Synopsis: breaking up with Clark Kent had giving you enough time to reminisce over all the time you spent together.
Kansas fields were yellow with the change from summer to fall, just in time for the harvest. Manure and hay fever was enough to make anybodies eyes water.
Clark Kent had a way with words that had any girl beaming from ear to ear in the Smallville High School. Especially you. Spending hours on back roads in his dad's beat up Chevy that he drove too and from school, spending hours upon hours working on the engine after it died on old back roads. You had the joys of settling in beside him while watching his endless muscles work on the truck before shifting the truck back into gear to get back to where ever you were heading. Even if it was way past curfew he'd still stop the truck in empty fields," The way your eyes shine put the stars to shame tonight."
"That's a lie." You would say, blush creeping across your face with a cheesy grin matching Clark.
You had spent years with Clark. Closer than two peas in the pod. Started dating as freshman and sophomore. Every hour of every day spent together whether it was spending midnights in the lake or matinee watching the newest films. Sharing the popcorn and milk duds. Three proms and home coming dances. Clark receiving his college acceptance letter to the U of M, University of Metropolis, his first pick.
But then summer came to an end, and so did the relationship. He was polite, stumbling over his words like he normally does but this time with more anxiety than he normally had.
"I- I don't know how well the long distance will work - not that I don't trust you. I trust you. I- maybe if you get into U of M- we can get back together-" His words seemed jumbled but what else was to be expected? The city was hours away from Smallville and you still had your entire senior year to think about.
Autumn semester saw more tears that what you believe possible.
It was hard not to send him the letters full of remorse and almost revenge. Hoping he thinks of me everytime he hears my favorite artist or sees somebody who looks like me. It was hard not to look back and find it all a little bit bittersweet.
September turned to November. Fall break, just enough time for Thanksgiving. And Clark was back for the first time since then, standing on my lane. There, he left a letter on my front door step. And the first thing that you read;
Dear Y/N
Hopefully this letter finds you better than I left you. I think know that you're probably still angry with me and I am sorry.
These last few months have been filled with memories and thoughts about calling you. I was afraid you wouldn't have answered my calls. Everytime I turn the radio on it takes me back to that night when we swam in the lake under the moonlight where you wore that black dress. The night when I said youre eyes put the stars to shame.
I just wanted to say im sorry.
- Clark Kent,
P.S.: John and Martha still want to see you over for Thanksgiving.
P.P.S: I would love to take you to see the christmas lights before I go back to school, if you'd still let me
The letter was moving enough to get you to take your own beater car to his family farm. It only took you long enough to out the vehicle in park before he had practically ripped the door off the hinges and pulled you from the driver's seat into his arms.
"The way your eyes shine put the Metropolis lights to shame." Clark whispers, face tucked into your neck, inhaling you.
"That's a lie." You mutter, hugging him back, sniffing back new tears.
You know what? Fuck it I'm adding more context. Sesame Street has talked about the topic of death more than once and it's done with such gentle carefulness without watering down or censoring the heaviness of the situations. It treats heavy subject matter with respect and dignity and has been for DECADES.
From the early 1980s:
To 2025:
Hell, they even cover the devastating heaviness of MASS SHOOTINGS without censoring or watering anything down.
They've been doing this for YEARS, and it's ALWAYS handled with dignity, respect, seriousness, understanding, and love.
Whenever I see people censoring words because it "might offend" someone or the big ad companies that are currently trying to run everything? I just want to say to them: "What? Is Sesame Street too mature for you?" Because really...what the hell are we doing.
Mister Roger's Neighborhood also covered difficult topics with respect, age-appropriately, and without pulling a single punch. It's crazy that we've worked ourselves up so much that we're self-censoring like it's always been the norm.
This clip is from 1968 and discussed assassination after Bobby Kennedy died.
I'm not sure when this clip originally aired, but it was likely sometime in the 1980s. They talk about murder and, incredibly by today's standards, what sort of emotions (anger, fear, loneliness) might drive someone to hurt or kill other people + how we can manage our own difficult or painful feelings.
cw: heavy angst, shaming, severe injury, mating bond, no use of y/n, not proof read
authors note: …sorry
It doesn’t matter how your love feels anymore;
It’ll never be the cure.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥
One year, seven months, seventeen days and six hours had passed since the mating bond had snapped into place.
One year, seven months, ten days and zero hours had passed since the day she walked into his life. Since the last time he had ever touched you.
They were the most agonising nine months of your life, and yet you bloomed through the pain so gracefully because you’d rather he was happy and free than unhappy and yours. You loved him, without a doubt. And there was a time when you thought he loved you too.
But here you sit, in Feyre’s vanity room with a flute of sparkling wine and a throbbing headache as the girls all fawned over Elain in her dazzling gown. She looked beautiful and radiant, the absolute picture of Fae grace, as she should do on her wedding day.
You were happy for her. You truly were. She was kind and caring to the core. She wasn’t ruthless and reckless like you. He deserved somebody to steady him, to make a home for him, a warm one that he never thought he deserved until her; not rile him up and be an everlasting stressor in the back of his mind.
You swayed back and forth on the canapé, taking in how the stark snow white of her gown very subtly faded into a cobalt blue right at the very bottom, like a brush of cornflowers pooled at her feet.
Tears pricked your eyes, and you hated yourself for it.
“You look absolutely breathtaking, Elain.” You swallowed hard, yet gave her the most genuine smile you could muster.
She turned to you, and alarm quickly overtook her beautiful features. “Oh, don’t cry.” She pattered over to you and sat next to you on the canapé, much to Mor’s annoyance who wasn’t finished applying her makeup. Elain draped her arm along your shoulders and rested her head on yours. “Don’t cry, lovely. Your time will come too.” She giggled genuinely.
Oh, how far she had fallen from the real reason for your tears. But you were happy to let her think the way she did. That your tears were as shallow as they seemed.
“I’m not sure it will.” You sniffed, but gave her arm a squeeze. “Go back to your makeup chair, before Mor guts us both.”
She beamed at you, showing off her perfect teeth beneath those blush lips. Lips that would touch him in all the ways you couldn’t. In all the ways that you had dreamed you yourself would cherish and worship your mate for the rest of your days.
Amren left the gaggle of females around the makeup chair, and walked gracefully towards you. Only her and Rhys had ever scented the truth, and you supposed it was somewhat comforting to have one person know the true reason for your tears. Even if it was Amren.
She placed a hand on your shoulder and squeezed hard, yet reassuringly, bringing you out of your thoughts.
“It will be okay, girl.” She murmured quietly.
You smiled sadly up at her. “I’m not so sure.”
She stared down at you, stone faced. “There’s no other option.”
You nodded to humour her, despite how aware you had become of all your other options that did indeed exist. Your head was filled with poison, and you were sure no alternative would be enough to drain it out.
A knock at the door snapped you out of your thoughts. “It’s me.” Rhysand’s smooth voice slid through the gaps in the doorframe. “Am I allowed in? Are you females all decent?”
“Come in!” Elain called out, after they had all giggled at his choice of words.
The door creaked open, and in walked Rhysand, in a midnight blue suit that made his violet eyes sparkle. He walked over to Feyre, pressed a chaste kiss to her lips and then turned to Elain.
“My, my!” He shook his head in disbelief. “You are quite the sight.” He took her hand and twirled her around.
He looked overjoyed for Elain, despite his initial aversion to their pairing. But that was before Lucien had left Prythian for good, satisfied with the life he’d built with his so-called Band of Exiles. Rhys shortly came around after that, mainly thanks to his own mate’s persuasion to ironically ‘let nature run its course’, and her ideology that what’s meant to be will be.
You had almost laughed out loud at her reasoning. Nature had quite literally told you what was meant to be, but that didn’t seem to matter to either party.
No, not to Azriel. And certainly not to Elain with Lucien. So all you could do was sit there and drain glass after glass of wine and wallow in self-pity, watching a beautiful girl get her gown tailored and makeup done for her wedding to the male whose invisible thread was bound to the depths of your very soul.
Not that he seemed to care, not with the way he looked at you with such disdain. Looked at you like your very existence tainted the air that his precious Elain breathed; like you yourself were just vermin he wished to be exterminated.
Gone was the male who kissed you like he couldn’t breathe without you. The male you’d shared your mind, body and soul with. Gone were the hushed whispers and stolen kisses after midnight and the reverent touches in places you’d never even reached yourself. For a short while, you were his religion. But in this case, his faith had long dissipated.
No, that male was long gone. But there was an extraordinary phenomenon that took place, that even he couldn’t explain.
Azriel was always adamant that he controlled his shadows; and that they didn’t control him. But when he had tried to send them to spy on you, not out of concern for you but to ensure you didn’t harm Elain in the early stages of their courtship, they flat out refused.
Like the shadows still knew you, despite what had become of yours and his’ relationship. His shadows would not conduct any surveillance on you, much to his discontent. And this was the first time anyone had seen anything like it.
A few quiet sobs from Feyre broke you out of your poisonous train of thought, and you glanced up in alarm until you realised she was just emotional for her sister.
Something withered inside you. Wilted and broke down and died. Nobody would ever shed such emotion for you. Nobody would ever prepare you for your wedding and cry for you and cheer for you and stand by you as you began the rest of your life, no.
Your heart still belonged to him. And it always will.
After chatting with Elain, Rhysand marched in your direction, taking a seat next to you.
“Unclench your jaw.” He spoke softly. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Does it matter?” You barely acknowledged him, staring straight into space.
He took the wine glass out of your hand, and placed it on a side table.
“You look like you need air.” He whispered. You just shrugged in response.
He raised his voice slightly, before he said. “I think you should go fetch us some more wine, just to be on the safe side. Can’t let Mor run out before she’s done working her magic.” Rhysand winked at Mor, and then winked subtly at you.
You squeezed his hand gratefully, before hurrying out of his and Feyre’s bedroom door before anyone could say or ask you anything.
Clutching your chest, you practically sprinted in your heels down the hallway until you reached the little terrace balcony opposite the stairs to the main hall in the River House. You shoved open the lattice doors, and immediately gasped for air.
You couldn’t slow your breathing. You swallowed lungful after lungful of air, clawing at your throat and yet nothing was making the tightness, the constriction subside. You braced your hands on the stone balcony fencing, leaning over it and trying to slow your hyperventilating.
Your mate was getting married. Your mate was getting married and not to you. The male who held you like you were his biggest blessing and tasted you like you were his favourite sin, was about to wed another female. He saw what he wanted, saw how her sisters’ lives had panned out and decided he was entitled to complete the pattern; three sisters for three brothers.
Your heart thundered against your ribcage, but finally, your breathing began to slow. Your hair had no doubt been ruined from leaning over the balcony and it blowing freely in the wind, but you didn’t care. You raked your fingers through it and let it tumble down.
Suddenly, you froze as you heard the terrace door behind you creak open.
You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. His scent was ingrained in every fibre of your being, written into your biology like he was part of you. No, you’d recognise it for eternity.
You held your breath, bracing yourself for the door to slam once he realised who was outside, but no such sound came.
“Are you alright?” Azriel spoke quietly.
Your knees practically buckled in shock as you turned around, glancing at him over your shoulder. “What?”
“How are you doing?” He stared at you with an unreadable expression.
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat not subsiding. “Since when do you care?” You whispered hoarsely.
“It’s polite to check on a female in distress.” Was all he said.
“Right. I forgot how polite you are.” You turned back around to face the Sidra to conceal the sneer that escaped you.
“I’m trying to be better.” He explained. “For Elain. She makes me better. Less volatile.”
“That’s fantastic.” You clenched your jaw and squeezed your eyes shut.
“Are you being sarcastic?” He asked in disbelief, as if it was ludicrous for you to feel disdain towards him after everything. Of course you were angry, even if your heart still cried for his.
“I’m not trying to.” You spoke through gritted teeth.
“Don’t make this hard for me.” He whispered, and you whipped back around in shock.
“What?” You scoffed in disbelief, pointing at yourself. “Me?”
But there was something unfamiliar in his eyes. Something that resembled remorse.
“Yes, you.” He stood his ground.
You laughed humourlessly. “You have some fucking nerve, Azriel.”
His expression immediately turned sour. “I’m trying to do the right thing here.”
“You had the choice to do the right thing over a year ago.” You seethed. “Don’t come here and play the victim because you want to clear your conscience .”
“I’m not here to clear my conscience.” He thundered, taking a step closer.
“What are you here for, then?” You huffed a shrill laugh. “Enlighten me.”You blinked hard, as the wind quickened and blew some strands of hair into your face.
“You can’t take anything seriously, can you?” He shook his head. “And you wonder why I chose her.”
His words slapped you harder than any palm ever had and would. Even he looked slightly taken aback at his own monologue.
Yet where tears would have usually fallen, all you could feel was the anger thrumming in your veins thanks to the copious amounts of wine that bubbled under the surface and finally reached your system.
“I’m happy for you Azriel.” You stepped closer, so much so that your chests were almost flush. You watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard. “Truly. I hope you live happily ever after and have a plethora of children and she bakes and gardens for you for the rest of your days.”
He misunderstood your tone entirely, and rage bloomed on his face.
“Perhaps the simple life is what I desired all this time, but you only ever cared about yourself to see that.” Azriel crossed his arms.
You looked him up and down. “You can lie to me all you want, but please don’t lie to yourself.” You said quietly. “You never liked simple.” You glanced down once more. “Are you satisfied, Azriel?” you hummed, stepping closer.
You knew that even if he tried to deny it, thanks to the bond his skin would always burn and his blood would always pump harder in close proximity with you.
“Do not ask me such questions.” He seemed like he was almost squirming.
“Does she touch you better than I did?” Your voice sounded gravelly.
No response came from him, so you simply laughed. “I suppose the baking makes up for that, then.”
He grabbed you by the throat, spinning you both and pushing you hard against the lattice doors. Before you moved away, flashbacks of being in similar positions with him ambushed your mind.
Movements that were usually accompanied by whispers and strokes and grasping at each other desperately like you couldn’t breathe had somehow turned into being accompanied by rage and rebuttal and loathing.
“You speak of baking and gardening like it is sin.” His fingers flexed around your throat, and his jaw clenched hard. “I’m rather satisfied that my betrothed takes on such homely tasks, instead of slaughtering and torturing in dungeons and on battlefields for a living and then drinking and soliciting men in her free time.”
He held up his scarred hand for you to see, his speech clearly not over. “I would rather feel this again than to ever be touched by you again. You disgust me.”
This time, hot tears did burn your eyes as you felt your heart crumple from within. Your traitorous, fitful heart.
You struggled to take a deep breath with the hand around your throat, but you tried. “I was by your side on every one of those battlefields.” You rasped softly.
His eyes widened and he loosened his grip slightly, before he suddenly became aware and his face became apathetic again. His grip remained loose, though.
He let go, and pushed off the wall and away from you. “If it were down to me, you wouldn’t even be in the wedding. But Elain wants you there. She’s kinder than we’ll ever be.”
You rubbed your throat gently, grateful to be able to take deep breaths again. He pulled the handle on the lattice doors, clearly deeming it time to end the conversation.
“Congratulations, Azriel.” You said softly, before the door fully closed. And you thought for a moment that you saw him hesitate. Saw him pause in his tracks. But the door closed anyway, and he was gone.
You slid down against the doors and the tears came in full swing. You hugged your knees to your chest as rumbling, sorrowful sobs escaped your throat. The clouds began to darken slightly, as though rain was pending. But at least it was still warm, despite the winds.
You cried for at least twenty minutes, until you wiped your nose and pushed your hair out of your face, and decided it was time to face the music.
But first, you went in pursuit of that wine Rhysand had ‘sent’ you for.
-
Third seat, second row.
That was where you sat amongst the rest of the attendees, all in agonising anticipation of the event to come and to see the bride in her gown, for not everybody had shared the privilege you had of getting ready in the High Lady’s chambers with the bride herself.
Harp strings twinged, and fiddles groaned as the music slowly came to life, and you knew Elain would be walking towards the altar any moment now. The altar you refused to look at, for he was stood there. Tall, proud, and devastatingly beautiful. Elated and anxious and excited to begin this chapter; to start the beginning of the rest of his life.
But you couldn’t help yourself. You glanced up at him once.
And once was enough to notice him staring straight at you with an unreadable expression.
You slowly shook your head, as fury and frustration began to simmer under the surface of your skin once more. What in the Cauldron’s name was he playing at?
You clenched your fists and sank your teeth into your lip to try and send pain to your brain before the tears started. A tactic that never usually failed you. But this time it was no use. Both your lip and your eyes stung, and you looked up again to see him finally look away.
Commotion rustled behind you, and you turned around. And there she was.
Elain. Beautiful, radiant, and a devastating bride in her custom gown. Taking such slow, graceful steps that you could barely see her ballet pumps under the cobalt hem of her white dress. The blue that perfectly matched the siphons that glinted on the male waiting at the end of the aisle.
Rhysand walked beside her, her arm tucked in his as they strolled towards the altar with Feyre and Nesta in tow, both holding beautiful bouquets just like Elain, comprised of white lilies and blue cornflowers, then embraced by twined sprigs of rosemary and thyme from Elain’s garden as a finishing touch.
You hated how much of a bitter taste it left in your mouth. You hated yourself, mostly. Both for feeling this way, and for whatever you had been or done to not be good enough for him to choose his mate. The one the mother had chosen for him. The one he was not supposed to live without, and yet you weren’t good enough. Gods, you loathed yourself. You picked up the nearly empty bottle from where it was hidden under your seat behind your dress, and poured yourself a new glass. Not wine, but whiskey this time.
It’s ironic how the burn of the whiskey soothes you, rather than disgusts you. Soothes your scorned heart and tortured soul; you can’t burn something that has already gone up in flames.
A voice smooth like silk slid into your mind. “Steady on the drinks.”
You looked up towards the front of the aisle, where Rhysand’s head was ever so slightly turned in your direction. He narrowed his eyes so that you’d get the message.
You always listened to him. He was your voice of reason.
Not today. Not anymore. Today you were a woman scorned, and you didn’t care to conceal how much you felt like acting like one. You raised the whiskey to your lips and drained almost all the contents, before dropping the glass on the floor where its fall was cushioned by the tulle near the hem of your dress. It was pink. You fucking hated pink.
A smile crept onto your face as the amber stain began to spread across the pooled material of your dress on the floor.
“What are you doing.” Rhys tried again. This time, you put your shields up and shut him out entirely. You watched his eyes widen as him and Elain reached the altar.
Dealing with him would be a problem for another day. Right now, you didn’t want to feel, and the liquor was helping you achieve just that.
Elain finally reached the altar, and took her place opposite Azriel. You couldn’t bear to look as he reached forwards and took one of her hands away from the bouquet, before lifting it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss against her knuckles.
Your stomach lurched. He had worshipped you like that once. Felt so deeply for you that nature bound you together. And it still wasn’t enough for him.
You felt a genuine ache spread through your chest, and the nausea rose up your throat as they began to read their vows.
The priestess glanced at all the attendees in the pews, and called out; “Does any male or female in this court object to this union?”
Rhysand glanced at you.
Amren glanced at you.
You almost scoffed at them both, but didn’t wish to draw attention.
But then Azriel looked at you. One long, empty look and you could have sworn you watched the rise and fall of an extremely heavy breath on his chest.
And your stomach turned again. You closed your eyes and counted down the minutes until everyone filtered out of the temple towards the festival hall. Once you were sure it was less conspicuous, you launched out of your seat and darted down the aisle to the nearest bathing chamber. You could have sworn somebody called after you, but you didn’t have time to turn back.
The moment you opened the chamber door, you hurtled your body over the toilet and violently deposited the entire contents of your system, your throat burning as the whiskey made its way back up. You heaved over and over again, your respiratory tract on fire and your chest like somebody had stuck a knife into it. You couldn’t fucking breathe.
Several minutes that felt like hours later, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and rose, taking one look at yourself in the mirror.
What stared back almost made you laugh hysterically. Mascara streaked down your cheeks, your lipstick smudged and the space under your eyes was so hollow it looked purple.
“Of course he doesn’t want me.” You cackled to your own reflection, holding up the bottle of whiskey you managed to remember. “By the cauldron, who would?”
You wiped your lipstick onto the sleeve of your dress, squealing in delight as you ruined the pink material more and more as the day progressed.
Finally emerging from the bathroom, you threw back the rest of the whiskey and set it down on a nearby maid’s tray, before taking the two flutes of sparkling wine that had sat upon the tray.
One in each hand, you sauntered into the Great Hall, where tables were laid out with elaborate foods and wines and elixirs and petals and gorgeous smelling candles. The cobalt blue theme decorated the entire hall, and you all but sneered at the accents.
Your eyes narrowed in on the central table, where Elain and Azriel sat, gazing into each other’s eyes with what could only be described as absolute contentment and joy. Rhysand and Feyre sat to their left on the circular table, followed by the rest of the inner circle. You drained your first flute, and set it down.
Rhysand missed nothing. His eyes flicked up, and his expression soon became horrified as he took in your drink and your ruined dress. Feyre then looked up, and you struggled to hold her stare as devastation was written all over her face. She no doubt knew now, too.
You ripped your gaze away, tipped your head back, and poured one flute of sparkling wine right down your throat, ignoring the burn of the bubbles.
And then he saw you. And the love and content that was directed at Elain was replaced with pure ire. Disgust. Fury.
You expected him to simply sit there and scowl, but he banged a fist on the table, and stood straight up. Guests all around the room whipped around and stared in confusion as the groom stalked through the room like an apex predator, nothing but bloodlust on his expression.
Azriel grabbed your wrist. Hard.
“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” He thundered.
You tipped your glass towards him. “I’m enjoying the party!”
A drop spilled, landing on his leather shoe.
“Oops!” You whispered, covering your mouth.
“Get out.” He said calmly. Too calm.
You pouted up at him, even though your chest burned. It burned with regret, humiliation, any and every form of self loathing that existed. And it burned with the bond, still alive and roaring not to be ignored.
“Get the fuck out.” He repeated. “And don’t show your face around Elain or I again. You’re no longer welcome in our lives.”
You stared at him, as the world suddenly fell silent. The flute slipped from your hand, smashing on the floor. Gasps echoed around the room, the quartet ceased their string work, and you looked behind Azriel. At Elain’s panicked face.
She didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve for you to ruin this for her.
“I’m sorry, Elain.” You whispered, and you knew she couldn’t hear it. But the expression on her face after you inclined your head told you she understood.
You backed away, sparing Azriel one last glance. It must have been your inebriation, because you could have sworn that the rage on his face faltered for a split second as you slowly stumbled backwards.
“I’m sorry.” You repeated. But no one could hear you, as the strings resumed, the cutlery touched plates and drinks clinked. Everyone had moved on.
Everyone except you.
“I’m sorry.” You murmured towards the floor, as you slipped through the grand doors.
You slipped off your heels and ran down the stone hallway as a burning pressure began to attack your throat and close it up. Tears stung your eyes and you ran fast, faster, willing your legs to keep up with your mind until you crashed into the double doors leading out into the garden.
You heaved for air, and when you felt your lungs had finally refilled you let out the most harrowing scream you could muster. It registered, it hit you that this was all real. You had lost your mate. Forever.
Your love wasn’t enough. It never would be. You were broken, torn apart and scarred by life but so was he. Yet although he was enough to make you feel complete again, for him you would never be the cure.
You stared at the garden that Elain had so lovingly cultivated. You were sure their happy, half Illyrian children would run through these bushes one day. And you wouldn’t be around to see it, and it was nobody’s fault other than your own.
A few hushed whispers sounded like they came from the hushed rustling behind you, but you assumed it was the alcohol. You were hearing things.
Until they got slightly louder, and you were able to make out a few words.
Big event.
Night Court.
Opportunity.
Final chance.
Before you even had a chance to turn around and inspect it for yourself, you scented it before you felt it. The ash arrow, that ricocheted straight through your gut.
AZRIEL
He had been gazing lovingly at Elain as she chatted happily with her sisters when he felt it.
His stomach lurched, and an excruciatingly sharp pain struck him in the chest. He doubled over, clutching his chest tightly as he felt a metallic liquid run up his throat and coat his tongue. Blood. His blood. But why?
Rhysand and Elain both whipped around in horror as they had scented his blood first.
Azriel spluttered as he tried to explain that he had no idea what was going on, but no sound came out as he choked and coughed. The rest of the inner circle began to turn around, and an unfamiliar expression suddenly dawned on Rhys’s face.
“Azriel.” Rhysand’s voice like smooth, calming silk entered his mind. Azriel simply nodded to him to indicate that he had heard as he tried his best not to heave.
“Azriel,” He repeated. “Search inside yourself for the bond.” Rhysand’s forehead suddenly seemed to be slick with sweat.
Azriel blinked at Rhysand in confusion, before his gaze flickered to Elain, and then back to Rhysand. And then his eyes widened, as it dawned on him. As the realisation hit him, what was running through Rhys’s mind.
Azriel searched. He tugged. Something faint glimmered, but it had dulled tenfold. It had been a long time since he had acknowledged that it was even there, but it still glowed stronger than this recently.
