#devlon x reader

“Your men are dying. I think the time to be stubborn is over.” Cassian urged, and you decided to finally chime in. 

“I’m sure I can find what’s killing them. But I need access and time. And your word that I won’t be attacked.” 

It had been a tough two weeks for Devlon. That much was obvious if the bags under his eyes and the tremor in his hands he tried to suppress were any indicator. A sickness had befallen the war-lord’s camp, and the healers that resided in Windhaven were at their wits end. Cassian had offered for you to take a look days ago, but Devlon kept refusing. His stupid pride prevented him from letting you anywhere near his camp. Because you weren’t Illyrian, because you were female, because you were a part of the infamous Inner Circle. All good reasons for him to condemn you, you knew. But he was running out of options and fast. 

Devlon’s chocolate brown eyes seemed almost bronze in the candlelight, a deep frown forming on his features. The war-lord was a massive male, tall and broad, and in his black Illyrian fighting leathers, he looked like the epitome of a warrior. His wings shifted behind him, an annoyed huff pushing past his lips. A long moment of silence passed before he spoke, his narrowed stare flickering from Cassian to you. “And why should I believe you’ll be of any use, girl?” 

Gods, how you despised males like him. But no matter how much those Illyrian brutes irritated you, you had sworn an oath when you entered the healing quarters in Velaris all those years ago; to heal and protect anyone who sought your aid, without question. No life was worth more than another. That was how it would always have to be. It was the first lesson Madja had taught you, and maybe also the most important one. 

“I’m not a girl,” you replied with as much authority as you could muster. “And I know what I’m doing. I’m good at my job, and I can mend your warriors, but you’ll have to let me.” 

The leathery membrane of his wings caught the dim torchlight as he scoffed, folding his arms across his muscular chest. 

“Fine.” The word was bitten out between clenched teeth, as if it physically pained him to concede. “But you step out of line, one breath of disrespect, and you’ll have another thing coming, Inner Circle or not.” Contempt furrowed his prominent, dark brows. “And if any of my warriors die under your care, healer,” he added, voice dropping dangerously low, “you’ll answer to me.” With that, he turned on his heel and stormed off, his wings slicing through the frigid mountain air like blades. 

Cassian smirked at you. “Well. That went better than expected.” 

You snorted a laugh, shook your head, and wearily rubbed your palms against your closed eyes. “I’m not so sure.” 

Cassian’s grin only widened, and he clapped you on the shoulder, his amusement palpable. “Oh, come on. You managed to wrangle some sort of agreement out of Lord Grumpy. That’s more than I’ve managed to do in all the centuries I’ve known him.” 

Devlon had disappeared in the misty clouds of the Illyrian mountains. The meeting point you had agreed on was a clearing in the woods, not quite Velaris, not quite Illyria. With a deep breath, you swung your bag over your shoulder and nodded towards Cassian with a tight smile. It was time for him to fly after Devlon and bring you to Windhaven. 

Perched near the peak of a forested ridge, the camp was a collection of a few permanent stone buildings crouched near the tree line, constructed from the same gray mountain rock that surrounded them, as if the land itself had begrudgingly coughed them up. Smoke coiled from the chimneys in thin, reluctant trails, swallowed quickly by the frigid winds. The rest of Windhaven sprawled haphazardly; a patchwork of large firepits circled by simple tents. Mud slicked the paths between them, frozen in places and sloshing in others. To the far end of the camp, where the wind howled sharpest, the sparring rings resided. Brutal spots packed with weapons and all sorts of training supplies. Nothing about this place was particularly inviting. 

“Charming...” You mumbled sarcastically, unaware of Devlon who had stepped up behind you and Cassian. 

“Keep your commentary to yourself,” the war-lord barked. You turned to find him scowling down at you, arms crossed over his broad chest, wings tucked in tight against the cold. Unfortunately, you found the sight very attractive, which made you want to claw your brain out of your skull. “This isn’t Velaris. You’re not here to sightsee.” 

Cassian bristled beside you, the casualness he usually wore now gone. “Enough, Devlon.” 

But the burly Illyrian’s glare didn’t waver, not even for a heartbeat. “If she cannot behave herself–” 

“Then you’ll do nothing,” Cassian cut in sharply. “You might run this camp, but you’re still part of the Night Court. You’d do well to remember who your High Lord is.” 

Devlon’s jaw worked, the twitch in his temple seeming like a sure sign of him holding back an array of very colorful insults. 

Slowly taking a step towards the commander of Windhaven, Cassian crowded the only slightly larger male. “Azriel and I will be checking in daily. We so much as find a scratch on her, we’ll put you so far underground the Mother will forget you ever existed. Understand me?” 

The cold silence that followed felt suffocating, but then, Devlon’s lip curled, and he gave a begrudging nod, as if forced to swallow something bitter.  

