Vault of Insanity

It was the first time Azriel tasted faerie wine. In Illyria, he had indulged in many vices; fucking and fighting among the common ones, but never drinking. There was something about Illyrian mead that made his senses thrum with life. Whenever the three had gathered in front of the fireplace, neither Cass nor Rhys minded that his mother slept upstairs. But Azriel did.

Besides, he had never been wholly certain that no one would walk through the door. If it came to it, he didn’t wish to be rendered powerless while surrounded by enemies. The disorientation, the blurred visions, the darkness a slow enticing possession leaving one vulnerable to the slightest threat—Azriel had known it well to orchestrate it on his own again.

Rhys had pretended to understand without words, but Cass had accused him of cowardice. ‘You’re not a true Illyrian until you take this.’

And Azriel was glad for it.

When the High Lord brought him to Velaris, it was easier to resist. On his first day, he remembered it vividly: the sternness in those dark blue eyes, the dare to defy that almost stirred the rebelliousness in him. Right before he was dismissed came the last instruction: No females. No friends. No liquor.

Hard not to obey when he was prohibited from leaving the House of Wind without explicit orders or permission. And he was rarely granted either.

Over time, it became easier—to be alone again. To live by the rules, for they weren’t far from the life he would prefer either.

Azriel never left the House unless demanded otherwise.

He never spoke to anyone. He never wrote to anyone. Unless the High Lord asked of him.

He never took females. There was neither Rhys nor Cass to look him strange when he refused.

He stayed in the chamber until it was expected of him to accompany the High Lord.

His chamber. To his surprise, he was given a private one, one that shared a wall with the High Lord’s. Which he didn’t care for, but apart from the massive bed with silk sheets, it reminded him of his old cell. Rough walls, dark floors, and cold, cold damp air. It was finally the lone window spanning the height of a wall looking on the city below that freed him from those memories.

His first morning here, he remembered waking up and scrambling across the floor to a corner as soon as the first ray of sun hit him in the face. The brilliance of it had startled him out of his slumber. He had years to accommodate to it, however, he had always been on the ground. Slinking under the cover of trees, he had avoided daylight as much as he could. He had nowhere to hide here, not atop a mountain. It was as inevitable as breathing.

Later that day, the High Lord was waiting for him in the training ground carved out on the side of the mountain—a flat expanse of ledge under the plain blue sky where even the clouds refused shelter—as though he had anticipated his aversions and was determined to beat it out of Azriel right away.

The High Lord designed the training himself. It made perfect sense. He couldn’t let another come between him and his spy. Who better to nurture their trust if not himself?

He soared as high as his wings would take him under the High Lord’s observing eyes.

He trained in the quiet, empty ground alone regardless of the High Lord’s demands.

He learnt to wield the shadows as well as his body itself.

He memorised the names and lineage of families of every court. Their powers, their scandals, their skeletons.

He charted their world with its territories and factions, with its dead routes from memory as tests.

Azriel wouldn’t describe these as hard. They were far kinder than the brutal, strenuous day-long drills he was used to, and these rarely left him exhausted by nightfall. It was the unpredictability that bothered him. Summons arrived at any time of the day, and sometimes, more than once. At dawn-break, in the noons, evenings, and even the middle of the night.

The most difficult one was what none would suspect. Learning to write.

‘I have no use for a spy who can’t read or write,’ said the High Lord, thrusting parchments into his hands. His voice was sharp and definitive, but not. . .unkind.

Azriel had mastered the letters while in Windhaven, and he was only spared the pain of writing, but he refrained from correcting the High Lord.

Every sign of his discomfort was observed with silent disregard. The stiff, scarred skin broke in places and bled into the pages, and he was not relieved from scribing until his scrawls were deemed legible by the High Lord. Who knew holding a quill was crueller than handling a sword?

Azriel had his doubts, but he knew better than to voice them, no matter how strange the orders were. Like standing in the desolate woods outside Hewn City dressed in the simple Valerian garments that were neither thick nor durable as his leathers against this cold. The High Lord was there, too, cloaked and coddled under layers of fleece trimmed with fur. Though they lacked the elegance of glimmering threads of Rhys’s coats and tunics, the stark, polished garbs were staunchly regal against the grey mountains behind him.

Azriel’s test was to survive the night. Supplies were scattered in these woods, he was told, in plain sight.

‘Find them, and they are yours.’

A harmless drill given scavenging was a norm in the Illyrian grooming.

Then the High Lord added, ‘No flights. Winnow, if you must.’

Azriel couldn’t winnow, he reminded, voice quiet and low. Always quiet and low. He knew of the High Lord’s misting powers, had seen him vaporise a prisoner once. It was then he decided never to disobey his will, for his own sake. At least, not in front of him.

‘Of course,’ said the High Lord with a smirk so familiar that Azriel almost smiled along.

He began his trek through the forest in soft-soled shoes that were better suited for the levelled, cobbled pavements of Velaris. They lasted only a few leagues, the cold seeping in so biting that he might have believed he was barefoot. The trees grew dense around him, their barks as grey as the mountain beyond, and their bald branches reaching as far as the sky.

Azriel didn’t come across any creature, nor did he hear any. Very little cover for them to lurk and hide, but they wouldn’t need much either, he guessed, the winter would slow their prey down. Besides, the worst of the predators would be in hibernation. That should’ve granted him a sense of safety, but he felt nothing.

The sun was a hazy smidge in the sky. He wasn’t sure how far he had walked, or for how long. Every breath of air burned his lungs. Winds howled and shrieked, warring against the silence that smothered the woods. The swirling flurries of snow reminded him of the Illyrian mountains, but these terrains were far more forgiving than those.

His shadows faded with every shiver of his body. Their whispering quietened as time went by, and Azriel felt truly alone. When he wrapped his arms around his torso and tucked his hands under his armpits, he found no comfort as they had gone numb a while ago, as did his face and his feet. Wings sheathed against him offered protection from sudden gusts and kept his legs steady. However, snow piled along them, turning them into dead weight on his shoulders, and he was too weary to care about brushing them clean.

The paths looked similar, the trees looked similar. Azriel should’ve marked his way. His first mistake, he realised. Though the High Lord wasn’t behind him anymore, he wouldn’t be happy if he found out.

A chill went down his spine, worse than what he endured, as though this cold had depths he could never fathom, something real, something alive.

Azriel dared to look around and found nothing. But it was there. In the air. A dark presence.

It crept up his skin like heat from growing fires in a fireplace, the way warmth filled the space and consumed everyone in it. It cared for no permission; it just swelled and swelled until it was all one felt.

Breathing became unbearable, like forcing icy waters down his lungs. His heart was frozen, heavy, yet it kept pounding and pounding like a fist, jolting an ache through his bones with every beat. His wings flared open, the muscles on his back screaming in protest. His body wanted to leave, to get out of reach of whatever was watching him.

No flights, the command rang in his mind, snuffing out his every instinct.

Azriel didn’t have a weapon on him. It was part of his quest. The trail still fresh behind him, he stood in the middle of the woods, unarmed, his body shrivelling, shrinking, making itself small and invisible. He took one step, and another, and another. He kept his pace so as not to alarm the beast.

The presence was unlike anything he had felt before—dark, wicked, oppressive. It flowed through his blood, thick and corrupting. So potent, it could will his breath to cease; his body trembling under its power. It didn’t need to hunt; everything in existence was its prey by design. The High Lord had him memorise every creature known to be born in this world, and Azriel couldn’t name one that evoked such suffering without showing its face.

It closed in on him.

His foot lifted off the ground, and his legs turned to stone. Azriel fell, his face buried in the snow, yet the cold that burrowed into his bones belonged to the predator. He needed to leave, if he wanted to live.

Death had never frightened him before. He had welcomed it, dreamt of it one too many times in his early life. As he lay in the never-ending frigid forest, he perhaps understood what was so daunting about it.

It wasn’t pain. It was the everlasting loneliness, in death and afterwards. As breaths withered and body froze, no one to witness the passing.

For a moment, Azriel entertained the thought—of giving in. To let the creature drag him to his demise.

Instead, he kept going.

He put an arm in front of the other and pulled himself forward. Leadened and brittle, his wings trembled. Every gust of wind threatened to rip them off him. He would survive this winter, even the predator that toyed with him, but if the High Lord saw him like this, weak and crumbling, that would be his real death.

When he was recruited, the High Lord had conveniently said nothing of the services he required or when or the consequences if Azriel failed. He remembered his father’s smile, full pride of owning something even a High Lord coveted. Azriel had never seen one before, a smile on that gritty face. It always seemed to be twisted in contempt or anger whenever his gaze happened to fall on him. Never in his life had his father touched him either, and he did that day. A heavy pat on the shoulder, ignorant of his stiff wing trapped under his palm. Azriel had refused to show the pain on his face.

And the High Lord’s only words, A bastard. Will do.

Seven years later, he came to collect his dues. And seven months later, Azriel was dying in the wilderness, proving what a terrible investment he was, proving why his father was eager to get rid of him.

A laughter rumbled through the woods, through the very ground.

Azriel froze.

It was part ethereal, part animalistic. He looked up and saw no one, and he hadn’t the strength to turn around.

He heard it again, the laughter, more than one this time. Young, raucous. Of the boys who found him struggling to fly.

‘He’s weak, Cass,’ said the new boy. More disinterest than cruelty on his face.

Weak was not one to be as an Illyrian; Azriel had learnt it the first day in the camps. And he wasn’t to be anything more than weak as a bastard; he had learnt that as a boy. The irony of his existence.

‘He’s got no one to watch his back,’ said the boy he had met the day before. ‘Just like us.’ There was almost a glee in his eyes as he said it.

The boy turned to Azriel, extending an arm. ‘Last chance.’

An invitation to accept their charity after Cass had pummelled into him and left him at the edge of a cliff. Azriel had lain there until sunrise, unable to drag himself up.

He had learnt that, too—to never fight back, never rise up, never make a sound at times like these. Or it never stopped. So he waited all night for the boy to jump out of the darkness and have another run at him. But he found himself alone, with his shadows. They knew it, too, when to withdraw.

Like now. They couldn’t provoke his tormentor. Their mere existence was a challenge.

The presence was upon him, weighing him down as though it sensed his mind wander and this was a disrespect it couldn’t tolerate.

Azriel gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering. His insides caved in on themselves. A pain behind his eyes so blinding that everything flashed white. A darkness began to surround him, and he dragged himself faster. He couldn’t stall this any longer. He had lost sense of his legs. His wings were useless.

He tried; he truly did.

His eyes seemed to deceive him, his mind reassured him that he wasn’t in danger, yet the invisible claws around his heart suggested otherwise.

He knew the moment was close. He was going to die.

If not by the faceless predator, by this feeling that consumed him. All he knew was that he had to run. As fast and far as possible.

The siphons on the back of his hands flickered. Blue crackled through dark swirls like lightning across a night sky.

Breath breaking and shuddering, he lifted onto his arms only to collapse again. He hit a rock hidden underneath the layers of snow. The familiarity of metallic sweetness pierced through his dying senses. Azriel hissed at the warmth, chuckling as blood dripped down his face and bright spatters stained the white below.

The presence retreated for a moment, and when it returned, it knocked the breath out of him. He felt it stomping towards him more than he heard it.

Something within him came alive, and Azriel pushed himself up, hauling his legs and wings along.

Fear. The fuel that coursed through his veins, giving him the strength to attempt once more, was fear.

His knees scraped, tripping over the very rock that had painted his vision red. A throbbing spread through his legs, the pain finally cutting through the numbness. Behind him was the trail now smeared with his blood, a proof of his existence to anyone who came after him. He was here. Lost, abandoned, and hunted.

Azriel longed to turn around, look the creature in the eye once. Yet, his body refused to obey.

Run. Run. Run.

As the presence moved right above him, with no shadow, with no physical form, his siphons blazed.

His vision warped with its shine. Darkness swirled around him, fast and frenzied, and his body became weightless. The ground beneath him ceased to exist, and the winter was nothing more than a fading caress. The sky disappeared, the woods disappeared, and so did the presence.

The world spun around him, and his head with it. Nausea churned in his gut. A breath later, he collapsed on something solid.

Azriel blinked at the glow pulsing within his siphons. The world had stilled around him. The snow, the woods, the glooming sky, all still there.

Snow crunched as footsteps approached him. Real footsteps.

His face entered his vision first as the High Lord crouched beside him. For a long minute, he watched Azriel lying on the floor, gasping and bleeding like a dying mutt. A crack resounded through the air and a dark lump appeared in his grasp. With a faint smile, the High Lord dangled it in front of him like he was baiting one of his blind beasts.

Azriel got to his feet, reaching and stumbling, sheathing himself with the cloak. Made of the softest velvet he had ever felt, it carried a warmth beyond his bruised body could bear. Yet, he swallowed his complaints.

As the High Lord joined him, he sensed it again. The dark presence. Not as severe as before, but lingering enough for him to piece it together.

‘Again,’ said the High Lord.

And Azriel spent the night replicating his feat over and over, scouring for the treasures hidden through the woods, and the High Lord never moved from his place again.

Then on, the training truly began.

Day after day, Azriel did everything he was commanded without question. The one lesson behind it all was to survive—long enough to return to the High Lord.

‘You can withstand torture,’ he said, staring at his scars pointedly. He meant his words, and he didn’t hesitate like the others. ‘I don’t doubt your ability to fight till the very end. You won’t break, but allegiance can. So, who do you belong to, boy?’

The answer he expected was Rhysand. His son, who saved him from the camps and protected him through the years. His son he feared might one day usurp him. He wanted to hear it so he could break Azriel again.

‘High Lord of Night.’

Silence stretched between them. The crown atop his head glinted as the High Lord stepped forward, so close Azriel felt his breath on his face. ‘High Lords come and go,’ he said, far too calm and collected to be a threat or anger.

‘My High Lord.’ Azriel levelled his gaze, his breath steady. Nothing to give him away. ‘You.’

It was always High Lord, never his name. Azriel didn’t dare even think it, for he was convinced the misstep was treacherous in his thoughts as well.

It took a year to mould Azriel into who he was to be. There were new tests and newer trainings, and every time he met the standards, they rose and rose. He never knew anyone other than his High Lord. He never knew a world outside his High Lord. When Rhys returned with his mother and Cass, he hardly recognised them. They wore familiar faces, but the people beneath were strangers again.

Rhys cornered him outside the library one night, seething. ‘What did he do to you?’

Azriel didn’t answer. He didn’t have one. When he retreated quietly to his chamber, he heard woods shattering, fabric ripping, a storm brewing beyond his walls.

I don’t need you tonight, had said the High Lord to his request to accompany him, to protect him, leaving him alone in a house full of people who expected him to be someone long forgotten.

A scream, raw and thundering, echoed in the night.

Soon, it all came to an end. The ambush was unexpected. Azriel was not privy to the details of the retaliation, the father-son pair had decided it was theirs and theirs alone.

‘It’s a private affair,’ said the High Lord, dismissing Cass and him. There was no rebuttal from Rhys this time.

The wait was short, too. Rhys arrived, drenched in blood and gore.

With a corpse.

Azriel spared one long look at the lone gash that sliced across his face and torso, almost tore him into halves, and the insides on display.

Rhys said nothing, but he turned to him.

Azriel nodded. ‘High Lord.’

Documenting, filing, and cataloguing—the simplest of tasks for a seasoned Spymaster—should have taken no more than a few hours at best. And yet, Azriel glared at the stacks of paperwork sitting on his desk. As soon as he arrived home, he had set out to clear them, in hopes of sneaking out before Cass pestered him about his disappearances, not that his affair was a secret. Half a day later, there he was, still in his gloomy chamber with nerves on edge. 

A usual round of surveillance had turned into a hunt for outliers hiding along the southern woods of Hewn City, stealing weeks from him. They needed to be interrogated and prosecuted before being sent back home, or to prison. Either way, they would never leave the mountain again. But that was the least of his worries. 

Azriel hadn’t promised Ayla an early return, but he hadn’t left her with much word, either. A part of him wondered if she waited for him day and night—lay sleepless in bed, listened for his footsteps on her stairs, or rushed home praying to find him at her door. 

Once, he returned from a similar mission earlier than expected and he let the shadows follow her, study her routine to learn how she filled her days without him while he caught up on one of Nesta’s books. That night, Azriel decided he was twisted.

Sometime after noon, as one roll of parchment kept replacing another, he accepted his fate. He had half a mind to fling them into Sidra and run to the smithy to surprise Ayla. How childish of him to entertain such hopes to see her face break into a mosaic of emotions at the sight of him. 

Ayla wouldn’t run into his arms like in a bard’s song, Azriel knew. She wasn’t a female of such calibre.

She embraced every fleeting moment with a nonchalance that bordered on lethargy. And it seeped into the way she loved him as well, simply—with her unrestrained compliments, intentional touches, and careless ease around him. A smile always reserved just for him. Her hands always found his hair or cheek when they lay in bed together; sometimes, they ventured as far as his scarred ones, brought them to her lips that delivered the faintest of kisses before she drifted to sleep. And her words were nothing but genuine and certain. 

Azriel could see it vividly, the “surprise” on her face, if he materialised before her. She would look at him with sincere eyes, bright as the morning sun, and the corners of her lips would curl into a smile. So, how long do I get to keep you this time? she would tease. 

Maybe, he thought, this was enough. Knowing she missed him dearly enough to taunt his departure every time. And she made up for it when he returned, when she kissed him every time, when she held him to her breast every time, and when she looked him in the eye while he was buried inside her every time. 

A shade fell over the room. His eyes strained to find the lines and curves he marked in black. Sweat trickled from behind his ears. Air seemed to have stilled, weighed down by a sudden coolness. Gone was the unforgiving sun. With a roar of thunder that shook every stone in the walls, rain poured down. 

Ayla.

Azriel gathered the papers away in no particular order and left for the one place he knew her to be. 

As he stood in front of the blue doors, he felt a fool. The rain beat down on his leathers, ridiculing him, and the ground beneath him rumbled like a mocking laugh. Sidra sang her contentment, raging and roaring along with the winds. Heat from the forge blew out the grilled window in waves before it succumbed to the cold. Ayla had been here not long ago. 

What did he come here for? To protect her from a bit of weather?

Before he could convince himself, he started up the path to her home. The lonely road stretched from the junction where the four market squares met to the outskirts of Velaris. I like to work in the quiet, Ayla had said once. Imagine the temptation as the males “teach” you while you hold molten iron in your hands. And the city is full of that pompous kind.

Azriel hurried, short of sprinting, to catch her before she was soaked like a street rat, cold and miserable. He looked down at himself and let out a chuckle. The things she made him worry about.

The way Ayla usually moved, she should be home by then, safe. But when his feet skidded along the wet roads, Azriel wasn’t sure anymore. The streets were bare except for a few still searching for shelter from nature’s wrath. Save for the stark silhouette of buildings and blobs of life that swished and slashed through, nothing could be seen past the wavering white veil. 

A few paces ahead, a lone figure edged along the walls, braving the storm—an arm looped overhead, the other pressed tight around the torso, shoulders hunched forward, and face turned away. Ayla looked worse than a drenched rat. Her clothes clung to her, too light to shield her from the prick of rain. The satchel across her body sagged and sagged, the seams threatening to burst at the bottom, pulling her down with it. 

Azriel cursed himself. He closed the distance between them in long strides and spread a wing over her. It didn’t offer much protection, but it allowed her to squint up at the sudden cover and face him with a knowing smile. The space between her brows creased, her eyes crinkled at the corners. Drops of water tugged at her lashes for mere seconds before making their descent down her cheeks. Her braid turned into a tangled mess, tendrils stuck to anything in their path—her skin, her shirt—like claws curling into a prey. 

‘Let me take you home,’ he said.

Ayla nodded without hesitation, without a thought. Azriel smiled. He preferred flying above the clouds, but when she wouldn’t stop shaking in his arms, he decided against it.

Between her two broken breaths, shadows wrapped around them, plucked them off the ground, and dropped them on the landing in front of her door. Ayla gasped, clutching his arms, as her feet steadied under her. Though Azriel held onto her, she let go. Arms straining under the weight, she pried the satchel off her body. It hit the floor with heavy, contesting clanks, likely from leftovers of her day’s work, which she refused to leave behind unfinished even in her hurry.

‘When did you return?’ she asked, unlacing her muddied boots. The leather fought worse than her bag.

‘This morning.’ 

Azriel followed her cue and got rid of his own filthy one. As he did the same to the other, Ayla unbuttoned her pants. His eyes widened. She chuckled, her lips trembling from the cold. ‘Remove yours too. I’d rather not clean in this weather.’

Despite himself, Azriel grinned, his mind swirling with fantasies he kept reined. He looked over his shoulder; the staircase was dark, and the bar below was ghostly quiet. He didn’t care to be spotted naked. But Ayla? She was only for his eyes. Darkness stretched and spanned the width of the hallway, hiding her from any intruder.

‘No one comes here at this hour,’ she moved onto her ruined shirt and tunic underneath. Her legs gave a tremor even with his heat next to her.

Just an inch of her skin was enough to make his mouth water, and she stood there in all her glory, droplets trickling down her body, tender and prickled with gooseflesh, enunciating every curve. Gods, how he missed her. 

Eyes shamelessly wandering over her form, Azriel undressed and tossed his clothes next to hers. With a shake of her head, Ayla rolled her eyes like she were capable of thoughts any purer than his. A hand struggling to undo her hair, she opened the door. 

Azriel held onto her hips and trailed her into the bath chamber, bright and pristine unlike his, and much less spacious for his wings—folded, open, it didn’t matter. Yet, he followed without a complaint like a starved mutt chasing the scent of food after days of hunger.

Hot water rained down on them from an overhead contraption, another courtesy of Orvin. Much to Azriel’s dismay, her home bore marks of other males in her life than his. Their presence, a constant reminder in little moments of everyday, while none to prove his. The burn of the shower wasn’t enough to scald that truth from his mind.

He traced his hands along her skin. Firm and littered with healed cuts and white scar tissue, still softer than the whores’ who lavished themselves with the finest oils. And though toned to perfection, her flesh sank and yielded under his greedy fingers. 

Ayla drove his hands away as she lathered herself, only to laugh when they found her again. Usually, she queried about his day or wondered why his missions took long, with a sprinkle of jabs at his tendency to trade her for his work. Or, she made a remark, vulgar and vivid, about how she needed him just so to watch him twitch with desire. Except that day, she smiled sweetly, cleaned them both in silence with eyes drifting to his face often and no words to distract him from her touch. A proper tease.

When he wrapped his arms around her belly and tugged her to his chest, she smacked at him. Wings flared in defiance, sending bottles off the shelf running along the walls. Shadows dove after and caught them before they hit the bathtub on the other side. It could never fit them both at the same time. It was designed specifically for her form—Azriel presumed—by her friend again, yet only relief crossed his mind when he first saw it. Well, none of those males had her that way.

‘Come now,’ Ayla giggled, a soft sound she rarely made. ‘You will wreck my home.’

Azriel buried his face in her hair. Beneath the notes of jasmine and the crispness of ember, her scent remained sharp and clear, something indelible, even for the rains. And he didn’t mind when he tasted more soap than her with each kiss. Gods, was he pathetic. 

‘I’ll buy you a new home. Somewhere closer to the mountains.’ He inhaled deeply, ‘Away from the city.’

‘You mean somewhere you can spy on me?’ 

When he merely nuzzled into her in response, she laughed. A full, open laugh that shook her. 

His heart tightened in his chest. The bond was meant to reveal her to him, tie her to him. Azriel was prepared for the inescapable lure, craving for her body, the lust that haunted him. But this felt deeper. It ran in his very bones, it shaped his soul in ways he couldn’t fathom anymore, it tore his breath away unless it was one she granted. 

Slipping out of his hold, Ayla faced him, pushing him back. 

‘A moment, shadowsinger. Give me one moment, and I will be yours.’ She stepped into the waterfall, closed her eyes, and tipped her head back.

She didn’t understand. She couldn’t understand his need for her unless she suffered it too. She pretended, though, to feel the way he did, in those gentle gazes, in her honeyed words, and in her acts of care and promises after his missions, like this. Such moments brought forth hope that she was closer to realisation. Yet, Azriel waited and waited for the bond to piece together. Eighteen months. And he never told her of his torments; he couldn’t. Each day tested his resolve, and each day, he refused to rush this. It was his burden to bear, after all.

He held his breath and watched the heat bring colour back to her; her cheeks coming alive, supple with a renewed flush. Her hair shone brighter. Her limbs had stopped shivering; still, she draped her arms under her ribs.

Divinely simple and utterly bare only for him.

Azriel didn’t know how long he stared. Longer than her moment, he was sure. 

‘You’re mine,’ he whispered, hands seeking her hips again.

Smiling, Ayla opened her eyes and kissed him.

Finally.

Her lips guiding him, they shuffled around. Feet scrambled, nudged, and slipped along the wet floor. She pulled him closer and closer by his elbows; so closer and closer Azriel went. Water dripped down his back and wings, setting his body ablaze. Yet, he leaned in for more. 

And then, she was gone.

Azriel blinked.

Her laughter floated through the steam. With a towel in hand, Ayla stood by the door. 

‘You tricked me,’ was all Azriel managed. He stood frozen, arms useless by his sides, mind dizzied by her kiss. Too shocked by what she had done, by what he hadn’t noticed. He was a spy, for Mother’s sake!

‘I asked you nicely.’ Ayla patted down her torso, but her eyes were on him. ‘Get done quick. Or would you prefer spending the night here?’ And she walked out.

Azriel glared at the disappearing form. Even the darkness born out of his misery that shadowed him all his life, betrayed him and chased after her, leaving him alone. His wings twitched; he rolled his shoulders. He was quick, all right. 

In a blink, he was out and on her. Ayla yelped when her back collided with his dripping chest, and he sucked on her—her neck, her shoulder, her arm. He didn’t care, as long as he had her warmth and taste.

‘Fine, I’m sorry,’ another laugh escaped her lips while she struggled to break free.

With a final kiss, Azriel loosened his grip. ‘Only because you asked so nicely.’

Ayla turned around. She held the towel to his body, drying his neck, his chest, and slowly led him to her bed. She reached around to his back but left his wings untouched. She treated him with caution, taking her time for something he hardly cared about, while he peppered pecks on her face. Anything to quench his thirst. 

‘You care this much for me?’ Azriel smiled into a kiss he left on her ear. Her attention made his heart stutter. 

Ayla grinned, ‘No, I care about my mattress. I don’t want you to ruin it.’

‘Your mattress gets ruined whenever I’m here,’ said Azriel, teasing the shell with his tongue. A shiver rippled through her, and he basked in the scent that filled the air. Hers. The one that called out for him, the only proof that she was as desperate as he. 

Ayla tamed her face, wearing the mask of one who had an agenda. She pushed him back onto the mattress. Moving between his legs, she perched a knee at the edge of the bed. Her palm glided up his chest to his face and caressed his cheek. As her eyes softened for him, Azriel wished for nothing more than to stare into them for eternity.

Wet hair stuck to his forehead, their tips scratched at his eyelids. As gentle as ever, Ayla brought the towel to his head, but Azriel couldn’t bear to be deprived of the sight of her. He shook out of her hold, ducked his head, and turned away.

‘Stop acting like a child,’ she laughed.

Azriel grunted. ‘You’re smothering me,’ but it sounded like a whine to his ears.

‘Then stop moving!’

With a huff, he gave up. He pulled her to him and let his hands linger on her thighs, drawing circles on her skin. He sat still, and Ayla allowed him the mercy to look at her. Each minute, a deep sigh shook his body, and he smiled up at her, content to memorise every feature with the eyes of a devotee graced upon by his benevolent goddess.

It wasn’t just him. Shadows danced around her feet, easing into a sway until they merged with hers and disappeared. Lucky were they to become one with her at will.

Once Ayla deemed him less of a sodden pup, she ran her fingers through his damp hair. She untangled each strand carefully, tugged them away from his eyes, and let them fall in their natural disarray. Her nails ran through his scalp, over and over. 

Azriel purred. It took everything in him to not fight her ministrations and crush her body against his. Shivers crept down his spine, and his wings fluttered. Ayla glanced at them, then back at him. 

A permission, he realised. He nodded, his wings opening into a spread close to his body, close enough for her to touch. 

Too light to slide off under gravity, droplets littered the membrane. Ayla barely grazed it through the cloth, and it twitched. She waited a beat and reached again. This time, it held still. She repeated her movements, each time more cautious than the last, from one spot to the next, and so often, her gaze returned to his face for signs of pain.

Azriel closed his eyes. He smoothed his hands over her waist, fingers digging into her tender flesh. Heat from her body warmed the air between them. He leaned in, rested his forehead between her breasts, and felt her heart beat under his skin, steady and lulling.

It was then he realised. It was neither lust that drew him to her, nor fate. It was her—the solace she promised—a world for the two of them, far away from the chaos and confusion of this unfair one, the cruelness of his reality, the threats looming over them, waiting to steal the one dream he had.

With her, he could be still.

With her, he could breathe.

With her, he could just be.

She froze each moment spent together, entrapping him in a delicately spun cocoon of comfort. She didn’t need her words, her touch, or her body. She breathed, and the ghosts that followed him faded into nothingness, the pain in his soul melted away.

Ayla offered him life. Ecstasy at its purest. 

The fabric barricading her from him was gone. She trailed her fingertips along the rim of his wing, its peak. 

Pleasure rippled through him. Breath cracking, Azriel buried his face into her chest. If she allowed, he would burrow into her soul and never leave its protection, this everlasting serenity. He feathered his lips over her sternum. His wings wound around them, begging for more. He clutched her close and pressed a kiss to her heart, the one he yearned to possess, the one promised to him.

Ayla settled into his lap. Her delicate body pressed against his desperate one. With a light kiss to the tip of his nose, she nudged him out of his swarming thoughts. ‘You’re a handful, you know? You make it a challenge to care for you.’

It was the closest to a confession from her lips. Azriel smiled. 

He smiled often around her, as though she drew each one out from the very depths of him. Gods, he thought, I missed you. 

Ayla laughed softly, ‘I know.’

His breath stopped in his throat. He had said those words. Aloud. For her to hear. 

Azriel pulled away from her like her skin had burned him. Yet, it didn’t faze her. Mischief sparking her eyes, Ayla rolled her hips against his. ‘I can feel it.’

Her folds unfurled over his cock, tempting him with a taste of what awaited him. Azriel groaned and eventually laughed, that brief uncertainty dissipating from his being. ‘You touch my wings like that while naked in my arms, what did you expect?’ When she teased him again, he gritted his teeth. ‘Kiss me. Now.’

And for the first time that day, Ayla obliged.

She kissed him, long and slow. Her lips were soft, plush, pulsing with life. She pressed into him, more and more, and for the first time that day, she set her desires free. Her arms wrapped around him, fingers laced together on the back of his neck, drawing him close. She leaned back when he dipped and chased him when he retreated. It was a dance she was a master at, syncing to his body’s rhythm like she knew it better than him.

Azriel was losing control. He adored her tender love, but he craved for more. He coiled her damp hair around a fist and tugged. Ayla whimpered in his mouth, and he swallowed it whole. He would lay claim to her every breath, every cry, every inch of her soul, if that’s what it took to make her his. He tugged again, and she arched into him with a long moan, offering her neck for his taking, her arms merely pulling him closer. 

His mate. His willing prey.

As he crawled deeper into the bed and lay her down gently, Ayla clung to him, refusing to let go. Azriel laughed, admiring her once more. Even disappointment was a beautiful shade on her. He stroked her cheek to earn her smile again. Her eyes fell closed when he leaned in. A quick peck to her lips, he flipped her onto her stomach, ripping a gasp from her.

‘Trust me,’ he said, pressing a palm between her shoulders and pinning her down as she came up.

He trailed a finger down her spine and followed it with his mouth, savouring the tremors that shuddered through her. He sank his teeth into her waist just to make her cry again. Ayla looked over her shoulder, innocent and furrowed. When his tongue soothed the spot, she rolled her eyes. He kissed all the way up until he found her lips again. 

It was said mates could sense the other through the bond—their joys, their pleasures—yet Azriel barely did. Once in a while, her feelings crept through the string between their hearts, too little a thing to notice, present nonetheless. Invisible and lurking, and always out of his reach. Whenever she eluded him, twisting his words into a tease, doubt crept into his mind.

Damn his shame. He had said it once, and he survived. If Ayla hadn’t realised his ache already, she was as much a fool as he. 

‘I missed you,’ Azriel sighed into her ear. 

The words felt strange on his tongue, heavy, and rolled over one another like the babble of a drunk. But he said them—admitted to a truth he believed he was incapable of. It was her turn now. He needed her to say it, and some.

‘Then what are you waiting for?’ Ayla asked, as breathless as he.

Darkness cast over the side of her face, hiding her briefly from him. The shadows emerged for their share of play. They swept her hair aside for him to suckle on her neck. ‘Say it back.’

‘What are—’

His teeth left red lines on her nape. ‘Say you missed me.’

Ayla wrestled under him, rocking her hips back into him. ‘I can prove it to you instead.’

The dip in her voice alone was temptation enough. How he wanted to destroy her until she was as tainted as him, until she was declaring her love for him. Azriel grabbed the back of her neck and drew her close, ‘Words first,’ his other hand closed on her breast. He ghosted a thumb over a nipple before pinching it between his fingers. 

Resisting his hold, Ayla tried to turn around. ‘I missed you.’ Eyes darkening, brows creased, she chased after the corner of his lips, his cheek, wherever she could reach. When his grip eased, she whispered, ‘Inside me.’

Azriel laughed. His body shook, rattling hers along with him. The fault was his to assume she would concede so easily. His resolve ceased to exist when she spoke such things, and she knew it. 

‘Is that so?’ He caressed the inside of her thigh, reached as close to where her warmth grazed him and started again. ‘Remember you did this.’ 

Tucking a hand under, he pulled her leg aside. Ayla gasped at the cold air’s kiss on her core. The air soon carried her scent, the fresh, intoxicating sweetness that ensnared him, carving pieces of him for her to steal. 

Azriel ran a digit down her slit. Her lips fluttered, spewing wetness onto his scars. He dragged his fingers along her folds over and over. Centuries might pass, and he’d still marvel at the way his ragged skin slipped easy along her smoothness.

