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Elriel Month 2025: Death & the Maiden

Elain wasn't quite sure how she felt about going to this party. The late afternoon light slanted through her bedroom window, spilling soft gold across the whitewashed floors, brushing the pale linen curtains like a sigh. Dust motes floated lazily in the stillness, and at her small, worn vanity, Elain leaned in close to the mirror, sweeping a brush along her cheekbone with slow, careful strokes.

Feyre, of course, had insisted she and Nesta come tonight, to meet her new boyfriend and his brothers. Like the last one, Feyre had met him in a whirl of laughter and stolen moments and claimed within a week that she had fallen in love.

"I didn't like her last boyfriend, and I'm certainly not going to like this one," Nesta huffed over Facetime, Elain’s phone perched precariously against a small jewelry stand. Her sister’s image blinked back at her, sharp and exasperated even through the screen.

"You have to at least give him a try," Elain said lightly, tapping a soft shimmer onto her eyelids.

Nesta only rolled her eyes, a slow, practiced move that Elain could picture perfectly. "This is so her. Feyre meets boy. Feyre falls in love within a week. Feyre insists this is the one."

"It's only the second time she's done this," Elain countered, smoothing a hand through her hair, which gleamed in the warm light. "And she's young. Remember what you were like at twenty-two?"

"I was in my first year of law school, Elain. I wasn't galavanting around Velaris trying to find a husband," Nesta snapped, her tone dry enough to parch the air.

Elain only sighed, the weight of old memories settling over her shoulders like a shawl. She hadn't been doing much at twenty-two either. Just dating Graysen, daydreaming about a future that, at the time, had seemed so clear. The neat, tidy path of a politician's wife.

Graysen's family had been entrenched in politics for generations, and he had been poised to follow, charming and polished in a way Elain had thought meant stability. Until, almost exactly a year ago, he had called off their engagement in a clipped, impersonal conversation, saying that Elain’s dreams didn’t "align with his vision" for their future. Which, as it turned out, meant he didn't want a wife who preferred tending flowers to attending endless fundraisers, who would rather spend a Friday night curled up with a book than shaking hands at a gala.

Nesta had hated Graysen from the beginning. A fact Elain only now, months later, recognized as the truth.

"What are you wearing?" Nesta barked, pulling Elain from the tangle of memory.

Elain blinked, dabbing a final touch of gold to the corners of her eyes. "Oh! Hmm. I was thinking maybe that cobalt blue dress, the one we got last time we went shopping. With the open back. I thought I could wear my hair half-up."

She twisted in her chair, gathering the thick curls into a loose, half-up style, golden-brown strands catching the light like silk.

"Love that one," Nesta said, smirking. "But surprised you aren't going with floral."

"You know, I do own things that aren't covered in flowers," Elain laughed, the sound soft and easy.

Nesta’s smirk only deepened. She wasn't wrong. Elain had always been drawn to floral prints, to delicate patterns of nature stitched into fabric. Maybe it was inevitable, considering her little flower shop tucked near The Rainbow, not far from where Feyre worked in the city.

She had opened it seven months ago, almost on a whim. A decision made one rainy afternoon after she passed the closed storefront she had loved visiting years ago.

A week after Graysen ended their engagement, she had stood in front of the dusty glass, her heart hollowed out and aching, and decided that if she was going to rebuild her life, she would fill it with beauty. She had never touched the modest inheritance from their father’s death until then. Nesta had helped her draft the paperwork. Feyre had spent an entire weekend painting the walls a soft, buttery cream.

And slowly—one seedling at a time—Elain had started living again. Dating, though... that was something else entirely. Something she hadn't been ready for. Still wasn’t sure she was.

Not that she hadn't noticed the occasional stranger. There was one in particular. A man she had seen walking past her shop sometimes. The first time, she had gasped aloud. He was tall, impossibly tall, with the kind of broad shoulders and coiled strength that made the air seem heavier in his wake. Golden-brown skin inked with black tattoos, dark hair that always looked slightly rumpled, like he had run a frustrated hand through it a dozen times.

Always dressed in black—black jeans, black T-shirt, black Ray-Bans. Always on the phone, his voice low and urgent as he strode past. He looked like someone you didn't mess with. Someone who carried storms in his pockets.

And he was nothing—nothing—like anyone she had ever dated, or even imagined for herself.

Still... One afternoon, just as she was flipping the sign on her door to Closed, he had walked by again. And for a moment, a heartbeat, he looked at her. Their eyes had caught, hazel meeting warm brown, and the world seemed to pause, as if even the city had held its breath.

And just like that, something shifted inside her, like a match struck in the dark.

She had been foolish enough to believe it meant something. Until he broke eye contact, lifted his phone back to his ear, and continued walking, straight into the tattoo shop a few blocks down.

Elain had laughed at herself then, embarrassed at her own daydreaming. It was probably all those silly romance novels Nesta insisted she read.

"Earth to Elain," Nesta's voice crackled through the phone.

Elain startled, blinking at her reflection. "Sorry, sorry. Just thinking about a flower order."

Nesta’s eyes narrowed, but thankfully, she let it go. "Yes, flowers often make one blush," she said dryly. "Listen, I have to go. I'll be at your place in thirty." The call ended, and the soft silence of her room returned. Elain exhaled slowly, gathering the loose tendrils of hair framing her face, pinning them with a delicate gold clip.

Her hair had always been darker than her sisters’, richer in hue, threaded with strands of warm gold when the sun caught it just right. Her face, rounder and softer than Nesta’s sharp elegance or Feyre’s delicate beauty, was scattered with faint freckles she no longer tried to hide. She had always been the quiet one. The sweet one. The one who stayed in the background, smiling, accommodating, never quite fitting the sharp edges of the world her sisters seemed to stride through so easily.