Cassian pivoted around, his face softening when your eyes locked. “You’ve got this. Keep your wits about you, don’t let them rattle you.” 

You nervously chuckled, despite yourself. “I’ll try my best.” 

With that, your friend took to the skies, vanishing into the thick, gray mist, and leaving you alone on the frigid mountain with the callous camp leader. The quiet stretched out for a beat longer than comfortable, and Devlon’s gaze traveled up and down your form. You felt as if every inch of you was being analyzed and judged. 

“What?” You snapped when his critical glare didn’t waver. Somehow, the sharpness in your voice seemed to pull him out of whatever examination he was conducting.  

“Nothing,” he replied bluntly and walked off, calling over his shoulder, “Come on then. The sooner you’re shown around, the sooner we can get this over with.” 

With hurried steps, you followed him through rows of tents and past skeptical looking Illyrian’s. Every single one of them was broad and massive, pure-bred warriors wearing grim expressions, armed to the teeth and itching for a fight. After a few minutes, the muddy paths gave way to firmer ground as you neared the tree line, and the stone buildings that made up the outskirts of Windhaven loomed ahead. Moss crept up a few walls, and dark, narrow chimneys puffed thin coils of smoke into the colorless sky. Devlon didn’t speak as he led you to one of the smaller structures, half-sheltered by the trees. Its thick door creaked when he shoved it open, stepping aside to let you pass. You crossed the threshold tentatively, heeding Cassian and Azriel’s advice to be cautious at all times. But the inside was not what you’d expected at all, and you couldn’t hide the obvious surprise that creased your forehead.  

A fire was already crackling in the hearth, the flames’ shadows licking along the uneven rocks that made up the walls. The furnishings were simple but oddly cozy– a worn, brown leather armchair and a dark green sofa. Weapons were neatly arranged in a rack behind the door and to the right was a small cooking nook that was well kept and clean. It felt strangely lived in. Functional, but warm in a way nothing else in Windhaven had been so far. Once you’d taken everything in, you noticed the scent; fir needles and sage. It smelled exactly like... him. “You’re letting me stay in your home?” 

“I can’t guarantee you’ll be safe anywhere else,” he muttered, confirming that the ill-tempered war-lord had indeed opened his doors for you. “The males in this camp don’t take kindly to outsiders. Less so when they’re female and working for Rhysand.” 

You opened your mouth to respond, but Devlon stepped past you to open a cabinet, taking out a thick, woolen blanket and throwing it on the sofa unceremoniously. His movements were rushed, like he didn’t want to linger in the same room with you for longer than necessary. 

“That’s my bedroom,” he said without looking back, nodding once to the lofted space tucked beneath the sloped ceiling. “You’ll sleep down here. The sofa is comfortable enough.” 

Glancing at the green cushions again, you decided that it didn’t look too terrible. Used and maybe a little lumpy, but not the worst sleeping arrangement you’d had. 

“And let me be clear,” Devlon said, glaring down at you. “You’re not here because I want you here. You’re here because Rhysand decided to shove you into my camp, and I’d rather have you under my roof than cleaning blood off the snow come morning. So don’t mistake this for hospitality. And don’t touch my shit.” 

You met his stare without flinching. “Don’t worry. The urge to snoop through your undergarments is overwhelming, but I’ll restrain myself.” 

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes, the barest hint of intrigue. But it was gone just as quickly, buried beneath that permanent scowl of his. “Well, fuck me, you’re going to be a real nightmare, aren’t you?” 

You gave him a saccharine smile. “Takes one to know one.” 

At that, he actually huffed. A small, involuntary sound that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t died in his throat so fast. Devlon blinked, as if surprised by the noise himself. Then his frown deepened once more, like he could erase the moment entirely through sheer force of will. Without another word, he turned on his heel and yanked the door open, letting in a gust of icy air.  

“Come on,” he muttered, not bothering to look at you again. You followed him back out into the cold, the door snapping shut behind you.  

The walk was brisk and mercifully quiet, save for the clatter of weapons from the sparring rings. The healing house stood at the far edge of the permanent structures, gray like the others, but marked by a red piece of fabric that swung by a nail above the door. Devlon didn’t pause as he shoved it open and stepped aside, letting you enter first. Immediately, the familiar scent of herbs and alcohol mixed with blood greeted you. The warmth inside was faint but welcome, pushed out from a small hearth tucked into one corner. Several cots lined the walls, all of them occupied with Illyrians suffering to various degrees, and countless shelves groaned under jars, vials, and folded linens. It wasn’t pristine, but it was organized and functional. You stepped further inside, eyes scanning the space. Pale faces, damp bandages, low groans– whatever sickness had taken root here, it was no small thing. Your fingers itched to start sorting through the vials and medicines, but Devlon’s boots thudded behind you. 

