and commanders, rations barely enough to keep a body moving--but she noticed quickly that as a male, no one tried to push her around. She could exist without commentary, without the thinly veiled condescension women were trained to endure. She could sweat, bleed, curse, and no one would think twice.

Bran learned fast how to survive. He bathed in the river when he could, careful to hide himself behind a large rock or a cluster of trees. He learned to keep his hair very short and messy without it being suspicious, to mask softness in his hands with calluses, to lower his voice just enough that no one questioned it. Every meal, every manoeuvre, every training exercise was approached with the same quiet calculation: don't slip. Don't let anyone see the cracks. Don't give anyone a reason to ask too many questions.

Training itself was...merciless. Marching, running, lifting, weapons drill--all of it she could handle. But the hand-to-hand combat, the brawls, were the worst. They required too much proximity. Too much trust. Too much exposure. Every grapple, every thrown punch, made her pulse hammer in terror-not of pain but of discovery. One misstep, one too-close moment, and her secret would crumble.

And yet, she survived. Slowly, her body hardened. Her reflexes sharpened. Bran became just another soldier, at least one on the surface.

Until Cassian appeared.

He was brash, loud, and impossibly confident--exactly the sort of person she would have rolled her eyes at in any other situation. But there he was, leaning against the training wall, smirk in place as he flicked a short blade up and down in one hand.

"You," he called out, pointing at her, "yeah, you with the awkward stance. Ever consider fighting with style, or is that a full-time commitment to looking like you're about to fall over?"

Bran scowled. "I'll have you know I've almost mastered style. Just...not your style."

Cassian grinned, eyes lighting up like he'd found a new toy. "Oh, you got fire, huh? I like that. I'm Cassian. And you are?"

She hesitated, then gave the practiced name she'd chosen so carefully. "Bran."

"Bran, huh?" he circled her like a hawk inspecting prey--or maybe just a friend looking to annoy someone. "Not bad. Not bad at all."

Before she could reply with a pointed remark (or shove him into a mud puddle), a voice cut through.

"And I'm Rhysand," said the newcomer, with a polite smile that carried a hint of mischief. "And if you're going to let him harass everyone, I'll be the one to call him out. Pleasure, Bran."

Bran raised an eyebrow. "You're in on this too?"

Rhys only shrugged, perfectly calm while Cassian laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd heard all day.

Then there was the third. The quiet one. Shadowed at the edge of the group, observing rather than participating. His eyes were dark, sharp, and impossibly still. He spoke little, but when he did, his words cut through the noise.

"Don't encourage him too much," he said to Bran, nodding at Cassian. "He'll think he's invincible."

Bran blinked. Who...was this? He didn't smile, didn't laugh, didn't look like he belonged in the same circus. He simply...existed, watching, judging, interfering only when necessary.

"Bran," Cassian said, louder this time. "don't tell me you're intimidated by him already."

Bran scowled. "Intimidated? No. Just...annoyed. Very annoyed."

Rhysand smirked faintly. "He's Azriel. Don't let his quiet fool you. He'll have the last word eventually. He always does."

Bran groaned. Great. Two loud idiots and a quiet one who somehow made you feel like a misstep would end in public humiliation. And yet… despite all of it, there was a spark of amusement she couldn’t quite hide. The days as Bran had been tense, exhausting, and terrifying. But these three idiots… these three boys would make surviving camp slightly more bearable.

At least until one of them figured out she wasn’t actually Bran.

They days settled into a rhythm--somewhere between gruelling training and stolen moments of quiet--but Bran quickly realized she wasn't alone in her misery.

Cassian, Rhysand, and Azriel had taken it upon themselves to stalk her, or as they called it, "watch over" her. Bran didn't appreciate it. Not at all.

“You know,” she said one afternoon after being nudged into another push-up contest, “I’m starting to think I’ve been singled out for some cosmic form of punishment. Why am I the chosen victim of your constant stalking?”

Cassian leaned back on his elbows, grinning like the world was a playground and she was his favourite toy. “Because you’re… fun to annoy?”

"Fun to annoy?" Bran repeated, incredulous. "Do I look fun to annoy?"

Rhysand, ever the calm one, smirked faintly. "You're...different. Not in a bad way. It's refreshing."

Cassian’s grin widened like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to drop this gem. “Alsooo,” he said, nudging Bran again with an elbow, “we just want to be friends. You’re the only guy who actually isn’t acting like- ” He paused dramatically, “like every other soldier who thinks training is a contest of ‘who can look the toughest while being completely insufferable.’”

Bran blinked, torn between exasperation and something else she didn’t recognize. Friendship? Not that she trusted the word just yet, but… she allowed herself a small, reluctant smile.

From that day, they followed her less like predators and more like...companions.

Training sessions became collaborative rather than competitive. Bran found herself laughing at Cassian’s ridiculous claims: “I’m going to be the greatest warrior of all time, probably the king of the skies too, and maybe invent a weapon that slices through literally anything”while Azriel rolled his eyes, muttering things like, “And pigs might fly, while we’re at it.”

Rhysand, surprisingly, was the voice of reason and sarcastic commentary all in one. "Try not to die while inventing impossible weapons, Cassian. The camp would miss you...barely."

Bran began to notice small things:

Azriel’s quiet attentions, subtle but intentional--he’d nudge her back into line during drills or be there in the shadows when she had trouble keeping pace.

Rhysand’s calm patience, the way he offered advice without making her feel incompetent.

Cassian’s energy, which was exhausting but strangely comforting.

She started feeling...something she hadn't allowed herself in years: normalcy.

It came out one night, around the fire, when the three of them were sharing stories of why they were in the camp--more like Cassian and Rhysand were sharing their stories while Azriel just watched--and what they hoped to be. Bran had just survived a particularly gruelling sparring match and collapsed into the dirt, listening.

Cassian talked first, of course, puffing out his chest as he kept loudly dreaming about his new glorious visions for himself...again. "I'm going to be the greatest warrior. Maybe I'll have my own squad one day. I'll be the hero everyone talks about in songs!"

Azriel, leaning against a tree, raised an unimpressed brow. "And you'll probably get yourself killed before breakfast."

Cassian laughed. "Details, details. Heroism is never tidy."

Then came Rhysand's turn, quiet as ever, voice low and smooth. “I was sent here by my father. Not… voluntarily. To train, to survive, and to prove myself.”

Bran tilted her head. “Your father?”

“Yes,” Rhysand admitted softly. “I am… not just another soldier. My family expects more of me. One day, I’ll… rule.”

Bran blinked. Prince. She almost choked on the word. For a second, the boy who had teased and joked with her every day seemed impossibly distant. But just as quickly, he leaned back, joking again, “And yes, I am still better at archery than both of you, so quit whining.”

Neither Azriel nor Bran spoke about why they are here, about their pasts. Maybe because the words felt too heavy, too sharp to be handled without drawing blood. Or maybe because some truths, once spoken aloud, refused to stay in the past and demanded to be lived through all over again.

The banter resumed as if nothing had changed, but Bran felt the shift. She was slowly, surprisingly, allowed into their world--not just as Bran, but as someone they trusted. Someone they wanted around.

Bran noticed Azriel most in quiet moments. He was slower to speak, slower to laugh, slower to let her in--but always there, just on the edge of the group. He watched, assessed, and sometimes, in the middle of training, would offer a word or a nudge that made her heart skip without her knowing why.

Cassian and Rhysand’s friendship was loud, full of jokes and jostling, but Azriel’s was quiet, deliberate, and far more dangerous because it made her feel… seen.

And Bran didn’t trust it. Not yet.

But every day, every laugh, every sparring match, every sarcastic comment and ridiculous boasting brought her closer.

Even if she still considered them infuriating little pricks.

The day had started like any other, crisp air, the sound of swords clanging, Cassian's obnoxious laughter echoing through the training yard. Yet something felt off.

Azriel hadn't shown up. Not once.

Normally, it wasn’t alarming. He disappeared into shadows often, brooding, wandering, doing whatever it was he did when he wasn’t training with them. But today… he hadn’t even met them at their usual routine--the stretch by the cliffs before breakfast, the morning sparring sessions, the practice run along the ridges where Bran, Cassian, and Rhysand would inevitably fall laughing into the mud.

"Have you...seen Azriel?" Bran asked, trying to sound casual as she wiped dirt from her hands.

Cassian shrugged, twirling a blade lazily. "He probably went ghosting in the mountains again. You know him."

Rhysand exchanged a glance with Cassian, hesitated. "Yeah...he tends to disappear for long stretches sometimes. It's...normal."

Bran frowned, frustration prickling her skin. "Normal?" She pressed. "How is it normal to just vanish for an entire day without anyone knowing?"

The two boys exchanged a glance. "He'll be fine. trust us, we have known him longer than you." Cassian said finally, but Bran wasn't convinced. Her stomach twisted into anxious knots she didn't usually allow herself.

By nightfall, she could no longer stand it. Every fiber of her being demanded she find him. Wrapping her cloak tight around her, she followed the familiar trail through the woods until the camp faded behind her, and the lake came into view. Its surface was frozen, moonlight glinting off the ice, and there he was--Azriel--sitting at the edge, unmoving, as if carved from shadow himself.

She hesitated, then stepped closer, boots crunching over frost, and sat a respectful distance beside him. Silence stretched between them, long and heavy, filled with all the words neither had yet said.

Finally, he stirred, looking at her with eyes that seemed to pierce straight through her carefully constructed mask. "Why are you here?" he asked, voice low, almost startled as if waking from a dream.

"You didn't show up all day," she said, softly, unsure if she was speaking to Bran or to herself. "And...I guess I just got worried. A little."

He scoffed, turning his gaze back to the frozen lake. "No need to worry for me. I can handle myself."

Bran’s chest tightened. She got up slowly, standing behind him, voice steady but tinged with emotion. “I know,” she said. “Believe me, I know better than anyone what it’s like to be trapped, to have no one care if you live or die. But… there are people who do care. Who would search for you. Who won’t leave you behind. I know that.”

He was silent, taking in her words. After a moment, he finally exhaled a long, tired sigh while staring at the stars. “Today,” he said quietly, almost to himself, “is the anniversary of my escape.”

Bran's heart stuttered. Escape? "Your...escape?" she asked cautiously.

He nodded, lips pressed into a thin line, and let out a cold, humourless laugh. "You think I had these shadows from the moment I was born?"

"No?" she whispered, shocked, unable to hide the awe and horror in her voice.

He glanced at her briefly, expression hardening. “My father… my stepbrothers… they locked me in a cell for years. Tortured me. Separated me from my mother. Thought they could break me. Thought no one would care.”

Bran’s chest tightened so painfully it was almost physical. The parallels to her own life--her escape, her family’s sacrifice, the constant weight of survival--hit her in waves. Carefully, carefully, she recounted her own story, twisting it to fit Bran’s persona, leaving out every detail that would betray her, every softness that would make him suspect.

For a long while, they shared silence again, letting the frozen lake hold their secrets.

Then came the voices--soft but insistent.

"Azriel? You up here?" Rhysand called.

Cassian's voice soon followed, teasing and loud, "Don't hide in the shadows forever. The world's missing your broody glare!"

Azriel only gave a small nod in response, and for the first time that day, Bran saw a faint shadow of a smile tug at his lips. As they headed back to camp, Bran moved to separate from the boys, but Rhysand's hand on her shoulder stopped her.

"No," he said firmly. "Come with us."

Bran raised an eyebrow, cautious. "Am I...allowed?"