She looked in the mirror one more time, slipping on a pair of delicate heels, adjusting the fall of her cobalt dress. The soft gold light from the setting sun brushed across her skin, casting everything in a warm, forgiving glow. The doorbell rang precisely as she pinned the last curl in place, of course, Nesta, punctual as ever.

They were headed to one of the bars Feyre’s new boyfriend owned, a rooftop place called Lunaris. A name that sounded like a dream, or a spell. Elain had always thought the bar looked beautiful when she glimpsed photos online, but it also seemed like the kind of place for people much cooler than she was. The kind of place where the beautiful, untouchable people drank cocktails that looked like they belonged in a painting. Apparently, Feyre’s new boyfriend—Rhysand, was his name—was that kind of man. The sort who owned restaurants and buildings and seemed to know everyone. That was about all Elain knew. That, and he had two brothers, adopted, Feyre had mentioned, both of whom she had been hinting Elain and Nesta might fall for. One, Feyre had said, was quiet. Observant. Brooding in a corner, unnervingly good at shooting sports, and about as talkative as a stone wall. Dark and mysterious were the words she’d used, her eyes gleaming with mischief. The other was his opposite. Loud, funny, a fighter who taught boxing classes when he wasn’t bouncing between various adventures. Boisterous and playful, she’d said fondly. "So, how soon until Feyre insists we date the brothers?" Elain asked lightly as they approached the sleek interior elevator, the muffled sound of laughter and music drifting down from the rooftop above.

"Absolutely the fuck not," Nesta said flatly, pressing the button with a perfectly manicured finger. "I do not have time for dating. Feyre is just being ridiculous. Listen, I have CrossFit in the morning, so I’m leaving at 8PM sharp. Got it?"

Elain laughed under her breath. "Yes, yes. 8PM, not a second later. I’ll meet you at the entrance."

The elevator dinged, a soft chime that sounded almost too elegant for its purpose, and the doors slid open, spilling them into another world.

The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming flowers and something rich and expensive, perfume, wine, the slow, luxurious spin of twilight captured in scent. Golden light cascaded across the rooftop, the last breath of the sun kissing the velvet of the evening. Overhead, soft glow orbs floated like trapped stars, and fairy lights draped in long, swooping arcs above their heads. Standing lamps shaped like crescent moons lined the walkways, casting silver pools of light across the dark flooring.

In the center, a sprawling black marble bar gleamed, veins of silver running through it like frozen lightning. Beneath the marble, a faint glow shimmered, like swirling, stardust caught in glass. Deep blue velvet couches were tucked into corners, crescent-shaped booths offering intimacy, while little tables that looked like dark pools of glass scattered the floor like stepping stones across a midnight river.

But what caught Elain’s attention first were the flowers.

Moonflowers, white roses, night-blooming jasmine, tucked into elegant planters along the edges, spilling scent into the air, softening the sharp beauty of the space with something living, something gentle. She drifted toward them without thinking, the pull of it instinctual, her fingers itching to reach out and touch the velvety petals. A shriek of joy snapped her attention back.

"You made it!" Feyre cried, launching herself at them and pulling both sisters into fierce hugs.

Nesta allowed it, her face composed and imperious in a fitted black pencil dress and towering Louboutins, not a hair or speck of lint out of place. Feyre, on the other hand, was glowing. Wearing a slinky black dress with high slits that revealed strong, tanned legs, she looked happier than Elain had ever seen her. Bright, alive in a way that no amount of fine clothes or fancy spaces could fake.

"Feyre, darling, these must be your sisters," a smooth, velvet-lined voice said.

Elain turned—and froze. The man standing beside Feyre was... magnificent. Dark, perfectly tousled black hair, striking violet eyes framed by thick lashes, golden-brown skin dusted with ink at the edges of his rolled-up sleeves. He was impeccably dressed, every line and detail of him sharp and deliberate, but that wasn’t what made her stare.

It was the way he looked at Feyre. Like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing. Like she was the sun itself.

Nesta, composed even in the face of male beauty, stepped forward, extending her hand in greeting. "Nesta," she said crisply. "And this is Elain."

But instead of shaking Nesta's hand, Rhysand took it, bowing slightly to press a kiss to her knuckles. And then, turning to Elain, he did the same, his mouth brushing lightly against her skin, a gesture so old-fashioned and charming she couldn't help but laugh.

Nesta’s expression was priceless, caught somewhere between scandalized and furious.

"Well, I don't think anyone has ever silenced Nesta before. You have my utmost respect, Rhysand," Elain said with a soft smile, amusement dancing in her voice. Feyre beamed, radiant with happiness.

"Please, call me Rhys," he replied easily, flashing a grin of perfect, dazzling white teeth.

But Elain barely heard him. Because out of the corner of her eye, she saw them—two men approaching, cutting through the golden light like a vision pulled straight from a fever dream.

One was massive. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair in loose waves brushing his shoulders, tattoos winding down strong arms. His smile was easy, cocky, the kind that could disarm a room before he even spoke.

The other— Elain’s heart stumbled.

Golden-brown skin kissed by the sun, black hair just mussed enough to look careless, hazel eyes like a storm trapped in sunlight. Lean and powerful, with a quiet grace that made the space around him feel heavier, sharper, like the air had thickened just because he was standing there.

And those hands. Gods.

She hadn't noticed them before, scarred and weathered, the marks crawling up from his wrists, swirling into the intricate ink on his forearms, like the tattoos were trying to mask the damage, to weave beauty over pain. She wondered—unbidden, unwanted—what kind of fire had touched him. What kind of life had left scars like that. And why anyone would want to cover up something so real, so fiercely human.

"Perfect timing," Rhys was saying, grinning like he knew exactly what he was doing. "Elain, Nesta, I'd love for you to meet my brothers. Azriel and Cassian."