“Elaira,” he called, the authority in his voice eliciting goosebumps on the surface of your skin. From behind a partition of hanging fabric, an Illyrian female emerged. She looked to be around your age, maybe a little older, her dark hair braided tightly against her scalp. Her eyes were sharp, assessing you in a single guarded sweep. What caught your attention immediately, though, were her wings. Or rather, what remained of them. Clipped clean at the middle joint, the scars were a horrible reminder of what still happened to females all over Illyria. “Elaira’s the head healer,” Devlon explained. “She’s in charge.” 

“It’s nice to meet you,” you said, inclining your head with a small smile on your face. 

Elaira didn’t smile back, but her chin dipped in acknowledgment. “We’re glad to have another pair of hands,” she said. “Even if they come from Velaris.” There was no anger in her tone, just dry humor, the kind that slipped easily between people who floated on the same wavelength. “I don’t mind where help comes from,” Elaira added, already moving toward a shelf and grabbing a roll of fresh bandages. “As long as you’re not squeamish and you don’t talk too much.” 

You followed her, reaching for a jar of antiseptic. “I’m a healer. I’ve seen everything and then some. But I can’t promise anything when it comes to the talking.” 

That earned you a side-glance and the ghost of a smirk. “Hm. We’ll get along just fine, I think.” 

Behind you, Devlon shifted, and his brow furrowed slightly as he watched the two of you move around each other with ease. “Right,” he muttered, clearly confused by the entire exchange. “I’ll pick you up for dinner.”  

Before he left, you turned just enough to catch his expression, something between wonder and mild concern, like he didn’t quite trust what he was seeing.  

“Why is he such a prick?”, you asked Elaira once Devlon was out of the door. 

Elaira didn’t even blink. “Because he was left out in the snow too long as a babe.” 

Huffing a laugh, you set down the jar with a soft clink. “That would explain a lot.” 

Elaira tore open a packet of dried feverfew, her hands moving with steady confidence that only years of fieldwork could give. “He’s not as heartless as he makes himself out to be,” she said after a moment. “But he is a prick. And a stubborn one at that.” 

You raised a brow. “Is that your professional opinion?”

“Centuries of firsthand experience,” she said dryly. “Still, he keeps the worst of the bunch in line. And around here, that counts for something.” Then, nonchalantly, she added, “he’s also my brother.”

It took a few seconds for her words to fully register, then your eyes widened in shock. “Devlon is your brother?”

She nodded, reaching for a roll of bandages. “Half-brother, technically. Our father was a busy male.”

Embarrassment flushed your cheeks at the realisation of how you’d spoken about Devlon before. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–”

You moved, muscle memory taking over as you set your bag down and began laying out supplies. The warrior on the cot was young, barely more than a boy. His skin was clammy and sickly pale beneath the torchlight, and his breathing was shallow, each inhale rattling faintly in his chest. 

“Don’t be,” she interrupted with a wry quirk of her lip. “You’re not the first to be put off by his winning personality.”

Elaira gestured toward the nearest cot with her chin. “We’ll start here.”

“Fever spiked this morning, then the tremors started.” Elaira explained.

Pressing your pointer and middle finger against his wrist, you counted. The Illyrians’ pulse was too weak and slow. “Have you been able to get some food or water into him?”

“Not much,” she admitted, her frown deepening. “He’s been barely coherent, and it’s getting worse by the hour.” Elaira handed you a damp rag, nodding for you to take over and continue the assessment.

For the next few hours, your world narrowed to the steady rhythm of your work. You cleaned wounds that should have been healing but weren’t, checked milky pupils clouded with fever, coaxed sips of bitter tonic past cracked lips. Elaira moved beside you seamlessly, handing you what you needed before you even asked for it. Whatever sickness had taken hold of Windhaven was cruel and horrifyingly subtle. By the time you straightened, flexing your sore fingers, the sky outside had turned dark. 

“I think this is some form of poisoning. But I’ve never seen anything like it before. There must be a cause, something that connects all of them,” you mumbled, partially to yourself and to Elaira. Wild eyes flicked between warriors as you thought long and hard if you could recall a time during your work with the Inner Circle where something similar had crossed your path, but your mind was blank. “Have they eaten something? Is there a water source only they have used?”

Before Elaira could answer, the door to the healing house flew open so hard a few vials on the shelf beside you rattled. Devlon barged in, his boots thudding on the stone floor and that ever persistent frown lingering on his rugged, but oddly beautiful face. Both of you looked up as he strode inside, a breeze of chilled mountain air obediently following him. His eyes, dark as the sky outside, darted around the infirmary, taking note of the beds filled with Illyrians, the vials and instruments littering the tables, and finally, you and Elaira. 

“Tell me what you found,” he barked, peering down at the warrior writhing in the cot before you.

“I think it’s poison,” you answered plainly. Devlon didn’t seem like the kind of male to beat around the bush, so you decided neither would you.