“What’s going on?” Elain murmured, glancing between the two males. “Are you speaking into his mind?”
Azriel couldn’t respond as his chest pain grew with every second, his stomach doing somersaults as he covered his mouth to keep from retching. Elain put a hand on his arm to comfort him as he tried not to vomit. He clutches his chest hard, standing up and doubling over.
“It’s fading.” He choked, out loud this time.
Rhys closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, but Elain and Feyre only looked more bewildered. Nesta and Cassian had returned from their dance hurriedly to check on Azriel as he struggled to keep himself out.
“What’s fading?” Elain screamed, not out of annoyance but out of sheer panic and worry for her new husband.
“Follow it. Follow what’s left of it, NOW, Azriel.” Rhys panted, wiping his forehead.
Azriel used whatever strength he dug up from within him to ignore the pain and sprint towards the double doors. He tried to follow his heart, but all he felt was the hollowness he’d always believed resided in its place. So he followed scent instead.
The dull ache in his chest became one, sharp sensation worse than anything he had ever felt. And then it was gone. And a flicker of relief washed over him.
Until he saw them. Two Autumn Court sentries, darting through the doors to the courtyard and garden.
“Hey.” Azriel shouted, walking towards them with Rhys in tow. “HEY.” He screamed.
Rhys made a swift gesture with his hand, and both of the sentries paused as if time had stopped as the High Lord and his friends caught up to them.
But once they’d made it through the garden doors, Azriel stopped in his tracks.
Azriel froze in shock as he beheld you. Once blushed and bright skin, now sunken and pale. Your expression was permanently fixed into one of despair and…longing. As if you had wished you hadn’t gone through this alone. Your long, lovely hair caked in blood as one arrow was nestled in your neck, and the other in your chest.
The sound that ripped out of Azriel’s throat was one his friends had never heard, and hoped to never hear again as he fell to his knees and pulled your torso towards him.
He’d known how to scent death on a Fae since before he could walk or fly in the Illyrian camps, and yet he still didn’t accept it as he flattened his palms on your chest and pushed, willing your heart to start again.
“Please.” He whispered.
“Azriel.” Rhys placed a hand on his shoulder.
But the Shadowsinger shoved his hand off and grabbed your jaw, making you face him.
“Wake up.” He spoke through gritted teeth, pushing your hair back from your face.
“She’s gone, Azriel.” Rhysand shouted, his tone sterner this time. “You didn’t want her, and now this removes the complication of the mating bond. Isn’t this what you wanted, anyway?” He scoffed.
“Mating bond?” Elain and Feyre said softly in unison from where they had finally caught up.
Azriel looked over his shoulder at his new wife as tears stung his eyes.
What had he done?
He looked back at you. Dead. You were dead.
Rhysand straightened, and turned towards the Archeron sisters.
“They were mates.” He swallowed hard, and gasps resounded from the small crowd that had began to gather following the commotion.
An unwelcome figure walked up from behind the Inner Circle, and stared down at your body with shock and anger.
“I told him not to do anything.” Eris Vanserra shook his head as his voice cracked. “He said a Night Court wedding this level of prestigious would be too good of an opportunity to pass up to send you a message.” He covered his mouth as he turned to Azriel. “I’m so sorry.”
Behind him, Elain had began crying. But the sound didn’t disarm Azriel as it usually did.
“This was Beron?” Rhys thundered.
“I believe so.” Eris muttered. “I rushed here as quick as I could. But I was too late.”
“What have I done?” Azriel whispered.
“Get the fuck out.” He repeated. “And don’t show your face around Elain or I again. You’re no longer welcome in our lives.”
He had well and truly spoken those words into existence, and he shook his head as he stared at your lifeless body. He pulled your head onto his lap and stroked your hair silently, rocking back and forth as he whispered his apology to you over and over again.
His mate had died. He could have prevented it. He could have done literally anything differently, and the outcome would have been better than this.
He looked up at the sky, and let out the most bloodcurdling scream to have been heard in all of Prythian, as he searched for the bond within his chest, finding no light and no familiar hum. Just emptiness.
Warnings - Domestic abuse, physical assault, sexual harassment (implied), panic, fear
<- prev || series masterlist || next ->
The sunlight in Velaris was different.
It did not creep or glare or cut. It warmed. It settled gently against my skin like a blessing I did not deserve, like the city itself had decided briefly to be kind.
I sat in the gardens of the House of Wind with a porcelain teacup cradled between my palms, the scent of honey and herbs curling softly into the morning air.
The gardens were alive in a way the Hewn City never was. Flowers bursting in impossible colours, ivy climbing pale stone without fear of being torn down, butterflies drifting lazily from bloom to bloom as if time itself moved slower here.
This was where the High Lord had housed us during our stay. Whether it was hospitality or strategy, I didn't care.
With others in the House, Silas was... restrained. Public walls did what my pleas never could.
I lifted the cup to my lips, careful. Even now, my hands trembled faintly, betraying me despite my efforts to appear composed. The tea was warm, sweet, grounding but it did little to quiet the ache beneath my ribs.
Something brushed my cheek. Cool. Light. Almost curious.
I closed my eyes for a moment before I even turned, already knowing.
Azriel stood a few paces away, shadows drifting lazily around him, softer than I had ever seen them. Not watchful. Not sharp. Gentle.
He studied me with his head tilted slightly, as if trying to read something written between my breaths.
I cleared my throat and set my teacup down carefully on the small table beside me, gathering courage that felt paper-thin.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
His brows knit faintly.
"For not saying anything," I clarified, my voice barely more than a whisper.
Something tightened in his jaw. He looked away for a heartbeat, toward the distant mountains, toward the open sky, then back to me.
Slowly, he took the seat across from mine, wings folding neatly behind him as if he were making himself smaller on purpose.
"We should talk about it," he said gently.
The words alone made my chest constrict. I shook my head at once, too quickly. "Please," I murmured. "Don't make me relive it."
The plea slipped out before I could stop it.
He inhaled as if to argue, lips parting then stopping. His shoulders lowered a fraction, surrendering something unspoken.
Instead, he followed my gaze to the gardens beyond.
"I forget," he said quietly, "how beautiful this city is in the morning."
"I don't," I replied.
I stared at the riot of color before us, the sunlit petals, the laughter drifting faintly from somewhere within the House, the breeze carrying the scent of citrus and wildflowers.
"I wish I could live here forever," I whispered.
The words surprised me as much as they seemed to surprise him. For a moment, Azriel said nothing. Then—
"That could be arranged."
I turned sharply to him. There was no teasing in his expression. No mockery. Just a faint curve of his mouth, restrained and careful, and something earnest in his eyes that made my breath hitch.
He meant it. The idea wasn't fanciful to him. It wasn't impossible. It was real.
Hope should have bloomed. Relief should have followed. Instead panic wrapped tight around my lungs.
Because for the first time, I found myself looking at a male whose gaze held no expectation. No calculation. No hunger for what I could give or what I represented.
Only concern. Only understanding.
And that terrified me more than cruelty ever had.
"My husband would never," I blurted, the words tumbling out too fast, too sharp. I stood abruptly, as if motion could ward off the thought taking root. "Hewn is his home. His power. He would never leave it."
Azriel watched me closely, saying nothing.
There was no judgment in his gaze. No frustration. Only a quiet understanding that made the air between us feel fragile.
Slowly, carefully, I lowered myself back into my chair, lifting my teacup with hands that betrayed the tremor I was trying to hide. I took a measured sip, pretending composure. Pretending the idea of another life had not just unravelled me.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Azriel leaned back slightly, as if giving me space to breathe.
I thought perhaps that would be the end of it. That he would nod, accept my panic for what it was, and retreat. Return to shadows and silence and whatever duty awaited him inside.
He stood.
My stomach dropped. This is it, I thought. I've frightened him away.
But he did not leave.
Instead, he turned toward the flowering hedges lining the stone path. The jasmine vines were in full bloom, white petals bright against dark green leaves, their scent sweet and almost intoxicating in the warmth of the sun.
I watched as he reached out, his scarred fingers careful, so careful, as he plucked a single blossom from its stem.
There was something achingly gentle in the movement. As though even the flower deserved tenderness.
He approached me slowly. I held my breath.
He stopped just before me, close enough that I could feel the faint coolness of his shadows drift across my skin like a soft breeze.
Up close, I noticed the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the way sunlight caught in the dark strands of his hair.
He did not ask permission but he did not assume it either. He simply paused.
And I understood.
My pulse fluttered wildly in my throat as I gave the smallest nod, tilting my head slightly to the side.
His fingers lifted, hesitant only for a fraction of a second before tucking the jasmine gently into my hair, just above my ear. The touch was featherlight, reverent almost, as though I might shatter beneath it.
The scent of the blossom mingled with the warmth of the morning.
His hand lingered there a moment longer than necessary.
I felt the heat rise to my cheeks before I could stop it. A blush, genuine and unpracticed, spreading across my skin in a way I had not experienced.
He noticed. Of course he did.
"You deserve to be happy," he whispered.
The words were not grand. Not dramatic. They were simple. And devastating.
Something inside me splintered quietly. No one had ever said that to me as though it were a fact. Not as an obligation. Not as a performance.
Deserve.
The single tear escaped before I could swallow it back. It slid down my cheek, warm and traitorous, carving a path through the careful composure I had rebuilt.
I did not move to wipe it away.
Azriel's expression softened, pain flickering through his eyes, as if my tears wounded him more than any blade could.
His hand shifted from my hair, brushing down slowly until his thumb grazed my jaw. The touch was warm. Steady.
My breath caught in my lungs.
He hesitated just enough to give me time to pull away. I didn't.
And so he leaned in.
The kiss was barely more than a whisper of warmth against my skin, his lips brushing the place where the tear had fallen. Soft. Careful. As if he feared startling me.
Not possessive. Not demanding. Just... there.
For a suspended heartbeat, the world ceased to exist beyond the sunlight and the scent of jasmine and the warmth of his nearness.
I wanted to memorise it.
The feel of his breath against my cheek. The steadiness of his hand. The way my heart raced, not from fear, not from dread but from something bright and terrifyingly alive.
He pulled back slowly. Not far. Just enough to look at me.
Something passed between us then, fragile and unspoken. A possibility neither of us dared name.
Then, as though he knew staying longer would undo us both, he stepped away. His shadows gathered obediently at his shoulders as he turned toward the House.
He did not look back.
I remained there beneath the sun, fingers lifting shakily to touch the jasmine in my hair.
I wished he had stayed. I wished the moment could stretch endlessly, suspended in warmth and light and quiet understanding.
Under open sky. In a city that did not bruise.
With a male who touched me as though I mattered. Not because he had to but because he wanted to.
Azriel's POV -
Dinner was never meant to be like this.
It had been intended as something small—contained. A quiet evening between myself and Rhysand, a brief reprieve from courts and politics and shadows that never truly slept.
And yet Silas had found his way in. He always did.
Where there was power to be observed or influence to be reinforced, he appeared, smooth and polished, smiling like a male who believed he belonged anywhere he chose.
Which meant she was here too. And gods she stole the breath from my lungs.
She entered at his side, white fabric flowing softly around her like moonlight on still water. Just elegance. Purity, almost. As if Velaris had reached out and dressed her itself.
And there still tucked carefully into her hair was the flower. The jasmine.
She had kept it. Styled her hair around it, gentle fingers weaving it into place as though it mattered. My chest tightened painfully.
She looked like something sacred standing beside something rotten.
An angel at the devil's elbow.
"Azriel," Rhys murmured sharply under his breath as we took our seats. "I cannot believe I have to say this, but stop staring at another male's wife."
I blinked, tearing my gaze away too slowly to pretend innocence. Violet eyes cut into me, knowing and unamused.
"I wasn't," I lied easily.
Rhys snorted. "You're a terrible liar when you're emotionally compromised."
I ignored him.
Throughout dinner I watched her with the care of a spymaster, never too long, never too obvious. Just enough.
A glance here. A moment there. Tracking the way her shoulders rose and fell, the way her smile flickered into place whenever Silas leaned close.
And sometimes, only sometimes, she looked back. Brief. Careful. Almost secret. There would be the faintest smile then. A ghost of warmth. Something real.
It never lasted.
Silas drank as if the table had been set for him alone, glass after glass disappearing into his hand with practised ease.
The wine loosened his tongue first, his laughter growing sharper, more cutting, then his body, his sense of restraint dissolving until he no longer bothered to pretend.
And his hands—never left her.
At first, it looked almost innocuous. A palm resting high on her thigh beneath the table, fingers curved as if merely anchoring himself.
I watched the way her spine went rigid. The way her breath shallowed. The way she tried, carefully, to shift an inch away without drawing notice.
Silas followed the movement without even looking.
His grip crept higher, deliberate now. Claimed the space she had tried to reclaim, his thumb pressing possessively, as he continued speaking to Rhys as if nothing were happening at all.
Her jaw locked. Her gaze dropped to her plate, unseeing.
My shadows stirred, restless, agitated.
Then he leaned close to her ear, his mouth brushing her hair as he murmured something meant only for her. Whatever it was, it stole the colour from her face.
She smiled but it was wrong. Fixed. The kind of smile born from long practice, from knowing exactly what was expected and delivering it before punishment could follow.
Silas smiled back, satisfied.
He draped an arm around her shoulders then, drawing her into his side with unmistakable intent. Not affection. Display.
His fingers toyed with the neckline of her dress, brushing skin that should never have been touched like that in a room full of witnesses. She startled visibly when his hand pressed too firmly on her breast, her breath catching as humiliation burned bright across her face.
I heard my own pulse roaring in my ears.
She moved away then. Finally. Gently, carefully, as though even the act of reclaiming her own space might provoke something worse.
And as she did the flower slipped free. It fell soundlessly to the marble floor. White against stone.
The look on her face as she watched it fall, like she had lost something irreplaceable was what finally broke me.
I was straightening before I fully realised it.
"Perhaps," I said evenly, my voice calm only through sheer force of will, "you should keep your hands to yourself."
Silas turned slowly, brows lifting in exaggerated confusion. "What?"
"I'm just saying," I continued, shrugging lightly, "you're drunk. And your wife is clearly uncomfortable."
The room went still. I heard Rhys sigh heavily from the head of the table, already resigned to what was coming.
Silas's expression twisted. "I can do whatever I want with my wife."
She straightened beside him, panic flashing across her features. Her hand darted out, gripping his arm as she whispered urgently, desperately, trying to stop him.
He shrugged her off. Hard.
"Spoken like a true gentleman," I bit out.
Silas surged to his feet, palms slamming down on the table. I rose with him instantly, wings flaring wide, shadows coiling in agitation.
"I could bend her across this table right now," he shouted, pointing at me, spittle flying. "And you would do nothing because it is none of your fucking business!"
"Silas!" she gasped, horror threading her voice. She reached for him again, hands shaking, trying to anchor him. "Please—"
"Shut up," he snapped, shoving her aside like an inconvenience.
That did it.
"Do not speak to her like that," I growled.
"Don't tell me how to speak to my wife!" Silas roared. "She is mine. I can touch her how I please. I can speak to her how I please. This is between us!"
Her composure shattered completely.
"Silas stop," she sobbed, tears streaming freely now, hands clutching at his sleeve as if she could hold him back from the precipice. "Please, let's just go. I'll do anything—just please."
He rounded on me again, eyes wild. "Don't think I haven't noticed how you watch her."
She tugged at him harder. "Silas—baby—please. Let's just leave."
Her voice broke on the word baby.
I said nothing. This was not what I had wanted. I had not meant for her to cry. I had not meant to drag her into the open like this, exposed and bleeding in front of everyone.
I had only wanted him to stop.
Silas ripped free of her grasp and stormed from the room, fury trailing behind him like smoke.
She didn't hesitate. She ran after him. Not to protect herself. To protect him.
And I stood there, wings still flared, shadows trembling with barely leashed violence, watching the female I cared for more than I should disappear after the male who was destroying her.
The jasmine lay forgotten on the floor. Crushed beneath someone else's foot.
And for the first time that night, I did not trust myself to speak because if I did, I knew I would follow.
And I was not sure I would come back without blood on my hands.
And it would not have saved her.
So I stayed. That was the worst part.
Sleep never came. I lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling of the House of Wind as if it might crack open and swallow me whole. Time stretched, thin and cruel, each minute dragging itself forward with deliberate slowness.
And then I heard it. Not words at first. Just sound.
A muffled sob, sharp and sudden, like it had been torn from her chest before she could stop it. Then another. Softer. Controlled. As if she had learned, long ago, how to quiet herself before someone else did it for her.
My jaw clenched so hard it ached.
The walls here were thick. Old. Built to withstand war and weather and centuries of magic. And still the sounds carried. Not clearly. Not cleanly. But enough.
Enough to haunt.
A low, angry voice followed. Slurred. Accusing. The kind of voice that didn't ask questions, it delivered verdicts. I refused to say his name, even in my own head.
Furniture scraped violently across the floor. Something struck wood. Hard.
Her breath hitched. Another sob broke free before she could swallow it down.
Then a sound I recognised all too well, the dull, sickening impact of flesh meeting something solid. Once. Then again. Each blow punctuated by his voice, raised and vicious, as though every word justified what came after it.
She tried to speak. "Please—"
The word barely formed before it was cut off. Not gently. Not by accident.
Another impact followed, heavier this time. The rhythm uneven. Uncontrolled. Nothing precise about it. Just rage finding a body.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
My shadows crawled tight around me, coiling around my wrists, my ribs, as if they feared what would happen if they loosened their hold.
This is my fault. The thought lodged itself deep and poisonous.
If I had not spoken. If I had not looked at her. If I had not made him feel challenged in front of his High Lord.
I had lit the fuse.
His voice rose again, thick with fury. Another crash. Something fell. Something shattered. Her response came thinner now. Shaking. Not arguing. Not resisting. Appeasing.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. Again. And again. And again.
Each apology landed heavier than the blows.
I turned my face into the pillow, teeth grinding, breath shallow, my chest burning with a pain I could not bleed out. I had endured torture. I had listened to enemies beg, scream, break.
None of it compared to this.
Because this was not cruelty from a stranger.
This was a female who drank tea in the gardens and smiled at flowers. A female who apologised for things that were not her fault. A female who had looked at me like kindness was something dangerous.
And she was hurting because of me.
The sounds continued—duller now. Slower. Like exhaustion had set in before mercy ever could.
Her sobs grew quieter, more spaced apart, until even those faded into ragged breathing dragged thin through pain.
And then—nothing. Not peace. Aftermath.
I lay there until dawn, counting breaths that were not my own. Memorising every sound I would never forget. The moment his movements slowed. The moment his breathing evened out.
The moment hers did not.
When silence finally settled over the House of Wind, it felt like something had died.
And I knew then with a clarity that terrified me more than rage ever could that whatever line I thought I had been standing behind?
I had already crossed it.
Because I would never sleep through that again.
And I would never forgive myself for the night I listened—and did nothing.
A/N - Everyone lock in for a second because I need to yap x
This part took me so long to write. I originally had a completely different idea planned and while it reflected a very real and serious issue, it ended up feeling heavier than I intended :(
The hardest part was Azriel's choice not to intervene. I went back and forth on it constantly. He absolutely would step in if it was happening in front of him, but here he holds back because he believes pushing Silas further would only make things worse for her behind closed doors. It's not indifference. It's restraint... and it wrecks him.
That doesn't make it right. It doesn't make it easy. The internal conflict is what I wrestled with most—how do you write a male known for decisive action choosing restraint and make it believable?
Thank you for sticking with me through this—I know this part wasn't an easy one <33
seeing people say "this trope has been done to death" as if that's ever stopped anyone from eating bread. BREAD HAS BEEN DONE TO DEATH FOR LITERALLY THOUSANDS OF YEARS AND WE STILL WANT MORE BREAD. write your chosen one AU. write your coffee shop meet-cute. write your 47th iteration of "there was only one bed" because guess what??? we're still hungry.
Tonight's feast was meant to be grand. I only knew that because Silas had said it twice, once as a command, once as a warning.
Wear something pretty.
As if I were an ornament to be polished and displayed beneath chandeliers.
I stood before the tall mirror in our room, smoothing my hands down the length of my gown. Deep blue silk pooled around my feet, the fabric soft as water against my skin. The neckline was scooped, the sleeves sheer and delicate.
I had chosen it carefully, not too bold, not too plain. Something that would not provoke comment. Something safe.
My fingers fumbled at the low zipper along my back, twisting awkwardly to reach it. I huffed softly under my breath, trying again—
A knock sounded at the door. Soft. Intentional.
Before I could answer, shadows slipped beneath the crack, curling like familiar smoke along the floorboards.
My heart leapt. The door opened just enough for him to slip inside.
Azriel stepped into the room like the night itself had taken shape, dark leathers tailored perfectly to his broad frame, cobalt siphons gleaming at his shoulders and hands. The blue caught the candlelight and scattered it like fragments of a star.
My breath left me in a quiet rush.
"Hello, pretty," he murmured.
And then he was there.
His hand slid gently along my jaw as his lips found mine. The kiss was not hesitant. Not cautious. It was warm and real and full of the quiet hunger that had lived between us since the river.
I rose onto my toes without thinking, fingers tangling into his hair as I deepened it, pulling slightly at his lower lip just to hear the soft sound that left his throat.
We broke apart only when air became necessary.
His forehead rested against mine, breath mingling. "You look breathtaking," he whispered.
The way he said it, like it was fact, not flattery, made something inside my chest flutter.
"Zip me up please," I said softly, turning and lifting my hair over one shoulder.
His fingers found the zipper, slow and deliberate. The metal whispered upward as he drew it closed, and when he finished, his lips brushed a lingering kiss against my bare shoulder.
Heat bloomed beneath my skin.
His hands settled at my waist when I turned back around, thumbs tracing small, reverent circles as his shadows slipped between us, cool and curious against my arms.
"The most beautiful female I have ever laid eyes on," he said quietly.
The sincerity in his voice made me blush harder than the words themselves. I smoothed the front of my dress, suddenly shy beneath his gaze.
"Look," I said lightly, tilting my face toward the light without thinking. "Even the bruises have faded now."
It had been meant as something hopeful. A small victory. A sign that perhaps I was healing faster than I had expected.
But the look that crossed his face, the pain there was immediate. Sharp. As if I had struck him.
My smile faltered. "I'm sorry," I whispered automatically.
His hand rose, gentle but firm, cradling my cheek. "Don't ever apologise for being happy," he breathed.
His hazel eyes searched mine, filled with something so fierce and tender that it made my throat tighten.
"You deserve relief," he continued softly. "You deserve to look in the mirror and see skin that isn't marked."
I swallowed.
His forehead pressed to mine again, grounding. Steady.
For a moment, I allowed myself to just stand there. To exist in a space where my body was not a battleground but something cherished.
Then he pulled back slightly, and I had to resist the instinct to follow.
"I have something for you," he said.
I blinked. "You do?"
His hands were empty.
But as if summoned by the thought, his shadows gathered between us, curling inward before depositing something soft and delicate into my palms.
A ribbon. Silk. Deep blue. The exact shade of his siphons.
"For your hair," he explained quietly.
My chest tightened.
I turned toward the mirror, fingers weaving the ribbon carefully through my hair, tying it so it fell like a streak of midnight against the silk of my gown.
It matched perfectly. The dress. The ribbon. Him.
When I faced him again, his expression had softened into something almost awed.
"It's beautiful," I whispered, fingers brushing the silk ribbon now woven carefully through my hair. "Thank you."
"You are most welcome," he murmured.
His hand found mine without hesitation, lacing our fingers together.
The simple intimacy of it, his rough, scarred palm warm against mine, felt far more daring than any kiss.
For a moment we simply stood there in the quiet. The world outside the door felt distant. Manageable. Like something we could outrun.
Then his thumb traced softly over my knuckles, and something almost boyish lit his eyes.
"I have plans for us," he said, lowering his voice as though the walls themselves might try to steal the words. "Plans I cannot wait to tell you."
My heart stuttered.
Hope was a dangerous thing. It had teeth. It had claws. And yet I leaned toward it anyway.
"Tell me," I breathed, stepping closer. "Please. Even just a little. A single detail."
His gaze darkened, not with desire, but with affection. With something steady.
"You do not need to beg with me," he whispered, squeezing my hands gently. "Not ever."
The words settled deep in my bones.
I closed the distance between us until my chest brushed his, until the rhythm of his heartbeat met mine.
If I closed my eyes, I could pretend this was normal. That this was allowed.
"There is a house," he said softly, bending so his lips nearly grazed my temple. "Hidden away. Far from courts and politics and expectations. Small. Quiet. Surrounded by trees." His voice grew softer still.
"Just for us."
My breath caught.
I could almost see it, sunlight through tall windows, laughter that did not feel fragile, mornings without dread. A place where I did not have to measure every word before speaking.
"You would leave everything?" I asked, barely audible. "Your court. Your family. Your title?"
His answer came without pause. "In a heartbeat."
There was no bravado in it. No dramatics. Just certainty. The air shifted between us, heavy with promise.
He leaned down and kissed me.
Not fevered. Not urgent. But deep and steady and filled with something that made my knees weaken. It tasted like hope. Like defiance. Like a future neither of us had yet figured out but both were willing to fight for.