Brothers. Three of the most devastatingly handsome men she had ever seen, standing together like something conjured out of a too-wild dream. And one of them was him. The man who had passed her shop with shadows in his gaze and the weight of the world in his silence. The man she had caught herself thinking about far more than she cared to admit.

It was getting hot. Too hot. She really, really needed a drink.

"Well, Feyre wasn't lying when she said her sisters were beautiful," the larger one, Cassian, said with an easy smirk, arms crossing over his broad chest. Gods, he was massive. All three of them were built like warriors, but Cassian had a roughness to him, a raw strength that made him seem almost too large for the world around him. Azriel, by contrast, was all sleek edges and quiet lethality, power hidden beneath stillness.

"A compliment? How original," Nesta drawled, crossing her arms, her tone sharp enough to cut through marble.

Lord save them all.

Cassian’s grin only widened, and Feyre groaned softly, clearly anticipating the inevitable clash. Rhysand laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "Now, now," Rhys said smoothly. "Try not to bite his head off so quickly. He does have feelings somewhere behind all that muscle."

"Let me grab us some drinks," Elain cut in, smiling a little too brightly, trying to shatter the tension vibrating between Nesta and Cassian. And, if she was being honest, trying to avoid the way Azriel’s gaze seemed locked onto her, like she was a riddle he was trying to solve.

"Nesta, the usual?" she asked, already stepping back toward the bar. Nesta gave a short nod, her attention still pinned somewhere between irritation and fascination.

And then...

"I'll come with you," a deep voice rumbled behind her, steady and low, a voice like rich soil, like old stone warmed by sun, like something essential and ancient thrumming through the bones of the earth.

For a moment, the whole world seemed to still. Elain swore she could feel every beat of her heart, could hear the soft brush of the wind curling around the rooftop, the distant laughter blurring into nothing.

She forced herself to nod, praying he couldn't see the sudden flush heating her cheeks, and turned toward the bar, feeling him fall into step beside her, silent, sure, inevitable.

🗡️🖤🦇 Azriel stilled the moment he saw her. She was bathed by the soft glow of the sunset, the twinkling cafe lights, the soft breeze teasing at the long curls of her golden-brown hair. Her dress, cobalt blue, deep and rich like a sliver of twilight sky, hugged her waist before flaring at her hips, soft and effortless, as if she belonged in that perfect sliver between dream and waking.

The florist.

The woman he had seen outside her little shop, dress dusted with soil, hair pinned back with a single flower tucked behind her ear.

The next day he had walked that street deliberately, a ghost of hope curling in his chest.

The third day he had changed his entire goddamn route just to catch a glimpse of her, even if it meant making excuses to himself.

He knew he was being ridiculous. She was literally made of golden light, someone who grew and nurtured. He had a dark past and scarred hands and hated getting close to people. But here she was. Elain. The woman who had wrecked him with a single glance. And she was even more breathtaking up close. Her skin luminous in the fading light, her eyes catching every shard of it and reflecting it back like polished amber. Then her gaze dropped to his hands. He fought the instinct to shove his hands deeper into his pockets, to hide the old, twisting scars that even his tattoos couldn't quite erase. Fuck. She would probably immediately lose interest. Not that she would be interested in him.

No, this woman was too stunning to want him. Instead, her gaze softened. Not pity. Not revulsion. And when she turned to head toward the bar, when she announced she would get drinks with a bright, sweet smile that cracked something open inside him, Something reckless took over.

"I'll come with you," he heard himself say, his voice lower than he intended, roughened by the thousand things he didn't know how to say yet.

He saw her cheeks color, the way she tucked a stray curl behind her ear with nervous fingers. And gods, if that wasn't the final nail in the coffin. He was done for.

As they walked toward the bar, Azriel noticed again just how small she was next to him, even in heels, the top of her head barely brushed his shoulder. Without meaning to, he adjusted his stride, drawing just a little closer, protective instinct threading itself into every step.

At the bar, he caught her scent— Jasmine and honey and something softer, something hers—and it nearly undid him. He had faced down men with guns and knives doing Rhys bidding, had walked into fires both literal and metaphorical, and nothing—nothing—had ever made his pulse stutter the way her scent did. Standing there, all in black as usual, he felt like a shadow beside her, this luminous creature in his favorite shade of blue. Not that he would ever wear blue. No, black was safer. Black was armor.

Still, he couldn't stop himself from noticing how other men at the bar glanced her way, subtle but interested. A pang of something fierce, something territorial, flared low in his chest. Without thinking, he shifted closer, resting a hand lightly at the small of her back as they walked up to the bar. His hand barely sweeping the bare skin of her exposed back. Soft freckles dusted her shoulders, and he tried to memorize each one. Like a constellation guiding him home.

The moment his hand touched her— Soft, warm— Elain looked up at him and smiled. It was small, a flicker of something shy and brilliant, and Azriel snatched his hand back like he’d been burned, setting it firmly on the bar where it belonged.

He flexed his fingers once, feeling the ghost of her warmth lingering on his skin. Gods. He needed to get it together.

Elain leaned in slightly, conspiratorial, her voice low and amused. "How long before those two kill each other?" she said, tilting her head toward the seating area where Nesta and Cassian sat, rigidly, pointedly, as far apart as the space would allow. Feyre and Rhys lounged nearby, heads close, lost in their own orbit. Azriel glanced at the scene, biting back a smirk. Nesta and Cassian were already glaring at each other like it was a competitive sport.

But he barely registered them. Because Elain was close enough now that he could see the faint dusting of freckles across her nose, the way the fading light caught in the gold strands of her hair, the little nervous twist of her fingers around her clutch.

There were two empty chairs left. Or one... small sofa. Maybe, if he were lucky, if the gods were merciful and the universe didn’t hate him, Mor and Amren would show up and take the chairs, and Elain would sit next to him.

Gods. What was he, fifteen?

