Azriel x Elain - Fanfiction | ACOTAR | University AU AO3 | Masterlist Moodboard by @recklessromantic for Chapter: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9
Chapter ten - The Cabin Part |
Chapter 10: The Cabin Part 1
The packing had taken three days.
Three days, when by all reasonable standards it should have taken thirty minutes. Two pairs of jeans, sweaters, socks, a bikini for the onsen, the various small toiletries she needed for two nights. She had laid items out on the bed in Rhysand's guest room and looked at them and put them back in the drawer and taken them out again and put them back. She had spent forty minutes one afternoon staring at her socks.
She knew, what was actually happening.
She wasn't packing for a weekend trip.
She was packing for him.
The recognition had arrived late on Wednesday evening, while she was washing out her old toiletry bag in the bathroom. She had paused, hands wet, water running, and looked at herself in the mirror. You're packing for Azriel. Every item in that bag is being chosen with him in mind. The honeysuckle shampoo, in case the cabin's shampoo wasn't to her liking and she wanted to smell like herself. The soft cream cashmere sweater she'd been saving for an occasion that hadn't existed yet.Â
She had set the toiletry bag down on the edge of the sink and laughed at herself.
Then she had gone back to her room and packed her best nightgown.
"Stop," Cerridwen had set down her latte. "Stop. We have been waiting for this confession for months. Don't you dare downgrade it now."
And then Elain had, finally, told them. The bed in Room 402, the laced fingers in the elevator. The texts. The fern. The carrot cake. The way he had looked at her. Everything.
"I knew," Nuala had said.
"You did not."
"I have known since a long time."
Cerridwen, who had been quiet, had leaned forward.
"You know what happens on trips like this," she had said.
"Don't."
"Cabins. Snow. Hot tubs."
"Cerridwen."
"You're packing your prettiest underwear," Cerridwen had said. "Aren't you?â
Elain had not answered that question. She had taken a very long sip of her tea and looked at the window and pretended she had been distracted by something fascinating happening on the street outside, and the twins had laughed at her.
She had, in fact, packed her prettiest underwear.
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The van had been Cassian's idea. A seven-seater rented for the weekend, big enough to fit them all, fitted with heated seats and a sound system that Cassian had spent ten minutes explaining the specs of before they'd even pulled out of the garage. He was driving. He had insisted on driving. "I know the road," he had said.
Nesta had taken the passenger seat. The two of them had been arguing about the route in low, clipped tones since the freeway exit. In the back row, Feyre had curled into Rhysand the moment the doors had closed, her head against his shoulder. Rhysand was reading something on his phone with his free hand. In the middle row, Mor had taken the window seat on the left, Elain the middle, and Azriel the window seat on the right.
Mor was on her phone, scrolling something with rapid, focused thumbs, occasionally letting out a small, satisfied sound at whatever she was looking at. She had not looked up in twenty minutes. Whatever she was doing on her phone was apparently more interesting than any of the people in the van, which Elain understood, in the abstract, but which had the practical effect of removing the buffer between Elain and Azriel and leaving her with no one to make small talk with.
And Azriel, beside her, had been silent for the entire drive.
He had put on over-ear headphones not long after they'd merged onto the freeway. He had leaned back into the seat with his head resting against his hand, his elbow propped against the door, his eyes closed. His face was composed in the unstudied, peaceful expression.
The light from the window fell across his cheek. His lashes were long. His mouth was slightly parted. He was beautiful in a way that did not belong inside the small ordinary space of a rental van on a freeway, and Elain felt the unfairness of it the way she felt the unfairness of most things about him, which was as a low, persistent ache behind her sternum.
She looked back at her hands.
Her phone buzzed in her lap. The group chat: hers, Nuala's, Cerridwen's.
Nuala: how is it going???? Nuala: are you there yet Nuala: give us updates Cerridwen: details
Elain glanced sideways. Azriel's eyes were still closed.
She typed: we're still in the car. nothing is going on. it's a normal van ride.
Nuala: normal van ride Cerridwen: who are you sitting next to Elain: mor. and azriel. by coincidence. Cerridwen: AND AZRIEL. BY COINCIDENCE. Nuala: the universe is doing its job. you need to do yours. Cerridwen: take the lead, elain. Cerridwen: take. the. lead.
Elain turned her phone face-down against her thigh and exhaled.