I clutched the front of his leathers, memorising the feel of him, the warmth of his mouth, the quiet vow wrapped inside it.
And then—footsteps. Faint. Approaching.
We broke apart instantly. His shadows reacted first, curling tight around him as his eyes flicked toward the door.
"Soon," he whispered, brushing his thumb once along my cheek. "Very soon."
And then he was gone, dissolving into darkness as if he had never been there at all.
I barely had time to steady my breathing before the door opened. Silas entered without knocking.
"Well," he drawled, his gaze sweeping over me slowly, appraising. "Don't you look gorgeous."
I lowered my eyes the way I had learned to. "Thank you."
He stepped closer, circling me once as though inspecting something he owned. His attention snagged on the ribbon woven through my hair.
His fingers caught the silk, tugging lightly. "Pretty ribbon," he mused. "Didn't know you liked blue."
My pulse spiked so sharply I thought he might hear it. I forced my shoulders to remain loose. Forced my voice to stay even.
"It's different," I said lightly. "Thought I'd try something new."
His gaze lingered a moment longer than was comfortable.
Then he shrugged. "Well. It suits you." His arm looped through mine, possessive and firm. "Come along. Let's show them what's mine."
I let him guide me toward the door.
But beneath the weight of his grip, beneath the careful mask I wore so well, the ribbon rested cool against my neck.
A quiet, defiant blue.
Azriel's POV -
Feasts in Velaris were nothing like those in Hewn City.
There was no leering hunger in the air. No predatory circling. No power plays disguised as pleasure.
Here, music rose warm and bright beneath vaulted ceilings, laughter wove through candlelight, and the dancing, the dancing was joyful. Practiced. Intentional. Partners bowed. Hands met. Steps aligned.
Civilized.
I barely noticed any of it.
Because she was standing near the edge of the floor, hands clasped lightly before her, blue ribbon threaded through her hair like a quiet secret.
And she was watching. Not idly. Not politely. Longing.
It was small, the way her weight shifted toward the music without her realising it. The way her fingers flexed in time with the rhythm. The way her eyes followed the turning couples with something soft and almost painful.
Her husband stood across the room, deep in conversation with two minor lords, gesturing with a glass in hand as though he owned the space simply by occupying it.
He hadn't looked at her once.
Something in me hardened.
Perhaps it was reckless. Perhaps it was the promise I had whispered earlier, still burning in my chest. Or perhaps it was simply that I could not bear to watch her stand there wanting something so simple and believing she was not allowed to have it.
I moved.
Sliding seamlessly into Silas's conversation, offering a nod, a polite incline of my head. His eyes narrowed the moment he noticed me, but I spoke before he could.
"Silas," I said evenly. "A word."
The other lords excused themselves quickly enough, sensing tension like blood in water.
Silas's smile was thin. "Spymaster."
I met his gaze steadily. "I believe we left things on poor terms the other evening."
His jaw ticked.
"I spoke out of turn," I continued smoothly. The lie tasted like ash. "I meant no disrespect to your marriage."
He studied me for a long moment, clearly searching for insult hidden beneath civility. "You did," he said finally. "But I suppose we all misstep."
I nodded once. Then, casually, so casually it might have gone unnoticed—
"I only mention it because your wife appears to be watching the dance floor rather intently."
His eyes flicked toward her at last. Just for a second.
"She seems to enjoy it," I added, keeping my tone neutral. "I wondered if you might honour her with one."
Silas gave a short, humourless laugh. "I don't dance."
The music swelled behind us. I held his gaze.
He tilted his head, something ugly passing through his expression. "If you care so much, Spymaster," he said coolly, "you may take her yourself."
The words were dismissive. Careless. As though she were a trinket he had grown bored of holding.
I inclined my head once more. "You are generous."
His smirk told me he thought he had just proven something. I walked away before my temper betrayed me.
She stiffened slightly when she saw me approach. Not in fear—never in fear but in awareness.
"Would you care to dance?" I asked softly, offering my hand.
Her eyes widened. "No," she breathed. "He's watching."
"I have his permission."
She hesitated. Across the room, Silas had already returned to his conversation, back turned.
I lowered my voice. "Trust me."
Her fingers slid into mine. They were warm. Slightly trembling. The moment we stepped onto the floor, the world narrowed.
My hand settled at her waist, not possessive. Not claiming. Simply steady. Hers rested against my shoulder, light as breath.
"Relax," I murmured as the music shifted into a slow, sweeping waltz.
"I don't know if I remember how," she whispered.
"You do."
I guided her into the first step. She stumbled only once before finding the rhythm.
And then she bloomed.
Her spine straightened. Her chin lifted. Her skirts flared gently with each turn. The blue ribbon caught candlelight as we spun, a streak of colour against her hair.
She laughed softly when I guided her into a turn. Real laughter. Not careful. Not measured.
And I would have burned kingdoms to hear it again. "You're smiling," I murmured.
"So are you," she replied.
The music wrapped around us, strings rising and falling like breath.
"I've arranged travel," I said quietly as we moved. "There is a window in a few days. Your husband believes he is required elsewhere at that time. He will not question your absence until it is too late."
Her fingers tightened against my shoulder. "You're certain?" she asked.
"Yes."
"And the house?"
"Prepared. Stocked. Shielded." I guided her into another spin, catching her easily. "No one will find us unless I wish them to."
Her eyes shone, not with tears this time, but with fragile hope. "You thought of everything," she whispered.
"I have been thinking of nothing else."
We moved together as though we had done this a hundred times. As though our bodies understood something our circumstances did not allow.
For a few precious minutes, there was no Hewn City. No bruises. No watchful eyes.
Just music. Just her.
She rested her forehead briefly against my chest as the dance slowed. "I don't want this to end," she said so quietly I nearly missed it.
"It won't," I promised. "Not the part that matters."
The song ended. Applause rose lightly around us as couples separated.
I released her hand slowly, aware of the eyes in the room. Aware of the thin line we were walking.
Across the hall, Silas finally looked our way. His expression was unreadable. But she was still smiling when she stepped back toward him.
And that, tonight, felt like a victory.
A/N - Calm before the storm... who said that :o
I think the highlight of this part is that little, bittersweet comment when she notices her bruises fading. It's meant to be hopeful, but it's also heartbreaking because she should never have had them in the first place :(
Azriel, ever thoughtful, gifts her a delicate ribbon and somehow, he even manages to carve out a dance for them, bending Silas's control just enough to give her a few moments of freedom and joy x
Eris Vanserra never asked for a mate, didn’t expect to find one. But when he meets his mate, he realizes his already complicated existence just became that much more complicated. Especially when fighting natural instinct becomes more and more impossible.
Pairing: Eris Vanserra x f!reader
Word Count: 15.5k
Warnings: eventual smut, p in v, fingering, oral(f), masturbation(m), smut gets filthy, unknown mates to one party, reader being turned fae against her will, angst, semi unhappy mate trope, unsure reader, some hostility, Eris pov, Eris yearning, soft Eris, canon Eris trauma, some canon plot used along with a few direct quotes, song lyrics used in story
A/N: Inspiration for this came from Tell Me, Tell Me…Baby by *NSYNC. The conception of this is kinda wild as I’d never heard the song until the other day, but immediately thought of this scenario with Eris. Lyrics from the song are interspersed through the fic, so the bold and italicized sections are the set of lyrics that felt most appropriate at each point in the story.
It couldn’t be more right
We are what they call a perfect match
It’s something that you can’t touch
Down to the last bone, you’re my baby
Eris Vanserra had known cruelty before.
His father was a monster. His mother was barely surviving some days. He hated his brothers. Well, except the youngest. The one he’d always felt drawn to protect from the moment he’d first entered the world.
But Lucien currently hated him, as much as the rest of the world seemed to. But that was okay. It was necessary for survival.
Didn’t mean it didn’t twist like a knife to the gut every time Lucien treated him like a stranger, or just flat out ignored him. Like he wasn’t the male who’d introduced the younger male to all his favorite books, taught him how to summon his first spark of fire at his fingertips or spent hours with, while taking care of Eris’s pack of smokehounds.
But, their father had killed Lucien’s lover, long ago. Eris had refused to participate and fought back, costing him. It was the only time he’d ever denied his father something.
He’d paid for it in a lot of ways.
Frankly, he was still paying for it to this day.
Not just with the nonexistent relationship he had with his baby brother, but with Beron. The torture he’d received for fighting back was child’s play in comparison to the types he received in the present day. But he kept the mask on, bid his time and properly calculated and planned for one day soon when he would make things better. For himself, his mother, his brother and his court.
After all, he’d been taught by the best on how to observe, calculate and use just about anything to his advantage. It just happened that he and his father shared different…visions, if you will. As not only the heir to Autumn Court, but the general to its armies, Eris bore the responsibility of protecting the court from its enemies.
Even if the greatest threat was from within.
Which is exactly what he was doing when fate, the Cauldron, the Mother—hell he didn’t know who or what—decided to turn his entire existence upside down.
But it was the entire business with Briallyn where this entire mess had started.
Eris had managed to survive the war with Hybern. He managed to survive the tensions of post-war when everything was uncertain and definitely fragile amongst the human and Fae lands alike. He’d survived the delicate balancing act of managing his father and an alliance with Rhysand and the Night Court. He’d survived the recent mess with the human queen, Briallyn, despite his father being a pain in his ass at every turn. It was exhausting. After Nesta Archeron had killed the Made human queen, things seemed to quieten. There’d been no activity from Koschei, no threats of another Fae war, nothing of concern from the human lands…yet. It was a tad unsettling, if he was honest.
Prior to this, he’d never laid eyes on the striking High Fae female who couldn’t keep her thoughts off her face. She wore everything plain as day in her expressions, like she had no control over her face.
Rookie mistake, he knew. That was the easiest thing for an opponent or enemy to target. You never gave them more to work with and nothing that you didn’t purposely give away. It was a game, a craft, a deception.
It prided him to be able to say he was a pro at it.
Of course, it didn’t take him long to learn her name, but he was even more intrigued by her story. She was a rather new addition to the usual circus from the Night Court he typically dealt with.
She’d been human just a short couple years ago, just like the Archeron sisters had been. In fact, her story seemed just as cruel, maybe even a tad worse.
Just like the High Lady of the Night Court’s sisters, she’d been turned High Fae against her will.
She’d been kidnapped by Hybern foot soldiers, a random human woman, it hadn’t really mattered who. She undoubtedly had been a victim of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Feyre Archeron had been a thorn in Hybern’s side ever since she’d defeated Amarantha, freeing all of Prythian and the High Lords from under her thumb. When she’d conquered death with aid from all seven High Lords, resurrecting as High Fae, Hybern knew they had trouble on their hands.
Despite continuing on with his nefarious plans, the King of Hybern knew Feyre Cursebreaker was a threat to all he wanted to accomplish. He’d had many tricks up his wicked sleeves, one including kidnapping the remaining two Archeron sisters solely to punish the High Lady of the Night Court.
What came before that was the experiment. To see if the Cauldron without a doubt could make anew in some of the cruelest and evil ways. Which was what the stunning female before him had been.
Hybern wanted absolute certainty that the Cauldron could turn a human into Fae and that’s exactly what they’d done to her. She’d been a secret from everyone as it was assumed only the two remaining Archeron sisters were the only ones that went into the Cauldron, prior to Queen Briallyn jumping in herself, that is.
Eris didn’t know why, but the story made his shoulders tense. For some reason, he knew if he’d been there at the time, he’d have cut down any of the bastards who’d dared to touch her, without a second thought.
Azriel had found her in one of the Hybern camps, a broken bird of a thing with dead eyes, or at least that’s what Eris had heard. Though at the time, he hadn’t realized this was who the Shadowsinger meant. He’d taken her to live at the Night Court where she’d been hidden away, healing for the last two years.
In her own way, she’d experienced cruelty of her own, too.
But the description of the female he’d heard of then was a stark difference from the one standing in front of him. Sparks of anger flashed in her eyes, none too unlike his own fireborn flames, though hers was from pure emotion alone.
She must’ve been prepped to meet him, then.
Sometimes it was tedious and boring, letting everyone believe he was this horrible male. Sure, he wasn’t winning any outstanding awards and he always, always had reasons and motivations behind his actions, but his reputation seemed much grander than he actually was.
Even if he was allied with the court and on better terms with Rhysand than he’d ever been in the past, he knew many members of the High Lord’s inner circle were either wary of him or downright disliked him. Cassian was one that fell into the latter category. If he’d gotten to her first, Eris was sure she’d already had a decent first impression of him, however biased it may be.
They’d met in the Spring Court to discuss matters about Briallyn. The female had accompanied Cassian and Rhysand this time.
“It’s always a pleasure to meet a fresh face. A stunning one, at that. There’s so few around here these days,” he’d drawled to her at that first meeting.
Amongst his other talents, he knew how to charm.
Apparently, she was immune.
She’d just stared at him, hard. He didn’t back away from it though, more curious to see what she’d say or do.
She’d turned to her High Lord with a raised brow and went, “This is the one who thinks he’s the Mother’s gift to all of Prythian?”
Rhysand had to try hard not to laugh. Eris clocked it as the male coughed into his hand before answering.
“This is Eris.”
Eyes raked over him and Eris couldn’t help the way his body straightened just the slightest bit. He wasn’t one to try to impress anyone, but it was like the subconscious movement was beyond his control.
“Talk about disappointing,” she mused.
Eris’s eyebrows shot up and then his amber eyes shot to Cassian, where the source of choked laughter had originated from. Eris glared.
“I don’t think he knows what to do when a female isn’t automatically falling at his feet. You’d think he’d have plenty of practice with it by now after dealing with three females who already see through his bullshit,” Cassian quipped, referencing his High Lady, mate, Nesta and Morrigan.
Eris decided to ignore the comment before his gaze turned back to Rhysand.
“Sounds like she fits in perfectly with the Night Court, Rhysand. What does she do anyway?”
“Unbelievable,” she scoffed, “Do you talk about all females like they’re pets?”
Typically, he’d be amused with such treatment. Especially from a beautiful female. But for some reason, the comment needled him. He felt the need to defend himself, irritated more by the accusation than her tone with him.
“No. I do not. Contrary to what people believe, I do believe to an extent that females should have the luxury of protection, even with the knowledge that they can take care of themselves, too. It’s what a good male would do, at least.”
It hit too close to home, his statement. Something he’d been doing for years with his own mother.
Rhysand studied him for a moment. If he’d picked up on anything Eris had unintentionally left vulnerable, he didn’t comment on it.
“She’s been in training with Cassian, Azriel, Nesta and some priestesses, too.”
Eris’s red hair ruffled in the breeze of the spring air, the sweet scent of the flowers nearby filling his nostrils.
“Then what is she doing here?” he asked.
She stiffened at the thinly veiled insult.
“She’s learning different aspects of court life. So I know best where to place her. Learn her strengths and weaknesses,” Rhysand answered.
“So throwing her into the deep end dealing with a vengeful mortal queen, a death God, the Dread Trove and my father, was the best time to start that? For someone who’s been through what she has?”
He jerked his chin in her direction, sneering. It was concern masked as an insult because if truth be told, it was alarming. She was technically still an infant in the Fae world, despite having been turned the same time as the Archeron sisters.
She spoke again, sharper than she had the first time.
“I’m…High Fae. Now. Stronger, faster, harder to kill.”
The slight hesitation alluded to much she’d not dealt with. That was the difference between her and the Archeron sisters. They seemed to be further into their journey to healing and acceptance of how their life had turned out, much more so than she was.
She mustn't have been training with the Illyrians for long because she still looked thin. She might no longer be human—the arch to her ears making that obvious—but she was still as vulnerable as if she still was mortal. He said as much.
“You’re untrained. A weakling. A liability,” he folded his arms, a challenge in his stare.
He knew she couldn’t answer because she knew he was right.
“Did you come here just to insult one of my people or to actually be helpful?” Rhysand growled.
“I thought I was being helpful. You’re practically throwing the female to the wolves,” Eris said, unfolding his arms and tucking his hands into the pockets of his tailored pants—a burnt orange today.
“If her bite is anything like her bark, I’d say she can hold her own well enough though,” Eris continued, eyes raking over her.
She glowered back at him.
“Oh believe me, she’s a quick study during training. Azriel’s been pretty impressed,” Cassian mused.
Somehow Eris didn’t doubt that. She might’ve presented herself to the world as one thing, but underneath, she was likely a different person.
He knew a bit about that.
“Let me know if you learn anything,” Eris finally concluded, “If my father shares anything else with me, you’ll be the first to know. When your Shadowsinger gets back, we can discuss further plans.
Rhysand inclined his head in agreement and Cassian had gathered the female in his arms, prepared to take to the skies with her. Her face had cooled from its initial burning anger to a more indifferent expression. Not exactly menacing, but by no means friendly.
He took her in, a good, long look this time. But it was when his eyes raised to hers, finding her gaze already on him that he felt it.
The moment their eyes met he felt a quiet, distinct sensation so deep down he couldn’t have pinpointed where it originated.
It was like the soft click of a key sliding into a lock.
A puzzle piece slatting into its perfectly intended place.
For a male who’d mastered the art of keeping his face unreadable, he truly had no idea what expression he currently wore. Clearly it was something she didn’t expect to see because her brows furrowed slightly, the corners of her lips turning down in confusion.
The moment only lasted for a split second because then she was launched into the air, secure in the arms of the General of the Night Court. The High Lord followed right behind him, neither taking note of the exchange.
Eris was left standing, rooted in place, long after they’d left, gaping at the space they’d just occupied.
His heart pounded wildly and his blood roared in his ears, his head filled with too many thoughts.
He’d just laid eyes on his mate.
And he had no idea what the hell to do with that knowledge.
•••
But to be honest
There’s just one thing
A part that is missing
You don’t seem to care at all
A few months had passed since the day of the revelation that had turned Eris’s world upside down.
Since then, the word had been clanging around in his head like the chime of a bell.
Mate. Mate. Mate.
He was 500 years old. He’d never truly thought he’d be one to find a mate. Granted, they seemed to be all around him.
He knew enough that his youngest brother had found his mate, though that was a complicated situation. They didn’t exactly have many conversations these days, but he’d stiffly told Eris once that the moment he’d locked eyes with his mate it was just a deep surety. A fact that couldn’t be scrubbed away no matter how much a person wished to. It was a sudden realization that your entire being was woven with another. Something that was difficult to grasp and even harder to describe unless you’d experienced it.
But now, Eris had.
Now, he realized he knew what Lucien had felt, was feeling. The agony he’d been going through.
Because Eris knew she hated him.
Well, hated may be a strong word. She’d cooled to him, but she wasn’t exactly friendly either. More like she tolerated his presence when needed.
It was pathetic how much he managed to sneak away from Autumn to visit the Night Court with the excuse of diplomatic talks or meetings being the reason he’d show up. He did it all just so he could see her, be around her.
Gods, his mate.
She was beautiful. Strong and full of fire that awed him.
He’d caught her once practicing some maneuvers she’d clearly learned in her training, in a back courtyard at the Court of Nightmares. He’d watched as her body moved languidly as if she was performing a dance that only she knew the moves to. Her hands were positioned, holding an imaginary sword, swinging them out in a practiced measure.
When she’d spotted him, she came to an abrupt stop, eyes narrowed like she’d caught him watching something far more inappropriate than he actually was.
“You’ve improved. Least that’s what Cassian and Azriel tell me,” he’d mused.
“I don’t just sit around on my ass doing nothing, Eris.”
He’d had to suppress a shiver. She didn’t often call him by name, but it always seemed to be the most erotic sound he’d ever heard, the sound of the two syllables of his name leaving her lips.
It wasn’t much of a conversation, but it was something he’d clung to. It was small interactions like that that kept him going, that silenced the roaring in his head and the incessant tug in his chest every time she was near. He knew what caused it, but it was hard to fight the draw he felt towards her. Physically and non physically alike.
Early fall had soon turned into winter and soon Winter Solstice had approached. As an ally to the court, Rhysand had invited Eris to the ball in celebration of the season at the Court of Nightmares.
As an ally, Eris expected to dance with a female of his choice from the Night Court.
And he knew exactly which one he had in mind.
“Should I be flattered that I was your pick of the night over the High Lady or either of her sisters?” she asked him, a slightly amused brow raised.
“I don’t fit into the usual mold,” he brushed off.
“Clearly.”
He took her in his arms and the strain he’d felt for weeks, deep inside him, seemed to settle for once. He swore his skin hummed every time she was around, a constant buzz he couldn’t rid himself of.
She wasn’t as skilled as he in the art of a waltz and he found it endearing that she stumbled a bit to keep up with him. It didn’t matter much to him if she excelled at dancing or not, he’d truly just wanted an excuse to have her in his arms. To hold her, touch her. Things his newly formed and revealed instincts screamed at him to do now.
That, amongst others.
The need was suffocating as well.
The biological need to claim what was his.
Though he knew he wasn’t owed her nor did he feel entitled to her, the primal instinct still wanted him to fulfill that desire. Preferably repeatedly.
It didn’t help that she looked ravishing tonight.
The black gown she wore was all lace, silk and sin, off the shoulder and highlighting the bare skin of her shoulders and collarbones. There was a slit in one side, nearly to the top of her thigh and his fingers itched to glide over the skin there.
Cauldron, no one ever warned him a mating bond would make a male so fucking feral. He guessed it would explain a lot about the mated males he knew.
Being so close to her was making his head spin. Spin, yes, that was a good idea. The current song playing was different from the one they’d started dancing to, so he stepped back, twirling her. She went willingly, definitely a little less than polished and it made his lips quirk with a smile.
“Dancing isn’t my strongest suit,” she mumbled, a flush on her cheeks.
“We all have our weaknesses,” he quipped.
His was currently pressed against him, robed in black fabric he wanted to remove with his teeth.
Her eyes narrowed, as if he’d insulted her. Shit, it probably did come out insulting.
“Not a bad thing,” he clarified, “You’re doing fine.”
“Eris Vanserra being pleasant for a change is incredibly strange.”
He chuckled, chest warming, feeling a tug that had to do more with the halfway compliment than the bond.
“I am known to surprise,” he purred.
“So, why me?”
“Why you, what?” he asked, knowing clearly what she meant.
“Why pick me to dance?” she supplied.
“Maybe you intrigue me. New faces don’t show up around here just every day, you know. It’s the same boring handful to deal with day in and out,” he drawled.
“You truly have a way with words,” she replied, flatly, clearly unimpressed, “Managing to compliment and insult in the same sentence is quite the talent.”
“Coming from the female that called me disappointing the moment she laid eyes on me? You wound me.”
A small smile curved her lips.
If he wasn’t trained as thoroughly as he was to keep a handle on his emotions and reactions—even against knee jerk reactions—he would’ve stumbled.
He didn’t know if it was the night, the fact it was Solstice or what, but to see the combination of ice and fire he was used to seeing thrown his way from her, not on her face tonight, truly made his stomach flip.
He knew how he presented himself to the world, why he did. But he’d inadvertently let the mask slip a little when it came to her, enough that it seemed her own protective one had answered in response.
Maybe mating bonds were that powerful. To truly bare yourself to your mate, whether you wanted to or not.
There was still hesitancy in her expression, like she didn’t know what to believe, didn’t know if she should believe anything that came out of his mouth. What was real and what wasn’t. Like she fully expected him to trick her at any moment.
He wasn’t planning to. Not with her.
From the moment the ancient instinct started screaming in his head, he knew he’d never be cruel to her if he could avoid it. Yes, he still did much to protect many, to protect a lot. He still acted a certain way. But he tried his hardest to never be deceitful towards her.
They were dangerously close. Not that he hadn’t marked her every movement from the moment her hand had dropped into his, prior to him leading her to the dance floor. He was so acutely aware of her every move, so attuned to her that he’d felt the shift after her last twirl—much more coordinated than her first—as she folded back into his chest.
Her eyes lifted to his and held briefly before her hand came up, fingers intimately brushing some strands of his long, red hair back over his shoulder before her hand smoothed over his chest. He was surprised at the gesture.
He had no idea if she knew about the bond. If she felt it too. If it’d snapped for her yet. If it had, she’d said nothing about it.
He could hardly breathe.
He was definitely not thinking when he made his next move.
His head dipped and he pressed his lips to hers. He didn’t even care if he was in the middle of a ballroom surrounded by more people he hated than he actually liked.
She immediately stiffened beneath him. He was fully prepared for her to haul off and slap him.
What he didn’t expect was her to kiss back. Albeit hesitantly at first, as if she was unsure why she was, but she needed it as much as he had. The relief he felt when his lips touched hers was immediate and sure. If he’d been trying to deny the pull of the bond before now, he could no longer.
Her head tilted slightly and the slight gasp that came from her would’ve been too low for human hearing, especially with the surrounding noise of music playing and chatter. His keen Fae hearing picked it up perfectly.
And it went straight to his cock.
He went to deepen it, to sweep his tongue into her mouth. To taste more. But she pulled back abruptly, like she’d just realized where she was and who she was with.