As he breached her entrance, Ayla held her breath, clawing at the sheets. 

Azriel worked her with slow, deliberate strokes for his own sanity rather than hers, etching every grip and groove of her walls into his memory.

He crashed his lips against hers, teeth scraping, as he pulled his fingers out and spread her slick like a balm for his aching cock. The moan that tore from his throat was one to be embarrassed for life, yet, when her eyes stayed mesmerised on his mouth, it erased any notion of shame. 

And when he entered her, she welcomed him with a sigh. 

Azriel stayed still, granting her one final moment of reprieve. He listened to her heart thumping against its cage, her stuttering silence against the echoes of the rain. White flashed across the room, and he flinched, pinching his eyes. Beneath him, Ayla whined at his jolt; her walls clenched so tight that he dropped onto her.

Blindly, she sought him and weaved their fingers together, ‘I missed this.’

This.

His skin tightened. As though tempting him with her body wasn’t enough, she toyed with his heart, too. 

Azriel grasped her hands in each of his and tucked them under her chin. Ignoring the weight in his chest, he pulled out of her until the very tip and drove back in. Her moan pierced the storm. He did it again and again, sliding out with care and in with fury. He couldn’t rein himself in, and he doubted he wanted to, either. Groans clawed up his throat, raw and incessant. He bit into her shoulder, between her blades to stop them from spilling.

Ayla touched his knuckles with her lips, light and gentle, unlike what he was doing to her. From his wrist to fingertips, not an inch was spared her worship. When she ran her tongue over a particularly ugly ridge, his vision blurred. Azriel clutched her face. 

‘Don’t,’ he hissed.

But Ayla was naive and stubborn. She leaned into the very hand that crushed her jaw, like it wasn’t that of a killer, like it was capable of nothing but a sweet embrace. Her freed arm snaked around him, fingers carded through his hair, cradling him close. 

‘Azriel.’ 

She uttered his name with relief, as though she had been longing for this as much as he. 

Azriel stuttered, his hips bucked. ‘Say it again.’

‘Azriel.’

‘Again.’

‘Azriel.’ 

And she chanted his name with each thrust.

This was all Azriel wanted, yet it felt wrong. It wasn’t. . .enough. 

He closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair. He wasn’t a worthy contender for this vicious tenderness she gave him in earnest. 

‘Touch yourself,’ he rasped in her ear. His thrusts faltered.

Her hand obeyed and disappeared beneath her. Ayla pushed her leg higher, offering her every depth to him. 

Her eyes fluttered. Her lip trembled. Her breath shuddered into broken mists.

Her cunt pulsed around him, gripped him until pleasure laced with pain. Her legs shook, desperate to close, and shadows crept up to hold them in place. A few wisps reached a little too far between them, and Ayla whimpered. Tears lining her lashes, she looked at him, baring herself to him. Her mouth fell open, her little sounds reduced to strained chokes begging for mercy. 

Azriel hummed at her misery and quickened his pace, delivering the faintest taste of what he suffered at her ignorance. His hand slipped to her throat, the only thing keeping her curling away from him. 

‘I know,’ he kissed her temple and trailed down her cheek to ease her ache. ‘I know. Come for me.’

And she did.

Azriel gasped and collapsed on top of her. His chest caved in on itself. 

The bond between them reeked of desire. His and hers. His desperation, her relief. His longing, her bliss.

He sank his teeth into her flesh, hard, injecting the venom that coursed through his veins into her, poisoning her with her very medicine, sharing the agony she inflicted upon him. He pried her fingers from her core and shoved them into his mouth. As her taste coated his tongue, he purred. With a few staggering moves, he attained the same heavenly pleasure she did.

Legs intertwined, arms wrapped around the other, her body reaching for his in a way that could be described as nothing but a lover’s despair, this was how they were meant to be. One and whole. Each breath, shared and stolen. Each touch, burning and soothing. 

Slowly, the sounds of the world rushed back to his ears. The distant echo of the rain, the fleeting music from the bar below, the ghostly whispers of the city that never turned into anything coherent.

Ayla sagged into the bed. Her limbs went soft, and her grip on his fingers loosened. Azriel eased her leg, kneading it with as much care as he could muster. 

‘Nothing to say?’ 

‘That was. . .’ Ayla said between breaths, ‘intense.’

Indents of his teeth covered her back, and Azriel ignored the feeling it sparked in his chest. He soothed the spots where blood threatened to break through her skin with his lips. ‘Intense?’

Ayla nodded. ‘You-ought-to-go-on-long-missions-more-often intense.’ 

Smiling, Azriel nipped her on the cheek. ‘There’s no need for that. If you weren’t such a brat, I’d take you any way you want, whenever you want.’

Ayla laughed. Her body rubbed against his in ways it shouldn’t. ‘You mean you fucked me out of goodwill tonight?’

Azriel rolled away from her before his impulses got the better of him. As he adjusted his wings under him, he felt her eyes boring into them. 

‘Unless you want to go again, don’t.’ Pulling her into his arms, he pinned her to his side. 

Ayla gasped, feigning offence. ‘Am I not allowed to look at them?’

Azriel curled the wing over her; its tail grazed up her leg, making her shiver. 

‘You can do anything to me,’ he murmured into her lips.

Silence blanketed over them. Their world slowed as they lay together, tracing swirls on the other’s skin. Azriel ran his fingers through the lengths of her hair, damp from his sweat more so from their shower. With his seed inside her, dark patches blooming on her waist and arm where his hands had touched her, Ayla was still perfect, complete with marks of him.

‘Azriel?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Next time, come by sooner so I can stop worrying.’

Ayla was staring ahead, watching the rain beat on the windows that separated them from outside. Before it dawned on him what she meant, she said, ‘This weather is nice.’

Azriel looked over his shoulder. Winds howled, whistled, changed course now and again, the rains whisked one way and the other. The cage suspended from the ceiling for her little visitors rattled and screeched and swung wildly so close to breaking off its hinges. Mist coated the glass, coalesced and dripped and gathered into a pool on the floor.

‘Nice?’ He turned to her, ‘You might get flooded.’

‘Perhaps.’ With a dazed smile, Ayla reached behind her, ‘But I can do this,’ and drew a blanket over them. She wrapped an arm around him and pressed close with a long sigh.

Azriel was not one of strong will; he never was. He had done it twice before, and he refused to give in to hope again, too afraid to face the nothingness.

He traced his index along her cheek, the curve of her jaw, and let it rest on her breast where the proof was supposed to be. He wasn’t sure if he did it right, but he reached for her through the bond—a gentle caress begging her to follow him, pulling her closer than this physical body allowed, beyond the laws of this mortal world.

He listened. For an increase in her pulse, a hitch in her throat, or maybe the thrum of the bond’s damned song that left him sleepless at night. He would accept anything.

The bond shimmered with his desperation, light weaving through the thread until it met with her void again. Ironic, the one born with shadows had a heart aglow with love, while the other—warmth and light incarnate—was shrouded in darkness.

Ayla rested a palm on his chest and perched her chin on it. Her lips curled down, curious eyes studying him. ‘What?’

You’re my mate.

The words were at the tip of his tongue. Three words, and Ayla would put him out of misery. She had accepted him till then, and would do so more, regardless of their fate. She would hold him like always, kiss him, and tell him she loved him.

Azriel brushed the hair away from her eyes and smiled.

‘Are you hungry?’

The sky stretched into a tapestry of brilliant shades of pink and purple with deep blue creeping at the seams. It was one of those rare evenings perfect for flight, soaring up and up until the world grew faint. So quiet that all Azriel heard was the wind and occasional whispers of the shadows, cursing him for the unwarranted assault from the setting sun. No matter the season, the air freezing his skin if he stayed up long enough. The city was all but a hazy puzzle of terrain and lights under the blanket of clouds.

And he gave it up for a night with Ayla.

Once in the safety of her office behind the bar, Azriel finally removed the cloak draped over his garb—a minor precaution in case he ran into Cass or Nesta on his way out—and a pocket of shadow swallowed it. Tugging at the hem of the black tunic, he crossed his arms over his chest. The fabric shifted, pulling and stretching with his every move. Dark silk threads wove tangled swirls along its yoke and front. Smooth black gems replaced the buttons down the neck and on the cuffs. A near identical to the ones Rhys preferred, it had been a solstice present from decades ago. It was the most expensive and fanciest garment Azriel owned. Despite the many bets and taunts over the years, it remained well-preserved in the trunk.

It’ll help to blend in, he reminded himself again. His wings and shadows set him apart enough. Except for the ones on the back of his hands, he forewent his siphons too.

Kissing Ayla was one thing, but this wasn’t his first idea, or second, or third. Hells, it wasn’t even his last resort.

‘You get one chance, shadowsinger. Do not disappoint me,’ she had said to him last night.

So now, there Azriel stood waiting at the bottom of the stairs like a proper courter, determined to be anything but one of her fleeting lovers.

Time dragged on. Each passing minute, an opportunity to fret over the ways he would wreck this. He let his eyes drift around the room, a wasted effort to take his mind off what awaited him.

The hallway ran long and narrow with columns of racks on either side of the walls. Wooden crates sat atop them in perfect order, and stamps of varied colours marked each one. The aroma of grapes with something earthy clung to the air thickly. A low lantern hung from the ceiling, barely lighting the room, only enough for his sight to adjust to the dimness.

The table that taunted him night after night during his early visits, the one where Ayla sat engrossed in her stacks of paper, stood right next to the staircase. Azriel traced a finger across its smooth surface and smiled.

Quiet taps resonated on the ceiling, down the stairs, interrupting his surveillance.

Her dress moulded to her torso, cinched at the waist with an elegant knot. It flared at her hips and ended above her ankles, swishing and swaying with each step. In the hue of the morning sun, it brought out the mild tan of her skin. Her bare arms, the sliver of her chest, and the teasing glimpses of her legs glimmered in the light, like coated with dust spun from stars. A single string of gold went around her throat with a little sun for a pendant. While the rest of her alluded to elegance, her hair flowed down her back in a tousled mess. An enticing invitation to fist, to pull, to ruin.

Her smile, the one that appeared when her eyes fell on him, was enough to claim his heart in an instant.

Ayla looked every bit as he had dreamt of her. While the rest of the world received her soul-stirring stares and threats delivered as stoic promises, her ease and charm were reserved for him. Only him.

Azriel knew he should say something, but he didn’t trust his words, for what could he say to someone who was beauty and grace and everything in between? He swallowed, tearing his gaze away from her for a moment. The bracelet fashioned by Orvin for her protection sat like a sore against the marvel that she was.

‘You don’t need that,’ Azriel managed a smile.

Ayla glanced at her wrist, stopping in front of him. Her skirt brushed against his legs. ‘Oh, it is not for me. You see, I am meeting a pretty Illyrian today and he has a veritable obsession with my safety.’

Azriel had been called many names, but never “pretty” to his face before. Heat crept up his neck, and he masked it with a chuckle. ‘If he lets you fend for yourself, maybe you should reconsider your options.’

A sly smile tugged at her lips. ‘I do have an entire night to decide.’

Gathering his senses, Azriel cleared his throat. ‘You look. . .’ the words trailed off as he realised how foolish he must sound like those males who had won her with measly compliments.

Her eyes swept over his form without reservation or shame. Not once had Azriel felt bare and exposed even in his fitted leathers, but he might have as well stripped naked right then.

‘So do you,’ said Ayla, finally, heading to the exit. ‘About those notes?’

Azriel rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Let’s pretend that never happened.’

Ayla looked over her shoulder, ‘Are you sure? I was looking forward to an explanation.’

Azriel rushed forward and pushed the door leading to the side alley open, like a proper suitor was expected to. Rays of sunset hit her bare skin, shrouding her with a golden aura.

When the day broke and he woke up from the first peaceful slumber in days, his heart swelled at the memory of their kiss. Evening seemed to be aeons away, and then, reality dawned on him, and soon, anxiety. In a fit of panic, he faked a note saying he needed to go on a mission. Then, an apology. Then, a slew of others insisting he wanted to meet her. He might have even mentioned “courting” once.

He wasn’t sloppy. He didn’t intend to send any of them. But thanks to his shadows, Ayla received every one of the discarded messages, and now, Azriel would carry this embarrassment to the grave.

The door sealed shut behind them as he looked into her eyes. ‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’

.

Tucked between stalls and crannies, the quaint place warded off most in the city. Even with nightfall near, very few littered across the room, finding a lonesome corner to slot themselves in. A waitress weaved through the tables, her whispers quiet so the soothing stillness in the air remained unperturbed. Utensils scraped occasionally, and a long silence ensued each time like an apology.

‘Why are you far away?’ Ayla asked from across the table, her fingers stretching towards the empty setting between them. ‘Come closer.’

Azriel couldn’t hide his smile then. Moments like these, she held the reins to his heart in her grasp, yet earlier, as he guided her down the bustling streets, she let his hand ghost over the small of her back and let him pretend he dictated their time together.

As though she hadn’t uttered the words that left him reeling like a lovestruck fool, Ayla rested her chin on a fist and stared ahead.

Shifting closer, Azriel braced his arms over his chest—only to keep his hands to himself, like a proper male.

For long minutes, both basked in the silence between them; Ayla watched the city come alive for the night, and Azriel her. The tilt of her lips, the enticing sheen on them. The spark in her eyes, as though even the mundane life outside fascinated her. Her hair tumbled down her shoulder, down the dip of her chest, and disappeared beneath her dress, forcing him to peek at her flustered skin.

‘I can see why you might be fond of this place,’ said Ayla, her voice softening as she studied the ceiling, the painted murals of winged beasts amongst constellations. ‘One should find it easy to disappear here.’

Another slice of paradise Azriel frequented alone and spared for himself. It used to be part of a bigger establishment until the attempted siege of the city two years ago. Though the majority of it was restored soon after, many took it as an opportunity to build anew and erase every reminder of the horrors they survived. These murals, however, commemorated them—the tales of the creatures that descended upon them from the skies like bearers of death and doom, still, they couldn’t snuff the stars out. Night always triumphed.

These pieces of him meant nothing more than a reprieve. Of all the places he could have taken her—should have taken her—Azriel chose this on an unnameable impulse. And when Ayla turned to him with a soft smile, he knew he had done something right.

As she held his gaze for a breath too long, the air around them shifted. The whispers in the room faded. Her lips parted for unsaid words, and her attention was ripped from him as a hand grazed his shoulder interrupting their trance.

The waitress glanced down at him, her smile more fond than usual. She didn’t speak much as she served, and her eyes never once acknowledged his company. When she turned to leave, something brushed against the arc of his wings. Azriel froze.

Ayla’s eyes flicked past him. A swift look, yet it carried a flicker of emotion he never expected to find. It lasted only for a heartbeat, but he recognised it. He should, for he had lived it most of his life.

‘I can rip her arm off, if you prefer,’ she stated once the waitress was out of ear-reach. Her hand ghosted over her platter, sorting through the assortment of herbs and berries to pluck a tomato. She brought it to her lips and inhaled its freshness before biting down on its flesh. When he didn’t speak, she added, ‘She caused you discomfort, did she not? Must be difficult without an arm.’ Juice trickled down her fingers.

Words stuck in his mouth, barely to be heard. ‘I can’t tell if you mean that.’

Ayla blinked at him, then a laugh burst out of her. ‘Of course, I jest.’ Still, she sneaked a look behind him. ‘Or not, if she tries it again.’

A moan welled up, but Azriel caught it in his throat.

He had seen parts of her before; her calm lethality, her easy condescension, her lethargic contempt. Never something as vile as jealousy. And she made something so ugly, so corrosive, seem endearing.

The bond remained silent through it. Yet, he chose to believe her every word. And he did more when the waitress passed them again with a blush, and Ayla’s eyes hardened.

She ran her fingers through her hair, flipping it over her shoulder. A casual, effortless move to reveal her neck. For a fae, it must have healed by then, yet there it was—the mark he had left the night before, still raw, still very much blue.

Petty pride filled his heart. Blood rushed to his ears. Azriel moved before he knew what he was doing, before he could stop himself. ‘Is she watching?’

Her brows twitched. ‘You know she never took her eyes off you.’

‘Then she’ll see this.’ Azriel pressed his lips to the bruise, her skin soft and warm. A metallic tang laced her scent. Her shoulders fell, and the tension and envy slowly melted away from her being. Her eyes fluttered open when he pulled away. ‘Feel better?’

Ayla looked over his shoulder, frowning, but the gleam in her eyes gave her away. ‘She does not look convinced. Perhaps, some more should help.’

Oh, she was convinced. The buzz of his shadows told him as much. Azriel chuckled, pulling back. His heart ached to concede, give in to her tease, to kiss her until he lost all senses, but he needed it to survive a few more hours.

.

Azriel had never done this before. A night of passion with a nameless female was easy. A few hours of agreed-upon company behind closed doors, never to be seen again, was easy. He knew when to look, where to touch, how to feign pleasure while dreaming of another.

But this.

The ground softened beneath their feet as he guided Ayla along the path away from the crowded square. Eyes followed at every street, at every turn. It took all his will to not summon the shadows and shield her from the world.

Azriel neither lurked in these parts of the city alone nor out in the open. Where every moment was a cherished treasure. Where cries of joy harmonised with the cacophony of melodies in the breeze. Where happiness was contagious. They were a reminder of the curse he bore, the emptiness that plagued him afterwards if he let himself believe for a while.

That evening, however, felt different. Like it was finally his turn.

‘Now, that is unfair.’ Ayla wrapped her fingers around his arm—right above his elbow—pressing into him or pulling him close, he couldn’t tell. ‘You know more about me than I do about you. You are at an advantage.’

Hearing her voice again, sweet and unmuddied, Azriel sighed. He peeked at her, his brow lifting. ‘I didn’t know we were competing.’

Her thumb swiped up, then down in a thoughtless gesture, eliciting a shiver in him. Ayla ignored it as much as his remark, ‘And you have turned Uri as well.’

‘Whatever happened to loyalty,’ chuckled Azriel, remembering her arrogant faith in her friends. Although he was convinced her claims still stood, if the High Lord of Night hadn’t fazed them, nothing much could.

‘He is plenty loyal.’ Avoiding a drooping wildflower in her path, Ayla swayed. Her weight against him was a welcome burden. ‘But he seems to like you.’

The tunic was a terrible mistake, for Azriel felt her bare arm flush against him, her heat seeping right through. And before he could resist, his wing folded around her. ‘You say it like it’s a bad thing.’

He sounded breathless, and Ayla ignored that too. A frown creased between her brows. ‘You do that often,’ she said slowly. ‘You did it in the bar. You pretend to be curious about me—’

‘I’m not pretending,’ said Azriel quickly, a little too quickly.

Ayla smiled. ‘You twist my words so to distract me. Is that one of the spymaster’s skills?’

Her accusation wrenched something in him. The ache of denying her stung more than the open stares he suffered through all night. Azriel inhaled sharply, refusing to look at her, afraid of what he might find in her eyes. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Anything.’ Her shoulder shifted, brushing him ever so slightly. ‘Everything.’

Even as he curated little details of her life in the past, he hadn’t wondered if he could ever be the subject of her attention and intrigue. And now that he was,— He chuckled, low and deep. ‘And who is being unfair now?’

Her head dipped to the side so close that, for a moment, Azriel expected her to rest it on him. Ayla pointed ahead. At the head of the city, hills sprawled across the horizon like a guardian made of shadow and night, and atop it sat the House of Wind, speckled with infinite glowing eyes. ‘I know you live there. You share a brotherhood with your High Lord. You hate people.’

‘I don’t hate people.’

‘You drink,’ Ayla clicked her tongue. ‘A lot.’

Azriel scoffed. ‘I don’t.’

‘You are a favoured patron in my bar. You have a brew named after you.’

‘That thing shouldn’t even exist,’ muttered Azriel, shuddering at its wretched taste, and Ayla laughed. Why wouldn’t she? She was responsible for his new addiction.

‘You waltz.’

‘When necessary.’ Azriel huffed a breath, turning to her. ‘How do you even know that?’

Ayla shrugged. ‘You are not the only one Uri talks to.’ She nodded, her eyes pinned on the place that was supposed to be his home. ‘You have a dungeon up there?’

And just as easily, the fantasy ended. No matter how much Azriel played proper, nothing could rid him of his stains. The words stuck in his throat. ‘That’s not true.’

‘Hmm,’ Ayla sighed, ‘then why do you let me learn lies from others?’

Rumours flew around him and his family for as long as he remembered. His reputation was a courtesy of his work. He hadn’t cared much about it in the past, except how it served him. And he didn’t have to try hard to earn it either, with a title like his. Secret torture chambers. Murders in broad daylight over a spat. Insatiable, sick desires. There was even one that he drank the blood of his victims right in front of them as a means of torture, like he would stoop so low as Amren.

Now that Azriel thought about it, his shoulders tensed. Had she known all of them? Hells, even he hadn’t heard them all.

‘I would rather know you like this,’ said Ayla, her voice as kind and gentle as her words. Her grip tightened on his arm for a moment, enough to reassure him in a wordless promise.

His shadows hummed lowly, content to be in her vicinity. Utterly shameless and carefree, something Azriel wished he were. He had reined them for the evening, curious to see what Ayla and he could be without their meddling. As time passed, with her every word, at her every laugh, they grew restless.

He steadied his breath. ‘I can do this,’ he said quietly.

A trail of darkness whisked past him. Let loose at last, the shadows swarmed her. The same curiosity from the previous night lit up her face as Ayla chased them with her eyes over her shoulder, past his back and wings. They whipped around and played with her, hiding and seeking, tossing her hair, stealing touches. The air filled with her laughter, so full of mirth and wonder. When the shadows drew her closer, leading her right into him, Azriel had to look away to calm his racing heart.

A long sigh left her lips. ‘I thought they had a mind of their own.’ Her fingers sifted through the dark fog.

Azriel smiled, quite proud of himself. ‘They do. I told them to amuse you.’

‘Well, you can tell them I am very amused.’ A dark veil settled over her as if testing their place with her. ‘Although this is the work of the infamous shadowsinger. What can Azriel do?’

Azriel frowned. He had been a shadowsinger since a boy. What else was he supposed to be? With her stare burning into the side of his face, he couldn’t think straight—still dazed from the way she had spoken his name.

‘What do you want him to do?’ He barely heard his own words.

Ayla stopped, her hand tugging him to a halt too. When he met her eyes, she smiled. ‘Take me home.’

.

The walk back to Pharus was long and silent. Azriel didn’t know why he hadn’t offered to fly her; and Ayla didn’t ask.

Discarding her heels, one with each step, she entered the sparsely lit room. Her bracelet went next, clunked graciously on something metal behind the door left ajar. She didn’t bother to check if he followed.

Azriel stopped outside. His staggering breaths were his only company, apart from the ceaseless urgings of the shadows. Closer. In. Idiot. They hadn’t stopped since they were pried from her earlier lest they embarrass themselves and him more. When he realised there wouldn’t be an invitation, he glanced at the darkened stairway.

But then, Ayla hadn’t bid him night. Without another thought, he crossed the threshold and locked the door after him.

Patterned rug adorned with bold strokes and woven lines cushioned his footfalls. Spanning the length and width of the bar below, her home was one enormous space with no walls or chambers within. If anyone dared find her here, she would find them first. Like entering a beast’s cave with nowhere to sneak, nowhere to hide.

To his left, a wooden slab lined along the wall, a part of which hosted—what he assumed—a kitchen. Oft-times Uri brought her meals from the bar; Ayla clearly saw no use for one in her home. With its mismatched chairs, one made of wood and wicker in a more traditional sense, while the other with tufted seating and a woven throw, a table stood a few feet away, like they weren’t needed either, but left for the sake of absolute convenience.

On his other side, a chaise took its place in a corner, along with a long looking glass. Chests were stacked beside and around it. Azriel smiled at the dresses in shades of blue left on them, creased and abandoned, as though she had cared about their night too.

Unlike his luxurious chamber in River House, which Feyre so painfully decorated despite his protests, this felt. . .warmly lived in. A true home crafted to one’s own needs and taste.

Were any of these here the last time? His mind drew empty except for the massive bed he had her pinned to last night and the feel of her lips against his.

Across him, Ayla stood in front of a single stretch of glass that separated them from the outside. Glittering lights of the city splattered against the panes, a clear view of the bedlam they left behind for each other.

When she pulled the curtains close, Azriel wondered if she was stalling on purpose, taunting him, for the gauze barely offered privacy.

Ayla turned to him, her hands clasped behind her back. Basking in the moonlight, she took him in. The way her eyes roved over his form slowly, as though she was seeing him for the first time that evening, left him aching.

‘So,’ she drawled, ‘is it time to keep your promise?’

Azriel looked away with a dramatic sigh. He tucked his hands into his pockets, not trusting himself after teetering on the edge for so long. ‘Maybe,’ he shrugged, like that could mask his dark intentions. ‘After what you put me through, I’m not sure you deserve that kind of loyalty.’

Pressing her lips together, Ayla nodded. ‘Understandable.’ Her dress swayed to the breeze, lifting enough to lure him with more of her skin. ‘Although the blame is not entirely mine.’

Azriel couldn’t control it—the narrowing of his eyes, the tick of his jaw. He prowled to her, giving her a chance for explanation. But she gave him none. ‘You fucked five males. Did you even learn their names?’ His words were cruel, his tone sharper.

‘Ah yes, the dangers.’ Her breath was warm, sweet. She shook her head, ‘The chivalrous shadowsinger only concerns with defending the vulnerable. So, tonight must be an elaborate scheme to spare me from—’ She looked up at him with solemn eyes, head tilted just so, lips close to his. ‘—what was it again?’

Gods, was he pathetic to want her more as she ridiculed him. ‘You’re wicked,’ a low chuckle escaped him.

‘What if I am? Does it scare you?’

Every inch in his body yearned for her. His breath hitched when he felt her fingers skim over his chest, sure she felt the embarrassing rhythm of his heart. Before she mocked him for that too, he kissed her. A gentle press of his lips against hers. When he pulled away, a smile etched on his face, savouring the way she curled into him.

‘Is something wrong?’ She looked at him with concern, and a frown had never looked so beautiful before.

Azriel heaved a sigh. Her hair danced to the tune of his breath. He took the tendrils teasing her face between his fingers. Light as a feather, he felt them catch in his ragged skin before they slipped through like silken threads. His shadows hummed low, drawing a laugh out of him.

Daring a little, he grazed his knuckles along her neck.

He waited.

He watched her eyes, anxious for the flicker of doubt—or disgust, or fear—warning him to stop. Yet, they held the same ease as when she wanted to feel his scars.

Azriel should be content, but he was a greedy bastard after all. He rested his palms on her jaw, barely enough to call it a touch; Ayla didn’t blink, but her fingers dug into his waist. He spanned her cheeks with his thumbs, relishing in the warmth of her skin, the soft curves of her face, the flutter of her lashes on his fingertips.

When Ayla leaned into his hand, patient and waiting for his answer, his heart ached.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he murmured, the words sticking on his tongue. ‘I didn’t say that earlier. I should have.’

Relief crossed her face, and her lips parted into a smile, the brightest one that night. ‘Did you need to interrupt though?’

Azriel kissed her, hard. How could he resist when her mouth said such things? With his last shred of restraint gone, shadows encircled them. Rogue wisps sought her bared skin, teasing a whimper out of her. A growl started in his chest.

Mine.

Every sound ripped from her would be his, as was she.

The darkness scattered away, parting for the moonlight to cast a halo around her. Azriel buried his hand in her hair and pulled her close. He lapped at her jaw, down her neck. At the first scrape of his teeth, Ayla gasped. Her hands fisted into his shirt as she held onto him.

When he was convinced he couldn’t lose himself more in this craze, her scent drowned him. He kissed, licked, and sucked every inch he could reach until he found the tender spot that left her trembling. With a simple caress to her cheek—moreso to reassure himself that he was still a creature of calibre—Azriel ventured lower and rested his hand on her chest. Her fluttering pulse radiated on his tongue, on the tips of his fingers, and at the heel of his palm like a song made solely for him.

Ayla grew tired of his careful exploration. Dragging him along, she scuffled back until the two fell together onto the mattress. Their lips met again, urgent and impatient. While Azriel slid his hand up her leg, she threw her arms around him.

And her nails scraped at his wing. Merely a brush, and pleasure shot down his spine all the way to his toes. A blinding white clouded his vision. Every nerve alit with need, he jolted back with a hiss.

Beneath him, Ayla winced. The hand tangled in her hair tugged her head back while the other gripped her thigh. And her face was twisted in something akin to pain. The kind of pain he was versed in inflicting on others.

Azriel scrambled away, ripping his hands off her, like they were burned anew. Ayla was right; she always seemed to be. He should be afraid. Not of her, but what he was capable of. What was he thinking? Just so Mother gave him a mate, his curse would end? He was the curse; bound to corrupt everything good about her with his sickness. He was going to scorch her to the ground like he did with everything in his life.

The walls closed in on him, as did his chest. He gulped breath after breath, and it wasn’t enough. Maybe if he left then, he could salvage this. Yet, he was paralysed, as were his eyes on the indents he left on her skin—already turning a deep shade—so deep he could map them even in the dark.

Still, his depraved body hummed with want, craving for her, pleading to erase the distance between them.

Her dress glided along her skin, the bruise disappearing under, as Ayla sat up. Her words were distant, meaningless echoes his body recognised and longed to answer to. She inched closer; he backed away, hands slipping on the cool, smooth sheets. His wings pulled tense behind him, stiff and aching.

‘Azriel.’ That simple name uttered with much caution.

He shook his head, pinching his eyes shut. If he didn’t see, if he didn’t get close, this would end soon. But that tenderness of hers had desires roiling in his chest.

‘Did I harm you?’

If not for the heat rushing through his veins, Azriel would laugh. There he was in all his Illyrian glory, brutal and broken; he almost clawed the flesh off her bones with his bare hand, and she worried about him.

The slight tremor in her voice forced him to look. Her dress rumpled and snagged at curves because of him. Her hair teased and mussed because of him. Her skin flushed with a sheen because of him. His scent mingled with hers, her lips wet and swollen, her neck littered in red. All because of him.

Yet, he only saw his mate. On her knees, offering herself until he tainted every part of her.

‘I did not mean to touch you that way,’ said Ayla quietly. Her fingers curled into a fist on her lap. Panic stained her beautiful eyes that always held kindness, even for a wayward like him.

Azriel hadn’t known touch on his wings before. Maybe a few scratches and snatches during a spar, never like this. Her little graze had set every nerve in his body ablaze with need. While he dreamt of dipping his tongue into the valley between her breasts, she studied him, her face haunted by concern and guilt. And, Mother forgive him, did he adore it.

One breath of uncertainty, and Ayla reached for him. Her hand hovered close for a beat too long, as if waiting for a sign, before she rested it on his cheek.

Azriel choked out a gasp as he bucked. His body burned and thrummed at the renewed closeness. He tasted her scent, her fear on his tongue. Her skin was softer for someone who trained and beat metal every day. Firm with a hint of callus, yet there was a strange familiarity in her gentle touch. He succumbed to the moment, too far gone in the sensations to realise when he took her wrist and feathered kisses over the delicate skin on the inside. Her pulse quickened under his lips.

When he didn’t recoil from her, Ayla spoke. ‘Are you still in pain?’

Azriel shook his head, ‘Just—’ he breathed her in ‘—the opposite.’ He felt her gaze weighing on his wings. They twitched like they sensed her, folding in and out in a way that left an ache along his back.

For a moment, or eternity, Ayla let him stew in silence. Was that fear he scented meant for him? His grip loosened on her.

‘I will not touch them,’ she said, voice steadier than before. When Azriel looked up to find her smile again, she shuffled onto his lap. ‘You need not pretend for my sake.’

He wanted to correct her, but then she kissed him slow—each a proof of her words. She took his hands in hers, guiding one to her face while the other to her knee.

Azriel nuzzled her shoulder. The feeling in his chest was new, inexplicable. When his breath hit her, Ayla swallowed, and he traced a thumb down her neck, felt the column move under his skin.

Slowly, she moved his hand up her leg, to her waist, where the knot sat below her ribs. Azriel coiled the dangling strip of fabric around his fingers. It was delicate, pliable like the moment between them. Ayla didn’t resist. She wouldn’t, he knew. Still, he nipped at her ear. ‘You sure?’

She answered with a roll of her hips against his, earning a laugh. One tug and a wave of her warmth hit him. Sweat gleamed on her chest, and he trailed a finger from her throat to the hem of her dress, parting it slowly, as his lips found hers again. She arched her back, letting the straps on her shoulder slide free. At the first feel of his scars on her bare skin, she shuddered.

He expected her to pull away, instead, she pressed into him, her hands clasped firmly around his neck. When he reached the lace at her hips, he paused.

Smiling into their kiss, she teased, ‘Need help?’ She backed away from him, gaze never leaving his, and laid herself on the bed.

Finally, Azriel let himself see her. Braced on her elbows, hair strewn about, every curve bared for him to devour; yet, it was the pale strips along her stomach and legs he learnt. He couldn’t remember the last time he spotted a scar on Mor or Feyre. Hells, even Rhys hadn’t scarred once in those camps. Even the deepest, most fatal cuts rarely earned a mark on a High Fae. To be branded this way—

‘Should we reschedule, shadowsinger?’ Voice honeyed thick and sweet with anticipation, Ayla purred, ‘It is rude to be distracted for this.’

Her taste still coated his tongue, and she refused to speak his name. Azriel surged forward. ‘You are real insufferable sometimes,’ he muttered, sealing her lips with his before she could ruin the moment further.

Her muffled laugh died in her throat the instant his palm closed over her chest. Kissing his way down, he dragged his teeth along the undercurve of her breast. Ayla moaned the thinnest of sounds, the first of many that night, that even his shadows quietened to listen.

When he reached her hips again, he didn’t hesitate. For every inch the lace slipped down her legs, desire and devilry darkened her eyes. Under the moonlight, sprawled out vulnerable for him, she looked more the predator he was reputed to be.