Take the lead.
She had been trying. For weeks. In her own small, careful way, in increments she could survive, she had been trying. The hand in the elevator. The fingers in her room. The forgiveness terms in the truck. Every act of bravery had taken so much of her that she had needed days to recover from it, and the twins, who loved her, were now telling her that she had to do it again, here, in a rental van full of people, while he was wearing headphones with his eyes closed and his head against his hand and was clearly not inviting conversation.
She picked up the phone, typed I will think about it, and put it face-down again.
She looked over at him.
His eyes were open this time.
He wasn't looking at her. He was looking out his window, at the long pale stretch of countryside that had begun to replace the city, the bare trees and the snow-dusted fields. He looked thoughtful. He looked, in his quiet self-contained way, content. The headphones were still on his ears. The music was still playing, presumably. Whatever he was listening to was not loud enough for her to hear through the cushioning, but the faint tinny edge of it carried into the small space between them.
Before she could think about it, before she could talk herself out of it, she reached over and tapped her finger lightly against his arm.
He turned his head.
He pulled one side of the headphones down. The headband sat askew on his hair, one ear free, his attention fully on her. His eyes were warm in the low light. There was a faint imprint along the side of his cheek where his hand had been resting against it.
God, she thought, he is so beautiful.
"What are you listening to?" she asked.
Her voice was quieter than she had intended. He had to lean in slightly to catch it.
He took the other side of the headphones off, lifted them in one smooth motion, and lowered them gently over Elain's ears.
The world muffled.
Through the cushioning, the rest of the van became distant, abstract. Cassian's argument with Nesta dropped to a low murmur. The hum of the engine softened. Mor's tapping fingers became a series of vague movements at the edge of her vision.
And then the music arrived.
It was not what she had expected. Some part of her, the part that catalogued and predicted Azriel's preferences, had guessed something dark and instrumental, maybe electronic, the moody soundtrack. What she heard instead was a song. A rock song. Soft rock.
She closed her eyes for a moment, listening. The song settled into her chest. She could feel him watching her. The small, attentive weight of his gaze on her face.
She slid the headphones off. Lowered them gently.
"I like it," she said.
The smile he gave her was not the devastating one. The one that lived at the corners of his mouth and crinkled the edges of his eyes, the one she had begun to think of as hers because he gave it almost exclusively when she had said or done something he hadn't expected.
He reached down into the bag tucked at his feet.
He pulled out a second pair of headphones. The wired kind, the simple white earbuds connected by a cord, with the small jack at the end. He slotted the wire of the smaller pair in, and held them up between them.
"Let's listen together, then," he said.
Elain's heart did a small, unreasonable thing.
He passed one earbud to her. Kept the other for himself. The cord, short, was not going to allow for much distance between them. He fitted the earbud into his left ear, and she fitted hers into her right, and the cord stretched taut for a moment between their faces before they both adjusted their positions, leaning very slightly toward each other to give it slack.
The music started again. The same song, picked up from where it had been paused. The voice. The guitar.
Elain leaned her head back against the seat.
She closed her eyes.
And then, slowly, with a small careful movement, she shifted in her seat. Not much. Just enough that her shoulder, was now touching his. Just enough that the side of her arm rested along the side of his arm. Just enough that her head, which had been resting against the seat, was leaning very gently against of his shoulder.
Elain kept her eyes closed and listened to the song and felt the warmth of him. Felt the small, occasional, almost imperceptible movement of his head as he listened to the music.
She thought, with her eyes closed: I want to hold his hand again.
ââ
Elain stepped out of the van and stood very still.
The cabin was not a cabin.
The cabin was massive.
Two stories of dark cedar and floor-to-ceiling glass. A long, low-pitched roof. A chimney. A wraparound deck that seemed to extend forever, with a corner that led, Elain could already see, to a steaming, stone-edged pool sunk into the deck itself, surrounded by snow. The onsen. Steam was already rising from it in slow, lazy curls, ghostlike against the gold light.
"Oh," Elain said. Quietly. To herself.
"I told you," Feyre said, appearing at her elbow with her bag slung over her shoulder. "Mor doesn't do anything halfway."
"This is not a cabin."
"It is not a cabin," Feyre agreed.