She immediately stepped out of his embrace, chest heaving, eyes widened to the point of alarm. She said nothing as she backed away before leaving him on the ballroom floor completely stunned, breathless and fully hard.
•••
Why, tell me, my baby
Getting under my skin
For messing up my mind
It was no surprise that he called it an early evening, leaving the festivities much sooner than he initially had planned to.
She didn’t look at him the rest of the night, let alone get close enough to him for him to say something. Apologize, anything.
He shouldn’t have done that, but he’d been so weak. It wasn’t fair to her though and he regretted it, solely because of how she reacted afterwards. He didn’t regret the kiss though, not at all.
It was the exact reason he had to make his exit early, after all.
Thankfully Rhysand had arranged for him to have a room for the night in the Hewn City, if he was too tired or drunk to winnow back to the Autumn Court. Which is where he currently was, pacing back and forth in front of the fire he’d lit with a flick of his wrist, flames flickering from his fingertips.
His hand raked through his hair, further mussing it, a stark contrast for how precisely in place it usually was. He tore at the buttons of his scarlet jacket, opening it, fully before shucking it off. He loosened the top few buttons of the shirt underneath trying to breathe, feeling all of a sudden too warm—a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire.
He groaned, falling into a chair near the fireplace, a hand rubbing over his face.
His skin felt on fire, unlike the sensations he experienced when using his fire magic. This felt like molten lava that kept burning hotter and hotter. All he could remember was the proximity of her body to his, her lips against his. How he wanted so much more, wished he’d had just a moment longer.
He didn’t even realize his hand had fallen from his face until his hand was in mid drop to his groin. His fingers squeezed the bulge then palmed it, a small grunt escaping his throat.
He imagined it was her. She’d likely have something snarky to say, probably looking completely innocent while doing it, though he knew she was anything but.
He was beyond rational thought or the ability to feel shameful for doing this. He palmed himself through his pants harder, hissing through his teeth at the slight relief the tension brought.
But it wasn’t nearly enough.
He sat back in the chair, pushing his pants down enough to free himself before he wrapped his hand around his aching cock and let his mind wander where it may.
He pictured what she’d do if it was her hand instead. He’d shut up that smart mouth of hers by burying himself so deep in her she wouldn’t be able to form a coherent thought.
His hand slid from base to tip in slow pulls, savoring this. He’d not given into these kinds of thoughts up until this point, usually banishing them. But now that he’d gotten a taste of her, they came to him unabashedly.
His thumb swiped across the thick head, smearing the bead of liquid there before letting his thoughts take over again.
Gods, her lips had been so soft. The little gasp she’d exhaled against his lips haunted him. What else could she sound like? What would she sound like moaning his name?
All he could imagine was a breathy little gasp of, Eris. His hips jerked in response to the thought.
He imagined having all the time in the world with her. He’d spend all night on her. Kissing her, licking her, whatever would make her keen. Whatever would turn her on the most.
He groaned, head falling against the back of the chair as his hand worked himself quicker to those thoughts, imagining what that incredible body looked like under that sinful dress she’d been in tonight.
She’d gained weight and muscle since the day he discovered who she was to him. The training had filled out her limbs with lean muscle and all he could think of was those thighs wrapped around his head, his waist.
“Fuck, sweetheart, I shouldn’t want you this much,” he groaned aloud, hand squeezing, his mind remembering the tempting curve and swell of her breasts in that dress.
If he’d be in his right mind, he’d probably feel more ashamed or dirty. Yes, she was incredibly beautiful and attractive. Mate or not, he’d probably be attracted to her in some form. But his razor sharp thoughts were lethal tonight.
“Just wanna hear you moan for me, just once,” he uttered, chest heaving as his climax neared on the horizon.
His hips canted, fucking his fist, imagining it was her, thoughts and images appearing behind his closed eyes faster than he could grasp on to them. They were all so incredibly filthy and made him want to try them all. Wanted to find out what she liked.
He moaned her name aloud as his pace quickened, needing release desperately. His eyes squeezed tighter shut when it hit him with a force unlike any he’d felt before—despite doing this exact thing quite a few times in his lifetime. His release spilled all over his hand and his stomach, staining the fabric of the shirt he’d still had on.
He grimaced, knowing he’d have to throw it out.
There he sat, breathing uneven, not exactly feeling shameful, but feeling at a loss. He truly had no idea what to do about her. She was dangerous, a problem. His, but not his.
Eris didn’t know if he was going to survive her.
•••
Don’t you know that I can’t breathe without you
Tell me, tell me, just how
What am I supposed to do, right now?
Eris tried his best to continue on with life as he’d always had, before she’d entered his life. But it was so difficult.
Being away from the Night Court became unbearable. He felt like he couldn’t breathe without her. Not just from not having her presence nearby or her scent—which he’d learned he knew by heart without ever realizing it—but just because he needed the added reassurance that she was safe, alright.
He was so fucking protective over a female who barely gave him the time of day anymore. She still had some of that fire in her when they interacted, but it was like she went out of her way to avoid him.
He suspected it was her way of protecting herself. It’s what he’d do if he was her.
Cauldron, they really were perfect for one another.
It’d been hard to meet her eyes after Solstice Night in the Hewn City. Not over the kiss, but the knowledge of what he’d done in that room, in that chair by the fire. The unbridled lust that he’d no longer been able to keep a leash on, that night.
He was ashamed because unlike with past lovers, that wasn’t the only reason for his interest. Neither was the fact that she was his mate. But somehow, even at a distance, she’d wormed her way into his heart and mind.
As a person, she was so incredibly lovely. Probably deserving of more than him, that’s for sure. What had the Cauldron been thinking giving her, him?
She was smart, quick on her feet—physically and with her words—determined and actually kind. That last one he’d seen shown more to others than him, but he knew it existed.
Mercifully—or maybe not so much—he was kept preoccupied as spring approached and activity on Briallyn picked up. Nesta had aided in finding the remaining items from the Dread Trove to keep them out of the mortal queen’s hands, unintentionally falling into just the plan the queen had set into motion.
His father had been delicate to handle. He managed. He also managed to keep his promises to the Night Court as their ally. When he made a promise, Eris tended to keep it.
After all, he was too used to broken ones. He refused to be one who didn’t stick to his word.
With all that happened and rather quickly too, he’d had little time to focus on her. Even though that tug remained, half buried where he’d left it, it still hummed. Some days it was easier to ignore than others.
Then he’d fallen into the hands of Briallyn.
He’d been out hunting with his smokehounds, thinking how much he’d love to introduce his beloved pets to her. He’d wondered if she’d like them. They were large and intimidating, good at what they were trained to do, but softies at heart. They loved a good meal and a cuddle. He instinctually knew they’d love her. They were fiercely protective of their owner, but also loved the few people who meant the most to him.
His mother and Lucien were the only people they liked besides him.
When hands grabbed him from behind, he initially reached for his dagger at his side, the one that’d been gifted to him by Rhysand and Feyre, but found it gone. There were more males than he could fight, he realized, spotting two more individuals on the horizon.
His memory had been completely wiped of what happened next due to the magical influence, but the last thing Eris remembered was of thinking of her. Of how he didn’t want her to find out the truth this way.
He’d been enchanted by the Crown Briallyn possessed. Azriel’s spies had gotten intel of his kidnapping and he and Cassian watched, waited and tailed for nearly a week, spending most of the time unsure if he’d betrayed them. He hadn’t. They’d rescued him. He might not have said it out loud, but he was incredibly grateful.
Not only for his life, but sparing his mate from that pain. Pain she’d have had no idea that was coming.
He remembered little of the entire ordeal and knew nothing of importance. Rhysand had confirmed his words to be true when he looked into Eris’s mind.
Despite his daemati knowledge, he was unable to hide the truth in his mind from the High Lord due to his feelings on the matter being so loud at the moment.
Rhysand hadn’t seem surprised in the slightest.
“You knew.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement to the male.
“I suspected,” Rhysand had confirmed, “But I wasn’t sure. I knew you weren’t increasing your visits just to come see me and Feyre alone.”
Eris had huffed a laugh, wincing at the pain still lingering in his back from wounds that were too slowly healing. He hadn’t seen her since before his capture. Didn’t even know if she cared what happened to him. It wasn’t like they were close.
Now, he sat in a room in the Hewn City, not unlike the one he inhabited on Solstice, months ago.
It’d been two days since the Illyrians had rescued him and Briallyn was killed. Koschei was still in play though and that was a dangerous variable.
As a welcome home, his father had interrogated him thoroughly. It wasn’t anything he wasn’t used to. This was just his life.
He’d spent the entire time reminding himself why he was doing this. He thought of her too, this time. It’d been months since he’d endured the brunt of his father’s anger and torture, since well before Eris had met her.
He kept her at the forefront of his mind this time, each and every time he was struck.
He was in love with her.
It was a thought that kept returning over and over as he fed his father a mix of truth and lies as he always did, which he bought, of course. Just like Eris knew he would.
He sat in the chair by the fire, an ankle crossed over his knee, attempting to read a book while waiting for Cassian who’d wanted to meet with him. His thoughts kept straying to the revelation he’d had during his father’s latest round of torture, a few days ago.
It was nonsensical. He had no idea how he could be in love with her when she hardly dealt with him.
But it was in the way he watched her. How she cared for her friends of this court, how fiercely loyal she was as an individual, how she had fought from the depths of hell she’d been thrown into until she’d been molded and shaped into the female he knew her to be today. She still had quips for him occasionally and it sent a thrill through him every damn time. It was a mix of having attention from her again and being able to see the spirited demeanor he knew she possessed, even if it only came out occasionally.
The door clicked open and his amber eyes lifted from his book, fully expecting to see Cassian and was surprised to see her standing there instead.
“Cassian send you?”
His voice was gruff from misuse. He’d barely spoken in the few days after he weathered his father’s interrogation. It was only when he was alone afterwards that night that he heaved the contents of his stomach into the toilet of his private chambers.
It wasn’t the pain that caused him to fall ill. He’d dealt with much worse than this before. It wasn’t even what he’d been through in the last week with Briallyn and Koschei.
It was the thought of anything happening to her. If his father ever had the knowledge of who she was. Who she was to him. Memories of Lucien’s lover flitted through his mind. Though he hadn’t been there, he’d still learned what his so-called family had done to the lesser faerie.
In a way, Eris was glad Jesminda hadn’t been Lucien’s mate because that horrific event would’ve actually killed his youngest brother. Not like it hadn’t, even without a bond.
But, it was the knowledge of the danger he knew she potentially faced, the danger he knew he had to protect her from, that had him vomiting.
He knew he couldn’t tell her. And he certainly didn’t deserve her.
Even if he wanted her to feel the same way about him that he did about her.
He’d promised himself that he’d pull back, slide the cool mask back in place around her. It was for her own good, for her own protection. It was to spare her life.
Which is why he sat staring at her coolly, no emotion on his face. There was no flirty, charming retort, no warmth that had snuck in when he’d interacted with her in the past.
“No. He’ll be by in a bit.”
His eyes watched her intently.
She was nervous, fidgety.
It’d been three months since he’d kissed her. He still hadn’t forgotten it. Eris wondered if she had.
“They said Briallyn kidnapped you and enchanted you. Are you…” a nervous swallow, “Are you okay?”
“I’m sitting in front of you in one piece aren’t I?”
He watched her lips thin at his icy demeanor. It was usually her who was less than warm with him. It’d never been the other way around. Well prior to the bond making itself known to him, that is.
Eris’s eyes assessed her. Genuine concern tightened her brow, one corner of her lower lip pulled between her teeth, her eyes sweeping over him like she was trying to verify his statement. She’d drifted closer to him and he stood, putting the book under his arm. He now towered above her, looking down into her face.
Her eyes roamed his face. She was close enough that he knew she was likely taking in the scatter of freckles along the bridge of his nose and cheekbones. He’d always been pretty indifferent about them. Didn’t love them, didn’t hate them. They just were.
But the way she looked at him now…
The warmth that had glowed behind his rib cage for her for the last six months glared brighter at her proximity. He squashed it down as best as he could.
He went to say something as he crossed his arms and grimaced at the sting from the injuries that still were sore. His father’s calling card was Faebane, giving it to him to slow his natural fast healing gift of the Fae. Also ensuring the wounds didn’t heal as he added more over the already existing ones. It was hell, but he’d take it and more to accomplish what he was working hard against.
Sharp eyes caught it.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, standing straighter
His fingertips curled against his bicep. She was much too smart for her own good.
“Nothing.”
“You’re clearly in pain.” This time her brows furrowed in unhappiness, the clear, angry kind.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied, smoothly.
“Damnit, Eris, don’t lie to me!” she snapped, “Did Briallyn hurt you?”
“No.”
“Then who hurt you?”
His throat bobbed at the fierceness of her tone.
“No one and even if someone did, it wouldn’t be any of your concern anyway.”
The words were cold and detached. Eris hoped it did the job to keep her away. He was too dangerous for her to get too close to anyway.
Ironically, his words seemed to have the direct opposite effect. Her eyes were rapid fire across his face, trying to decipher if it was truth or lie. She’d have a hard time, he knew. He could typically control all of his expressions pretty well.
Eris wasn’t sure what she found there and didn’t have a chance to ask before she was on her tiptoes, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. She wasn’t rough, like she knew even regardless of what he’d said, there were injuries beneath the clothes that she didn’t want to irritate. She surged upwards and kissed him.
This one was more heated than the Solstice one. Full of passion and anger, probably, definitely frustration. His arms fell apart from where he’d crossed them earlier. His hand came up, sliding into the hair that laid against her neck as he cupped the side of her neck with his broad hand.
Her tongue swept in and he had to keep from groaning at finally tasting her. Everything he’d tried to suppress came surging back with one kiss.
She sighed against his lips, as if she found just as much relief in the kiss as he did. Fingers were still curled into his shirt but loosened the moment she seemed to relax into the kiss, her mouth slanting over his with such deadly precision that he knew he was already addicted.
He breathed her name against her lips the moment they parted just a fraction, barely any distance between them, considering his lips brushed hers as his own formed around her name. She backed away fully at that, releasing his shirt completely as she stepped away from him. He wondered if he looked as dazed as he felt. He knew his eyes were lidded and he was slightly short of breath as he watched her speak her next words.
“We’re even now.”
She turned and headed for the door just as it clicked open once again and Cassian strode in. She breezed by him without a look or a single word. The Illyrian only looked from where his mate had just brushed by him then back to Eris, in question.
Eris straightened his shoulders, subtly straightening his shirt, disguised by him changing the book still in his arm to the opposite one, before speaking.
“I can’t stay long.”
•••
But I promise you this one thing
Whatever that’s missing
I will make it up to you
Now, in the present day, spring finally succumbed to summer.
Her kiss had left him reeling. It had been so much longer, so much more intense than the first they’d shared. It felt filled with much left unsaid.
He shouldn’t have been shocked when she once again pulled away. He kept telling himself it was for the best. There were other more important things at hand.
His father was furious that his ally had been killed, but he wasn’t deterred. Koschei still remained out there and no one had a faintest idea when, where or how he might strike next. Between that and the normal load he juggled, that including toeing a dangerous line of going against Beron on the daily, was wearing him thin lately.
Maybe it didn’t help that was suppressing something that came as naturally as breathing should, but he really had no choice.
He still saw her, of course. She was finding her place in the Night Court and hopefully healing. That’s all he wished for her—the best that is.
Even if his attitude had turned to frost towards her lately. He was simultaneously protecting her and his own heart in the same breath.
He’d been visiting the Night Court to discuss matters with Rhysand and actually had been invited to the palace on top of the Court of Nightmares as a sign of good faith. He figured it must be some progress.
Though he had knowledge of the city she resided in with the rest of the Inner Circle—Velaris—he’d never set foot there. He didn’t ever intend to, by force. If he was ever going to, it would have to come from invitation alone. He was not about to make them question his alliance by encroaching on things that were not his, much like Keir had done during the war, just to hurt Morrigan. He’d managed to get Keir to postpone his trip to Velaris that had come as a part of the deal he’d struck with Rhysand back then. Eris still hadn’t revealed the way he’d held off Keir. If he needed to, he might some day.
He’d run into her in the hallway after exiting the study he’d been in with Rhysand. The High Lord already had winnowed away to attend to some other business.
“What’re you doing here?”
His tone was flat, no nonsense.
“Is it really your business? I thought you’d left anyway.”
Her tone was exasperated, no nonsense.
“I was getting ready to,” he bit back.
Truthfully, he could sense she’d been here too. Whether by the tug of the untethered bond that still clung to him alone, her scent that he could always detect or a mixture, he didn’t know.
He may not have been in a good mood, but just seeing her eased something in his tense muscles. Yet still he crossed his arms, his large hands just barely tucked underneath them. Intriguing how her eyes darted to them before back to his face.
“Maybe try not to get anyone injured or nearly killed on your way out,” she snapped.
A muscle in his jaw ticked as he clenched it. This had been a familiar argument between them as of late. Eris had never realized how little detail she’d known of what had happened in those months with Briallyn. Rhysand had attempted to actually try and protect her from the worst of it, regardless if she knew some of what was happening.
It was only a few weeks ago that she’d learned it was Eris’s Crown enchanted Autumn Court soldiers that had put an ash arrow in Azriel’s wing when he, Cassian and Nesta had gone to the Bog of Oorid to find the Mask. She’d been furious at him because he’d been so furious at Cassian and Azriel for taking out the other men. He knew she saw his side, he saw hers too. It didn’t stop the flare of anger between them though.
He knew flames burned bright in his eyes as his anger flared.
“I wasn’t the one who put that enchantment on my soldiers,” he gritted out.
“But it was you who caused Cassian and Azriel to be attacked, to be hurt! If you’d kept your soldiers at home instead of letting them accompany your father when they initially visited Briallyn, it would’ve been avoided!”
He barked a humorless laugh, “You think Beron takes orders from me? Listens to me?”
“They’re still my friends. They were protecting themselves against being killed!” she glared.
“You have no idea the things I do every damn day to prevent worse disasters. They both can and do handle themselves without problem and they’re perfectly fine. Fine and alive, might I add. More than I can say about the majority of my soldiers.”
He knew it slipped through, but he mourned them. She was right, he should’ve done more to prevent them from even being in that situation to begin with. He blamed himself. Even if he had tried to save his soldiers, it had been a fruitless effort.
Her anger seemed to cool, almost completely dissipating.
“Cassian didn’t like doing what he did. He didn’t enjoy it. You know he offered any sort of help he could for those soldiers' families if they needed it,” she said, softer now, almost apologetic for her anger, her accusations.
He just dipped his chin in a wordless nod. He was still in a bad mood, but he didn’t want to take it out on her. She didn’t deserve his wrath.
Silence fell for a moment before her question pierced the air between them. The question they’d both been avoiding.
“Why did you kiss me?”
“Why’d you kiss me?” he countered, genuinely curious too.
She didn’t ignore the fact that he’d not provided an answer to her question. He wasn’t sure how he could answer without lying to her and that wasn’t an option.
“Forget it,” she mumbled, turning to leave, but he caught her arm, fingers firm on her forearm.
“Why do you do this? Why do you pull away?”
Eris’s voice was rough, cracking with so much he wanted to say, but couldn’t. His hand dropped her arm, gripping her chin, forcing her to look at him. Not enough to hurt, but enough to show her he meant business and wanted answers.
The answer finally exploded out of her.
“Because you make me uncomfortable!”
His hand dropped from her face like she’d burned him. He actually reeled back like she’d slapped him. She noticed his reaction and was already shaking her head like she could take back the words.
“No, ugh!” she exhaled roughly, “That didn’t come out right. I mean it’s nothing…it’s not you that makes me uncomfortable, technically. It’s just the way being around you makes me feel. I always feel off kilter every time I’m around you. Restless, on edge, tense, I don’t know! I thought it was maybe because you’re so arrogant and conceited and more obsessed with playing the game than you are anything else. That you were just infuriating and all snarky, cocky charm and insufferable because you have more fun doing things like insulting and throwing barbs to wound instead of being a decent male.”
She paused to take a breath after her spiel before continuing. Her voice was soft for the first couple of sentences, more reverent.
“But you’ve done none of that with me. Even when we first met. I mean, yeah, you were kinda insufferable, but that seemed like a mild Eris in comparison to what I’ve seen you pull.”
He just stared at her, words turning over in his mind, sorting through every single one like this was a court meeting and he was prodding every statement for hidden meanings.
“Sometimes I can’t breathe properly around you and it terrifies me because I don’t know why.”
His amber eyes bore into hers. Gods, she was beautiful. His mate was unquestionably and wholly beautiful.
He’d never known how much she might be feeling or if she was feeling anything where the bond was concerned. By her confession now, it sure sounded like something had been stirring for a while—though she’d had no context or any explanation for it.
“What?” she breathed.
He realized he’d been staring at her, not saying a word. He also knew it was probably a bad idea, but the instinct was screaming in his head so loudly lately that rational thought wasn’t a part of the equation at the moment. All he could think of was how much he wanted to kiss her.
And maybe try not to think about how he had no idea how to tell her about the bond. That he was her mate. He had no idea if she was even ready for that. Ironically, he was in practically a similar situation to Lucien, currently.
He didn’t even know if it was wise to tell her. He knew he’d still have to protect her from cruelties he realized she couldn’t even imagine.
He swallowed dryly, finding his voice.
“I’m trying to convince myself it wouldn’t be a good idea to kiss you again.”
“Why?”
Why, indeed. It sounded like an incredible idea to Eris.
“I…don’t know.”
He could’ve sworn she looked faintly amused. But she didn’t move, didn’t turn to leave again. Giving him permission to do whatever was to come next.
His hand came up to cup her cheek, a lot gentler than he even intended to. Her skin was so soft under his palm.
“Why can’t I stay away from you?” she whispered, tilting her head slightly to look up at him.
He almost groaned, all primal instincts flipping on in a flash. He knew why. It was on the tip of his tongue. So he settled for the closest thing to the truth.
“I couldn’t say.”
For the first time since he’d found her in the hallway, he realized what she was in. A tiny, gossamer thing of a nightgown. Cauldron how had he missed that?
His eyes dipped down to it, taking in bare thighs, smooth expanse of the top curve of her breasts.
“You aren’t subtle, Eris.”
Her whisper wasn’t either if the shift in her scent was any indicator. His own was probably strong with it by now.
“Who says I was trying to be?”
His voice was low, ragged, filled with restraint.
“Who says kissing me would be a bad idea?”
Because he knew if he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop.
His hand slid lower on her cheek, thumb coming up to just barely brush the curve of her bottom lip. He almost lost all restraint just seeing the way her lashes fluttered.
It was a bad idea because he knew once would never be enough. He wanted her. He wanted to fuck her, but even scarier were the things he wanted beyond that.
He wanted her love.
“Eris.”
His dazed eyes snapped back into focus to look at her.
“Just fucking kiss me already.”
He didn’t waste a moment after that. His hand tilted her face slightly before he lowered his own to hers. Gods, it was like magic every time he’d kissed her and this time was no different. He also decided to throw caution to the wind and didn’t hold back this time.
His other hand curved around her waist pulling her closer to him as he groaned against her lips. Nothing else had ever felt as right as this. Her hands were hesitant where they’d fallen against his biceps and he wanted them everywhere on him.
His tongue flicked over her bottom lip before it swept into her mouth with a slight moan from her. He was pretty sure he grew lightheaded from the sound alone.
Cauldron, he was no better in this moment than he was as a young boy with just how eager and ready to go he was. Maybe because it was her, who she was, but he was already hard and aching, his body begging him for what he desired most. The bond meantime, sang, craving the joining as well.
He grew frantic, his lips moving over hers with such an intensity it surprised even him. He’d turned her and had her pressed against the wall, seconds from practically grinding into her when he came back to his senses.
He reluctantly tore his mouth from hers and her chest heaved, lips already swollen from his kisses as she gawked at him like she couldn’t believe what had just transpired either.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed, pulling away, one step away from moving back from her completely, “I…got carried away.”
She just blinked at him.
“Did you hear any complaints?”
He didn’t trust himself to not lose himself completely in her, even for one night. He didn’t trust that he’d be able to stop if she’d changed her mind or wanted to put an end to it and he’d never want to put her in that situation. It was safer to walk away.
She must’ve seen the wariness and hesitancy in his face and his fingers itched to touch her again. That buried instinct reared its head again.
“Don’t go. Please.”
She reached out, taking his hand in hers. His naturally engulfed hers as his palm touched hers. She was already moving, tugging him gently after her. Her hand moved minutely in his before her fingers were laced with his. It was such a small gesture but it made his breath catch all the same.
She led him back down the hall to the room she was staying in. She kept peeking back over her shoulder as if she half expected him to vanish into thin air before they arrived at her door.
No way in hell was he planning on doing anything else but follow her. Whatever she wanted, she was his.
When they were in the room, behind the closed door, she turned back to him, fingers still twined with his.
“Stay.”
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a statement. It was a command, but importantly, it was a wish. It was her giving permission.
“Okay.”
Eris thought he’d never heard his voice sound as shaky as it did in that moment.
She took the small step from where she was, towards him, hand tangling in his hair as her hand slid around the back of his neck and pulled his face back down towards her, kissing him again.