Cassian laughed. "Of course you are."

Rhysand smiled. "My mother already knows about you. There's plenty of room in our house for you too."

Bran's eyes widened. "Your...mother?"

Azriel, for the first time ever, made a joke, voice low and dry: “Yes. And she makes the best meat pies in the entire world.”

Her chest twisted with unease, scepticism, and a flicker of fear. Yet the boys calmed her, insisting, guiding, and by the time she followed them, the warmth of their trust felt heavier than any weight she’d carried in years.

The house was… everything she had imagined a prince’s home would be, but somehow more understated. Stone walls and polished floors, tapestries that didn’t scream wealth but whispered it, rooms that were large yet intimate. She found herself marvelling quietly as they moved through the corridors, the firelight glinting in polished wood.

And then she met her.

Rhysand’s mother. She was luminous, serene, and powerful in a quiet, commanding way. Her smile when she saw Bran was warm, like she’d been expecting her all along.

“You must be Bran,” she said softly. “Rhys has told me so much about you.”

Bran’s throat tightened. Rhysand was the spitting image of his mother--same dark eyes, same easy charm. And yet, she could see the gentle warmth he reserved only for those he truly cared for.

And then… the youngest. Estelle. A bright, bubbly girl with a smile that immediately made Bran feel at home. She spoke freely, laughing with her mother and with Rhysand, asking questions, welcoming Bran as if she had always belonged.

Bran allowed herself to feel it--the warmth, the safety, the home. The food placed in front of her, the soft bed in a room just for her, the easy camaraderie. The friendship.

And for the first time in a very long time, she let herself think maybe… maybe she could belong somewhere, be herself, and not just survive.

But then everything changed.

It happened at dawn.

Not the slow, creeping kind that gave warning--but the violent kind, when the sky was still bruised purple and the camp lay half-asleep, weapons stacked, guards relaxed. The first scream cut through the air like a blade.

Then fire.

Spring Court colors flooded the horizon--greens too bright, magic too wild--soldiers pouring in waves, their war cries shattering the morning calm. Tents went up in flames. Steel rang. Orders were shouted and lost all at once.

Bran didn't think. She moved.

Her sword was in her hand before fear could catch her, body responding on instinct honed by months of punishment and repetition. She ducked beneath a blast of magic, rolled through mud and ash, and came up swinging. Training took over--feet grounded, strikes precise, breath controlled.

She didn't know where Rhysand and Cassian were, who they were fighting. But Azriel was there.

She didn’t remember how they ended up back-to-back, only that suddenly his presence was solid at her spine, shadows snapping and striking like living things. They moved as one--her blade flashing low and fast, his daggers ending fights before they began.

"Left," he muttered.

She pivoted, blocked, countered.

"Behind you," she warned, breathless.

He didn't look--just trusted.

The camp was chaos. Illyrians fought desperately, pressed back toward the cliffs that bordered the frozen lake. More Spring Court soldiers kept coming. Too many. Far too many.

They couldn't win this head-on.

Bran's eyes flicked upward--and then she saw it.

The ridge above the lake. Ice layered thick from weeks of cold. The magic blasts cracking the earth beneath it. One well-placed strike...

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

"Azriel," she shouted, grabbing his arm mid-fight. "The ridge. If we bring it down- "

He followed her gaze, understanding flashing instantly. "You'd bury all of us."

"Not if we time it," she said, already moving. "Cover me."

He swore under his breath--but nodded.

She sprinted.

Magic scorched the ground at her heels as she climbed, fingers burning from the cold, lungs screaming. She reached the ridge and drove her blade into a fracture already spreading through the ice. Another strike. Then another.

The world held its breath. Then the ridge gave way.

Ice, rock, and frozen earth thundered down in a roaring wall, swallowing the front lines of the Spring Court soldiers whole. Screams vanished beneath the crushing weight. The lake shattered, water exploding upward in a violent surge.

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Then cheers.

They had done it. She had done it.

Relief flooded her--too fast, too soon.

She turned to run back...and that is when the blast hit.

Magic slammed into her side, white-hot pain tearing through her body. She was lifted off her feet, thrown hard against stone. Something cracked--maybe bone, maybe more. Her vision blurred, blood warm against the freezing air.

She tried to crawl. Tried to stand.

Another blow grazed her shoulder. Her sword slipped from numb fingers. Azriel shouted her name, but it sounded distant, warped, like she was already underwater.

Her strength gave out.

The sky spun. The noise dulled. Cold crept in where fire had been.

The last thing she felt was the ground rushing up to meet her...and then nothing at all.

Azriel had survived worse fights. That was the cruel irony of it.

The Spring Court attack had been brutal, yes, tents reduced to ash, blood frozen into the mud, bodies carried away in silence, but the fighting itself had been familiar. Manageable. Something he understood. He had moved through it like he always did, shadows striking, daggers precise, instincts honed by years of violence.

What he did not understand was the hollow ache in his chest afterward.

The camp was a ruin by nightfall. Fires smouldered where laughter had once lived. Healers moved endlessly between stretchers, hands glowing, faces drawn tight with exhaustion. The wounded were everywhere, groaning, bleeding, clinging to life.

And Bran was nowhere he could see.

He knew where he was, of course. The healers had taken him immediately, carried him away among hundreds of others. Unconscious. Broken. Still breathing, at least, that was what Azriel told himself, over and over, like a prayer he did not believe in.

They sat on a bench outside the healer tents, the three of them. Cassian restless, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. Rhysand unnervingly still, hands clasped, eyes dark with thought. And Azriel--silent, staring at the ground as if it might open and swallow him whole.

“He saved us,” Cassian said hoarsely, breaking the silence. “You know that, right? If he hadn’t--if he hadn’t done that- ” He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair. “Gods. That was insane. Brilliant. Completely reckless.”

Azriel swallowed.

Reckless. Yes. That was the word.

Bran had seen what none of them had. Had acted without hesitation. Had trusted that the earth and ice would fall exactly as needed--and it had. Hundreds of Spring Court soldiers buried beneath it. The camp saved.

And Bran nearly killed for it.

“He shouldn’t have had to,” Azriel said quietly.

Cassian stopped pacing, turning toward him. “None of us should have. But he did. And now he’s lying in a healer’s tent while we’re out here breathing.”

Rhysand exhaled slowly. “We can’t pretend this didn’t change things,” he said. “The camp won’t. The commanders won’t. Someone that young pulling off something like that?” He shook his head. “They’ll take notice.”

Azriel didn’t respond.

All he could see was Bran sprinting toward the ridge, jaw set, eyes burning with purpose. Could still hear the crack of ice, the roar of destruction. Could still feel the moment afterward, the split second of relief before the blast hit him.

Before Bran fell.

His hands curled into fists. He had covered him. He was supposed to protect those beside him. That was the rule. That was always the rule.

Footsteps approached.

Azriel’s head snapped up as a healer emerged from one of the larger tents. She was pale, exhaustion etched deep into her features. When she spotted them, she stopped--and bowed deeply.

“My prince,” she said, voice low. “We need to speak.”

Something in her expression made Azriel’s shadows stir uneasily.

Rhysand rose immediately. “Of course.” He glanced back at Cassian and Azriel. “I’ll be back.”

Cassian frowned. “About Bran?”

The healer didn’t answer. She simply turned and walked back toward the tent.

Rhysand followed.

Azriel stayed seated, but every instinct screamed for him to move, to follow, to do something. Instead, he sat there, helpless, listening to the sounds of the camp around him, to the groans and murmurs and crackling fires.

Waiting.

And for the first time in a very long time, Azriel realized something terrifying.

He was afraid.

Not of war.

Not of pain.

But of what he might lose--of what he already feared he cared about far more than he should.

Cassian broke the silence first. "He's going to be fine."

He dragged a hand down his face, pacing again. "He has to be."

Azriel didn't answer. His attention was splintered--half on the healer tents, half on the memory of Bran crumpling against stone. Every second stretched too long. Every sound scraped against his nerves.

Then it happened.

Both of you. Get here. Now.

Rhysand's voice slipped into Azriel's mind without warning--tight, controlled, unmistakably urgent. Azriel's head snapped up. Cassian froze mid-step.

They exchanged a single look and that was all it took.

They were on their feet immediately, striding toward the tent Rhysand had entered minutes earlier. Azriel’s heart began to pound harder with every step, dread coiling tighter around his ribs. He prepared himself for blood. For death. For the words we did everything we could.

The worst possibilities clawed at him. The tent flap was pulled aside. Inside, the air was heavy--too still.

Rhysand stood near the foot of a cot, arms crossed tightly over his chest, face pale and unreadable. A single healer remained, her expression grave. And there--lying motionless beneath thick blankets--was Bran.

Alive. Unconscious.

Azriel's breath hitched despite himself.

Cassian glanced around, confused. "Where are the others?"

Rhysand didn't answer. He only stepped aside.

The healer moved then, hands trembling just slightly as she reached for the blanket. Slowly, deliberately, she pulled it down.

Azriel's world tilted.

Bran's chest was wrapped tightly in bindings. Not bandages.

Bindings.

They were soaked through in places, darkened with blood, stretched tight enough that the shape beneath them was unmistakable. The rise of a chest that had never belonged to a male. The curve that months of illusion, posture, and discipline had hidden from them all.

From him.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Azriel couldn’t.

His thoughts scattered violently, crashing into one another--anger, disbelief, betrayal, horror, fear. His shadows recoiled, writhing, as if shocked into silence.

Female.

Bran was-

No.

She was-

Cassian’s voice broke through, sharp and incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he blurted. “You’re telling me Bran...Bran was a female this entire time?”

Azriel barely heard him.

His gaze was locked on her face, too pale, lashes dark against her skin, lips parted slightly with shallow breaths. Unconscious. Broken. Vulnerable in a way she had never allowed herself to be while awake.

She had fought beside him.

Trusted him.

Lied to him.

Anger flared--hot and vicious--followed immediately by something worse.

Fear.

She could have died. Had nearly died. Had gone into battle bound and bleeding and hidden, carrying a secret that could have gotten her killed long before today.

Azriel couldn’t breathe.

He turned sharply, stalking out of the tent before anyone could stop him. The cold air slammed into his lungs, but it didn’t help. His heart hammered violently, thoughts spiralling out of control.

Female.

All this time.

The jokes. The camaraderie. The quiet moments by the fire. The trust. The escape, she had said. Her voice echoed back to him now, twisted and raw.

He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing like a caged animal, shadows flaring erratically around him. Fury burned--but it had nowhere to land. Not on her. Not when she lay unconscious, broken because she had saved them all.

He had been fooled.

And somehow… that hurt more than the lie itself.

She woke to pain.

Not the sharp kind--but the deep aching weight that settled into her bones, made every breath feel measured and deliberate. The air smelled of herbs and smoke, of clean linen and old blood. Canvas rustled softly overhead.

A healer sat beside her cot.

Y/N froze.

Memory rushed back all at once--the ridge, the ice, the blast, Azriel’s shout. Her breath hitched sharply as awareness snapped into place, and instinct took over. She gasped and reached for the blanket, fingers trembling as she tried to pull it higher-

A gentle hand stopped her.

“There’s no need,” the healer said softly. “I already know your secret. You’re safe here.”

Y/N's chest rose and fell too fast. Slowly, she let the blanket fall back into place, exhaustion crashing into relief so heavy it almost hurt. She swallowed.

"...Did you tell them?" she asked, voice rough.

The healer hesitated--just a fraction.