Cassian was already unloading bags from the back of the van, throwing them over his shoulder in stacks of two and three. Mor was standing in the snow with her hands on her hips, surveying her work, looking at the cabin with proud.
The interior took Elainâs breath away. A great room with a soaring ceiling, exposed beams of dark wood, a fireplace that took up most of one wall, made of stacked grey river stones with a hearth wide enough to lie down on. A long sectional sofa in some impossibly soft-looking cream fabric, draped with throws. A low coffee table.Â
The kitchen was open to the great room, separated by an island. Marble counters. A wine fridge. Glass-fronted cabinets that revealed neat stacks of crystal. The whole space was warm, lit by the late gold light pouring through the windows and a series of soft pendant lamps that had already been switched on by whoever had prepared the house for their arrival.
"Oh," Elain said again. Smaller this time.
"The rooms are upstairs," Mor brushing past them with her own bag. "So, Feyre and Rhys share. Nesta and Cass share." She tilted her head. "Which means we three share a room."
She said it casually.
Elain blinked. "We share a room?"
She heard her own voice. The small, slightly higher tone.
"Yes," Mor said, descending two steps and coming back down to the entryway. She slipped one arm through Elain's and one arm through Azriel's, looping them together. "Just us three. We'll have a slumber party. We'll share a bed. We'll cuddle each other to sleep."
Azriel removed himself from her hug.
He stepped sideways, lifted Elain's bag and his own, and turned toward the staircase.
"Why?" Mor called after him, grinning. "You don't want to share a room with two beautiful single women?"
Elain felt the heat climb her neck.
"The last time I shared a room with you," Azriel said over his shoulder, three steps up the staircase, his voice perfectly even, "I slept on the sofa. You take up the entire bed."
Elain blinked. She knew, intellectually, with the part of her brain that was still functional, that Mor was a lesbian and that Azriel and Mor had grown up together and it was a completely ordinary statement and there was nothing in it that should have mattered to Elain in any direction.
Mor laughed, completely unbothered. "Fine. I'll take the sofa, then. I bet sweet Elain doesn't take much room. You'll have it very comfortable with her."
Azriel paused on the stairs.
He turned his head, slowly, and looked at Mor. Then he turned away and continued up the stairs.
"Wait," Elain said, finding her voice somewhere in the wreckage of her composure. "I can take my own bag."
They reached the upstairs landing. A long hallway extended in both directions, doors on either side, all of them slightly open, the rooms beyond them lit in the same warm gold of the late afternoon. Azriel walked past two doors and stopped at the third. He pushed it open with his shoulder.
"You can have this room," he said.
Elain stepped past him into the doorway and stopped.
The room was beautiful. A wide bed under a slope of low ceiling, made up in a heavy cream duvet with knitted throws folded at the foot. A pair of armchairs by a small window. A reading lamp. A door at the back wall that led, she could see, to a balcony, the snow on its railing already going pink in the dying light. The whole room smelled faintly of cedar and the dry warm air of a fire that was burning somewhere in the building.
She stood in the doorway.
"Oh," she said. And then, before she could stop herself: "We're not sharing a room?"
Azriel smiled.
"Mor was teasing you," he said. "We have enough rooms for everyone."
She felt the heat in her face. Her heart had been hammering at the prospect of sharing a room with him, and Mor had watched her do it, and Azriel had probably watched her do it, and she had just stood here in the doorway of this beautiful empty bedroom and asked him out loud, we're not sharing a room, in a small disappointed voice.
She wanted to walk into the room and close the door and lie face-down on the cream duvet and stay there until the end of the weekend.
"You look disappointed," Azriel said.
His voice carried that tone again. The teasing one.
"Relieved," Elain corrected.
"Mhm."
"Very relieved."
"If you say so," he said, and he set her bag down inside the door.
"I'm in the room next to yours," he said. His voice was low. "If you need anything."
"Okay," Elain said.
"Unpack. Take a minute. I think everyone's going to take a break before dinner."
"Okay."
He looked at her for one beat longer. Then he stepped back, into the hallway, and the door of the room next to hers opened and closed quietly, and Elain was alone.
After a while she stood up, splashed water on her face, brushed her hair, changed into something comfortable, and went downstairs.
The cabin was quieter than she expected. The great room held the warm low gold of evening, the lamps lit, the fire someone had started crackling in the hearth. No one was sitting on the long cream sofa. No one was in the armchairs by the windows. The voices were coming from the kitchen.