He wrapped his fingers around her foot as he savoured the sight before him, a thumb lazing a mindless circle on her sole. Ayla tensed. Brows furrowed, breath caught in her throat, lips pressed together and quivering.

With a smirk petty and cruel, he lifted her foot, eyes daring her to pull away. And when he placed a kiss to her ankle, her toes curled. Azriel grinned.

Rolling her eyes, Ayla nudged his jaw with her toe. ‘Your turn.’

As he began to shed the clothes he was too eager to be rid of the entire evening, Azriel suddenly found them inadequate. Ayla blinked, long and slow. Her gaze followed his hands, taking in every bit of skin unsheathed, darting to each flex of his muscles. And that act, so simple and innocuous, felt more intimate than all the times he had lain with another. 

He coasted a palm over her leg, over the bruise he had left—the only blemish on her flawless body. A tremor rolled under her skin. ‘Does it hurt?’ He murmured against it.

‘In a good way,’ she whispered.

Azriel tried again, this time studying her face for the truth. He soothed the burning mark with a lick, then a kiss, and tested which made her cry sweet. With hooded eyes and broken gasps, Ayla opened her legs.

Wet with slick, she glistened warm and inviting. Azriel leaned close, hands wrapping around her thighs and holding her steady. He breathed her in, long and deep. The moment he pressed his lips to her core, his eyes fell close.

Above, Ayla whimpered.

Hearing her breath crack, her pulse race from just a touch, Azriel kissed every inch of her. He parted her folds with the tip of his tongue and moaned at the taste he had been yearning for. Her fingers raked through his hair; her toes dug into his back. He teased her slit, drew circles around it, tighter and tighter until he reached the centre, only to start again. And again. And again.

Her hand found his on her hip, and he laced their fingers together. He buried his face close, crawling closer still. Wet and sweet, and dripping already, Ayla mewled.

‘Azriel,’ she called. The desperation in her voice cut through his greed. Every time she spoke his name, it took on a new meaning. ‘Don’t tease.’

He hadn’t tasted her enough, known her enough. But looking into her eyes, he realised he couldn’t deny her anything. He started again, traced the same path that left her groaning in pleasure, in frustration. When he reached her core again, he plunged his tongue in deep.

Ayla choked on a moan. Her back curved off the bed, her legs closed around him. The air fell silent except for her drawn breaths. Afraid he hurt her again, Azriel pulled back, or tried to. Her fingers held him where she wanted him the most, her walls pulsing and pulling him in. Then her little gasps turned into a laugh, airy and shuttered.

Eyes bright with delirium, teeth sunk into her lip, she lay there with a smile. Knowing he made her feel this way, that Ayla took pleasure from him, a strange warmth spread through his chest.

Still heaving, she peered down at him. ‘Do it again.’

Wasn’t she deviant to ask so brazenly, like it was her birthright to come on his tongue.

Azriel laughed against her, and her legs squeezed around him. Just a graze of his teeth, she was writhing again. As she threw her head back, he stopped. Absolute betrayal marred her gaze.

‘Don’t look away,’ he said.

Nothing more than a request, a plea. And she took it as an order. With a nod, she lifted herself onto her elbows, eyes only on him.

Every vile, sinister desire once lain dormant in him stirred awake at the sight.

She brushed his hair away from his face as Azriel coaxed her back to the edge. The strand of gold around her neck mocked him, winding taut where his hand should be. Soon. He would make sure nothing else ever felt good on her skin.

Ayla did everything right for him. She praised and encouraged him with her sighs. Her fingers dug so deep in his scalp that they burned. Her eyes fluttered, her body begged her to give in, yet she let him watch every second of her tortured pleasure.

Bond be damned, he would choose this every day.

He caressed her thigh, holding her close as she pulled at him, dragging his nails across her skin. When he finally swept his tongue on her clit, it twitched, pulsing in the same rhythm as her cunt. Closing his mouth around it, he sucked, and Ayla collapsed, shaking and shivering as she came undone for him.

Her fingers went slack, so did the rest of her. Whimpers fell from her lips as he lapped at her with gentle strokes. A laugh bubbled up in his chest. With a few touches, he could unravel her again. With a few kisses, he could make her cry his name.

Wiping his chin with the back of his hand, Azriel pulled away. He hissed, hand reaching between his legs, when the cold air reminded him of the ache he hadn’t tended to. Drunk on her high, he ignored it. With eyes shut, Ayla was catching her breath, and he couldn’t—wouldn’t rush this. He climbed atop her, his arms on either side.

He had heard it before, but he believed it to be an amorist’s gibberish, something he never cared to understand. In the aftermath of her release, Ayla glowed. A sort of radiance that lingered as her body recovered.

Brushing her hair away, Azriel tapped her cheek. When she didn’t answer, his smile faded. ‘Was it too much?’

‘I might be dead,’ she huffed out. ‘Spare me a minute.’

Azriel laughed, his body shook over hers, and she groaned low. ‘And you accused me of being rude.’

Slowly, Ayla opened her eyes. The carnal hunger in them ebbed away into something tender, something kind, as she smiled. ‘No need to be hasty. Wait till I return the favour.’

Mother was merciless. This was who she blessed him with. One who spoke her desires with little shame and wanted him with littler hesitation. Azriel sighed, resting his forehead against hers. He laughed again, maybe he lost his mind somewhere between her thighs too.

‘You’re so full of yourself,’ he said.

‘Perhaps,’ Ayla slipped her hand between them and took him in her palm, making him gasp into her mouth, ‘it is time I be full of you.’

She stroked him, slow and firm. All those nights Azriel dreamt of her, reality wasn’t distant with his rough, scarred hand reminding him of what he lacked. But hers wrapped around him, her skin silken and smooth, enveloping him—

‘I should’ve taken you sooner,’ he shuddered.

Ayla pushed her hips forward. ‘You do not seem to be in a hurry.’ His tip teased her entrance, slick and warm, and she took a sharp breath.

Her hands, her words, her heat, everything was a lure. Azriel willed himself to be still. One look from her and he would bury himself in her with no caution. Teeth gritting, he murmured, ‘Do it already.’

Lining him with her core, Ayla wrapped her hands around his waist. When she moved her hips again, swallowing his tip, he sank into her, inch by delicious inch, dragging it out so she felt him too. He savoured her moans, tasted her gasps on his tongue. Once sheathed inside, he pressed kisses to her cheek, her jaw, her temple while she moulded to him. Her fingers eased their grip and ventured across his back, exploring their newfound intimacy.

Azriel let his own wander along the dip of her waist, the swell of her breast, and when they brushed on a nipple, her walls clenched around him. ‘Fuck,’ he cursed as she arched into him, every trembling inch of her flesh pressed against him.

Holding his face to hers, Ayla whispered, ‘Move for me.’

So he did. The only way he knew she deserved, slow and drawn out.

‘You feel good,’ she blinked long. ‘Better than the dreams.’

‘You dreamt of me?’

He waited for one of her laughs, mocking him for having fallen for her words. Instead, Ayla said, ‘Did you not?’

Hadn’t he revealed his madness enough? Brushing a thumb across her cheek, Azriel looked into her earnest eyes. He kissed her deep, her taste still etched on his tongue. ‘Every moment.’

A smile curled her lips at his confession. ‘Close your eyes.’ His hips faltered. Darkness gathered above them, and she shook her head. ‘No shadows.’

Azriel swallowed. Without them, he would be completely blind. His heart rattled at the mere thought, his breaths grew heavy and thick.

‘Trust me,’ said Ayla, her voice soothing something within him as she cradled his face. ‘Close your eyes.’

With a heave, he gave in.

For long minutes, he stayed still in her arms. Her lips touched the corner of his eye, and Azriel flinched, driving himself deeper into her.

Her chuckle skittered over his ear. ‘Pretend this is another dream.’ She kissed his other eye, a thumb smoothing the ridges between his brows. ‘Tell me what I do in these dreams.’

Visions of his longings, his shame and guilt, flickered in his mind. If only he could begin to word the things he imagined to do to her, or she to him. Or the travesties he revelled in.

Yet, the sickness in him spoke on his behalf. ‘Kiss me,’ he rasped, reeling from the myriad of delusions that haunted him.

Her lips pressed into his cheek, drifting to his jaw as Ayla left a trail of pecks across his skin. She pulled away only to do the same to the other side of his face. When she reached the corner of her lips, she waited, her breath warm and wet. She took his lip between hers and kissed him with a slow, languid caress. Her tongue ghosted over his lips just enough to leave him gasping. When he craved more of her taste, to explore her more, she pulled away.

A mewl broke from her throat, and it was then Azriel realised he had been sliding in and out of her.

‘Touch me,’ he whined, his voice cracking from need. He sounded pitiful, and he couldn’t care.

Ayla hummed. ‘Where?’ Her thumb pressed against his lips as she nuzzled into him.

‘Anywhere,’ he thrust in, grinding his hips against hers. ‘Everywhere.’

She hid her moans from him, letting them sink into his flesh instead. Her fingers curled around the back of his neck and weaved through his hair. A shiver slinked down his spine as she ran her nails along his scalp. When they grazed the behind of his ears, he purred. Gods, what was he becoming?

Ayla felt him in broad strokes, kneading on the muscles pulled taut. When his shoulders tensed still under her hot touch, her breath tickled his skin, ‘This will feel good. I promise.’

It had been a long time since Azriel was fully alone in the dark. With his sight and shadows surrendered, she was the only tether holding him together. Her tender caress fraying his nerves, her shattered sighs echoing in his ears, her sweat sweetening the air around him, and her warmth welcoming him in every time. He needed to feel her, to know this was real, that he wasn’t stranded.

He leaned towards the simmering heat of her body, lips seeking her skin. Instead, he met her hair, cool and soft. He buried his face in it, inhaling her.

Her hands roved over his front. Ayla paused, fingers pressed into the hard planes. A lone finger carved a path over his shoulder, curling and swirling. His tattoo, Azriel realised.

‘Bargain?’

Her voice was distant. He couldn’t tell if it was awe or hesitation. He shook his head. ‘Illyrian. It’s meant to bring luck.’

‘They are beautiful,’ Ayla sighed, shifting under him. Her chest glided against his, her pert nipples dragged and tugged at his muscles. Her lips brushed against his collarbone, and Azriel sucked in a breath. ‘On you,’ she added.

She pulled her legs higher along his sides. A hand felt up his arm while the other drew patterns over his back. The ghost of her touch had his wings twitching, and they folded in. Still, she ignored the base where they met his shoulders. Her nails raked down his spine, leaving imprints of her presence, of their deed on him.

His cock hardened inside her.

Ayla whimpered. Her hands went lower and lower, and when they settled on his ass, he let out a breathless laugh. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she arched into him. She met each thrust of his with a smooth roll of her hips, guiding him and setting a new rhythm, slower and deeper. And every time he sank to the hilt, she gripped him until he was heaving into the crook of her neck.

Azriel had many scream, writhe, and curse before; cry real tears before. But none of it felt so sensual, so. . .heart-achingly raw.

Ayla pleasured him like he was worthy of her adoration. Like it didn’t matter what he was, or wasn’t. She filled every void in his soul, mending every broken bit, weaving herself through his very existence. To be touched this way, to be wanted this way— Maybe, he thought, he could know love.

The bond, that silent string of fate that tied them together, was a leash in her hands. She reeled him in closer and closer with her breath, her touch, and she didn’t know who he was. Months of fooling himself, and it took her a night to accept him. What had he done to deserve this?

Closing his arms around her, Azriel shielded her with his body.

‘What else? What did I do?’

Her breaths grew shallow in his ears, the only sign that she was as lost as he was. She staved off her release, Azriel knew from the way her legs trembled, the way her toes curled into his flesh, and the way she fluttered around him.

He fared no better. His body shook, begging for relief, and yet, ‘Your tongue on my neck.’

‘Hmm,’ her fingers threaded through his hair. With a tug, she bared his throat. ‘Like this?’

Her mouth met the base of his neck in a firm kiss. He sucked in a breath when her tongue, hot and wet, skimmed his skin in a wide sweep, tracing a slow path up to his jaw. The trail she left chilled in the breeze, wringing a shudder from him. She flicked his ear with the tip—and when a groan slipped free, she nipped.

Azriel flinched, his eyes snapped to hers. Pulling out of her, he gripped her jaw, watched her face twist in pleasure, and drove back in.

‘Was it like in your dreams?’ Her lips swollen and red parted for strained gasps. Beads of sweat adorned her forehead and chest. Her hair, coated in his breath, stuck to her cheek and his arms. And with eyes, glazed with desperation and need, as Ayla stared at him expectant, she looked ecstasy taken form. In that moment, he knew she would give him anything he asked for.

All those brash words and tempting honesty, and she hadn’t realised it yet. That she was his dream.

His chest ached with a strange bliss. Azriel nodded through a smile. As their lips met, she held him tight. He slipped his tongue into her mouth, moving in tandem with his hips, each stroke an echo of the other.

Ayla broke their kiss. ‘I need to—’

‘I know. I can feel you.’

She raised her legs higher. Her walls clamped around him, gripping him so pain laced through pleasure. Azriel tipped her chin back, holding her still to witness her surrender in her eyes. Swallowing the shaky breaths of hers, he memorised the way she shattered for him, and he reached his high to her moans strung together in the sweetest symphony. A hand fisting the pillow, he kept thrusting into her slow and deep, stretching time as aftershocks rippled through her body.

As he rode out the last wave, Azriel dropped his head into the crook of her neck. Fear seeped through the cracks, urging him to end the night before she threw him away like the others. Instead he pressed into her. Still ravenous for her taste, he lapped at her sweat-slicked skin.

Then, Ayla moved. She grazed her fingers along his nape, petting him like he were nothing but a babe. Even as his breaths grew ragged at her act, she let him lie there in silence.

Once her heart steadied to a lulling beat, she started, ‘So, when shall we do this again?’

The slight lilt in her tone made him smile. ‘You need to be more specific. Do you want a repeat of the entire evening, or—’ He perched on his arms. Her breath hitched at their closeness, and he whispered, ‘—just the fucking?’

‘Of course, I meant the fucking.’ Even the crude word sounded innocent on her tongue. Ayla shook her head, hugging him closer. ‘I don’t mind the courting either.’

Azriel feigned a sigh. ‘The courting will have to wait till daybreak. About the fucking though. . .’

Her little laughs echoed through the night as he peppered kisses along her skin.

.

The air was colder, crisper for a summer day. Memories from the previous night still afresh in his mind, Azriel watched the morning sun drape the city golden from the balcony. A smile tugged at his lips since he woke up, and no amount of sighing eased the heaviness in his chest, not that he minded it anymore, for it was a reminder of her presence in his life.

As he soaked in the surprising slowness of the new day, a caress to his mental wards disrupted his slice of heaven. Carefully cloaking his feelings, Azriel opened his mind.

Where are you?

Rhys’s words were casual, calculated still. However, something about the tempered aura threatening to burst through made Azriel wary. Do you need me?

There was silence for a beat, nothing but him and his spiralling thoughts in the dark.

Then Rhys said, Feyre wants you to join us for breakfast. When Azriel didn’t answer right away, he added, like an afterthought, Cass and Nesta are already here. With that, his voice was gone. And so was his tamed power.

Azriel didn’t wish to leave yet. It was a struggle enough to untangle himself from Ayla earlier. Though most of the night was spent watching her sleep and feeling her skin on his fingers, he had never felt so at peace as he did with her safely nestled in his embrace. Especially when she placed a soft kiss on his lips before she fell asleep. Every breath she took sent a fresh wave of shock, affirming she wasn’t one of his hallucinations.

A frantic chirping interrupted the silence, and his eyes went to the bed. Hands wrapped around the pillow in his stead, hair splayed around her like spilt shadows, Ayla still slumbered. Darkness hovered over her bare back. Since they were stolen of her attention the night before, they refused to split from her even for a moment.

The culprit that almost shattered this spell too soon perched on the far end of the railing. Cocking its head, the tit watched him with beady eyes. It assessed the metal cage hanging to his side, and then the predator that stood in its way. Even the gentlest of breezes ruffled its golden feathers askew. Its tiny head, so dark as if dipped in a pool of midnight, glistened blue under the sunlight.

After a thorough appraisal, it snapped its head towards Ayla so sharp that he winced, and cried out two shrill notes.

Azriel lifted his index to his lips, his movement alarming the bird. Its claws clung to the bar; its wings flared, their fluttering almost as loud as its calls. He let his own wings twitch. The creature froze, its head tilting from side to side. His body shook as he fought back a laugh.

Inside, the sheets rustled under Ayla. The imprints of his lips covered her neck and chest. Shadows grazed them, skittered closer still, tendrils reaching to caress her face. Startled by their whispers, she flinched, then leaned into their ghostly touch.

‘Careful now,’ Azriel warned under his breath. The darkness obeyed. It retreated and played with her hair instead.

He hadn’t finished his sigh when pain pierced his hand, tearing his attention from her. Their visitor, with its small facade and innocent eyes, inspected his scars. In a heartbeat, it dove forward and pecked at his hardened skin. Its feathers grazed him, soft and delicate. With not an ounce of fear for him, it carried on its picking.

Ayla shifted again. Azriel sighed again.

Her brows pulled together while she blinked awake. Shadows swarmed her in an instant and tickled her neck, earning her smile. With a deep breath, she turned to him. The sheets slid low on her waist, and she didn’t care to fix them.

His heart quivered from the way she drank him in. Azriel cleared his throat.

She reached her hand, and he met her halfway. ‘Now you know how it feels to be watched,’ she laughed.

As he ghosted his fingers over the length of her arm, she kissed him. 

He hadn’t asked. His poor, miserable heart ached, shattered, and pieced together all at once. Ayla, his mate, kissed him like it was the first thing she needed at the break of day.

When she pulled away, breathless and with hooded eyes, he regretted his next words. ‘I have to leave.’ He stood up, turning away from her, and before his urges won over, he began to get dressed.

Ayla tucked her knees to her chest and the shadows sneaked through the crevices to be as close to her as possible. ‘They do not seem eager to leave.’

‘No, they don’t,’ he agreed, hiding his smile.

She started to speak, and the soft cries interrupted them. Her eyes turned to the winged creature that Azriel was beginning to despise now. The light in her eyes and the warmth on her face vanished, and with it, the Ayla he knew.

The creature took her far away, out of his reach. Her world—whatever, wherever it was—he wasn’t part of it.

With a graceful flick of her wrist, she draped the sheet around her as she got to her feet. Bracing it loosely to her chest, the rest trailing behind her like a regal veil, she walked past him to the kitchen, as if his presence was invisible.

When the shadows returned in silence, Azriel was convinced something was wrong. And it certainly must be his fault. Was it that he was leaving soon? Was he supposed to offer something? He had no choice; he couldn’t stay when his family was waiting. The later he arrived, the more they would pry.

The voice in his head nagged him to fix this, to erase the sombre from her face. But her feelings were hidden from him, and the bond remained useless. How did Rhys do it?

Azriel closed the distance between them. He pressed his chest against her back, a hand on her waist to quiet the chaos brewing in his mind. Her raw scent was cleaner, sharper, sweeter in the morning, undiluted by the world yet. ‘I’d stay if I could,’ he brushed his lips against her shoulder. ‘But Rhys has ordered me back.’

‘I understand.’ Ayla poured a mix of seeds into a bowl—for the fiend that ruined her mood, he realised. The rattle leadened the silence between them. ‘I shall be leaving the city today.’ His grip dug into her, and she continued, ‘The bar is due for a restock and the forge needs supplies. It shall not take longer than a week.’

A week. A whole week. Azriel forced himself to believe, but the hollow in her voice rang clear. And, the words poured out of his mouth before he knew it, ‘Do you want me to go with you?’

Ayla laughed then, a low, light laugh that drew a smile from him. For a moment, he wondered if he had worried for nothing. ‘Not with the suspicions, again.’ She said, leaning against him, ‘Not every threat is worth pursuing, you know. Perhaps it is the spy in you seeking a danger where there is none.’

If only she knew what the imposter did with her name, or of the spies set after her. Or the harlot. . . Azriel carded his fingers through her hair, breaking the knots he definitely was the cause of. ‘If you believed that, you’d have informed me sooner.’

‘I was not certain where our night might lead us. Besides, I am telling you now so you do not assume I ran away after our time together.’

Azriel decided she was right. He wrapped his arm around her then, pressing his face into her neck. Could she sense him in her heart?

‘Last night,’ her words trailed off with a sigh. She turned in his embrace and searched his eyes. ‘I do not know why you returned after denying me for so long. I meant what I said about the courting. I would like more of this—more of you—if you let me.’

With a final kiss to his mouth, she slipped out of his hold.

She didn’t look back at him once, letting go as though she didn’t feel a fraction of his pain, and tended to the creature instead. It didn’t need to ask for it. Yet, Ayla brushed her knuckles along its back, and it ducked its head in answer.

How often did it earn her kindness for its body to welcome her touch so easily? How did a thing that couldn’t speak deserve what he craved?

The longer he watched her, serene and content in her world, Azriel knew the mating bond was much a bane as a boon.

Soft glow slipped through the cracks and lit the bottom of the stairs. Glasses clinked and clanked. Two familiar voices bantered and laughed, oblivious to the uninvited guest upstairs.

Yet, every one of his senses honed in on the other side of the door. Azriel knocked again. Three short raps.

It was late when he arrived in Velaris. After spending weeks in an enemy territory with nothing but time to mull over the different ways Ayla could be in danger, Azriel looked forward to quieting those fears for good. However, his hope was short-lived.

The summons rang clear in his mind as soon as he breached the wards. For all that Rhys put him through, Azriel hadn’t been eager to face him this soon. It wasn’t a request, though, a High Lord’s order.

He learnt everything there was to learn in less than a day or two, after all, the state of Spring hadn’t improved from what he heard last. Tamlin refusing to take his fae form, wandering through the forests like a mindless predator on the prowl. The lands left unmanned and open to scavengers and vicious creatures alike. Villages lay in ruins as though the people had abandoned the court like their High Lord had done to them. Every now and then, a few Children of the Blessed strays crossed the borders freely without the Wall separating them.

Wilderness consumed the endless meadows, dark and gloomy, the lands devouring everything under the sun as if to cleanse the blood spilt on them. The beauty that once disguised the atrocities for centuries finally cracked, turning into something sinister, unrecognisable. 

If Azriel had any kindness left in him, he would pity Tamlin.

Despite his reports, he was ordered to stay put for weeks. It was a fitting punishment for dismissing a direct command and leaving the city without a word. Deep down, Azriel also knew there was more to it, and his suspicions were confirmed when Rhys insisted on meeting that very night.

His shadows, unwilling to be stalled further, disappeared while he suffered through a long recounting of what he witnessed down to every agonising detail. He expected Rhys to mention Ayla or their altercation at least once, but he didn’t.

No sooner had Azriel stepped out of the River House, a scroll wafted out of the stretch of darkness cast by his stature and inky mists rose up to meet him. Months of restraint that held him together shattered at the sight of the unmistakable sigil of the Court of Nightmares on the concocted seal of black and silver.

Open the door.

There were no names of the victims in the report—each one deemed unimportant, leaving Azriel’s mind churn with fresh fears. The face of the harlot, innocent and hopeful, as flames consumed the vines, the curtains, her red dress, while she waited. Her bright smile as she spoke of the impostor, her Ayla.

Nothing but a husk in her place now. No one to claim or mourn her. 

Azriel shouldn’t have left Velaris. He shouldn’t have left her.

Open the door!

Crimes happened in Hewn City every day, and the pleasure house was an insignificant establishment, to put it mildly. Then why did Keir call upon Rhys? It must have been the impostor’s ploy, too; it had to be.

His knuckles met the wood with a force that bordered on pounding.

Rhys had known of this attack and forbade his early return to keep him out of investigations. Earlier that night, he regarded him with a calculating stare like he was waiting for the right opportunity, a predator waiting for the perfect moment to pick on its prey. Yet, he didn’t utter a word.

Azriel pinched his eyes shut. The air grew thick. Splinters dug into his fingers. Shadows dancing in front of him coiled around his arms and shoulders, pulling him back. For the first time, the silence and darkness he had preferred all his life felt suffocating.

Then, he heard it. Footfalls, the faintest he had ever heard, right before the door swung open.

Ayla stepped out, her eyes on his hand gripping the doorframe with his might, and beyond it down the stairs. Perhaps to find one of her friends, Azriel realised. Her gaze, bright and alert, rose up to his face. A delicate brow lifted in a perfect arc. ‘It’s late.’

The remnant of voices faded. Lights flickered out. A door creaked shut in the distance. And Azriel stood still, every thought eddying out of his mind.

Her pale shirt slipped down the curve of her shoulder, the toggles fastened just enough to hold it together as though she barely managed to pull the crumpled thing on moments ago. Silky tendrils came undone from her braid, teasing her neck, and fluttered under his shuddered breath. Heat radiated from her, warm and real, that even drew his shadows closer. 

Azriel swallowed thickly.

Unimpressed by his silence, Ayla said, ‘What are you doing here?’

There was no anger in her words, nor surprise. Azriel wasn’t sure if she even expected an answer. He asked instead, ‘Are you alone?’

A smile grazed her lips, and Ayla looked away. ‘And what if I were?’ She took a step back, then another, backing into the loft.

Azriel matched her, step for step, his feet carrying him on their own. ‘Tell me it’s over.’

‘What is?’

A soft click echoed behind him. The room plunged into darkness, leaving her trapped alone with him. Her scent, sharp and unadulterated, marking every corner of the room, enveloped him. Azriel drew in another long breath and released it, realising she hadn’t taken anyone while he was gone. ‘You know,’ he said, a mere whisper, ‘The strangers. The late nights.’

Ayla hummed. ‘Why?’

Only a word, and Azriel was speechless. How was he supposed to convince her that the males she brought home were spies? Would she believe the spy of the High Lord she mistrusted? Just a warning should suffice till he fixed this, however, Ayla was too prideful and cynical to accept it from him.

A low chuckle interrupted his thoughts. ‘Which is troubling you? The strangers?’ Her head tipped to the side as she moved deeper and deeper into the chamber. ‘Or the late nights?’

‘It isn’t safe—’

‘You watch me.’ Azriel halted, and so did she, waiting for him to say something. Deny it, admit it. ‘Is that why? For my safety?’

The shadows had always been discreet, or so they made him believe. But as they darted away from his sight, hiding behind his wings, he was convinced Ayla knew more than he did. Azriel couldn’t be blamed for their mischief, and the touches they stole on his behalf were harmless, unlike what the others were capable of.

‘Or is that what you like, shadowsinger?’ Ayla whispered, her voice carrying a sinful note. ‘Do you prefer watching only me or. . .’

Her lips lifted in the way he was familiar with, the way when she was sure she had her opponent deciphered. 

Gods, the insinuation that he was twisted, which Azriel wasn’t far from, but to imply he would crave anyone but her— His throat closed up. A chill went down his spine. It was a trap, a delicious, enticing trap that he wanted to fall prey to. With each ragged breath, his resolve chipped away.

‘This isn’t about me,’ Azriel said more to himself than her, reminding himself of the purpose of his visit. He continued on his path, and she did as well. ‘You shouldn’t be so careless with who you invite in.’

The words came out harsher than he intended, but he couldn’t think past the shrinking distance between them as she slowed her steps or her bared throat as she craned her neck to meet his eyes.

‘I let you in.’

Azriel leaned close, close enough to notice the slight tremble of her lips when she took a breath. ‘End the games, Ayla.’

The finality in his tone rendered her stunned. Ayla blinked twice, and her smile faded. Her lips parted slowly, for a taunt or a threat that never came, as a soft thump interrupted her. Her eyes widening, she stumbled back. She reached forward, fingers grasping at his chest and failing to find purchase in the smooth leathers. 

Azriel slipped his arm around her waist without a thought, the act as easy as breathing. Something knocked into the back of his legs. His wings flared on instinct, but a weight bore them down until he lost his footing and the two fell together.

Holding her close, he braced his weight on his other arm, and his knee sank into plushness. It took him a moment to realise it wasn’t his shadows that broke the fall but her bed. 

The frenzied hum droning in his ears, the heaviness on his back holding him down; Azriel was a fool to trust them around Ayla.

Her heart rattled from their near fall, the sound drowning every rational thought in his mind. Her chest heaved with short, hurried breaths. Ayla was more than capable of getting out of his hold, throwing him off her, and yet, her hands lay by her side as though she had surrendered to fate, to him.

His instincts dictated that he pull away, walk out the door before he did something regrettable.

Maybe he never returned from Spring. Maybe he was poisoned, and maybe this was an elaborate hallucination conjured by his mind to numb its effects. 

But every inch of his body came alive in her presence; achingly aware of her warmth cradling him, her pliant and supple flesh sinking under his fingers, and those eyes. Those damning eyes basking in the glow of his siphons, glimmering like dancing pits of moonless sky, and they shone with something akin to awe as she searched his face. What she saw in him to be worthy of that gaze, Azriel didn’t know.

‘I can’t believe you let me do it,’ said Ayla, any trace of amusement gone. ‘When you didn’t return, I thought you changed your mind.’ A note of sincerity tinged her quiet confession.

‘You wanted to make it fair,’ argued Azriel.

Ayla chuckled almost in disbelief. ‘You let me bed them for fairness?’ Her breaths warmed his skin, and his own rose to match hers.

‘It’s what you wanted,’ Azriel voiced the mantra that kept him sane through this insanity, though in that moment, he hardly believed those words himself.

Unable to hold her gaze anymore, he stared at her pulse fluttering at the base of her neck. The mesmerising beat, a contrast to his raging thoughts, grounded him. Would a taste hurt? He could cherish it for the remainder of his life when this eventually came to an end.

His head barely dipped, her breath hitched.

‘Were you—’ a sigh left Ayla’s lips, tickling the shell of his ear. ‘You wanted to be chosen over the others.’

Azriel stilled. The accusation hung heavy and thick between them, and he almost fell for it. He looked up, expecting another one of that triumphant quirk of her lips; instead, he found naked observation in her eyes, curious even. Like she had been the one plagued with inescapable need and ache for months, the one in fear’s clutches helplessly caged in this wickedness.

Breathless, Ayla glanced at his lips.

Or maybe, she was right.

Azriel panted after the one who never desired him and the other who wasn’t meant to be his. Centuries wasted yearning for this. It was all he knew, to live in the distance, to pray for a swift end so he wasn’t riddled with hope. A part of him wondered if Ayla longed for him, if she sought him without the intervention of fate, he could be worthy of this.

Ayla drew another long breath. ‘Azriel.’

A shiver rolled down his spine. Azriel had dreamt of this moment before. Their first time, he had stolen the kiss from her. He had vowed to make it right the next time. He would stare into her eyes, watch the desire pool in them, trace the curve of her jaw with his scarred fingers. He would make her anticipate more, ask for more. When she was a blushing mess for him, he would kiss her gently. Taste her slowly. First, her lips. Then, her skin. And if she allowed, maybe more. That’s what his mate deserved.

But when Ayla whispered his name with intent—testing it on her tongue, savouring it—Azriel crashed his lips on hers.

And this time, there was no hesitation.

Ayla wrapped her legs around his waist and tugged him flush against her, while her hands smoothed over his chest. When Azriel tried to restore some distance between them again, she slipped her fingers into the collar of his leathers and pulled him back.

Azriel sucked on her lip. Ayla flicked his with the tip of her tongue.

Azriel tightened his arm around her. Ayla sighed against him.

Azriel trailed a path down her jaw, where his blade had once left a bruise, each kiss an apology due. Through the sharpness of her fragrance he adored, he scented something else, something so, so sweet that it fractured his mind, nearly ripping a pathetic moan out of him. He licked a long strip up her neck, wanting to taste something, anything.

Ayla arched her back, allowing him to mark her to his content. Her hands wandered all over him, gripping his shoulder, feeling his back, easing in between them and—

Azriel choked on his breath. Prying her hands off him, he pinned them by her sides. Her greedy little act sobered him before he let it get too far. He couldn’t do it, not with her.

‘Not yet,’ he mumbled into her skin. His forehead pressed against her cheek, he inhaled deeply. ‘Not like this.’

The words he itched to say—ones that singed his tongue—Not like those males. And Ayla nodded like she understood.

And in the moments of their waning desires, Azriel revelled in the sound of her heart calming to a steady beat, his lips ghosting over her skin, sneaking unsuspecting kisses.

‘What are they doing?’ Ayla asked quietly, her voice laced with curiosity.

Azriel looked up to find her attention drawn to something behind him. Shadows darted back and forth, teetering over his shoulders. ‘They want to touch you.’

Ayla blinked. Her brows pulled together as she turned to him. ‘You mean you want to touch me?’

‘I’m not denying it,’ Azriel chuckled at her unabashed words and unflinching gaze. A familiar buzz rang in his ears, angry and impatient. ‘The shadows can think for themselves. Right now, they are feeling neglected.’

Ayla stared at them for a moment, studying their movements. The wisps of darkness coloured smoky blue under the siphons’ light. She raised a tentative hand, and the shadows reached back. First, barely a touch to her finger and when she held still, they engulfed her hand. Ayla gasped a laugh at the sensation, her chest sinking under him. She glided her hand through the air, and they swayed along, chasing her skin.

‘They are beautiful,’ said Ayla, enthralled by the ribbons of misty darkness weaving through her fingers.

The shadows went silent, frozen for a beat before writhing down her forearm as if to indulge her, chanting her word like a badge of honour.

‘They feel the same about you,’ said Azriel. One of the rare few things they agreed on lately.

Ayla blinked, then broke into laughter, the sweetest melody he had ever heard, and draped the shadow-gloved hand over his shoulder. ‘There were more than eight, weren’t there?’

Resisting a smile, Azriel pecked her cheek. It didn’t matter anymore.

Vines curled and climbed up the gates; thick foliage covered every inch of the iron bars, blooming roses dotted them like rubies, brighter than Cassian’s siphons even in the never-ending dark. Glow worms crept along the polished dome carved above, their light faint and distant as stars in the night sky. Surrounded by lush gardens trimmed to perfection, the mansion stood majestic in the pit. From afar, one wouldn’t suspect signs of life in the depths of these caverns.

It took two days and nights to pry the location from one of Keir’s servants. If not for his station in the court, Azriel doubted he’d been “invited”. 