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding. “Explain.”

You met his gaze unflinchingly. “Their wounds are showing no signs of healing, even though we’ve cleaned them thoroughly. They’re weak, pale, and feverish. Their hearts are slow, and they’re struggling to breathe properly. I’m sure you’ve noticed the tremors, too. That’s not how an infection behaves. Besides, I have countless remedies for various illnesses– nothing is working. Which makes me wonder if it’s an antidote we really need.”

As you spoke, he nodded slowly, seemingly weighing your every word in that stoic head of his. A long moment passed, and his eyes swept the infirmary again. Finally, he grunted in acknowledgment. “And the common denominator between them?”

“That’s what we’ll need to figure out,” you replied, glancing over at Elaira, who was busy again, changing a warrior’s bandage on his thigh.

Devlon huffed through his nose, arms crossed. “They were on patrol together,” he gestured around the room, “the ones who got sick. They all drank from the same spring.”

Biting your lip, you followed that thought for a moment, but ended up shaking your head. “A spring that’s available to everyone. More people would be sick at this point if that was the source.”

That gave him pause. “You sure you’ve never seen anything like this before?” Devlon asked, an edge to his tone that rang with a hint of desperation.

“No, but I think the poison enters through the blood rather than through food or drink. It seems potent, works quickly, and affects the entire body. Plus, if the poison enters through the digestive system, there’s a risk that the victims will vomit, which would render it useless.”

Spending years with the Inner Circle, especially with Azriel and his spies, who needed the most medical attention, left you with a vast knowledge of all kinds of deceit on top of your healing skills.

Devlon’s eyes flared with bright red fury, and he kicked a metal bucket beside one of the cots, sending it flying. “Fuck!”

Neither Elaira nor you flinched at his reaction. Instead, you lifted your hands, palms forward, and carefully placed one atop Devlon’s bicep. “Look, we’ll figure this out. For now, block off the training grounds that these warriors used. We can thoroughly examine the area tomorrow. I’ll make us something to eat in the meantime, and then we can think about what to do. Rash decisions will only escalate this situation.”

He froze at the contact, his entire body going tense beneath your touch. The muscles in his arm went taut, his warm skin radiating through the leathers that clung to his solid frame. But he didn’t pull away, and after a heartbeat, he gave a barely perceivable nod. “Fine.”

With that, he pulled away from you and shot a glare at his sister. Then, he stormed out of the healing house once more. When you glanced towards Elaira, she smirked and shook her head.

“What?” You asked, furrowing your brows in confusion.

“Oh, nothing.”  Elaira went right back to her work, her face schooled into a look of utmost concentration. But that didn’t hide her grin. Or the amusement gleaming in her dark eyes. You chose to ignore whatever thoughts were clearly brewing in her mind, helped her finish up in the healing house, and then made your way back toward Devlon’s place. Since you weren’t permitted to roam the camp alone, Elaira walked with you, her presence already becoming a comfort. The air in Windhaven was much drier and more stinging than in Velaris. Crisp mountain cold filled your lungs with every breath, and you found you didn’t mind it at all. With each inhale, it felt as though something inside your chest loosened, as if the tight knot of stress and endless responsibility you carried was slowly unraveling. It was an odd sensation, considering the task you had to fulfill here, but your mind and body were too exhausted to give it much thought. 

By the time you reached Devlon’s front door, your shoulders had dropped without you even realizing it. Elaira turned toward you, a broad, unmistakably smug grin spreading across her pretty face.

“You know,”  she started casually, “my brother might be a stubborn, ill-tempered prick with a tendency to brood, but he’s not so bad. Most of the time at least.”

“Alright…” you replied, eyes narrowed incredulously.

“And he’s alone, without a female,” Elaira tacked on unceremoniously. “Has been for a few centuries now.”

It dawned on you what she was trying to imply and your eyes widened, mouth falling open in shock. “You cannot be serious!”

She shrugged, turning back toward the camp. “I am, actually. Have fun cooking.” Then, she shot you a devious smirk over her shoulder and called, “Oh, and Devlon hates peas.”

“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath as you pushed open the wooden door to Devlon’s hut. For a long moment, you simply stood there.Elaira’s words churned inside you, simmering like a potion left too long over the fire. You tried to ignore them, but they clung stubbornly to every corner of your brain. And far worse, you couldn’t quite ignore the flicker of relief that threaded through your veins at the idea of Devlon being… available. You cleared your throat sharply, as if the sound alone might banish the notion. Wiping your damp palms against your hips, you shoved the thought as far from your mind as you could manage and moved into the cramped little kitchen nook. Devlon’s home was modest, a simple stone structure built with function in mind, meant to shield its occupants from Windhaven’s unforgiving weather and little else. A worn wooden table, just large enough for two, sat near the stove, a single chair tucked on either side. No decorations adorned the walls, and you couldn’t find a single trinket or personal touch to soften the space. It was neater than even Azriel’s quarters, which until now you had deemed impossible. With a quiet sigh, you turned your attention to the cabinets, opening them one by one until you eventually uncovered a loaf of bread and a few tins of mushroom stew. You poured the contents of one can into a cast-iron pot and set it over the stove, starting the flame beneath it. You had only just begun stirring when the front door opened and Devlon returned.

