#azsazz

You bite back the gasp in your throat when you blink through the bleariness of sleep. His head is hung toward the ground and he’s hugging himself so tightly that for a moment, you fear that he’s holding his insides in his hands. Even still, you don’t miss the blood dribbling from his nose. Or is it spilling from a split in his lip? Crawled up his throat from his lungs? Nothing would surprise you. There’s a gash on his forehead, like the one he received weeks ago, splitting his brow in two.

“Eris,” you breathe, throwing back your sheets. There’s a bite of cold as your toes hit the floor that you don’t register. You’re already halfway to him, arms outstretched, worry struck across your face.

He flinches. You halt, remembering who it is that has come to see you. The abused eldest son of the Court of Autumn with an affinity for pain.

You need to be gentle.

You need to be you.

You can’t approach him quickly. You can’t set your hands upon his bruised and banged skin until he’s ready, until his breathing has evened out. You can see the way he’s freaking out, the terror behind those amber eyes. He knows exactly who you are, but his father’s threats hang in his head like a broken record, taunting him, telling him not to seek a healer.

Should his father find out he crawled into your chamber like the pathetic male he thinks he is, his punishment will be even worse.

You wait patiently; a gentle hand offered like he’s a scared dog. You know the drill: wait until Eris allows you to touch him, and then you may begin your healing. It doesn’t matter how much fear seeps into your own expression the longer you wait, Eris takes his time finding his footing before reaching his trembling fingers out and placing his hand in yours.

You’re desperate to squeeze him like a lifeline, but you must keep your touch gentle. You slowly guide Eris to the foot of your bed where you help him sit before assessing his wounds. His face is mottled with cuts and bruises. There’s a tear in the shoulder of his silky, olive-colored shirt, the fabric clinging to the wound that oozes blood.

You swallow back the emotion that seizes your throat.

Your hands are tepid against his cheeks. Your power trickles through his body like magma, warming him to his bones. He clenches his amber eyes shut and bites back a whimper, not of pain, but because he hasn’t felt an embrace like this since the last time he was in your arms. He steels himself so he doesn’t careen into your hips where he can rest his head and wrap his trembling hands around your legs to pull you close.

Eris hasn’t been touched this softly in a long time.

In fact, you’re the only one to ever see him like this. Well, besides his father and the fae sadist he sometimes uses to dole out his punishments. You know every cut, laceration, broken bone he’s ever had. You’re the only one he trusts to heal him.

He can feel the words you want to say, the ones you’re keeping locked in your chest. Your hands are soft as they trail down his back, tender, as if your featherlight touch will do anything to stop the intense pain that burns through his body like a lance. Every single touch is a new wound to his skin, another blade dragging down the length of his spine, a stab of something he’s never experienced plunging into his heart.

Eris holds in a scream.

“Say it,” he grits when his tongue can form the words. The pain ebbs slowly, much too slowly for his liking. He sits before you, a broken prince. If his father knew where he crawled off too after the punishments that he received, you’d surely get the same treatment, and Eris can’t fathom the thought of you experiencing anything close to what has been done to him. He can’t even stand when you hit your elbow on the edge of your dresser or when you bite your tongue when he brings you lunch when you’re knee deep in work. Because fae heal quicker than humans, his father expects Eris to continue his days in debilitating pain until the wounds close on their own. Until he learns his lesson.

He trembles when your fingers brush over the bruises on his cheeks, moving fully away from the freckled skin of his back. The wounds are healed over the best you can manage, but there is no fixing the scars that run long lines down his back, from when he was a boy, from before you were a healer.

Your breath stalls in your throat at the same time Eris captures your wrists in his hands, halting your movements. There’s a cut in his lip, across the bridge of his nose that has shifted out of place. Both of his eyes are painted with dark circles beneath them, but they shine amber with anger.

“Say. It.”

You shake your head softly, gently pulling from his grasp. You brush your thumb across his lip, watching intently as the skin knits back together. Eris’ eyes flutter and you catch the painful bob of his throat, the one that makes him grimace and his lashes clump with wetness. “I won’t.”

“You must.

So, it is with a voice shaky with fear that you murmur your worries aloud, “He will kill you next time.”

You admission is like a breath of relief to Eris. He exhales harshly but doesn’t drop the one wrist his fingers are still wrapped around. Of course, you tell him this every time he visits you, and with his appearances to your private quarters for healing become more frequent, it’s only a matter of time until he’s so harmed that you won’t be able to bring him back.

“He won’t,” he says, and it doesn’t even sound like he believes it. He has six brothers. Six heirs to the throne. Six replacements.

You shake your head to yourself, quickly wiping the tear that rolls hot down your cheek before Eris sees.

Your warmth is much different than his. It’s soft, a reassurance against his skin. Healing. The fire that flares through his veins is of something much coarser. He is fueled by hatred and jealousy. Disappointment and failure.

Nothing has ever been easy. Eris keeps his feelings locked up tight. He has learned under the sharp blade of a knife poised beneath his chin. What they didn’t know is that harsh words they sprung cut deeper than any weapon ever could.

Your words are…he doesn’t know how to explain what the minute tremble of fear in your voice means. He stopped being fearful a long time ago, but here you are, fearing for him. That one day they might go too far, might cut his tongue from his mouth or pierce an eye out with the tip of a blade. Like they might let their restrain snap and become the bloodthirsty beasts he always knew they were. That they’ll kill him one day soon.

The way your hands feel against his skin makes emotion clog his throat. He has never felt a touch speak so many words. He’s never been treated softly. He’s been ignored by his mother and abused by his father. Neglected by both.

He doesn’t understand the way you make him feel. The clenching of his stomach, the rapid beating of his heart, the feeling that stirs between his legs when he sees you.

He wonders for a moment how your warm hands might feel wrapped around a different part of his body.

Eris closes his eyes. The tension rolls from his shoulders with each wound that heals. His head bobs and he can’t help but slump into you as the adrenaline wears off and exhaustion weights heavy on his body.

You catch him, cradle him against your body. Your fingers find his auburn hair and rub lightly.

Eris moans against your legs and the feeling vibrates through your body. You carefully keep your thighs from clenching.

“Eris,” you whisper, stroking every part of him that you can. Someday you’ll be brave enough to tell him how he makes you feel. How strong you think he is, how badly he should leave this court and not look back. For now, the terrified feeling in your chest stops you from admitting just that. “You need rest.”

“Stay?” He asks, and a sad smile cracks your lips. He barely even knows where he is, that you haven’t found him bleeding on the floor of his room and are patching him up. All he knows is the caring cradle of your arms.

“Yes,” you murmur, and help him lean back into the spot where you’d leapt from your bed upon his arrival. You help him with his shoes, his belt and the scabbard at his hip, sans weapons.

They always take his weapons.

Tell me something I don’t know, you retort, but lift your chin as you watch Chradh’s rider dismount with a grace you can only wish to emulate someday.

Your breath sticks in your throat at the sight of Garrick, despite the anger written clear on his face. He runs a hand through his now dry, wind-blown black hair, and you’d laugh at the way it sticks straight up if yours wasn’t still plastered to your skull after the unexpected dip you took during flight lessons today.

The Section Leader is not a strong swimmer. You wince. Yeah, that was found out during flight lessons today, too.

You’re frozen beneath that harsh look Garrick pins you with as soon as his boots hit the ground, his hazel eyes glowing with fire. He’s more than angry, he’s fucking fuming, and your boots squelch as you shift your weight to your other foot. You wince as the water from the soles of your boots floods your feet again. You hope you don’t look like a drowned rat.

More like a tiny, water-logged sheep, Uisge adds unhelpfully. Your shoulders fall in defeat. But a tiny sheep with sharp teeth. Head up, little one.

And well, a sheep with sharp teeth is better than a sheep with no teeth at all, so you raise your chin and patiently await your punishment.

Chradh pounds his strong wings, lifting from the ground, his annoyance with you and Uisge clearly over with. You’re sure the two male dragons are speaking through their mind connection, but you’re thankful that Garrick’s dragon is leaving the scene, even if everything that happens here will be seen through your section leader’s eyes.

It’s better not to have the audience for the reaming out you know you’re going to receive.

Much to your chagrin, Uisge follows.

Wait. Where are you going? We should be bearing punishment together! You can’t leave the sheep to face the wolf, you argue, because Garrick most definitely looks like a wolf right now.

I eat sheep and wolves for breakfast, Uisge replies. Is he insinuating that he’d like to eat you? You’re sure you wouldn’t taste good. And neither of them is secretly trying to fuck the other.

You gape, swinging your gaze to your dragon, but Uisge’s back is to you as he flies toward the vale, his daggertail sweeping in the wind.

Garrick approaches, the hilts of twin swords glow in the sun as it beams across the flight field. He could kill you in more ways than one with those weapons, and others, too, according to the neatly aligned patches that trail down the right arm of his flight jacket. Your jacket is bare, with the exception of the lousy wing and year patches you carefully sewed on. You’ve been awaiting receiving your signet patch, and maybe after what happened in training today, Garrick will get on that for you.

A distant roar has you realizing that you shouldn’t be lingering in the flight field lest the next wing prepare for training, so you spin on your heel and start for the courtyard.

Garrick catches up to you quickly, his strides longer than yours. His fingers are tucked into fists at his sides and there’s a low warning growl in his throat that tells you he’s not pleased with the way you walked away from him.