He could drown in her, happily.
As enticing as her lips were, he had much more territory to explore. He parted from her mouth, lips trailing along her jaw. He spent more time with his mouth pressed to her neck though, her head tilted to allow him as much access as possible. Her hands slid under the dark green shirt he donned today. He shivered at the touch over his bare stomach, the muscles twitching in reaction to her touch.
He pulled back long enough to pull his shirt over his head. While he wanted to take his time with her, he wasn’t about to waste it on frivolous things like the clothes on their bodies. When the shirt cleared his head, he was flattered and amused to find her staring at his bare torso.
There was a faint flush to her cheeks as she took in his muscled frame truly for the first time. A faint flush reddened her cheeks, her eyes just slightly widened like she couldn’t believe she’d been blessed with the sight before her.
Fuck, she was adorable.
“Keep staring at me like that and a male might get ideas,” he mumbled.
“I train with muscles that impressive every day. You’d think I’d be wholly immune to them by now,” she mumbled, her eyes still very much not on his face.
He couldn’t help the smirk or the chuckle that left him. He reached for her again and she came willingly.
“Well thanks, sweetheart. Glad I’m impressive enough to break up the mundane.”
He secretly grinned into her skin as his nose brushed her jaw line before nipping at it. He definitely had to suppress the overeager groan that threatened to escape from him the moment he felt her hands exploring his bare skin. Over his toned stomach, up his chest and to his shoulders, dropping back along his back.
It was her gentle touch there that was such a contrast to the things his back was usually subjected to. Her touch alone could erase all the bad memories, all negative things he’d ever experienced. From just her touch.
It felt like she left a trail of fire behind with every brush of her fingers, no matter where she touched. Which was wildly ironic, considering it was he that had the actual fire magic.
His hands bunched the fabric of her nightgown, pushing it higher as his hands searched for bare skin to touch. The instincts he’d fought against for months were impossible to ignore now, rushing through his head at such rapid speed he was quickly swept up in them.
Touch her. Smell her. Taste her.
He yanked her against him as his mouth came over hers again, pressing up against her, letting her feel just how much he truly wanted this. Wanted her.
Her mouth broke from his with a breathy moan as his hips pressed harder against her and her eyes flew up to his as if trying to make sense what she was feeling, what was happening.
“Yeah,” he confirmed, unable to form any other words at the moment, feeling like he was lacking oxygen himself.
He could feel the warmth of her even through the layers of clothes still left on their bodies and it was a sensation that fogged his mind. If it was this bad, what was it going to be like to be inside of her?
“Eris,” she breathed as his hands glided up her bare thighs under the gown.
He really was going to need this gone. And soon. At that thought, he pushed it higher over her hips, exposing the bare skin of her stomach and he nearly groaned. It was an effort to form the next words, his mind screaming at him because it was the last thing he wanted.
“If you want to stop, we will. I won’t make you do something you don’t want.”
It was the hardest thing for him to say as he swallowed around the lump in his throat. But he meant it. If she wasn’t into it, was no longer interested in going further or doing this with him, he’d stop. Even if it killed him, he’d respect her wishes.
“No,” she shook her head, voice firm, “You’re just kind of…overwhelming.”
The last word came out breathily and gods did he just want to throw his head back and groan at that sound. He was absolutely fucking feral, he couldn’t deny it. But she had lit a fire to his entire body, mind and soul more than any of his magic ever could.
He was burning for her, in more ways than one.
“Just…tell me if you need me to slow down or…anything.”
Eris rarely stumbled over his words, but he did now, his hand cupping her face, thumb once again tracing her lip like he did earlier. It’d only been at most ten minutes since they had been standing in the hallway, since before this had truly begun, but it felt like two lifetimes.
“I’m okay, I promise,” she whispered against his thumb and once again, he truly shuddered.
She was so incredible, in so many ways.
His thumbs rubbed soothingly along the bare skin of her sides where his hands once again rested under the gossamer still on her body. She busied herself with lips pressed to his jawline and it was his turn for his lashes to flutter. He’d known pleasure plenty of times before in his life, but there was nothing that measured up to this and they hadn’t even gotten to the actual acts.
It was the intimacy in the small touches, the headiness of feeling drunk off one another even before the main event, the kisses shared.
He never wanted to leave this moment.
Her fingers once again curled into strands of his hair that fell down his shoulders as her mouth moved to his throat and his head tipped back, eyes closing at her soft lips against the strong column of his throat. A deep groan rumbled from his chest as he felt her tongue lick a path from the base of it back upwards to his jawline.
He finally pushed the gown up over her waist, ready to pull it up over her head, through with the fabric that hid her body. When it cleared her head and fluttered to the floor, he felt like the breath had been knocked from him completely.
She stood before him in nothing but the lacy underwear that hugged her hips, but Cauldron boil him, he didn’t even have words to describe her.
“Fuck.” he gasped.
His cock definitely twitched in agreement.
He didn’t have anything more eloquent to say, though he wished he did. The reverence in his tone was surely conveyed as her cheeks darkened in bashfulness. Not at what they were doing, no, but just at his admiration, his gaze so intense on her.
Sometimes he wondered how he managed to get so lucky to even know her.
“Not every day Eris Vanserra is rendered speechless, huh?” her lips quirked.
Indeed.
His hands reached for her, gliding across her waist to her back and downwards as he lost himself in her lips again. They gripped her ass, squeezing, pulling her once again against the aching, hard line of his cock straining, begging for attention, in his pants.
She let out the sweetest moan. It was then Eris knew he wasn’t going to survive her.
His hands lifted her, her legs wrapping with ease around his waist and he carried her to the bed. As they neared it, the faelight glowed brighter than where they’d stood in dim light earlier. He felt her fingers on his shoulders, tracing what he knew was revealed there, what the brighter faelight had highlighted.
Visible, but faint scars along them.
Her touch was as gentle as her voice when she asked.
“What happened here?”
He looked into her face as he reached the edge of the bed, one knee on it as he set her down against the pillows gingerly, up against the headboard.
“That’s a story for another time, sweetheart,” he said a shade tightly, not wanting to think of bad memories right now.
Not when he had such good in front of him right here and now.
She didn’t press the issue but he swore he saw a glint in her eyes that indicated she was holding him to that statement. Maybe one day he’d tell her.
“Gods, you’re even more stunning in full light,” he mumbled, as he moved over her, her eyes following his approach.
“Why doesn’t it surprise me you still somehow manage to be charming even in the bedroom?”
He huffed a laugh, amused at how she could so effortlessly whip out snarky remarks like this at the most unexpected moments.
“You know, I can be charming and honest at once,” he stated, a fingertip tracing a line over across her collarbone, then lower to her breasts before dipping, thumb flicking over the nipple.
He simultaneously wanted to take all the time in the world and hurry this up. He was afraid he was actually going to die if he wasn’t inside her soon. But, he wanted to make her feel good, feel *amazing* and he was going to give her that.
Both his hands covered her breasts fully, squeezing. She arched into his touch, her teeth scraping along her bottom lip, a quiet, pleased sound coming from her throat.
The thoughts and images he’d conjured on Solstice Night behind the closed doors of his guest bedroom couldn’t come close to comparing to the real thing.
He might’ve been a tad bit embarrassed, truth be told, to admit that night hadn’t been the lone occurrence of that specific situation.
Lips and tongue replaced one hand as he took his time exploring. He felt more than saw her shiver at the brush of hair that had fallen from behind his shoulder and along her bare skin. Her hand briefly threaded through the strands giving a gentle tug, making him growl deeply.
“Eris,” she whimpered.
“Yes, pretty thing?”
Another whimper at the nickname. If he hadn’t been kneeling between her legs, he was sure she’d have squeezed those pretty thighs together.
He saw her struggle to answer, like she wasn’t even sure what she was begging for. Her hands came up to his waistband, fingers popping the button to his pants, trying to push them down, signifying her patience was growing thin.
“Not yet,” he murmured against her skin as his lips trailed lower down her sternum, reaching the lace of the red underwear still left on her body.
He hadn’t even taken note of the color until now.
“Red, huh?” His lips quirked upwards in a smirk.
“Prettiest color I ever did know,” she murmured to him through hooded eyes.
So would the flush on her cheeks be when he was done with her.
Fingers trailed along the lace, over where he knew she had to be throbbing as hard for him as his cock was for her. He cursed, feeling how she was already dripping behind the fabric. He leaned down, pressing a kiss against her through the lace. Her sharp gasp only egged him on.
He sat back on his heels with a roguish grin. She didn’t even have time to react before his hands were on her hips, effortlessly turning her on her stomach.
He pulled her hips up high, allowing her time to reposition before reaching around and taking one hand at a time and placing it on the headboard.
“Hands up here. You’ll need it.”
His voice was thick with arrogant desire, he knew, but she didn’t seem to mind and he sure didn’t plan to disappoint.
He wasn’t going to rush.
He was going to savor.
He’d waited this long for her. He was going to ravish her.
His mouth trailed a line of kisses down her spine, hands gliding smoothly down her sides as he descended. Her little gasps and sighs, her spine arching into his touch were absolutely glorious. When he reached the line of lace, he didn’t use his hands or fingers to remove the article of clothing.
He pulled the it off with his fucking teeth.
When they’d been pulled off her legs, him lifting each one delicately to pull her leg through, he bent down, catching the first look of her glistening cunt. It was the most beautiful and erotic sight he’d ever seen and it was all because of him.
He was going to have to continuously remind himself not to spill in his pants if he was going to survive this.
His fingertips brushed down her slick center and she jerked with a sharp inhale at his initial touch.
“You’re okay,” he soothed, “Just wanna feel what I’ve done to you.”
The pad of one finger circled her clit just once and he smirked at the way her hips shifted eagerly into his touch. The digits then slid lower, circled around her entrance before he pushed a finger in, groaning at the slick, tight, heat.
Do not come in your pants, Eris chided himself again, mentally.
He could feel the clench of her upon one finger becoming two, the slow drag of his fingers in and out of her making his teeth grind. He reined in the absolute animalistic need that was burning through his veins and focused on her.
Pulling his fingers out fully, much to her frustrated whimper, he turned his body, laying on his back underneath her before pulling her hips down towards his reach. His tongue licked one, continuous line along her seam and he moaned in unison with her.
He was finally giving into a primal urge that had haunted him so badly some nights that even his hand hadn’t been enough to burn off the desire in his blood.
She tasted like heaven. He knew she’d feel even better wrapped around him.
His hands slid up her thighs, thumbs holding her open as his tongue lapped at her entrance before he finally thrust it in.
Her answering moan was filthy. He couldn’t see from his current position, but he figured she was probably holding on to the headboard for dear life.
“Gods, Eris,” she cried out above him.
He hummed in response, taking a moment just to work his tongue in and out of her before moving on, mouth migrating upwards to wrap around her clit, giving it a gentle suck.
The way she was writhing made him wonder how long it’d been for her. If she’d even been with a male since being in Prythian. That was a dying shame if she hadn’t.
Something he was more than eager to remedy.
His tongue licked, lapped, flicked, never the same pressure or movement twice in a row, always keeping her on her toes. He groaned against her as she grinded against his face, his arms wrapping tighter around her thighs as he was hell bent on sending her soaring.
He murmured her name against her as she practically rode his face, chasing the pleasure that was certainly curling, building and teasing, but not quite there yet. His fingers once again joined, the ministrations of his tongue quickening to meet the thrusts of his fingers into her.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, Cauldron, Er-”
She wasn’t even able to get his full name out before she was shattering with a high pitched moan. She simultaneously tried to lift her hips from his face all while still grinding against his mouth like she wasn’t sure if she wanted more or if it was too much. He kept her there, grip tight on her thighs, working her through her orgasm until he felt an insistent tap on the top of his head, signaling she couldn’t handle any more.
He finally pulled away, lifting her hips, more than just her arousal spread on his face. A wide grin was there as well.
He couldn’t explain it, but for the first time in a long time he felt genuinely happy. He’d never felt lighter, never felt more content. All because of her. And only because of something as simple as making her feel really, really good.
“If I’d known that mouth was good for more than sharp remarks, I’d have shut you up a lot sooner.”
Her voice was dazed, breathless and the low rumble of his chuckle sounded between them. He wouldn’t brag, but he was secretly pleased at how much she’d enjoy it.
“Still doing okay?” Eris asked as he sat back up, hands on his pants, as he rose on his knees behind her to push the final items off himself.
“Yeah,” she nodded, giving her okay to continue.
She was still kneeling in the same position he’d left her in. Her head turned at the sound of fabric rustling as he discarded his pants and underwear in one go. Her eyes met his first and ached to kiss her again. He wasn’t even sure why. Maybe just to show her everything he felt, what he knew, what he didn’t know how to say.
Then her eyes fell as he rose enough to kick off the rest of his clothes and he saw the exact moment register—everything she was looking at. His cock, hard, aching and leaking. Him fully naked behind her. He knew she was seeing the powerful body he worked hard to maintain, to always stay in the best of shape for all matters of things.
“Should I be flattered that you look like you’re entirely pleased by what you see?”
His tone was playful, filled with the charm and a tiny bit of snark that he’d usually use in his normal demeanor towards everyone else. But in truth, his heart was pounding. He was nervous under her gaze because she wasn’t just anyone to him. Not just another lover.
His beautiful, gorgeous mate.
He knew he’d thought the same combination of words hundreds of times over the months, but in this moment? She truly was. Even on her knees, with her hands still clutching the headboard, head turned over her shoulder to look at him, causing her hair to cascade down the opposite side of her neck.
“You sure it’s gonna fit?” Her tone was a light hearted jest, but he didn’t miss the way she eyed his cock warily.
He tossed her a saucy smile that hid just how much his anxiety had spiked. He wanted to make this good for; didn’t want to hurt her.
“I’ve been known to make it work.”
Her captivating eyes rose as his frame too, rose behind her, pulling her hips back against him.
“Still sure?” he asked softly, fingers gentle on her hips.
He pushed his own forward, just enough to rub his cock against her soaked folds, just needing a quick moment of relief, but he only succeeded in teasing himself further. Gods, the need for her thrummed in his blood like a siren song.
Her answering moan was promising that this wasn’t finished yet, her hips pushing back to feel him against her again. He obliged her, a little harder this time. Her head fell forward with a desperate whimper.
“Please,” she whispered.
His heart raced as the head of his cock prodded at her entrance. Then he was pushing in, trying with all of his might to control himself, give her a minute. If it’d been a while, he knew she’d need it.
Especially considering he was rather on the large side.
He heard the hiss. He didn’t sense that she was in any actual pain though. It was likely more an adjustment than anything.
“Yeah, there you go,” he uttered as he kept stretching her, little by little, “Such a good girl.”
He chuckled at the whimper that came in reaction to the nickname. His voice was thick, laced with his own pleasure.
“Secret kink, darling?”
If she replied, he completely missed it because his eyes nearly rolled back in his head the moment he was fully inside of her.
“Fucking Cauldron,” he groaned so gutturally that he instantly felt her clench around him.
His words were also an appropriate statement, though he didn’t know whether it was with a positive or negative connotation in the moment. Simply because the Cauldron technically had caused this. Speaking of, the pull he’d felt around her for so long had increased tenfold the moment they physically joined, like even the bond knew he’d found his home.
He rocked slowly, shallowly, just letting them both get used to the feel of each other before he pulled out almost all the way, thrusting back in with more momentum. He saw her fingers curl against the headboard as she let out a low moan.
She was so damn responsive and it drove him wild.
Eris realized: all that time he’d spent feeling like he couldn’t breathe without her? Now he felt like he finally could.
“Look at you, taking me so well,” he praised, his voice low and smoky.
Any other time it’d be a teasing, cocky, throwaway line just tossed out mid-pleasure. Something fit for an heir just looking for a good time and a good fuck.
This time though, he meant it, meant it as genuine praise.
He’d inadvertently taken her in the same way he typically had all his lovers, from behind. It wasn’t that he was cruel per se, but it never meant much to him whether he saw their faces or not. It was usually a mutually beneficial act and that was that.
This wasn’t the case.
He allowed himself a few more delicious thrusts before he pulled out completely. He heard her whine in protest and before she could question or even turn back to look at him in question, he’d had her flipped.
On her back or on top of him? He couldn’t decide. Either way, he’d get to see her beautiful face. A sight he was aching for.
More, more, more. He wanted to lick her, suck her, taste her. Everything. It was such a deep seated instinct that he couldn’t shut it out if he tried.
He helped her reposition as he sat back, pulling her into his lap, aiding her in positioning her knees on either side of his hips. He lifted her own and when she sank on him, he knew this had been the best choice. He groaned, head falling back, his mind still not completely computing the fact that she felt so incredible.
“I like this better.”
His eyes opened and head lifted, to see her watching him with something akin to awe on her face, her hands curled around his shoulders as she moved on him.
“Yeah. Me too, sweetheart.”
He was so close to her in this position and he loved it. It felt like it was the closest he could get to her short of crawling inside her and staying, as bizarre as that sounded.
He leaned forward, lips on her throat while his hands were anything but innocent, on a journey of their own. They ghosted over her body as if trying to memorize every inch that he may never get to touch again.
“Never imagined you’d feel this good,” he groaned against her skin, hips thrusting upwards to meet each and every one of her movements, making her keen.
“Agreed,” she moaned, hand tangling in his hair once again.
She couldn’t seem to keep her hands out of it and he loved it. He loved everything about this. About her.
The tether that felt like it had been flapping uselessly in the wind on his end—that golden thread—it pulled tighter within him, strengthening from their lovemaking. Amber eyes watched her even as their bodies moved together, her head tilted back in pleasure, hair cascading down her bare back. Her hands slid from his shoulders to grip at his biceps as he succeeded in hitting deeper, hitting spots that he was sure she had no idea even existed, if her increasing volume were any indication.
He might’ve preened just a tad at that.
Her head lifted and found her watching him, her breath catching visibly.
“I can count your freckles this close to you.”
Their bodies simultaneously slowed a bit as if they were in such sync, much thought wasn’t needed to be put into the effortless action. She still moved gently on him, but the fingers of one hand came up to his face, fingertips brushing over his freckles on the top of his cheek. Her other hand came up to the opposite side, thumbs brushing lightly over his cheekbones simultaneously.
The way she was looking at him almost split his bruised, hidden and locked away heart wide open.
He came dangerously close to saying the three words he’d kept so close to his chest, as he looked up at her. The ironic thing was Eris didn’t know which of the two, three worded phrases that he’d held as a secret, would come tumbling out first.
I love you or you’re my mate.
He said neither.
He bent her back just the slightest, leaning forward into her more, one hand on her lower back for support. His hips rolled into hers repeatedly with much more enthusiasm than they’d just previously had. One hand reached behind her to clutch the bedsheets in his hand. His own grunts and groans evidence at how fast he was falling apart all because of her.
Her chest was flush against his as she clung to him, nails digging into his back as he fucked her for all he was worth. Red hair fell over soft, smooth, feminine skin as he pulled her closer, trying to get as close as he could. He jerked her face to his, a firm grip on her chin as he knew this would soon be over. He wanted one last taste before it was.
He poured everything he had into that kiss. Savored the way her smaller hands cupped his jaw gently, her lips moving over his even as their bodies worked to send each other over the edge.
“Eris, Eris,” she’d pulled away, moaning as his hands clenched on her hips moving her on him harder as she clenched around him.
He actually whimpered in reaction to the pleading of his name. He didn’t care if it sounded pathetic or not, he was falling apart at the seams for this female.
“Gonna make me lose it,” he groaned against her throat, where he’d buried his face moments earlier, his hands roaming up her back.
“Gonna come so hard in you, gonna make you remember me, yeah? Remember whose cock you fell apart on.”
Please don’t forget this. Or me, he thought.
His teeth scraped gently against her throat before following with his tongue gliding over the spot, then leaving a gentle kiss as well. He couldn’t get enough of her.
“Not gonna forget,” she panted, voice thin from pleasure, from being so close to the precipice.
Her brain was probably short circuiting as much as his was.
“Don’t wanna forget,” she whispered, almost too quiet to hear, but he did.
She was close, frankly, so was he. And his control on his mouth was slipping.
“You’re so beautiful.”
Her eyes snapped open once again to meet serious, amber ones. If there was any truth he’d let her see tonight, then it would be that. One hand slipped from her hip and along her thigh before dipping between her legs, pressing against her clit, rubbing circles. He wanted her to fall apart in his arms.
And she did just that.
With a strangled cry, she did. It was filled with such wanton ecstasy that it shot right through him like lightning. He came deep in her, spilling with such a deep groan of her name as he clung to her. He didn’t stop moving until the last of his spend erupted from him into her, marking her.
It was as if they were both frozen in place. She was still bent backwards where he held her. They’d gotten so carried away that at some point he’d gone from sitting to more like kneeling, one knee flush to the mattress. He’d had no idea when that occurred.
He lowered her the rest of the way to the mattress, gently pulling out of her, eyes locked on the sight as he tried to process that that had actually happened. He grunted, first at the loss of her warmth then at the sight of his come leaking from her. It nearly sent a shiver of delight down his spine. It was a claiming of sorts.
He was sweaty, exhausted and probably looked as wrecked as she did. His eyes raked over her as he pushed back the long, sweaty strands of his hair out of his face.
The entire ordeal had been the hottest, probably sexiest thing he’d ever experienced. She’d been the sexiest thing to ever experience. But now, as the high slowly faded, both of their breathing labored and uneven, he was left once again holding his heart in his hands with nothing but an uncertain future ahead of him.
“You okay?” she chuckled, watching him.
No, he wasn’t. That golden thread had come to life even more than he ever expected it to. He’d stupidly thought having her just once would satiate the need that had been burning him from inside out for far too long.
“I should be asking you that.”
He expertly dodged the question, his hand gently pushing her own sweaty locks out of her face.
“Perfectly fine. For some reason, I feel whole again.”
He froze at the words, but the only thing that followed was a yawn, her exhaustion apparent. He said nothing as he reached for the sheets, pulling them over her.
No matter what they’d just done, there was the one truth that clung to him, oily and insistent that he acknowledge it.
She wasn’t his.
No matter how much he wanted her to be.
•••
Tell me baby how come you don’t want to love me
And how am I supposed to live without
If there is no way to make you feel the same way too
She hadn’t asked him to, but he stayed afterwards. He didn’t sleep like she did, though.
He was haunted by the memories of what had just transpired. The way she moaned for him, the way she felt around him. How she’d looked as she came for him. But what was the most hard hitting were the softer moments in between. Her reaction to him telling her she’s beautiful. The way she had stroked his cheeks over his freckles. Those stayed with him even more than the physical, sexual things.
So in an attempt to quieten his thoughts, he watched her sleep. He observed the way her chest rose and fell with her breaths and couldn’t help but think how beautiful she looked, so at peace. Peace for a female that had endured way more than she deserved.
He had lost count of how many times he’d mentally called her beautiful, but he couldn’t help it. That was the only adjective that seemed to cycle through his head to describe her.
She was the most beautiful female he’d ever seen.
He still had no idea if she was unaware of the mating bond. He figured he’d know if it snapped into place for her. He didn’t even know if she sensed the bond.
Some of the things she’d said made him wonder though—gave him hope. Hope was dangerous though.
Something he’d learned far too early in life, when he was just a young boy.
It hummed, alive and well in his chest and he rubbed a hand over it, as if he could get rid of the buzz. Right now, it was a more pleasant feeling than usual, but he knew it would soon fade to the unfulfilled, restless feeling. Like a half that hadn’t yet connected with its whole, just left empty.
He ran a hand along her bare hip and up her side, a small smile on his lips at the sight of her. His hand lifted before brushing just under her collarbone, fingertips barely grazing over the soft skin over her heart.
He wondered what was happening in there. Or even in her mind.
Careful not to rouse her, he placed his hand over her heart fully.
“I’m your mate,” Eris whispered aloud to the silent room.
He knew she wouldn’t hear. But he had to say it out loud, at least once.
His words lingered in the air, his whispered voice ringing in his ears. The tether in his chest seemed to ruffle like a leaf in an Autumn breeze. While the two halves hadn’t connected, he noticed a difference. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was though. The ancient magic was embedded so deep in his bones sometimes it was hard to pinpoint in general.
According to things she’d said, it sounded like there were stirrings of the bond. Or maybe at least hints of it. Whether that meant she was ready for it or even truly wanted it, was another story.
With a sigh, he quietly rose from the bed. He dressed silently, keeping an eye on her so that he wouldn’t wake her.
If this was all he could have of her, all the happiness he was allowed, he’d take every scrap he could get. Even if it was just once. Even if he knew the possibility of that made him want to tear something apart. He already wanted her again. Just wanted her in his arms in general.
He knew he’d never bring her to Autumn. At least not while Beron still breathed. No one there could know of her existence, let alone that he had a mate. He would never let her be put in danger just because she was unfortunately mated to him.
Eris straightened the shirt he’d just pulled back on, locating his boots that he’d kicked off haphazardly, long ago. He sat on the bed, lacing them probably slower than he needed to.