"It seems Cassian might have met his match," he said, voice low, amused. "If that's the case, then I'll say he'll gladly let her kill him, and enjoy every minute of it. I give them fifteen minutes before they start yelling. Thirty before they're making out."

Elain laughed, a soft, bright sound that Azriel felt like a goddamn punch straight to the ribs. He tucked that laugh away in some secret place inside him, already knowing he'd want to hear it again.

"I say six minutes before a fight," Elain replied, mischief glinting in her warm brown eyes.

Azriel couldn't help but grin. "Shall we put a wager on it?" he asked before he could stop himself, wondering what the hell was making him talk so much, wanting—needing—to keep her attention on him just a little longer.

"Oh, absolutely," Elain said with a wink that almost knocked him off his feet. "Let’s say... I win, you have to come to my shop and help me make a bouquet."

She knew. Acknowledging, finally, that they'd seen each other before, those lingering glances through the window not just figments of his tired mind.

Good. Because he sure as hell hadn't been brave enough to say anything first.

"And if I win..." he said, pausing, thinking harder than he had all night, "you get to pick my next tattoo."

Elain's face lit up, a slow, delighted grin spreading across her features. "Oh, well now I kind of hope you win," she said with a soft laugh. "I can imagine a lovely flower matching quite well with your current ink."

Azriel swallowed, hard. Her laugh—bright and airy, like wind chimes stirred by a spring breeze—wrapped around him, warm and golden. Gods, he would bottle that sound if he could. Carry it with him always.

He opened his mouth to say something else—to make her laugh again, if he could—but the bartender appeared, derailing his entire thought process. The bartender, who had the gall to let his gaze linger far too long on Elain. Azriel felt something sharp and territorial rise in him. He bit it down.

"I'll take a whiskey sour, and a French 75," Elain said, then turned to him, her voice dipping slightly in explanation. "Nesta only drinks French 75s or gin and tonics. And right now, I think she needs something to sweeten her mood."

Whiskey sour. His favorite drink. Of course it was.

Azriel smiled faintly and added, "I'll also have a whiskey sour. Can you do both of ours with the Pappy Van Winkle Rhys keeps in the back?" He kept his tone casual, even though he knew exactly what he was doing, pulling out the heavy artillery to impress her, to make her eyes light up the way they just had.

It worked.

Elain gasped softly. "Oh my gods, I definitely can't afford that!" she said, laughing.

Azriel leaned an elbow on the bar, turning slightly toward her.

"First, you're not paying for anything as long as I'm around," he said, letting his voice drop into something a little rougher, a little more serious. "Second, it's Rhys's reserve stash. And as his brother, I get to enjoy it whenever I want."

And he'd give her anything she wanted. Even if she asked him to carry her to that goddamn sofa and sit beside her all night rubbing her feet, he'd do it without a second thought.

"Hmm..." Elain mused, tilting her head slightly, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "Well, I've always wanted to try it..."

Azriel very nearly forgot how to breathe.

Would it be inappropriate to kiss someone he'd just met?

Probably.

He forced himself to look away. "So, how long have you owned the shop?" he asked, grasping for steady ground.

"Oh!" Elain said, her face brightening, "I opened it a few months ago. Do you work close by? You know... since we've seen each other before."

He felt the corner of his mouth lift. "Yeah," he said. "I own the tattoo shop down the block. Umbral Ink."

"Ah," she said, her eyes sparking with recognition, "the one that's all black on the outside."

Azriel chuckled lowly. "That's the one. I promise it's not all black inside. Well... some of it is. But a few of our artists do softer work too."

"And what about you?" she asked, leaning her elbows lightly on the bar, chin tilted toward him. "What’s your style?"

Azriel smiled a little, more to himself. "Fine line work," he said. "Mixed with movement. I sketch straight onto the skin, so the tattoo becomes part of the person, not just stuck on them. You know Feyre's new piece?"

She nodded.

"I did that one."

Elain's eyes widened. "You did that?" she breathed, wonder coloring her voice. "You're the tattoo artist she said was booked months in advance? My goodness, she didn’t stop talking about how lucky she was you opened up a spot for her."

Azriel fought the urge to duck his head. Instead, he just nodded once, quiet.

"It's really beautiful," Elain said, her voice softening. "I never imagined Feyre getting tattoos... but when I saw it, it just made sense. Like it had always been part of her."

He stilled. She had no idea what she had just said. No idea how closely that mirrored everything he believed about his work. How he poured meaning into every line, every curve, every shadow. Not just art, but stories written into skin. Memory. Identity. They were art. Paintings etched into the body. Stories, memories, meaning woven into flesh. It was one of the reasons he’d connected with Feyre so quickly when they met. Both artists, both understanding the quiet way creation could speak louder than any words. It was why he’d stayed late one night to do her arm tattoo, sketching directly onto her skin while Rhys sat nearby, offering ideas for the design.

Was it insane that Rhys had helped design a tattoo for a girl he had just met? Absolutely. But Rhys never did anything half-assed. When he found something, or someone, worth his time, he threw himself in completely. Azriel had seen it from the start. And honestly, if Rhysand proposed to Feyre tonight, it wouldn’t even surprise him. From the moment Rhys had met her, she had been all he could talk about.

Azriel was happy for him. He was. But somewhere deep inside, a sharp ache pulsed. A hollow space he'd long stopped acknowledging, the part of him that had convinced himself long ago that he wasn’t meant for that kind of love.

He didn't date seriously. He didn’t open up.