Cassian was at the island, an apron tied around his waist, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his hands buried in a large mixing bowl. Several plastic-wrapped trays of meat were spread out on the marble in front of him. Steaks, what looked like a whole rack of lamb, smaller cuts she couldn't identify. A row of small jars and bottles. Garlic, peppercorns, olive oil, a glass of red wine he was apparently both drinking from and cooking with.
He looked up when she came in.
"There she is," he said. "I was about to come find you."
"You should have told me," Elain said. "I would have helped."
"Nah. Don't worry about it." He turned back to the bowl, working something into the meat with his fingers, slow careful kneading. "When it's about meat and barbecue, I'm the chef. I take this part seriously."
"I see that."
"Have you ever had a real barbecue in winter? In the snow?"
She shook her head.
"It's the best." He glanced up at her and grinned, with the easy charm he wore whenever he was about to be very passionate. "Better than summer. I'm serious. Summer barbecue is fine, sure. But you stand outside with a glass of wine and the snow falling and a fire going, you taste meat that was grilled outdoors in winter, it changes you. You become someone new. I'm not exaggerating."
"You sound like you have a presentation prepared."
"I have several."
She laughed. He looked pleased. He was easy to be around. His enthusiasm was generous. It pulled you into his moods without asking anything of you in return.
"Let me at least do the side dishes," she said. "Salad. Rice. Something. I can't stand here and watch you do all the work."
"Sure," Cassian said, gesturing vaguely toward the wall of cabinets. "Knock yourself out. Whatever you want to make, the pantry is over there, the fridge has everything."
Elain washed her hands and started opening cabinets.
The pantry was, in fact, full. Glass containers of various grains lined up neatly on the shelves, a wire basket of garlic and onions, dried herbs in small jars, several bottles of olive oil in different colours. The fridge yielded fresh herbs, lemons, three different kinds of cheese, a head of romaine, baby tomatoes, peppers, two bottles of white wine and a bottle of champagne. She could make a salad and rinse rice and chop herbs and not think about anything, and that was a gift.
She started with the rice. While that simmered, she pulled out the produce and laid it out and started a salad. Romaine, baby tomatoes, sliced red onion, shaved parmesan, a vinaigrette she whisked together in a small bowl with lemon and olive oil. She found cucumbers in the lower drawer and added them. She found pine nuts in the pantry and toasted a handful in a dry skillet on the stove next to the rice. The kitchen filled with the warm nutty smell of them, and Cassian, from his island, made an appreciative sound.
"You're a problem," he said. "You're going to make my barbecue look bad."
"That is not possible."
"It is possible if you keep doing that thing with the pine nuts."
She smiled and stirred.
The others began to drift down. She heard them before she saw them, Mor's voice calling something to Feyre, Rhysandâs quieter answer. Then Rhysand was in the kitchen, in a dark soft sweater that made him look like he had stepped out of a catalogue.
He came up behind Elain and looked over her shoulder at the cutting board.
"Oh," he said, mildly. "You've already started."
"Just the side dishes."
He nodded, and reached past her for a glass and the bottle of red wine Cassian had been working from. He poured two glasses and set one beside her cutting board.
"For the chef," he said. Then, lifting his own glass: "Don't forget. We have a chess match later."
Elain laughed.Â
Feyre came into the kitchen behind him, pulling her hair into a low knot, and she rolled her eyes so emphatically that the gesture was visible from across the room.
"He's going to make you play him every night," Feyre said. "I want you to know what you've done."
"He told me he was good," Elain said. "I assumed when he said good, he meant good."
"He is good," Feyre said. "He's also a sore loser."
"I am not a sore loser," Rhysand said.
"You are deeply a sore loser."
"I am a man who appreciates a worthy opponent."
"You are a man who has lost six times in a row and is keeping score."
"Five times in a row."
"It is six, Rhysand."
"It's five and one of those doesn't count because the table was uneven."
Mor, who had come in halfway through this exchange, with a glass of wine already in her hand. She had changed into something softer than what she had worn in the van, a thin grey jumper and leggings.
"He finally found a chess buddy," Mor said, lifting her wine at Elain. "It's been a problem. The rest of us got tired of losing years ago."
"I am happy to play him," Elain said. "It's actually fun."