ADHD is weird, because one second, I'm totally into Brimstone, writing non stop and the next I develop an obsession with the Illyrian war-lord Devlon?! Anyway, I hope a few people enjoy this. ✨

You never thought you'd see the day your grizzled, battle-hardened warrior lover would melt at the sight of another female. As Devlon sinks onto the bed at your side, everything about him softens. His dark eyes glow as he stares down at the babe you've placed in his hands, her tiny wings curved her little body.

"She's perfect," he whispers hoarsely, his eyes roving over her tuft of dark hair and soft, brown skin. Her little fist is curled beneath her chin, her lips curved in a sleepy pout as she dozes in her father's hand. "Absolutely perfect."

"She is," you agree, leaning your head against his shoulder.

"No one's going to harm her," he says, bringing the top of her head to his lips for a tentative kiss. You've never seen him so gentle, so humbled. It's a good look. "I swear, I'm going to protect her. None of those brutes will get their hands on her-"

"I know," you whisper. "I know, but...but there has to be real change here, Devlon. You'll need to lead them if we want any hope of her safety in the future."

"I will. I will." It's as earnest as any vow. "I...I'm sorry I couldn't save you the pain-"

A low snarl rips from his chest, a broad, calloused palm biting into your thigh, keeping you from slamming it home. He twists your leg to the side, pulling it up over his hip, stepping into you so you’re tipping backward—forced to desperately cling to him to keep from falling to the kitchen floor.

“Let me go, brute,” you hiss, digging your nails into the muscle cording his shoulders, hanging from his strength. “I would sooner sleep outside this winter than visit your blasted brother again. He makes a pass at me every time you look away.”

“If you’d stop seducing him with those eyes of yours, there wouldn’t be a problem,” he growls, free arm wrapping around your waist, keeping you within his warmth. “I can’t take you anywhere without something happening.”

“You’re putting this on me?” You snarl, arms aching from holding him so tight, having spent the afternoon drying the various pots and pans from lunch, then immediately switching to preparing dinner, which is laying untouched atop the table. “Don’t you feel any sense of protection for your wife? Your own brother is trying to steal me out from right beneath your nose, ‘Lo. Aren’t you embarrassed? Ashamed? I’m not some common whore to be traded about, no matter how you like to say so.”

Rough fingertips splay across your ribs, skating beside your breast, possessively. “He knows what would happen to him if he so much as touched something of mine. If advances have been made, you have only yourself to blame, temptress that you are.”

“That’s your answer?” You hiss. “That it’s my fault your brother keeps trying to take liberties with me? You should train your dogs better.”

Devlon growls in warning. “He is my brother, and you will show him the respect he deserves. He is a fully fledged warrior, and you will do well to treat him as one.” He pulls you tighter to his body, your back straining with the curve, gritting your teeth against the ache. “Or do I need to remind you of your placement in this world?” You snarl your disagreement, hands raising to the thick, dark locks of his hair, nails scraping over his scalp. “I will submit to my husband, and my husband only. If you know so thoroughly that I am yours, why tolerate any other male attempting to put his hands on me. Do you have no sense of possession? As your wife, I would expect more aggression from you, but clearly this brother of yours has something over you if you’re at his mercy—”

“I will not have you sewing discord within my family, witch.” Lip curls at the title, hands lowering from his hair, trailing down his back, just grazing the great wings—

The second you do, Illyrian instinct kicks in, and he goes for the throat. Muscle tenses, then you turn soft and pliable in his arms. Calloused fingers stroke over the sensitive skin placatingly, as if calming a beast through scratching behind its ears. Heat flushes your cheeks, legs trembling, arms turning weak and limp as the stimulation settles in the pit of your belly.

“Don’t… Quit it, ‘Lo,” you pant, shooting him a scathing glare. He can’t just do this every time you have an argument. And yet it always seems to end with you flipped on your back, a larger pair of wings hiding you from the world, your fingers running through his hair while his hips grind against your own.

Hands fall away from his wings, instead pulling to your chest, attempting to squirm out of his dominating hold, feeling all of a sudden as though his hands are all over your body, touching the curve of your hip, the softness of your waist, the hollow of your throat. “We aren’t done with this argument,” you manage, heat already pounding between your legs.

“Argument?” He pulls you tighter to his chest, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “you speak of a children’s sparring match like it’s a war.”