“What the fuck was that back there?” He questions, and you can hear him struggling to keep the anger from eking into his voice. Too late for that, you can hear his frustration clear as day.

Your boots squeak with each step you take and your damp leathers are beginning to chafe against your skin. Being in the blistering sun isn’t helping in the slightest, and you really wish your room was closer to the flight field right now.

And yeah, perhaps slipping off of Uisge’s back during flight maneuvers wasn’t your smartest decision, but you needed a bigger body of water than the bathtub to work on channeling your signet, and this was the only way you were going to get that done.

You didn’t expect Garrick to dive after you.

“I already told you; I slipped.”

“And I already told you,” Garrick scowls, and it twists the pink scar on his jaw in a way that makes you want to trace it. “I don’t believe you.”

You set your jaw as you make your way up the stone stairs, trying not to cringe when every step fills your boots with water. You release your tense shoulders and attempt to drain the liquid from your clothing with a flick of your hand, but all you can manage to do is propel the water from your leathers into your boots.

It’s infuriating.

“You haven’t fallen off Uisge once during flight training, and all of a sudden, a few weeks after your water wielding signet appears, you go tumbling off into a lake?” He asks it like you think he’s stupid. You think he’s far from stupid.

I don’t, Uisge says, and you force your walls up with all of your might.

He’s been watching you?

You mutter, “I didn’t think you’d follow me.”

“It looked like you really fell off! You were under the water for longer than you should’ve!” Garrick says, and you frown. You couldn’t have been under the surface of the water for more than a few seconds. “What the hell was I supposed to do? Let you drown?”

He was much closer to drowning than you were, little one, Uisge’s voice creeps through your mind and you have to force the smile threatening to split your lips away.

“Uisge knows what I’m capable of,” you argue, but it falls flat at the outright disbelief on Garrick’s face.

“He knows what you’re capable of?” He scoffs, then tacks on a dry, mocking laugh. “You can barely even power an ink pen, for Amari’s sake.”

That’s because you’ve been focusing all of your energy on training your signet. Much more important that being able to power a stupid ink pen, in your opinion.

You stay silent so long that you’re on your floor before you know it. With an angered flick of your wrist, your locks click and your door opens an inch. You want to growl in frustration, that door should’ve swung open and stuck in the wall with the anger you attempted to force into it.

You’ll get there, little one, Uisge’s voice trickles through your walls. There really is no getting rid of him.

Leave me alone, Uisge.

I do not take orders from you, he retorts, but you feel him draw away nonetheless.

“Look,” Garrick sighs, shutting the door behind you with lesser magic. It’s an easy move that you have yet to master. “I can’t lose one of my riders to their own stupidity. I won’t let you.”

As his words settle in, you’re all too aware that he’s standing in the middle of your room, only a few feet from you, and the door is closed.

“I wasn’t going to die, Garrick. I knew what I was doing,” you answer, shrugging out of your flight jacket. Although it is no longer water-laden, the temperature in the room has risen, and you need out. You hang it on the back of your chair, missing the way that Garrick’s hazel eyes drink in the sight of the rest of your flight uniform. Today, you chose something thin and lightweight so you aren’t weighed down by the water you knew you were going to practice in. “I promise. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I do, though,” Garrick swallows, and you watch the way his throat bobs. Fuck, he can’t believe he’s doing this, but here the fuck he is, about to confess what’s been haunting him for weeks. You.

“Why?” You surprise him by saying. You cross your arms over your chest, not realizing that the move pushes your breasts higher. In your haze of annoyance, you fail to catch the way his eyes dip down for a peek. “I don’t see you jumping off dragons after any of the other riders!”

“That’s because I don’t have to worry about them,” he argues, taking a step closer. You’re a defiant little thing, so you move closer, too, which leaves your crossed forearms brushing his chest.

“You don’t have to worry about me!”

“I do!” He all but roars. You rock back on your heels in surprise but catch yourself.

Garrick runs a nervous hand through his hair. He’s no longer meeting your gaze, instead staring out the window over your shoulder. Something’s wrong. Something he clearly doesn’t want to tell you.

“Why?” You whisper.

“What?” He croaks; throat raw.

You glare up at him. You wish he would look at you. “Why do you have to worry about me?”

“I—” he trails off, helplessly, and you can see the way he’s talking himself out of admitting what’s on his mind. Maybe he’s even talking to Chradh.

“You what, Garrick?” You prod, an icy bite to your tone. “You think I’m weak?”

“No,” he answers vehemently. His gaze zeroes in on yours and he looks at you like he can’t believe you even said that.

“Then what is it?” You demand. “If it’s not because I’m the weakest link, then why are you worried about me?”

“Because,” Garrick roars, crowing in on you. You fall back but he keeps pushing forward, until your spine slams into the wall and there’s nowhere else for you to go.

Your arms fall as you brace yourself against the wall. Garrick’s chest heaves, and you swear you can feel the rapid beat of his heart from how close you stand. His front is plastered to yours, and there’s a flutter in your stomach that swirls at the fire in his eyes.

“Because I can’t get you out of my fucking head,” he admits, tone taking on a soft edge that converges right between your thighs. Your gaze flickers from one hazel eye to the other, confused at his sudden revelation. “Doesn’t matter where you are, what time of the day it is, you’re always on my mind.” He lifts a hand and gently brushes a strand of wet hair back that clings stubbornly to your cheek. The heat of his skin is searing, just like his words. “It’s like you’re a second Chradh,” he laughs drily, “Though you’re much prettier than him.”

You’re pretty sure that this isn’t real life. That your section leader didn’t just admit the very same thing you’ve been feeling for him since the first moment you laid eyes on him. It must be real, because you’re here, pinned to the wall by his big, strong body, and he’s looking at you like you might just reject him.

And you don’t know what the fuck to do. Sure, you’ve kissed people before, but you’ve never done anything more. You know for a fact that Garrick is well-practiced, with those broad shoulders and handsome face, his deep, dark hair and bright eyes that could surely turn anyone into a puddle.

The words stick in your throat. You don’t know what to say, where to start, and the longer you’re silent in front of him, the more apprehension creeps into his eyes. He shifts uneasily, and you wrack your mind for a response.

Ugh, just kiss him already, Uisge’s voice pops into your head.

Not now, Uisge, you bite, and then you heed your nosey dragon’s advice, and kiss Garrick.

You can tell he’s caught off guard by the way his body stills against yours. Still, you push onward, making it known that you’ve wanted him just as long as he’s wanted you by dragging your palms up his chest, reveling in every ripple of muscle you can feel through his flight jacket.

By the time your hands lock at the nape of his neck, Garrick’s hands are on your hips and his mouth moves against yours.

He lifts you into his arms, pinning you against the wall. Your legs wrap around his waist and he rolls his hips into yours as his tongue traces the seams of your lips. You gasp and Garrick slides his tongue into your mouth like he’s done it a million times. He brushes against yours tentatively, and when you don’t shy away from him, he advances.

One of his large hands slides up your waist, finding its way beneath the thin fabric of your shirt, exploring the smooth skin of your sides.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to kiss you,” Garrick mutters against the nape of your neck before sucking a harsh mark there. Your head thumps against the wall and your back arches into his body at the feeling of being claimed. It feels like threshing all over again, but this is better. Sorry Uisge.

Other than a rumble of protest down the bond, your stubborn daggertail doesn’t interrupt.

“How long?” you gasp when his lips find the spot that makes you melt into him. Your fingers scrabble against his flight jacket, nails scratching the thick fabric. Garrick growls in frustration, pulling back just far enough to drop his swords, unzip himself, and tear the fabric form his back. His black shirt follows, exposing those beautiful broad shoulders of his. You can’t help but trail your fingers across his pectorals and down his chest, admiring every inch of his body. Zihnal must be with you right now, because you’ve never felt luckier than you do right now.

“Since the day you chose Uisge,” he pants, helping you discard your own shirt. Your bra quickly follows, and Garrick’s hazel eyes latch onto your body like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen. Your nipples pucker under his heady gaze and he loses his train of thought in favor of bending down to suck a pert bud into his mouth, reveling in the way that you gasp and wriggle as he circles his tongue around the hard nub.

Threshing. He’s liked you since threshing, when you chose Uisge. You think it’s an odd way to phrase what happened that day, but in Garrick’s eyes, that’s exactly what it was. You, stubborn thing that you are, staring down the green daggertail with that look in your eye, the same one you always give him. The same one that makes his cock ache.

“Garrick,” you gasp, arching into him. He’s not close enough, not with your trousers still acting as a barrier from where he ruts his thick cock into you. Your fingers claw at the waistband of his pants. “Off.”

Garrick peels you from the wall, trailing his mouth back up to meet yours in a kiss that steals your breath. He’s very good at this, gentle, too, as he lies you on your bed and he works your pants loose from your hips.

“Fuck me,” he breathes when you’re fully exposed. A flush of red crawls up your body from your toes to your cheeks under that scrutinizing gaze of his. “Look at you.”

The sudden urge to cover yourself flares to life. You’re nervous, even more so when he drops his trousers and his cock bobs, heavy and swollen. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, all rippling muscle and perfect cock, his eyes only for you.

“Garrick,” you whisper, unable to keep the fear from your tone. While his cock is pretty, it looks like it’s big enough to rip you in half. You scramble away from him as he places a knee on the bed, feeling guilty at the confusion on his face. “I’ve never…” you trail off, cheeks burning red.