"I had to," she said quietly, "he is the prince."

Of course.

Y/N closed her eyes, a long breath slipping out between her lips. So they knew. All three of them. The boys she had fought beside. Laughed with. Lied to.

Her fingers curled into the sheets. "Does anyone else know?"

Fear edged her voice now--real, unmasked.

She knew what the Illyrian camps were like. What they did to women who broke their rules. She knew she wouldn’t survive a single night if the wrong ears heard the truth.

“No,” the healer said firmly. “No one else. I swore silence, and so did the prince. You are protected.”

Y/N nodded, relief and dread tangling together.

“I’ll call the prince and his friends when you’re ready,” the healer added gently. “But first, you should know your condition. You’ve broken two ribs, suffered internal bruising, and lost a dangerous amount of blood. You’re lucky to be alive.”

Lucky.

Y/N let out a quiet, humourless breath. “How long… how long was I out?”

“Today is day three.”

She absorbed that in silence.

Then, after a moment, she said, “Okay.” Her jaw set. “I’m ready. Please tell them to come in.”

The healer studied her carefully. “Are you sure? You could rest. Take more time.”

Y/N shook her head. “No. I just want to get this over with.” Her voice dropped. “It’ll make my exile easier.”

The healer didn't argue. She only nodded and slipped out of the tent. Alone again.

Y/N stared up at the canvas ceiling, heart pounding, mind racing. She replayed every moment, every joke, every shared meal, every quiet look. She now braced herself for fury, for disgust, for disappointment.

For losing them all.

Footsteps approached and then the tent flap opened.

Rhysand first: calm, composed, eyes sharp but not unkind. Cassian beside him, expression conflicted, worry and disbelief warring across his face. And Azriel...

Azriel didn't look at her. Not once.

His jaw was tight, posture rigid, gaze fixed anywhere but on her. Shadows clung to him unnaturally still.

Y/N exhaled slowly. "...Well," she said hoarsely. "I suppose you caught me at last." A pause. "I am female."

Silence.

"Yes," Rhysand said calmly. "I know. And I have known this whole time."

All three of them froze in shock.

Cassian whipped his head toward Rhysand. "You--what?"

Even Azriel turned then, eyes flashing in disbelief.

Rhysand sighed lightly. “When you first arrived at the camp, I checked your mind. Without your permission,” he added, glancing at Y/N. “For security reasons. My father taught me to. I saw… everything. Your life. Your escape. Why you were here.”

Y/N stared at him, stunned. “Then why didn’t you tell them?” she asked quietly. “Why didn’t you turn me in?”

Rhysand met her gaze evenly. “Because I knew you would tell them yourself. Or circumstances would force the truth out.” A small, knowing smile curved his lips. “And because it was never my secret to reveal.”

Something in Y/N’s chest loosened, just a little.

Gratitude welled up, sharp and overwhelming. She nodded once, swallowing past the tightness in her throat.

The truth was out.

And nothing--nothing--would ever be the same again.

Y/N drew in a steadying breath.

"For the other two of you," she said quietly, gaze lifting to Cassian first, then--briefly--to Azriel, "who didn't know...let me explain."

Rhysand inclined his head once, giving her the space.

She stared at the tent wall as she began, as if the words were etched there already, waiting to be read.

"I was promised to a male before I ever knew what marriage truly meant," she said. "A political match. Convenient. Beneficial. And everyone told me I should be grateful."

Her fingers tightened in the blankets.

"I knew what he was," she continued. "What men like him do when no one is watching. I knew I would lose everything--my voice, my freedom, my body." A breath shuddered through her. "So, I ran."

Cassian's face softened, all humorous gone.

“I cut my hair,” she said. “Bound my chest until I could barely breathe. I stole clothes too big for me and learned how to walk, how to speak, how to exist as a male.” Her mouth curved in something bitter. “I saw the way the world opened for them. How they’re allowed to be angry. Loud. Reckless. How no one questions their presence...or their worth.”

She finally looked at them.

“I wanted that life. Not for glory. For survival.” Her voice wavered only once. “So, I became Brandon. And I never looked back.”

Silence stretched thick between them.

“I know you might feel anger,” she said softly. “Or betrayal. But you were the only real friendships I’ve ever had. The only place I felt… peace.” Her eyes burned, but she didn’t look away. “And even if it was brief--those moments meant everything to me. I will always be grateful for them.”

Cassian blinked.

Then he scoffed--not cruelly, but in disbelief--and shook his head. “Are you serious?” he said, stepping closer. “Angry? No. Shocked, yeah. But impressed?” A grin tugged at his mouth. “Absolutely.”

Y/N frowned slightly.

“You survived Illyrian camps,” Cassian went on, voice growing animated. “You fought beside us. You saved our asses more times than I can count. I’ve been yelling at commanders for years that this place needs female warriors, and they never listen.” He gestured at her like she was proof incarnate. “You just proved them all wrong--and they don’t even know it.”

A huff of laughter escaped him. “That’s- gods, that’s impressive.”

“Cool,” he added.

Azriel’s head snapped up.

“Cool,” Azriel repeated sharply. “Not cool.” His voice cut through the tent like a blade. “And certainly not something to praise.”

Cassian opened his mouth, but Azriel didn’t stop.

“You lied to us,” Azriel said, finally turning toward her fully. His eyes were dark, furious, not with hatred, but with something far more dangerous. “You built an entire false identity. You stood beside us under a name that wasn’t yours.”

Y/N lifted her chin. "I was going to be married off to a man who would've owned me," she said. "Who would've hurt me. Once I escaped, I had nowhere to go, to stay. This camp, as weird as it sounds, was the only place left."

"That doesn't change the fact that we trusted you," Azriel shot back. His voice rose--not shouting, but tight, restrained. "We shared our lives with you. Our histories. I considered you one of us."

"You still can," she said quietly. "I did this to survive."

"You don't get to decide that for us," he snapped.

Her patience finally snapped.

"No. You don't get to decide anything about this," she said, voice fierce now. "You have no idea what it means to be a female in this world. You don't get the right to speak freely. Or choose your future. Or even exist without being owned by someone else."

She held his gaze, unflinching.

"You don't get to be angry at me for doing what I had to do, because you'll never live what I have lived."

Something shifted. Just barely.

Azriel's jaw clenched. His fury faltered--not gone, but fractured. He looked away with a sharp scoff, crossing his arms.

"Whatever," he muttered.

Cassian broke the tension gently. "So," he said, softer now. "What's your real name then?"

"Y/N," she said.

The name settled into the space between them--real, vulnerable, irrevocable.

Rhysand exhaled softly, as if steadying himself.

"We need to get you out of here, Y/N. Before anyone finds out."

The words hit her like a blade.

She swallowed hard, heart plummeting. “Yes,” she said quickly, panic threading her voice. “I know. I- I understand. I’ve committed a vile mistake, and I accept the consequences, I need to be exiled, but please...just give me one day. One day to stand on my feet again and I’ll leave. I swear I won’t cause trouble.”

Rhysand blinked.

“Exiled?” he echoed, genuinely confused. “No. You’re not being exiled.”

She froze.

“I’m getting you somewhere safe,” he continued gently. “I’ve spoken with my mother. We both agreed--you cannot stay in the camps. Not now. Not ever again.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

“There is a city in the Night Court,” Rhysand went on, careful with every word. “Far safer than this place. But my father resides there, and while he is just--while he is kind--he is also bound by tradition. If he knew your story, he would feel compelled to punish you. Severely.”

Her hands trembled beneath the blankets.

“So, for now,” Rhysand said, “I’ll send you to the Court of Nightmares. My cousin, Mor, will take care of you there. You will be protected. You won’t have to hide.”

The world tilted.

“You may decide where you wish to go afterward,” he finished. “What life you wish to build. But that choice will be yours.”

Y/N stared at him, stunned.

“I- ” Her voice cracked. “I don’t… I don’t even know how to repay you.”

“You don’t,” Rhysand said simply. “You live.”

She sucked in a shaky breath. “Thank you,” she managed. “I- thank you, truly.”

“I’ll winnow her there.”

Azriel’s voice cut in quietly.

Everyone turned.

He stepped forward, extending a hand, not demanding, not rushed. An offering.

“I’ll make sure she’s settled,” he said, eyes finally lifting to meet hers. “Safely.”

Something unspoken passed between them: regret, shame, understanding. An apology without words.

She felt it.

And she took his hand.

Cassian cleared his throat, then grinned, though his eyes were warm. “Yeah,” he said. “And if anyone gives you trouble until then, I’ll break their legs. Politely.”

A breathy laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

For the first time since waking, her chest felt lighter. And for the first time since running, she wasn’t alone.

"...and that happened over four hundred years ago."

Silence.

Feyre, Elain, and Nesta stared at Y/N as if she'd just grown two heads.

Then Feyre blinked. Once. Twice. "...Whoa."

Y/N laughed, soft and bright, leaning back against the cushions of the River House sofa. “Yes,” she said. “Whoa.”

Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, catching on the Sidra beyond. Time had moved gently here--centuries folding into peace. Elain sat cross-legged on the rug, absently twirling a curl of Nyx’s dark hair around her finger as the boy dozed against her chest.

“And you just- ” Feyre shook her head, grinning in disbelief. “You just became a soldier?”

“A very angry one,” Nesta muttered dryly.

Y/N smirked.

Elain tilted her head, eyes soft. “And… did you and Azriel reconcile fully after that?”

Before Y/N could answer, Nesta snorted. “Obviously. Otherwise why would they be mates right now?”

Y/N rolled her eyes fondly, but her smile lingered. “It didn’t happen all at once,” she said. “It was… slow. Painfully so. Trust had to be rebuilt, brick by brick. Azriel needed time. I needed patience. And somewhere between shared silences, late-night training, and him learning how to listen instead of brood...” She paused, lips curving. “...things changed.”

Nesta scoffed. “Shocking.”

Feyre laughed and then looked at Nesta. “Well,” she said lightly, “looks like your mate did end up becoming the warrior-commander he once dreamed of being.”

Y/N laughed too, but then her expression softened, something tender and sad settling in her eyes as she looked at Feyre, then at Nyx.

“I just wish you’d met Rhys’s mother,” she said quietly. “And his sister. They were the kindest, most welcoming fae I had ever known.”

A hush fell.

Feyre swallowed. “I know,” she whispered. “Rhys has told me so much about them. But I believe they’re still here--with us.”

Elain hugged Nyx a little closer, smiling gently. “You really are one of a kind, Y/N.”

“You’re right about that.”

Azriel’s voice cut through the room as he stepped inside.

Y/N barely had time to turn before strong arms wrapped around her from behind, a kiss pressed to her temple. She leaned back into him instinctively, smiling as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Cassian followed, immediately dropping onto the arm of Nesta’s chair. “Are we telling war stories again? Because if so, I demand a rewrite. I was far more impressive than she made me sound.”

“You praised yourself enough in her version,” Nesta said sweetly.

Rhysand entered last, Feyre rising to meet him as Nyx stirred, murmuring in his sleep.

Laughter filled the room--warm, easy, earned.

Y/N let it wash over her.

Once, she had been a girl running for her life. A soldier hiding behind a borrowed name. A secret wrapped in armor and fear.

Now, she was surrounded by family--chosen and found. By love that had survived lies, war, and time itself.

She caught Azriel’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

He had been pacing all month long.

He had grated everyone’s nerves, too.