There had been a girl, once, Rhys cousin Mor, long ago, but she'd never been interested in men, and Azriel had taken that as a sign. That he was better off this way. Casual. Fleeting. Unattached. Safer. Because every time a woman had gotten too close, she'd wanted to fix him. Wanted to peel him open like some locked chest, to dig into the parts of him he'd fought so damn hard to bury. And Azriel... Azriel didn’t know how to survive being seen. So he had made it easy. Sex without strings. Touch without trust. Affection without attachment. Even now, at almost thirty-one, he kept to what he knew best. He barely opened up to his friends. The idea of letting someone else inside? It was laughable. Terrifying. The bartender brought over their drinks faster than Azriel would have liked, setting them down with a practiced clink of glass on marble. Azriel bit back a scowl. Couldn’t the guy see he was trying to spend more time standing here, breathing the same air as the fucking ray of sunshine beside him? But before he could think of something, anything, to keep her lingering longer, he heard it:

"Oh, and an illiterate baboon like yourself would know better!" Nesta’s voice, sharp and unmistakable, rang out from across the rooftop.

Elain leaned in without thinking, glancing at the watch strapped to his wrist, her hair brushing lightly against his arm. Azriel swore under his breath, nearly knocked off balance by the sheer sweetness of her scent.

She sighed, a mock-dramatic little puff of air that stirred the hair at his wrist. "Six minutes," she said, straightening with a victorious grin. "I'm afraid you owe me a bouquet."

She winked—winked—grabbed her drinks, and sauntered off, the soft sway of her dress hypnotic under the sunset light.

Azriel just stood there for a second, blinking, like some idiot teenager watching his first crush walk away. He barely managed to gather himself before she turned back, laughing under her breath.

"Come on," she called, voice low and musical, "we have to chaperone. Knowing Feyre, she’ll be trying to fuck Rhys in a bathroom by the time the sun sets. And trust me, you do not want to see Nesta drunk and pissed."

Azriel shook his head slowly, a reluctant, stunned smile tugging at his mouth.

Gods. He was already following her before he even realized he’d moved. 🌸🎀💕🌷

Elain hadn’t even had a single sip of her whiskey yet, but she was already feeling all kinds of giddy, like her blood had been infused with golden light, her nerves dancing just beneath the surface of her skin. She had spent, what, six minutes beside Azriel? Six minutes of soft-spoken words, quiet smirks, and the occasional brush of his arm against hers that had made her heart flutter wildly in her chest like a caged bird.

And gods, she swore he had blushed. Not deeply. But just enough for her to see a flicker of warmth creep up his neck, a subtle tightening at his jaw, the kind of reaction she never expected to inspire in a man like him.

Calm yourself, Elain.

He was Rhys’s brother. Off-limits. Probably. And definitely the kind of man who dated women with sleeves of tattoos and bold, angular beauty, women with names like Raven or Lux, who smoked clove cigarettes and could ride a motorcycle in heels.

Not someone like her. Not a flower shop owner with soft curls and freckled cheeks who wore pastels more often than leather and cried at commercials featuring lost dogs.

Still... When they returned to the seating area, and she saw the way the chairs were spaced—two separate armchairs for Nesta and Cassian, one sofa left vacant—she chose without thinking.

She sank into the velvet sofa, angled just enough away from Nesta that she could intervene if a flying French 75 glass became a threat, and before she could second guess herself, she looked up at Azriel and motioned for him to join her.

The sofa was a little too small for someone like him, broad across the chest, tall enough that his legs took up most of the space with just one stretch. But he sat down beside her anyway, quiet and composed, and gods—gods—he smelled like cedar and mist and something darker beneath it.

Elain had the sudden, irrational urge to lean in just a little closer. To bottle that scent like perfume and wear it behind her ears.

"Nesta, your French 75," she said, passing the delicate glass into her sister’s hand like it was a peace offering.

Nesta, stone-faced and unimpressed, threw it back like a shot.

"Thank you," she said, crisp and curt, though her tone lacked true bite.

Cassian chuckled as he stood, rolling his eyes like it was all a game he’d already won. "I'll get you another one."

Elain watched Nesta cross her arms in a slow, deliberate movement, the tension in her shoulders flaring. "Nesta, really," Elain said gently, keeping her tone even, measured. "Please try and be civil. I bet he isn’t that bad."

"He’s a brooding animal with no manners."

Across from them, Feyre laughed, lounging with her legs draped over Rhys’s lap, the two of them practically tangled together like vines grown too close to ever separate again.

"He has excellent manners, actually," Feyre said with a grin. "He just enjoys riling you up more."

Elain could already see it, Feyre and Rhys disappearing into some dark hallway before dessert. The way they looked at each other was electric, consuming. Honestly, it was only a matter of time.

Wanting, needing, to redirect the conversation before things devolved into another argument, Elain lifted her drink and turned slightly toward the table, her voice soft but clear.

"I love the choice of flowers," she said, hoping the shift in subject would help. "The night-blooming jasmine is a lovely touch," Elain said, her voice soft but steady as she looked toward the planter nearest the awning, where the pale blossoms opened in the dimming light, delicate and fragrant. She could feel Azriel shift slightly beside her, and she swore, just barely, his head tilted, as if noting her words.

"You might want to consider brugmansia," she added, glancing at Rhys with a polite smile. "They bloom at dusk and can be hung from above. Large, trumpet-shaped blooms that would drape over the awning and catch the breeze. They glow in the right light. Quietly dramatic."

Rhys's eyes lit up with interest, a spark she recognized as the look of a man who was always seeking to enhance his kingdom.

"You know, I didn't even consider that," he said thoughtfully. "Feyre did tell me you owned a flower shop. Perhaps you could help me add some to the space?"

Elain blinked, a little caught off guard by the directness of the offer. "Oh, well, I wouldn’t want to take over your vision..." she said carefully, brushing a loose curl behind her ear.

"Not at all, Elain," Rhys replied smoothly, his attention flicking toward Feyre, who was practically glowing beside him. "I would love for you to visit all of my places—bars, restaurants, lounges—and see how you could transform them with flowers."