His uncertainty melts into understanding. “That’s okay, we don’t have to if you don’t—”

“No,” you protest, almost too quickly. Your voice has taken on a desperate volume, and you lower it before continuing. “I want to have sex with you, I really do,” you swallow, eyes dipping to his cock. It’s glistening at the tip. “I just wanted you to know, in case…” you trail off. In case he doesn’t fuck virgins.

The furrow between his brows creeps back. “I want you,” he presses, holding your eyes so that you know exactly how much this moment means to him. “If you want me, I want you. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

You nod, almost dazed. Even though he’s told you this already, the words send a current of excitement zipping down your body where it converges between your thighs.

You want him too.

“Come here, then, Garrick.”

He doesn’t have to be told twice.

Garrick kneels at the foot of the bed. He hooks his fingers around your ankles and carefully drags you closer to him, hazel eyes heady with lust. The effortless way that he tugs you to him has your pussy fluttering with need, a movement that he tracks.

When you near him, he slips from the bed, sliding to his knees. Carefully, Garrick tucks your legs over each of his shoulders, and you can feel each exhale he makes brushing your core. You bite your lip so you don’t release an impatient whine, but for Amari’s sake, you’ve never needed something so badly in your life.

“Is this okay?” he asks, tracing soothing circles into the meat of your thighs with his thumbs. He peppers kisses across the sensitive skin, grinning wildly when your hips buck beneath his mouth.

“Yes,” you moan, circling your hips as if to chase his lips. You want him on you now, licking you and teasing you and making you come on his tongue. “Please, Garrick, I—oh!”

You moan loud and wanton as the tip of his tongue flicks across your clit in an explorative swipe. Garrick locks that sound away in the back of his mind and dips down for another taste, scooping your slick up with his tongue. He’s going to enjoy the fuck out of drawing all these noises from you.

You’re fucking wet. The wettest pussy he’s ever had. You writhe against his tongue, panting and moaning at the different ways he uses his tongue. True to your stubborn nature, it isn’t long before your fingers are locked into his hair, guiding him while you chase your pleasure.

“That’s it, baby,” he says as he switches from tongue fucking you to sucking harshly at your clit. He nips at the joint of your hip when you keen in frustration. You even go so far as to lift your head from the mattress to glare down at him. His eyes fucking glow in response and he holds your needy gaze. “Take what you need.”

There’s a smart retort on the tip of your tongue but it melts into a moan of pleasure when his lips wrap around your clit and he sucks. Garrick adds his tongue into the mix, flicking it across your clit like he’s flipping through a never-ending deck of cards. When he adds a finger, your pleasure grows. When he adds a second, your orgasm crashes down around you in pure bliss. He doesn’t stop his attention on your clit until you’re a whining mess and trying to shove him off for a moment of reprieve.

“You did so good for me,” he murmurs across your skin, lips brushing your navel, your breasts as he climbs onto the bed. Your hands relax, melting down his shoulders, tracing the rebellion relic. “Do you need to stop, or can I put my cock in you?” He asks gently, with a firm kiss to your lips.

“Cock,” you echo, still lost in the throes of your orgasm. You’ll be damned if you miss that chance to have him wholly. “Need your cock.”

“That’s my girl,” Garrick whispers, and you preen.

He guides you into a better position, a pillow beneath your hips. His hand is warm on your calf as he directs you to hook your legs around his taut waist. You peer down at his cock, red and leaking and you’re more than ready for him. You’re a mess for him.

Your breath catches in your chest as he guides his tip in. His words are soothing, gentle as he runs his cock through your slick for easier entry. “That’s it, just like that. It might hurt at first, but I promise I’ll take care of you.” He says, and how the fuck can you not melt for him with those pretty words?

Each inch he presses into you punches the air from your lungs. Your body tightens as you stretch around his girth. His cock is hot, branding your insides.

Garrick senses your discomfort and pauses. The halt makes you whine. “How are you doing?”

“Need you closer,” you admit, screwing your eyes shut. You lift your hands and Garrick carefully lowers himself, trying not to lose his head and fuck all the way into you until his hips meet yours. He’s so gentle, so caring, and your heart swells because of it.

He presses his forehead to yours, thumbing a soft pattern against your cheek. “Relax,” he coaxes softly. Your eyes pop open, meeting those lovely hazel ones. “I can stop anytime you want.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” you answer, slowly unlocking your limbs. You didn’t realize that you were digging your nails into the meat of his shoulders, and you carefully retract your claws. “I want you to keep going.”

It takes agonizing minutes until his pelvis rests against yours. Garrick’s reassuring praises helped keep you calm, even made you wetter for him with that wicked tongue of his. He distracted you with kisses and promises, lingering touches and admissions.

Gods, you feel so full. You didn’t think that you’d be able to take him all the way yet here you are with his cock fully sheathed inside of you. It feels right. He feels like home.

On your own time, you give a tentative roll of your hips. Garrick bites his lip to contain the moan that creeps up his throat, but you do nothing to hide yours. Yes, you get why sex is amazing, and you’re about to find out what sex with Garrick is like.

“If you keep squeezing my cock like that, I’m going to meet Malek sooner than intended,” Garrick pants, but fuck if he doesn’t love the way you’re squirming on his cock, drunk off of the sheer size of him.

“Move,” you gasp, fingers tightening on the back of his biceps. “I need you to move, Garrick.”

He heeds your direction like the good rider he is.

He starts out slow, letting you get used to his size. He kisses the furrow between your brow, rocking in and out until it disappears and you’re whimpering for him to move faster. You’re soaking his cock, which makes it all too easy to maneuver quicker, shifting his hips until you’re crying out and your nails are locked into his skin of his back again, raking down his spine.

He doesn’t even care if you leave red traces down his back. He’d rather be reminded of this moment than the scar that’s forever marred into his skin.

“Yes,” you hiss, arching into him. Garrick sucks a mark into the plush skin of your breast before sucking your nipple into his mouth. “Yes yes yes!” He’s ravaging you in every way, feels like he’s using his air wielding to steal the air from your lungs. You know that your lack of breath is simply just from being in his presence, his dashing good looks have always managed to take your breath away.

Garrick is attentive, tracing every part of your body he can reach. He draws a map in his mind, committing exactly what places and noises correspond. He would stay buried in you for fucking days if he could, but the harder you let him fuck into you has his gut coiling, that familiar heat buzzing down his spine.

He slides a hand between your bodies and finds your clit like he’s been fucking you for way longer than one night. You tug his head down in a desperate kiss, whimpering in pleasure into his mouth as his finger draws tight circles around your sensitive nub, chasing you toward that edge that still feels foreign yet so familiar at the same time.

“Come for me,” Garrick whispers, and you have no choice but to listen to your section leader.

You topple over the edge of oblivion. It’s similar to the feeling you experienced earlier, when you let yourself slip from Uisge’s back. A freefall, yet it’s so much more than that. It’s strong arms crashing down with you, a cock between your legs that’s hitting all the right spots. It’s soft words of encouragement from a man you’d never thought you’d get to see this much of. Hazel eyes that you’re falling into.

Garrick comes shortly after you, when he’s sure that you’ve experienced the best first orgasm of your life with him. There will be no one who will treat you like this, he’s vowed to ruin sex with any other man for you. But he’s ready to stick around if you are, as long as you don’t go jumping from your dragon with a death wish without letting him know first.

“That was…” you trail off in bliss. There’s a satisfied smile on your face, one that makes Garrick preen. Your eyes are shut and the lazy way you stroke his hair makes him fall harder, melt further into your body. “Thank you.”

“Team,” Coach yells gruffly, snapping the attention of everyone on the ice. You tuck your lip carefully between your teeth as 26 heads swivel to their coach like well-trained soldiers. But by the looks of Coach Devlin, mouth set in a firm line, a no-nonsense look on his face, you would fall into line just as easily if you were on the team. “Since you all want to skate like you’re in the fifth grade, (Y/N) here is going to teach you how to utilize the ice.”

You expect a grumble down the line of players, but they all stay carefully quiet. If the whispers you’ve heard about Coach Devlin are true, that he runs one of the tightest ships out of all the sports teams across Velaris University, you wouldn’t dare make a peep, either.

Except one boy does dare let something slip. He must be new.

“She doesn’t even have hockey skates on coach,” a boy down the line grouses unhappily.

You check your glare. You knew this would happen. Why would a bunch of collegiate boys want to listen not only to a woman, but a figure skater? Your sports are completely different.

You glance at coach and he dips his chin only slightly before chewing out the player who spoke. Meanwhile, you take your leave, back to the bench where your bag is. You shuffle off the ice, collapsing on the bench. Unzipping your duffle, you pull out a pair of old hockey skates, the ones you wore when you were younger. They’re snug, but will work for this occasion.

You exchange your figure skates for the hockey skates, and as soon as you step back onto the ice, you revel in the widening eyes from the boys in a line across from you. By the time you’re back by Coach’s side, he’s finishing doling out a punishment to the boy who protested, and you can hardly contain your smirk.

Azriel’s hot gaze slides down your body to your new skates, then back up. The ice beneath you nearly melts at the blaze in his hazel eyes.

You shift your weight from one skate to the other, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“Now that that’s settled,” Coach says, clearly directed to the boy who spoke out of turn. “(Y/N), teach the children how to skate.”