Ever since Rhys had returned from Under the Mountain, Azriel had been restless, impatient, almost bordering on being rude on some occasions. They knew why. Everyone knew why the spymaster was barely consolable, why his eyes snapped toward the horizon every once in a while, why his attention drifted off during council meetings, family dinners, and sparring sessions. They knew why he threw himself into work more than he had already done in the past, why he barely stepped across the threshold of the rooms he occupied in the House of Winds, why he looked as if sleep evaded him at any given moment.

They all knew, and no one could do a single thing about it but to… wait.

Feyre watched the shadowsinger, too. She had found her place within this beautiful city, within the tight-knit group of friends and family—she herself found a family within—had even found love without being destroyed, and yet, worry still gnawed at her whenever her eyes landed on Azriel. She recognized the longing and fear written in his eyes for what they were, but did not understand the cause of it. No one would tell her because, as Rhys had spoken quietly one night in front of the fireplace, “It is his life and story to tell, Feyre darling.”

And she could accept that, not wanting to push anyone, and especially not the male himself, when he already hung by a mere thread.

But then, in one of the council meetings she now sat in on herself, Cassian let something slip, causing a reaction from the spymaster. “No one has heard of her so far. Mor?” The blonde shook her head with worry written on her forehead. “Not yet. Perhaps she went into hiding? Or she is…” Her voice softly trailed off, a careful glance thrown across the table at Azriel, whose face was a blank canvas except for his eyes, burning like embers. His hand, flipping through the pages of reports, was now balled into a fist, knuckles almost turning pale. “She is not dead,” he growled, a warning lingering in his voice.

Feyre watched on, watched the way his shoulders stiffened, how his breath hitched ever so slightly, before he ripped his gaze from Mor and the others, staring out the window toward the horizon, eyes growing distant as if he were searching for something within. With worry, she looked at Rhys sitting at the head of the table next to her, who himself watched his brother and best friend with slightly furrowed brows, contemplating, thinking, weighing.

“I will try to reach out to one of our…—” Azriel’s eyes snapped to the High Lord, silencing him immediately. “She is our only spy in the region; you know that as well as I do because she was already there before everything. And she has not answered.” Deafening silence settled over the council, and Feyre watched her mate swallow hard, color draining from his face, and now, she knew something was very much wrong.

Hours later, she sank into his open arms without hesitation, feeling them wrap around her tightly, and a sigh as deep as the ocean left Rhysand when he settled deeper into the couch. She looked up at him and softly touched his cheek, making him look away from the fire and down at her. “Tell me what worries you and everyone else so much, please.” She hated to be left out of it, reminding her of her time at the Spring Court—Rhys seemingly noticed it too, because another sigh left him before his fingers started to caress her hair.

“You know I have a sister.” She nodded slowly. “I’m still wondering when I’ll finally meet her, to be honest.” Rhys smiled softly, sadness etched into his features. “I wish I could tell you, darling. See, before everything happened, before Amarantha, she was a spy just like Azriel and many others. She was—is—one of our best. She has ties to Summer because she is friends with Tarquin, their new High Lord, and knows her way around the courts. But when Amarantha trapped us and I had to protect Velaris, she was on a mission in Autumn and locked out of the city after the protective barrier was reinforced.” Feyre slowly sat up. “And she has not returned,” she finished quietly, making him nod, fear swimming in his eyes. “No one knows where she is or what happened. Perhaps she is on her way already, or is waiting for something, maybe she has a task yet to fulfill. We don’t know—I don’t know. And that worries me.”

Shadows moved against the menacing castle as if they had turned sentient, crawling across the bone-colored stones, growing darker and deeper as soon as patrolling guards passed, torches flickering in the approaching dimness of nightfall. No one seemed to notice, no one paid attention, heeding it no mind.

A pair of brilliant eyes emerged from the shadows behind a towering war tent, glancing around the outermost pole of the structure and watching men in armor and uniforms pass along the many winding paths throughout the war camp. Boots stomping in mud, torches flickering in the gusts of wind, clouds slowly closing in for yet another rainfall, slightly obscuring the setting sun. She watched, counting silently in her mind, tracking faces and bodies, brows slightly furrowed underneath her black hood. When the clearing in front of the war tent was void of any Fae or being, she slid toward the flapping covers of its entrance, slipping inside it without being noticed.

Quietly, she went to the large table in the middle of it, leaving no trace of trespassing. Gloved fingers started to flip through the many notes and letters, eyes jumping across information upon information, memorizing most of it with a glance. She would need to take a parchment roll or two just to have proof, despite knowing her family would never question her—but this was bigger than just her court. So much bigger, it almost transported her back to yet another brewing war, forcing memories into the light of day she had tried to forget as best as she could.

The intruder shook her head, gloved fingers choosing the most important notes as if she would choose a book in the library—covered fingertips almost lazily moving across the many rolls, skillfully and carefully picking the chosen ones without disturbing the surrounding letters. Her trophies entered the hidden pocket in her long black coat, protecting them against the weather during her travels, and after scouring a chest to the right of the wooden table, she even pocketed a map of Hybern and Prythian, strategic points of interest, possible allies, and Hybern’s standing forces drawn on it with blood-red ink.

How fitting, she thought with a snarl hidden in the shadows of her hood and mask covering the lower half of her striking face.

She was just done folding the map to fit it in the hidden pocket alongside its treacherous companions when voices drew closer to the tent, making her still for a fraction of a second, head snapping up and eyes staring toward the entrance. The flaps of the tent were drawn back, allowing a general and his escort to enter, servants piling in behind them, carrying glasses and carafes on tablets, and no one noticed the missing documents nor the figure vanishing underneath the tent’s fabric walls. Not even a patrolling group heard running feet across the already damp ground as the storm started to howl, while a female body jumped off the deep-diving cliffs and a pair of mighty wings carried her on the stormy winds across the sea, guiding her home.

Her steps were quiet in the halls dusted in the gold of dawn when she arrived on one of the many balconies, her wings aching from the long travel, but she could not rest—not with the longing grown to immeasurable depths. She had followed the golden band guiding her home after so many decades of lost time, guilt eating at her.

But he would understand.

They all would because ever since stepping into her roles all these centuries ago, everyone knew she would never start a mission and abandon it halfway through.

With a soundless sigh, she let her wings draw back underneath her skin, allowing them to rest, her feet carrying her across the familiar stone floor and through familiar hallways, until voices echoed through them. Her lips tucked into a smile she rarely had reason to show ever since leaving her home, but she would do better now. Now, she finally would have reason again to laugh until her belly ached and tears threatened to spill. Now, the nights wouldn’t be so lonely and cold anymore.

“Tarquin has not seen her for over two decades—at least that’s what he is telling.”

Quiet as a shadow as she was, the female leaned against the open double door with crossed arms and crossed legs, watching the council debate. The familiar sight made her heart ache in the best possible way, and she could scold herself for not coming home sooner. But things had to be done, and they would profit from it. Perhaps it would be enough for a head start in the war to come.

“Well…,” she began in her soft voice, making everyone freeze before turning all at once with filled cups being the bearer of the surprise, some tipping and falling, “I hope he better tells the truth. If not, I would question his sanity.”

No one dared to move, as if seeing a ghost, with the exception of one male. Her gaze was immediately forced to watch him, to watch his tall form rise from his chair with so much urgency, the poor thing toppled over behind his strong thighs, wings rustling and flexing, long strides carrying him toward her in a matter of seconds. Without so much as a word, Azriel’s strong, familiar arms wrapped around her smaller body and swooped her up in his embrace, feet dangling several inches above the floor, before they crossed themselves over each ankle, bending her knees and arms wrapping around his neck to pull her closer against him without being a wet sack of grain just hanging off of him, face burrowing into his shoulder.

His smell enveloped her within heartbeats, making her head dizzy and her lungs take one greedy, deep breath at a time, almost moaning at how good it felt to be held close by him again. Her still gloved fingers buried themselves in the short dark hair at the nape of his neck where it had always slightly curled and still kept doing so, as if no time at all had passed. She felt his warm face pressed into the crook of her neck, just where it had always rested so perfectly, felt his lips on the sliver of skin peeking out from under her assassin’s attire, as he loved to call her get-up for missions. Azriel’s hands moved softly, adjusting their hold, until one arm was wrapped tighter around her waist, and his other hand moved up to her neck, holding her face closer to his shoulder and, subsequently, his neck.

“My love,” traveled along their bond, and finally hearing his voice within her mind again made the female almost cry. But she kept her composure—for now. She knew she would break down the moment they would finally be alone again when she begged him for forgiveness for staying away longer than necessary after Amarantha had been vanquished, for locking herself away from their bond. “Az,” she whispered against the skin of his neck, followed by a soft kiss pressed to it.

A throat was cleared behind them, but neither of them moved, still clinging to each other, still breathing each other in. Then, she felt Az’s muscles tighten when a hand found his back, softly patting him. “Azriel,” Rhysand spoke gently, but in warning, making the spymaster growl deep in his throat, but it moved him to put her down with aching slowness nonetheless. She didn’t mind, of course. She would prefer staying wrapped up in him for the next ten or so years, but she knew this wouldn’t be possible, not with the knowledge she held.

The moment she had both feet on the ground again, Azriel rounded her, pressing himself against her back, molding his chest against her, a hand possessively tightening its grasp around her right hipbone. She threw a glance over her shoulder, a brow slightly lifted, and couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his brooding features, displeasure clearly evident for everyone to see. She also knew that he wouldn’t have any of it for much longer, ready to throw her across his shoulder to carry her off.

Certainly not against her own wishes for the foreseeable future.

Rhys stepped closer, observing the hand resting on her hip and clearly looking unimpressed at Az looming above her shoulder. “Don’t be like that,” she warned him, making her brother stare down at her in mock offense. “Like what? I do not know what you could possibly mean by that.” Eye rolling, she was now the one looking unimpressed at him, humor concealed. “Don’t make a fuss about him because I can assure you we won’t be staying all that much longer if it goes my way.”

A soft chuckle was ripped right out of the High Lord, then before his hands both found her shoulders, squeezing them, and his face turned serious. “We were worried. I was worried,” he dared to admit his weakness when it came to her. She knew Rhysand was no one who admitted to having soft spots and weaknesses, especially not when it came to other courts, but that was why she cherished those moments even more. “I know, and I am sorry for not coming home sooner.” Her eyes drifted across her shoulder back to where Azriel kept his watch, trying not to force her all-consuming guilt across the bond and probably failing miserably because he already shook his head slowly, his hand at her hip, squeezing in reassurance.

“But I had to see it for myself,” the High Fae added, and Rhys watched her with interest. She smiled and beckoned him closer, kissing his cheek and disheveling his hair with a hand and a giggle, “I promise, I am alright. No bruises, no broken bones, everything where it should be.” It was a promise to him, Azriel, Cassian, and Mor. She knew Amren wouldn’t care if she had a dislocated shoulder for all she knew, but the other four? They would be devastated—and would hit her until she admitted being reckless and forcing her to spend the next decade merely at home, wrapped up in blankets and pillows.

Rhysand nodded and made her step up to the table while lacing her fingers with the quiet Azriel behind her, tugging him along. When she stood next to Mor, she pulled her friend into her side and smiled at the blonde, both kissing each other’s cheeks. “I am so glad to have you back home in one piece,” the other female whispered and gave her wrist a squeeze. “I know. Breakfast at the Sidra sometime next week?” The spy knew a certain spymaster would never let her leave their rooms for the entire rest of the week. Mor smiled, nodding, and then she turned and smiled at the female standing across from her she had heard so much about ever since finding herself in the Spring Court as a human. “Do you might want to come along? I would love to know how someone as capable as you has gotten herself tangled up with my buffoon of a brother.”