He looked at Feyre then like she was the sun and stars wrapped into one being. Elain felt warmth rise in her chest, soft and strange, not quite envy, not quite longing....just... wonder.

Cassian reappeared a moment later, mercifully delivering another drink to Nesta, who, thank the gods, actually sipped it instead of tossing it back. The sharp edge in her posture began to ease, her shoulders lowering, her jaw unclenching just slightly.

From there, the conversation stayed lighter. Small stories, quick jabs, laughter around the circle. Even Nesta cracked a smile when Cassian made some joke about Feyre and Rhys getting a room.

And Elain, well Elain surprised herself by how much she enjoyed the whiskey. Warm and rich, with a bite that curled beneath her tongue but didn’t burn.

What surprised her more was when, as she finished her glass, Azriel quietly stood and returned a moment later, not just with a fresh whiskey sour, but also an iced water tucked beside it with a lemon wedge balanced on the rim. He didn’t say anything. Just set it down in front of her and resumed his place beside her on the couch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Elain’s heart fluttered like petals caught on the wind.

Azriel was so unlike his brothers. Cassian was all volume and charm and sharp wit, and Rhysand commanded every room he stepped into with a sort of effortless elegance.

But Azriel... Azriel was stillness. A quiet, anchoring presence that made her feel... seen, without ever demanding attention. He was a listener, like her. Content to sit in the silence between words. To observe, to consider, to understand before speaking.

Elain found herself relaxing more beside him than she had expected. her shoulders eased, her back resting gently against the velvet cushion. The alcohol settled in her limbs like warm sunlight, and she let herself smile into the conversation, humming softly in agreement here and there, watching the glowing lights overhead flicker like stars caught in motion.

And then— His arm moved.

Slowly. Casually. Like it was nothing at all. Azriel’s arm lifted and draped across the back of the sofa, not quite touching her, but there, just behind her shoulders, his fingers grazing the cushion by her shoulder blade.

Elain’s breath hitched. She didn’t dare look at him. Didn’t move an inch. But her skin buzzed with awareness, warmth rising to her cheeks in a way she could not begin to hide.

She looked across the space and caught Feyre watching her. Feyre grinned. And winked.

Elain quickly looked away, her blush deepening, flustered in that way she always was when someone caught her feeling something she didn’t know how to explain.

It wasn’t like he was touching her. It was probably just more comfortable that way for him. He was tall, after all, and the sofa was narrow. It didn’t mean anything.

Still... She could feel the warmth of him, even without contact. Could feel the nearness of him like it had weight. And for the first time in a very long while, Elain didn’t feel the urge to shrink or fade. She didn’t feel too soft or too delicate. She felt... present. 🗡️🖤🦇

Apparently, he’d grown a second set of balls tonight. That was the only explanation for the fact that not only had he put his arm behind Elain on the sofa, casually, like it wasn’t killing him to be that close, but when a loose curl blew into his hand, he’d twirled it around his fingers. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Thank the gods no one noticed.

Feyre and Rhys were half a breath away from fucking each other on the couch across the room, Nesta was finishing her third drink and starting to lose her sharp edges, and Cassian, six beers deep, was in that dangerous place where his charm turned into sincerity. So when Rhys finally pulled Feyre off the couch with a murmured “Let’s get out of here”, Azriel figured the distraction would buy him some reprieve.

No such luck. Because as soon as the elevator doors closed behind them, Nesta looked at her phone, tapped the screen, and announced with that unbothered authority of hers, “Elain, it’s 8:15. It’s time to go.”

“Nah, come on, Nesta, the night’s young,” Cassian said, his voice louder than necessary, already halfway into a pout. “You’ve been here for, what, two hours?”

And gods, he looked genuinely upset. Azriel didn’t know what it was with these Archeron sisters, but somehow the three of them had the power to make normally unshakable men like himself, Cassian, and Rhys act like fools. Entranced. Spellbound. Like they were each carrying some kind of ancient magic woven into their skin.

“I have CrossFit at 6AM,” Nesta said stiffly. “I never miss it. Elain, let’s go.” She rose from her chair, gathering the steel back around her like a cloak.

But then Elain said, quiet and certain, “I think I’ll stay a bit longer.”

Azriel blinked. Something hot and electric lit behind his ribs.

“Elain… are you sure?” Nesta asked, and her posture shifted, arms folding across her chest, protective, bracing. “I don’t want you walking home alone.”

“I’ll be fine, Ness. Really. You forget—I walk home from the shop all the time.”

Azriel watched the way her voice softened at the nickname, the way Nesta’s jaw tightened but didn’t argue. “A fact which you know I hate,” Nesta said, cool and lawyer-precise. “You should never walk alone at night.”

“I’ll walk her home,” Azriel said. He agreed, an angel of light shouldn't be out anywhere at night, even in a safe area like this. She was light and warmth and impossible softness, and the idea of her alone on a dark street made something in his chest go cold.

Nesta turned to him slowly, narrowing her eyes, sizing him up like she was trying to decide whether to trust him with her most precious thing. Apparently, he passed.

She gave one curt nod. “Fine. Elain, text me as soon as you're home.” And without another word, she spun on her heel and walked to the elevator.

Elain sighed beside him. “I promise she’s one of the kindest people you’ll ever meet. She’s just… wary. About trusting new people.”

Azriel nodded, following her gaze as Cassian stood and, without a word, trailed after Nesta. Longing was written all over him like ink.

“I’ll be right back,” Cassian muttered.

“Well, he’s a brave man, I’ll give him that,” Elain said with a little laugh.

And gods, he would have done anything to keep her laughing like that. The wind chose that exact moment to sweep across the rooftop, curling her hair around her neck, fluttering the hem of her dress. She shivered.

That was it. That was all it took.

“You’re cold,” Azriel said, quietly, certainly. Not a question. A fact.

He stood, gently nodding his head toward a more sheltered area of the rooftop. “Come on. I’ll keep you out of the wind.”