He hated to leave her. Especially like this. But he knew it was better this way. Less questions, less chance for him to see regret in her eyes in the morning. He didn’t think he’d be able to stand that.
He looked back over his shoulder where she still remained asleep, her bare shoulder peeking out from the covers. He silently leaned across the bed, his lips pressing against her forehead with gentle tenderness. He looked at that pretty, serene face once more before standing and heading to the door.
Back to the Autumn Court where cruelty always awaited him. Where love was just for dreamers.
Lucky for him, he had a secret, endless supply of it buried deep within his heart. Something he knew was good. Worth fighting another day for.
Even if that’s all it ever amounted to.
Even if the only reason she was meant for him was to help him make it through to another day.
PERHAPS NOT. I'LL HAVE A FORCED PROXIMITY, ENEMIES, SMOTHERED IN THERE'S ONLY ONE BED, THEN LUSTERS, LOTS AND LOTS OF PINING, AND A RACK OF ANGRY CONFESSION TO LOVERS.
Pairing: Jacob Black (twilight) x Fem!Reader | Tags: #angst#tension #jacobblackangst #jacobblackxreader #series #emojacob #nonchalantjacob #hollisterfall | Word count: 4,228 | Genre: enemies to lovers | Date: 1/26/2026
Summary: Shortly after the events of New Moon, Jacob Black is still trying to rebuild himself after Bella. The last thing he needs is another complication in his healing journey. But the arrival of Y/N, a summer transplant working in her uncle’s autobody shop in Forks, complicates everything—especially after a late-night crash on a rain-slicked road leads Jacob to accidentally imprint on her. Y/N swears she swerved to avoid something. Jacob Black swears she’s lying. Neither of them planned this. Neither of them wants it. But denial only works for so long before the truth comes crashing in.
A/N: SHE'S BACCCCKKKKKK!!!! Hi pookies, sorry for being inconsistent with the posting :( I do love this fic and everyone is being so sweet and supportive I want to give you ur well deserved content. I think we'll switch to every other Sunday tho just to give me more time to write in between, :(, sorry guys, but i'll make it worth everyone's wait each week! Sorry again to make you wait, but wow has 2026 been off to a start huh :|... aha anyways, if you're trying to stay warm this weekend especially in the U.S, read this chapter :P , the snow put me in a very Jacob mood :P.
If Jacob took Leah’s advice, why did he feel so guilty?
He couldn’t help but wonder if he had been too hard on her. Jacob unknowingly picked at his cuticles as he and his father sat in their living room, football playing like any other Sunday.
Except it wasn't.
It must have been the imprinting part of him that made him feel any sort of dedication towards her, it wasn’t really him.
That thought was somewhat reassuring, but it didn’t allow him to forget her words.
The next time you don’t get a text back from whatever girl you’re tormenting, go seek a therapist, don’t come in here and project your attention issues onto someone you barely know just because you’re somebody’s second choice,"
Jeesh, did she have to be so blunt… and so right?
Despite how much he wanted to out their conversation out of his mind, he had to admit, maybe he was projecting.
Speaking of which… his eyes glazed over his black berry for the 30th time that hour, but he didn’t find anything new. No text from Bella. She hadn’t even bothered to respond to the text he had sent a few weeks ago after she returned home from Italy. After what she broke down to him in the woods. That he was never going to be him. He was pathetic enough to text Bella and ask if she had meant it.
No response. But that was enough response.
Y/N’s words were like rubbing salt in the wound. She had to have known that. But how could she have? Did it reek of him, the smell of rejection?
It seemed like no matter what he did, he couldn't win. First the phasing, then losing Bella, now this imprinting bullshit. When would things ever get better?
If only there was an unsend button.
-
It had been a few days since the fire at her uncle’s garage Y/N thought, and by fire she meant Jacob and hers spat.
Whether Y/N liked it or not, in her free moments the past few days, she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
How did their conversation shift into something so bitter?
It was especially easy to have it replay in her mind as she was driving down the highway to Port Angeles. It was around this time of month that that her Uncle Tom would make the trip to pick up the parts he ordered from his reseller. Tom had a great relationship with Mr.Kimura, and had routinely ordered from his shop since Y/N first began visiting Forks. During the summers her uncle would take her with him to pick up the parts with the promise of ice cream afterwards from a very quaint shop in Port Angeles. (They were very ambitious in their flavors of cones).
Today, it was a chore Y/N gladly opted to do alone given that Tom was busy in the shop, and not to mention it would be a good excuse to look for some parts herself. If she even had leftover money maybe she might stop by the parlor… if it was still there that was.
The only downside was having to drive the whole way to Port Angeles in Tom’s Chevy, which not only looked disgusting but felt dangerous as it reared down the road. She debated if it would have been that bad to break her BMW off its crutches onto the road and risk another accident than to be seen in this rusted thing.
But god forbid she get into another accident, then she’d really be revered as an attention seeker by the town pariah. How ironic a statement that is.
Right, back to that. The nerve of him. One to be such a dick, and two to look good being one.
Y/N slammed her hand on the steering wheel. She didn't know the thought of him could cause such an involuntary movement, but it was her attempt of banishing such thoughts from her mind.
Y/N couldn’t figure out what specifically about Jacob Black and her that just didn’t mix well. Where did it all go wrong? And why did she care for that matter?
Maybe she hadn’t set a good first impression? No, there was something more to his statements about not liking her than a simple quarrel over coils or fuel pumps. This was ridiculous.
And so what if he didn’t like her? She knew who she was, and she knew she certainly wasn’t an attention seeker. She inserted herself into his conversation the first day she met him because it was her job to, not because she was trying to impress him. And she hadn’t made the freakish wolf appear in the road so that she could crash her car for his attention either. Who did he think he was?
A small smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. At the very least, she was happy she told him about himself. It was obvious he was projecting whatever insecurities he was facing onto someone he had just met. Their souring relationship was no fault of her own, in fact, it had nothing to do with her. Why? Because Jacob Black knew nothing about her, and he never would.
Forcing herself to focus on driving, after 40 minutes with the radio blaring to distract her, eventually she managed to drive herself all the way down to Port Angeles, pulling into the warehouse parking lot as Tom had specifically instructed her.
She switched off the ignition before hopping out the truck, wandering over to the wide open doors of the warehouse.
Inside she was welcomed by the sound of machinery in the background to acknowledge that life was ongoing inside, but Y/N was more taken back by the aisles and aisles of auto parts, and suddenly this felt better than the ice cream parlor. How naive she was as a child. Y/N was immediately pulled to headlights, and then to the axles. But while she was here, she had to treat herself to new rims, didn't she?
Her hand wandered over an endless ocean of silver, trying to find what she was looking for.
“Need help finding anything?” a voice called out to her as she was perusing the prices on catalytic converters. Y/N looked up to find Mr.Kimura. He looked the same as he did years ago, only a little greyer, but nevertheless the same. It was nice to see a familiar face.
“Hi Mr.Kimura, I’m Y/N, Tom’s niece, he sent me to pick up the parts he ordered.” Y/N clarified.
“Wow, you’ve gotten taller since I’ve last seen you!” he remarked, impressed. Y/N stifled a laugh. “Well Tom’s very adamant about drinking milk.” Y/N joked.
“I see. I have the parts in the back, you didn’t have to pick them out by hand.” Mr.Kimura clarified, looking at Y/N’s very full arms.
“Oh no, these are for me!” Y/N smiled sheepishly.
Mr.Kimura gave her a wary look. “You don’t have a boyfriend to do this all for you?” Mr.Kimura asked slyly.
“No. Why? Do you have a son?” she smirked.
-
As the Chevrolet winded down the road, Y/N hummed along to the song playing on the radio. During her time at the warehouse, she managed to secure the proper taillights for the BMW as well as an axle using the money she had left over from her recent paycheck. All in all, she was excited to get back to Forks to start the project in hopes to get back in her BMW and out of this rusted eyesore. Not to mention she did stop by the ice cream parlor which also was surprisingly still there, and bought herself a treat.
As one hand held the cone Y/N licked away at, the other was holding the steering wheel. Y/N’s eyes flashed over the dash, specifically noticing her fuel was running low.
“Shit.” she muttered.
Her eyes scanned the roadside which was shifting from trees into businesses as she neared town. It was a good thing too.
The first a gas station she saw, she pulled in. Y/N rolled beside what appeared to be pump number 4. She switched off the engine before deciding to take a moment to hound down whatever was left of her cone, wiping her hands on the pathetic excuse of a napkin that was once wrapped around it.
After doing so, she hopped out of the truck. Unscrewing the gas cap, she turned her attention to the pump behind her, which was oddly blaring country music. She shrugged, flipping open her wallet, she slipped her card from its panel and inserted it into the card reader, debating whether the truck required premium or regular. Or diesel for that matter.
No, certainly not diesel.
Before she could make any possible death wish, the scratched screen barely legible read ‘card error --- see kiosk’ .
Y/N rolled her eyes in frustration. It definitely wasn’t her card, it worked just fine paying Mr.Kimura for those parts, and she was sure she had money still left over. After all, Mr.Kimura had given her a discount.
Y/N grimaced looking at the gas station behind her. Inside she could see a crowding of high school boys standing at the register. She really didn’t feel like doing a whole interaction let alone to be tortured by freshmen boys. Y/N wondered if she could make it to another gas station down the street, or if another pump would take her card instead.
She sighed thinking through her options. It would probably just save her more time going in and paying for it there. But why was that necessary when you had a card reader?
She grit her teeth, screwing the gas cap to her truck back on, making her way over to the gas station, praying the boys inside wouldn’t pay her any mind and she could just go about her business. Freshman boys had a way of making everyone around them as regretful of being alive as their parents probably were. Good form of birth control however.
As she walked in, she was happy to find the freshman boys didn’t pay her any mind at all. They were too preoccupied in a loud debate with what seemed to be the cashier, who was just as aggravated.
And suddenly it dawned on her, it didn’t seem likely this would be an in and out situation.
The boys went on, yelling how ‘he didn’t do anything’, and the clerk demanding the kid in front of him empty his pockets.
As Y/N passed a glance between the clerk and the group of teenagers, she did a double take over one in particular. With his short black hair and freckled tan skin, it was none other than Seth the clerk was yelling at, and apparently accusing of stealing.
Before she knew what she was doing, she reached out to Seth to grab his attention. Seth, looking somewhat out of it and shocked, turned his head towards Y/N, as did his friends.
“Y/N?” he said her name as if he alone was seeing her, like she was a figment of his imagination.
“What’s going on?” she questioned. His mouth fell agape as though he wished to answer, but he was denied the opportunity to explain.
“What’s going on is this kid thinks it’s alright to steal from hardworking businesses. I should call the cops!” the clerk yelled.
Y/N glanced back down to Seth. “I didn’t do it.” Seth muttered to her weakly, eyes innocent like a puppy’s.
Although she didn’t know the full situation, she could tell he wasn’t lying.
Y/N narrowed her eyes on the clerk. She didn’t know Seth that well, but from what she did know, or at least sensed, he was a good kid. Certainly not the type to steal. His friends, that much she couldn’t speak to. But Seth? Seth was a good kid.
“Call the cops, over what? Sour Patch kids?” Y/N scoffed, holding up the supposed larceny on the counter before dropping it once more.
“I don’t care if it was a pack of gum. Stealing is stealing, and it’s illegal.”
“Why did you assume he wasn’t going to pay for it!?” she replied angrily.
The man’s eyes flashed as if he was debating what he was going to say next, frustrated, he shook his head.
“Who the hell are you anyways? His babysitter? Just mind your business.” The guy responded dismissively.
“I’m a paying customer just like he is.” Y/N snipped, dropping $10 on the counter.
“Come on Seth let's go.” she muttered, ushering the freshman out the gas station door.
“Wait, w-what about my friends…?” Seth asked, looking behind him as he followed her to the car.
“What about them?” she muttered, letting go of him as she walked over to the pump her truck was waiting for her at, still as desolate as ever.
Y/N was too preoccupied with Seth she hadn’t even been able to get the gas she needed. Opening the door to the truck, Y/N climbed in. Seth, although hesitant at what to do, assumed she was offering him a ride, eventually opening the passenger side and climbing in.
A moment of silence lingered between them as Y/N turned on the truck.
“I didn’t steal it.” Seth announced.
“I didn’t ask.” Y/N shrugged, concentrating on pulling out of the gas station as swiftly as possible in hope to make it to another.
Seth, still nervous, debated what to say to fill the silence.
Y/N could sense he misinterpreted her reaction as frustration with him. And although she was slightly annoyed he was even caught up in a scenario like that, she was more so anxious about the gas. To ease the tension, Y/N initiated the convo first.
“What were you and these ‘friends’ of yours even doing there anyway?” she muttered, shooting him a glance out of the corner of her eye.
Seth sat up straighter. “We were going to Lake Pleasant with Kai and Wyatt and Lenny, and then we stopped at this gas station, and… well… Kai sort of put a bag of Sour Patch Kids in my pocket. I didn’t notice until the guy at the counter pointed it out.” Seth explained fast, like ripping off a bandage.
Y/N looked at him fully this time, eyes wide with disbelief. “Friends don’t want to get you in trouble,” she advised.
Seth’s shoulders dropped. He turned toward the window, watching the dark evergreens blur past.
She exhaled slowly at his lack of reaction. She didn’t like to be told much about her friends when she was his age, let alone from someone she barely knew.
She cleared her throat before speaking. “We should call your parents,” she said under her breath, more to herself than to Seth.
“You mean my mom?” Seth let out a short, humorless laugh. “As if she’ll pick up. She’s probably hosting the council meeting right now.” He slumped against the seat, tapping his sneaker against the floorboard, sounding disappointed.
“What about your dad?” Y/N asked, quieter this time.
Seth turned just enough for her to see something flicker across his face. The street lights caught the edge of his profile.
“He died two months ago,” he responded flatly.
Y/N’s spine went rigid. Fuck. Her fingers eased off the wheel like they suddenly weighed too much.
She glanced over, her voice gentling. “I’m sorry—”
“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” Seth offered a small, forced smile before turning back to the passing trees.
How was it that something as traumatic as losing your father could have him still being such a sweet kid? Y/N wondered.
Silence filled the truck, thick and heavy. The sound of the tires on the pavement was the only steady thing between them.
Y/N stared at the faint glow of the dashboard, especially the metric that indicated the truck was in dire need of gas. Unsure what else to say. She swallowed and forced herself to focus on the road.
“Do you mind just taking me home?” he finally asked.
“Right… where is home exactly?” she asked, even though she already felt the dread creeping in that ‘home’ was possibly far from her home.
“La Push.”
She nodded slowly, her throat tightening.
Great. Perfect.
Just when she thought she’d never have to see Jacob again… here she was driving directly into the one place he’d absolutely appear the second anything went wrong.
She inhaled through her nose and kept driving, silently praying they’d make it all the way there before her gas light—
—blinked on.
Her heart sank.
-
The trees thickened as they approached the reservation, the air shifting from highway grit to damp earth. Seth pointed ahead.
“That’s my house right there.” Seth announced.
Y/N slowed the truck, eyes flickering first to the nearly empty fuel gauge as it had every minute for the last twenty minutes. The engine sputtered a warning she chose to ignore.
As soon as she turned onto the dirt road, she saw him: Jacob, arms crossed, jaw clenched, pacing in front of what she assumed was Seth’s house. He looked like he’d been waiting—angry waiting.
Great.
Seth sank lower in the seat, reciprocating Y/N’s lack of enthusiasm.
“Oh man,” he mumbled.
Y/N barely had time to shift into park before Jacob marched toward the car. She exhaled, bracing herself for impact.
Seth jumped and scrambled out of the truck, clearly hoping to soften the blow. Jacob didn't even look at him—his glare was locked straight onto Y/N, who had rolled down her window against her better judgement to receive the scolding of a lifetime..
“What are you doing here?” he snipped.
It was almost laughable how he could just pick the convo up from their last interaction and maintain his holier-than-thou attitude.
Y/N stepped out of the truck slowly, shutting the door behind her with a soft thunk. “Why hello to you too Jacob, nice seeing you,” she replied with a forced smile.
“Why is he even with you?” Jacob shot back, completely skipping the formalities.
Before she could answer, Seth spoke up, rounding the truck—nervously that was.
“I was going to Lake Pleasant with Kai and Wyatt and Lenny and then we stopped at this gas station, and… well… Kai sort of put a bag of sour patch kids in my pocket and then we got caught and… and the guy was going to call the police and everything, but then Y/N showed up out of nowhere and she paid for it… and… and here we are.” he concluded with his mouth balled together tightly as if he might say more.
Jacob’s eyes shifted—first to Seth, then to Y/N, then back to Seth. “You what???” he seethed.
“He didn’t know,” Y/N added in defense of Seth.
“Didn’t know??” he mocked, glaring eyes being brought right back to her. “What do you know, Y/N? I told him to stop hanging out with Kai months ago—he’s bad news, Seth!” he reiterated, his body turning back to Seth.
“I don’t see you hanging out with him,” Y/N muttered under her breath.
Jacob’s gaze flickered to her out of the corner of his eyes.
“You don’t get to lecture me about my own cousin.”
“No, but apparently I get to rescue him while you’re busy pacing around your driveway,” Y/N snipped.
“Why do you always have to insert yourself into everything?” he asked exasperated, arms uncrossing.
“I didn’t insert myself into anything! He’s the one who was going to have a pending shoplifting charge! What did you want me to do, just leave him there?” she scoffed.
“Yes!” Jacob fired back.
Y/N blinked amazed at his reply. “Good! I’ll know for next time.” She rolled her eyes.
“There won’t be a next time.” Jacob grit.
“Let’s hope not.” Y/N agreed.
Seth very loudly dragged his hands down his face.
Jacob opened his mouth—but before he could fire back—
COUGH—cough—sputter.
The three of them turned towards the truck.
The truck shuddered once… twice… then the headlights dimmed to black.
“What just happened?” Seth asked the two.
Y/N stared at the truck, forcing her eyes shut like it had betrayed her, although the truth was she betrayed the old thing by leaving it on.
“I… ran out of gas,” she admitted, face heating, unable to turn back to them.
Jacob stared at the back of her head. Then laughed once— a humorless laugh.
“You saved him from a gas station and you couldn’t even fill up the tank!?”
“I didn’t want to support the gas station that called your cousin a thief, okay!?” Y/N shot back defensively. The truth was she had forgotten.
Jacob dragged a hand across his face. “Do you break everything you touch?” he asked, sounding truly curious.
“Come here, let’s find out.” Y/N challenged. Jacob narrowed his eyes down at her.
Seth let out a choked out cough as if to interrupt the two’s glaring contest.
Jacob pointed at the truck. “Well what are we supposed to do now?”
“I don’t know—fill it?” she huffed in disbelief.
“Oh, so now you want gas money too?” Jacob asked with an incredulous laugh.
“If that’s what gets me out of here faster, sure. Unless your plan is to leave me here with no reception.”
“Maybe the wolves could keep you company.”
“They’d probably be better company than you.”
“Guys,” Seth begged, interrupting once more. “Can you just—please—fill it? So can I stop being in the middle of whatever this is?”
Both Jacob and Y/N snapped their eyes to him, determined to concentrate on something else, both red in the face at Seth’s tone. Y/N hadn’t noticed how tall Jacob was when he was looking down at her like that, and looking away from him now that's all she could really think about.
Jacob clenched his jaw, turning to Y/N annoyed like she was a splinter he just couldn’t remove.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Pop the cap.” he ordered, moving past her swiftly.
Y/N froze a little at the sensation of Jacob brushing past her, for whatever reason, until she forced herself to turn around and open the truck door. “Gladly.” she muttered as she hit the gas cap door.
Jacob walked toward the garage, muttering something indiscernible under his breath.
Seth leaned in close to her. “He’s actually not as mad as he seems.”
Y/N raised a brow. “Really?” she asked.
“No. He’s furious.”
Jacob reappeared seconds later, red gas jug in hand, practically stomping back. Without a word, he unscrewed the cap and poured whatever was left from that jug in.
Y/N folded her arms, watching him.
“Are you sure that’s not diesel?” she teased.
Jacob passed her a that could peel paint.
Seth whispered, “I wish I just went to juvie.”
After a moment of silence between the three, Jake turned to Seth. “Don’t talk to Kai again.”
Then he pointed the gas cap at Y/N like it was a dagger.
“And you—don’t rescue my cousin again.”
She scoffed. “Tell him to stop needing rescuing.”
Jacob finished pouring the last of the gas, slammed the cap shut a little harder than necessary, and stepped back.
“Can you turn on the car?” he sighed.
Y/N bit back any witty response she had planned and slid into the driver’s seat, turning the key.
Click. Click. Nothing.
She groaned. Jacob groaned louder.
“Seriously?” she muttered. “Did you pour water in there or something?” she asked.
“Oh my god,” Jacob groaned, annoyed.
Before she knew it, he had leaned into the driver's side to turn on the ignition himself, his back brushing her chest, his arm grazing her knee as he reached across her lap to jiggle the key and tap the dash like he was performing some ancient ritual.
Y/N froze, her breathing faltering. They were so close she could smell his cologne. Unfortunately, it was a rather good cologne.
For one long, painful, electric second, they were skin to skin, breath mingling. Jacob continued to fiddle with the keys, seemingly carefree of their contact.
Once more he turned the key, and then suddenly the Chevrolet roared back to life.
Jacob stepped back from the truck, folding his arms like he’d planned it that way all along. “There.”
“What did you even do?” Y/N asked, trying to get past her being flustered.
Jacob shrugged with irritating confidence.
“If I give you instructions to the nearest gas station, will you remember it?” he asked her, arms folded.
“Maybe…?” she replied unsure, too distracted by the smell of his cologne which seemed to be consuming her nose right now.
“Move over.” he instructed with a sigh.
“What? Why?”
“Because you’re not driving through the woods at night with a tablespoon of gas,” he said, already climbing in the truck.
Y/N had barely noticed what dusk had settled. Was he being… nice… right now?
“Plus you wouldn’t remember the directions anyways with that concussed brain of yours.” he groaned.
And there it was. She sighed dramatically but slid over complying to the passenger side.
Seth watched, waving awkwardly at the two as Jacob started the truck.
Pairing: Vampire!Bucky Barnes x Human!Female Reader
Summary: Whenever you light a candle on your windowsill, James uses it to find his way home to you.
Word Count: 5.9k
Warnings/tags: porn with plot & feelings; hurt & comfort; established relationship; vampire AU; very consensual biting; Bucky Barnes has a serious case of hating himself; age gap (well, Bucky is 110 years old, reader is in her mid/late twenties); fingering; oral sex (f!receiving); multiple orgasms; p in v; creampie; blood high; soft dom Bucky; monster lover
Notes: finally, after a very slow start of the year (when it comes to writing, at least......) I am back to posting a full length fic !! originally this was meant to be much bigger, but I have decided to keep it a bit shorter...... and maybe write a part 2 in the future if you all are interested. thank you for being patient with this slow ass writer. 💕
The habit of lighting a candle by your window started by accident. A small gesture to prove that, despite the hollowness inside of you, you hadn’t yet fully given up on the small, beautiful things. And every night, like a habit now, you do it. A small candle that smells like vanilla, a match that burns itself to ash in just a few seconds, and then, a quiet fire that lights that one corner of your living room.
Set the candle, strike the match. The same ritual, repeated now for weeks (months? You've lost track of time). The resulting flare was never for you, though; it was for the world outside, and for the only person who ever seemed to notice it. Notice you.
James always comes three minutes after the flame has started to paint your windowpane in shades of orange and red. Three minutes. You’d never timed it, but your heartbeat knew the rhythm. Three minutes of pure light, and then the subtle shift in the air that announces his arrival.
When you turn, he is standing framed in the doorway, a figure carved from shadow. And tonight, his eyes are not on you, but on the flame flickering slowly by the window.
“I’ve started to wonder,” he murmurs, and his voice sounds tired. “if this candle is nothing but a lighthouse showing me the way home.”
You forget how long ago you’ve met him. The first time James appeared in your home, kissed your lips. The first time those two marks showed up on your wrist, on your thigh, on your collarbone, or the first time they healed by morning only to be right there again by nightfall.
It doesn’t matter. He speaks to you with the kind of voice you had never expected from someone like him, and you can only allow yourself to listen.
James steps away from the doorframe, crossing the threshold fully, but keeping a respectful distance from the windowsill, as if he isn’t allowed near the light. The air around him feels cold, and his dark coat is dusted with what might have been rain.
“I no longer deserve quiet walls, a settled comfort. I deserve the endless road and the cold rain.” James stays a few feet separated from you, never coming too close. No matter how many times he’s come to you, he never allows himself to want before you do. He waits, patiently, until you cross the empty space and reach for him instead. “But you… you remind me of what it feels like to desire more.”
This time, you don’t cross the space between the two of you. Instead, you move towards your couch, sinking into the worn cushions before gesturing softly to the space next to you. James doesn’t move to take the offer, but the acknowledgment settles between you anyway.
“Every time I see this little flicker of light, every night I’ve walked this damned city, chasing the wind and the blood… that flame calls me back to the last good thing I’ve ever touched.” James moves one hand over the candle, feeling the heat of the flame burn under it. You watch him carefully, afraid to ruin the moment with any dull words; but you speak anyway.