A high fae waited at the door with a lantern in her hand. A heavy velvet robe slung over her shoulders trailed behind her with each step. Along the maze of corridors, Azriel saw no one, heard no one. But he knew wards were positioned in hidden passages in such places. The chamber on the upper floor was secluded and away from the rest. It seemed to be carved out of the very mountain and yet the walls carried a note of elegance with glossy swirls running along them. His boots sank into the plush carpet that lined the entire floor. A long table split the room in two; a lounge on one side and a bed on the other. Candles were mounted on every ledge and sconce, and the fae lit them one by one. 

Noticing his stare on the flames, she smiled, ‘A little something to enhance your experience.’

Azriel knew it to be a lie. Everything had a steep price in Hewn City, even something as simple as faelights. A soft trilling rung in the air but that wasn’t peculiar where magic was the only way of life. More vines crept through the windows and framed every doorway. The petals were cool to the touch, soft as a real bloom. They couldn’t be, he was certain until one of the thorns pierced his skin. 

Greenhouses were erected throughout the city for vegetation—without the sun, this became their means of sustenance. However, these fae wouldn’t waste their powers on what they called vain luxuries, while the females used what was left of theirs for a smidgen of beauty to forget the truth that they were trapped underground. To cast as much an elaborate glamour as this, his host had to be as powerful as Keir herself.

‘You aren’t the first to mistake them for an illusion,’ her voice drifted close, but Azriel couldn’t tear his gaze from the blood beading on his finger. ‘Everything you find here is as real as the pleasure you seek, Spymaster.’  

Her hair was pinned in a tight coil at the back of her head, not a strand out of place. Though the candlelight poured some warmth into her pale skin, it failed to mask the cunning in her blood. Her name was as much a forbidden secret as this place. She had the respect of no male in the city, and yet, they would crawl on their knees if she demanded. 

Mindlessly, Azriel rubbed his fingers together smearing the blood on his skin. A sly smile stretched her lips. ‘I was told of your afflictions. You will find my choice satisfactory.’

He didn’t care what she had heard of him, nor how. Two days was a long time away from Velaris. It felt right at the moment to find the source of all threats and eliminate it. Now, he wasn’t so sure. After months of searching, this was too easy—sending a male from the mountain city, that ridiculous riddle for anyone to decipher. However, Azriel had to admit, she was clever. Never in his right mind would he have looked for her in a pleasure house. 

But this fae in front of him was not her. 

No amount of money would suffice to loosen her lips about her merchandise either. Slipping his hands into lined leather gloves, Azriel turned to leave. The door opened slowly on a silent wind and he froze.

‘Like I said, I know what you desire,’ purred the fae. With one final look cast his way, she left him with the dame who took her time to observe him from a distance.

Azriel had only been to a pleasure house here on rare occasions when he desperately needed a distraction. An unspoken understanding still remained: His deeds were to be kept a secret, always. Yet, the uncanny resemblance in that innocent face, those warm brown eyes, and pale golden hair gutted him. Had they all looked like her? Was he so wretched that, even after decades, no one expected any better from him?

A smile curled her thin, red-painted lips as the harlot approached him. Unlike the other, she preferred a red lacy gown to display her fair skin underneath. Her eyes flicked to his hands as she reached for him, her shoulders sagged a bit finding them concealed. She knew exactly who he was. Azriel held in his sigh when her fingers wrapped around his and she led him to the lounge instead of the bed—he wouldn’t let this get that far anyway.

Her voice was thinner than Mor’s. ‘Madame says you don’t speak much. You don’t have to,’ she pressed into his side, draping an arm so boldly over his chest, ‘except for telling me what you’d like me to do.’ 

Shadows wavered by his heels and along the corners of the room. If not for Ayla, they would have abandoned him the moment he set foot in this place. Azriel wanted to leave too. But this was the first time he had been this close to the truth.

‘Have you been working here for long?’ he asked, peeling himself away from her. Everything reeked of roses. The candles, the wine carafe on the table, her hair.

His question left her puzzled for a breath. Then her smile returned. ‘I’m experienced if that’s what you’re asking.’

Turning away, Azriel closed his eyes. He couldn’t explain what made him stay, nor the feeling that this female was the path to all his answers. It’s just another mission, he told himself. He had done this before. He was doing this to protect Ayla. This wasn’t wrong—then why did it feel so? 

‘They never said you were shy,’ her fingers trailed to his collar and he eased it away with as much gentleness he could muster.

‘What is your name?’ Azriel tried again. Before she spoke, he added, ‘Your real name.’

She let out a giggle. ‘That doesn’t matter within these walls. The question is, what do you want to call me?’

This was a waste of time. His mind returned to Pharus. To the dark alley beside it, the empty streets after midnight with lurkers seeking a place without bounds. To any male invited upstairs in those two days. Azriel needed to leave. He would stand watch by the door every night if he had to, and it was better than this, but his body wouldn’t move.

Listen, a voice whispered in his ear. His shadows. They tethered him to the present and the task he wrought upon himself.

‘There was a male here before,’ said Azriel slowly.

Dark, doe eyes rose to his face, ‘I don’t mind sharing but the only males here are the guards.’ The harlot leaned into him and her hand caressed his thigh—up and down and up—eliciting an ache in his chest. Only, not the kind he was used to.

Her lips almost met his skin when Azriel spoke. ‘Dark hair, dark skin. He was likely a noble and new. He must’ve visited in the past two weeks.’ 

The hand on his knee froze. The harlot wrapped her arms around herself and pulled away, mumbling under her breath. ‘You’re not here for pleasure.’ 

The brazenness from before vanished from her face. She made to stand and Azriel grabbed her wrist, that touch alone searing his soul worse than any perverseness he committed in his life. He softened his tone knowing threats yielded him nothing in places like this. ‘He is dangerous. He could’ve hurt someone here. All I want to know is who he met with.’

The harlot pressed her lips together, jaw tightening. ‘Madame won’t let them touch us that way.’

‘But you don’t always tell Madame what they do to you, do you?’ 

Azriel gambled. These females owed loyalty to their masters and mistresses that couldn’t be broken by measly words. It was their first lesson, after all. A voice in his mind reminded him that he was none the better for knowing this and the things he had done.

His companion swallowed thickly, meeting his eyes again. ‘We don’t see them until they walk into our chambers.’

And this was hers. The room was twice as big as his in House of Wind, perhaps even bigger. Given the refinement of decor and attention to comfort, she was reserved for the elite. ‘Are you close with the others?’

A shoulder rose delicately and the harlot twisted towards him. ‘The girls?’ Azriel nodded. ‘Hmm, Madame makes us share the new girls the first few nights and I’ve been here the longest. So, I suppose you could say that.’

The tiniest spark of hope flared in his chest. ‘They must talk to you then. Did they mention anyone?’

Sighing, the harlot rested her head by his shoulder. ‘Only if they’re memorable.’ Her fingers traced the curve of the siphon on his arm. A blush tinted her cheeks, ‘I’ve heard about you.’

Apparently, so did the rest of Prythian. ‘That male was with someone new. He wouldn’t have visited before but often after her.’

‘New?’ She bit her lip. 

Azriel held his breath.

‘Madame trained only one this year. But she can’t be’ Certainty rang in her voice. ‘She is exclusive and expensive. Madame picks her partners herself.’

‘And why is that?’

The harlot chuckled. ‘She’s that good, silly.’ Her breath fanned against his neck as she laid a hand on his chest again, firm and curious. ‘She taught me a few tricks. Want me to show you?’

Azriel stopped her from venturing further. ‘Is she working tonight?’

‘She left.’

‘Left?’

Sensing his interest, the harlot perked up. ‘I think so. The last we heard, she was sent to her chamber with a client. He’d paid only for an hour but Madame didn’t trust him. When the guards went to fetch him, they found him tied to the bed and she was gone.’ A gasp tore from her, ‘Do you think he tried to hurt her?’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Two nights ago.’

The day Azriel found the spy. This chase was just another game.

‘Did she tell anyone she was leaving?’

‘No, Madame didn’t believe she was gone until yesterday. She was eager to work here. Like she wanted to. She made so much in a night that she had privileges within a week.’ Azriel’s brow furrowed and she added, ‘Like what she wears. See the clients first. Deny. . .servicing. Go to the city alone.’

Azriel looked away with a heavy sigh. In other words, this was a mistake. She could have found her spy anywhere in a city full of people who hated him and his family at her disposal, and no one knew what she had been plotting all this time.

‘Don’t,’ warned Azriel and the harlot’s hand froze an inch short from his wing. She offered a guilty smile when his gaze shifted to her again. ‘That must've made the others angry,’ he mumbled to himself, loud enough to pique the curiosity of his company. 

‘Like who?’ She stared at him wide-eyed.

‘You said she was new but clearly Madame favoured her over everyone. Wouldn’t you hate her?’

She shook her head violently. ‘No, everybody likes her!’ She scooted closer, her robe sliding down her shoulder exposing the smooth skin, and she whispered, ‘The nights she worked, we didn’t have to. Madame even let us rest. And she gave us her earnings and brought us souvenirs from the city. She took care of us.’

‘Why would she do that if she never talked to you?’

‘Not about males.’

‘What else did she talk about?’

The harlot sat in silence for a long minute. Her brows pulled together in thought. ‘Her friend. No, that’s not right. Her sister?’ She nodded once, ‘Yes, a sister.’ 

Azriel watched her reach for the wine on the table with a trembling hand but ignore the glasses. She mumbled the words like a chant as if she couldn’t stop herself. Wine dripped from the corner of her mouth and she finally set the carafe down, not bothering to clean herself. 

Her voice was steady this time. ‘She is going to bring her sister home. The time is just not right yet.’

If she did this for Hamra, it explained why the female left Hewn City. But Azriel needed to be sure. ‘What is the sister’s name?’

The harlot barely blinked at the wine staining her chest, instead, she resorted to tracing the lace of her dress. ‘Ayla wouldn’t tell us.’

Azriel stiffened. His shadows froze over his shoulders. ‘Ayla?’

She nodded without looking up, ‘The whore you’ve been asking about.’

Air thickened around him. 

Whore. Whore. Whore. 

Azriel had been stabbed before, but nothing compared to what he felt at that moment. 

Lie. Finally, the shadows’ song forced him to breathe. Yes, that must be it. A lie. It couldn’t be Ayla. 

His shadows kept watch over her every night and the wraiths reported her whereabouts during the days. Ayla never stepped out of Velaris. She was safe where she belonged. And she was not a who— She was not.

Smoky tendrils caressed the back of his neck, coaxing him to steady himself. Taking a deep breath, Azriel asked, ‘What did she look like?’

‘I don’t know.’ The harlot muttered. Red-painted nails dug through the fabric and into her thigh. Her words were quieter, hesitant. ‘She has a beautiful smile. And red hair, I think. I just saw her. Why can’t I remember?’

Until then, the harlot had been forthcoming about her life, the secrets of this place. Was she instructed to entertain him? This confirmed his suspicions about his opponent being a daemati. How many others had fallen her victim so far?

Worse, how many crimes had she committed in Ayla’s name? He needed to find what she had been up to before word reached Mor or Rhys. 

With the shadows darting ahead of him, Azriel headed for the door. ‘Forget this conversation,’ he said, although he was sure the daemati had taken care of it as well.

‘Wait!’ The harlot rose with him. ‘You paid for the entire night. They’ll know if you leave now.’

Under his silent, scrutinising eyes, she clenched the collar of the robe together in a fist. She refused to look at him but stood her ground.

What must her life be if she was more afraid of her Madame than the Spymaster of the Night Court?

‘Are you content with this life?’ 

‘What?’ The harlot breathed, her eyes wide and void.

‘If you were offered a life away from—’ Azriel looked around the chamber, a cheap imitation of love and connection ‘—all this, would you take it?’

A long silence ensued. Then the harlot barked out a laugh, dark and cruel. ‘You judge me. You of all people judge me. You think you are better because you throw your gold around for your pick of girls for the night?’ 

Azriel gritted his teeth. It wasn’t what he meant.

‘What should I do after you’re done “saving” me? I will forever be a whore in their eyes. In here, they can touch me for what their money is worth. Out there, they’ll take me whenever they want, wherever they want.’ Her voice cracked yet she carried on, ‘Madame protected me when no one else did. And you think I’ll leave her because you pity me?’

Every second drudged on letting the gravity of her confession sink in. Once the realisation dawned on her, blood drained from her face. Tears filled those warm eyes and she wiped them away before they spilled. ‘I shouldn’t have said that,’ her fingers pressed against her lips. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll be good, I’ll do whatever you want. Please, don’t leave yet.’

Resignation shadowed her face, the kind he was familiar with. One that whispered misery was better than living with a hopeless dream. One that insisted the world outside was bleaker than a dark cell. 

And for the first time, Azriel truly saw the harlot. Young and scared, that’s what she was. He remembered why he never learnt of the ones he took to bed. This was Hewn City—land for the evil and the vicious. He never stopped to wonder otherwise. 

Shadows swirled around him, raring to leave, and Azriel placed a pouch in her hand. Anger simmered in her eyes briefly. ‘This is for the information,’ he closed her fingers around the weight. ‘For your help tonight.’

‘Please,’ the harlot gazed up at him, ‘they will punish me.’

When Azriel didn’t say a word, a broken breath left her lips as though his silence had just marked her fate.

.

Keir walked in a stiff stride, sentries flanking him on either side as if someone would dare attack him during the day—well, Rhys supposed it didn’t matter where one couldn’t tell day from night. From the scrunch of his nose and subtle tilt to his chin, the steward didn’t disguise his disdain for this part of his city, like he were above these people, like their money didn’t fill the city’s coffers and his pockets.

‘How do you know of this place?’ Mor paused to glance over her shoulder when the footsteps ceased behind them.

‘Az took an interest,’ was all Rhys could say. He hadn’t expected to hear the name this soon. Night’s Caress. The name he pried from the spy’s mind.

The orb of light swerved to their left and Mor followed its path. In the lonesome, the impulse was undeniable. A beckoning of sorts spoke to him, insisting to venture up the grand staircase. If only for a peek. Rhys almost gave in when Mor returned and he wondered if she felt it too. She instead rushed past him and out the front door. The stomping of heels on polished rock was replaced by violent retching. Neither her father nor his army uttered a word at the display of such “weakness”.

Rhys cast another long glance at the stairs before he followed the fading trail of light. Stifling his urge to show concern in their present company, he reached to Mor’s mind but she hardly let him in.

Gusts of wind streamed along the tunnels carved throughout the mountain, their rumble accompanying his steps. Every door and window hung open. A draft crept through secret vents. Satin curtains rustled. The orb floated above, swaying beneath the chandelier in the middle of the room—teardrop crystals forming an elegant rose clanking against each other. Light scattered in every which way like fireflies dancing with a breeze, a rare beauty in the most heinous of places.

Rhys stared at the face by his foot. Where the eyes should have been, hollowness met him. Its jaw pried open from a scream or the absence of sinew, he couldn’t tell. No wonder Keir remained outside rather than reliving this. A true nightmare, even for the city of nightmares.

‘What was Az doing here anyway?’ said Mor, stepping beside him. Her voice was still hoarse. For someone who had seen worse on a battlefield and gutted her opponents with no mercy, this shook her.

More bodies lay strewn across the room—one on the loveseat to the west; two at the mouth of a secret passageway to the east, the door half-open; and five crumpled around a table at the centre. Nothing remained except bones, and the flesh, reduced to a sheen coat of black residue, still dripping onto the velvet carpet like wax.

Rhys walked around the corpses and marked their positions. Molten steel pooled beside one of them. Armed and ready to attack. ‘He’s been on edge lately.’ He barely noted his words before they slipped past his lips. 

Mor huffed a breath. ‘It’s her, isn’t it? What did she do now?’

Oh, this was fun. 

If five centuries weren’t enough for Mor to come around, she would never find love in the shadowsinger. However, she could be a tad territorial. Whatever warmth she had felt for the bar owner the first night or the many more they teased Az together was long lost.

Rhys flashed her a grin. An unabashed, wicked one. ‘We may have underestimated her. She might be a perfect match for Az in the art of torture.’ Mor cocked her head and laid her hands on her hips, a clear sign of her leashed fury. She wasn’t up for games. ‘Our little weaponsmith seems to have an appetite for nightly activities. Only, she prefers it with anyone but Az.’

Mor scrunched her nose and tipped her chin up in a way that eliminated any doubt about whose blood ran in her veins. Her lips parted to speak her mind, instead, she stared at him for a long minute. 

Her words softened in surprise, ‘You think of her as one of us already, don’t you?’

It was Rhys’s turn to scowl. He had done it again. The first time he did it, it was in front of Az, and for a moment, Rhys believed his brother was about to employ one of his methods on him. Or, at least try.

‘She’s his mate. What choice do we have?’

‘Have you forgotten the last time we let this happen?’ Mor gave him a withering look. ‘One Nesta was too many.’

A quiet laugh escaped Rhys. ‘Don’t let Az hear you.’

‘About Ayla or Nesta?’ 

‘Both.’ When his cousin didn’t find humour in his words or the situation, Rhys sighed, ‘This is different. She means no harm by it.’

Mor balled her fists, her glare boring into the empty sockets of the corpse lounging on the chaise. Lucky, he was already dead, or was it a she? ‘Az doesn’t deserve this. You said it yourself.’

‘But he deserves a chance to figure it on his own terms.’

Rhys wouldn’t admit it; he had his reservations. But he knew not to question Mother, for if he did, he would be unravelling a knot so deeply entwined as his own fate. He also knew that pull—that maddening, inexplicable tug pulling him apart every damn minute until he found his missing piece. 

Feyre. The sun must have barely risen above the mountains. Which meant, right now, she must be nursing his child. Rhys had left before either of them had woken. His instincts screamed at him to reach her mind and ensure they were still home. And he would, as soon as he left this city.

The tinkling of metal brought his attention back to the room. Mor carded her fingers through her hair again and again, the chains on her wrist rattled with the movement.

‘Besides,’ said Rhys to soothe her nerves, ‘can we really blame her after our reputation?’ He chuckled to himself remembering the vision of a tongue-tied Az that night. His brother, who won females without uttering a word, with only his brooding looks and mysterious aura and rare smiles, trapped in his own twisted games. His thoughts were so loud that Rhys heard them from across the room without trying.

‘Your.’ Mor amended flipping her hair over her shoulder. A lightness returned to her eyes and steps as she inspected the velveteen walls. ‘Don’t include me in your debauchery.’

‘Of course, you call yours diplomacy.’

Mor’s breath hitched. If he hadn’t seen the pained look on her face, Rhys would have laughed again. Why was he so callous today? First, defending Ayla, and now, this. It was like he had no sense of his thoughts until they spilled from his mouth.

The silence that stretched between them reminded him why they had come to this forsaken city. Rhys crouched beside the table. There were no scorch marks on the cushion or carpet. Only two of the victims managed to attempt escape. Skin burnt to a crisp, the remains rotting for hours, and yet, all there was a delicate fragrance clinging to them. Fresh and pleasant.

‘Do you think one of them did it?’ Mor said, tracing a finger along the curtain. Her head hung low, her face only a silhouette in the dark room. ‘Got tired of this life and decided to destroy it.’

There was no emotion to her words. Rhys hadn’t been too eager to lament these deaths. If Mor was right, if this was an act of retaliation, they had all the more reason to let Keir deal with his ward.  

‘Hard to tell until we know who the dead are.’

Mor’s lips trembled as her gaze flitted from one vacant face to the next. She backed towards the door, ‘I can’t do this.’

Rhys was familiar with that look too. He grabbed her arm before she made it to the exit. ‘Eris is incapable of this. He isn’t a fool to leave his mark in a place like this.’

‘I know,’ hissed Mor, twisting out of his grasp. Her eyes burned with a raw hatred at the mention of his name. With a deep exhale, she poised herself. ‘I can’t look at them anymore. You should’ve brought Cass, not me.’

The Spymaster would have been Rhys’s first choice. Guilt had weighed heavy on him for defying the order and Az left for Spring two days later. There had been no word from him since. Before getting him involved, given their last conversation, Rhys decided to get the facts straight for himself.

Az was skilled at pulling secrets from anyone but, despite the rumours, he never took pleasure in his means. He never toyed with them or harmed them more than necessary. It was his unrelenting patience that broke the victims, not the pain. 

But, that night in the alley, that Az was different. He relished in every drop of blood he drew. He wanted the male to suffer. The thirst in his eyes alarmed Rhys enough to drive him out of the court for a while. 

Rhys wasn’t blind to reason. He didn’t intend to intervene with fate, but if this was Az with the bond intact and his mate so close, he refused to imagine what would become of his brother if something were to happen to Ayla. 

Seeing the bodies molten inside out, a long-forgotten threat crept to his mind, the one he had dismissed as empty words spewed out of spite.

‘He won’t be able to keep this to himself,’ said Rhys finally.

A frown creased between Mor’s brows as the words settled in. ‘We are telling Az, aren’t we?’

His spies were still in the city. Az would find it one way or another. The question was when.

The beats thrummed through the wood beneath his feet, through the velvet cushion against his wings, and through his very skin. Empty laughter and delirious cries filled the brief, fleeting silences. Globes of lights swirled and shimmered close to the ceiling, their harsh glares coasting over the upper landing where the private booths were situated. The red carpets were too bright, the air too thick, the liquor too strong. Everything that made Rita’s a beacon to the souls who longed for a taste of nightlife.

Yet, the true temptation was across the room. A beaded curtain at the entrance wavered—red flashing behind, like the maw of a beast waiting for its prey to walk right into its belly. Outside, there was no limitation or restriction. Males and females indulged in vices and each other to their hearts’ content. Even so, what lay beyond that veil was far more enticing. Drunk on liquor and lust, it wasn’t a mystery what transpired. It wasn’t merely the pleasure of the body these souls sought. The allure of secrecy and the courage it granted them to explore their urges and unleash their darkness, test it, and perhaps, tame it. Azriel should know, for he had been behind those locked doors a few times himself.

A cheer rumbled through the air sending the shadows wrapped around him in skitters. Azriel took a deep breath. Sweat, smoke, and sex—the stench he once was accustomed to, he now despised with his being.

‘Staring a little early, are we?’ asked Cass, as if he weren’t filling a glass to the brim himself. Though Azriel ignored his smug face, he couldn’t disagree, after all, this was the only thing that numbed his ache.

‘Let me guess,’ said Rhys, ‘Our weaponsmith is being. . .difficult again?’

Our. 

Azriel gritted his teeth at how easily the word fell off his lips. He should have known. As he left the House of Wind, Cass gave him a monstrous grin, and no sooner had he found a booth his friends settled on either side, trapping him. For a moment, he considered disappearing amidst the crowd, but one look at the bodies writhing against each other rather obscenely and the decision was made.

Rita’s didn’t hold the same appeal anymore. The fifty years Rhys was. . .gone had changed their lives. They were neither young nor reckless, no matter how much Mor played pretend. While Cass preferred the nights in River House so Nesta spent her evenings with her sisters than in a bar, Rhys would have his wings nailed than spend a day away from his son. And lately, he rarely touched his precious whiskey. 

Now, as the two sat beside him giving up everything they had built in the past years only for his company, fear began to unfurl in the depths of his heart.

Azriel glanced across the room again.

A harsh thump broke their silence as Cass set his glass down, ‘Are you sure you want to add one more to that list?’

As fortune would have it, his family overheard his conversation with Ayla three months ago. Azriel knew this day was coming—when the two taunted him as though they hadn’t watched their mates fuck another. He had at least hoped to be drunk enough. Pity, he wasn’t.

Rhys arched his brow. Amusement shone in his eyes. ‘Don’t tell me she is going ahead with it.’

‘I won’t.’ Azriel surveyed the faces of the passersby who gawked at them. The High Lord and his Illyrian General drew too much attention. Shadows enveloped him once again as soon as another flare swept away from the booth. ‘Are you done discussing my sex life?’

‘Sure, if you had one.’ Cass clasped his hands on the table, raising his voice over the steady beats. ‘How long has it been? Four months?’

Six. He couldn’t imagine touching or being touched by anyone but his mate since the bond. Not that he minded the celibacy, but when every inch of his skin ached and that familiar fire burned through his veins, he knew it had to be her.

Seeing that male with her, Azriel solaced himself with petty hope—a male a day and Ayla would free him of this torment soon. But, she was vicious. She savoured this twisted game of hers. Months passed, three, and so was the count of chosen victors to claim her. 

Had it been someone else, Azriel would have dragged her into that office, and kissed that smirk off her lips while he sank his fingers into her warmth. Had it been someone else, he would have toyed with her until she begged him to take her.

‘It’s concerning you know that. Aren’t you too invested?’ Rhys’s voice broke the spell of his fantasy. A smirk tugged at his lips.

‘Not when he’s taking it out on me every morning,’ grumbled Cass.

Rhys grinned. ‘It certainly helps your case when you put it like that.’

Laughter began in Azriel’s throat, cutting off into a gasp as a shudder rolled under his skin. He sank back into the cushions, pinched his eyes closed, and tuned out the pounding in his ears. His legs shifted on their own, spreading wide to relieve some tension.

‘Remind me, Az,’ Rhys was staring at him. His eyes carried a glint. Somehow he knew yet he pressed, ‘Did you also tell her what you did to the females you took to your bed?’

Azriel managed to chuckle. ‘Why, are you looking for notes to please Feyre?’

‘I’m not the one a breath away from pleasuring myself with an audience.’

‘Fuck you,’ spat Azriel.

‘Believe me,’ Rhys purred, ‘I’m sorted for tonight.’ 

Cass laughed loud enough to cut through the wails of delight from below. A wave of shadows knocked the glass from his hand, and before it did the same to Rhys’s, a cloud of starry night blocked its path. Bastards, both of them were.

Wiping a tear from his eye—there clearly was none—and with a cruel smile on his face, Cass said, ‘Did you try talking to her?’

‘That’s what got him here,’ said Rhys. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it again.’

Azriel ran a hand through his hair. For centuries, he managed to keep his life private and with one conversation, he had become the ridicule of his family. If Nyx could talk, Azriel was certain he would taunt him too.

His breaths laboured. A myriad of emotions smothered every bit of his senses. Jealousy for the male who had the honour of coaxing moans from her lips. Longing to be the one witnessing her consumed by ecstasy. Yearning to touch and savour every inch of her body. Shadows crept up his arms but they refused to sing, a mild comfort for they didn’t narrate his embarrassment.

‘Do you need the booth to yourself?’ asked Rhys, prying him away from his agony.

Azriel glared at his stupid smirk. ‘Can’t suck me off anymore?’

Rhys’s response was lost on him as another shiver raked through his body. This was a mistake. He should have stayed in the House of Wind, far away from this square.

‘Ayla?’ 

No one dared utter her name in his vicinity. Hearing it, even in his prick of a brother’s voice, sounded like a symphony. 

‘You sense her,’ said Rhys carefully. His words were more surprised than guarded. He nudged Azriel’s glass closer, the drink still untouched.

‘I don’t.’ 

The two fell silent at his harsh tone. 

Light shifted across the room, fleeting over a movement deep in the hallway. A male walked out through the curtain adjusting the lapels of his tunic. Its intricate gold threadwork, the glinting gems on his fingers, and the delicate red scarf wrapped loosely around his neck were enough indication of which part of the city he was from. He made a desperate effort to tidy his hair, glancing around before he headed for the main doors.

Noting his stare, Cass shook his head, ‘It’s a bad idea.’

‘Is it?’ Rhys grinned watching the empty doorway. ‘His mate is having her fill, why shouldn’t he?’ He shot a wink at Azriel, ‘I’m sure this will win her over after that talk about his conquests.’

If his words were meant to unnerve him, Rhys succeeded. His life sounded pathetic, more so than he felt.

Ignoring Cass's curses to come back, Azriel left the booth making sure to land a kick to Rhys's leg on his way out.

The chill in the night breeze was a soothing balm even before he stepped out. The aroma of charring meat and herbs from the stalls on either side of the pathway sweetened the air. Quiet murmurs replaced the pulsing rhythm behind the closed doors. But Azriel was the most grateful for the dull lights marking the way.

He navigated through the ambling crowd clapping his wings close and his shadows shaded them from curious eyes. Even in a city like Velaris, an Illyrian was still an oddity. Fortunately, Rhys and Cass didn’t pursue him this time. He wondered if they had also followed him on his little detour before he came to Rita’s. 

The path ahead forked into two and Azriel slowed his pace, waiting for signs of his friends for another minute. Darkness wreathing around him swallowed every sound, including the fall of his footsteps. As he turned around the building, he tamed his powers dimming the glow of his siphons to a lingering hue.

Moonlight barely illuminated the alley. Red tassels rustled in the stillness. Gravel crunched beneath unsteady feet. The stranger halted and looked over his shoulder, his breath quickening. ‘Is anyone here?’ His words echoed.

Silence answered him, except for the distant melody from the streets.

His eyes darted around lingering on the unlit corners. His shoulders fell. Sighing heavily, the male faced forward only to meet a whorling darkness. He staggered back.

‘They are harmless,’ Azriel whispered into his ear.

With a gasp, the stranger twisted around. Before another sound could escape his parted lips, shadows slid into his mouth. He griped at his throat clawing through his skin to rid of the hollow choking him.

Azriel inched forward. ‘It won’t kill you,’ he said, his voice as gentle as the breeze that drifted past them. ‘But you might want to stop resisting.’

Tears pooled in the corner of his grey eyes as the male let out a strangled cry. 

Slowly, Azriel eased his dagger from its sheath making a show for his captive. In moments like these, he preferred the recognition; he didn’t have to imply the consequences. ‘As long as you’re honest. . .you’re safe.’

Shadows rose around them into rippling walls. The male, still clutching his throat, backed away, searching for a way out. When he found none, he nodded.

‘What do you want from her?’

Dark mist sputtered from his mouth. He tried again and again, and with each wasted attempt, his breaths grew ragged and his cries louder. Tears spilt from his eyes freely, and yet, Azriel simply watched.

Pathetic.

When the whispers first reached him, Azriel assumed him to be one of the recent lovers returning for more. He dived into his work, taking on missions in Hewn City on those nights. Days away from Ayla cleared the fog in his mind, however slowly. He had called off his spies long ago and diverted them to other tasks, the ones they were paid for. Still, reports from the borders poured in and among them was the list of travellers to the city. It brought a jolting awareness to the threat Azriel had been so glad to trade for his lovelorn ache.

It worsened when his shadows returned frantic one night, hissing about a “suspicious male”. Whenever Ayla was concerned, Azriel learned to not trust the shadows anymore. Everything he did was wrong, everything he said was wrong. 

Although, curiosity was a curse and Azriel was born cursed in more ways than one. 

The one in question was tall and muscled, mildly tanned and dark-haired—exactly how his mate preferred her males. There was nothing to suspect. Until the wraiths spotted him following Ayla on her way back from her smithy twice.

The suspect often wandered the streets for hours and only visited Pharus when Ayla stayed upstairs and the bar was crowded. He sat at the counter and entertained anyone who kept him company. As the nights drew late, he honed his attention to the tired bartender charming her with his sympathy. That brought him favour from Uri too.

And none of them noticed the unusual shadow cast by the display. A specific bar owner would have, Azriel was certain. What her friends didn't realise was he never needed to be let in.

Then, it started. ‘The owner, she seems lonely.’

Ever so loyal, that was all it took for Uri to defend Ayla. He spared no details—the hag, the shop, and Orvin. Even a “strange prick” at the back of his neck from a rogue shadow couldn’t stop him.

Though, the male remained unsatisfied. ‘Does she live alone?’ ‘Does she travel often?’ ‘Does she get many visitors?’ ‘When is her next trip?’

In four days, he learnt more than Azriel did in his first month. He picked his moments when the server and bartender were likely to spill in their exhaustion. If they turned wary, he would chuckle and a blush would tinge his cheeks. ‘She’s interesting is all.’ He looked more desperate than a lovesick begging for scraps, and yet, Uri looked to Raya with gleeful eyes.

Azriel lost all reservations then. It was his turn to do some learning.

He expected the stranger to meet with his charge when he went to Rita’s. But all he did was drink more, fuck someone in one of the pleasure chambers, and leave.

This Hewn City lowlife was who her friends deemed fit for Ayla. One who saw her, who knew her, and still fucked another in a backroom. One who couldn’t defend himself, who stood frozen in fear and spewed garbles.

Shadows slithered out his mouth and wrapped around his throat in warning.

The male took a gulp of air. ‘I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you!’ His voice grated from the gagging and choking. ‘She approached me. She wouldn’t stop touching me. I vow on my life.’ An eager step forward. ‘I noticed your eyes on her back in the bar. She’s yours! All yours. Take her.’

‘Ayla,’ said Azriel quietly. The shadows mimicked his temper simmering under the surface, barely restrained. ‘You have been following her.’

Realisation set in those grey eyes and fear darkened them. His fingers slackened around his throat. ‘I—I—’

‘Lying won’t help you walk out of here alive.’

‘I don’t know who she is.’

Azriel smiled. ‘Yes, you do.’ He gently took the male’s wrist and coaxed it forward. When he rolled the sleeve up revealing his arm, the male tensed. ‘You lie,’ Azriel brought the Truth-Teller down in a swift, precise flick, ‘I’m forced to hurt you.’

Blood pooled in the groove of his elbow. His breaths quickened as shock cleared and pain set in. His fingers twitched but he couldn’t move them, nor would he feel them.

‘You won’t need a healer. Your body will heal on its own soon. But that’s what makes this convenient.’ Azriel observed, his prey only stared at his frozen arm. ‘I can do this all night and you’ll still live.’ Hopeful eyes shot up. ‘Until I get the truth out of you.’

The male tugged his hand back. A real scream tore from him, though it didn’t live very long in the shadows. With the nerves and sinew damaged, pain exploded down his arm even with the slightest movement. He pressed his fingers under the cut trying to numb himself. The bleeding began to slow. ‘Please,’ he rasped, ‘please. I haven’t done anything wrong.’

Azriel almost felt terrible. Almost. He gripped the blade again. He took all but one breath and his back collided with the cold wall. His wings thrashed and protested in pain.