She didn’t hesitate. Just stood, trusting him, and followed. They walked side by side beneath strings of fairy lights that blurred gold and blue, passing laughing couples and clinking glasses, the hum of the rooftop wrapping around them like a low, melodic current. And yet, it all faded the moment they stepped into the alcove, a little sheltered corner half-hidden by tall planters and low glass walls, softened by the warmth of the lights and the faint perfume of flowers.

The city spread below them in a wash of color and movement, but here, in this tiny world carved out of steel and velvet, it was quiet. There were two chairs nestled close together, separated only by a low table, and Azriel sat without thinking, grateful for the narrow space that brought her close. Grateful for the excuse to stay near without question.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, at the way her lips parted ever so slightly, hear cheeks pink from her slight chill, and thought, this is dangerous. Because if she kept looking at him like that—like he was someone worth looking at, someone safe—he wasn’t going to make it out of this night unscathed.

“So,” she said, her voice light, head tilting to the side in that way he was already starting to memorize, already starting to expect, like some secret little ritual between them, “how does someone like you get into tattooing?”

Azriel leaned back, arms folding slowly across his chest. He could have shrugged. Could have given her the same clipped version he gave everyone else, the sanitized, surface-level summary. But something about her presence, the way she looked at him like he wasn’t a riddle to be solved but a story she actually wanted to hear… it made him want to tell the truth.

"I went to school for engineering," he said, voice low, steady. "I liked pulling things apart. Figuring out how they worked. It made sense, back then. But tattoos," he continued, glancing down at the ink coiled around his forearm, "were always part of my life. In my culture, as an Illyerian, you start getting them at sixteen. It’s a rite of passage. A reminder of who we are, where we came from. I started drawing, then apprenticing. And one day I realized... I felt more alive putting ink to skin than I ever did staring at blueprints."

A short, humorless laugh slipped past his lips, and he looked away. "So I quit. Opened my own shop."

Simple words. But the leap he’d taken, the fear, the free-fall of choosing something unknown, something uncertain, still lived somewhere deep inside him. When he looked back at her, her smile had softened, her eyes shimmering under the rooftop lights, warm and bright like candleflame.

"That’s brave," she said quietly, her voice almost breathless. "Choosing yourself like that."

And for a moment, the entire world collapsed into the space between them. Her gaze touched something in him that felt almost too tender to bear....like she wasn’t just looking at him, but into him. Past the ink and the shadows. Past the control. She saw him. It scared the shit out of him.

"How about you?" he asked, desperate to pull some of the attention away, to breathe.

"I opened my shop end of last year," she said, fingers curling slightly around her drink. "I've always loved to garden. But, like you, I went to school for something totally different—music. Classical performance. I play piano."

Piano. Of course she did.

"But my fiancé....ex-fiancé....at the time said it wasn't practical, so I switched to communications. Whatever that means," she added with a self-deprecating laugh. A laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Not that it really matters, he ended the engagement anyway. Guess I wasn't exactly the right fit for forever."

Azriel stared at her, the woman who somehow lit up the entire space around her without even trying. Everything about her shimmered quietly: the curve of her mouth when she smiled, the warmth in her eyes, the way her laugh carried the weight of summer and made the air feel golden. Her eyes caught the rooftop light like late afternoon sun falling across wildflower fields... soft and wild and full of color.

He didn’t understand how someone could look at Elain and see anything other than extraordinary. The very idea....the fact that someone had once made her doubt her own worth, had told her that her dream wasn’t real, wasn’t worthy, that she wasn’t worthy... it was so absurd it bordered on obscene. It was offensive. Infuriating. And it made him want to punch something. No, someone.

Whoever that man was, whoever had taken her hand, made her believe in a future, and then walked away because she didn’t fit into his neat, controlled version of the world, he could get hit by a bus and Azriel wouldn’t feel an ounce of remorse. Because Elain wasn’t made to be trimmed down to someone else’s standards. She wasn’t meant to be made small, to be denied. She was born to grow things, to create beauty, to take what was empty and fill it with life. And the thought that someone had looked at her and chosen to walk away… It twisted something in his gut, something old and wounded and entirely too raw.

All he could see now was her at a piano. Bathed in soft light, her fingers delicate but certain as they moved across the keys. He could see the way her brow would furrow just slightly in concentration, how her body would move with the music, like the melody lived inside her bones. He imagined her completely lost to it, eyes closed, letting sound become her language, her offering. And he imagined himself in the shadows, sitting in the farthest corner of the room, saying nothing at all, just listening. Reverent. Still. Watching her do what she was born to do. Witnessing it like it was something sacred. And gods...he would do it forever if she let him.

"He’s an idiot."

Elain blinked, startled. Her eyes found his, wide and uncertain.

Azriel didn’t look away. "Anyone who could leave you doesn’t deserve the air you breathe."

It came out sharp. Too sharp. But he meant it. Meant every syllable, every breath behind it. She stared at him, like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with the space that had cracked open between them. Azriel sat back slowly, dragging in a breath that felt like it scraped through his lungs.

He didn’t want to scare her. Didn’t want to ruin this. So he softened his voice.

"Their loss," he said quietly. "Trust me." 🌸🎀💕🌷

Their conversation continued, but Elain couldn’t stop replaying the words he’d said—“Anyone who could leave you doesn’t deserve the air you breathe.” He hadn’t said it like a compliment, hadn’t said it to impress her. He said it like a fact, unshakable and true, something carved in stone and offered to her like a gift she hadn’t known she needed. The way his voice had dipped, steady and rough, like he meant every syllable, it was terrifying, the way a single sentence could unwind so much of her.