Immediately, she knew she had said the right thing because Feyre’s entire face morphed from insecure and almost scared into a wide, perhaps a bit shy smile. “I would very much like that,” she agreed with a chuckle while Rhys rolled his eyes at his sister’s antics. “You have been back for only a minute, and already you’re inciting unbecoming behavior.” Showing him her tongue, the High Lord sighed in defeat, mumbling about it while she let go of Azriel’s hand for only a moment, turning the male into something restless. His hand immediately searched for her body, anything to hold onto her, and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her into his side until she was tightly pressed against him.

She did not mind in the slightest. Quite the opposite—she reveled in it. A warning glance was thrown across the table toward Cassian, whose mouth was already opening to make a quip about it. “Do not make me warn you verbally, Cass.”Both hands rose, and she nodded, pulling out her prized possessions.

The second Azriel had gotten a better look at the map she just unfolded, he took a deep breath, his fingers flexing against her side, his entire body becoming rigid. A finger under her chin made her look up at him in his slightly widened eyes, cheeks paling under his sun-kissed skin. “Do not tell me you were where I think you were, love,” he whispered, pure terror etching into his face. One of her hands cupped his cheek within a blink of an eye, softly shaking her head. “It is not the way you think it is. They did not see me, did not catch me. I am hard to catch if you recall, especially if I do not want to be found. And I did not want to be found with my hands in their war-mongering correspondence.”

Turning back to the table, she flattened the map and unrolled the three letters she had decided to take with her. “Hybern plans a war and we may have an upper hand, at least at this point. I only took so much that they would not suspect anything amiss, and if they do, they perhaps might think the letters merely misplaced. I have more information, but I couldn’t take everything with me, so you will receive a written recollection as soon as I find the time for it, brother dearest. But these… these might help convince everyone else. And I will start with Tarquin myself if you do not mind, Rhys.”

Her High Lord stared unmoving at her, making her almost uncomfortable in his scrutiny, while Cassian lowly whistled and Mor swallowed hard. Azriel continued to be rigid beside her, watching only her.

“Remind me again to never be placed on your bad side, sister,” Rhys spoke, making her grin in delight. “Don’t try to find yourself there, and everything will be fine, Rhy.” The familiar name from their youth—because she had long struggled with the letter s and the sound of it—made him almost smile before nodding toward the door. “Go on. We will discuss this tomorrow if you could both arrange it. And don’t be too… loud.” Something resembling disgust crossed his face, and he had to physically shake himself, making her laugh in more delight before a squeal was ripped out of her throat when Azriel just… took her by her hips and hoisted her on his broad shoulder with astonishing ease, leaving the council room with purposeful strides, her bright laugh echoing off the familiar hallway walls.

Grey morning light kissed the vanishing darkness of night, few stars clinging to their places across the sky as she watched the change of colors from their bed, a soft smile dusting her lips. Being home felt good, rejuvenating in a way the female had stopped hoping for in order to suppress the longing growing inside her heart. Now, she almost felt foolish for not returning sooner, perhaps before she would have gone to Hybern, just for a day or two—not that Azriel would have allowed her to leave again so soon in those circumstances.

Quiet steps padded across the wooden floor and the plush carpet before the bed softly groaned under the Illyrian’s trained form, making the mattress dip slightly. A heartbeat later, she could feel his soft lips against her shoulder blade, his skilled fingers caressing the bare skin of her exposed side, following the curve of her hips and waist up to her shoulder. When he pressed his warm, bare chest against her unclothed back, his fingers cupped her chin and made her head turn in his direction, blindly searching for his lips, which he oh so happily offered up for her.

“I could hear you think across the room, sweetheart,” Azriel mumbled against the plumpness of her lips after so many hours of kissing and debauchery. “I did no such thing.” It was followed by a giggle when his arms enveloped her body anew, making her turn and pulling her flush against him, gazing at her face as if to memorize it yet again. “You admit having no thoughts whatsoever after what I did to you, love? Oh, you know how to stoke a male’s ego,” he chuckled, smile morphing into that rare, wide-spreading grin she loved so dearly after slapping his shoulder. She would spend every gemstone in the vaults to have that grin immortalized in a portrait. But Az would never allow her such things, not when it came to him, at least.

The female had stopped counting how many portraits there existed merely of her and merely for his enjoyment.

She obviously did not mind.

She might mock him for his obsession, but she would also melt at the feeling of the soul-deep love he held for her.

A hand cupped his strong jawline, a thumb started to caress the warm skin of his cheek, eyes staring into his. She felt his relaxed body relax a bit more, felt him melt into her without having to think about it. Not anymore. They were past that particular point ever since she had defended him against a group of Illyrian men, only for him to pull her behind him and shout at her for being so reckless after they went home. She could still hear Rhys’ deep chuckle when he had found them still arguing and shouting insults at one another—only for them to share their first kiss after being left to their own devices.

Their naked bodies pressed against each other, no leaf fitting between them. And then, she felt the tears gather, felt her breath hitch ever so softly, alerting Azriel, who was so in tune with her, it was impossible to hide anything from him.

“I am sorry,” she dared to whisper, forcing a sob down, not allowing it to escape. He kissed her right then and there, silencing her for a moment or two. “We have lost so much time,” the female continued, finally allowing her to consider the many lonely decades lying behind her. It almost broke her heart thinking about what Azriel might have thought when she didn’t return home. Had he doubted her? Himself? Had he thought she had abandoned him for someone else?

The possibility almost killed her.

Az made her look at him, foreheads almost touching, and his shadows gathered closer, one smoky tendril gently started to caress her hair while his fingers flexed against her back, holding her tight. “There was not a single minute I existed where I thought you wouldn’t have wanted me any longer, my darling. I never thought you abandoned me, never thought you found someone better. Perhaps there was a moment filled with fear when I stared across the city, wishing, beseeching you to appear at the horizon, and perhaps thought I lost you. That perhaps you had been caught, shutting me out in order to protect me, and that someone has killed you.” She watched him with wide, fearful, and teary eyes when he had to pause for a moment, staring unblinkingly at her, reminding himself that she was safe in his arms, still breathing. “I was not good company in those weeks,” he dared to mumble. “Cass had to lock me up for a day or two because I wanted to leave. I wanted to leave and find whoever had done you wrong. But then… Well, Mor got through to me, to put it mildly. And I knew you were out there, somewhere, hiding, waiting. Waiting to come home.”

She quickly nodded at that because she had wanted to come home so badly, it had physically hurt.

“We may have lost five decades, my love, but it is not the end of the world. Whatever is coming our way, we will survive that too, just as we have survived the last war. And when all is over, I want to fulfill your dream of a cottage at a river, little wings flapping around and tiny feet running us into the ground every day of our existence—and we will fall into bed at night, exhausted to the bone, but feeling a happiness few can claim to have ever experienced,” Azriel promised in soft words, making her realize something of utmost importance. “We indeed shared a dream.” The Illyrian showed her favorite grin, silver brimming his hazel eyes. “I think we did, and I hope for it to happen more often.” She giggled through tears, holding onto him for dear life before she peppered his cheeks with whispers of kisses and took him in, breathing him in. “I love you like the air we breathe, Azriel. Ever since stumbling into you and forcing you to carry my books like the spoiled little Fae I was, I knew I would grow to need you to be able to live. And I was right because a world without you is a cruel one,” the female dared to whisper, meaning every word.

If he were injured or worse in their fight against Hybern… The High Fae wasn’t sure what she would do to herself.

Azriel kissed the tip of her nose gently. “I think I remember that particular encounter a bit differently. I seem to recall how smitten I was and how much I egged you to let me carry them.” The same unchanged grin found its place on his face, making her realize yet another thing:

Azriel was the one the Mother above had created for her, and she would thank her for all eternity as she melted against his strong chest, where she had always found her peace.

Very carefully, Az shifts his grip and peels the leather back.

A tiny black kitten blinks up at you all, green eyes huge and furious in a smudge of a face. Its fur is bedraggled but soft-looking, ears too big for its skull. It clings to the front of his leathers with needle claws and glares at the world like it has personally offended her.

Cassian slides off the couch and hits the floor with a thud.

Mor’s glass stops halfway to her mouth.

“Oh,” Feyre breathes, hand flying to her chest.

You sit all the way up. “You didn’t.”

Azriel’s expression doesn’t change, but his shadows give him away, curling close around the creature as if to shield it from the room.

He stands very still, like a guilty child caught with contraband—except he’s six feet of lethal shadows. “She was alone,” he mutters. “Shipyard alley. No mother. No siblings. It was raining.”

Something in the way he says alone makes your chest ache.

Cassian stares. Then, wonderingly: “So the deadliest bastard in Prythian looked at a helpless scrap of fur and said, ‘Yes, that one is mine’?”

The kitten chooses that moment to climb higher, claws hooking into the neckline of his leathers. She scrabbles up to his shoulder and tucks herself half under his hair, purring so loudly it’s almost comical.

“Seems mutual,” Feyre murmurs, violet eyes bright with barely-contained delight.

Rhys has not taken his eyes off the cat. “Azriel,” he tries, voice pained, “we cannot keep a wild animal—”

The kitten turns her head toward Rhys and hisses—loud, offended, how dare you.

Mor slaps a hand over her mouth. Cassian wheezes on the rug. Rhys, the High Lord of Night, takes an involuntary step back.

“She… hissed at me,” he says, sounding personally wronged.

“She has excellent instincts,” Az says flatly.

The kitten hisses again for emphasis.

Mor loses the fight with herself and starts laughing.

Cassian pushes himself up on his elbows. “I can’t believe you stole a cat.”

Az shoots him a dark look. “I didn’t steal her. The sailors were trying to kick her off the dock.” His jaw flexes. “She bit one of them. I assisted.”

You can picture it perfectly: Azriel descending out of a storm, shadows curling, scaring half a crew into wetting themselves because they dared be mean to a palm-sized menace.

The kitten swivels toward Cassian as if sensing his skepticism and immediately bares all six teeth. A tiny, murderous hiss.

Cassian reaches out a broad hand. “C’mere, shadow rat, I won’t—”

The kitten swats him. One single, disdainful bap to his fingers, claws just sharp enough to sting.

Cassian yelps and jerks back. “She assaulted me.”

Mor is howling. “Az, she’s perfect for you.”

“Why does everything small and angry hate me?” Cassian demands.

“Because everything small and angry recognizes competition,” Mor offers sweetly.

Feyre edges a little closer, hands open, voice gentle. “Can I—?”

The kitten hisses. A tiny, offended puff of sound, then she dismisses Feyre entirely in favor of ramming her face into the angle of Azriel’s throat.

Feyre freezes. “Right. That’s fair.”

Az’s gloved fingers come up instinctively, cupping the kitten’s back, thumb smoothing over damp fur with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten. His voice shifts, almost imperceptibly.

“It’s all right, little one,” he murmurs, so soft you almost miss it. “You’re safe.”

Cassian’s mouth falls open. “Oh my gods,” he whispers to Rhys. “He has a voice for it.”

You’re safe, he tells a creature that could fit in his palm. Not a weapon, not a witness, not an informant—just… small. Needy. Unafraid of his scars.

Your heart hurts.

Az’s mouth twitches. Just a little. “She’s staying,” he says, quieter now, eyes flicking to you like you might be the deciding vote.