Violet eyes glowered through dark night and shadows. Azriel snarled. Rhys shoved an arm against his chest pinning him in place.

Azriel looked over Rhys’s shoulder. The stalker had the wits not to scream again. He backed away from the two fighting for dominance, his gaze only on the blade still gleaming with his blood.

Rhys ordered, ‘Leave,’ but he didn’t trust his brother enough to look away.

Shadows barricading the exits thickened and closed in around them. The male didn’t move. For a brief moment, his eyes glazed over and then he took off. And, right before he broke through the wall, he stopped.

‘Leave.’ 

His body struggled against Rhys’s command. ‘She told me to,’ the male said, turning around. His eyes were only on Azriel. ‘She wa—She wants to know a—a—about that one.’

Azriel pushed at Rhys. ‘Let him talk.’

‘It’s not me.’

’Sh—’ The male continued, not caring for the words of the other two. ‘She’s waiting.’

‘Who?’ Azriel demanded. ‘Where is she?’

The male blinked. ‘She misses the sun,’ he sighed, removing the scarf from his neck and mindlessly wrapping it around his wound. ‘She misses life.’ He backed towards the exit and Azriel fought against Rhys’s hold. ‘She likes it here. It’s the only place the roses grow.’

‘Who?’ growled Azriel.

Rhys frowned, ‘There’s nothing in his mind. No memories. No thoughts.’

Azriel froze. It had happened before, only once. ‘The crown?’

Rhys returned his worried gaze, ‘No—’ 

The stranger broke through the veil, claws made of darkness reached for him. Startled cries filled the air, feet pattered on the cobblestones, wood and metal crashed on the ground.

Stop. Rhys’s voice took an edge in his mind, hardening with the High Lord’s power.

Shadows dispersed and became one with the night leaving an eerie calm behind.

Gone, the word echoed in his ear. Azriel shoved his brother off him. ‘You should’ve stayed out of this,’ he gritted his teeth, running his blood-stained hand through his hair. ‘I had him.’

‘That’s how far you’d have gotten with him. He wasn’t going to talk.’ 

Azriel steadied his breath. ‘You said he had no thoughts. What did you mean by that?’

‘I don’t know.’ Rhys frowned skyward. It was unlikely of him to admit it so openly. When he had no answer, he preferred silences and riddles. ‘He could speak. He was aware of what was done to him.’ 

Just another daemati then—however, adept at hiding even from the most powerful one to exist. 

‘You need to stay calm.’ Rhys stated with utter lethargy, although his effort to steer the conversation away didn’t go unnoticed.

Azriel scoffed, stepping around him. ‘That’s rich coming from you. Have you forgotten how “calm” you were when Feyre acted as your spy?’

Rhys pursed his lips.

The war revealed their worst parts to them. Breaking the Hybern soldiers wasn’t as yielding as they hoped it to be, but Azriel had been making progress. As days passed and Feyre’s return seemed precarious, Rhys grew tired of waiting. Night after night, he returned to Hewn City. He ignored every warning and tortured the prisoners himself; he didn’t invade their minds, he broke them, limb by limb. Had Azriel not stepped in, they would have been left with no one to interrogate.

Neither spoke of it again. It was a secret the two brothers shared. Only darkness recognised darkness.

‘It’s why I’m warning you. I can’t have my torturer go berserk on me.’ Rhys looked him up and down, his gaze softening, and with a snap of his fingers, the blood from Azriel’s hands vanished. ‘I understand you worry about Ayla—’

‘You understand nothing.’

‘—I have a mate too,’ he said softly. ‘I live with that fear too, Az. Everyday. Feyre and I—we’ve lost and found each other more than once.’

It was not the same; Rhys had a mate to lose. 

Pulling a rag from a pocket of shadow, Azriel wiped at the stains on the Truth-Teller instead. He breathed in the stench of blood clinging to the air. It seemed the only constant in his life; it calmed him even. It proved he wasn’t in the waiting. It proved he wasn’t hopeless, useless. He had done something.

‘Fine, what now? Do you intend to carve everyone who looks at her?’ 

Azriel cast a glance up and lifted a brow. He wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea.

Rhys slipped his hands into his pockets, the portrait of his usual cool. ‘You need to be stealthy. After all, you wouldn’t want her to learn of the bond this way.’ When Azriel’s eyes hardened, a smirk etched onto his face, smug that he had hit the right nerve. ‘That’s twice she’s been targeted now. We need to know what she’s hiding, and you’re the only one she may be inclined to trust.’

His instincts were right. It was for Ayla that the two had been so brotherly. Azriel growled, struggling to keep the bite from his words, ‘You want to use me against my mate?’

‘No,’ Rhys said slowly, ‘I want you to protect your mate. What occurred tonight will ensure whoever is after her knows she is not alone.’ Azriel shoved the dagger into its sheath rather harshly and made to walk past, but Rhys stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. ‘This isn’t about her, Az. You are bound to her.’

Every minute standing in that alley was a wasted moment to find that stalker or the mystery female. Azriel levelled a look at Rhys, ‘You didn’t follow me here out of concern for my mate.’

The hand slipped off him. Rhys poised himself, the softness marking his face and voice vanishing. ‘It’s quiet in the South. It doesn’t look like Tamlin is eager to revive his court anytime soon.’

Guilt filled him briefly, yet Azriel hid it well like everything else. ‘I’ll have someone look into it.’

Rhys frowned, ‘I want you to do it.’

‘My spies are capable of handling this.’

‘You will leave at dawn,’ continued Rhys, ignoring his words and glare, ‘Lucien should be in the mortal lands. Still, I’d suggest you stick to the shadows.’

Azriel stepped closer, ‘You want information,’ his voice as quiet and lethal as his shadows, ‘It doesn’t matter where it comes from.’

‘Need I remind you, shadowsinger, you are my spymaster.’

Dark power skittered over Azriel’s skin. Soothing and ravenous. The longer he resisted, the stronger it suffocated him, snuffing even his shadows out. His body strained against the urge to bow to his High Lord.

Through it all, the vision of that stranger in Pharus filled his mind—smiling at Raya, talking merrily with Uri. Had he run off to the bar again? Ayla was home that night, alone and unaware.

Had the male been instructed to only spy? Was he the only one sent after her? 

Azriel’s breath froze, his body grew cold.

Had they been invited into her home already?

Shadows cut through the star-speckled darkness and writhed around him. His wings flared. Rhys’s eyes glimmered with his power, Azriel snarled back and shot to the sky.

It’s a joke. Staring down at the closed door, Azriel reassured himself. 

Spying on his mate was never his intention. But Raya had stolen Ayla away before he could ask what she meant. If that wasn’t torment enough, he was invited into the bar only in the company of others. So now, like a lurker, he waited for hours on the rooftop of the inn across from Pharus. Azriel was beginning to truly hate the bartender. 

Ayla was his mate. It shouldn’t be a crime to want a moment alone with her, nor should he need to hide in the shadows afraid of her chaperones. From his family to Orvin to Raya, everyone seemed eager to decide his fate with her. Everyone except his mate, who was content playing oblivious to the bond between them.

Patrons walked in and out of Pharus without restriction and anger coiled in his gut. Until he saw her heading towards him—no, her home. She walked the long way back from the smithy, stopping at the warm-lit bakery and offering a pastry to the boy skipping up and down the street who in return handed her something that looked suspiciously like a pebble. 

Azriel knew it was the moment he had been waiting for. Yet, his body refused to move. Even his shadows that called for her day and night fell quiet and clung to his shoulders. Helpless, he watched Ayla round the brick building and disappear through the backdoor. 

The house remained in the dark though a silhouette floated beyond the white veil framing the balcony. It grew darker and darker. . .and collapsed onto the bed. 

A soft chuckle escaped him.

Then, he came around—tanned skin and stark hair and all muscles. Had he entered through the front, he was merely a regular to the bar. But faelight flickered to life upstairs. One silhouette met with the other and they shuffled around together. When they almost merged into one, Azriel turned away. He slumped to the floor and watched the sun slowly descend behind the mountains, then, the sky turn a deep red to violet to black.

Five hours later, the male left in the dead of the night, as tidy and proper as when he had walked in. But it was his satisfied grin that irked Azriel.

.

Though he stayed away from Pharus and the inn and the alley, his shadows didn’t. Until they sought Ayla on their own, he hadn’t known they could split away from him. They had always been a part of him—an extension. Most nights, they returned shortly with a faint buzz and whispered Alone in his ears. On other nights, they stayed with her longer. When they reappeared, they skittered in a corner refusing to come near him, and they were quiet—eerily quiet.

‘Angry with me again?’ he would ask.

The shadows would freeze in the air, tendrils poised high and darkness rippling, enough to send a chill down his spine as if the void glared at him.

‘I warned you,’ he would tease, though deep down, their silence sliced through his heart.

Usually, this ended with them smothering him or abandoning him as he lay awake in bed, wondering if Ayla was truly with someone else.

That night, when his shadows left him again, Azriel pulled a bottle out of the dresser beside his bed. Pale linen squares peeked from under his folded leathers and he slammed the drawer shut. Enclosed within the sachets was a blend of herbs and spices that smelled close to the scent lingering around Ayla. 

Knowing he had traversed the lands and collected each one himself only made him feel pathetic and desperate. Even Rhys didn’t know the reasons for the delay in his last missions.

Azriel took a sip straight from the bottle and let his senses accustom to the horrid taste. 

Since his banning, Uri supplied him with their brew every two weeks, although he wouldn’t admit to guilting the poor male. None of their customers preferred it and the server was thrilled to please the only one who appreciated his craft. It still tasted wretched. But the familiar fragrance took Azriel back to that evening and the memories it held were sweeter.

A glass thumped on the lonely book on top of the dresser, a subtle reminder he wasn’t truly alone. Wariness crawled up his spine. He knew better than anyone what it felt to be watched. Unlike his brothers and Mor, he never preferred the house’s magic. And with its recent sentience, its presence overwhelmed him. It saw everything, it heard everything.

His skin still prickled but the book pulled his attention, its binding simple and unsuspecting. Azriel was very aware of its content. Yet, he picked it up and settled into the bed. As he flipped through the pages, a sigh escaped him.

What started as indulging Nesta to ease her into their circle turned into a monthly ritual. A romance written by a female couldn’t be worse than the drag Cassian cherished. 

But Azriel realised his mistake the day he joined Nesta in the library. While he read her favourite book, her fiery eyes flicked to him at every page turn. Even his shadows sheathing him to cool his skin wasn’t enough to tame his breaths, and Nesta snickered, ‘Having trouble reading?’

Oh, these women had better restraint than him. Thankfully, his friend delighted in these readings alone with her Valkriyes, and his discomfort was not a public spectacle.

However, when he admitted to enjoying the book, her eyes lit up, and her smiles came easy. Thus began their private tradition—Nesta picked a book for them, and once he finished, he listened to her talk about her favourite bits.

Lately, he had been missing more of these conversations, and he hated it. Azriel was failing as a mate; he would, at the least, secure his standing as a good friend.

Crisp air breezed through the windows carrying omens of changing seasons. And with it, crept in his ‘companions’ as Ayla called them. They wavered by the window as if waiting for a sign to leave again.

Despite the dying flames in the fireplace and the cold air, his skin began to warm. Azriel removed his shirt and tossed it across the room. His wings stretched and folded over once as he rolled his shoulders. Bringing his focus back to the book, he leaned against the headboard.

Darkness twitched in the corner of his eyes. Azriel merely took another sip, and they guttered out.

Were his shadows with her again? Would they go too far without him and expose themselves? Would she know, and if she did, would she blame him? Sometimes, he wished he lacked conscience like them. He would seek Ayla without guilt too, no matter what she did, who she did. 

A groan left his lips. Thinking of her was the last thing Azriel wanted to do. Her eyes burning with challenge as she uttered those sinful words. Seven. Ayla was choosing to be with seven males before she accepted him.

Would she though—accept him, or would she discard him after a night’s company?

No. Azriel was her mate, and soon, she would realise it. And this, this was only a game. She was taunting him for leaving after their kiss. She was punishing him for the ones he touched instead of her.

But, Ayla had known about Mor. Maybe, she was punishing him for Mor.

Azriel exhaled deeply and reached for the drink again. The burn numbed his senses and the ache in his chest. He flipped the page, careful of his wandering thoughts as he read the detailed rendering of an. . .intimate exchange. A strange sensation bloomed in the pit of his stomach. 

His eyes were on the page, but his mind trudged behind. With every word, the vision grew clearer and clearer—a male, a female, a whole lot of naked—and he hated the faces he saw. 

Casting the book aside, he took a sharp breath. His fingers traced aimless circles over his heart and they stuck to his skin. Blood pounded in his ears.

A carnal need pulsed between his legs begging him for the one he yearned for. Gods, it was a mess. His mate was fucking another male and his body craved her.

It started as a speck in his chest, the urge, something he could suppress. With each beat of his heart, it rippled and flared through every nerve in his body, demanding to be felt, to be satiated, to be released. A moan escaped his lips, soft and low.

His hand trailed lower and Azriel pressed his fingers into his stomach. Even the pain of his nails clawing into him morphed into pleasure, dark and twisted, coaxing him to give in.

‘Please,’ the word uttered between broken breaths. ‘Not tonight.’ Not when he knew she was with someone else. Not when he knew she wouldn’t be thinking of him.

The gold string of the bond felt like a barbed wire around his heart. Azriel yielded. What was he but a mere man.

As his fingers smoothed over his crotch, his breath caught in his throat. The slightest graze of the fabric against him when he inched his pants low had his hips jerking. He closed his hand over the tip and a shudder coursed through him.

He intended to stop there.

His other hand remained on his chest, where the only connection to her in this world lay. His heart drummed under his fingers, steady and rhythmic, yet, he felt another racing beneath it—an illusion of his mind. Or perhaps the effects of the drink.

Azriel closed his eyes.

Her intense gaze peered back.

She stood at the foot of his bed. In the moonlight, he could see the smooth curves of her body under the shirt that caressed her bare legs as she walked over to his side. She sank beside him, nuzzling against him. A gentle smile curled her lips, as red and swollen as when they fell prey to his own. And her eyes hinted mischief.

There was no escape from the one who haunted him in life and dreams alike.

‘Were you thinking of me?’ She asked, her voice breaking into little laughs. 

Azriel hummed.

His grip tightened as the guilt did around his heart. Ayla was a gift from Mother herself. And he was sullying her existence, reducing her to one of his fantasies. He sucked in a breath.

‘Let me see you,’ she whispered as her eyes made a cautious descent down his body.

He let go with a hiss. ‘Do you see what you do to me?’

She blinked slowly and trailed her fingers down his bare arm, upto his wrist before making her way back up. ‘But isn’t this what you wanted?’ Her lips feathered against his cheek, ‘Touch yourself for me. Properly.’

Azriel obeyed. Pleasure shot through his veins ripping a gasp from his throat as he wrapped his hand around his cock. He rubbed himself slowly, teasing and torturing.

‘You know,’ her breaths echoed in his ear, ‘I dream of you too.’

He chuckled, ‘Liar.’

‘I do,’ she whined looking into his eyes. Moonlight flickered in hers and somehow it deepened her gaze. ‘Did you think I’d forget our kiss?’ She drew closer, stopping a breath away from his lips, ghosting her thumb over them. ‘I think of it every day,’ her voice lilted, ‘and night.’ 

When he leaned in, she turned away, instead nestling against his shoulder. ‘I wait for you, hoping you’d come for me.’

She did. She lingered in the bar often and worked until Raya and Uri took over. She was a masochist like him, longing to relive a moment so gone in the past.

‘And what would you do if I came for you?’ he croaked out. Her fingers moved to his torso carving a path onto his abdomen, so close to where he needed her. The cold breeze raked over his skin, but it was her nails that drew the shiver out of him.

Ayla looked up at him. ‘What do you think?’ She shot a glance at his hand moving steadily along his hardness and smiled. ‘Definitely better than what you’re doing.’

Azriel laughed at her arrogance. Although, he suspected a mere touch from her would be his unravelling. ‘I’m holding back,’ he said, reaching for her face, ‘I want to keep you for a while.’

Her fingers crossed the threshold past his hips and caressed the back of his marred hand while her eyes distracted him from her vicious deeds.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she murmured as her hand closed over his, guiding him. She shifted close, her body pressing against his arm, her leg draping over his. ‘I dreamt of feeling you like this. In my hand, on my lips.’

Azriel pressed his fingers to her mouth, feeling their softness and warmth as they trembled. No, not her lips—delicate as a flower, they were only worthy of kisses and praises, he decided.

Her breaths grew heavy, chasing his own and drowning the crackling of fire. ‘Please.’

It’s she who chose other males over him.

‘You want this?’ Ayla nodded at once. ‘Then why are you with him now?’

A sound escaped her, like a whimper. ‘You know why.’

Azriel hummed. ‘Tell me,’ he taunted still, ‘Is he enough?’

She buried her face in the crook of his neck. Her words skittered over his skin as she spoke weakly, ‘You know I only want you.’

Even in his dreams, she dodged his questions. Azriel gripped her chin and coaxed her to look at him again. ‘But you’d fuck anyone who walks through your door.’

Ayla laughed, her hand slackening over his. ‘You’re the one allowing it.’

She pulled away. Her shirt no longer tugged against him deliciously, her toe no longer traced his leg, and he no longer felt her heat.

Azriel held a hand out, the one that caressed her face. ‘Come here.’

Ayla shook her head. 

‘I thought you wanted me.’

Her face crumbled and she lurched towards him, her body flush against his again. Azriel sighed. 

‘You know they wouldn’t be the one with me now if you’d just take me.’ Her eyes bore into his, almost pleading. She ripped his hand away and grasped his cock—her smooth, soft skin such contrast to his scarred one.

His head fell back as he gasped a silent moan.

She pressed a kiss to his cheek, tearing his attention from the pleasure radiating through him. ‘One night, please,’ she fisted him, deliberate but firm—just enough to take him to the precipice, ‘Let me prove it to you.’

Her heart raced in tandem to his. Her cheeks flushed. Her hair swayed with their mingled breaths and stuck to his skin.

Ayla licked her lips and almost his too. Her eyes fluttered when she spoke, ‘Don’t you—don’t you want me?’

The way her voice cracked broke his heart. Azriel caressed her face and pulled her closer. ‘I do,’ he said, ‘more than anyone in my life. It hurts to be away from you.’

She drew in a quick breath. ‘Then why do you deny me?’ 

Ayla wasn’t twisted like him. She was pure for she touched his skin without perversion and kind for she didn’t judge him for what he’d done. She wouldn’t torment him if she knew the truth of who she was.

Then, why did he stay away?

Before he could find the answer himself, Ayla racked her nails along his length. Azriel sucked a breath through his teeth.

‘You’re a tease,’ she grinned as though she were innocent, ‘making a poor woman wait.’

When she punished him with her grip, he grunted, ‘I’m sure it’s hard for you,’ earning a laugh from her.

Ayla kissed his cheek once, twice, thrice, trailing lower each time. She licked the corner of his lips, ‘You taste good.’ She did it again and under his jaw. ‘You taste this good everywhere?’

‘Gods.’ Azriel laughed, and then groaned as her mouth made its descent down his chest. He pulled her face back to his. ‘I can’t let you do that.’

Guilt flooded him at the sight of her lust-stained face, a travesty of his sinister dreams, dragging him from the pleasure that threatened to consume him.

‘I need you,’ her voice wavered. Azriel shivered. ‘How shall I prove it to you?’

‘No,’ he rasped, brushing his thumb over her cheek. He had even perverted her thoughts. ‘You never have to prove anything to me. When this is over, I’ll make you mine.’

Her movements ceased and her eyes hooded. A sigh left her lips, then a series of whispered yeses. His cock throbbed and she took charge again, stroking him faster and determined. 

‘Let me have this,’ she said, ‘Let me feel you tonight.’

Her hands drove him to the edge but it was her words that destroyed him. Shocks of pleasure went through him, one after the other. 

With their breaths still echoing in his ears, Ayla brought her hand to his chin. Her wet fingers, drenched in his essence, grazed under his lip. ‘Come to me, Az. Isn’t it your turn now?’

Azriel opened his eyes. Pages rustled in the breeze. His shirt lay rumpled on the floor beside the fireplace, with only the embers to hint at the fire long dead. Moonlight bathed his empty room.

His messy hand rested below his chest, where the desire and rush ebbed away, slowly baring him as shame began to corrode him. Once his heart settled, he tried to cleanse the filth residing in him with a cold shower. He knew it wasn’t enough.

Shadows danced outside the window when Azriel returned. He placed the culprit back on the dresser and folded his discarded shirt over the armchair. He picked up the bottle and liquor sloshed at its bottom as he strolled over to the window. He needed to visit Uri soon.

Velaris was a beauty to behold at night. From the mountains, it was more so. Lights glittered in every corner of the city like stars on land—each one a promise of life and future. Right in the middle of it was her house, a smidge somewhere in the vibrant square alive with music and laughter. 

Water dripped down his back, yet heat lingered under his skin. 

A tendril curled over his ear. Alone, it sang while another added, Asleep. Azriel heaved a sigh. Ayla was safe. Satisfied, his shadows draped over his shoulders returning to their home.

He took a sip and a smirk pulled at his lips. ‘Kiss her for me.’

There was stillness for a moment, then, the invisible weight lifted.

What harm could one more sin bring to a sinner?

Since Nyx was born, House of Wind lay empty most days and nights. Azriel preferred his old room still, for the familiar privacy, for only the skies, the winds, and the moon to keep him company. But at times like these, when the laughter of his family filled the house and his brothers pretended to be better than an infant, he didn’t mind the city after all. 

Despite the constant ruckus, he welcomed this distraction, especially after what he had done two nights prior. Ayla, for some reason, had trusted him and he ruined the first chance he had with her. She had offered him her kindness and in return, he proved her he was deserving of everything vile and cruel in the world. Every blessed moment they shared, Azriel tainted it by forcing himself onto her.

He had hoped Ayla would ask him to stay, or at the very worst, threaten him again. Instead, she stared at him. She stared at him like her entire being wasn’t consumed with desire as his, like it was one of those meaningless kisses she granted other men she took to her bed. How the light in her eyes flickered out, he couldn’t erase it from his mind. Nor the taste of her lips, or how his own tingled hours after he returned home. 

Guilty as he was, Azriel was more ashamed for not regretting the kiss he stole from her. 

‘I know how to hold my son,’ hissed Rhys. He walked back and forth, cradling his child in his arms, round the sofa for the fifth time in the past fifteen minutes. 

Nyx loved to torment his father whose perpetual cockiness crumbled under the pressures of parenthood, and Azriel loved him for it. He leaned against the window frame and kept out of the way, for offering advice only made Rhys lose his mind. 

But Cass was oblivious to this sentiment. He reached to take Nyx into his embrace. When his calloused fingers scraped against the tender wings, Azriel winced. Add it to their natural sensitivity and they had a crying babe in their arms. Literally. The tiny wings posed a greater hindrance with their involuntary flexing than the three brothers imagined them to be. Though they understood the plight as Illyrians, they were equally pathetic when it came to a suitable remedy.

Cass backed a step, his hands in the air. It wasn’t his first ordeal facing the wrath of the new parents, yet his biggest challenge was the fervour of their outbursts. Some days, Feyre threw everyone out of the room, and on the others—well, once Nyx’s talon clawed into the wood of the cradle, and Rhys bawled while all his child did was stir in his sleep.

A tendril of shadow tickled the babe’s nose before rising to whirl above his head. Fragile silence settled in the room as Nyx watched, his blue eyes wide and filled with wonder.

‘You can’t keep doing that,’ said Cass through his teeth.

Azriel grinned. ‘It’s not my fault he likes me better.’

‘If I did parlour tricks, he’d like me too.’

His tricks include getting piss drunk and fucking Nesta, said Rhys in his mind and Azriel snickered.

Cass looked between them. ‘What did he say?’ He asked Azriel before grunting at Rhys, ‘Tell it to my face, you coward.’

‘You’re making him antsy,’ warned Azriel quietly.

It was too late. Nyx’s lips trembled on cue as though he knew to milk their predicament to his advantage. Rhys’s spawn indeed. With a nervous smile, Cass took a step towards him wagging his finger in the air. But the wails grew louder. 

Shadows rushed back seeking the quiet around Azriel.

When the doors flung open, Cass took three steps back. But Feyre’s eyes were only on her child—one touch from her and Nyx babbled like a portrait of innocence tugging at her shirt. Nesta walked in with a smirk on her lips, knowing well the cause of distress, and with Mor in her tow.

Slumping into the chair next to the fireplace, Rhys draped an arm over his eyes. ‘I’m learning to respect my mother more. No wonder she bit our heads off as much as she did.’

‘I swear,’ grumbled Cass as he sat across him, ‘if you’re making him do it—’

Rhys peeked over his arm, anger darkening his eyes. ‘Why would I make my son cry?’

As the two bickered, Nyx laughed at his accomplishment, convincing Azriel he might have inherited more than his father’s theatrics.

Feyre chuckled and rocked her babe in her arms. ‘You lasted an hour. You’re making progress.’

Rhys shot a glare at Cass. ‘I would’ve lasted longer if not for a moron.’

‘I’m sure she was talking to Nyx,’ said Azriel.

Sensing the attention slipping from his pudgy fingers, Nyx spewed more gibberish. Mor let out a gasp and leaned over him, matching him with her own nonsense. But, he reached for Nesta instead.

Mor placed her hands on her hips and turned to her cousin. Her blond hair whipped dangerously in the air. ‘How does he not find me adorable?’

Rhys grinned. ‘Clearly, my son has standards.’

Nyx snuggled against Nesta’s chest and grasped at the wisps of shadows that deigned safe to approach him again. Mor smirked, ‘Well, clearly. He prefers Az over you.’

A dark power enveloped the corners of the room swallowing the light and warmth from the hearth.

‘Not funny now, are we?’ 

When Mor made a grab for Nyx’s hand in the air, he squirmed away. Amusement replaced the jealousy in Rhys’s eyes. ‘If only you could hear what he thinks of you.’

‘He thinks of me already! He likes me.’

While the rest of his family flocked wherever the babe was, Azriel always found a corner for himself. And Feyre seemed to notice. ‘He really likes his Uncle Az.’

‘More like Uncle Ass,’ grumbled Cass, still sore from the rejection, earning a glare from both parents.

‘You still won’t hold him?’ Feyre asked with a softness that bordered on pity.

In the beginning, it was easy to make excuses blaming it on the care needed from a mother, or on his tender body. With months passed and everyone grown comfortable with handling a babe, it became clearer that Azriel stayed away the most. And somehow, Nyx was fascinated by him the more he distanced himself. It couldn’t be his shadows for Rhys was the night sky incarnate, or perhaps Nyx sensed a familiar darkness in them.

‘I did when Rhys—I did,’ he sighed offering a smile, however strained it was. 

Mischief lurked in Feyre’s eyes as she walked over, ‘You better begin your training now,’ and looped a hand through his arm, ‘You might not have time to prepare.’

Azriel choked. Him with a babe? He had hardly spent minutes with Ayla. Besides, he forbade himself from indulging in such fantasies. He did once and suffered the consequences for centuries. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. With Ayla, it would be different. It had to be different.

The sisters’ laughter worsened the heat rising up his neck. His eyes shifted, darting to look anywhere but their faces, and he caught the glance shared between Mor and Rhys.

Cass swivelled in the chair, ‘What about us? Nes and I are still ahead of him.’

Nesta went rigid. Feyre looked to her mate for help who merely grinned instead. Fortunately for her, Nyx yawned and she rushed to him. ‘I should take him to bed.’ 

Mor stomped over to the couch, ‘You owe me a night, Feyre.’ She pulled Cass to his feet and held onto his hand. ‘You all do. I’m leaving at dawn again and who knows when I’ll be back.’

Right, Vallahan teased her for months with the prospects of a successful alliance, only to test her patience.

‘I’ll stay with him,’ Nesta said quietly, tearing her eyes away from her mate. Cass only shook his head with a dramatic sigh but he didn’t argue or pull away from Mor.

Feyre and Rhys were silent for a while staring at each other, Azriel assumed, arguing over who got the honour to care for their son. Finally, she said, ‘Elain said something about pruning before sunrise. She won’t mind watching him.’ 

It was then Azriel realised the third sister hadn’t joined them since dinner.

.

.

.

Mor slowed as she took in her surroundings, a frown tugging her lips. ‘I thought we were going to Rita’s.’

‘After last time,’ Rhys shared a secret smile with Cass, ‘they’ll appreciate not seeing us for a while.’

Azriel didn’t know what trouble his brothers had stirred this time, but he resisted his words as he followed them down the cobblestone path he knew all too well. Without sparing even a courteous look at him, his family entered Pharus and went to his usual table as though it hadn’t been their plan all along, as though his mate wasn’t sitting on the dais right in front of him.

Ayla was alone that night. She strummed a tune on her lute, and at the first sound from her lips, every conversation died in the room, every patron straining to listen to her instead. 

Pretty things that did pretty things.

Azriel was convinced he had learnt everything about her from his secret visits. But every time he met her, Ayla surprised him. What else could she do? Who was she beneath the stories he had gathered those months? He couldn’t tell if they were careless gossip from his server or curated tales from her loyal friend anymore. 

Her fingers fluttered along the strings, light and nimble, every note a perfection. With each delicate stroke, her body moved with the music like she couldn’t hold back, and as she did, her hair swayed too, teasing the corner of her smile. 

One day, Azriel imagined, he would take her in his arms and brush those treacherous strands away. His heart tightened at the vision—the intimacy of being so close to her, to touch her so gently, to reveal her beautiful face to him inch by inch.

If only he had used his mind for once instead of acting like a lustful prick.

Ayla had laughed for him. She had shown him a side of her that only a few were privileged to witness. She had extended a ray of hope with her truths, and he snuffed it out with one kiss.

When the fog of guilt and shame cleared later that night, Azriel realised he had failed once again. For each of his questions resolved, plenty more arose. How did she end up in Velaris? What of her family? With Hamra safe and away, was Ayla safe from the mystery woman too? If he had another chance, he might coax some answers from her without her games. But she wouldn’t let him close to her again, let alone trust him.

In a twisted way, he wasn’t surprised. When had he ever made right when it came to love?

Azriel almost laughed. He was mated to Ayla. He didn’t love her. He couldn’t, not yet. He wasn’t sure he knew what love was. His half-brothers had ripped his heart away when he was a boy, long before he learnt what the word meant. All his life, he only ever ‘loved’ one woman and she rejected him. She chose his brother over him for she saw what lurked under the surface, recognised what he was—a shroud disguising the darkness within.

Now his mate, would she reject him too if she knew the true scars deep under his skin?

Ayla took a breath between verses, and he shuddered. Her voice reeled him out of his fears. The weight in his chest loosened its grip with her every word, yet Azriel held onto the ache. What was he without his burdens? What could he be without this longing?

Slowly, as her song came to an end, his swirling thoughts settled too. For long minutes, not one spoke. Silence embraced the void her voice left behind.

Feyre and Cass looked away first, then Mor. When a gasp escaped Nesta, everyone turned to her, except Rhys. Silver sparkled in her eyes beneath the unshed tears as she clutched her chest. Cass spoke her name but her eyes remained on Ayla who padded down the steps. It was only when he placed a hand on her thigh, that she met his gaze with a smile.

His shadows awoke from their trance too. They slithered up his neck and chanted Ayla’s name in his ears. But Azriel’s attention was elsewhere. As conversations came alive and servers went around the room, Rhys watched Ayla. When she stopped in front of her office and talked to a female among a band of four, his violet eyes shone bright.

‘Rhys.’ Azriel called, interrupting him had he chosen to invade his mate’s mind again. Still, his brother didn’t tear his eyes away from her.

A frown creased between his brows before Rhys blinked. He turned to Feyre first—it had been she who pulled him out of his reverie—and then, Azriel. Neither of them spoke, aloud or in their minds. But a tension lingered in their stares. Feyre ran her palm down his arm and it brought a smile to his lips. He looked away first.

With the risk of other courts seeking someone from Velaris, Rhys was bound to get involved sooner or later. With the fae gone, he would have nothing to focus on except Ayla. And so, Azriel kept Hamra’s whereabouts to himself. As far as his brother was concerned, she was hiding somewhere in the city.

The faerie bowed her head and apologised, holding Ayla’s hand in hers, her cheeks flushing red, while her companions set up on the podium. Ayla nodded with a gentle smile—ever so gracious. She blinked and her eyes pinned on Azriel as though she’d expected to find him there, and his breath caught in his throat. 

Once the faerie left, she went to the bar.

‘Come with me.’ Nesta dragged him along before he had the chance to protest, and he swore his shadows aided her. She perched on a stool at one end of the counter, close to the office, making it impossible for Ayla to leave the room without walking past.

It was Raya who approached them though. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Could she serve us?’ Nesta glanced at Ayla. ‘She made me a drink last time and it was delicious, but I can’t remember its name. We were hoping she’d make it for us again.’ With her smile so earnest even Azriel found himself convinced.

Raya cut him a glare but spoke to Nesta, ‘Tell me how it looked. I’ll make it for you.’

‘I’ll take care of them,’ said Ayla softly, not looking up from the drinks she stacked on a tray. While Raya began to protest, Uri urged her with his eyes, then picked up the tray and waded through the crowded tables.

Watching the defeated bartender shuffle to the other end, Nesta remarked. ‘I thought they liked you here.’

‘Not anymore.’ He ignored her expecting gaze and sat beside her. 

No one was privy to what had transpired between him and Ayla, and he preferred it that way. When his family meddled, she seemed to slip away from him.

Minutes passed. She catered to every patron at the counter, ignoring him and Nesta, including the ones who came after them. Azriel glimpsed over his shoulder and found the glasses empty at their table. Cass hollered to Uri, yet the server turned around and talked to a couple who sneaked wary peeks at the ridiculous male waving his arm in the air. 

Azriel smiled at his mate. Keeping liquor from his family was one, and very efficient, way to encourage them to leave the bar.

At last, with no one else left to tend to, Ayla turned their way though she refused to meet his gaze. ‘What would you like to drink?’

‘You have a beautiful voice,’ said Nesta, her words whispered with a touch of awe.