He leaves the ice, taking post up at the bench with his assistant coach, where they begin murmuring about plans for the upcoming game, leaving you to do your thing.

Looking down the line, you catch the gazes of uncertainty, distrust, and many that don’t seem like they want to listen at all. So, to begin your lesson, you skate up to the captain, Rhysand, who has become somewhat of a friend since Coach introduced you.

You carefully ignore the lingering gaze of Azriel beside him, focusing your attention on Rhys.

“May I borrow your stick, captain?” You pair your question with a smile, not a sweet one like normal, but one filled with mirth.

He matches your grin and hands you his stick easily.

You rotate the stick in your hand, getting used to the weight. It’s been a while since you’ve picked up a stick, but something in you stirs with excitement. You’ve forgotten what it felt like to play, even just for fun.

On your return to your spot, you scoop a puck from in front of another player, shuffling it between your stick to refamiliarize the motion. You scoop it on the end of your stick, juggling it as you skirt to a stop, twisting to face the team again. You drop to the puck with a clap to the ice and use your newly acquired stick to point at the boy who spoke.

“You.” The boy’s eyes widen comically. “What’s your name?”

“Hart, ma’am,” he stutters out. A snicker flows down the line of players.

“No ma’am necessary,” you all but tease. You pass the puck to him easily. He catches it, eyes glimmering with wonder. “Get the puck past me.”

A few mouths drop, and your grin grows.

“Wha-what?”

“Get the puck past me,” you shrug. “Shouldn’t be too hard, right?”

Hart hesitantly glances at the boy at his side, then scoots forward, stopping in front of you. You bend at the knee, ready.

He rolls his shoulders and gets into position. You swear, you can see what he’s about to do in his eyes before he begins, but when he shifts his weight to his left skate to tear forward, you can anticipate his move fully.

Shooting into motion, Hart cradles the puck close to his stick. His strides are quick and powerful, but you’re ready for him. Ready for the shift from one side to the other.

Just to make a show of him, you act like you’re going to fall for his fake-out, lunging toward the left where the puck is. As soon as you see his stick shift to the other side, you’re already there, quick on your skates, beating his stick to the puck as it slides in front of him, where he was going to catch it on the other side of his body.

You use your stick to swiftly shoot the puck between his legs, gracefully scratch spinning to face his back, where he’s straightening in confusion. You catch the puck and screech to a stop, ice spraying, grinning in triumph when he cranes his neck over his shoulder, bewildered.

“I—”

“Didn’t see that coming?” You fill in the end of his sentence, amused. Dismissing him, you turn back to the line of boys in front of you, clearly impressed by your showmanship.

You raise a brow. “Anyone else?”

Silence is your only answer.

“Then let’s get to work.”

***

The team is in worse shape than you thought.

When you drill them on one-foot glides, they resemble a group of wobbly newborn deer. When you tell them to practice forward-to-backward transitions in motion, you swear you hear more grunts of frustration and asses hitting the ice than you expected. And when you attempt to teach them the scratch spin that you used to steal the puck from Hart, you win almost every one-on-one face-off you go up against.

Your two losses are by the captain of the team, and Azriel, whose hazel eyes gleamed with the win.

You would’ve won, if he hadn’t distracted you by his good looks.

The loss sits heavily on your shoulders. You’d demand a rematch, if you weren’t in charge of twenty-something other players. You can’t let your attention linger for too long, and besides, Azriel might have beat you at that drill, but he isn’t faring so well during your other skill tests.

He’s the stiffest hockey player you’ve ever seen. You don’t mean this in a rude way, but you’re not entirely sure how he’s so good at the sport with how uncomfortable he appears on the ice. He uses brute force instead of being one with the ice, and you think he’d be a shoe-in for the NHL if he just loosened up a little.

You tell coach just as much.

“Team, dismissed,” he shouts when your hour with the team ends and you’ve filled him in on your findings. He’s asked you to schedule time for a few more sessions, and in return he’d write you any letter of rec you might need. He even asked if you wanted to be a student coach, something that filled you with great warmth. You said you’d think about it, but unsure you’d have room in your schedule for such. “Azriel,” he shouts, and the boy about to step off the ice halts. Cassian oohs on his way past, and Azriel shoulder checks him on his way over to where you and coach stand.

“Yes Coach?” He asks, eyes flicking over you to meet Devlins.

“You and (Y/N) are going to set up time for a one-on-one session.” Azriel’s jaw grinds. His grip on his stick tightens. “Don’t disappoint me.”

“Yes, Coach,” Azriel answers tightly. He doesn’t look at you again, and you don’t like that one bit. You yearn for those hazel eyes on yours.

When Coach dismisses him with a date and time to meet you for more practice, he spins on his skate and shoots off toward the bench.

“Love, you can’t even pick up the towel,” he argues, sliding around the counter to pluck it from the ground. You sigh, setting your hip on the counter, but it does little to ease your muscles. What you really want to do is sit down and not get up until the babe arrives.

“I don’t need to pick it up,” you argue. “I was just doing it to be nice since I know how tidy you like the house.”

Azriel raises a brow. “So you didn’t need it for anything?”

“No.”

“And what would you have done with it if I weren’t here?” he teases. “Left it on the floor?”

“Maybe,” you shrug. “I could’ve just gotten a new one from the linen closet.”

“That,” Azriel steps in front of you, swooping down to peck a soft kiss to your lips. You melt into him immediately, falling into his warm embrace. His hands come to the base of your spine to knead at the tight muscles there and you sigh in pleasure. Those shadows must have told him about your tender back. They can be useful, sometimes. “Sounds like it would’ve been a good idea.”

You hum in response, lost to your mate’s touch. He’s a godsend, this one. The cauldron picked perfectly. “I still don’t need a babysitter.”

“I know,” Azriel soothes. “It will make me feel better about leaving you though, love. I don’t want to worry about you while I’m gone.”

You don’t want that, either. Don’t want him distracted while he’s on a mission.

“Okay,” you give in when he kneads against a particularly tight knot in your spine. Gods, those hands…you could take him right to bed, maybe even convince your mate to give you a full body massage instead. Yes, that would be nice. “Cassian can stay.”

You refuse to move to the House of Wind. You’d rather be comfortable in your own home, especially since you’ve just begun nesting. Hence, the towel on the floor. Weirdly enough, you wanted that very piece for part of your nest because of all of the times you’ve seen it in Azriel’s hands, twisting it aimlessly between his fingers while conversing while he cooks, thrown over his shoulder while he slices and dices fruits and vegetables. Strange, but you haven’t stopped thinking about it since you felt the urge to collect objects from around your home to comfort yourself with.

So, if Azriel wants you to have a babysitter while he’s gone, the babysitter can join you here.

“Cassian’s going to have the best time rubbing my feet and making me breakfast,” you smile, thinking of all of the things you know you can get your mates best friend to do for you. You know he’ll do it without compliant, because he’s secretly trying to get you to name your first born after him.

Not happening.

“Give him hell, love.”

Basil:

“He wants cake, the baby wants cake,” you defend, stuffing another bite of cake into your mouth. “The baby wants the cake.”

Azriel huffs a laugh, more than amused at your sweet tooth during your second pregnancy. It’s been difficult to get you to eat anything that isn’t coated in chocolate or pumped full of sugar.

Wren, nearing a year old, giggles in his father’s lap. He reaches his hand across the table to your plate, eager to share in the sugary goodness. You lick the icing from your lips and scoot your plate closer to his grabby hands, more than happy to share your treat with your son.

You’re surprised your mate, who has an insane sweet tooth of his own, isn’t getting in on this cake. It’s delicious, the icing creamy and fluffy. The cake is moist, and the moan you let out when you bit into it was almost one you’d be embarrassed about, if you were paying attention to anything other than the dessert.

He’s been letting you eat your fill before even attempting a bite, more so because only a few weeks ago, he’d eaten the last macron, the one you’d been saving for a midnight snack. This babe did not want you to sleep, kicking and squirming inside of you nonstop, more than eager to meet the world. You’d burst into a fit of tears when you noticed your treat was gone, and couldn’t reign in your emotions until Azriel had come home with more than half of the pastries in the case from your favorite shop. Elain even threw in some of her freshly baked pastries after hearing what happened, and you almost lost yourself to another fit of tears at how nice that was of her.

“We’re supposed to be choosing a cake for Wren’s first birthday,” Azriel reminds you gently. Then, teasingly, he says, “Have you even actually tasted the cake with how quickly you’re eating, love?”

You peg him with a look, swallowing down the bite of cake in your mouth. He’s right, this is about Wren, not the baby inside of you who only seems to wiggle around more with a sugar high.

It’s difficult to place the fork down in front of you, but somehow, you manage. You turn toward your son, who hasn’t seemed to notice the way you’d been sampling all of the cakes in front of you. By sampling, you mean inhaling. You’d been inhaling the cake samples in front of you. All seven flavors.  

“Wrenny,” you ask the boy currently mashing a bite of cake onto a napkin. He’s enthralled in the texture, and doesn’t even notice your grimace at the ruined treat.

Azriel slips his hand into yours in comfort.

“What kind of cake do you want for your birthday, baby?” You ask, grabbing a fresh napkin to help him clean up. He protests with a shout, squirming on his father’s lap. Azriel tries his best to soothe the boy, but you’ve disturbed his playtime, and you’re going to pay.