And there it is—that soft line in his face. The one you see at night when he thinks you’re asleep, thumb tracing circles on your back. The one almost no one else gets to see.

You stand, moving slowly, hands up. The kitten digs her claws in and presses herself under his jaw like he’s the only solid thing in existence.

“Understood,” you say gravely. “I, too, prefer him to everyone else.”

You reach up, carefully, letting your fingers brush Azriel’s wrist first, then the kitten’s side. Soft fur, tense muscle. “He looks scary,” you tell the cat, tone conspiratorial. “But he carries way too many bandages in his pockets to be truly terrifying.”

Az makes a protesting sound.

The kitten sniffs your fingers.

You hold still.

After a long, ridiculous moment, she leans forward and—very delicately—bonks her forehead into your knuckles.

Cassian points accusingly. “Okay, no. Absolutely not. I smiled at her and got hissed at. Rhys breathed and got hissed at. You walk up and it’s ‘yes, hello, new mother’?”

“Because Az loves her,” Mor sing-songs, elbowing him in the ribs. “Obviously the kitten can tell.”

The kitten gives a tiny, satisfied chirp. You very carefully scratch under her chin. Purring thunders out of that tiny body like a storm rolling in.

Azriel looks… ruined. Soft in the eyes, mouth almost gentle. He angles his head so his cheek brushes the kitten’s fur, shadows curling around them both like a second, living cloak.

Rhys stares at him, expression soft despite himself, like he’s watching some new constellation form.

Az clears his throat. “She was alone,” he says, mostly to you now. “Cold. There was… nothing left. I couldn’t leave her there.”

Your heart clenches. You stroke the kitten’s head again, fingers brushing his as you do. “Of course you couldn’t,” you say softly. “You never leave anyone in the dark.”

For a moment, it’s just the three of you—Azriel, you, and the tiny scrap of life tucked against his chest, shadows rustling like contented feathers.

Then Cassian ruins it.

“So,” he says, leaning in with a wicked grin, “is this like a test run? First a kitten, then a baby? Should we—”

A low growl rolls out of Azriel, quiet and very clear. In a heartbeat his whole demeanor shifts—back to icy, dangerous, the Night Court’s Spymaster.

“Finish that sentence, Cassian,” he says pleasantly, “and I will feed you to her.”

The kitten squeaks, as if in agreement.

Mor wheezes. Rhys actually chokes on his drink.

Az finally looks at you properly, and there, just there, is the grateful, disbelieving warmth you feel like a physical thing through your chest.

“You’re alright with her staying?” he asks quietly, the rest of the room blurring at the edges.

You glance at him, at the kitten, at the way his shadows have already made a cocoon around both of you.

“Az,” you say, “you brought home a terrified little creature who bites people twice her size and hisses at the High Lord.” You tip your head. “She fits right in.”

The kitten chooses that moment to stretch, crawl down his arm, and flop decisively into your hands, purring like an engine.

Rhys groans. Cassian clutches his heart. Mor makes an awww noise so high-pitched a glass almost cracks.

Azriel just watches—this male who has spent his life being the sharpest edge in every room—and for once, he doesn’t look like a blade at all.

He just looks… soft. A little stunned. Entirely gone over a handful of fur and the female who’s holding it.

“Traitor,” Cassian mutters at the kitten.

She lifts her head, stares him dead in the eye, and hisses.

You stroke her back soothingly. “Don’t worry,” you tell the cat. “We hiss at him too.”

—

Upstairs, in the quiet of your room, you shut the door behind you.

The kitten peeks out from Azriel’s leathers with wide, unblinking eyes, taking in the bed, the fireplace, the view of the Sidra. She makes a tiny, approving chirp and kneads at his chest.

Az looks down at her like she hung the stars.

“You’re really keeping her,” you say, even though you already know the answer.

He nods once, as if the decision was made the moment tiny, shaking claws dug into his ruined leathers. “I couldn’t just leave her,” he says again, softer. “Not when I… know what it is to be left.”

Something in you folds. You step close, tipping your forehead against his for a moment, his breath warm against your mouth.

“Good,” you whisper. “Then she’s home now.”

The kitten kneads once more at his chest, then carefully steps—tiny, precise paws—into your waiting hands.

She settles there, purring so hard you feel it in your bones.

Azriel watches you both, something raw and foolishly tender moving over his face. The cold, ruthless Shadowsinger, melting over a ball of black fur and the female he loves.

“She doesn’t hate me,” you say lightly. “That’s a good sign.”

Az’s mouth curves. He reaches out, brushing a knuckle along your jaw, the kitten purring between you like a smug little bridge.

“She’s picky,” he says. “If she decided you’re acceptable, it’s only because she’s paying attention.”

“To what?” you ask.

Without letting yourself overthink it even more, you walked into the threshold and knocked three times, softly but firm enough that it'd be heard. It didn't take long before you heard footsteps approaching. 

“Hello, can I help you?” The male had violet eyes, and from the stories Azriel told you, you were standing in front of the High Lord himself. You tried not to tremble as he stared you down.

He looked tired, his clothes were impeccable, but the dark circles under his eyes and the slightly out-of-place hair told you he'd had some rough nights. Which worried you even more.

You forced yourself to speak. Just get it over with, make sure he's fine then go home and pretend this never happened. 

“I'm sorry to bother you, High Lord, I'm Azriel's friend and I haven't been able to speak to him.” 

Rhys tried to hide his surprise from showing but you caught the way his eyebrows rose slightly. 

“He told me he'd be away for a while and we exchanged letters on the same day every week. It's been three days and he hasn't responded. In his last letter, he mentioned he'd be coming back soon. I was worried something had happened…” Please tell me he's okay.

Any hopes you had were crushed when he frowned, looking down at the floor before stepping aside and inviting you in. “Come inside and I'll explain.” 

You were hesitant. It was one thing walking to one of his family's houses to ask about his well-being, you never meant to interact with them any more than necessary—you hadn't even considered what you'd do if he wasn't okay. Now, going inside meant you might meet more of them, would know what kind of decorations they'd have. It was embarrassing to admit the thought of saying goodbye and having the High Lord walk you out scared you. 

It seemed important—intimate, and you weren't sure if that was the right word for what you and Azriel had. 

Obviously you had been intimate before, that's how it all started. But it was all casual, something and someone to take both your frustrations on. He said it himself that he was sending letters so that you would know when he'd be back and could prepare for the long night awaiting you. The sweet words he sent were just to incite you.

Azriel didn't do romance. 

A small voice at the back of your head wondered why you were there then, if that was the case, that there was nothing romantic between you, why would you go out of your way to make sure he was alright? But you brushed it off. 

Rhysand was watching you and you hoped he wouldn't dare go near your mind. 

“I promise we don't bite.” His attempt at a joke didn't exactly work, but you offered him a small smile. 

The first steps were easier than the rest, you walked inside enough that he could close the door, but didn't know where to go after that. Thankfully his hand met your upper back in a brief brush, leading you further inside and into the living room.

“Take a seat, please.” There was a bottle of wine and a glass sitting on the coffee table, a second glass appeared with a tiny wave of his hand, “Wine?” He turned back to you, showing you the bottle.

Walking into your High Lord's house was something, now drinking with him? “No, thank you.” He nodded, filling one of the glasses. You were still standing, all of the spots on the couch were available, the loveseats looked incredibly inviting, but you felt like you were invading too much. 

Rhysand seemed to understand you weren't going to get comfortable any time soon. You knew he was going to take the couch, but then decided to make his way over to the fireplace, watching the flames dance. 

“Listen,” he sighed, “Azriel is… There was an ambush. He managed to warn me before things got too dangerous, but he got hurt… badly.” 

Your heart did that thing it always did when Azriel was involved, but instead of leaving those butterflies, it made you nauseous. 

“How badly?”

“Badly as in,” He was hesitant to tell you, watching the way you stood there playing with your fingers before continuing, “His wings were damaged.” 

“Gods—” Azriel had mentioned before how important the wings were for Illyrians, how he thought he was nothing without them and his shadows. You couldn't bring yourself to ask if they were damaged beyond repair. The mere thought made you shiver.

In these three days you kept yourself awake, running through every possible reason as to why he hadn't contacted you, the idea that he perhaps had been seriously hurt hadn't been an option. 

Not because you didn't think it was possible, even Gods could be killed. But because Azriel had become a constant in your life, and the thought that maybe you'd need to continue without him, was terrifying. Not a possibility.

Until now you hadn't allowed yourself to want more. You had him in your bed almost every night, and that was alright. He warned you from the moment you met that that was all he could ever give you, and it was fine.

Now you wanted more, needed more.

More time with him, more of his touch, more of the gentle words he spoke to you, more of the way he looked at you. The time you spent together was not enough.

“Would you like to see him?” Oh right, Rhysand was still watching you. 

“Yes.” The voice didn't sound yours, the way it came out so firm and certain was such a contrast to the way you felt inside. Unsure. 

He nodded, downing the rest of his wine—which you didn't even realize he'd kept sipping. How long exactly had you been lost inside your head? 

“Come, I'll take you to his room.” He started walking and with the tunnel vision you would never be able to remember which way he went. You focused on his back and followed. “He was resting when I left, between the hourly tonics and applying the healing balms he didn't really get much sleep.” 

You were so worried that the thought of bothering him hadn't even crossed your mind, “Maybe I shouldn't—”

He suddenly stopped, causing you to almost bump into him, “Oh no, darling, if Azriel considers you a friend, then I'm sure you're as important to him as any of us are.” He took a few steps more before stopping again, this time in front of a simple door.

You weren't sure what you were expecting, maybe a bloodied door handle, or the wood  torn to shreds. But it was just a door, clean and without a scratch in sight. There were intricate and yet simple patterns carved into the wood, it was very much a bedroom door if you'd ever seen one. 

Just a bedroom door. 

“His wings are… They're not pretty,” He blinked, sighing once more before his hand met your shoulder, “but Azriel is fine. I probably should've told you that earlier before you went on a spiral.” He nodded, more to himself than to you, “He just needs support, and I'm sure you can give him that.” 

Then he walked away, not bothering to see you going inside, or to check in with Azriel if he was okay with visits. He just left you there, in the middle of the hall staring at a wooden door like it held the most precious thing in the world to you.

Maybe it did. But you refused to acknowledge it now.

Azriel is fine, you reminded yourself, it was just his wings… the wings he loved so much. Wings he begged you to touch now and then, the velvety feeling of them that was ingrained in your fingertips and lips.

He will be okay. He has to.

You hadn't realized you had closed your eyes, whispering prayers in the back of your mind for whoever there was to hear you, begging them to let him fully heal. 

Give him back to me whole. Protect him from any more damage. Hasn't he given enough?

A chill touch on your arms, you would've thought it was some spiritual being telling you that the prayers were answered, but you knew that feeling all too well not to recognize it. 

Shadows. Which probably meant Azriel was awake and aware of you standing at his door like a statue. Your cheeks heated immediately, so much for nothing serious, you wouldn't react like this for just a good fuck would you? 

But it didn't matter now. You had to see him, if after that he decided he wanted nothing to do with you and your feelings, then that was a problem for later. 

The door handle was cold and bit into your heated skin, it was just a finger width open when you realized you should've knocked. First, you walk into his family's house, open up to the High Lord about being “friends” with him, and now you walk into his room, his most intimate space when he was hurt and vulnerable. 

Nice. He'd never want to see you again.