‘Thank you,’ smiled Ayla. She stared for a moment and then blinked twice. ‘You sound good too.’

Nesta sucked in a breath. Compliments weren't meant for her. Everything she did was expected and never deemed worthy of praise. As though remembering her manners, she dipped her chin in a graceful nod.

‘How often do you sing?’ She inhaled sharply, ‘I mean, if I wish to listen to you again, when is it likely for it to happen, again?’

‘You can request to my bartender or the servers. If I’m here, they shall let me know.’

So, Azriel hadn’t been special. Yet, seeing her offer kindness to his friend without hesitation was endearing. Nesta pursed her lips as Cass came to stand beside him. The scent of citrus smothered him before Mor wedged herself between the two and wrapped an arm around him. ‘What are we having?’

Shadows scattered back to his wings. Azriel shifted in his seat, the hold on his shoulder growing unbearably heavy with each passing second. He peeked at Ayla but her focus remained on the glasses she was readying for them.

‘Not the one from the other night,’ Mor leaned over the counter and spied the ingredients she mixed. ‘I still haven’t forgiven you for that.’

Ayla offered the first drink to Nesta. ‘I don’t remember apologising. But, alright.’

Azriel shook with silent laughter and his shadows skittered down his arms. Mother, how had he gone two whole days apart from her?

‘Don’t worry about her. It’s easy to get into her good graces.’ Cass snorted, earning a vicious glare from Mor, but she soon smiled brightly when Ayla served her. ‘Just don’t take her wine from her.’

‘And why would I want to be in your graces?’

A laugh escaped Azriel. When he looked up, none of his friends were laughing with him, they only watched.

‘So,’ drawled Mor, ‘what do you think of our Az?’ Her arm tightened over his shoulder as she pressed closer.

Azriel glared at his brother silently cursing him for unleashing their disaster of a friend. 

The next drink was for Cass. Ayla poured another four and began setting them on a tray, ‘I don’t know enough about your Az to make a judgement.’ 

His name rolled off her tongue in a smooth caress. Blood rushed to his face, and between his legs.

‘Would you like to know enough?’ 

Azriel whirled to his other side where Nesta sat wearing a smirk. Why did they leave Rhys and Feyre behind? Why didn't they bring the whole entourage and embarrass him in front of his mate? 

But then, Ayla said, ‘He can ask that himself.’

Ask, his shadows urged. Ask. The words merged and weaved until all he heard were incoherent whispers. Ask.

Azriel was never at a loss for words, he simply chose not to say them aloud. But with her, he often found himself speechless. Nesta nudged him with her knee, a reminder that he still hadn’t spoken. He cleared his throat, and his friends had the decency to scramble. Cass ruffled his hair, making him hiss under his breath, before he and Mor wandered back to their table.

Nesta made to leave as well, watching them for a breath before staring into her drink. Almost a year had passed since she accepted them as family, yet she felt no less an outsider.

Ayla noticed Nesta’s hesitation and watched the two once they joined Rhys and Feyre. Laughter erupted, drinks flowed, and their eyes often drifted to Azriel.

‘You should dance,’ said Ayla. Nesta’s eyes snapped to her as she watched the ones swaying in front of the dais with a smile. ‘The band loves when people do.’ Right then, Uri appeared behind them with his usual smile and she nodded at him, ‘If you’re shy.’ 

How she knew about his friend or the server materialised at that very moment was a mystery.

While Nesta sat contemplating the offer, Ayla set a drink for him. ‘You two have a history.’ 

She was looking past him, where his family was, and Azriel knew who she meant.

A glass shattered across the bar, and Raya darted to the kitchen mumbling about needing a broom, although the smirk on her face was unmistakable.

Nesta choked on her drink. She quickly got to her feet and patted him on the back, ‘Don’t ruin it,’ as walked away with Uri.

Alone at long last, free from prying patrons and his meddlesome family and her vigilant friends. Yet, Azriel felt no relief. His shadows retreated behind him, barely peeking over his shoulders. Now that he was in a bind, they were silent as the dead.

‘Do you regret it?’ she asked quietly.

All night, Ayla wouldn’t meet his gaze, and now it dawned on him—she believed he regretted the kiss he’d dreamed of for months, his one true glimpse of boundless happiness in ages. And with Mor acting like Mor. . .Azriel couldn’t breathe.

‘I don’t.’ Her words nearly drowned in the chaos around them as she fussed with empty glasses on the counter. ‘Although I’d prefer you didn’t run away next time.’

His shadows fluttered around him, emboldened by her admission. Azriel let out a shuddering breath, the need to explain the past tightened in his chest. ‘It’s not how you think,’ he began. What were he and Mor if they were barely friends in name? What remained to say when nothing had existed between them? Instead, he settled on, ‘It was a long time ago.’

Her face was bare and calm. ‘How many long times ago are there?’ 

When he thought it couldn’t get worse, it did. It wasn’t a conversation he was willing to have with his mate in a bar, with his family undoubtedly listening in on them.

‘Two.’ His shadows hissed in his ears and sank behind him again.

Ayla took a slow breath. ‘And not long times ago?’

She pressed her lips together and they quivered. 

Azriel was a fool—an absolute, blind fool.

‘Well?’ She finally looked at him. The light in her eyes returned, brighter than ever. ‘That many, huh? How about in the past century?’

Azriel held in his smile.

Her eyes widened as Ayla faked a gasp. ‘How about the last fourteen months?’

Fourteen months ago, Azriel walked into Pharus for the first time, he saw his mate for the first time, he saw her smile for the first time. While he tortured himself with the misery of being invisible to her, she had remembered him.

Even the ones he called his friends didn’t know this part of him. And Ayla was unravelling him in mere seconds. A voice in his mind warned him to stop, to think, to run away. But he saw the grin on her face at his unease, the unbridled amusement on her face. 

‘Eight,’ he said and waited for an insult but none came. ‘What about you?’ 

‘One.’

Azriel’s brows rose. He knew there were more—more than eight—male and female, none she invited again. His shadows had whispered so during his secret trysts, and that was before the bond snapped for him.

His mind refused to believe her, yet his craving heart did. For a sweet moment, he tasted relief, then she ruined it.

‘Doesn’t sound fair, does it? Perhaps, we should get even.’

The doorknob twisted under his fingers and Azriel gritted his teeth at the soft click. Mercifully, the door made no more sound. Darkness and quiet awaited him on the other side, while a haunting aura loomed behind him in the hallway under the fading sunlight. The hag was nowhere to be found.

Everyone except Ayla had known who he was, yet something changed after that day.

The last time he walked into the bar, Raya glared from across the room stopping him in his steps. She and Uri exchanged hissed whispers before the server led him out to the streets. He croaked out a “We’re closing soon anyway” with an apologetic smile and shut the rusty door in his face.

And, the hag—gone were the expectant eyes and the grateful smile when Azriel returned the next night. Instead, he faced a creature twice as large as him with knitting needles in one hand and jagged talons out in the other. 

Nonetheless, it warmed his heart and calmed his mind that Ayla was cared for.

Grumbled curses seeped through the wall on his side. His shadows wound tight around him. Clapping his wings close, Azriel wedged through the gap and shut the door carefully, praying it didn’t alert the hag.

A second passed and another. Then, sweet silence embraced him.

‘We’re closed.’

Azriel whirled around.

The room seemed to stretch far and long in the darkness with thick curtains shielding the windows. Stacks of wooden trays, empty glasses, and filled crystal decanters piled on the counter. Behind it, Ayla reached on her toes and placed a bottle on the shelf. A lone lantern burned a muted golden above the bar illuminating her.

‘I really need a drink,’ he uttered the first words that came to his mind, cursing himself for the senseless fool he was.

Her hand went rigid. Ayla stilled, and time and space froze with her. If not for the wisps of hair fluttering with her every breath, Azriel would have believed so.

None of their previous encounters ended on a good note. After the last time, he needed to clarify himself. If his mate deemed him vile, Azriel preferred she hated him from close. But in her silence, it struck him. She could be the one behind her friends’ defence, commanding them to keep him away.

‘Lock the door.’ She said a moment later, adding another bottle to the display. ‘I don’t want anyone else to believe we’re open yet.’

Resisting a smile, Azriel tested the knob again. He and her, alone in the empty bar—dreams truly did come true.

Once he settled across from her, Ayla faced him. She looked at him, unblinking. 

Azriel waited. So did she. He fumbled into his pockets and his fingers caught in the leather. His heart sank. He remembered stuffing a pouch with gold marks explicitly to bribe the hag if needed.  

Ayla laughed, the sound echoing through the air, chasing away every thought from his mind. She had blessed him with her smiles before. But this, it was beautiful—more so than her melodies, like the chime of a willow.

‘I was expecting your order.’ Her shoulders shook as she picked a glass from the pile. ‘Spare your money. The bar is still closed, remember?’

Heat crept up his neck. Though Azriel smiled, he ducked his head low. His shadows swayed on his shoulders as if laughing along with her. Traitors.

Ayla pulled a decanter from under the counter, simpler than the ones above, and poured a mouthful for him.

Azriel took the first sip and her eyes never left his face. 

A thick sweetness coated his mouth, the aftertaste lingering on his tongue. A drink was surely an excuse for his cause, but he expected a real one in a bar. He almost said so when his throat tightened. His vision clouded. Bitterness exploded along the back of his tongue before morphing into a burn that settled in his throat, and an undignified cough escaped his lips.

Amusement sparked in Ayla’s eyes. ‘I can find you something light if you’d like.’

‘It’s fine.’ Azriel cleared his throat. His voice was hoarse when he got the words out. ‘I didn’t expect. . .that. What is it?’

‘Poison. Didn’t your instincts warn you?’

His shadows danced along his back and wings, but they were quiet and calm. Azriel studied her blank face as he took a subtle sniff. It smelled quite like her—a jumble of spices and sweetness. 

Ayla laughed again. ‘I’m not daft to kill you in my own bar. It’s something Raya and Uri have been experimenting with.’

‘So it could be poison.’ Azriel smiled and tested another sip. It tasted easy this time. When she paused to fill his glass, he gave her a nod.

Her eyes fixated on his shoulders. ‘And for your companions?’

The wavering darkness stilled.

One ever wondered what they did for him or could do for them. In five centuries, no one asked what they wanted. His shadows that sensed the insensible and expected the unexpected, skidded down his back as though her question had rendered them awed. Their whispers quieted, and in that eerie void, Azriel seemed to hear a word echo back to him. Far, far away. Ayla.

‘Nothing.’ He dropped his gaze to the drink, smiling. It only served right that his companions suffered his agony too.

Leaving the liquor beside him, Ayla tended to her shelf. 

It was a cold, cruel world outside. A woman who hurt her and promised worse lurked beyond that room. A court wanted to whisk her away for a reason he knew nothing of. But Ayla had no worry. She drifted back and forth, shuffling the bottles in an innate pattern only she saw until the colours bled and blended into a seamless artwork, a mosaic of reds and browns and amber in the faelight.

How could she be so carefree with her life in danger?

She preferred the lonely, Uri had said. Even with Azriel mere feet away, she was alone, in her own world—getting her bar ready for the evening, and he was content watching her.

Cradling a bottle against her chest, Ayla leaned back against the counter.

If he set his glass down and reached a little, Azriel could trail a finger down the arch of her spine, feel the smooth curve of her waist under his palm. A little lower, her shirt crinkled, right above the swell of her— He tore his eyes away and cleared his throat.

‘You don’t have to act tough,’ she said. ‘No one shall know the big bad shadowsinger can’t drink. It will be our secret.’

Azriel looked up. Ayla moved down the bar, away from him, towards the unattended pile. A teasing smile tugged at her lips. And her face lacked the hatred he believed she felt for him.

Had he been wrong? The times he met with her, she was polite—ignoring her threat—and she talked without hesitance.

‘You were gone for a long time. Where were you?’

‘Shouldn’t you know that already?’ Ayla wiped the glasses, the rings on her bracelet clinking with her every move, and stacked them on the tray one by one.

‘I’m a spy,’ mumbled Azriel, ‘not a stalker.’

She chuckled, so light it was almost a breath. ‘Don’t the lines blur for you?’

Always a quick question thrown his way to draw the attention from her. Azriel was used to rudeness, anger, and even snark. But Ayla, she was something else. Her words were a weapon, sharp and precise, and always found their mark.

Shadows gathered over his shoulder, coiling and threading into dark ribbons, inching towards her. Ayla glanced at them and a smile curled her lips. With that, she shattered his resolve.

‘Drink with me,’ said Azriel.

Her hands froze and the smile faded. She peered at him.

‘Drink with me, Ayla.’ He said again, only gentler.

For a breath, she didn’t move, only assessing him. Then she abandoned the trays, glasses and bottles, and walked back to where he sat. 

Snagging the drink from between his fingers, she took a sip. Her brows pulled together as she pressed the back of her fingers to her lips and gasped. Azriel grinned.

‘Gods, that’s horrible.’ The veins along her neck strained as she swallowed again. ‘They should not be making that.’

‘A bar owner who can’t handle a drink. It’ll be our secret.’ Azriel poured another glass.

‘Ah, so it begins. Is this how you interrogate your suspects? Get them drunk?’ Ayla crossed her arms on the bar. It brought her closer to him.

Azriel nodded. ‘Right after a meal of their choosing.’

‘Sure, sure. We don’t want to lose them to exhaustion. And when does the screaming begin?’

There were two kinds of women—ones who idolised him and ones who feared him. Neither cared who he was underneath his mask of Night Court’s Torturer. And they definitely did not joke about it. 

Azriel chuckled under his breath.

Ayla drank again. ‘It’s still not my secret to share if that’s why you’re here.’

‘Not the part where you’re involved. That’s yours to tell.’

Her eyes didn’t waver. She observed him as though she could stir through his thoughts and pull them apart until she took what she wanted. 

After a long minute, she muttered, ‘I’m starting to see why you’re a spymaster.’ She tucked a fist under her chin. ‘I’ll tell you what. You find out where Hamra is and I’ll give you—’

‘She just passed the borders of Winter. If she moves west in the next two days, she’s heading to Autumn.’ 

Ayla blinked twice. Her lips parted and closed. She shook her head and slowly, a smile made its way onto her face. ‘Not a stalker,’ she mumbled, brushing the loose strands away from her eyes. ‘I met her five years ago.’

Azriel brought the glass to his lips and hid his smirk behind it.

‘I had to stop at an inn on my way back from a trip. I never do because they are always loud and crowded. That place was no exception.’ Her brows furrowed, yet her smile remained. She stared at the wood between them, ‘I almost left until I saw her. She was cursing at three men who were trying to hold her down and she was soaked in blood. I couldn’t tell whose it was. But she was fighting back. And those who wished to help were afraid of her.’

‘You helped her.’

Ayla nodded once. ‘Not right away. I wasn’t sure if she was innocent. But, she was cornered and outmanned. One of them even had a rope to tie her down like a beast. It didn’t matter though. The next minute, she was waggling a knife at them. Almost took an eye out of one.’ She laughed, shaking her head. More hair spilt from her knot. ‘I still don’t know where she got it from. After I had her cleaned and fed, she offered me gold for my horse and promised to let me ride him if I offered her protection.’

Azriel grinned. He expected nothing less from the spitfire of a child. ‘Who was she running from?’

‘Her sire.’ Ayla hesitated for a beat, then sighed. ‘Hamra is a half-nymph. When she came of age, many coveted her for her beauty and suitors poured in from every court. Her sire is a lowly lord. After he married a high fae to keep his bloodline pure, her mother hid her birth from him. But news of her existence spread when she bore more resemblance to him than her mother. Since Hamra carries his blood and passes as a fae, like any arrogant male, he claims to the right to decide who she weds and beds to further his lordly dreams.’

Different courts, different times, but the same tale.

Anger coiled in Azriel’s gut. Hamra was a mere child. Almost as old as when Mor endured the same or Gwyn.

‘Who’s her father?’

‘I’ve spoken more than I promised.’

‘And the woman, is she here on his orders?’

Ayla stole the drink from him and took a long sip.

‘Tell me the child is safe to travel alone.’

She lifted her chin, her eyes scrutinising him. The glass hung from her fingers by the rim. ‘And why do you care?’

Azriel didn’t know what trick she was playing. How could one not care? The sight of Mor’s naked body, bloody and bruised, on the ground still haunted him. He couldn’t condemn another to the same fate. ‘Shouldn’t we when her life is in danger?’

Ayla sipped again. Another minute of silence passed before she smiled. ‘You’re kind.’

The words felt wrong even from her lips. If she knew his true intentions, that the fae had been a pawn to get closer to her, she wouldn’t feel the same.

Azriel looked away, ‘It’s not what people say about me.’

‘Maybe you’re listening to the wrong people.’

Her gaze was heavy on him. The urge to hide gnawed at his chest. But they were alone and his shadows had their own will around her. They peeled away leaving him exposed, bare and whole. 

Aware of the little time he had before they were interrupted, Azriel took the drink from her. ‘Is that why you refuse to work for lords? For her safety?’

‘I don’t find them reliable.’ She shrugged, ‘Most are entitled and self-aggrandising.’

‘Rhys isn’t like them.’ At the least, not after one knew him.

Ayla clicked her tongue. ‘Your High Lord must pay you well if you endorse him while drunk.’

Azriel chuckled. He itched to defend his brother and convince her that he wasn’t as evil as she believed him to be. But he wanted to stay with her more. 

‘Why the bar?’ He asked instead. Her brows furrowed. ‘You make weapons and yet, own a bar.’

‘I liked the house.’ Azriel must have failed to mask his confusion because she added, ‘It’s in the middle of the city. I have a view of Sidra and the mountains from my balcony. And on solstices, I can see every celebration. The lights, the decorations, the music. For months, I tried to negotiate with the owner. But he wouldn’t sell it without the bar.’ She sighed, waving a hand between them. ‘You would know if you saw my house.’

His heart lurched at those words she uttered so nonchalantly.

‘Tell me this,’ she leaned forward on her arms. ‘Doesn’t it contradict your purpose if you declare yourself a spymaster?’

Azriel grinned. Of course, his mate would be bold enough to ridicule him. ‘I have others working for me. And everyone expects a shadowsinger to spy. There’s no point hiding it.’

Ayla rolled her eyes. ‘Excuses. Admit that you’re terrible at your job.’

’You don’t even know what I can do.’

‘You couldn’t find out where I was.’

‘But I found Hamra.’

‘She probably spotted you. Your shadows aren’t as subtle as they should be.’ She took the drink from him. The warmth of her skin grazed his fingers.

Darkness swarmed and writhed over his shoulders at the insult. A low chuckle escaped his lips. ‘Why the singing?’

Ayla frowned at the sudden shift. ‘You seem to be very curious about my life. Are you sure this isn’t an interrogation?’

‘You’re not screaming yet,’ teased Azriel.

She drew a breath and the corner of her lips twitched. ‘Among my people, women are supposed to be pretty things who do pretty things.’

Azriel waited for more. But she answered with silence.

Sire. Her people. Your High Lord. Her choice of words was strange for a commoner in the north, or even a lady. But she carried no markers of the southern courts. Even when she spoke of Hamra, she refrained from naming a place.

From the way she talked of her people, only two places came to his mind. 

Azriel knew the chances were slim but, for someone whose every word was calculated, she was bound to correct him rather than reveal the truth herself. ‘Autumn?’

Ayla grinned, ‘Do I look like I’m from Autumn?’

Hewn City then. Azriel hid his smirk by taking a sip. ‘I didn’t know making swords was a craft fit for a lady.’

‘Spoken like a true man.’ She exacted her vengeance by snatching the glass from him. Her gaze lingered on his hands as she drank and his fingers twitched on their own. 

He clenched his fists and turned away. He couldn’t bear that look from her—like he was that weak, helpless boy who cried for help, someone reduced to his past and ghosts.

‘We all have scars, shadowsinger.’ Her voice carried a note of tenderness. ‘You bear yours on your skin.’

When Azriel turned back, she was peering at his fists unfazed. She didn’t flinch away with disgust or cower when he caught her inspecting them. 

Ayla opened her palms to him. ‘May I?’

The last time she touched his skin, Azriel was too lost in her to notice. This, he wasn’t prepared for, nor could he forget.

‘You can refuse me,’ she said. Her hands rested on the counter between them as a sign of reassurance that the choice was truly his. 

Many had desired what Ayla asked of him. Even Mor at one time after she learnt the truth from Rhys. But it was Azriel who always chose who and when he touched, never the other way around. The only person he ever let feel his hands was his mother once the bandages were removed.

Slowly, he offered his hand to her. At the graze of her fingertips on his knuckles, he sucked in a sharp breath.

Ayla held his gaze, waiting, allowing him the chance to kill her curiosity. When Azriel didn’t resist, she comforted him with a smile before lowering her eyes. 

For a long time, she only observed, taking in every ugly ridge and wrinkle on his skin. She held his hand in both of hers, her fingers barely touching him. Her thumbs weaved through his digits and stroked his palm, eliciting a jolt through his spine with each traversed path.

We all have scars.

What scars did she possess? Were they a reminder on her skin like his? That thought alone birthed a hunger in him to inflict pain onto the world. 

How could anyone wish to hurt her? A woman whose eyes beheld compassion instead of pity for a cursed soul like him? The one who cradled his marred hand as a sacred relic deserving of her utmost care? The one whose face softened with a kind smile as she marked every inch of his scars with her smooth touch?

‘I wish,’ Ayla breathed, ‘they had treated you better.’

Azriel realised it then. Why Mother burdened him with a loveless life for five centuries. Why Mor didn’t accept him. Why Elain was never meant to be his. 

So he could belong to Ayla. And he would endure the heartache again for eternity if Mother promised him one lifetime with her.

Her fingers stilled, hovering over his palm. ‘Did they pay for this?’

Ayla’s face was that of an ardent believer of forgiveness—warmth radiating from her every time a smile adorned her lips. She cared for Raya and Uri. She protected a child endangering herself. She sheltered a homeless hag.

But Azriel had also witnessed her choke a male defending a fae. 

Which one was he—one worthy of her generosity or her wrath? 

Was he the same innocent boy deserving of justice after the blood he spilt with his own hands? Or was he a sinner for how he punished his half-brothers? What would appease the woman in front of him cradling his hand with a gentleness that rivalled a mother’s touch—that they were forgiven and shown the path of kindness, or they were ripped to shreds by his own tortured hands like they deserved?

No, the word inched closer to the tip of his tongue, ready to satiate his mate with a simple lie. One to keep her from running away from him. ‘Yes.’

The corner of her lips curled up, ever so delicately, and she murmured. ‘Good.’ 

When a frown etched between her brows, he knew her next question well. He grappled at everything he learned of her to lead her elsewhere. 

‘Can I see your dagger?’ She asked softly. 

Azriel almost laughed. One minute, his heart ached with the weight of his past, and the next, with joy and need.

Her back arched over the counter and she leaned low. She narrowed her eyes, prodding at his palm and pinching his fingertips. ‘Do you need special hilts? For your hands, the grip on them should be interesting.’

Oh, Azriel would prove his grip all right.

His shadows buzzed by his ears sensing his insidious thoughts. 

‘Maybe next time,’ he said, easing his hand out of her grip. What an idiot he was denying her the very thing he craved—her skin against his.

Her brow raised but she smiled. ‘Planning ahead, are we?’

It was neither a threat nor a refusal.

Refilling the glass, Azriel nodded at her wrist. ‘Did you make that?’

Ayla glanced at her bracelet before emptying their drink. ‘Orvin did. Leather and innovation are his specialities. I’m better with traditional weaponry.’ She poured another glass and Azriel grabbed it before she could. ‘I don’t carry weapons, so he made it for my travels.’

So close, the rings appeared more silver than gold but lacked the lustre of either. ‘What is it made of?’

‘It’s something I’m working on.’ Ayla threaded her third and fourth fingers through the rings and pulled, slowly revealing the cords. A trilling echoed in the air as they strummed from the strain. ‘See,’ she looked up at him, her eyes bright and eager. ‘It’s malleable under tension. It may not look like it, but it’s tougher than steel.’

She flexed her fingers and the rings whizzed back to the bracelet in a blink. Her smile widened.

Azriel set the glass down and reached for her wrist. Then, he stopped. When he turned to her, she nodded twice, extending her arm towards him. 

His fingers were thicker than hers. The rings barely slipped past his nails. The heat from her skin still warmed the metal. 

Ayla leaned close and Azriel held his breath. She curled his fingers, trapping the rings between his knuckles.

‘They are meant to be a little loose to manoeuvre them.’ She pointed at his half-closed fist, ‘You can’t get proper control if they’re snug. There’s also the danger of breaking your fingers during a fight.’

Azriel nodded and tested a little tug. His fingers trembled at the tension as though the cords fought back against him. Both times Ayla used it, she did so with an impressive ease that almost shamed his Illyrian strength.

She traced her fingers along the width of the bracelet. ‘Here’s where the tethers go. It remembers its form and reverts to it once you let go.’ Then she frowned, ‘But it’s not perfect yet. Leather gets worn out soon. We’re trying to replace it with metal but the slide and friction are hard to get around.’

Words tumbled out of her lips about metals and temperatures and mechanics. The more she talked, the further she edged towards him.

Azriel narrowed his eyes.

A smoky tendril teetered over her shoulder, one to the other. It coiled and wove itself with the loose ends of her hair, curving along her jaw carefully to not touch her skin. And as the rogue shadow nudged against her collar, swaying too close to her ear, he gritted his teeth. 

Ayla looked up at his silence.

Azriel nodded, bringing his gaze back to her face. Or did she ask him something?

He stared at his hand, the rings still in his grasp. He coiled the cord around his fist like she did on that first night. She was right—he could tolerate the strain better. He tugged and her hand slipped on the table, almost knocking the glass off. She caught it before the liquor spilt on him.

‘Hey,’ she laughed—sweet and soothing. His shadows sighed at the sound. ‘Careful!’ 

Azriel released the rings, letting go of the tether, letting go of her.

But Ayla didn’t move back. She drank, smiling. 

Lights hit the crystals on the shelf right and their glow echoed around her like a gentle halo—turning her into the ethereal being she was. Her eyes sparkled with mirth and her cheeks flushed warm. She licked the remnants of the liquor from her bottom lip as she emptied the bottle and nudged the drink towards him.

Azriel willed himself to breathe. Placing his finger on the rim, he turned the glass around. When he brought it to his lips, his tongue darted out to gather the wetness still stuck to it, where her lips had been not a moment ago. He took a long sip, savouring every drop of the burning nectar she offered.

Ayla stared at him—his parted lips, the column of his throat as he swallowed. Her inhaled breath stuck in her throat. As Azriel set the glass down, her eyes followed it before they flashed to his. 

Far, his mind screamed, too fucking far. 

But Azriel noticed the slight twitch of her lips before her gaze flicked to his side. A thread of shadow curled around his ear. 

A lock clicked beyond the wall. Ayla looked over her shoulder at the closed office door, sinking her teeth into her lip.

Raya, his shadows announced.

‘That’s my bartender,’ her voice took on a lower note, more melodious than ever. She swallowed a breath and turned to him. ‘We’ll be opening soon.’

Azriel waited. 

Ayla didn’t move.

He grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her to him, pressing his lips to hers. 

Metal clanked and scratched against the wood as her fingers splayed on the counter. When her lips moved with his, Azriel buried his other hand into her hair—her beautiful, silkened hair. 

He swept his tongue against her lips, wide and hungry. Honeyed sweetness from their drink lingered on them, and beneath it, he tasted her. A shiver raked through him, every nerve in his body awakening at her kiss. When she gasped, he stole the little breath from between her lips. She didn’t resist. 

Gods, not once did she resist.

Azriel kissed her. 

He kissed her with every piece of his heart. He kissed her for the centuries he waited for her. He kissed her for the moments wasted between them, and the moments he would miss until next time.

Here.

Feet stomped close on the other side of the door.

Azriel pulled away, dropping his hands.

The door opened.

‘People generally rest in their bed,’ groaned Raya entering the room. Her mouth fell open when she spotted him, her wide eyes darting between him and Ayla.

Azriel only watched his mate. Her hair, ruined by his hands. Her cheeks aglow golden with a flush. Her lips pursed—wet, swollen, and all the more inviting.

But the light in her eyes, the playfulness, faded.

He stumbled back from the stool. 

‘Thanks for the drink.’

And he left without looking back.

The gelding, as dark as midnight sky, stood with an unearthly stillness under the shade of the stable. Its beady eyes followed Mor as she circled the building for the second time. Grateful for the boots she exchanged her sandals for, she stepped along the edge of the bank. Soil crumbled under her feet setting off ripples in the shallow waters. Pushing the hair out of her face, she peered around. Her fingertips trailed along the stone wall allowing the ragged surface to chip at her skin. No trace of magic. No hint of a hidden room. Not an inch of window on either side. 

Sensing its unwavering stare on her back, Mor turned to the horse with narrowed eyes. She teased the ends of her braid between her fingers. ‘You wouldn’t know of a secret room back there, would you?’ 

The beast didn’t even breathe in response. Mor let out a long sigh.

The meadow stretched for miles in every direction with nothing in sight except for the smithy. Gentle breeze chilled the sweat coating her neck. Thunder clapped at a distance and the scent of impending rain sweetened the air. A single droplet fell on her cheek and she looked up at the darkening skies. Maybe a summer drizzle would be a blessing. It would save her the effort to cloak what she had been up to before Ayla returned.

As she walked back, Mor studied the closed doors again. Painted in blue as bright as the ocean in the west, the carvings seemed to blend and merge into waves, chaotic and restless, as though the rustle of Sidra poured life into them. The longer she stared, the harder it was to break her gaze.

Then she felt it—a quiet call beckoning her forward, promising her. . .something she couldn’t name.

In that moment, Mor knew only one thing. She had to own it.

She inched ahead, and a low grunt warned her. The waves froze. So did Mor’s breath. The horse now stood at the doorstep. She hadn’t seen it move.

‘Hey,’ she muttered under her breath, ‘I don’t want to do this either.’

. . .

Her cousin’s smile vanished as soon as Feyre left the room. Alone in his study, Rhys finally turned to Mor. 

Ever since the three brothers returned from Mother knew where a week ago, none had been the same. Only when Rhys found his mate in front of a fire cradling their babe in her arms that night, his love for them chased the darkness away from his eyes. Creases marked his tunic and his usually impeccable hair was dishevelled. Az didn’t enter past the foyer while Cass stood guarding the door after him. The two stared at each other. Az waited for another minute before he stepped to his brother and hissed under his breath. Shadows wreathed around him. But Mor caught glimpses of his leathers ruined with dirt and splattered blood.

‘It doesn’t feel right, Rhys.’ Mor found his eyes devoid of any emotion.

Perched on a simple leather chair, Rhys radiated the power of a High Lord making a throne for himself no matter where he was. He fixed her with one of his rare stares that left no room for argument. ‘We don’t have the luxury to discuss what’s right.’

Mor didn’t need a reminder of what entailed when Az wanted something. She had seen it for five centuries—the ruthlessness behind those kind eyes, the raging fire behind the cool facade.

‘Do you think she’s dangerous?’

Rhys paused. ‘I don’t know.’

Mor couldn’t tell if he meant the mystery woman or Ayla. Perhaps, both. ‘Let’s wait a couple of days. See what happens.’

There had been no news of a missing fae or attack anywhere in the city. Somehow it didn’t offer comfort to either man as she had expected.

‘Would I be asking this if we could sit and wait?’ His shoulders drooped as he heaved a heavy breath. ‘I can barely hold him off from tearing Hewn City apart.’

‘Then let him,’ Mor shrugged. ‘He’d be doing us a favour anyway.’

She would have done it herself, she should have done it herself centuries ago. But she was a coward. The thought of returning to that place even to reduce it to rubble and dust made her blood run cold.

Rhys dismissed her. ‘She was intent on making a bargain. Sounds like an awful trouble for a simple bladesmith, don’t you think?’

Mor gaped at him. He never ignored her whenever that hell was involved. Never. Not only did he speak the city’s name with carelessness, but his eyes lacked the softness they always held when he approached her on its matters.

She squared her shoulders. Her cousin had a point, though she wouldn’t admit it yet. ‘We shouldn’t be making assumptions. It could be nothing.’

But Rhys pressed on, ‘We were in the next room. She wanted the fae. She hurt Ayla.’ He leaned back in the chair. ‘I’m not willing to gamble with their lives.’

Mor hated that Az was caught up in it. She hated it more that she was dragged into it. Az hadn’t been himself the past few days. Damn, he hadn’t been himself for the past few months.

At first, Cass and Mor bet how long his affair with Ayla would last. Az rarely ever shared more than a night with one woman. A few hours at her place, but at the end of the night, he always returned home. Ayla was supposed to be one of his blow-off-the-steam flings. Mor claimed it so, a phase. But Cass was certain it was a mild attraction. I’d never seen Az smile like that at a woman who drew blood from a man, he had said.

Then he returned to the bar again and again. It was a jolt to both of them—at least Cass ended up five gold marks richer. If Ayla had such a hold over Az, if she had meant anything to him, one expected him to tell his friends about his budding feelings. But he kept his escapades a secret, kept her a secret.

Ever since the night, Az had been more distant, more aloof. When everyone went out, as far as going to Ayla’s bar for his sake, he wished to stay home. When everyone stayed the night in River House, he preferred his room in House of Wind. No amount of coaxing convinced him to stay longer than dinner. Nothing satisfied him anymore. 

Since he wished to be anywhere but Velaris, Cass and Mor had planned a whole weekend in the mountain cabin. Yet, Az declared he was going to Day Court on a mission, and Rhys refused them specifics. 

That was before the bond snapped for him. Mor didn't blame Ayla. Still, she couldn’t stop the resentment festering in her heart either. The man she knew all her life, her friend who saved her and brought her back home, was being ripped away from them. Slowly and steadily. She wanted him to be happy. But what if the price was to lose him to a woman they barely knew, to someone who stood to break their family apart? Or worse, break his heart? One day with her had left Az a wreck. What would a lifetime with her do to him? It almost happened once. But Cass and Nesta were one thing.

This was Az.