Grit your teeth. “Stop infantilising me. You don’t give me proper attention, or the topics I bring up. A good husband listens to his wife.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says dismissively, though his hands have slowed on your wings. You’re grateful for the reprieve.

“You’re being dense,” you snap, regaining enough to control to steady yourself with the one leg that’s still planted on the floor. “I would’ve though as warlord you would understand when to pick your battles—you’re always saying that makes a good warrior.”

“You think we were battling?” He sneers, pulling your thigh tighter over his hip. “You’d be on the floor painted black and blue if we were.”

“This house is my battle ground,” you hiss sharply, anger flaring in your blood at the nonchalance he spoke about hurting you with. “As your wife, home and family are my designated areas. You don’t hear me asking what you spoke about during those meetings of yours, because I know my place. And I don’t expect your help in the kitchen other than perhaps giving me coin to buy the necessary materials, because that isn’t your place. Your brother’s actions are an attack on our family, and as a relatively dignified male, I expect you to defend it.” You finish, keeping your attention locked with his sharp hazel eyes.

Dark brows furrow as his attention pierces into you, the edges of his mouth twisted in an almost permanent frown. You fight to keep from shifting in his hold as he judges your points.

“Unnervingly sound reasoning, as usual,” he mutters, relenting at last. Lips quirk in triumph, making him shoot you a dark glance, fingers biting into your thigh. “I suppose it’s not acceptable for him to put his hands on my wife, even if provoked.”

“I didn’t do anything,” you snap, heat finally receding enough for you to be rational. “Where did that idea even come from? I’ve been nothing but loyal to you.” He snarls roughly at that, hips pressing into your abdomen. “Don’t lie to me, wife. Do you even understand the strain you put on me to resist taking you before our wedding night?”

Lips part as heat flows between you, something hard and stiff pressing into you, the shape of his arousal more prominent that it was before. “What are you talking about?” You breathe, his mouth poised to devour your own. A muscle feathers in his jaw, and you can feel the strength contained within his warrior’s body seeping into your own. “You know what I’m talking about,” he growls. “You are female. You should hold no power over me.”

You can do nothing but stare up into his hazel eyes, two siphons glittering on either shoulder, blazing storm-cloud grey. “And yet every day drove me deeper into madness. Every day I was denied you, deprived of you.” Lips brush over your own, a roughened promise whispered in secret. “I could have killed on our wedding day, with how intense that strain was.”

He had seemed ill-tempered—you’d assumed he was simply innately miserable, rather than it being out of impatience. “‘Lo…” you plead, softly, breathlessly.

“It should not be me that feels that way alone,” he growls, hand sliding up between your wings, your spine arching. “I should not be the one subject to you.”

“Yet here you are,” you manage, wishing he would shut up and put his mouth over your own already. He snarls, silencing you. “Can you even comprehend the need I have for you? Understand a fraction of the longing I feel for you? How my bones groan to have you near?”

The world around him falls away, negative space. “Show me,” you breathe, “show me.”

Hot lips press over your own, hand releasing your leg in favour of sliding beneath your ass, hauling you upward. Thighs wrap tight around his hips, your hands cupping his jaw as he groans up into the kiss, head tipped back to go deeper. Fingers thread through the thickness of his dark hair, rolling your hips against him, hands dipping lower. Skating over his shoulders, down his back.

He snarls into your mouth as your nails graze the base of his wings, the tendons shuddering beneath the feather-light touch. His hold loosens, allowing you to slide down a little, his arousal pressing flush to your centre. Hips buck as you attach your mouth to his neck, your Lord stalking from the kitchen, prowling through your house so he can bed you. Teeth scrape over a pulse point, hands squeezing your ass in response, shifting you in his arms so your centre rubs over him.

Forearm slides beneath you, hand gripping the nape of your neck, unlatching your mouth from his throat. Siphons burn the colour of thunder-clouds, hazel sharp as it pierces into you. “Hands and knees,” he grits out. “On the double.”

Neither of you dare waste a second. The moment he releases you, ties are loosened, clothes are strewn across the floor, wings flare for balance as you’re practically shoved onto the bed. Feel the heavy weight of his cock between your legs, one arm sliding down your front, calloused fingers plying you apart enough so you’ll be able to take him. “‘Lo, please…” you pant, tightening around his digits as they slide in and out, curling softly against spots he knows you like.

Pleasure weakens your muscles, lowering onto your forearms, wings twitching near their tips, shuddering as heat pulses between your legs. “I need you relaxed,” he grits out, your spine curving at the rough drag of the syllables. “I am relaxed,” you pant, “do it.”

Your Lord curses under his breath, then pulls away; you whine at the emptiness. It’s transformed into a moan when the tip of his cock presses to your entrance instead, poised to fill you up—if he would just push his hips forward. You hiss, telling him to get on with it, but he only slides in the first inch or so, nowhere near enough yet. “What are you doing?” You manage breathlessly, attempting to shift to peer at him, but he holds you still.