“Then you come out of habit,” you reply, your own voice quiet, not wanting to disturb the fragile truth hanging in the air.
A ghost of a profoundly sad smile touches his lips. “You mistake the action for the purpose, little light,” James says, and he finally steps away from the window, this time walking directly toward the sofa. He doesn’t sit, but instead kneels on the rug before you, his gaze utterly devoted. “I don’t come because the candle is lit. I come because you are the one lighting it.”
You have learned to decipher the truth in James. You know the involuntary tension that pulls his muscles taut beneath the wool of his coat, the nearly imperceptible drop in his voice, the too-pale skin under the warm light.
Now, in the faint, vanilla-scented sanctity of your home, with James kneeling before you as if he is waiting to worship you, the truth is undeniable. You can see it in the haunted depths of his eyes, in the calculated slowness of his approach.
“How long has it been since you’ve fed?” you ask, your voice as soft as the skin on your body. You tilt your head just enough to allow your temple to brush against his hand, which is hovering nearby, fighting the urge to close the final distance. “James. My beloved.”
He flinches at the unexpected contact, a flicker of human vulnerability that you cherish. James leans closer, enough that you feel the sudden contrast of his skin against your warmth, burying his face into the curtain of your hair to inhale your scent. A dry rasp manifests as he swallows hard, and the candlelight catches in his eyes, painting the surface in a dangerous swirl of amber and red.
“Too long,” he finally admits. When he pulls back, just enough to frame your face with his dark gaze, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. Even in silence, he understands the offering you are making behind the question.
“You don’t have to do this,” he insists, the words barely a breath. “I don’t want to be a monster tonight.”
A monster. Why does that word sound so infinitely impossible in your mouth? When you see the darkness bloom behind the familiar blue of his eyes, when his cold fingers press against your feverish skin and make your heart beat faster, not once does that word form in your head. The right words come out of your mouth like an incantation that grants him permission, the only phrase that allows the beautiful truth to unfold between you.
“You’re not a monster,” you state, conviction fueled by undeniable need. "My James."
One of your hands drifts to the hem of your soft satin nightgown, pooling around your legs. Slowly, you lift the fabric higher, exposing the vulnerable expanse of your inner thigh like a silent invitation. Near the crest of your hip, hidden by the rise of the bone, a faint pair of pinprick marks is visible against your skin.
The chilled air of the room kisses your skin, making the fine hairs stand on end, but your blood feels like a furnace beneath the surface.
“Feed, James,” you whisper, the command soft. “You won’t hurt me.”
His breath catches in his throat as his eyes lock onto your exposed They darken instantly, the hunger in his expression raw and immediate.
James licks his lips, a reflexive act of hunger, before wrenching his gaze back to meet yours, searching your expression for any tremor of fear or hesitation. When he finds only the steady resolve he has grown to depend on, he breathes out slowly, releasing what feels like a century of held tension.
“Are you sure?” he whispers, followed by the sound of your name like a prayer. Both his hands reach out to gently cup your face, seeking confirmation in the shape of your cheekbones, the curve of your lips. His thumbs caress the soft skin. “I never deserved your trust.”
But even as the words leave his lips, James can’t help but lean closer, drawn by the desperate gravity of your offering. His head dips lower, following the line of your leg until it rests beside your thigh, his cheek against your skin. Half-lidded eyes look hypnotized by the warmth of your skin and the sound of your pulse beneath it. In a moment’s breath, he would stop, should you ask him to. Yet he hopelessly prays that you don’t.
Slender fingers reach down and you twirl them into the hair at the back of his neck, tilting your body slightly to give him better access. In his expression, you see a subtle shift from question to acceptance. Almost indiscernible to the untrained eye, but you’ve seen him in this position one too many times, always asking for your permission and never breaking until it was fully present. The muscles of his shoulders relax, and he takes a deep breath, one you know he doesn’t need for survival but merely to drag the scent of you into his lungs.
James doesn’t rush. He never does, with you; the act of seeking sustenance in your body is treated with the reverence you deserve, a man praying at the altar of the one goddess who has taken over him after a century of misery. He treats the moment of feeding from you like a miracle and his last moment on Earth altogether, savoring every second as if this will be the last time he will ever be allowed a meal. His lips, cold, brush against the delicate skin of your thigh, testing, and you gasp quietly.
“Feed,” you repeat, breathless, shifting your weight enough to draw the vulnerable skin closer to his mouth once more. “Take what you need from me.”
James inhales sharply again, the living scent of your blood concentrated in the femoral artery flooding his senses. Then, his mouth finally closes over the skin.
The first thing you feel is the sharp sting of his fangs. It’s not painful, not truly, more like a sudden pressure followed by a sensation closer to a lightning bolt that steals your breath away. You clutch the damp hair at the back of his neck, fingers digging into the muscle and anchoring him to you, and the movement is followed by a hungry groan of his. You are sweet, and alive, and everything he’s craved for the past seven decades and could never find. And now you’re here, in your living room, with your body spread for him like you trust him despite the devil in him.
As the metallic rush of blood leaves your body, a sweet languor spreads through your limbs, tasting like dizzying pleasure. James drinks steadily, the suction a rhythmic tug. Even through the hunger, you can see how he is fighting his deepest instinct to ravage, to take more than your human body would be capable of handling; and yet, he never does.
Time becomes meaningless when James consumes you like this, seconds bleeding together, measured only by the drum of your waning pulse. All you know is the feel of his mouth on your thigh, fangs buried into the muscle while his nose brushes ever so slightly against the sensitive skin. Right then, as if on cue, as if James realizes that your mind is slipping into oblivion, his human hand slides up carefully, up your legs, and brushes the flimsy fabric of your underwear to the side before dipping one finger inside your pussy.
It might appear sudden, but it isn’t to him when he can smell your growing arousal as he feeds from you. He never quite understood how this could be something you found pleasure in, how his monstrous side was something that brought you release, but ever so hungry for you he is always eager to oblige. You welcome him easily, pussy already drooling for a taste of him, and his finger sinks to his knuckle easily.
Your head falls back against the cushion, a broken sound escaping your throat as the world tilts. The rhythm of his drinking is a metronome, but his hand moves with a different kind of intent, thumb sweeping over your clit while his finger curls. Already, it feels like a little too much to bear, the slow drain of your strength mixed with the mounting surge of your desire.
“James,” you gasp, tugging at his hair. James, always a creature of extremes, only hums into your skin, caught between the need for your blood to survive and the tender ache to worship you. Another finger joins his first and they both slide deeper, now slick with your arousal. The vanilla scent from your candle swirls in the air, and you watch shadows dance on the ceiling, orange light flickering in the living room. Breath hitching as the tension in your lower stomach coils into a tight knot, your body doesn’t quite move but James senses the different kind of tension in you. Maybe he tastes the change in your pulse as he consumes you, maybe he can hear your heartbeat quickening. It doesn’t quite matter; he knows exactly where you are, how far he needs to take you before the edge of the world crumbles.
“Please,” you whisper, unsure whether you are asking him to stop or never let go.
He answers by pressing his palm firmly against your mound, thumb circling your clit firmly. Just them, the spark catches and turns into a flame. Your body arches off the sofa as a silent scream dies in your throat, vision blurring at the edges as your pulse thunders one last time before settling into a slower thrum.
James doesn’t pull away from your thigh immediately. His mouth lingers, tongue soothing the small entry wounds on your muscle. Remaining kneeling between your legs, his forehead rests against your damp skin; if he still could breathe, he’s sure right now he would have trouble doing so, staring up at you like you’ve healed every hurt he’s ever faced. Careful, his fingers withdraw from inside of you, and he licks them clean, humming around the taste. His eyes, always that haunting blue, meet yours as a drop of beautiful crimson, your crimson, trickles down the side of his mouth.
“You give me too much,” he says, followed by your name whispered like a confession. “I am a thief in your house, stealing the essence that keeps you alive.” A king turned beggar at your feet, James remains on the floor, hoping the light he has fed on still has the strength to shine for him. Your eyes flutter open again, finally, meeting his, and your mouth parts on a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding.
“Was that enough to keep you sated?” Your voice sounds loud in the quiet room, even if it’s soft and shaky. Your lover blinks at you slowly, and you can still see the intensity of the hunger in the swirls of his gaze, but it is lessened now, receded.
For half a second, his eyes look back at the site of the bite on your inner thigh, two perfect crescents, before he looks back at your face again. “It is for now.”
His hands slide up your sides, careful but not hesitant, as if the consuming need always present is truly dampened, meaning he can touch you again without fear of hurting you. Finally, he moves from his knees and crawls up your body, leaning in to press soft kisses over the skin of your wrist, your forearm, your neck, your cheek, your temple.
“You’re amazing. My lighthouse,” James reveres, profound wonder in his voice. “People build them for those who are lost. And I was lost before the war, I was lost after the war... I’ve been lost every single night for eighty years. Then you came along. Lighting that candle to guide me to you.”
One of his hands traces the soft curve of your hip as he settles beside you on the couch, fingers skimming across the length of your thigh. The soft fabric of your nightgown bunches slightly as his fingers move higher and dangerously close to the source of your recent exchange. Despite the wave of pleasure that had just washed over you, the heat between your thighs only grows. Biting stronger into your bloodstream, making your heart pump faster. James can hear it. You can hear it.
“More,” you half plead, almost a whine on your lips. The moment it leaves your lips, both of you know what it means: you are not pleading for more pleasure, for more of his body. You are asking for him to feed again, to drink from your soul and quench his thirst. James pauses then, his hand on your waist, looking at you with eyes that are heavy with questions.
“You don’t have to do that.” Simple words, ones you know he means, but your eyes are tracking the stiffness in his movements. James is far from sated, tonight. He hasn’t fed in too long.
"You know I want this," you breathe. "All of this. Every part of you.”
Leaning forward once more, he presses his forehead to yours, lips brushing the shell of your ear, your cheek, still tainted with your fresh blood. “I don't want you to regret this. I don't want to be the thing that breaks you.”
“Don't stop," you answer almost immediately, body burning up under his soft kisses, under the hold he has on you even as cold fingers brush over your almost bare skin. Half delirious, though you would always deny it, you crave the insistent pressure of his teeth on your skin, the feeling of your life force slipping through your fingers like sand. You’ve never wanted to die. But in James’ hold, in his embrace, you would gladly perish to offer him all of you.
“I can stop. I will, if you ask me to. I don’t need more.” But even as he gives you permission to retreat, his hands inch higher, one of them already gently gripping your neck, tilting your head away from him as the soft skin becomes exposed. Your body goes pliant against the couch, already waiting, before his thumb brushes the frantic pulse at the base of your throat. James does it once, twice, maps the rhythm he is about to break while his mouth follows.
The bright flare of pain blooms instant and perfect beneath his lips, dragging a soft gasp out of you. Twin points sink through skin with clean precision, and your fingers knot in his dark hair, not quite tugging because you don’t have the strength for it anymore, but still holding him to you. One arm bands around your waist, the other cradles the back of your skull, keeping you arched and angled exactly how he needs you.
Pain and pleasure blend together, blood flowing into his mouth from the delicate curve of your neck, and you are swallowed by a heavy drowsiness, a high that flows through your senses like warm honey poured straight into your veins. And still, through the dizzying high, through the quiet sound of his swallowing, you whisper again, “More.” A coiled feeling settles deep between your thighs, legs pressed together instinctively attempting to dull the overwhelming tightness. It doesn’t work. Friction only sharpens the heat, makes the ache spread wider. Your hips lift in helpless jerks you can’t control, seeking pressure that isn’t there.
World narrowing to the lavish sounds of his swallowing, a helpless hum he makes against your skin every time your heartbeat surges to meet his pull. Each draw pulls something deeper than blood from you, a molten feeling that tightens in your belly with cruel patience. Exquisite, this moment is, wrapped in silk and a feeling so close to love it smells like gasoline on a fire. Dangerous. More dangerous than the possibility of him draining the life out of you.
When James finally pulls back, his tongue strokes over the punctures in soothing circles, an action obscene enough to intensify the ache between your legs, even though you’re sure he didn’t mean it with such intention. The sluggish beat of your heart feels thunderous even now, when it’s beating only half fast, your eyes catching on to the sigh of James looking at you with wet lips, smeared faintly with the crimson of what he has taken from you.
He presses his face into the uninjured space just beneath the bite marks, clinging to you, and you feel the fine tremor in the arms that cage you, hear the ragged sound he makes against you, long before you hear the way he says your name so soft and quiet it sounds like a hallucination.
“You are the kindest cruelty I have ever known,” he whispers, mostly to himself, like a confession in Sunday church. “You’re weak now. I have to stop.”
You swallow, voice barely a rasp. “Don’t stop,” you manage weakly, the only words your conscience repeats every time he is around like a mantra. “Every time you feed from me, I give you a piece of my body. But I want yours, too.”
”Greedy little thing,” he replies, but there is no mockery behind the teasing words. Only wonder, hunger that has shifted shape but not dimmed. One hand slides down your body again until his palm cups you through the damp cotton of your underwear. There’s no moving, no rubbing, his hand instead only holds the heat of you against his cold skin and lets himself feel how you’re leaking for him. “Tell me what you need. Use your words, my light.”
Your hips cant up into his hand before you can stop them. “Touch me,” you breathe. “Please, James. Make it stop hurting.”
James lets out a half-sob, a sound too vulnerable to come out of someone like him, before he looks at you through a veil of dark hair. "Tell me you're sure," he pleads. "I need to know it’s James you want, and not just the end of the ache. Tell me I am more than the monster who drains you.”
The word makes you sigh through the haze, and maybe you would have even laughed if your body allowed you strength. Instead, your fingers tangle in his coat. “I have never felt more alive than when I am dying in your arms. I want you, James.” And isn’t that the most honest truth? That no matter if he’s a monster or a hero, your body has called for him since the first time he touched you? James inhales sharply and he kisses you again, a communion of salt and iron, tasting your surrender on his lips.
With effortless strength, James lifts you and moves you down the hall, back to your bedroom, settling you onto the sheets. Lips trail kisses down the column of your neck, lingering at your collarbone, his tongue tracing the frantic pulse point there. James works himself out of his clothes, jacket, shirt, pants off of his body with no request for your help. Instead, he respects your softness, how you’re still aching and weak, and takes care of both of you. He settles between your legs after, pressing against the slick skin of your inner thighs. Your cunt drools for him, and the absolute wetness of you provides the perfect feeling, a picture perfect for your desire.
Hands slide down his back, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way they flex and coil beneath your touch. James groans at your surrender, and his head dips once more, drinking in your scent. His hands grip your hips to lift you as he lines himself up with your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pushing against you slowly.
“I’ve never wanted anyone like this,” his voice trembles with vulnerability he rarely shows. “You make me feel human again. Make me want to be better.”
Then he moves. Too slow at first, the sensation of his cold skin sliding against your feverish heat sending electrical sparks through your body. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, muffling his sounds against your skin as he finally slides himself home inside of you. Heartbeat, yours, heavy in your chest, thundering against your ribs only to fuel the want in his own body. A hundred times, you’ve done this. A thousand. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve let James come into your home, drink from your vein and defile your body right after, yet every time feels like an exhilarating first.
He rocks into you with trembling restraint, afraid one wrong movement might shatter you, yet he still savors the incredible sensation of you surrounding him, of being allowed this close to you. Each slow drag of him inside of you feels like confession carved into flesh. I’m yours. I’m terrified.
”Little light,” he murmurs, keeping his slow cadence that stretches you and fills the void in your soul the same way he fills your insides. Echoes of the sounds of your coupling are welcomed into your bedroom; the wet slap of skin on skin, broken gasps, yours, his, the heavy thumping of your headboard against the wall.
Your fingers cling to him, digging into the muscles of his shoulders, hips lifting instinctively to meet every thrust. Your thighs quiver around his hips, slick, and you arch up, chasing more of that impossible fullness. Exquisite agony of pleasure builds, molten tension burning tighter in your lower stomach. His lips find your neck again, not biting, just open-mouthed and desperate, tongue lapping over the fading punctures he left before. A faint copper taste of you still lingers on him.
“God help me,” he rasps, hips snapping a little harder now, unable to hold back entirely. “I could live inside you forever and it still wouldn’t be enough to sate how much I want you.”
Words you know he means, and they split you open and raw. “James.” Your voice cracks as you mewl his name, and your hands reach up to cup his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “James. My James.”
James takes every sound you make as his own, somehow burying himself deeper with every prayer of his name on your mouth, a direct answer to your pleas. Every time he moves, he’s chasing the sound you make when he hits that spot that turns your spine to liquid. He pulls back until just the crown of him remains trapped within your clenching heat, and then drives forward again, hard enough to make the bed frame groan in protest. The sound of his body meeting yours fills the room, the wet, squelching slaps, a symphony of flesh and need that drowns out the cold world outside.
“You’re so tight,” he growls, hands bruisingly tight on your hips as he spreads you open for him. “Every time, little light. You make me want to drown in you.” His thrusts come faster now, a blur of motion that leaves you gasping for air. Each stroke drags along the sensitive spot inside you, fueling the fire that spreads from your core to your fingertips. James watches you through hooded eyes, drinking in the sight of you unraveling beneath him. There’s something about his look, feral, like the monster who has finally claimed his prize, but there is so much more love burning in that gaze that it makes your heart ache. He shifts slightly, angling his hips to hit that spot that makes your toes curl, and you scream his name, the sound raw. It’s not often that you see James smile, open and real, but he grins now, triumphant.
One hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and circling with the same merciless patience he used when he first slid inside you. “Come for me,” he pleads. “Come with me.”
You clench around him, milking him, and the dam breaks. Your vision whites out, stars exploding behind your eyes as the orgasm crashes over you, violent and all-consuming. It feels like falling, plummeting into a dark void where only James exists. And your pleasure triggers his own. He groans, buries his face in your neck as his rhythm stutters, and he pulses inside you, spilling thick and endless, filling you with his seed until you are overflowing, until the wet heat of it slicks your thighs and the sheets beneath you.
In the aftermath of your pleasure, time loses all meaning. Your ragged breathing slows down, your heart settles back into a quieter rhythm. James doesn’t pull out, instead, collapses over you, careful even now not to crush you, forehead pressed to your shoulder. His arms band around your waist, and he kisses the exposed skin of your collarbone, your neck, all too fragile.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs. “Little light.”
You curve your fingers into his chest, where you’d feel the rapid flutter of his heartbeat if he had one. “I’m okay,” you whisper, though you’re not entirely. You’re never entirely okay knowing he will leave later, again, and come back another day whenever you light your candle once more. Now, you lay on your bed, bitten on your thigh, on your neck, his release spilling slowly out of you, and your eyes only meet his halfway, somehow still desperate for more. More of him.
James murmurs something then, something that sounds like a declaration of love, a promise from a man who has known nothing but ruin for eighty years. Yet, the emptiness persists in your own chest, the hollowness you’ve tried to banish too often, screaming out for more than just a fleeting moment in the dark.
“I want more,” you whisper into the darkness with a kind of conviction that surprises even you. “James… I want to be with you. Not tonight, but always. Make me yours.”
The request is clear underneath. You don’t just want to be with him, you want to be like him. James looks at you, searching your face for signs of hesitation. From the first moment he had met you, he had never expected this night to come. The image of a monster has been permanently etched into his mind; he can’t see himself any other way, and could never expect you to see him like a savior instead of your tormentor.
“You know what you’re asking for,” he says softly, his voice a dangerous rasp that brings a chill down your core. He now carries the weight of the irrevocable choice you have just handed him, but he doesn’t play with the heaviness of it. “You know what it means to be like me.” James finally moves off of you and sits up slightly before cradling you against his chest. His hands stroke over your back, your thighs, mapping the terrain he has already claimed.
“You’ll never age. Never die. But you’ll never be human again.” He leans in then, presses a kiss to your forehead, your cheeks, before sealing his lips over yours. The kiss is too tender, almost heartbreakingly so. “I can’t promise you a happy ending. Only eternity at my side. I don’t want you to regret this, little light.”
When James pulls back, you chase his lips again, unable to bear the distance, still tasting your own blood on his tongue and letting the coppery taste sit on your taste buds as if it is a forbidden wine.
“I will only regret knowing I will never again feel your teeth sink into my skin and knowing I will never again provide you sustenance,” you whisper to him, fingers finding his hands and bringing them to your chest, pressing his palms against the fading marks he’s left so many other times before. “But spending eternity at your side will be enough to soothe that pain.”
James’ hand trembles against your skin, and his eyes soften impossibly so at your words. Your resolve terrifies him more than anything else in this world ever could.
“Little light. Promise me you understand what this means.” It’s a question more than a plea, a last-ditch effort to ensure he isn’t destroying the only good thing he has left. When he speaks, you see the monster he fears he is, overshadowed by the man you love him to be. You realize, with profound clarity, that you would rather burn in hell than spend a single more second in whatever heaven is without him. A moment passes, maybe forever, and he takes one of your hands in his, bringing it to his lips. He kisses your palm, your knuckles, drags your mouth over your fingertips like a ritual of ownership, a saint worshipping a relic, before he finally moves his mouth to your wrist. His teeth graze the skin, but he doesn’t break it. Instead, you feel the electric sensation, the dangerous promise of the bite that will change everything and finally make you his. A jolt of adrenaline spikes through your veins, making your heart thud against his palm.
There’s a finality to this moment, you understand, and fear settles deep in your bones despite you having been the one to request it. To ask for it. It’s a paradoxical terror, paralyzing dread that fights the other side of you, burning with ecstasy. Your heart, the fragile engine of your humanity, beating for the last time, has ironically never beat as fast.
“Will it hurt?” You ask quietly. “What will I feel?”
“It will hurt,” James admits softly. “You’ll feel cold, at first. Like ice is running through your veins. And then… nothing. For a moment, you will feel nothing at all.” The description seems to make your blood run cold now instead of later. “After, you’ll feel everything. Your senses will sharpen, the world will come alive in a way it never has before.” He leans in, presses a soft kiss to your neck, right over your purse. “You’ll be born again. And I will be with you every step of the way.”
You simply nod, allowing your body to relax into the pillows and sheets under you, and offer your wrist to his mouth again, a sacrifice on the altar of your love for him. “I’m ready,” you tell him. “I want to be yours.”
The last moments stretch on, a final chance to change your mind. But you don’t. Your pulse accelerates, a frantic rhythm marking the final seconds of your mortal time. James hovers by your wrist, shifting between the predator and the lover. “I love you,” he breathes. “Now and forever.”
Finally, he bites down, fangs sinking into your skin. The pain is not a gradual sting; it is a sharp, sudden lightning bolt of agony that makes your vision white-out for a second, followed by a rush of pleasure, a warmth that spreads through your limbs like wildfire, attempting to chase away the cold. A strange euphoria begins to mingle with the pain, heady sensation that makes your head spin and your limbs feel disconnected. You are not yourself, not quite, a slow-motion unraveling of your humanity. James drinks from you, the sound of his swallowing loud in the silent room.
Slowly, your vision blurs, darkens, fades to black. The room becomes nothing but shadows, the sensations of your body receding, replaced by overwhelming numbness. The last thing you feel is the press of his lips against your skin, a soft whisper that acts as a last comfort. And then, nothing.
Ever since I was little, I understood a truth others were allowed to discover slowly, gently—like a bruise blooming beneath silk.
My life would never belong to me.
In the Hewn City, that festering jewel buried beneath the mountains of the Night Court, children are not raised. They are groomed. Polished. Appraised.
And I was valuable.
My parents were wealthy. Established. Revered in the way vipers are revered, dangerous and always coiled beside power. From the moment I drew my first breath beneath chandeliers of black crystal and bloodstone, my future was decided.
I was not a daughter. I was an investment. A bargaining chip wrapped in lace and obedience.
I learned early how to smile without showing teeth. How to lower my eyes without appearing weak. How to endure the weight of assessing stares as males twice my age calculated what alliances my hand in marriage might buy them.
When my parents finally fell, devoured by the same cruelty they had worshiped I allowed myself one reckless thought.
Now I will be free.
But the Hewn City does not release what it owns.
Their deaths did not break my chains. They merely passed the leash to other hands.
And so I was married. Not for love. Not for companionship. Not even for alliance between equals. I was wed to a powerful male who smiles like a blade freshly sharpened. A male who saw in me not a female, but a symbol.
A conquest. A decoration.
He drapes jewels around my throat as if to disguise the collar. Keeps a possessive hand at my waist during gatherings, silently reminding the Court that I belong to him. I stand at his side while he trades promises and threats in equal measure.
They call us beautiful together.
They do not see the emptiness in his touch. He does not look at me as if I am something to cherish. Only something to display.
And I let him because that is what I was raised to do.
My chambers gleam. My gowns are exquisite. My life, from the outside, shines like polished obsidian.
But it is hollow.
I used to believe love was something fierce and sacred, something that chose you as desperately as you chose it in return.
I know better now.
In the Hewn City, love is a liability and I have survived this long by being anything but foolish.