Getting up from the chair, Mor turned away from Rhys and his hard stare. ‘Didn’t you say the wards are ancient magic?’ Her fingers tugged at the gold chain around her wrist, ‘And Ayla can fight. It will be fine.’ 

She couldn’t go down that road, not even for Az. Let him deal with Ayla and the danger surrounding her. If the worst came to pass, she couldn’t bear to watch it destroy him. She couldn’t get in the middle of his love affairs. But it wasn’t an affair, was it? No, this was his mate. His one true match.

‘Mor,’ called Rhys, kind and gentle that it stopped her pacing. ‘He’s waited long enough. He deserves better.’

There it was, the jab she had been waiting for. Mor kept her breath and voice steady. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means we look out for our friend.’

A lie. A pathetic one at that. She knew what he meant. They blamed her for breaking Az’s heart. They believed Ayla couldn’t do worse than what she did to him. It wasn’t her fault Az held onto hope. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t love him the way he wanted her to.

‘It’s a mating bond,’ she stated calmly, ‘We shouldn’t be meddling.’ Maybe rationality would earn a sway with Rhys. He always put reason first anyway. ‘Besides, Az wouldn’t appreciate you scheming behind his back.’

‘It’s for him I’m asking.’

. . .

‘I only need a peek inside,’ Mor said.

She revealed her open palms to the black guardian in a peace offering. But it stood unmoved. She took a careful step towards the door—that unknown magic summoning her again. 

Another grunt, and she halted.

Damn you, Rhys!

A gentle murmur closed in on them. Mor looked over her shoulder. She had lingered for too long.

‘Don’t tell on me,’ she whispered to the beast and hurried to the stable.

Ayla wore a ridiculously large shirt that swallowed her frame. The fabric swayed in the breeze and clung to her toned thigh and the graceful swell of her hip. Every inch of her body—except for her face and hands—was hidden. She lovingly looked at the mare limping beside her. As it slowed, Ayla grazed her fingers along its neck and followed its gaze. Her pretty, serene smile faded.

Daylight did her justice, unlike the dim glow at the bar. Ayla was attractive, criminally so. But she wasn’t Az’s type—so simple and. . .forgettable. She was beautiful, and yet her face barely left a mark on one’s mind. As if she merged with the very air surrounding them, invisible and intangible. Unless one knew what they were looking for, they wouldn’t spare her a glance.

The night they found Az in the bar alone—Ares or Larus, all Mor remembered was the ugly creature and her incessant knitting—none of them suspected his reason to be a woman, let alone her. 

One had no say in how Mother chose their mate. Still, Ayla was a far cry. Az instead liked women who were. . .Mor frowned. She realised she didn’t know. Her friend was cryptic about his partners, especially with her. Did Rhys or Cass know of his preferences? Something worse dawned on her. Would he have told her about his mate if Cass hadn’t blabbered in his drunken haze?

Without breaking her stride, Ayla walked past the blonde ignoring her friendly wave and smile. She smelled sweet—like cardamom and something exotic.

The gelding finally moved from its spot and approached her as she reached the stable. It stood by the entrance even when its companion sought the shade inside, its beady eyes only on Mor. 

‘You need anything?’ Ayla peeked at her visitor before crouching by the door. Lustrous strands slipped loose from the messy knot at the nape of her neck. She brushed them away with the back of her hand and reached inside a bucket on the ground. She tossed something at Mor, ‘It’s clean.’

Mor caught it before it hit her in the face. Rude!

It was firm and cool and. . .red. She threw an apple at her.

The mare trudged back to Ayla, looking down over her shoulder. A leather brace encased its right forelimb, winding up from hoof to knee. When Mor moved closer, drawn by its beauty, it whipped its head away and backed into the shade. 

Ayla got to her feet with a dancer’s fluidity, an apple in her hand. ‘I got you. You’re safe now,’ she cooed. ‘No one’s going to hurt you.’ 

She hushed softly. The mare stilled under her touch. She brushed her fingers through its mane, the hair shifting like spun silver. As she breathed, the horse breathed with her.

‘What happened to her?’

Mor couldn’t take her eyes off them. Over the centuries, she had witnessed many fae and humans alike attempt to tame a beast and waste years to earn its trust. She had never seen anyone so in tune with a creature before. Or rather, a creature in tune with a fae.

‘Her owners weren’t kind to her,’ Ayla held the fruit out. The mare caught a sniff before sinking its teeth into its flesh. ‘When she couldn’t breed anymore, they worked her until her leg gave out. They ignored her when she started showing signs. She was in much pain.’

The creature shuffled closer, eager for her touch and words.

Ayla smiled, ‘But that’s the past. She’s making a recovery now. Brave girl, aren’t you?’

Something deep inside Mor cracked and ached. She swallowed, turning to the male horse. It bore no sign of illness or injury. ‘What about him?’

The silver one wearily made its way to a corner hiding from the stranger. But the darkness couldn’t hide the glow in its watchful blue eyes.

Ayla cared neither about Mor nor the threat her horses seemed to sense. She inspected two more apples between her slender fingers as she carried them to the gelding. ‘You’re not here to discuss horses with me. I know who you are, Morrigan.’

A chill went down her spine. No one called her that anymore, at least not in Velaris. She was Mor—Mor who escaped her father and her fate. Mor who freed herself from the darkness from which she was born.

She opened her mouth, unable to resist the urge to correct the woman in front of her. Distant thunder rumbled above the mountains like a warning. A reminder from Mother herself to speak true. Her words halted. It wasn’t the name that unsettled her. But the way Ayla spoke it, the quiet command in it.

Mor mustered the smile she reserved for the courtiers and nobles. ‘Then I guess it makes this less awkward. Tell me about the fae.’

‘What fae?’ Ayla petted the dark coat of the horse. It shimmered like starry smoke under her fingers, and Mor longed to feel its softness on her skin.

‘The one you’re hiding in a secret room back there,’ Mor pointed at the smithy, though Ayla didn’t bother to look at her, unlike her horses who wouldn’t take their eyes away from her.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Seriously?’ Mor snorted, ‘Is this what you want to lie about? Rhys was inside that room.’

‘There’s a room, but it’s no secret.’

Mor rolled her eyes. She regretted not asking Rhys about her first. ‘Fine. Why don’t you tell me about this not-a-secret room and the child you’re harbouring?’

‘She’s not your concern.’

‘Of course, she is. She lives in this court.’

‘No, she’s not.’ She smiled, a twitch of her lips in mockery. ‘Despite what your High Lord believes he heard, that child was never in danger. Regardless, she can protect herself.’

‘Mine?’ Ayla’s chin dipped ever-so-slightly, her gaze shifting. Mor pressed, ‘You said my High Lord.’

‘I’m not mistaken.’

‘Where are you from?’ 

Ayla stayed silent. Mor studied her. Her hair, lighter than a raven’s, a deep brown shone with a tinge of coppery sheen in the sunlight. Her eyes matched her hair, deep and intense. Her skin had a golden hue to it, not tan like the three Illyrians she knew, and not fair like the Archeron sisters. Somewhere in between. Her body showed no hints of other courts’ blood.

Right when she was about to press again, a cool calmness that was the essence of her cousin nudged her mind. 

He’s home.

Keep him busy, she told him. If Rhys were to be believed, Az clung to a delicate thread of restraint from shadowing Ayla day and night. And when that snapped, she wanted to be as far away as possible.

Mor tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘So, Rhys says you’re a weaponsmith.’ 

Ayla pursed her lips, resisting a smile. She petted her gelding, running her nails over its glossy coat, and coaxed it to accept her offering. It hung its head low, careening into her hand.

Mor sucked in a breath. ‘You’re going to ignore me?’ 

‘It’s pointless to state the obvious when you came here knowing who I am. And,’ Ayla drawled, ‘you’re standing in front of a forge.’

Mor snapped her mouth shut at the sound of her cousin’s chuckle in her mind. She almost forgot he was witnessing her trial. What did you do to her that day?

I can’t take credit for this. It’s all her. His amusement was loud and clear. Did you get anything yet?

Mor looked down at her hands. She gave me an apple. Does that count? He laughed again.

‘I understand why you won’t work for other courts. But why refuse your own High Lord?’

Ayla shrugged, ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

Mor tugged at the bracelet coiling around her wrist, almost as tight as the words in her throat. ‘Would it hurt you to give me one straight answer?’ 

Ayla didn’t utter a word. Her gaze drifted to the mare at the tone only for a minute. 

Even as a courtier, it had been a while since Mor had to strain every nerve for a simple conversation. Why would Az lose his mind over her? He wouldn’t want her without the bloody bond. For a moment, she pitied her friend. He waited centuries only for Mother to bind his fate with this infuriating woman. 

Then she remembered her thoughts weren’t secure. She took a breath, ‘Fine, hate Rhys all you want. Why do you hate me?’

‘I don’t have a reason to hate you or your High Lord.’

I tried, Mor sighed.

Try harder. Rhys’s response was instant.

Get down here and do it yourself.

Mor, he warned, his power radiating even through their minds. Then his voice was gone, and so was his commanding presence. Mor inhaled deeply at the emptiness, as if her cousin had taken her thoughts along with him. Come home. I think he’s onto us.

You think? She surveyed their surroundings. Lush plains stretched in every direction, providing no cover for a particular shadowsinger if he chose to stake out. Give me another minute.

When she turned around, she met the coal-like eyes of the gelding that peered into the depths of her soul. It watched her like it sensed what she had been up to, that Rhys was watching it back.

Mor knew such beasts well. So she matched its stare. Tiny drops of rain hit her skin, but she refused to bow down. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the mare edging close to the entrance. Its steps were as quiet as the one challenging her. Neither made a sound with Ayla around, only their breaths a sign of their attention when she spoke to them.

‘I know you’re hungry,’ said Ayla, twirling the apple between her fingers. ‘We’ll go for a ride later if you take one bite.’ The beast nuzzled against Ayla’s neck, but it didn’t relent. She tipped her head and a thin veil of her hair blocked its view. ‘For me?’

Mor shifted her weight to her right foot, and it whinnied out a hoarse breath. Its forelimb twitched, muscles pulling taut along its length, warning her of what it wouldn’t hesitate to do if she made one wrong move.

The Truth-Teller strapped to Az’s thigh flashed in her mind. Or was it Rhys?

Ayla spoke softly, ‘I won’t let anyone touch you. You’re safe.’ She smoothed her palm between its eyes, down its neck, through its mane. ‘Easy now.’ 

The horse blinked. Ayla repeated her affirmations. It slowly turned, leaning into her hand, an eye watching its foe. The crunch of the ripe flesh between its teeth echoed in the air.

Mor shuddered. Yet, she couldn’t mask the smile on her lips or her thoughts. Tell me you're seeing this.

Ayla rewarded the gelding with a kiss between its eyes. ‘Good boy,’ she held out the other apple. But the beast pressed its forehead to her cheek and nuzzled, backing her towards the stone building, away from the stranger. Ayla chuckled as she steadied herself. ‘Come now. Don’t be rude.’

Mor ached to winnow back and tease her friend about his mate and her territorial pet. It wasn’t just her who felt that. 

Does Az know his mate already has a shadow? 

Oh, he won’t appreciate this competition. Rhys laughed.

Mor snorted. The beast stilled, its ears perked up. She cleared her throat, ‘He’s adorable. What’s his name?’ 

A minute passed and another. Well, Rhys would have to find some other way to get his answers. 

Mor sighed, though a little of the guilt and doubt in her chest had dampened. ‘If you ever need help, you can come to me.’ 

To her surprise, Ayla looked at her and nodded.

.

.

.

Seven days. Two cities. One woman.

Some spy he was. For five centuries, Azriel hunted men and women across lands. Never had he felt as useless as he did in those seven days.

He scoured every inch of Velaris for the woman who hurt Ayla. Day and night he searched every inn, listened to whispers in the streets, and sent his wraiths to gather news about foreigners. He searched for her in expensive bars and restaurants, to the theatres and landmarks. He went as far as to look into the seedy taverns on the other side of the city, just to be certain. If she had known they were inside the room while she threatened Ayla, she should have been smart enough to keep to the shadows. Even Hewn City wasn’t spared. He spied every courtier who set foot inside the mountain city in the past two weeks to ensure none of them knew of Ayla’s existence. 

He found nothing. It wasn’t a question of how, but who stumped him. All his efforts were futile, for what did he know of this mysterious enemy?

Azriel played the events of that day in his mind over and over again. His instincts had set in the instant he walked out of the hidden room. His shadows crept along the floor and writhed at his feet like serpents waking from each step. There was no trace of that woman—not her magic, not her scent. The only sign of the ordeal lay red on Ayla’s tender neck. He combed through every spoken word, every moment to find one clue that could lead him to her. A name. A court. But all it yielded was the churning rage in his gut at the voice that rang in his ears—her mockery, her threats, her laughter. 

I don’t work for any court , Ayla had said.

His brother wasn't beyond sending someone to test Ayla, but taking him to the smithy on the same day? Rhys could be cunning, but he was no fool. 

The woman didn’t belong to Night. But she knew where to find the city. She walked past the wards unhindered. She recognised them from their scents alone. She had met them before, at the least, been close enough. Why did she want Ayla? Was it to spite him? No, she mentioned Rhys only when she was denied what she came for. She wanted Ayla. And the girl. 

Azriel found only a mild comfort in all this—if she knew them, they knew her.

From the constant fussing and wary glances between the two, he knew his brothers sensed his desperation. So he went to work and pretended to be past it. He employed every spy of his all over the court, but he kept the details to himself. Every crossing past the borders of the two cities and the court was reported to him, irrespective of who and why. It was tedious work and inappropriate use of resources for his personal matters. He had never done that before.

And yet, it didn’t feel wrong.

Fourteen days. Three brothers. One woman.

Azriel needed answers. But he had no leads. Not true, he had three—none willing to help.

Confronting Ayla would be easier than chasing a phantom around the court. She refused to make weapons for her High Lord—fine, Azriel didn’t care. But as citizens of Night Court, she and her friends were their responsibility despite what she thought. If one of them was in danger or involved with other courts, he had the right to demand answers from her. She wouldn’t have a choice but to comply.

Mother above, he sounded like Rhys!

Ayla hated him. Azriel remembered the way she stepped back from the threshold when he reached for her. Her hand remained on the doorknob, but her back pressed into the stone wall with each step he took. Her breath stilled in her lungs as though she couldn’t bear to breathe the very air that touched him. Once he and his brothers were a few good feet away, she released a breath, and it was enough to crush his heart.

Her naked observation when she had him pinned to the floor was lost as soon as she realised who they were. Emotions flickered in her eyes—deep and haunting. They were nothing more than a threat, worse than the woman who almost killed her.

His brothers promised to protect Ayla. They reassured him her feelings would change with time, as they did for Feyre and Nesta. 

But Azriel wanted to disappear and never to return. He might as well do that. Leave her alone and never intrude into her life, even if the bond killed him.

After he found the woman and skinned her alive. 

Each wasted day chipped at his sanity. The horrid mark on her flesh was seared into his memory. Branded on his soul—a reminder of his incompetence, how he had failed to protect his mate. Not with his sheer Illyrian power, not with his shadows.

It was hard not to imagine, not to see so clearly. Shock and panic flooding her eyes before the fear settled in. Or her fingers clawing at the hand to savour one more gasp of air. Or her legs scuffing on the floor as she fought to level herself. Or her head hitting the wood hard to rattle the wards within, her eyes pinching shut at the impact. Every rasp of hers, every strained breath echoed in his ears—the little choke escaping her lips as the hand enclosed around her neck. 

There was no escape, not for him. Not when he had witnessed many in that position—put many in that position.

It was a twisted joke Mother played on him. A fitting punishment for what he had done over his lifetime for his friend and brother, for his High Lord. A punishment for who he was. To stand helpless and hear his mate endure what he had inflicted upon many without mercy. 

She was his mate. She was so close. She was scared and confused. 

And he couldn’t help her.

Twenty-one days. One shadowsinger. One woman.

Stop.

His shadows hissed as Azriel stared at the worn-out door from across the street. He couldn’t bear to face her again, but he couldn’t stand failing her more. One conversation, he told himself, just one.

He wasn’t afraid. He longed to see her face. He longed to hear her voice. Maybe even a touch, if he was lucky. Yet his body wouldn’t move.

Home.

The one time he wanted assurance from his shadows, they disagreed with him. Azriel balled his fists and turned away, only to meet the very eyes he had been running away from.

Ayla looked at him, the bar, and then back at him. A mere second. That’s how long it took for her to decide to ignore him like he meant nothing to her. She walked past, opening the lid of a brown box she carried in her hand.

‘Wait,’ Azriel said. When she didn’t stop, he called out. ‘Ayla.’

He hadn’t spoken her name out loud before. Not with Uri, not with his brothers, not in the privacy of his room. It had always been her. And now that he had spoken it, it was the only word he ever wanted to utter. The only word that held any meaning.

She came to a slow halt and looked over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed. Azriel held his breath waiting for her to return to him. Instead, she walked to the side of the building and leaned a shoulder against the wall facing him.

Azriel waited a moment before he approached her. For an alley, it was too clean, even in the dark. Behind her stood an iron door leading directly to the office inside. The only shred of light poured down from the streets. And the faelight next to the inscribed plaque of the bar cast an iridescent glow on part of her face.

The usual sternness she carried herself with was replaced with a casual ease. Her legs crossed at the ankles. Her hip jutted out, revealing that sensuous curve of her waist through that large shirt. Locks of hair that never seemed to stay held in her braid spilled around her face. The high collar hid her neck from his eyes. Azriel knew he would only find her flawless skin underneath. Still, he ached to pull her shirt down and see for himself.

The golden rings on her bracelet glinted under the faelight as Ayla reached into the box. Her fingers hovered over the crisp layers of pastries that sat inside. Scratches and cuts littered her knuckles. If the flex of her fingers were any indication, she was in pain.

One made his breath hitch in his throat. One too deep that it split the skin open between and around her knuckles. 

‘Those are fresh,’ he said quietly. He couldn’t take his eyes off the dried blood. What did she do? Did that woman return? Did Ayla have to fight her alone?

‘Yes,’ she hesitated, ‘I just bought them.’

Azriel looked at her. As confused as he was, she was staring down the street where she came from, at the bakery she went to every week. The worry that nagged at him day and night lost its hold in a heartbeat. He bit the inside of his cheeks and tapped the back of his hand with his fingers, suppressing his urge to hold her hand and inspect it himself.

The little frown between her brows disappeared. She nodded at his face—his broken nose. ‘So is that.’

Courtesy of his brother during their morning training when he was so distracted that he practically threw himself into the punch. But she wasn’t interested in it. 

Ayla picked up a pastry. The sweet fragrance of chocolate and butter filled the air between them. Better than her scent, for he needed to think straight if he intended to find simple words around her. Her hand froze close to her mouth as she held out the box to him. 

Azriel’s heart stopped. He was sure of it. Did she know what it meant? Did she know how she was tormenting him?

He gawked at the flaky shell of the dessert. He could do it—take a bite, make her his. 

No!

The weight of his shadows curled around his hands and pulled him back. He shook his head, smiling.

‘Let’s hear it then.’ She returned the pastry with a sigh. 

‘And,’ he started carefully, ‘what is that?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Who is the child? Where is she? Why are you hiding her?’ 

Voices floated towards them. A band of faeries headed for the bar, giggling and stumbling before they caught sight of him. Their pale skin shifted and glimmered like fish scales under the faelight. Glancing between his wings and his face, they blushed and whispered to each other. Until his shadows wound around his shoulders and chest. And they hushed into silence. 

Ayla watched them rush through the door.

‘Are you safe?’ The words left his lips in a whisper.

Her eyes snapped to his face. The calm ones, yet so terrifying in the way they unravelled him every time she looked at him. Slowly, she graced him with a smile. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘I know you were holding back that day.’ He took a step closer, drawn in by her gaze. ‘You could’ve stopped her. Why didn’t you fight?’

‘There was no reason to.’ She shrugged a shoulder, her shirt shifting over her breast with the movement. ‘She can’t hurt me.’

‘But you let her.’

‘She wasn’t there for me.’

‘Hamra.’ Ayla hesitated at the young fae’s name, still nodded. Azriel asked, ‘Why does she want her?’

‘It’s not my story to share, shadowsinger.’ 

With one simple statement, she quashed the only excuse for a conversation he had. They stared at each other. One more minute of silence and she would walk through that door. One more minute of silence and she would leave him. Azriel couldn’t find any words. But then, he didn’t have to.

‘You need to stop harassing her,’ she said.

Azriel narrowed his eyes. ‘I met with her once. That’s far from harassing.’

‘So you’re telling me,’ she arched a brow, ‘the shadows following her around is not you? Hmm, must be another shadowsinger I’m not aware of.’ 

It was his turn to shrug. ‘Who knows? That one seems to attract a lot of trouble.’

‘And how would you know that?’ She clicked her tongue, ‘You only met with her once.’

Azriel chuckled, and her eyes flicked to his lips. ‘How much do you know?’

‘Your brother came by the shop exactly when I was away. You’ve been asking Uri about my whereabouts. And Hamra threatened to stab you if she saw you again.’ She missed nothing. She continued, ignoring the dark gleam in his eyes, ‘Those are loyal to me, you know? What made you think they would tell you anything?’

If only she knew loyalty had nothing over pain and the will to live. 

Uri was prone to talk, but he swore to secrecy as Ayla's safety was concerned. Orvin was fiercely defensive to let Ayla know the High Lord she despised and his brothers took an interest in her. Azriel only worried about Hamra, but he trusted her to be smart, especially after his warning veiled as a lecture. He sensed wrong.

‘We believed they cared about you. Besides,’ he crossed his arms across his chest, ‘I can be. . .persuasive.’

Idiot.

His shadows flittered over his shoulders. They were right. What was he trying to do—scare her away?

She watched him in silence. His eyes, his lips, his face. His crossed arms, his body. And finally, she stopped at the knife strapped to his thigh before she met his gaze. She leaned her head against the wall and smirked, ‘Not enough.’

Gods, what did she think of him? Nothing good, he knew.

Her eyes burned with challenge, daring him to hurt the ones close to her. She lived in the city long enough to have heard of the rumours about the shadowsinger—Night Court’s torturer. They weren’t rumours if they were true.

‘I don’t intend to harm them.’ Azriel tried to salvage his dignity, ‘I was trying to find some truth.’

‘Is this your High Lord’s way of protecting his civilians?’

Closer.

Azriel wanted it too. But he stayed still.

‘It’s not him,’ he said quietly.

Her smile faltered.

Silence stretched long and tense. His shadows swirled over his arms drawing her attention. When she blinked at them, they skittered between them, daring to reach for her. Azriel took a sharp breath, and they withdrew.

‘Next time, shadowsinger,’ she pushed off the wall holding his gaze, ‘I find any of you following one of us, I will hand over a dagger to Hamra myself and she will keep her promise.’

With that, she left. And Azriel stared at the closed backdoor with a grin on his face.

Next Chapter: Relic

Ahead. 

His shadows urged him as if he couldn’t hear the call himself. They snaked through the trees, leading him through a darkness softer than their own. The melody tugged at his heart, enough for him to lurch forward, tripping and stumbling over the overgrown roots under his feet. Her voice grew nearer, clearer, the tremors in it raking over his skin.

Ahead.

As he emerged through the entangled branches, his breath hitched. Moonlight broke through the canopy and illuminated a wide circle in the clearing. And she at the centre of it, her head tipped skyward.

Her shirt, barely a white veil in the dim light, caressed her skin as the breeze danced to the rhythm of her song, her words unintelligible and foreign. The soft waves of her hair whipped in the gentle wind. A thick white mist stood a barrier between them, shielding her from him as though she wasn’t his to embrace. 

Ahead.

He took another step. Twigs snapped under him. The fog lifted. She lowered her eyes and blinked. Her lips stopped moving. She stood, frozen in front of him, radiant than a full moon above the mountains. The word hung in the air, whispered by his shadows and the breeze. 

Mate. 

.

.

.

Azriel opened his eyes to a cloud of darkness flittering above him. With each gasp of breath, the weight in his chest sank a little deeper. Every time he saw the same face. Some nights, she sang for him under the golden lights in her bar. On others, they were far away from the rest of the world, alone and safe. But she always smiled. At him, only him.

Despite the torture of facing reality at the crack of his dreams, he went to sleep every night only to catch a glimpse of her. 

Masochist, he might be, but it was all Azriel had of her.

His brothers never mentioned being plagued by visions of their mates after the mating bond snapped for them. He didn’t have the gall to ask either, partly because he didn’t dare believe it was what he suspected it to be. The clear whisper from his shadows only haunted him in his dreams. A mere word said into his ears once and gone, leaving him to wonder if he had dreamt it as much as his hallucinations of her. But every time he woke up with his skin prickling with need and heart swelling with bittersweet longing, he swore he smelled that same fragrance of spices.

And then, there was the matter of the bond itself. His emotions and desires came crashing down on him so fiercely, so fast, that there was no other explanation, even if he wanted to deny it. The tether wound tight around his heart every time he refused to seek her. But it was quiet. So eerily quiet. If he sensed her, he told himself, he would know for sure.

His brothers realised the moment the growl erupted from his throat. They scented the bond on him, Rhys had said. It was the feral look in his eyes that had convinced Cass though. Azriel believed him, for he had wanted to tear every limb of the man that night.

He could see it as he sat in the booth with his hands fisted on the table—thundering up the stairs past Uri’s protests, ripping the door that snapped shut softly above them off its hinges, going straight for the man’s throat. He wouldn’t have used his knife. No, he had wanted to do it with his bare hands.

Darkness exploded around him at the sight of the locked office door. His siphons shone bright like hellfire against the black of his shadows. If his brothers hadn’t dragged him out of the bar a minute later, his shadows would have claimed the one who belonged with them, belonged with him .

What truly stopped him was her eyes.

Even after months, he remembered the pure disdain and disgust that filled them when she defended the fae against a pervert. The flicker of alarm, the following rage, and then the void. No, Azriel couldn’t bring himself to be the cause of it. Mate or not, he didn’t want her to look at him with those eyes. 

And when he shot to the skies and flew over Velaris until sunrise—afraid to stop, afraid he might end up in front of her doors—all he thought of was her smile, her voice, her. 

His brothers didn’t bother to stop him. Even Cass didn’t make one of his jokes. After hours of trailing him, they left him to his own misery. But not before a slow, careful presence nudged against his mental wards as if he were a breath away from shattering. 

Whatever you’re tempted to do, Rhys had voiced when Azriel allowed him in, don’t.

And he listened.

He listened every day since. He fought his impulses to run to her, to see whether she had felt anything that night. Even when he knew mating bonds didn’t work that way. 

Rhys made it easy though, or so Azriel believed, by sending him on mission after mission with barely any day to spare in between. Months ago, he would have visited Pharus even during only a day’s break. But now, he didn’t trust himself enough to be in the vicinity of the bar, day or night.

Cass took the honour of owning the loosest lips in the family by telling everyone what had transpired that very night. Apparently, Rhys had wanted to wait until Azriel was ready.

One look at Mor’s brown eyes and he knew when the conversation veered towards Ayla. But five centuries of friendship counted for something as she picked up on signs of his frustration and let him be. Nesta gave him a disapproving stare but respected his silence, on occasions. At least Cass backed off when he showed no interest in pouring his heart out like a lovesick youth. 

But Feyre, believing she was as sly as her mate, took him on errands for her paint supplies. And supposedly remembered an important meeting always somewhere close to a specific red-bricked building. Azriel wasn’t a fool, and so he left his High Lady to attend her meetings alone. Honestly, it was Elain’s company he tolerated, the only one in his family who never asked about Ayla or his brooding over his own cowardice.

Rhys’s generosity lasted for a whole of three grand weeks. He dismissed every pressing concern Azriel brought to him and bound him home. With an endless list of people who loved to pry into his matters, each day posed a new kind of torture. 

Given they were aware of his obsession with the middle Archeron sister and the consequent dispute with his brother—the High Lord, it was safe to say his longing to be mated like his brothers surfaced with not much of a shock. And they all had one question.

Why hadn’t he done anything yet?

To begin with, Ayla barely knew of his existence. When the mating bond snapped for his brothers, they were acquainted with their mates to some extent. Feyre knew Rhys enough to hate him. Nesta and Cass. . . they were at each other’s throats as much as in each other’s pants. And he distinctly remembered Elain’s reaction. She hated Lucien when he declared the bond in front of everyone, resented him for it, and resisted it with all her might.

So Azriel listened. He stayed away.

He stayed away as years of rejection finally caught up to him and fear snagged his heart. He stayed away though centuries-long prayers were answered in a heartbeat. He stayed away when everything he ever wanted was so close to his reach.

Shackled to home day after day, his options were limited—antagonising himself with his family’s nosiness, running errands which gave his legs, wings and shadows a reason to seek Ayla, or training. 

‘Ready to talk?’ asked Cass the moment his brother took his stance before him and raised his fists to his chin. 

Azriel threw the first punch, and that was the end of that conversation.

It became the new routine. Waking up at night with thoughts of her and releasing his tension in the ring in the morning. He expected Cass to coax him into action, but Rhys was the one to intervene.

Glaring at his brother’s back, Azriel froze in his steps. Close to the southern border of Velaris, stood a lone white stone building along the wide bend of Sidra curving into the city. The turquoise blue on the carved iron doors demanded attention from miles away. One of the heavy double doors was pulled open while the other remained closed, blocking the view of the inside. Through the mesh-covered grilled window, hot air billowed out only to be carried downwind over the waters. Smoke coiled out of a chimney in the back. 

Two horses—creatures of beauty and grace complimenting each other in every way—were tied to the stump outside a modest stable erected beside the quaint smithy. One, as stark as Rhys’s hair and the other, as pale as Amren’s grey eyes. They shuffled silently at the sight of the three brothers who invoked their primal need to surrender their beastly control.

‘Why are we here?’ Azriel ground out. His hands clenched, twitching to throw his brother into the river. Not nearly adequate, but enough to get his point across.

Rhys adjusted the cuffs of his tunic. ‘I fancied a new blade. It’s been a while since I got any, don’t you think? You could get one too.’ He glanced over his shoulder with the same insufferable smirk at the Truth-teller strapped to Azriel’s thigh. ‘Give it a little rest maybe.’

Cass rubbed his sore shoulder from two mornings ago. ‘Do you think I enjoy getting my ass handed to me every day?’ He scowled, stalking up to the two wide doorsteps made of the same stone as the building. ‘I don’t care what you do there. Get. Inside. ’

Azriel stared. Cass stared back.

His brother’s solution to everything was training until his body was limp and trembling. If Azriel had gotten him grumbling about a few landed hits, he definitely pushed this too far. He took a step forward and Cass breathed in relief.

Rhys opened the other door and peered inside. 

Azriel came up behind him and said quietly, ‘You told me not to do anything.’ His shadows drifted ahead before he could reel them back.

‘That night, Az.’ Every trace of amusement disappeared from Rhys's face. Shaking his head, he entered the shop with his brothers on his trail. ‘I told you not to do anything stupid that night.’

A short counter took the space along the breadth of the room across the door. A metal mesh formed part of the wall on their left separating the forge from the shop front. Wood groaned and crackled beyond the partition as a shadow moved in front of a glowing furnace.

To their right, cabinets with glass doors spanned the wall from floor to ceiling. One half showcased knives, swords, and arrowheads made of iron and steel fit for regular use. The other exhibited an interesting collection.

The polished metal of the blades gleamed with a liquid sheen under the soft morning light. Gold and silver made their hilts. Gems of every colour, cut and size adorned the intricate swirls along them. Little wooden placards took a place next to each with centuries, lands—except Night Court—and a few names of fae lords, long dead or forgotten, etched on them.

The brothers studied each weapon carefully, their breaths held in reverence in the presence of ancient blades that had been lost in time, wielded by warriors who once walked and warred and bled to death.

If his brothers chose to wield a sword of their own and name it, Azriel knew, long after they were gone, they would be as coveted as the ones before them. One day, his Truth-Teller would be too, and it had nothing to do with him. The sheathed knife weighed heavy on his thigh as to confirm his belief.

Metal groaned behind them. A man pushed the mesh wall aside and came through. He offered a mild smile, sealing the path again. 

Azriel had seen an uninhibited version of that smile once, hated it, and wanted to carve it out of that face.

Cass strode past to Rhys and blocked him from the clueless fae. He muttered under his breath, ‘What were we thinking? This is a bad idea.’

But his brother smiled smoothly, tucking his hands into his pockets.

Azriel resisted the urge to snarl at the man. His shadows curled around his ears, hissing how they wished to shred the one who dared touch Ayla apart. His face that brought a smile to hers, his lips that kissed her cheek, his hand that held her body. Another reason he had stayed away.

‘How can I help you?’

Orvin was no warrior but his build suggested he could handle himself in a fight. His wrapped hands implied he indeed helped Ayla in the workshop. His eyes held an effortless sparkle, unlike the one Azriel usually had to muster for anyone but his family. His short chestnut hair curled at the ends and all Azriel could think was the way Ayla would have tugged at them that night when he—

‘We were hoping to talk to her.’ Rhys tipped his head to the mere shadow looming beyond the makeshift wall against the roaring golden of the fire.

Orvin folded his arms across his chest. His smile faltered a little. ‘She’s busy. Whatever you’re looking for,’ he nodded at the case beside them, ‘you can find it here.’

Cass’s eyes roved over every steel with the warrior's scrutiny, unable to resist his instincts. ‘They’re not good enough.’

And Rhys didn’t deign to look at them, ‘We have a special request.’

In a blink, Orvin stood to his full height—his chin held high, his smile vanishing. ‘She doesn’t work with lords and High Lords.’ 

While Azriel watched her as she moved farther into the shadows, Rhys purred, ‘Surely you can make an exception once.’ 

Metal hit metal in a steady rhythm in the other room. For long minutes, they stared at each other. Feet shuffled. A harsh hiss cut through the silence.

Orvin remained unfazed. ‘She doesn’t make exceptions. For anyone. You can either buy one of these or leave.’

All his life, very few who weren’t a lord or High Lord had defied Rhys. He never abused his power in Velaris. It was one of the reasons the city thrived and people admired him. Still, no one ever forgot who he was and what he was capable of under that beautiful face and charming smile. 