The chill touch ran to your back then, a firm pressure and the door pulled open slowly, only enough that you could see the foot of his bed. Dark blue bed sheets, a bump in the middle which you assumed was his legs. A breath left you, there was no skin showing it was really him and it could very well be another male, but it was more than you had thirty minutes ago.

You pushed the rest of it open, bracing yourself to see the disappointment in his eyes, perhaps to even hear him telling you to leave. But it never came.

There were no hazel eyes to greet you, only his soft expression, his covered chest moving slowly with his relaxed and steady breaths. Asleep, Azriel was asleep. 

Your eyes slipped down his form to his wings, slumped against the bed, not bloodied like you expected, not missing a piece, not broken. There were wet patches, cuts almost hidden beneath the balm, none of them close to the important areas. The parts he'd let you know were especially sensitive were intact. 

Relief flooded inside you, you could finally breathe again. The pressure on your back pushed you further inside, reminding you that in fact, his shadows did not depend on him to work, they could think and choose for themselves. And right now they were choosing to lock you inside their master's room. 

The door locked behind you with a soft click, you looked back in time to see them swirling back to hover above his chest, some still lingering on your arms for a moment before following. 

There was a chair beside his bed, your feet carried you there but it was like you were floating. 

You went weeks without seeing him, and when you finally did, he was hurt. But he also looked incredibly peaceful, you could see the way his lips were slightly parted, moving with his soft breaths. His eyes were moving, his thick eyelashes fluttering. It wasn't rushed movements, the frown he usually wore wasn't present. He was dreaming. 

Azriel had slept around you before, but it was the first time you actually saw him sleeping. You were always just so tired that you didn't even realize you fell asleep, when you'd wake up he'd more often than not already be staring at you, the other times he'd just keep his eyes closed and let you think you finally beat him, only for him to start smirking.

It was a rare sight, and you would love to see it more often. But probably this was the first and last time you'd see him like this. Perhaps the last time you'd see him at all.

So you'd make the most of it. Memorizing his dark and messy curls, the shape of his lips, the bump on his nose, his sharp cheekbones, his jawline, his neck, the way his scent filled the room.

There was no denying it anymore. How could you? This male walked into your life, treating you like nobody else ever had, and you expected not to catch feelings? Sure, the bar wasn't high before him, but now he set it where you were sure no one would ever be able to reach. 

His skin was warm when you reached for his hand, brushing your thumb over the bumps of his scars. He'd always been insecure about it. The hands that had been touched by so many cruelties, were covered in blood, tainted by basic instincts. He did what he had to do, and he hated it.

But those were the same hands that held you, caressed you in your most intimate places, which now included your heart. The shame of Azriel knowing you went against his wishes and sought him out like this had vanished. He deserved to be loved, and you'd be damned if you never showed him that. He could refuse it, could pretend you had never shown up—that you never existed, but he deserved it.

You weren't sure how long had passed as you held his hand and watched him rest. Time didn't matter. 

At some point, there were voices outside, but no one came in and his shadows didn't move to greet them like they did with you, so you continued there. Watching, admiring, hoping you'd get more of this. 

Not him getting hurt, Gods no, more of peaceful Azriel. An Azriel that didn't look like the weight of the world beared down on him, this side of him that made you want to curl up in the space between his arm and ribs and make yourself at home. 

He shifted then, a long breath leaving his lungs, his shadows scurried to check on him before he even opened his eyes. None of them reached his ears though, and you knew they were leaving the fact that you were there for him to discover.

The hand you held tightened, his thumb running over the back of your hand even before he fully woke. You basked in his touch and watched quietly as his eyes fluttered open. Blinking twice to adjust to the warm faelights, he looked towards the windows, probably trying to figure out what time of day it was. 

Then his eyes slipped shut again, and you unconsciously squeezed his hand. I'm here, look at me, let me see those eyes again.

And he did. The next moment his eyes snapped open and met yours, surprise etched on his face. Not the one that said, what are you doing here? It was more like, she's here. He was… relieved.

“Hi.” His voice sounded dry when he spoke, a simple word, and it still brought a smile to your face.

“Hi.” He mirrored your smile, shaking his head lightly. 

He licked his lips before speaking again, not meeting your eyes, “I was wondering when you'd come find me.”

What.

You didn't have an answer to that. Azriel was… expecting you? 

“Took you long enough.” 

You would have laughed if you weren't so busy imitating a gaping fish. Not only was he expecting you, but he also thought you were somewhat late?

Azriel chuckled, his eyes were closed and amusement was written in bold letters on his face. 

“I thought you'd be mad.” 

He frowned then, “Sweetheart, why would I be mad?” He squeezed your hand, the other one pushing himself up into the headboard. “All I wanted was to have you here, it's been a nightmare not being able to get up to go see you. I tried snatching a pen and paper but those idiots wouldn't leave me alone.” 

A giggle finally left you then, of course he would insult his brothers, deep down he just didn't know what to do with so much care. “Well, the High Lord did look like he spent the night awake, having to take care of two babies sure seems like hard work.” 

His reaction was exactly as you expected, he snorted and chuckled, then he pulled your hand until you had to lift off the chair, “Come here, lie with me.” He let go of your hand to try and pull you by the waist.

You stopped him with a hand on his wrist. Sure you were thinking about cuddling with him but you weren't actually going to do that, “Az, no, you're hurt.” 

“And?” 

“You are hurt.” 

“I'll be even more hurt if you don't get on this bed with me right this second.” 

“Your wings—”

“Are healing, they don't even hurt anymore.” He started pulling again, and this time you let him. 

You were careful not to touch his wings, not to move too much, but he didn't seem to care, moving you and himself until you were both comfortable. 

You heard and felt the deep breath he took, no doubt taking in your scent, to confirm it his nose brushed your head, nuzzling you.

It was so funny. You spent the last three days beating yourself up for wanting to check on him, your mind torturing you with his possible reactions. You grieved for the hypothetical ending of this relationship. And here he was, waiting for you to come find him, wanting you here. 

“Why are you so tense?” Long fingers traced swirls on your back, trying to make you relax. 

You sighed, the words just escaping without much thought, “When you didn't answer my letters, I wanted to come find you right away, but I thought you'd hate that I was invading your life—I thought maybe you wouldn't want to see me when you found out I came here.” 

He was tense and quiet for a moment, then he pulled away slowly, lifting your head by your chin so you'd look him in the eyes, “Why would you think that?”

The look on his face was enough to know your thoughts were so entirely wrong, “You said you didn't want anything serious, that your private life was important to you.” 

“Honey…” He shook his head, “I said that months ago, before I knew how incredible you were! Before you had become such an important part of my life. And, private life? I meant that as in our private life, I didn't want my family to barge in and disrupt the rhythm we had settled, our privacy is important to me.” 

Our private life. 

You knew what you had was private, but to hear him put it like that. You understood. It wasn't casual, it was forming something from the start, from zero. You were both trying out something new, something none of you were familiar with. The rhythm we had settled, careful and unhurried, that's why nothing was straightforward. Nothing with him felt like a slap to the face, or a heavy stone weighing down your heart, it was a soft spoken compliment, a brush of lips against skin, it was the hushed secrets and stories you shared in the dead of night. 

This whole time you thought maybe this was a pastime for him, that eventually he'd tire and it would become just a memory of something that happened. 

For you he was carving a spot for himself in your life, so deep you wouldn't be able to dig him out when you found someone to settle down with. You thought he'd eventually be the one you'd remember when your husband did something that upset you, “flowers again? Azriel took me stargazing on my birthday, he taught me the constellations I painted in the nursery—”

For him, he was finding a good pace to meet you on the same path, he was learning the routes you took, accompanying you when you took breaks but encouraging you to keep going. He didn't want to meet you at the finish line where there were no more obstacles, he wanted the journey, he wanted the shared struggles and small victories. 

He wanted the whole thing with you, and you didn't realize it until now.

“You are very important to me, I'm sorry if I didn't make that clear before.” A kiss to your temple, his arm pulling you tighter against him. “I didn't want to rush things, I've always been too much and I was afraid you wouldn't be ready for that…” 

“To be honest, I wasn't sure I was until I saw you lying here,” You breathed him in, brushing your nose against his neck, “I decided then that I'd take whatever I could get, if it meant I'd get more of you. I'm ready for anything you give me.”

Azriel pulled away to meet your eyes, there was a shine in them that wasn't there before. “Are you sure?” He whispered.

“I'm sure.” 

“You won't run away if I said I love you?” 

“No. Because I love you too.” 

He smiled then, leaning to rest his forehead against yours, “I love you. You're the best thing that ever happened to me.” 

You lay there for a good while, just enjoying this newfound and yet familiar feeling. 

Azriel shouldn't have been surprised when the peaceful moment was disturbed, it wasn't even by a knock or laughter down the hall, it was a body tumbling into his room, a big body. 

“Wait!” the door banged against the wall, “Tell me I didn't just lose three digits of money to Rhys. Do I have a new sister, yes or no?” 

You would have laughed if he hadn't scared the hell out of you. Azriel's chest moved under your hand, then his low chuckle reached your ears. “What did Rhys bet on?” 

“That she'd still introduce herself as your friend like she did with him when she met the rest of us.” His eyes noted the way you were wrapped around each other, confirming you were definitely more than friends. Cassian was basically buzzing with excitement, you worried that if someone shook him he'd go flying. 

“Wait, you said you were my friend?” 

You sighed, laying your head against his chest, “We had some miscommunication problems, you and I.” 

There was a female's voice then, “So…”

“Oh, they're so cute!”

“Alright, I admit I was wrong.” 

“Brother, admitting you were wrong doesn't mean anything. Pay up, loser.” 

“What? She hasn't even said what she is!” 

In a blink they were all staring at you. 

Azrael's hand squeezed your waist in encouragement. 

The room was quiet, all of them waiting for your answer, even when they all knew by now. “I'm his…” A bet on your relationship, you couldn't let them win, could you? “His private life.” 

“HIS WHA—”

Nothing about that male was innocent; from that leering look in his eyes whenever you walked up to the counter to the way he leaned in close whenever you offered a nicety. And that was all it was: a nicety. Right? Azriel was now unsure if he had misread your body language and you were actually interested in the guy as well. He hoped not.

You were one of the priestesses who had joined the group of Valkyrie, where Azriel had first met you. From what his shadows gathered, Cassian had taken you from an abusive household in one of the Illyrian camps and deposited you to the safety of the House of Wind library where many young, troubled females sought refuge. How Azriel had been unaware of your close presence for nearly four decades was baffling. Your scent alone had his instincts reverting to outdated primal urges.

It had been a handful of months of your training and something of a friendship had blossomed between you and the otherwise impassive Shadowsinger. From the first time you nicked his jaw with the heel of your foot, he had been...fascinated by you.

Many shared water breaks and lunches later, it became routine for him to accompany you in Valeris to drop you off at Feyre's art studio to help teach the youth classes and then take you home. And, despite your continued insistence that he didn't need to trouble himself, he found escorting you to be the best part of his day.

Much to his confusion, he couldn't push you from the recesses of his brain. Every time he closed his eyes, your face appeared, a smile curving your lips and eyes sparkling with mirth. Every female he came across sparked no feelings in his chest like you did. Hel, his body responded to you like a teenager.

He thought you felt the same until the fateful day where you asked to stop at the local apothecary on the way to the House of Wind. He had obliged of course, needing no pleading from you when just the tilt of your head was enough incentive to assent to any idea you could come up with.