“Do you feel how badly you want that?” He growls, pulling out a little more. You could scream at him to slam in, but it won’t get you anywhere, so you nod your head instead, choosing compliance over disobedience. “Imagine constantly feeling that need every time someone so much as walked in the same room as you. Do you see how cruel you were?” A moan slips from your lips, his hand rising from between your legs to grip your breast, thumbing at the sensitive peak of your nipple. “I’m sorry, ‘Lo,” you pant, practically trembling beneath his hands. “I’m so sorry…”

“I bet you’re fucking sorry,” he snarls. “Not so nice being on the receiving end, is it?”

Swallow thickly, heartbeat spiking at the vulgar language. “Please, ‘Lo. Please, I need you.” Fingers pinch the sensitive skin. “Of course you do.”

Then he slides in, and you’re pressed forward, making room for him until his hips are tight against the backs of your thighs. Eyes roll with pleasure, harsh pants of relieve spilling from your lips as you clamp down on him. Words blur and fumble, a strange mesh of pleading sounds pouring into the air, the duvet doing nothing to muffle them. “That’s better,” he groans, drawing his hips back in favour of slamming in. You cry out, pleasure rocking your mind as he sets a punishing pace, hips smacking against your thighs, cock touching those previously stimulated spots, having you tighten around him.

Canines scrape over the junction of your neck and shoulder, finding the part he likes, where you’ll struggle to conceal the mark. Teeth bite down and you moan, wings fluttering in pleasure as he presses against them, pinning them to your back. Vision blurs with the stimulation, tears brimming along your lashes, bursting with the need to have him this deep inside you at all times, to be so utterly and completely full there’s hardly room for breath.

Your husband pulls away, gripping you by the hips, slamming you back against him in time with the rough pace he’s chosen. Cries spill helplessly from your chest as he puts his weight behind each thrust, grinding his hips against you so he’ll touch more of the lovely, mouth-watering places inside you. You try to cover your mouth but he’s having none of it, one hand fisting in your hair as he tugs you upright, forcing your spine to curve to his will as he pounds into you.

Waves of dizzying pleasure crest over your skin, a scream whimpering from your mouth as you flutter around his cock, sending him over the edge. He snarls as it hits him, release spurting into you, feeling the thick liquid spill deep inside, filling you up and stuffing you full. Eyes slide shut, pushing tears down your cheeks while muscles spasm from overstimulation. The last waves finish, and his grip loosens on you, allowing you to collapse down into the mattress, exhausted.

The bed dips to your left as he settles beside you, one great wing splaying across your back, tucking you beneath it. Take your time to regain your strength, before rolling closer, your own wings folding to allow you to press into the sturdy heat of his side. “What about supper?” You question quietly, eyes still shut as you bask in the aftermath. He grunts noncommittally. “We can eat later.”

As if on cue, your stomach rumbles, hunger beginning to make an appearance now your mind is unoccupied. You groan, brows narrowing into a frown before you sigh, making to push up from the bed. His wing presses you down, keeping you laying comfortably on your front. “I’ll get it,” he mutters, standing and moving to kitchen.

When he returns, you’ve burrowed under the covers, closer to his side than your own, eyes shut, breathing deep and even. He rolls his eyes, setting the plates down on the tables either side your large bed.

You’ll wake up in an hour or so, once you’re sufficiently rested.

Then it’ll be time for round two.

Everyone in Windhaven was scared of Lord Devlon, one wrong move or word, and he will destroy you the next training. He was especially fierce about training the women in the camp, his mate helped him realise they could be good and useful fighters too. Now it takes one bad word about any woman in the camp, and you got it. Training or, in worst case, punishment that will surely teach everyone their place.

Today was one of these days, and Devlon wasn't letting them go easy today. They spoke too openly about his mate. They should be glad he didn't kill them. Just the thought of yesterday events was making him see red.

He was waiting for his mate to finish her shift in the pub. He told her uncountable times she didn't have to work and that he will take care of her, but she refused every time. Devlon wasn't happy about it, but if his mate wishes to work, he will have it and respect it. His mate matters to him the most and if he has to stay in her pub whole shift just to scare of drunk horny warriors then let it be like that, anything just too see her smile at the end of the day.

Today started as a normal night for both of them. Y/N made sure everyone got their drinks while he was making sure she is alright. The men can get quite handsy, which he totally won't tolerate, not with any woman and totally not with his mate.

"Hello pretty, could you please give us three shots?" One of the soilders yelled at you. He immediately turned to them. It's not something new that men compliment you. He himself does that nearly every day. But he was keeping eye on them. Young warriors often didn't know when to keep their mouth shut. Their table was close to Devlon, so no word that left they shameful mouth didn't miss him. He was still left with a cold mind. Let them fantasise. You would never even get close to them in that way.