“Come on, buddy,” Azriel smooths the furrow between Wren’s brows. You sit back in your seat, smoothing your hands across your stomach when your son kicks close to your bladder. It’s only a matter of time before he hits his mark, and then your day out at the Rainbow with your mate and son will be over. “Which one do you like best?”

Wren stares at the cakes. Some more gone than others. He reaches for a red cake that’s almost entirely full. You liked that one, but it wasn’t better than the chocolate slice with chocolate frosting. That one only has a small bite left.

Your son grabs a handful of the cake and flings his arms around in excitement. You plant a hand over your mouth as the cake goes flying, only to land in Azriel’s hair. Your shoulders shake with laugher, tears welling in your eyes at the look on your mates face.

Azriel’s grin is blinding. He laughs freely, something he might not have been comfortable doing in public years ago. This, this is all he’s ever wanted. You. A family. A life.

You help your mate rid the cake form his dark locks as much as you can. Frosting sticks to the strands, pulling them this way and that. You swipe at a glob of icing that made its way above his lip, and he stares at you with simmering eyes. The kind of eyes that got you into this situation in the first place. He’s going to need a shower when he gets home, and, if you can put Wren down for a nap, maybe you can join him, too.

When you’ve successfully cleaned as much of Azriel as you can, he plops your son down into your lap and shoves the pile of napkins closer to you before standing.

“Where are you going?” you ask as Wren reaches out for his father. You snag a napkin and his chubby arm, beginning to clean him up.

“I’m going to tip the staff for the mess we made,” he says easily. His eyes are sparkling with amusement and something more, something you can’t wait to get home to. “And I’m going to buy a chocolate cake to bring home with us, since you liked it so much.” He nods to the nearly gone slice on the table, and your heart swells in your chest. You love him so, so much.

Zuzu:

“It’s a girl?” he whispers, voice raw with emotion. Tears flood your eyes at the utter awe in your mate’s eyes. Of course, she has her father wrapped around her finger already.

Azriel places his hands across your stomach. He’s kneeling in front of you, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him so vulnerable, not even when he admitted he loved you for the first time, nor when you gave birth to your first and second child. But this little girl growing inside of you, she’s unlocked something special inside of Azriel, and you know that in this moment, that she’s going to have the most loving, protective father there is. And you’re sure her brothers won’t be far behind with that mentality.

She’s the first female born into one of the Inner Circle’s families. Four boys, but not a single girl. And now, everything has changed. You know she is going to be surrounded by so much love, she’s going to be so spoiled. You’ve had conversations with Feyre and Nesta, Elain too, about how cute the female toys and clothing were in the shops lining the Sidra. They all begged you to have a girl when you announced your third pregnancy, placing bets with their mates on whether or not you’d bring a little girl into the family, and their pleading has all paid off.

You can’t wait to tell them.

Azriel kisses across your stomach. You thread your fingers through his hair, allowing him this time with his daughter. It’s sweet, more than, to see him like this. He’s so in love with her already, you can see it in the way his wings wiggle with excitement, the way his thumbs stroke the soft skin where his daughter is growing inside of you.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispers, finally raising his gaze to look at you. He doesn’t move away, instead resting his chin on your stomach. “We’re having a girl.”

You can’t help your smile, a tear escaping your eye. He’s wanted a daughter for just as long as you have, and you promised not to stop having children until you had a girl, but soon, with two boys and one girl, you don’t think you’ll stop until this little one has a sister to play with as well.

You can see the same sentiment in your mates eyes.

“We’re having a girl,” you agree, lifting his chin so you can kiss your mate.

Jax:

“Azriel,” you squeeze your eyes shut through the uncomfortableness of a contraction. Your mate’s hand is strong on your lower back, his other arm gripped tightly in your grasp. “I love you, but are you sure you’ve thought this through?”

“Easy,” Azriel replies gently. His touch is soft but firm as he helps you to your bed. It’s set up with all of the essentials for giving birth, and with this being your fourth child, you’re more than prepared. The little one has been a fairly easy pregnancy, as if each moment spent in your womb was better than the last. He wasn’t eager to meet the world like his older brother, Baz, who kicked you relentlessly for nine months straight. It was almost as if the babe inside of you enjoyed the comfort you provided, but his father and siblings are more than excited to meet the new member of the family.

Your water broke this morning over breakfast with your family. Baz had burst into a fit of giggles over his waffles, pointing and shouting about how you’d peed your pants. Wren, your oldest, perked with excitement, knowing exactly what that meant. He’s slipped from his chair, offering you a tight hug before scampering to his room with his little brother in tow, talking all about how they were going to get to see their cousins while you had another baby.

Zuzu, just one, was covered in whipped cream, giggling and gurgling and making a mess with the sweet cream. You had torn Azriel’s attention from where he bopped a bit of cream onto her nose, and, after a quick once-over, worry lacing his hazel eyes, his face melted into something sweet when he caught your smile, the happy tears in your eyes.

Your son couldn’t choose a more perfect day to enter the world.

“What do you mean?” Azriel asks, pulling back the covers. He’d be latched to your side until the babe entered the world, whenever that may be. Could be nearly an entire day, like Wren, or mere hours, like Baz and Zuzu.

“You’re talking about letting the male who gifted Baz a real blade for Starfall when he was only 3, watch our boys for the night.” You had agreed to the plan at first because you didn’t think Cassian was all that serious about it, but now that it’s really happening, you can’t help but worry.

“Cassian wants this more than anything, love,” Az replies, helping organize the pillows behind your back. When all is to his liking, he sits on the edge of the bed, caressing your face. His hazel eyes are soft, a comfort that you lean into, or as much as you can with your belly in the way. “He’ll be fine. Rhys and Nyx are going to be there too,” he reassures. And well, that doesn’t make you feel that much better. Rhys and Cassian and four children under 6. They’re in for a night. “And Zuz is getting all loved up by her aunties tonight.” Your daughter is spending the night at Feyre’s with her sisters, and you know that if anything, Rhys will have no problem calling in backup for the mischievous little boys.

“You’ll check in on them ever hour?” You ask, trying your best to get comfortable. The babe in your stomach gives a little kick, and you place your hand on your stomach, whispering down to him. “Soon, little guy, soon you’ll meet the world.”

“I’ll check on them every ten minutes if you want me to,” Azriel promises, placing his large hand over yours. Like the babe knows you and your mate are showing him affection, he kicks again. “But I don’t want you to worry. You need to focus on getting little Jax out.” He says the babes name like it’s the best he’s ever heard. He’s done that with all of your children, though. It fills you with warmth, his strong presence eases you into the comfort of your bed.

Malos and Knox:

“A sister!” Zuzu screeches in her uncle’s arms. You wince at the sheer volume of your four-year-old daughter, but you won’t scold her even through one of the hours old newborns in your arms squirms at the sound. She can’t help her excitement at the sight of her little sister, kicking out her tiny legs in demand to be released from Rhys’ clutches. He laughs and tries to situate Zuzu better in his arms. He looks to you for action, and with a soft nod of your head, he lets your daughter down.

Azriel, who has just handed Knox off to Feyre, who has tears in her eyes, quickly catches his oldest daughter around the waist before she can launch herself onto your bed and disturb the snoozing babe.

“Daddy,” Zuzu whines, but clings tightly to his shirt. Azriel immediately smooths her hair back from her face, disheveled from playing with her brothers all morning at her uncle’s house while you gave birth to the two newest members of your family. “I want to see my sissy!”

“Sissy’s sleeping,” he parent’s gently, bringing her closer. He sets Zuzu on the bed but stays close. “You need to be gentle, Zuz. She’s brand new.”

“Brand new,” Zuzu echoes, but you’re not entirely sure she knows what it means. She’s completely distracted by the small bundle in your arms anyway, her dark eyes glowing with delight. She looks up at you, wide-eyed, and you can’t help but smile at your daughter. “She’s mine?”

“She’s your sister,” you laugh softly. You position Malos in your arms so Zuzu can see better.

“Wow,” she whispers, awe in her tone. She softly reaches out and brushes a finger across her sister’s chubby cheeks. The babe makes a noise and Zuzu snatches her hand back to her chest.

“It’s okay, Zuz,” Azriel says gently. “She’s just saying hello.”

Zuzu nods at her father eagerly, then returns her attention to Malos. “Hello, little baby. I’m Zuz. I’m going to be the bestest big sister ever! I’m going to teach you so much, and nothing like our naughty brothers can show you…” She babbles while you share a loving look with your mate.

You were worried how Zuzu might react to a sister. She’s been surrounded by boys for four years, and right now, you can see that this is something special, something pure between the two girls.

“What are their names?” Feyre asks, placing Knox carefully in your arms while your sons join you and the rest of your family on the bed. Jax climbs directly into Azriel’s lap, clinging to him like a monkey. He peers down at the babes in your arms with curiosity.

Wren and Baz settle on your other side, leaning over to see both of the babes. They look just as excited as the rest of your family, and this moment right now, surrounded by your family and the people you love the most, makes everything worthwhile.

You smile at your mate, who gives you a soft nod of encouragement.

Glancing at the other drinks, you look for any sign of something Rhys may have ordered after a text you received that he was on his way and sent in a mobile order. You haven’t heard the barista call his name, but other than the frap, there’s a steaming cortado that’s gone unclaimed. Perhaps his hasn’t been prepared yet.