It had become a new development for you to hold his hand during this shared time together, something Azriel had been startled yet content to do. You often commented on the state of his hands, never rudely or disgusted, as he was accustomed to, but concerned over his well-being.

You examined one of the thickest scars as he led you through the city, thumb brushing over the raised skin. "Everything must be a sensory nightmare," you murmur affectionately.

He pulled you closer to avoid other pedestrians. "After five hundred years you learn to live with it."

You obviously weren't satisfied with his answer. "Have you ever asked Madja for some type of balm or anything? Surely there's something that would help."

With any other person, he would have pulled his hand from their grasp and switched the topic, but he rather enjoyed your fussiness. So he let you explore the leathery ridges of his scars with your own small, soft fingers, and reveled in the attention. "Sure, I've asked her, but there's very little that can be done when I have very little time to keep up on taking care of them. My job is very demanding."

You huffed, annoyed. "You take so little care of yourself, Azriel. I feeling inclined to believe you put more effort into managing Truthteller than you are of your own body."

He bit the inside of his cheek to hide the tilt of his lips. He was really enjoying your fussiness.

As soon as you entered the apothecary building, he left you to conduct your business at the front while he perused the store. An annoyingly handsome male greeted you with an annoying smile and Azriel resisted the urge to let his shadows spy on your conversation. You were a grown female and the least he could do was provide you with privacy.

He took a breath to release the tension coiling in his shoulders. He also might have rolled them dramatically so that the siphon on his bicep glinted in the apothecary's eye.

Fortunately, you wrapped up your conversation and paid for your items quickly before returning to Azriel. His heart flipped when your fingers found his immediately.

He didn't have anything to worry about. Right?

The assorted smells of spices and essential oils assaulted Azriel's sense for the third time in the past fortnight. He thought that after that first visit it would be some time before he stepped inside the stupid apothecary yet here he was.

Like every other time, you were at the counter and speaking with him while Azriel attempted to distract himself by looking at soaps and sugar scrubs. Who could blame him that he had the occasional urge to send his shadows to eavesdrop? It's not like he actually authorized the direction.

His teeth clenched tightly at the sound of your melodic laugh reaching his ears. Why the Hel was he making you laugh? And about what? Some dumb herbal joke, no doubt.

From the corner of his eye, he caught the male rubbing something into your hand. The intimate gesture caused Azriel's feet to storm out of the shop before the movement could register in his brain.

As soon as the fresh air hit his face, he gulped it in, attempting to calm the overwhelming surge of emotions filtering through him. What was happening to him? He had never felt so strongly about anyone. Ever. Not even Mor or Elain or Gwyn.

Less than a minute later, the bell on the door chimed and a tentative hand perched on his arm. "Azriel?"

He slowly turned around and met your worried eyes. "Are you finished?" his voice came out gruffer than he'd intended.

You nodded, searching his gaze. "Are you alright? You ran out like the hounds of Hel were on your heel."

Not even those hounds could stop him from tearing into that male if Azriel had spent one moment longer in that small, stuffy parlor. It was only by consideration of you that he'd managed to make it outside and cool off instead of reacting.

He flexed his fingers to release any lingering frustration. "I'm all right."

Your attention flicked to his hand and you grasped it without ceremony and brought it up close for examination. "Are they hurting? It's growing colder and I assume that irritates the skin?"

A portion of Azriel's bad mood melted. Here you were caring for him while he was in a bad mood over some inconsequential fae.

"It tends to feel tight and itchy in cold weather, especially when it's dry," he murmured softly, "but it's manageable."

True enough, his skin had been starting to crack and bleed which was more uncomfortable than painful. He would opt to wear gloves but they only felt more constricting, making him feel suffocated.

You rolled your eyes playfully. "You said that last time. Are you just to averse to anyone wanting to help you that you pretend everything's fine all the time?"

"Us males are the ones who are supposed to take care of females; not the other way around."

"Well Azriel," you twine your fingers with his and press a gentle kiss to his irritated knuckles. "I'm going to take care of you regardless of your old fashioned gender beliefs."

He used his free hand to chuck under your chin in a playful scolding. "Didn't anyone teach you how to speak to your elders?"

"Considering the amount of times I've mopped the training mat with you, I deserve the right to speak to you anyway I wish." You retaliated confidently, stepping close enough that he could smell that scent that was uniquely you.

Azriel had a comeback on the tip of his tongue when a shadow drew his attention to the outside of your hand that held his. Right where the apothecary had touched you was turning red as if aggravated. "What did he do to you?"

"Hm?" you looked to where he was studying and a blush tinged your cheeks. "Oh, he was just-I asked if I could try out a new product he had lying about."

It didn't take a professional detective—which is what Azriel essentially was—to know that you were lying. He only wondered why?

He considered heading back into the shop and demanding to know what was in this product that had marred your skin but decided against it when you pulled him away, rambling on about something or other and effectively hauling Azriel's thoughts to you. Which worked Every. Single. Time.

"-he put this product on her hand that made it rash. And, I swear to the gods Cassian, I am going to kill him if he touches her again."

Cassian ducked to avoid a fist to the face, and chuckled, completely oblivious to the amount of sleep—which was less than usual—Azriel had lost over this situation. "You can't exactly do anything about it. She's allowed to date whoever she wants because she's only your friend...right?"

Azriel swept a foot and knocked Cassian on his ass. The bastard knew she was more than a friend and just wanted to get a rise out of Azriel.

Cassian tapped out and they both went to get some water.

"I just don't know what to do." Azriel scrubbed a hand down his face, feeling at a loss. "I'd leave her alone if she asked but I don't know if I could live knowing she was with another male."

A large hand clapped over his shoulder. "You're in love, you idiot."

Love? Azriel anticipated the alarm that normally accompanied that word. Instead, he felt welcome to the idea. Perhaps he did love you. And if that was the case, then he had to do something about it.

"I don't think either of us ever expected this but what-"

"Just tell her," Cassian replied bluntly, sipping at his water as if they were discussing something as innate as the weather. "There's no need for dramatics. At least that's what Nesta told me when I finally confessed my feelings.

"Should I really trust yours and Nesta's love advice?"

"Considering I get laid multiple times a day, yes." A smug smile grew on his brother's face, unsettling Azriel.

He swallowed what was left in his cup and walked away without another word. If he was going to confess anything to you, he needed to be away from Cassian so as to not do anything stupid.

"You're welcome!" Cassian called.

Azriel flew into Valeris and spent the better part of an hour pacing outside of the art studio, contemplating what he would say.

He was completely certain that whatever he managed to come up with would disappear from his mind as soon as he saw you walk out the doors and he was right.

The sight of you laughing at something Feyre said had Azriel's heart thumping rapidly in his chest. Would he feel this way every time he saw you? Most likely. Was he ready for it? Absolutely.

You hadn't noticed him immediately, speaking to Feyre in a hushed tone when the high lady prodded you and you finally looked up. Azriel had never seen so beautiful a smile as the one that tilted your lips.

"Well, I'm just going to close up," Feyre said and returned back inside.

"Hi," Azriel offered.

"Hi," you blushed.

No matter that you had done this more than a dozen times, it would feel brand new each time.

Soon enough, you and Azriel were walking along the Sidra hand in hand, talking about anything and everything. Azriel considered telling you about his feelings every now and then but was too afraid to break the relaxed moment.

"Can we stop by the shop?"

Azriel nearly groaned aloud at your request. "Must we really?"

"Yes!" you replied, nearly giddy. Giddy to see the apothecary? "I have something ve-ery important to pick up."

He hesitated. The past few times he had been able to hold himself back from saying or doing something stupid but he wasn't so sure as to this time.

Before he could answer, you were tugging him in that damned shop.

He was there, like always, and greeted you eagerly. Azriel was about to move to a wall and leave you to your shopping when you pulled him with you to the counter. The closer in proximity to this male had his blood boiling but your hand in his was an anchor. He wouldn't do anything to make you uncomfortable.

"Good afternoon Westley," you tilted your head, "this is Azriel, my boyfriend. Azriel, Westley owns this shop."

Boyfriend. You said boyfriend. And without any stumbling or delay. Azriel's chest puffed in male satisfaction and he gave Westley a smug grin.

"You're the Shadowsinger, right? I was tempted to ask each time you came in but was too nervous." Westley chuckled uneasily, eyes sliding from Azriel to you as if searching for some comfort from the tension rising.

"I am."

A pregnant pause and then you clear your throat. "Do you have my balm?"

"Yes!" Westley took the out and scurried into the back room to retrieve whatever you had ordered.

"I"m your boyfriend?" Azriel wasted no time in asking, leaning against the counter and pulling you close, his hand snaking to rest on your hip.

Pink splashed across your cheeks, something he'd never get tired of seeing. "I-I assumed? We have been going out for the better part of four months...right?"

He smiled softly at your sudden timidness and he moved his hand to the small of your back to better hold you near. "We have," he assured, much to your relief, "although I hope you'll forgive me for not taking you out on actual dates. An issue I'll remedy tonight."

"So you're not mad that I told Westley that we're together?"

"Mad? If anything I'm pleased. The guy's been bugging me every time we've come in."

Your brows pulled. "Why?"

Azriel rubbed his thumb along your spine. "He watches you like you're the last dessert on the table and always makes you laugh." He grumbled.

You laughed, "You make me laugh all the time."

"That's different,"

Westley stepped back out with a metal tin and opened it, revealing the scent of lavender, chamomile, and a few other scents Azriel didn't recognize. Without asking, he reached for your hand and, before he could do anything, Azriel grasped his wrist, twisting it at an uncomfortable angle. Westley yelped.

"Don't touch her," Azriel warned deeply, glaring at the male.

You soothed your hands along Azriel's chest, attempting to calm him down. "Azriel. Let go. You're going to hurt him."

Without letting go, he looked at you. "Every time this bastard has put his hands on you, you grow a rash or your skin gets red. I can't stand to see anyone put you in any discomfort."

Your features softened and you curled your fingers around his forearm. "I promise he wasn't doing anything intentionally harmful,"

Azriel slowly let go of the apothecary's wrist and instead glared at him. "What have you been putting on her?"

Westley rubbed at his tender skin and kept his eyes glued to the counter. "A healing salve-"

"-for you." You finished, picking up the tin he'd dropped and dipping your fingers into it to collect the ointment inside. "I wanted to make something that would help your scars so Westley and I concocted a salve. It took a few tries to get it right—hence why I had a few rashes—but we got one that proved hopeful."

So that's why you had rashes? Because you had been testing out a salve for him?

Nobody had ever done anything so thoughtful for him. Ever.

He gave in to his urge and leaned down to capture your lips in a kiss. The rest of the shop, and Westley, disappeared, leaving only you and Azriel in this cocoon of warmth and intimacy. His fingers dug into your hips, pressing you so close you could have crawled into his skin. Your own fingers found and grasped tightly at his shoulders, leveraging you upwards.

Ahem.

Azriel pulled away and looked, heavy-lidded, to the apothecary who was watching the scene with a wince. "It'll be two six gold coins."

Azriel tossed whatever he had in his pocket and moved you out of the shop. "We're never going there again," he mumbled.

"What about if you need more ointment?" you laughed, amused by his apparent disliking of the fae.

"Madja can gather the ingredients and make it herself. I don't want to see you around that male ever again."

You only leaned into his side, massaging more ointment into his hands as he led you to a sidewalk, gentler than he'd ever imagined anyone could be with him. "I love you Azriel. Even if you're acting like an overprotective male."

"And I love you," he pressed a kiss to the top of your head and took you home.