You were used to drunk men, their words just pointless part in your night. Their order was quickly done, and you started walking to their table. On your way, you shot Devlon quick smile. You missed him - like it isn't only half an hour since you last kissed him.

Everything was going smoothly, and they didn't do anything stupid till you were leaving them to take care of other orders. One of them whistled and slapped your ass. In a second, his hand was grabbed by your mate, and the soilder was on the ground.

"You wanna try that again?" Devlon growed at him. How dares he touch his mate like that? Only he can do that. The illyrian soldier was nearly peeing his pants while begging for forgiveness. Devlon didn't see through his anger, all his instincts were screaming at him to protect mate and kill any potentional threat to her.

,,Devlon, love, let him go. You can punish him on the training tomorrow. But don't let him destroy the night today. " You knew how to calm down your husband. These little angry scenes were nearly on a daily routine. Devlon could control himself, just not when it came to you, his only weakness.

,,let's go home, love. " you said and took his hand to slowly lead him away from the soilder. He luckily did let go, and his hand went around your waist. ,,talk to my mate like that one more time, and I will literally kill you." He was dead serious when he said that ,,that goes for all of you."

You quickly nodded at your coworker so they knew you were leaving. Everyone was probably happy that you decided to leave sooner, and they didn't have to deal with their angry commander.

The moment you left the pub, you kissed him. The kiss was fast and heated. Nothing sweet about it, but at the moment, you knew that Devlon needed to calm himself somehow, with what you will gladly help him further at home. Your lips left his, and you looked up to smile at him.

You ran straight into what you thought was a solid brick wall. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. Rough hands grasped your upper arms to steady you. As you looked up into the face of the brick wall, you were met with the snarling face of Lord Devlon. The universe had it out for you today. 

“Watch where you’re going,” Devlon growled.

You attempted an apology but he began yelling again. 

“It’s really not hard to not run into people. Maybe if you kept your head out of your ass this wouldn’t have happened.”

That was it. The dam broke on your emotions. A sob left your lips and tears ran down your face in deep rivers, no doubt ruining your makeup. Normally, you’d be embarrassed by crying uncontrollably in the middle of the street but you couldn’t help it. The tears and sobs just kept coming. 

Devlon’s face instantly softened at your sobs. He hadn’t meant to make you cry. The meetings had left him frustrated and he couldn’t stop from snapping at someone for running into him. 

He remembered looking at you across the conference room two hours earlier. Your face had constantly shifted between frustration and exhaustion. I mean the meetings would drive anyone insane. He was surprised you’d kept it together this long. 

“Hey,” he said as he softly took your chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting it gently so you could see his face. “I’m sorry. That was completely uncalled for.” 

He let out a heavy sigh and brushed a tear from your cheek. “Guess the meetings got to both of us. Huh?”

You let of a small laugh through your tears that sounded more like a strangled sob than anything else. Clearing your throat you said, “honestly, I probably would have bitten your head off too if I hadn’t started crying first.”

His hand trailed down your cheek before returning to his side. The movement brought you back to reality. 

“Fuck. I can’t go to this dinner. I’m a goddamn mess,” you said to yourself. 

Devlon shoved his hands in his pockets. “Is it important,” he asked with a cute tilt of his head.

You sighed. “I’m just meeting friends, but I feel bad not showing up. I don’t want them to worry.”

Devlon shrugged, his wings rippling with the movement. “Prioritizing your needs is more important. And, if they are good friends they will understand that.”

“Still,” you said guiltily. 

“How about this,” he said, “I walk you home and then swing by the place you were supposed to meet them and let them know you aren’t feeling well,” he offered.

You shook your head vigorously. “I couldn’t ask you to do that,” you said. 

He smiled. “But you aren’t asking. I’m offering. And it’s the least I could do after screaming at you and making you cry.”

Your eyebrows knitted together as you thought it over. A night in to catch up on sleep did sound mighty tempting, and necessary. 

“Ok,” you said. “Thank you.”

He turned toward the direction you’d been coming from and put out his elbow for you. Noticing your quizzical look at his arm he cheekily said, “to reduce the probability of another collision.”

You simply took his arm as you laughed at his antics. True to his word, Devlon walked you home, making you laugh the entire way. With a goodnight, he left with a promise to inform your friends of your whereabouts. 

Waking up the next morning was decidedly less painful than most days. You finally felt refreshed and ready for your duties. As you padded into your kitchen, a soft knock echoed through your house. Striding to the door, you threw it open revealing none other than Devlon. You smiled and leaned against the doorframe. 

He gave you a bright smile in return. “Breakfast,” he asked with a shrug of his shoulders. 

You nodded vigorously before grabbing a coat and accompanying him to a nearby cafe. Who could blame you, you’d both need the big breakfast to get you through the final meetings today, at least that’s the excuse you told yourself to spend more time with Devlon.