“Sorry I’m late,” a voice startles you and your cup almost slips from your grasp. Something bumps your hip as he reaches forward and you shuffle out of the way of your frantic tutor.

A few strands Rhys’ dark, damp hair hangs across his brow, brushing the bridge of his nose. The urge to brush your fingers through it consumes you. You clutch your cup tighter and avert your gaze, right to the Frappuccino you were just envying that Rhys grabs.

You tuck your teeth between your lip, amused. When he sets those striking violet eyes on you, it takes all of your effort to keep your breathing even, but your body betrays you. Your heart kicks up in pace and the tingle that always accompanies his easy-going smile converges between your thighs.

You don’t care that he’s late. At this point, it’s expected for the captain of the hockey team to arrive late to your study session. You’ve began strategically arriving to psychology tutoring twenty minutes late, knowing you’d still beat Rhys.

Tonight, you’re glad you asked to meet at the coffee shop a few blocks from campus, tired of staring at the white walls of the library’s study rooms and allowing yourself to become distracted by people-watching through the glass wall. With the semester quickly coming to a close, you’ve witnessed a total of 3 students collapsing their heads into their books in frustration, one napper who must have been snoring loudly as many other occupants glaring in his direction—no, it wasn’t your tutor—and two girls snapping at each other over notecards.

Rhys brings his drink to his lips and your gaze zeroes in without your permission as they wrap around his straw for a deep sip. His tongue peeks out to lap the taste and you wrench your betraying eyes from the scene with a sharp reminder of exactly who he is, and that you’re just friends.

Mirth swims clearly in his violet eyes, and with that look, it’s much easier to draw yourself back into the present. It’s a shame you can’t ignore the heat in your cheeks.

You raise a brow, flicking your attention to the chocolate overloaded drink in his hand.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Rhys begins, and someone clearing their throat interrupts. You and Rhys scoot out of the fray as customers join the waiting crowd. Someone snags their drink from the counter and shoots toward the front door.

“I swear,” Rhys continues as you lead the way to the table you somehow managed to snag when you arrived. Your books are already spread across the wood surface of the table, organizing your notes and flashcards the way Rhys taught you. You’ve even managed to highlight most the important parts of your chapters and less of the entire paragraph. “This is the only thing keeping me from falling asleep on my feet right now.”

Your heart pinches with sympathy. He does appear more tired than usual, circles under his eyes, voice holding a groggy tone despite it being half past seven. Between being captain of the hockey team, a tutor, and a student himself, his schedule must be jam-packed, but no matter how many times you ask if you need to find a new tutor so he can actually get some sleep, Rhys refuses.

You won’t admit it, but his vehement protesting fills you with warmth. You don’t want another tutor, not really, especially when yours is so handsome.

You slide into your seat, taking a sip of your drink. You sigh. It’s made to perfection. Sweet and cold and perks you up just enough that not even the sight of your jumbled notes can deflate your mood.

Rhys’ apology draws you from your delicious drink. He’s sheepishly apologizing to the girl he accidentally whacked with the large duffle bag over his shoulder. When their gazes connect, the girls glare softens, and she begins twirling a strand of her strawberry blonde hair around a finger, batting her eyelashes.

A wave of envy creeps up your throat and you catch your gaze sharpening, so you avert your gaze. Rhys isn’t yours, and you can only pretend he is when his ex is around. Outside of those run-ins, you’re friends. Nothing more.

It doesn’t stop the sick feeling swirling in your gut at the sight of his attention on another girl.

The chair across the table creaks as Rhys settles into it. His frap slides onto the table with a heavy knock, and his bag slips from his shoulder to the floor, where he kicks it haphazardly under the table.

“Wow,” he says, clearly impressed as his eyes rove over your neatly set-up work space. You only did so since he was running later than expected. Next time, you’re going to show up half an hour later than the time agreed upon. “All ready to go?”

You refrain from mentioning the time. “Yep. I’ve been taking notes how you suggested, and you know I hate to compliment you,” you tease at the way his eyes light. Your heart stumbles at his pride. You press on before he can respond in jest. “But I think it’s actually helping me retain information.”

“Glad to be of service,” Rhys beams. He crosses his arms over his chest and his biceps bulge with the motion. You avert your gaze. “When’s your next test?”

You sigh. “I have a quiz the day before Thanksgiving break,” you hum, flipping open your agenda where you wrote down all of the important dates. Your shoulders deflate. There isn’t much time before the semester ends, and your grade isn’t anywhere close to where you want it to be. There’s no way you’ll get an A, and at this point, you’d just like to pass. “And then the final. Besides homework, I have to ace them both to get a C.”

“Any you will,” Rhys shakes his head assuredly.

“You think so?” You ask sheepishly, uncertainty creeping in.

Rhys pauses, drink halfway to his lips. He places the cup back down and for a fleeting moment you think he might reach across the table and take your hands because he has that look in his eye. The same one as the night you kissed.

Your name is gentle yet firm on his lips. “If I have anything to say about it, you’ll pass.”

You can’t help that your thoughts immediately turn to his faults as your tutor. His distractions, his tardiness, his own busy schedule.

You shove the thoughts away as quickly as they form.

“Okay,” you nod softly. “Let’s do this thing.”

“Are you excited for break in a few weeks?” Rhys asks, grasping for anything to talk to you about. Despite you reassuring him you didn’t need an escort home, her refused to let you walk alone. For one, it’s dark, and second, he doesn’t want to stop spending time with you.

You shrug, and manage to keep your feet from dragging with the weight of what break brings. What it reminds you of. That if you do go home, it will be to an empty house, the traces of a once happy family lingering in the dark.

You can feel Rhys’ sidelong glance at you, his violet eyes softening with concern the longer you take to respond. Every so often, his arm brushes yours, sending a sluice of sparks to the bone. At least you can blame the goosebumps on your arm on the chill.

You don’t want his pity; you don’t need it. You’ve been on your own so long that you’re used to it. Mom’s long trips, working much harder in the past few years than you remember, and your dad…the picture you have in your dorm doesn’t do him justice, but it’s all you have. That, and his memory.

But there’s something about Rhys’ sympathy that has you feeling warm, comforted.

“I’m not going home,” is what you decide to go with, peering down at your shoes.

“You’re not?” You can practically hear the way his brows furrow.

“Mom has a business retreat in Oklahoma. I don’t mind, really.” The lie is sour on your tongue. “We haven’t celebrated Thanksgiving since…” You trail off, throat thickening at the thought of the last time you celebrated any holiday. Since your fathers passing, holidays haven’t been the same. You don’t think they’ll ever be the same again.

Tears prickle your eyes and you swallow thickly.

“I’m used to it.” You say as if you’re completely fine with the constant avoidance of your mother. She can hardly step foot in her own home, and you can’t blame her. If you lost the love of your life, you’d never want to go anywhere that reminded you of them.

But if there were children in the mix, you mind wanders, you would manage.

You can’t help but to fill the silence. You shouldn’t have admitted this. You should’ve just lied and told him you were going home, but now that it’s out there, there’s no taking it back. “And besides, it gives me a headstart to study for the final. If I’m going to pull off a passing grade, I need all the time I can get.”

You snap your mouth shut. All you’re doing is making yourself seem lonelier than you are. You swear, you’re fine. You’ll hunker down on the couch with a tub of ice cream and watch romcoms until you can recite them line for line. It will be fine. You will be fine.

The sudden urge to flee slams into you. Fuck. You glance to your right. You’re pretty sure if you jumped through the bush you’d come out with minimal scratches, and your dorm is only a few blocks away. You haven’t run in years, but your legs work well enough.

Before you can flee, Rhys says, “I’m not going home, either.”

This catches your attention. You blink, gaze finding his. Now he’s the one staring at the sidewalk, refusing to meet your eyes. “You’re not? But I thought you always spend this holiday with Mor’s side.”

You’ve only been hearing about it for the past two years you’ve been rooming with your best friend. Much opposite to your holidays, the entire Cunningham family comes together to drink and feast and play games. You wonder if Mor’s made anyone play TDB. The corner of your lips lift in amusement.

“Haven’t gone home for Thanksgiving break since I started here.” You can hear the longing in his tone. Your heart aches. His gaze is still pinned to the sidewalk, and when he refuses to meet yours, you refocus on the trail. There’s someone heading your way, and your heart slams in your chest when you recognize who it is. “We have one a game against one of our biggest rivals the night after. If you want to—” His words stick in his throat when you quickly reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers.

As if on instinct, his tighten around yours and he gives you a squeeze that makes something swoop low in your stomach.

Rhys’ breathing stutters in his chest. What the fuck is going on? He is in no way protesting your hand in his. In fact, he’s been thinking about this ever since your kiss in his room. Okay, he’s been thinking much raunchier things with you than holding hands, but this is still nice. Except that he has the urge to use your intertwined hands to pull you against his chest because surely, he can’t have been the only one to see fireworks when you kissed. He’s still cursing your roommate for barging into the room. He’s sure things would’ve gone further with you, and he hates the “just friends” rule you’ve put into place.

Violet eyes find yours, confused but smoldering. Your words stick in your throat at the heat in his gaze, and you want nothing more than to give into him, but he’s Mor’s cousin, and you can’t do that to her…again.

You nod slightly, down the pathway, toward Amarantha, who’s cat-like gaze has locked onto you.