So I buried the longing. I became what they needed me to be. Obedient. Beautiful. Untouchable.
Tonight, the Court glittered like a blade freshly polished. The great hall pulsed with music that throbbed low and decadent through black stone walls veined in silver.
Crimson light spilt over marble floors, catching on goblets of dark wine and the sharp edges of jewels.
Laughter echoed high and cold beneath vaulted ceilings carved with scenes of conquest and ruin.
Every inch of the room shimmered, obsidian pillars, blood-red banners, silks that whispered as bodies brushed too close.
It was a celebration of power. It always was.
I stood near one of the towering pillars, its surface cool against my bare shoulder, and lifted my glass to my lips. The wine tasted rich and metallic, like something alive. It burned but not nearly enough.
Across the hall, my husband held court. Silas. Even his name felt precise.
He stood at the centre of a cluster of nobles, tall and immaculately composed, dark attire cut to perfection. His beauty was the kind that commanded attention without asking for it, sharp cheekbones, calculating eyes, a smile that never quite reached them.
Silas was not the strongest male in the Hewn City. He was not the loudest. He did not need to be.
As Intelligence Chief of the Court of Nightmares, he controlled the whispering veins beneath the city. The spies. The informants. The quiet knives in the dark.
Every secret traded, every betrayal contemplated, every illicit affair and hidden debt, eventually, it passed through him.
Information was his weapon. And he wielded it like a master.
He leaned in now, laughing softly at something one of the lesser lords had said. The male looked flattered. Grateful.
Unaware that Silas likely knew every shameful thought he had ever entertained.
Power did not radiate from my husband in roaring waves. It coiled. Subtle. Patient. Venomous. That was what made him dangerous. That was what made him admired. And feared.
His gaze flickered across the hall then, casual, disinterested to any observer.
But I felt it. A phantom touch sliding down my spine. He was always watching. Even when he appeared not to be. Especially then.
I took another slow sip of my wine and leaned more fully against the pillar, arranging my expression into something soft and distant. Decorative. Untouchable.
The gown he had chosen for me tonight clung like a second skin, black silk cut daringly low, the fabric catching the red light like liquid shadow. Diamonds glittered at my throat, heavy. Intentional. A reminder. A display.
I exhaled into my glass.
If only it were stronger. If only it burned enough to quiet the restless hum in my mind, the constant awareness of eyes tracking my movements, measuring my smiles, calculating my worth.
There would be no early escape tonight. Not with the High Lord in attendance.
At the far end of the hall, shadows seemed to gather more thickly around a raised dais where Rhysand stood in effortless command.
Young yet ancient in power. Beautiful in the way storms are beautiful. His presence altered the air itself, conversations shifted, laughter sharpened, spines straightened.
The High Lord of the Night Court did not frequent the Hewn City without purpose.
Which meant this night would stretch long and merciless.
Silas thrived under such scrutiny. He would linger until the last goblet was drained, until the final alliance had been subtly reinforced. He would want to be seen beside me, polished, composed, enviable. Untouchable.
And I would play my part.
There was no escaping this. Not tonight. Not from the Court. Not from my husband's watchful eye.
And certainly not from the fate that had been tightening around my throat since the moment I was born beneath this mountain.
I lifted my glass again, letting the wine stain my lips dark as sin.
And waited.
Azriel's POV -
The Hewn City was as debauched and suffocating as it had always been.
Perfume thick as smoke. Laughter edged like knives. Music that pulsed low and indecent through veins of black marble. The air tasted of wine and ambition.
I kept to the shadows, as I always did.
They curled around me easily, old friends, obedient things, draping over my shoulders, pooling at my boots. From beneath their cover, I watched the hall with a predator's patience.
And I kept one eye on Rhysand.
He stood on the raised dais, perfection and power wrapped in velvet darkness, pretending to entertain the simpering flattery of some lord drunk on his own importance.
To anyone else, he looked relaxed. Amused.
I knew better.
So did my shadows. They whispered of tension beneath silk. Of lies sweetening the air. Of secrets traded behind pleasant smiles.
The Hewn City never changed. It simply sharpened.
My gaze swept the crowd out of habit, mapping exits, noting weapons poorly concealed, tracking the subtle shift of alliances in the way bodies leaned closer or edged away.
And then—her.
She stood near one of the obsidian pillars, as if carved from the same stone. Black silk clung to her frame like liquid night, the fabric catching the crimson light in a way that made her glow and disappear all at once. Diamonds glinted at her throat, deliberate and heavy.
Her posture was flawless. Shoulders relaxed. Chin lifted just enough. A lady perfectly at ease in her surroundings.
But her eyes—even from across the hall, I saw it. Beautiful. Gods, they were beautiful. And utterly hollow. Not empty. Not vacant. Hollow.
Like something vital had been scooped out and replaced with obedience.
She lifted her glass to her lips, gaze distant, expression serene in a way that felt practised. Rehearsed. Not content. Not drunk. Just enduring.
I didn't realise I was moving until the crowd shifted and I stepped aside to avoid a stumbling noble, my attention still half-caught on Rhysand, half-caught on her.
It happened in a breath.
A body collided with mine from behind. I adjusted too late. My shoulder clipped hers.
The delicate glass slipped from her fingers as dark wine cascaded down the front of her gown, bleeding across black silk like fresh ink.
The sound of crystal striking marble cracked through the music.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed.
"My fault," I said immediately, already reaching to steady her before the surrounding crowd could take notice. "Forgive me."
Up close, she was devastating. Not in the loud way the females of this Court often tried to be.
In the quiet way. In the way that made you look twice. Her lashes lifted slowly, gaze meeting mine.
And there it was again, that hollowness. Not panic. Not irritation. Just... nothing.
"It's only wine," she said softly. No sharpness. No outrage.
The gown was ruinously expensive. Anyone with eyes could see that. Silk of that quality did not come cheap even in the Night Court.
Most females here would have demanded reparations. An apology loud enough for half the hall to hear.
She merely glanced down at the stain spreading across her torso like a blooming wound and gave the faintest shrug.
"I assure you," she added, a small, almost polite smile curving her mouth, "I will survive."
Her smile was exquisite. And entirely false. I felt it like a blade sliding between my ribs.
"I doubt the dress will," I replied quietly, already shrugging off my outer jacket. "Allow me."
She blinked just slightly as if unused to being fussed over. "It isn't necessary."
"It is," I said, gentler now.
My shadows stirred at my back, curious. Restless.
"Please," I added, lowering my voice so it would not carry. "I would hate to be responsible for such a tragedy."
Her eyes flicked to mine again, assessing. There was intelligence there. Sharp and watchful beneath the emptiness.
"And what tragedy is that?" she asked mildly.
"The waste of good silk," I said.
A corner of her mouth twitched.
"Or," I continued, dipping a cloth into a passing servant's water pitcher without breaking eye contact, "the loss of a view I was only just beginning to appreciate."
It was subtle. Light. Enough to test.
Her breath stilled for half a second. There. Not immune after all.
I pressed the damp cloth carefully against the stained silk, deliberate in my movements, ensuring nothing about the touch was improper. My fingers brushed the fabric, not her skin.
I was acutely aware of the heat of her beneath it.
"You needn't trouble yourself," she murmured again, though there was less resistance in it now.
"It is no trouble."
That was true. Standing this close, breathing in the faint scent of jasmine and dark wine, watching the way she held herself so perfectly still—it was anything but trouble.
Up close, the hollowness in her gaze felt less like absence and more like restraint. Like something had been locked away.
"You don't seem very concerned," I observed quietly.
"It's only a dress."
"In this Court?" I arched a brow. "That alone is suspicious."
That earned me the faintest, most genuine curve of her lips so far. Beautiful. Fleeting. She glanced down at the spreading stain again, fingertips brushing lightly over the darkened silk.
"My husband will buy me another," she said.
The word struck clean and precise. Husband.
I shouldn't have been surprised.
A female like her, composed, breathtaking, dressed in silk that cost more than most estates, would never be unattached in this Court. Beauty like that did not go unnoticed. It was claimed.
Still something in my chest tightened before I could stop it. Ridiculous. I had known her for less than five minutes.
But the knowledge settled like a weight nonetheless.
Of course she had a husband. Of course she belonged to someone.
"And you're content with that?" I asked before I could stop myself.
Her lashes lifted slowly. There was no offence there. No irritation. Only a quiet, tired sort of acceptance.
"It is expected," she replied.
Expected. The word sat poorly in my chest.
"And who," I asked, keeping my tone neutral though my shadows had begun to stir again, "is your husband?"
Her gaze held mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
"Silas."
The name slid between us like a blade. Recognition settled instantly. Of course. Silas did not collect trivial things. He collected power. Leverage. Rare commodities.
And she was rare.
"I know of him," I said.
That faint smile returned, but this time it was edged with something almost rueful. "Most do."
I knew more than of him.
Intelligence Chief of the Court of Nightmares. Master of whispers and quiet ruin. A male who built empires from secrets and dismantled lives without ever raising his voice.
Dangerous. Possessive.
My shadows coiled tighter against my spine. "He keeps fine company," I said carefully.
"He keeps useful company," she corrected softly.
There it was again, that hollow note. Not bitterness. Resignation.
Before I could respond, I felt the shift in the air. A subtle tightening. Footsteps approached, unhurried and confident.
I didn't need to look to know who it was.
Silas stopped at her side, close enough that the black of his sleeve brushed the ruined silk of her gown.
His gaze flicked once to the stain. Once to the discarded glass at our feet. Then to me. Assessing. Cold.
"Azriel," he said smoothly, as if this were a pleasant coincidence and not a calculated interruption.
He knew exactly who I was. Of course he did.
"Silas," I inclined my head in return.
Polite. Measured. A silent exchange passed between us—territory marked without a single raised voice.
His hand settled at the small of her back. Possessive. Not cruel. Not overtly. Just firm enough to remind.
"I trust there hasn't been any inconvenience," he said, though his eyes never left mine.
"The fault was mine," I answered evenly. "I've offered my apologies."
"And assistance," she added gently.
Silas's gaze dropped to the dampened silk where I had attempted to lift the stain. His fingers flexed slightly against her waist.
"I'll see to it that it's replaced," he said to her, voice smooth as polished stone. "Something better."
Of course he would.
She nodded once. "Yes." No argument. No protest. Just compliance.
Silas's hand tightened fractionally as he guided her half a step back toward him.
"We shouldn't monopolise the Spymaster's time," he continued lightly. "The High Lord does so enjoy his shadows close."
A reminder. A warning. I gave him nothing in response.
But I felt the way her body shifted, the way she didn't resist as he drew her further from me.
Only then did she look back at me. And she smiled. It was soft. Sad. Not the polished curve she wore for the Court. Something quieter. Almost apologetic.
As if she regretted nothing about the spill—only the interruption.
Then she allowed herself to be led away, black silk trailing behind her like a fading shadow. Silas's hand never left her back.
And I stood there, wine staining the marble at my feet, my shadows restless around me.
I had faced monsters. Interrogated traitors. Killed without hesitation when duty demanded it.
But as I watched her disappear into the glittering crowd beside her husband, one thought pressed sharp and unwelcome against my ribs.
Silas might own her name. He might buy her gowns. He might replace what was ruined.
But he did not see her.
And for the first time that night, I wished I had never looked.
A/N - We're starting with a little backstory before everything inevitably unravels!
Azriel was already intrigued before the tiny... wine-related incident but finding out she's married? And not just married—married to Silas? Yeah. He's not thrilled x
Also, this story does not follow a timeline. I've made things up (Silas's job and some future plot elements) to make the story work the way I need it to.
And if you're thinking, "Oh this is angsty but manageable" Sweet. Adorable. This is probably the calmest it's going to be, so emotionally hydrate now and prepare yourselves :o
Warnings - References to past domestic abuse, fear
<- prev || series masterlist || next ->
Silas had ignored my existence for three days. Three full days of silence.
No summons to stand at his side. No measured critiques of my posture. No fingers curling into my hip as he passed me in the corridor. No lessons.
I did not know whether to call it mercy or the calm before a greater storm.
In the Hewn City, silence was rarely kindness. It was calculation.
I moved quietly through our mansion during those days, careful not to disturb the fragile peace. Meals were left untouched more often than not. Sleep came in shallow fragments. Every small sound in the hallway tightened something in my chest.
Bruises bloomed beneath silk and shadow.
My temple still throbbed faintly where it had struck the edge of the table. My lip had split open the first night and only just begun to mend. Purple and yellow painted my ribs in careful constellations, hidden beneath gowns chosen strategically for coverage.
I told myself I had endured worse. That was the most dangerous lie of all.
I sat at my dresser now, brushing my hair slowly, each stroke deliberate. The room was quiet save for the faint rasp of bristles through strands.
The door opened without warning.
"Get ready. We are seeing the High Lord again."
I stilled. The brush paused mid-stroke. I did not turn immediately. I watched him through the mirror instead.
Silas stood in the doorway, immaculate as always. Dark attire fitted perfectly. Not a hair out of place. His expression unreadable.
I searched for signs. Rage. Irritation. Indifference. There was nothing obvious.
My heart began to race anyway.
"Is something wrong?" I asked carefully, turning in my seat to face him fully.
His gaze moved over me slowly. Assessing. Cataloguing. "I have business in Velaris," he said.
Velaris. The word struck like a chime in my chest. The City of Starlight.
The place whispered about even in the darkest corners of the Hewn City. A city of art and music and open skies. A city untouched by the cruelty that had shaped me.
"Velaris?" I repeated, unable to hide the flicker of something, hope, perhaps, that slipped into my voice.
"Yes." He stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him with quiet finality. "You are coming with me. It will take some time. A few days. Possibly weeks."
The surprise must have shown too clearly.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he approached. Slowly. Deliberately. He crouched before me so that we were eye level.
The movement was almost tender.
I held my breath. My body remembered before my mind did. Muscles tightening. Shoulders stiffening despite every effort to remain composed.
Do not flinch. Do not make it worse.
His hand rose. My pulse roared in my ears. He touched my temple gently, thumb brushing over the bruise there. The pressure was feather-light. Almost affectionate.
His other hand tilted my chin upward, fingers grazing the split in my lip.
"Still sore?" he asked softly.
The question sounded like concern. I knew better.
"I am fine," I replied automatically. Always fine.
His thumb traced along my lower lip, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to remind.
"That was unfortunate," he murmured.
Unfortunate. As though it had been an accident. As though I had simply tripped.
As though his temper had not flared sharp and sudden that night after dinner. As though his voice had not gone cold when he accused me of embarrassing him. Of drawing attention. Of making a spectacle in front of the High Lord.
"You made me look weak," he had said.
I had tried to explain. Tried to tell him I had not meant to faint. That I had not meant to draw attention. That I had only felt unwell.
My explanation had earned me a lesson. Lessons were delivered without shouting. Without chaos.
Silas did not rage. He corrected. His hands had struck with measured precision. Not enough to scar. Not enough to draw blood where it could not be hidden.
Just enough. Enough to remind me of my place. Enough to ensure I would not "cause a scene" again.
My stomach twisted now as reality settled fully into place.
This was not kindness. This was guilt.
He had not spoken to me for three days because he had needed time to cool. To reassess. To decide what image he wished to present next.
And now—now he would parade me through Velaris as proof of his control. His refinement. His perfectly intact marriage.
A show of unity. A balm for whatever whisper had circulated after that dinner.
His thumb moved from my lip to my jaw, tilting my face slightly from side to side as if inspecting damage.
"You must be more careful," he said gently.
I swallowed. "I will."
His mouth curved faintly in satisfaction. "That is why you are coming with me," he continued. "You will remain at my side. Visible. Composed."
So they see we are strong. So they see nothing is fractured.
His fingers slid from my jaw down the line of my throat, brushing over skin where faint yellowed marks hid beneath powder.
I forced myself not to recoil.
"Velaris will suit you," he added. "You always did prefer prettier things."
A faint tremor moved through me. Not from fear this time. From the dangerous spark of longing that word ignited.
Velaris. Open sky. Starlight not filtered through cavern ceilings.
He leaned closer. "Think of it like a vacation," he whispered, lips brushing mine in a kiss that felt more like a seal than affection.
Ownership stamped. Control reaffirmed.
I tasted faint copper where my lip had split.
His hand squeezed my chin once, almost playful, before he rose smoothly to his feet. "I expect you ready within the hour," he said.
Then he left. The door clicked shut behind him. I remained seated before the mirror, staring at my reflection.
At the faint bruise at my temple. At the powder barely disguising the shadow beneath my eyes. At the female who had learned to endure so well she no longer remembered what resistance felt like.
Velaris. The City of Starlight. Hope.
It was nothing like the Hewn City. The first breath I took beyond the house doors felt... different. Cleaner.
The sky stretched endlessly above us, vast and blue and open in a way that made my chest ache.
No ceiling of carved stone. No chandeliers of blood-red crystal. Just sunlight spilling freely over rooftops of pale stone and winding streets lined with blooming flowers.
The Sidra cut through the city like a ribbon of molten sapphire, sunlight dancing across its surface. Music drifted from open windows, laughter, too. Real laughter. Unmeasured. Unafraid.
Velaris did not glitter like a blade. It shimmered like something alive.
Silas stood beside me for only a short while, offering polite smiles to those who greeted him, his posture composed but less coiled than it was in the Hewn City.
He informed me almost indulgently that I was free to explore for a few hours while he attended to his meetings.
"Do not wander too far," he added smoothly. "And be presentable."
I inclined my head, the obedient wife.
But when he disappeared down a sunlit street, something inside me loosened.
I walked slowly at first, uncertain, as though expecting the mountain to collapse back over my head at any moment. But it did not.
Artists painted along the riverbanks. Children darted between market stalls. The scent of fresh bread and ink and riverwater filled the air.
No one stared at me like an object to be appraised. No one assessed my worth in whispered calculations.
For the first time in years, my shoulders lowered of their own accord.
I found the library by accident.
It stood tucked along a quieter street, its doors carved with delicate constellations, its windows tall and welcoming. Light spilt across polished wood floors inside, dust motes dancing lazily in golden beams.
The scent hit me the moment I stepped through the threshold. Paper. Ink. Leather. Stories.
My breath caught.
Rows upon rows of books stretched before me, worlds bound in quiet spines. Knowledge offered freely, not hoarded as leverage or weapon.
I moved between the shelves slowly, fingertips brushing over titles, reverent.
This felt sacred.
Peace settled over me in a way I had almost forgotten was possible. My mind, for once, was not calculating or bracing or preparing.
I allowed myself to smile. A real one. Soft. Unpracticed.
I turned a corner between two towering shelves—and stopped.
He stood several paces away, sunlight filtering through a nearby window catching faintly in dark hair and broad shoulders.
Azriel. The Shadowsinger looked entirely out of place in the warmth of Velaris light and yet he belonged here in a way that felt undeniable.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. And then my heart began to race.
Not the sharp, panicked rhythm I had grown accustomed to when footsteps approached too quickly behind me. Not fear.
Something warmer. Something startling and unfamiliar. It fluttered low in my chest, wild and treacherous.
My pulse quickened not because I was bracing but because I wasn't.
Azriel's POV -
Spotting Silas in Velaris had been... jarring.
The male did not belong in the City of Starlight. He moved through it like a blade wrapped in silk, smiling where appropriate, nodding at shopkeepers, exchanging pleasantries with merchants who had no idea what kind of court had shaped him.
But where Silas went, his wife followed.
My jaw tightened as I watched him disappear down a sunlit avenue near the Sidra.
I told myself I did not care. Told myself that it was none of my concern if the male chose to conduct business here.
And yet my shadows stirred restlessly around my shoulders, whispering in low, insistent murmurs.
She is not with him. Alone. Happy.
The last word came with a curious lilt. A library, they breathed against my ear. Happy.
That was enough. I did not ask why my feet had already begun moving.
The library doors stood open, welcoming the late afternoon sun. Warm light spilt across polished wooden floors, illuminating rows of shelves that seemed to stretch endlessly inward.
And there she was.
Standing between two tall bookcases, head tilted slightly as she read the spine of a thick, leather-bound volume. Sunlight filtered through a nearby window, catching faint gold in her hair.
She looked... lighter.
There was colour in her cheeks. Not the brittle, polished composure she wore at court but something softer. Something unguarded.
A real smile curved her lips as she turned a page. My chest tightened unexpectedly.
"We must stop meeting like this," I drawled lightly from across the aisle, leaning one shoulder against the nearest shelf.
She startled then smiled. Not the careful one. The real one.
"Perhaps it is fate," she replied, closing the book gently.
I arched a brow. "I wasn't aware fate had such a fondness for libraries."
"It has excellent taste, then."
There was warmth in her voice. Ease. It struck me how different she sounded here, away from chandeliers and watchful eyes.
"So," I said, letting my gaze drift briefly to the sunlit windows before returning to her. "Velaris?"
"Silas has business here," she answered, smoothing an invisible crease in her sleeve.
"And you felt well enough to accompany him?" I asked carefully.
Her nod came too quickly. "I wouldn't miss this for anything. I've heard so much about the City of Starlight."
"And? Does it disappoint?"
Her gaze lifted toward the high ceilings, toward the golden light and endless shelves. "It is even more beautiful than they say." A softer note entered her tone. "Though your libraries might have my heart."
My lips twitched despite myself. "I'll inform the priestesses they have competition."
She laughed quiet and fleeting, but real. Then she turned, reaching up onto her toes to retrieve a book from a higher shelf. Her sleeve slipped back.
And time slowed.
It was not one bruise. It was several. Finger-shaped shadows mottled the delicate skin of her arm, deep purples and sickly yellows blooming together in unmistakable patterns.
Not clumsy. Not accidental. Grasping.
My body went cold. I pushed off the shelf without thinking, closing the distance between us in two strides.
She had just secured the book when she noticed how near I stood.
"What happened?" I asked.
My voice sounded wrong to my own ears. Too tight. Too controlled.
Her eyes widened the moment she realised what I had seen. Instinct took over, she tore her sleeve down so quickly the fabric twisted at her wrist, as though she could erase the bruises by hiding them.
"It's nothing," she said. Too fast. Too rehearsed.
That was when I noticed the rest.
The cut at the corner of her lip, half-healed but unmistakable. The faint discolouration at her temple, partially hidden beneath carefully arranged hair.
My stomach dropped so violently it felt like stepping off a cliff in the dark.
"What the fuck?" The words slipped out, low and lethal.
My shadows flared violently around me, writhing like smoke caught in a storm. They had noticed too. They had always noticed more than I allowed myself to see.
It did not take a spymaster to put the pieces together.
Silas's possessive grip at her back. Her flinch when he moved too quickly. The fever she had tried to hide. The way she measured every word around him.
Rage burned slow and bright in my veins. "Did he do this?" I asked, voice dangerously quiet.
Her reaction was immediate.
She stepped back as if I had struck her, shoulders hitting the bookshelf behind her. Books rattled softly with the impact.
Her eyes weren't ashamed. They were afraid. Not of being discovered. Of me knowing.
"Please," she whispered. "Please don't say anything."
The plea struck harder than any confirmation.
"That is not an answer," I ground out, my hands clenching at my sides to keep from reaching for her, keep from tearing this city apart to find him.
"Azriel, please," she repeated, panic threading through her voice. "He didn't mean it. It was—it was bad timing. I shouldn't have—" Her breath hitched. "It was my fault."
My fault. The words reverberated in my skull.
"My fault," she insisted when I said nothing, her voice trembling now. "I embarrassed him. I made it look like—like something it wasn't. He was already under pressure and I should have been more careful."
Each sentence was another blade.
My shadows quieted. Not in calm but in something far more dangerous. Grief.
"You think this," I said slowly, my voice rougher now, gesturing faintly toward her arm, her lip, the bruise blooming against her temple, "is your fault?"
She nodded. No hesitation.
"Yes," she whispered. "He never means it. He just... he loses control sometimes. But he always regrets it after. He always—" Her breath trembled. "He loves me."
The word love sounded wrong coming from her mouth. Like something memorised. Recited.
I had seen cruelty in many forms. Interrogated it. Endured it. Delivered it when necessary.
But this quiet, practised defence of it—it hollowed something inside my chest.
"He loves me," she repeated, as if saying it enough times would make it true.
I stepped closer, not enough to frighten her, but enough that she had to look up at me. And for the first time since I had known her, I let her see the anger in my eyes.
Not at her. Never at her. At him.
"This," I said softly, each word deliberate, "isn't love."
Silence fell between us. Heavy. Final.
Her breath hitched, and for a fraction of a second something cracked in her expression. Not defiance. Not denial.
Something fragile. Something that knew.
And that was what broke me most of all.
A/N - So Silas gets worse! He is not just cold or strict—he is abusive, manipulative, and deeply controlling.
There are hints of something growing between her and Azriel, but we don't get to linger in that softness for long. From his POV, the shift isn't romantic tension, it's realisation. It's the moment he sees what's been happening :(
Her defense of Silas is intentional and, heartbreakingly, very realistic. Victims of abuse often self-blame, minimise, and justify their abuser's behavior because that narrative is safer than confronting the truth. It's conditioning. It's survival. It doesn't make her weak—it shows how deeply she's been controlled.