Because for so long, she had believed it was her fault. That Graysen left because she was too soft, too quiet, too full of delicate dreams and impractical hopes. That she wasn’t clever enough, or sharp enough, or glamorous enough to be someone a man like him would proudly stand beside. She had blamed herself, the way she always did. Just like she had blamed herself when their parents died, carrying a guilt that therapy and time had never fully soothed—if only I had done more. If only I had noticed sooner. If only I had been enough.

That shame had become a second skin, quiet and invisible, but always there. So when Graysen walked away, she had told herself it made sense. That it was simply the universe confirming what she’d already feared, that heartache was what she was made for.

But Azriel... Azriel had looked at her with those steady, unreadable eyes, and somehow, his gaze had felt like anything but judgment. His eyes dragged over her not like he was undressing her, but like he was trying to memorize her. Every glance had been soft and careful, reverent in a way that left her unmoored.

She wasn’t sure, entirely, if she was still living in the real world. Hours had passed—maybe two, maybe three—and she hadn’t noticed. The noise and motion of the rooftop bar faded into blur, the rest of the world lost somewhere far outside the bubble of their little corner. Time had thinned around them, stretched until it barely seemed to exist at all. There was only him. Only her. Only this space between them that felt like it could go on forever.

It wasn’t until her phone vibrated violently on the table, followed by the shrill, familiar sound of Nesta’s name flashing across the screen, that she remembered anything else. She blinked, startled back into the present, and murmured a soft apology to Azriel as she reached for the phone. “Where are you?!” came Nesta’s sharp voice the moment she picked up. “You should have been home hours ago. I’ve been up worried sick. I’ve texted you dozens of times.”

Elain winced, glancing at the screen. And sure enough, a flurry of missed texts and calls waited for her.

“I’m fine, I promise. I’m still at the bar. With Azriel,” she said, glancing up at him as she spoke his name for the first time aloud. It tasted warm on her tongue, like something she should have said long ago.

A beat of silence. Then: “The bar? At 12:30AM? With him?! Elain, what on earth is happening? Please don’t tell me you’re falling for the brother. Absolutely not happening. Go home. Now.”

Elain flushed, cheeks burning. “I know. I know I never stay out late....I’ll be home soon, I promise.”

“If you are not home by one, I’m coming to get you. Send me your location right now. Do not go home with him. Do not sleep with him.” And then Nesta hung up.

Elain slowly lowered the phone, her face hot with embarrassment. She could feel the weight of Azriel’s gaze.

“Is everything okay?” he asked gently, concern flickering across his features.

“It’s fine. Nesta got worried. I didn’t hear my phone... I normally go to bed early,” she said, smoothing the fabric of her dress, trying to compose herself, even as she felt the sharp sting of reality prick at the fragile magic of the night. “I’m a bit of... well, a bit of a homebody.”

There. She said it. And now he knew. Now he knew she wasn’t glamorous, wasn’t wild or untamed. Just a girl who loved flowers and quiet nights and books in bed. Just a girl he would never want.

But then he smiled. And said, simply: “I’m the same, actually.”

She blinked, startled. “Wait....no. I don’t believe you. You seem like the kind of guy who’s out all night.”

Azriel let out a soft, almost sheepish laugh. “I do love staying up late. But mostly because I can’t sleep. Or I’m up reading.”

Elain stared at him. And she swore—swore—a faint blush crept up his cheekbones, barely there in the low light. “Well,” she said, slowly rising from her seat, smoothing her skirt as she stood, “it appears the two of us are out past our bedtime.”

And for a fleeting moment, just before he stood too, she caught a flicker in his expression, like sadness. A quiet flicker of something raw and reluctant, as if he too didn’t want the night to end.

He didn’t say it. He didn’t need to. He stood, and followed her out. The air had cooled, brushing softly against her bare arms, the breeze gentle and clean. But Elain barely felt it. Her skin still hummed from where his words had landed, from the way he’d looked at her. From the simple, impossible truth of how much she didn’t want this night to end either.

------

Azriel walked beside her, a quiet, steady presence at her side. Not too close to crowd her, but close enough that if she tilted her hand even slightly, she might brush his knuckles with her own. The city glowed around them, blurred gold and blue, the buzz of distant music, the occasional hiss of a car passing by. But somehow it all felt muted, background noise to the quiet hum growing between them.

He didn’t say much. Neither did she.

But it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It was the kind that settled into your bones, warm and grounding, like a secret only the two of them knew. Every once in a while, she'd glance up at him, at the way the streetlights caught the sharp lines of his jaw, the dark fall of his hair, the steady focus in his eyes like he was memorizing every street they passed.

She should have felt nervous. Walking alone at night with a man she barely knew. But with Azriel, it wasn't fear she felt. It was...safe. Safe and steady, like the world could tilt off its axis and he would simply shift his stance and keep walking. They reached her building too soon.

Elain paused at the bottom of the steps, suddenly reluctant to break whatever fragile, golden thread had spun between them.

Azriel shifted, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, as if he was trying to keep them to himself. The soft lamplight caught the silver thread stitched into his black shirt, like little constellations hidden in the dark.

She opened her mouth, words balancing on the tip of her tongue.

You could come up for a minute. Would you like some tea? I don't want this night to end yet.

But the words tangled somewhere between her ribs and her throat. Azriel watched her with that steady, unreadable gaze. He shifted, just slightly, closer. He looked at her mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough to make the breath catch in her chest.

And then, slowly, carefully, Azriel lifted one hand from his pocket. Not to touch her. Just to trail his fingers lightly over the cold iron railing beside her, a ghost of a movement.

"Goodnight, Elain," he said, voice rough and quiet and meant only for her.

Something about the way he said her name made her shiver.

She nodded, the words still caught in her throat, and climbed the steps, feeling his gaze on her back the whole way. When she reached the door, she looked over her shoulder. But he was already gone.

Still, the night seemed to hum with his absence, like a chord struck and left vibrating in the dark.

@elriel-month

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