Rhys face scrunches in confusion. He lifts his attention, only for his limbs to stiffen when he recognizes his ex-girlfriend closing in on you like a predator and you two are the prey.

He rolls his shoulders, shaking the disappointment off. Right. Showtime.

“Rhys,” Amarantha says sweetly. She clutches a book to her chest, using it to prop her perky breasts even higher. Her gaze flickers to your linked hands, then to you, where her smile puckers. She greets you, butchering your name.

You match her fake grin with one of your own. “Amara.”

Her face flattens.

Rhys squeezes your hand in amusement and there are those butterflies stirring in your stomach again. You squeeze back.

You go ignored as her attention slides back to Rhys. A thread of jealousy is tugged. You don’t want her here. You know Rhys doesn’t, either, but even his focus on her has you feeling possessive. He’s not yours to be possessive over, though, not really, so while she speaks, you work on unraveling the tightness in your chest.

“Are you ready for the game against the Predators?” She asks, moving to twirl a lock of deep red hair around her finger. She all but bats her eyelashes and you don’t realize your grip on Rhysand’s hand has tightened until his thumb begins brushing a soothing stripe across your skin.

Your fingers loosen immediately, and Rhysand squeezes tightly. He doesn’t want you to let go.

“Yeah,” he answers dismissively.

Amarantha doesn’t pick up on his apathy.

“My parents are coming into town for the break,” she explains. “They want to get out of the dreary Chicago weather. Maybe we’ll come by and watch.” Her attention switches to you, a wicked smirk on her lips. “Give you a crowd of support.”

You can’t help but bite. “That’s great, Amara. Maybe we can sit next to each other.” You’d rather shave your head than sit in the same arena as her, let alone beside her, but you want her to know you’ll be there supporting your boyfriend.

Fake boyfriend.

Her brows lift in surprise. Clearly, you’ve caught her off-guard. But as quickly as her surprise flashes, her eyes glint with venom, her features morphing into something a lot more dangerous.

“Oh, we’d be more than happy to save you a seat. Just one? Are mommy and daddy too busy for a holiday?”

It’s a low blow, and she knows it. As far as you know, she doesn’t know a thing about your situation, nor will she ever, but she’s plucked a nerve.

Before you can react, and most likely unintentionally give her ammo to work with, Rhysand speaks, his voice sharp with warning.

“Don’t bother, Amarantha,” he all but barks. With the anger coursing through your veins, you haven’t noticed the way his body has gone completely frozen beside you. “You’re not welcome nor wanted at the game.”

Her façade completely falls. “But Rhys—”

Rhys tugs your hand, ignoring his ex. Your chest fills with triumph. You can’t help but smirk. “Come on, darling. Let’s go.”

You sidestep Amarantha and continue on your path back to your apartment. Behind you, you hear a hearty huff and footsteps all but stomping away.

The more space you put between Amarantha, the more the fight falls from your shoulders. You don’t want to admit it, but her words stung, and now you’re reeling.

When you’re sure Amarantha is gone, you slip your hand from Rhys’, crossing your arms tightly over your chest as you approach your dorm.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but you can’t force yourself to look. Not when he sounds like he’s kicking himself.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Rhys,” you respond tiredly. All you want to do is go upstairs and crawl into your bed.

“Then why can’t you even look at me?”

You swallow hard and lift your gaze. The both of you slow to a stop in front of your building and your heart aches in your chest at the sadness in his violet eyes.

“There, I’m looking at you. Happy?” You ask, voice nearing a tremble. Tears build in your eyes. As much as you hate to admit it, Amarantha’s words have gotten to you.

“No,” he says softly.

You can’t look at him. Not when he looks like this, features all soft with concern.

Just as you’re about to dip your head again, Rhys catches your chin. He lifts your gaze back to his, thumb stroking such a soft and soothing line across your cheek you almost melt, releasing the tears so desperate to escape.

“Come to the game. Or don’t, if you don’t want to. But please, come to my house for Thanksgiving.” You open your mouth to protest, but Rhys continues. “No stakes. The boys and I usually order in and hang out. There’s no ulterior motive here, (Y/N).” You almost wish there was. “No one deserves to be alone.”

His words strike you like an arrow to the chest. No, no one deserves to be alone. Maybe you and Rhys have more in common than you thought. He is just as lost and lonely without his family as you are. The only difference is, he has an entire family, yours is missing by half.

It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for you to decide. “Okay,” you agree. You fight the urge to nuzzle into his hand, instead taking a step back. His arm falls limply to his side, and he still wears his concern on his face, but this is just a friend not wanting their friend to be alone on a holiday. Nothing more. “I’ll come.”

_________________________________________

Over Ice Taglist:

He stands at your side, stiff as a board, hand perched on the hilt of his sword. He studies the room with rapt attention. How straight Rhysand sits on his own throne, instead of the usual blasé way he lounges during a ball. The longing glances you keep taking at the empty throne beside your father’s. The sharp jaw and angry eyes of the King. The way his golden rings dig into the wooden armrests of his seat.

The pale sliver of skin on his fourth finger where a ring used to sit.

The setting sun cascades through the stained-glass windows near the ceiling. Blots of color paint the walls. Azriel knows exactly which pane paints the room crimson. He memorized the tales behind each and every one of the eight windows lined perfectly beside each other long ago. This particular artwork always seemed to scream bad omens in his ears, and the hair at his nape stands on end.

Azriel blames it on the icy cold chainmail.

He doesn’t want you here. Not when you’re in mourning. Not when he can hear the soft sniffles you’re trying to stifle.

He hates the King for this, for summoning you, Rhysand, and his retinue when the entire Court is in misery.

Whatever is going to happen here tonight, it must be important.

King Dornan sits so still on his throne he looks like the gargoyles perched on every terrace of the castle. His violet eyes are hard, filled to the brim with bloodthirsty vengeance. His black cape drapes carelessly over his shoulder, spilling down the side of his throne as if he stormed in here twenty minutes ago and barked out orders to gather everyone closest to the family, and to arrive as quickly as possible.

Cassian stands beside Rhys, just as confused. Rhysand had been visiting you when one of the King’s messengers raced down the hall, startling the two knights standing guard outside your room. Azriel and Cassian had been conversing softly when the scrawny boy came running by. His steps echoed so loudly in the hall he heard you and your brother quiet on the other side of the door.

Their hands had found their swords quickly, and the boy would have been dead if they hadn’t recognized him the split second, he rounded the corner. Azriel and Cassian were the best trained knights in the kingdom with the exception of Rott, the King’s personal guard. The boy had been a panting mess, his blue eyes terrified as he delivered the summons.

The doors to the chamber swing open with an angry force that makes Azriel itch to throw himself in front of you, to protect you from the army of guards that whip into the room. The metal of their armor clangs loudly, but it’s the screams that pierce Azriel’s ears that really have him on edge. He wants you out of here, right the fuck now.

It’s not the first sentencing you’ve attended, but it’s the first sentencing you’ve attended since your mother’s murder only a few nights prior. You were supposed to be with her that fateful night, but she had convinced you to stay and keep your father company, sit with him in the lounge and challenge him in a game of chess while she went to visit Rhysand a few villages over.

She never made it. And you haven’t left your bed chamber since.

The guards drag two wailing men between them. Immediately, Azriel knows what’s happening. The lack of a public viewing, the quickness in which the King called for you and your brother.

These are the men that killed your mother, and the King is about to make his revenge a family affair.

Azriel fights the urge to whisk you through the secret door in the back of the room. You don’t need to see this, you’ve been through enough this week. You should be resting, mourning in your rooms while he stands just outside the door, his heart rattling behind his chest plate at every sob he pretends he doesn’t hear.

He’s wanted to burst inside and console you for days, but that is not his role. He doesn’t think about you, the Princess of the Night Court. He’s hardly even supposed to talk to you, but he can’t deny the magnetism that draws him to you. He’s intrigued, and as the knight from the top of his class, the one that holds one of the highest positions in the King’s eyes, should not be thinking of you more than a duty.

“Azriel,” the King calls. He doesn’t startle, but his breath shallows slightly in surprise. Not enough for anyone to notice.

You twist in your chair, brows furrowed in confusion. He doesn’t know why he’s being summoned, either, but he waits for one of the guards lining the walls to fill his place before he takes the few steps to join the King at his side.

It’s Bryaxis that takes his spot. Azriel doesn’t like taking leave from your side, but if there’s anyone who is as serious at his job as he is, it’s Bryaxis. He has the build, custom-made armor hangs from his large frame, nearly double the size of Azriel.

You want to reach out and snag Azriel’s hand as he passes. You don’t understand what’s going on, why your father is requesting his presence. You don’t like anything that’s happened this past week, and worry digs into your chest. You don’t want anything else to happen.

“Yes, my King?” Azriel answers once he reaches the throne. He stares straight ahead like a loyal soldier, awaiting his orders.

“Cassian,” the King calls, ignoring Azriel.

Despite knowing not to interrupt his father, Rhysand murmurers a confused, “Father?”

Again, the request for attention is denied. The King glares down at the two men who have been forced to their knees before the dais. A steady flow of blood patters to the stone beneath their curled forms. One of the guards behind the perpetrators digs his fingers into the matter black hair on the top of his head and yanks. With a sharp grunt, the man’s head is wrenched up, and all Azriel can focus on is your gasp of shock behind him.