Yet, the sheer arrogance Orvin radiated at that moment, looking down at the most powerful High Lord to have ever existed like the scums he drove out of the shop, was not something anyone had dared do before. He either had a lot of courage or little common sense to deny Rhys what he wanted. 

‘I’m no lord,’ Azriel said finally, his voice gratefully even and low. ‘She makes weapons for others though, doesn’t she?’ 

Orvin slid his gaze to the darkness swarming the shadowsinger's shoulders, ripples and ripples of them challenging him, threatening him. He brought his eyes back to the glowering hazel ones that promised nothing good. Then he turned to the forge. ‘I’ll have to ask her first.’

‘Don’t tell her who we are,’ added Rhys softly.

Orvin paused to throw a warning look over his shoulder. The sliding door clanked gently into the stone wall behind him.

Azriel heard her heart beat as steady as every clang of metal that rang through the air. Time crawled as he waited and waited. For a moment, he considered if Orvin had returned to his work instead. Finally, every sound came to a halt when light footsteps headed towards them.

‘Make yourself presentable,’ her friend sighed. His voice was smooth as a caress when he spoke to her.

Her feet stopped. She took one sharp breath and bit out, ‘If they want me to look pretty, they shouldn’t interrupt me while I’m working.’

Cass pressed a fist to his lips in a useless attempt to hide the stupid grin on his face. Rhys turned to him, his usual amused eyes glowing that set Azriel’s nerves on edge. 

Another sigh, long and deep. ‘At least wash your face.’

‘I regret hiring you.’ 

Her quiet grumble left Azriel’s heart fluttering in his chest. He surveyed a short sword perched on the lowest shelf to hide his smile from his brothers who watched him intently.

‘You wouldn't have a business without me,’ Orvin’s voice followed her to the back and the sound of running water muted his words. ‘How do you plan on selling anything when you hate talking to your customers? You need me to run this place.’

Water splashed. ‘And you get compensated for it.’

In her bed. The words birthed something wretched and slimy in his gut. Azriel closed his eyes as if the simple act could erase his filthy thoughts. With each breath, he tamed the self-loathing that filled him at his own perverseness.

Rhys spoke with a touch of kindness. ‘She doesn’t take an interest in him that way.’

‘Did you,’ his words came out in a low growl and Azriel didn’t try to hide it, ‘look into her mind?’

Though his brother had done it to many over the centuries, none of them ever tempted him to throttle Rhys to death. He could have as well laid his hand on Ayla in ways he shouldn’t.

Rhys simply shook his head. The cockiness in his eyes from mere seconds ago vanished as a calm contemplation replaced it, the one that overtook him in the face of an unknown opponent.

His. Hers is shielded. Rhys held his brother's glare and admitted solemnly, That night in the bar, she knew I peeked into her mind. I didn’t mean to. Her shields went up so fast I could barely find my way out. She knew what she was doing, Azriel. But she didn’t chase me. Any Daemati would have, but she didn’t.

That was months ago and Rhys chose to disclose it with Ayla only a few feet away. Revealing it now meant one thing. A warning. To a brother. From the look on Cass’s face, it was obvious he had been privy to that information as well. 

The groan of wheels against the floor brought the three out of their mental conversation. Ayla walked out, wiping the back of her neck with a washrag. A sheen of sweat coated her flushed skin below her collarbones. Hair slipped loose from her braid curling along the curve of her face. She didn’t come any closer.

Azriel had been so wrong. He had a glimpse of her legs that night, and yet he never could have imagined what he saw in front of him. 

Her oversized shirts and pants were a disguise for what truly lay underneath. Every inch of her body was a sculpted perfection. Every curve and dip of muscle earned from years of training and discipline. Her light sleeveless shirt hung off her shoulders and shifted with each breath she took. The tunic underneath and her dark pants clung to her like a second skin. The scratch on her exposed calf had turned into a fading pale strip. And a fresh scorch mark stained the inside of her forearm.

How long had it been since that night? Weeks? Months? It felt like aeons. And now he stood in her presence, mere steps away from touching her. If he wanted, if she allowed. Azriel couldn’t breathe. His hands trembled by his side. He focused his will on binding his shadows to himself as they chanted her name and begged to be set loose.

‘What can I do for you?’ Her voice lost the airiness from moments ago. Her words were polite, yet her frown asked— Why are you bothering me?

Rhys smiled like the beautiful prick he was. ‘We hear you're crafty with weapons. We’d like to commission you to make one for us.’

None of the brothers missed the slight roll of her eyes. ‘We don’t make weapons. The ones on display are for sale. My partner will help you with that.’

Her partner leaned against the sliding door, wearing a smirk on his face. A smug, satisfied smirk.

Ayla turned around. She was halfway through the door when Rhys’s words stopped her. ‘That’s not what I heard. You have quite the reputation all over Prythian. And beyond.’

‘You heard wrong.’ She noted each of their faces with nothing but a blank observation.

Don’t you remember me? Azriel wanted to ask like an insolent child. You sang for me!

‘So what’s that hammering back there about?’

‘I deal with arrogant fae men every day. Helps with stress.’

Rhys lifted a brow. Ayla mimicked him. 

Azriel couldn’t help but chuckle. A calm warmth smothered the anger, jealousy, and everything vile that consumed his heart.

‘Indulge us,’ Rhys gave her a smile that charmed everyone into compliance. ‘Just one weapon. It shouldn’t be much trouble.’

Ayla blinked.

‘For him,’ Orvin lifted his chin, ‘at the back.’ Maybe she wasn’t into him, but he sure seemed to be protective of her.

Ayla dragged her eyes across his face, peering through the mask of indifference he wore, or Azriel hoped he did.

‘One for each of us,’ amended Rhys, earning a glare from her partner.

‘Special requests cost extra.’ 

Orvin paled. He opened his mouth but Rhys interrupted, ‘We can afford it.’

‘This way.’

Ayla turned on her feet and headed back. 

Orvin stalked her, his eyes widening and yet, they softened for her, ‘Listen, they are—’ 

‘It’s fine. I’ll handle it.’

‘But they are—’

A heavy quiet fell in the room. The brothers went in before Orvin revealed their identity. Heat swallowed them the moment they set foot inside the forge. Sweat trickled down their bodies, making their leathers stick uncomfortably. 

Azriel tucked his wings close to his back, wading through the narrow path between two wooden worktables. He keenly avoided the fire that gorged on coals on his left. The scarred skin on his hands stung and tingled. His shadows swarmed away to his other side, twitching against his wing. 

As they crossed to the end of the room, he took in a breath, her overwhelming scent etched in every corner soothing him. The sweet and bitter scent of spices. All those months when he had thought it was the bar, it had been her.

Ayla stopped in front of a carved wooden door. Removing a heavy iron key from a hook above her head, she unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped aside. 

All the while, Orvin stood beside her and scowled at Rhys. His brother flashed him one of his perfect grins and peeked into the room over Ayla's shoulder.

Azriel appreciated one thing—her partner’s refusal to back down even knowing who Rhys was. And couldn’t decide how he felt about his unwavering loyalty to his mate.

‘It wasn’t my fault this time,’ called out a voice. A young fae, no older than twenty, walked in and came to a halt when she spotted the three brothers.

Her skin glowed golden in the light from the furnace and the brown in her eyes turned into a pool of molten copper. A purple bruise adorned her child-like face from her cheekbone to her jaw.

Ayla arched her brow, bored and challenging. 

The fae shrugged, but there was panic in her eyes. Fear of disappointing Ayla, Azriel realised. ‘I mean it! He came at me.’

Finally, losing interest in the brothers, Orvin went to the girl. ‘When did this happen?’

Her thick red hair swayed as she jerked her face out of his grip. She scanned them from head to toe, the frown on her lips deepening with each passing glance. ‘You’d make a knife for another one of these rich bastards, but not me?’

‘I’ll consider making one for you when you come in here without a scratch,’ said Ayla mildly.

‘I have to stop defending myself against those bastards to get a weapon?’

With her bared teeth and fiery eyes, the fae looked like a portrait of a feral cub. The brothers tried to hold in their smiles.

Ayla cut them the same bored look and it was enough to sober them up. When she turned to the fae, her eyes shone. ‘I meant don’t get hit.’

For a moment, the girl only blinked. Then her lips parted in a childish grin as she let Orvin inspect her bruises and answered his questions. 

When none of the brothers moved, Ayla said to Rhys, her face placid. ‘What are you waiting for?’

Azriel couldn’t hide his smile this time. He bowed his head as he entered the room after his brothers. The shell of his wing brushed against her shirt and a shiver shot down his spine.

A short writing desk stood beside the door. Ayla went on to pluck a notebook from the shelf next to it leaving the brothers to their inspection. The room, almost as big as the store and forge combined, included a training mat in the middle. Weapons ranging from knives to swords to maces to war hammers were mounted on one wall. The other carried practice weapons with blunt edges and wooden swords. Long windows, as wide as his hand, split the continuous racks on either side. No way in or out except for the carved door.

‘Who is she?’ asked Rhys, eyeing her every move. 

Cass had been unnaturally quiet since they arrived. 

Ayla unwound the thread holding the notebook close. ‘I don’t see how she's your concern.’ She flipped through the pages, the soft crinkle echoing through the air. She continued without looking at them, ‘You will not tell anyone that I made these for you. You will not speak of this room to anyone. You will return here if and only if you need a replacement.’

‘You seem to be fond of rules,’ Rhys drawled with a tilt of his head, gauging her every reaction, her every word, her every breath.

She lifted one of her beautifully arched brows. ‘You can leave if that’s an inconvenience to you.’ With a pencil in her hand, she looked up. ‘I’ll need your names.’

‘Silence for silence. We won’t talk about you and you won’t know us.’ The words fell off Rhys's lips as if he had been expecting it.

‘This is for me. You shall choose your weapons today. If you prove safe to use one, you will get one.’

Rhys stared at her. Ayla stared back. Her face was a vision of calmness, one that even he never mastered.

A minute passed. Then another. The silence was stifling. His shadows nipped at his neck.

Speak .

Azriel took a steadying breath.

Speak.

He opened his mouth.

‘Rhysand. Call me Rhys since we’re about to be good friends.’

No widening of eyes, no parting of lips in a soft gasp, no shaky breath as the name hung in the air.

Instead, Ayla stood still. Her eyes roved over Rhys’s form in an agonisingly slow, measured scrutiny. She took in every feature, from his infuriatingly perfect face to his broad shoulders to his toned chest to his shaped legs. And all the while, Azriel ground his teeth.

‘Rhysand it is,’ she said in a voice that left his skin prickling. She made notes in her notebook and his shadows writhed to know what she observed.

Cass crouched in front of the stack of longswords finer than Illyrian blades. He had a sincere smile on his lips and appreciation in his eyes. ‘You know how to use all these weapons?’

‘Most of them, yes. Others, I have a working knowledge.’ Ayla frowned, shrugging a shoulder. Her gaze lifted to Rhys again before she jotted more. Finally, she closed the notebook marking the page. ‘Pick your weapon.’

Rhys walked along the shelves surveying the assortment, before he stopped in front of the double-edged swords. He ran his finger over the one at his eye level. Sunlight hit its gilded dark edge and scattered on his palm. A thick white rope corded along the length of its hilt for a better grip.

‘Which one do you recommend?’ He asked softly with a ring of awe in his voice.

‘It’s not up to me to decide yet. First, I need to know what you can do.’ Rhys looked over his shoulder and she added, ‘We’ll assess your strengths. Pick a weapon of your choice. Knock me off my feet.’ 

Rhys faced her with a wicked smile. Cass grinned walking up to Azriel. His brothers knew. Even his shadows didn’t find out this little slice of detail in their spying. 

Ayla moved to one end of the mat. Her feet planted shoulder-width apart. Her hands clasped behind her back. She had not an ounce of doubt or worry on her face as she waited. 

Did she know who they were? Would she still be calm if she knew of the wars they had seen and fought in? The Illyrian wings must have clued her in. Yet, she stood poised and composed.

Rhys lifted his hand, fingers brushing against each other, ready to get rid of his jacket with a single snap. Then, he reached for the buttons instead.

Ayla didn’t even blink at the sight of his naked warrior torso, and a petty satisfaction churned in Azriel's heart. Her gaze shifted though, when he picked a broadsword, the one he admired.

Her brows furrowed, ‘You sure?’

‘Your turn,’ was Rhys’s only reply as he swung the steel, testing its balance. 

‘I don’t need one.’ Rhys looked up. Ayla shrugged, ‘I’m making an assessment. I don’t need a blade for that. When you’re ready.’ 

Grasping with both hands, Rhys adjusted his grip on the hilt and grounded his feet. He winked at Azriel. How do you like her now?  

How did he like her? He wanted to shove her against the wall and devour her lips. He wouldn’t care if his brothers watched. He wouldn’t care if the whole of Prythian watched. He wanted to feast on her, feel her body against his, naked and sweaty. He wanted to run his tongue over her skin until the taste of her was all he remembered. 

Azriel took a shuddering breath and crossed his arms against his chest. His shadows sheathed his body hiding the one true indication of where his thoughts had wandered. His brother chuckled, and he scrambled to put his mental shield back up, tripping over and over again.

Rhys took a step forward and swung his sword lightly. Ayla didn’t move. He inched forward and did it again. Not a blink. He held back his thrusts, stopping short with lazy flicks. 

Azriel smirked at his dilemma. How do you like her now? 

Rhys straightened, his hand and sword limp by his side. ‘At least pick one of those blunt ones,’ he smiled. ‘It’s impolite enough to fight a lady.’

The corner of her lips twitched. ‘If I need a blade to win a fight, I'd rather learn how to fight first.’

Cass laughed and jabbed an elbow into his ribs. ‘She’s fun. I bet—’

‘We both can’t bet against him.’ Azriel grinned back. 

‘Ten gold marks says Rhys will be on his ass in fifteen.’

‘Twenty marks. And make it ten.’

Rhys opened his mouth when Ayla sighed softly to herself, ‘Rich bastards indeed.’

The three brothers shut up but had identical grins plastered on their faces.

Rhys moved in the precise steps he had mastered over years and years in war camps and battlefields. His hands set to motion to match his stride—fluid, quick. The edge almost grazed her arm and Ayla leaned back an inch.

Pulling the sword back, he swung it to her other side. Ayla swerved, but barely. Every move was calculated, nothing more than to dodge the attacks, none to waste her energy or lose her balance.

Rhys noticed too. Do you mind if I nick her a bit? 

Azriel smiled. You can try.

Smirking, Rhys launched into attack after attack. With each step, he pushed her back. He cornered her against the wall stacked with the training swords, careful not to hurt her, much. 

And she stood rooted every time, her hands behind her back.

Her body twisted and stretched with grace. Her feet slid against the floor in effortless drags. Her serene face gave away none of her thoughts. Her gaze darted between his arms and legs, swift and cunning. A glimmer flickered in her eyes but it vanished as soon as she blinked. 

In her presence, at the sight of her, Azriel trembled—not out of fear. But with need, with reverence. He wanted to run his hands down her every curve and watch her move at his touch, at his kiss. Just the thought of the curl of her delicate body against his or the glide of her hands along his skin was too much to bear. Every fibre in his body cried to get on his knees for her.

Rhys swept high and went for her neck. Ayla moved with the blade, ducked low, and turned away as she grasped a wooden sword off the rack and blocked his next strike.

‘I thought you didn’t need a weapon,’ Rhys smirked and aimed for her leg.

Ayla sighed, twisting out of his reach. ‘You’re taking too long.’ She nodded at their audience, ‘And I have other customers.’

She made no attacks. Splinters flew with each blocked hit. Every move was as fluid as her breathing. 

Rhys quickened his pace. His smile fell off his lips, but the spark in his eyes remained. He went for her shoulder, the flat of his sword hoisted to land a hard blow.

Ayla leaned back, dropping to her knees, her sword tucked along her spine. She swivelled around and rose to her feet behind him. The blunt tip of her sword tapped Rhys thrice. On the back of his neck, right behind his heart, at the base of his spine. 

They were done in seven.

Azriel was mesmerised. He had never seen anyone move with such precision or swiftness. But he didn't have the chance to linger on what she had done for long.

‘Or your wings if I’m being generous with your life.’ She walked past Rhys back to her desk, ‘Do you not prefer using them in close-range combat?’

Rhys faced her, palming the spot on his neck where he took the soft hit. His lips parted with a mild gasp. ‘You can see them?’

Ayla shrugged and opened her notebook. ‘Most glamours don’t work on me. They are still hidden by shadows.’ She glanced at Azriel, and he sucked in a breath. ‘Not like his. But faint outlines, more of a disguise by a dark smoke.’

Azriel hadn’t realised his shadows were perched on his shoulders, watching her without their usual chatter.

‘It’s not a glamour,’ mumbled Rhys. The earlier wariness returned to his eyes as he met his brother’s stare.

She wrote in her notebook again. ‘Then I don’t have an explanation for it. That one is too heavy for you,’ she peeked at the sword in his hand, a frown tugging at her lips. ‘You need a lighter steel since you don’t use your wings. The weight throws you off balance. But then, you’ll need more force in your thrusts.’

Rhys gaped at her. 

Cass agreed with a simple shrug. ‘You better show up for training tomorrow.’ He wrapped an arm around his brother’s shoulder as he did his shirt. Rhys shoved his hand off, the buttons at the top left forgotten.

‘Where did you learn to fight?’ Cass asked her. Noting Azriel's unwavering eyes on her like a creep, he gave his ribs a harsh nudge.

‘Around,’ she mumbled, flipping through her notes, scratching with her pencil, and marking a few details. She opened a new page, ‘Next.’

Cass clapped his hands and skipped forward with a feral smile that showed all his teeth.

‘Azriel.’ He smirked when his brother mouthed a curse at him and walked to the middle of the room.

Ayla looked up. She studied him—every inch of his face and body. For a moment, Azriel let himself believe she took longer than she did with Rhys. She blinked slowly, her lingering gaze setting his skin on fire. When her eyes landed on his wings, they flared by a degree in response. She scribbled in her notebook as his brothers chuckled under their breaths.

Azriel had already decided what he would do once they walked out—kill Rhys for his mental comments and then Cass for indulging the prick.

Ayla went to the racks. She returned her sword and rearranged the ones misplaced by her earlier. ‘Choose your weapon,’ she said gently.

Azriel hated that she never spoke his name like she did Rhys’s in that sweet voice of hers.

The moment they entered the room, he spotted the one he wanted to try. Narrower and longer than his Illyrian sword, the simple piece of art swallowed the light around it. Leather wrapped along its hilt as a seamless extension of the abyssal black of the blade. His shadows glided over it, testing it for him, almost as drawn to it as himself.

A muffled ring of metal sliding against leather echoed in the quiet. Ayla turned around to find a curved knife in each of his hands. 

Though Azriel had knives and daggers sheathed on him at all times, he favoured swords. But not that day. They wouldn’t allow him to get close to her, give him a chance to touch her.

Taking her place across from him, she quietly assessed his hands, the way he brought them to his front, gripped his knives ready, and shifted his weight on his feet.

She murmured, ‘Odd choice. Most don’t go for these. They prefer something big and flashy,’ she smiled, bringing her gaze to his face. ‘Requires a lot of practice to master. How long did you take?’

Azriel blinked. Every thought went out of his mind at that smile. ‘Been a while to remember.’ 

Wisps of hair fell over her face as she tipped her head. Her eyes shifted over his shoulders and arms. ‘Your shadows,’ darkness wreathed around him anticipating the little touches they longed to steal, ‘need to sit this one out.’ There was a flicker of hesitation, a weight on his back. ‘Just you and me.’

Like it had been a command from him, his shadows drifted to a corner of the room. 

Just you and me. 

Her words roved over his skin. He stared at her. His brothers fell silent too. 

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ she said softly.

For a full minute, Azriel stood frozen. Then, he lunged forward. 

The same dance ensued, him leading with the first move, her dodging with minimal movement. A strangely familiar rhythm they both fell into with an ease that rendered him senseless. Her warmth grazed his body, her breath hit his fist, and her hair caressed him every time he got too close. Unlike with Rhys, she didn’t keep her distance. She threw her own punches this time.

Azriel summoned every knowledge he acquired fighting for five centuries to take down one woman—his mate.

He wanted to win her challenge only to pin her down under him, to know what she felt like against him. He was, by no means, a simple warrior. Even without his shadows, he was easily one of the most powerful the Illyrians ever dreamt to be. And yet, in her presence, under her calculating eyes, he hardly remembered to steady his breaths.

‘Your left footing needs work,’ she said, stepping back to miss his blade that almost slashed her rib. 

His footing needed no such thing. She was goading him, mocking his consideration, that much her smile told him.

Cass yelled from one corner, ‘Don’t let her win again, brother.’ His eyes twinkled.

Training with each other for centuries left no mystery in their technique or style and removed the freshness of a challenge. If his brother got the chance, he wouldn’t hesitate like Rhys, and Azriel knew. 

Rhys scowled beside him, a look so foreign on his face. ‘She didn’t win against me.’

‘Sure, she didn’t kill you thrice either.’

‘She didn’t have a real blade. I was being courteous.’ Rhys’s lazy smugness returned to his voice. ‘It’s something you wouldn’t understand.’

Azriel breathed a laugh. 

Her gaze dipped to his lips and then to his hand that came at her. She swerved to her right, grabbed his wrist and ducked under. And as she came back up, her other fist met the inside of his bicep. She retreated a few paces. Feet apart, hands behind her back. 

Pain rippled through his muscles. He shook his arm twice, slowly. His skin burned and ached where her fingers had been. His body came alive as though it had felt her grip elsewhere. His heart pounded in his chest, their beat drumming in his ears. He let out a long exhale.

How he wished to throw the knives away and grab her waist instead.

She observed every move he made—the flex of his fingers before they wrapped around the daggers, the rise of his chest as he heaved in a breath, the shift of his legs under him for his next move.

Azriel wanted her eyes only on him anyway. He wished he had taken off his leathers like his brother had done so. Maybe she would have appreciated that too. He would have definitely enjoyed her hits.

He threw the same punch. She swerved. He went for her chest. She glided back. He took a step forward and swept his dagger across her torso before she landed on her feet. She skipped back. He smirked. The corner of her lips twitched. He aimed a strike at her face again. She leaned to her side, and Azriel slammed his left fist into her jaw. She staggered back a few steps, far from his arm’s reach.

‘You always favour your right,’ he remarked softly.

Ayla didn’t move. Her feet planted on the spot. Loose strands of hair veiled her averted face but not the patches of red blooming on her jaw. Her breaths were uneven for the first time since they started. Even his brothers went silent.

She slowly turned to him, her head hung low, her eyes trained on the ground. She reached a hand to her face. A streak of crimson, thin and sharp, ran along the smooth curve of her jaw through the framing bruise. 

Azriel stared at his blade. Blood gleamed along its edge. His grip loosened. Dread filled his chest along with an ache. He looked at her, breathless, as her fingers ghosted over the cut, pulling away with smears of pale red on the tips.

Apologise, Rhys hissed in his mind, now .

Azriel opened his mouth.

‘You,’ she wiped her fingers on her shirt below her ribs—the stains akin to the ones she tried to erase that first night, ‘learn fast.’

Her eyes met his, and a dangerous delight swirled in them. She moved quick. She took two long steps and lunged at him.

Azriel crouched and rooted to his feet as he brought his arms up to block her incoming blow to his face. It wasn’t her hand that met him, and he wasn’t fast enough.

She stepped on the inside of his thigh hard to shift his weight, propelled herself up, and her other foot pushed into his chest. Using the momentum, she swung herself over and around his shoulder.

Before Azriel could blink, his feet gave out. His wings spread behind him easing his fall.

Her grip was strong. She pressed his hand to his throat, the edge of his knife cool against his skin. Her face hovered over his. 

Azriel let his head rest on the ground. Painfully aware of her body pressed against his—straddling his waist, her hands around each of his wrists—he willed himself to hold her stare steady. 

She breathed, ‘You’re dead.’

‘So are you,’ he rasped the words out. He lifted his head to peer down between them. The glinting tip of his other blade poked at her chest, where her heart was, where he was sure a spot of blood would soon taint her white shirt.

She followed his stare. Her lips pulled into a smirk before she looked him in the eye. ‘As long as I take you with me.’

Azriel yearned for nothing more. For her to take him—to death, to hell, to his damnation. 

Her braid fell over her shoulder, and the ends tickled his face and neck. Her short breaths hit his skin, the scent of her making him heady. Her hands were warm against his shadow-kissed cold ones. Blood rushed to her face. A bead of sweat trickled down between her brows, followed the curve of her nose, and trailed down her cheek.

Azriel wanted to trace it with his tongue, taste her. Her blood, her sweat.

Beautiful. The word clanged in every corner of his mind as he took her in, raw and bare. 

Beautiful. The blade dug deeper into his skin, reminding him she held his life in her hands. 

Beautiful. Especially when she had him at her mercy. 

His mind chose the inappropriate time to conjure the other ways she could have him at her mercy. Gods, if she moved, she would feel him. 

His shadows crept up to them, teasing her hair, teetering along the cut on her jaw, furious for what he had done to her.

His head fell back. He took a deep breath and still, it wasn’t enough. The delicious burn of cool metal scraping against the column of his throat felt painless compared to her intense gaze peering into his soul. He swallowed. She tracked the movement. He swallowed again, her eyes snapped to his. Every nerve in his body urged him to reach up, let the blade slit his throat, only to kiss her once.

And for a sweet moment, he thought she wanted it too. 

She blinked. She pulled back an inch and looked up. 

Orvin hurried in with the red-haired fae. Panic flashed in his eyes. He shoved the fae inside while he lingered close to the door. ‘She’s back. She’s here.’

Ayla shot to her feet taking every sense of warmth around him with her. ‘It’s fine,’ she urged them in and stepped out. ‘Don’t make a sound.’

The door closed behind her. Azriel’s feet followed her on their own.

But Rhysr’s voice in his mind brought him back. She’s gone. Quiet your thoughts a little.

He turned around with a snarl to find both his brothers sporting a cruel grin.

The key clicked into place and so did an invisible force. ‘It’s warded,’ Rhys observed the narrow slits along the walls. His smile vanished. ‘Why do you have wards here?’ 

They turned to Orvin, but he stared at the closed door. He shielded the fae with his body and coaxed her back, far from the entrance. He didn’t answer. 

Outside, a fire crackled in the furnace. Metal whined. Sharp clicks bounced off the stone floors and walls. Both Orvin and the fae sucked in a breath.

‘So,’ said a voice low and feminine, ‘you’re hiding in the monster’s den. I can’t decide if you’re smart or losing your mind.’

Orvin shivered at the sound.

Rhys studied the door, lost and distant in his thoughts. He reached out a hand despite Cass's warning. His palm rested on an invisible field a few inches short of the wood. His touch sent out glimmering waves along the walls, floor, and roof. The wavering stilled once they merged on the far side. A breath later, they rippled and eddied until they reached his palm again. Rhys stepped back staring at his hand.

Ayla spoke calmly. ‘You wouldn’t have found me if I were hiding.’ 

‘I wasted a long trip on this.’ The voice sighed, every word tinged with a seductive drawl. ‘Let’s not dally. Come with me.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Have you forgotten your deal already?’ The voice got closer and closer to the door. 

‘I never made a deal with you.’

‘Didn’t you?’ The voice hummed. Long and light. ‘Never mind. We can always make a new one.’

Bare feet shuffled across the floor, drawing away from the locked door. The wards muffled some of the conversation, but their fae hearing helped. Ayla’s voice barely carried through the room. ‘I don’t work for any court.’ 

Heels stomped across the floor. The intruder whined, a delicate teasing sound. ‘Name your price. I’ll get you whatever you want.’

‘I have everything I need.’

Metal groaned against the wood. A sharp thump, metal against metal. Another and another. Each one harder than the previous. 

The voice snorted. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve grown fond of this pathetic excuse of a court.’ 

Cass stiffened beside them. He asked Orvin, ‘Who is she?’ Neither he nor the fae answered.

Ayla said softly, ‘This is my home.’

Those simple words from her lips made Azriel’s heart clench in his chest. A twisted approval of who he was, an acknowledgement of his existence.

‘This? Velaris? Don’t fool yourself.’ The voice laughed. It would’ve been the most melodic sound Azriel had ever heard if not for the mockery in it. She moved away and away, stalking Ayla, circling her. Venom dripped from each word she spouted. ‘What did you expect? You’d find a man here, maybe a lord , fall in love, have a cosy little life like a common fae?’

Ayla chuckled in response. So soft, so tender that it made Azriel smile, too. ‘Is that what you think I’m doing here?’ Her voice lingered, drifting farther past the furnace, past the fires. ‘Gods, sounds like you’re projecting your dreams onto me.’

‘Don’t you dare!’ The voice turned into what it truly was. A vile, cruel shrill masked by the sweetness of its lull.

‘Or what?’ Ayla paused, and Azriel could see the smirk on her lips. ‘You come into my home and threaten me. Did you expect me to kiss your feet next?’

The voice fell silent.

Azriel turned to Rhys, and he shook his head. Her mind is shielded. 

The heels turned to the door again, hitting faster and faster. They stopped right in front of the door. ‘Where’s the half-fae youngling?’ 

Orvin hissed behind the brothers and gestured to them to step back. They all turned to the fae who cowered to a corner, yet schooled her face in defiance. The pointed arch of her ears peeked through her thick hair. But the tan skin, the hazel eyes.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Please,’ the stranger whined with a thrill at the tightness in Ayla’s voice. ‘I can smell her.’

Rhys asked the fae kindly, ‘Why does she want you?’ When she didn’t answer, he tried again. ‘I’m Rhysand. You know who I am?’ She nodded once. ‘I can help you if you tell me who that is.’

But one look from Orvin had her pursing her lips.

Ayla padded over, biding her time. ‘It’s just me. And I’m very busy. So leave.’

‘Right, since the silver-tongued half-fae High Lord finally gets his way with you.’ 

A long silence. Despite Rhys’s warning looks, Azriel checked the wards. Shadows writhed along the door prying for a way out.

‘The men inside,’ she huffed a breath. ‘Don’t look at me like that. Of course, I knew. Who do you think they are?’

Another moment of silence, only longer. A heart beat faster and faster while the other remained steady outside the door.

‘You didn’t know,’ the voice whispered. ‘Of course, they hid it. Very clever.’ Her breaths filled the pause as if she were calculating her next words. ‘No matter. You already had your doubts, didn’t you?’ She let out a dreamy sigh, one many men yearned to hear in their beds. ‘Well sculpted, beautiful beyond measure, skills better than that of an ordinary warrior. Come on, they are Illyrians! ’

From her tone, it was certain she meant more than just their appearance. The brutal savagery of their kind.

Ayla was silent. So very silent. But her heart—the one that remained calm and rhythmic while fighting—now raced like a fawn’s being preyed upon, trying to break free of her ribcage. 

Azriel inhaled sharply. His own heart filled with fear, anger, and confusion. A breath later, it was gone as swiftly as it had overtaken his senses, leaving a hollow in its wake. So was the frantic beating of her heart. He pressed his fingers to his chest. His brothers noted it.

Finally, Ayla said, ‘Who I do business with is none of your concern.’ Her voice was surprisingly composed.

‘Oh, but it is. Your hypocrisy is my concern when it stands in the way of getting what I want.’

‘Whatever that is, you need to look somewhere else.’ 

A low grunt rumbled through the door and sent his shadows skittering. 

The intruder hissed, ‘You know, your righteousness is starting to get old.’ 

The wood jerked when something hard slammed against it. Shadows exploded against the ward, only to be pushed back and contained inside the room. A whimper escaped the young fae behind them.

Ayla gasped. Feet scraped against the stone floor.

Before he realised, Azriel pounded at the door. The ward wavered like it did against Rhys’s gentle palm and settled into stillness. He hit it again. Again. And again. His shadows slithered along the walls, searching for an escape, through the roof, through the narrow slits of the windows.

‘She won’t even hear you, Shadowsinger.’ Orvin spoke, concern lacing through his words. ‘The ward strengthens with each impact.’

His brothers only watched him. When Cass looked at Rhys, he hesitated, ‘I can’t get through.’

There was a strain in his voice, worried for Azriel. Worried about the danger his mate posed. Worried what might become of his brother if something happened to her. 

The voice hissed, ‘Remember.’ A strangled choke left Ayla’s lips when her head hit against the door again. ‘Remember what you owe them. For once,’ the voice ground out, ‘remember everything.’

Silence returned, suffocating and intense.

‘Finally!’ Another soft thud. ‘Next time, don’t play too hard. Make the bargain.’

Ayla sucked in a breath. The sharp footfalls pulled away from the door, from her. She growled, ‘Next time, I’ll melt you.’

The air stilled. A dark promise carried through in those words of hers. With each passing second of quiet, the gravity of her threat settled deeper and deeper.

Then there it was, the grating mockery of that angelic laugh. But no words followed. And the intruder was gone.

The key clicked. The ward faded. Azriel took a step back and so did his brothers. The door slowly flung open.

Ayla stayed outside. She took in their faces as carefully as she did before, as every other time. Her stare settled on Rhys. For the first time, recognition flickered in those still eyes. A deep red handprint tainted her delicate neck.

Azriel gritted his teeth. ‘Did she do that to you?’ 

He didn't truly need an answer. His whole body shook with rage as his shadows swallowed him, ready for his command. Cass came to stand beside him.

Ayla only looked at Rhys. ‘I don’t work for High Lords. You need to leave.’

Azriel reached for her, but Rhys held a hand out. He glared at his brother.

But Rhys ignored him. ‘I can explain,’ he spoke as gently as he would to a babe. ‘We had our reasons. We didn’t me—’

‘I respect them. I want you to respect mine.’ She stepped aside from the doorway. ‘Leave.’

Rhys waited for a moment. He then turned to his brother and nodded. But Azriel stood his ground, watching Ayla. Later, Rhys promised. You will come back for her later.

Azriel released his breath. He took in her distant eyes once. He stormed out without waiting for his brothers, his knives clenched tighter in his fists. 

He and his shadows were going on a hunt.