Half of the man’s face is split open, almost right down the center. One of his eyes is completely gone, bludgeoned from its socket. Blood pours rivulets down his bare chest, stripped of everything except his raggedy pants. The blackening liquid dries in his chest hair.

The second man is face down on the floor. Azriel’s not sure if he’s already dead, but when the King demands him to wake and the knights closest to him begin prodding him roughly with the tips of their steel-lined boots, his lashes flutter.

These are the men that killed the Queen. Your mother. They’re poor excuses for men, trying to disguise themselves by rolling around in the dirt and thinking they’d blend with the villagers. King Dornan hasn’t let any of his soldiers sleep until they were found, interrogated, and executed.

And, well, the throne room is definitely dressed for an execution.

The King eases slightly in his chair, and with a flick of his jeweled hand, he orders Azriel and Cassian. “Avenge the Cunningham’s for the loss of our beloved Queen.”

Neither he nor Cassian hesitate. They step down the dais at equal pace, their boots thundering loudly, menacingly, with each step they take. Their swords croon a taunting lullaby as they unsheathe them, and the men on the floor beg and plead an infantile song in reply.

They should hold their breath. There is no changing the Kings mind.

The only person Azriel is worried about is you. He wishes he could turn around to see the look on your face, to see how you’re faring with this order. He wants to look you in the eye as he kills the man who did the very same to your mother. He’s doing this for you.

He and Cassian are fortitudes of marble. They’re been trained to feel nothing, used to slay enemies and traitors alike for the King, until he and his wife deemed their skillset perfect for protecting his children. King Dornan wanted nothing but the best for his family. Protection. Intelligence. Togetherness.

And these men took that from you.

The man on the floor doesn’t move, accepting his fate. Cassian stares harshly at the man, disgusted. He’d prefer it if her put up a fight, showed him what he was made of that night in the middle of the woods where they ambushed the Queen and her guards.

Azriel’s traitor tries. He fights against the wrought-iron chains that hold his arms behind his back. Even if he didn’t have them, Azriel wouldn’t care. He would be no match for the knight that stands before him, staring down at him like a Death God all his own.

Azriel knows why he’s been chosen with this task.

The steel of his blade meets little resistance when it hits the bone of the man’s neck. Blood splatters, and Azriel doesn’t make a sound. The man’s head teeters for a moment, as if it doesn’t know which way to topple to the stone. His face is frozen in shock. Within a second his head goes rolling to the floor, his body following with a wet thud.

Cassian’s blade is pulled from the lifeless man on the floor’s head with a slick noise.

Azriel watches, waits for the familiar shadowy slivers to slip from their bodies. No one in the room besides the King notices, which is why Azriel was chosen for this particular job. His fellow knights don’t know. You certainly don’t know why he stands over their bodies when Cassian has already spun on his heel and knelt to his King, but you are curious.

Finally, two razor-thin plumes rise from the bodies. Their souls.

Azriel summons the shadows from the corners of the room. They follow obediently, following the cracks and shadows on the floor, behind guards, beneath his boots to consume the souls of the men who have committed the ultimate act of treason.

Their screams still ring in his ears, but they’re silenced by the mass of other souls Azriel rules over. Now, they’re his. Should the King request it, he can pluck them out of the river of black that follows him everywhere he goes.

When the ringing stops, Azriel turns on his heel and lowers himself to the ground, resting his hands on the hilt of his sword and dipping his chin. “My King,” he says, and with those words, his King knows the deed is done.

Congratulations, you respond dryly. You try to swallow past the pebble wedged into your throat under the heavy gaze of your brother, but all of the moisture has escaped your windpipe. Why don’t you go do that now?

Uisge huffs, and if you were standing in front of him, the smell of sulfur would be tying your hair in knots and you’d be blinking dust from your eyes.

You almost smile at the thought at you feel your dragon retreat from your mind.

You refocus on the moment. The moment being your brother glaring at his best friend, the one who just had his fingers hooked around into the waistband of your leathers and his other hand wound in your hair, tilting your head into the perfect position for him to twist his tongue around yours in the way that makes your knees weak—

“What the fuck were you just doing to my sister.” His words are venomous, his normally gold eyes more onyx with anger. Shadows stir restlessly at his feet and your stomach coils. Surely, he wouldn’t sic them on Garrick?

You discreetly try to peer around his shoulders to catch a peek of Violet, but she’s nowhere to be found.

You’re screwed.

Garrick’s touch was innocent, despite how it looked. As much as you would have loved to drag him back to your room, you knew there wasn’t time, already late for Battle Brief.

It was your fault, for thinking you’d be shrouded in the darkened nook. But your brother loves darkness, is made of it, and of course, he caught you.

You part your lips to try and placate Xaden, but Garrick beats you to it. “That depends, what did you see?” He doesn’t sound scared, though he should be. You’ve never met anyone more terrifying than Xaden, and with the weight he’s been carrying on his shoulders lately, this will surely drag him over the edge.

You must give it to Garrick, he doesn’t falter. He stares just as hard, and you suppose it because he knows Xaden better than even you do sometimes. You want to reach out and intertwine your fingers, needing that reassurance, but you know it isn’t the time. You know he can handle himself.

Xaden’s nostrils flare in response, his anger thinly contained.

“Garrick,” he all but growls. “Tell me I didn’t just see you with your tongue down my sisters throat.”

You cringe. When he puts it that way, it sounds bad.

But you’ve seen the way he is with Violet, the aroused looks and secretive touches that aren’t so secretive. You’ve even seen him with his tongue down her throat, and if anything, you’re even now.

You’re pretty sure Xaden wouldn’t want to hear that, though.

His teeth grind and you wonder for a fleeting moment

“I don’t lie to you.”

Xaden scoffs. “You just omit the truth.” Your heart clenches at the thread of betrayal in his tone.

Garrick shakes his head in defense, his response harsh. “You’ve never asked, and I’ve never lied.”

Your brothers scrutinize your boyfriend for a long moment. So long that you shift anxiously. This is the first time you don’t have a clue what Xaden might be thinking. It’s not a place you want to be.

Finally, he asks, “You’re loyal to her?” His words are still edged with razors, but his shoulders have lost a little tightness.

Garrick nods once. “I love her.”

Your eyes grow wide in surprise. You haven’t said that to each other before. You’ve been sharing the same sentiment this whole time and you didn’t even know it?

You swing your gaze to him in surprise, only to realize that he’s been looking at you the entire time. His hazel eyes sparkle with amusement, most likely at the utter shock on your face. He’s trying to keep a straight face under the gaze of your brother, but the corner of his mouth betrays him, twitching just slightly.

“What? You didn’t know?” He teases, and there’s no longer anyone in this hall but you and him. Nothing else matters. No one else’s opinion matters. Not Xaden’s, not Uisge’s. It’s only you and Garrick.

You shake your head lightly, biting your lip to contain your smile. Garrick has that look on his face like he wants to reach out to you, swipe that lip from between your teeth with his thumb only to bite on it himself. You shift, trying to ignore the fire that lights in your belly at the smolder in his eyes.

Maybe you will be skipping Battle Brief after all.

A clearing of a throat rips your attention away from Garrick before you can confess that you’ve been in love with him for ages. You grew up with him, always had that girlhood crush on your older brother’s best friend. You didn’t even think he noticed you, though you’re sure it was hard not to when you trailed after them like one of Xaden’s shadows.

You feel like you’re flying right now. You don’t even need Uisge anymore.

Unlikely, your bitter dragon mutters.

You return your guilty gaze to Xaden. His face is contorted, like he’s torn between acceptance and decking his best friend across the face.

Your breath is stuck in your chest. You can’t breathe as you watch the emotion flicker behind his eyes. Betrayal, confusion, pride, hurt, and what you hope is acceptance.

His gaze dances between you and Garrick. You roll your shoulders back and tilt your chin, meeting his gaze head on. You don’t need Xaden’s permission to love Garrick, but it would be nice to have your brother’s support.

Xaden must read it in your gaze, how nothing will stop you from being with Garrick, not even him. It’s how he feels about Violet. His gaze softens just a touch, enough for you to release the air from your lungs in relief. He sends a shadow your way, skittering between your fingers just like when you were young and upset, a calming notion, a discreet embrace.

His gold eyes land on his best friend. Xaden clears his throat and nods back. “Then don’t let anyone stop you,” he says, and turns on his heel, disappearing down the hall.

You jaw almost drops in shock. You don’t know what you expected, to be honest. Silent treatment would be on par for your brother, but total acceptance without even a fist thrown or a sword lifted? That…is new.

“So…” you trail off, facing Garrick. Your cheeks heat when you notice his gaze pinned on you, that devilishly handsome smirk on his face. You can’t contain your smile. “You love me?”

Disgustingly so, Uisge grumbles, and you shoo your nosy dragon away.

Garrick’s grin is blinding. It causes your heart to race in your chest. He’s intoxicating. You love him.

“More than anything,” Garrick admits, hands winding around your waist to tug you close.

You plant your hands on his chest, sliding higher to wrap around his neck as you follow him back into the shadows of your not-so-hidden nook.

You roll onto the tips of your toes. The motion doesn’t quite put you at eye-level with him, but Garrick tilts his head down and your lips almost brush. You want him, need to taste him right now. But first…

Your gaze lifts from his mouth to meet his. Fire dances in his eyes, along with a cockiness you’d swat out of him if it were for any other reason.

He already knows, but you say it anyway.