"That," Mor said, "is because you keep winning."
"I really don't always win."
"Mhm."
Elain glanced toward the great room, on the long cream sofa, she saw him.
Azriel had come down at some point in the last few minutes. He was sitting at one end of the sofa, a book in his hands, his legs stretched out under the coffee table. He had changed too. A soft black jumper, dark jeans, no shoes, just thick socks. He looked, in the low gold of the lamps and the firelight, like he belonged to this house. Like he had always lived in it.
He looked up.
Their eyes met across the open space between the kitchen and the great room.
He smiled at her. Small. Just the corner of his mouth. She smiled back before she could think about whether she should.
He looked back down at his book.
The room continued around her. The bickering between Rhysand and Feyre, the soft cluck of Mor laughing into her wineglass, Cassian asking Nesta where she had hidden his good knife. Elain stirred the dressing she had made, and tasted it, and added a pinch more salt, and tried to pretend her face was not doing anything visible.
A minute later Azriel set down his book and came into the kitchen. He moved around her without quite touching her, reaching past her for a glass, filling it with water at the tap.
"You need help," he said. Not a question.
"It's fine," she said. "I've got it."
"Sure?"
"Sure."
"Okay," he said. "Tell me if that changes."
"Okay."
He took his water and went back to the sofa and the book.Â
By the time everyone had assembled and the trays of meat had been carried out, the sky was already mostly dark, the last violet of dusk pressing against the snow. The grill stood at the far corner, a tall steel structure, half built into the railing. Cassian had been outside earlier to start the coals. The smell of woodsmoke had crept in around the edges of the great room while they cooked.
They moved out together, in twos and threes.
The cold hit Elain when she stepped out, but the heat lamps caught her almost immediately. She set the salad bowl down at the center of the table and looked up.
The view from this part of the deck was extraordinary. The valley dropped away into pines, the deep dark blue evening sky above, the first stars already pricking through. The snow on the railings caught the warm gold from the heaters and held it. Everything was very still.
"Wow," she said.
"Right?" Feyre had come up beside her. Her voice was soft, the way she always made her voice soft when she wanted to share something with Elain alone, even in a group of people. "This is what I love about coming up here. You stop being able to think about whatever you were thinking about. The mountains just take it. They take it for you."
Elain nodded.
She had not realized, until Feyre said it, how much of the noise inside her head had quieted in the last hour.
They sat down at the table. Cassian's grill was already producing steady curls of smoke, and Rhysand had come to stand beside him with the second bottle, the two of them in low conversation about heat zones and rest time. Mor had pulled out a small bluetooth speaker and was scrolling through her phone. Music came on, low, something acoustic and warm. Feyre poured wine for the people at the table. Nesta sliced bread.
Elain sat down at the end of the table near the rail and tucked her hands inside her sleeves and watched.
Azriel sat down across from her.
The food came in waves. The first lamb chops, charred outside, pink and tender inside, Cassian carrying them to the table on a wooden board. The salad got passed. The bread got torn. The wine got refilled. The conversation was easy and meandering. Mor told a story about a friend from her psychology program who had been doing fieldwork in a small town and had been adopted as a mascot by the local bowling league. Cassian explained at length why his rub was the best.Â
Elain listened.
She had always been more of a listener at family tables than a talker. She wanted to listen to Mor's stories. She wanted to watch Cassian argue with himself about meat. She wanted to be in this lamplight with these people, eating slowly, drinking the very good wine Mor had brought, watching the steam from the onsen rise into the cold sky.
"It's nice," she said. Quietly. To the table at large. "To go on trips like this. I forgot how nice it is."
Mor turned to her with that easy fondness she carried.
"Right?" Mor said. "It used to be a lot more often. Then certain people"âshe gestured at Rhysand and Feyre with the back of her handâ"started disappearing on weekends to go on dates instead of doing trips with us."
"We are still very fun," Feyre said.
"You are very fun," Mor agreed. "When you remember that you have friends."
"Are you complaining about my partner to my sister-in-law?" Rhysand said. He sounded mostly amused.
"I am," Mor said. "Yes."
"I really don't disappear into love," Feyre said.
"Feyre darling," Rhysand said, with the small dry tone he used only with her. "You absolutely disappear into love. You disappeared into love thirty minutes after we arrived. You said you were going to take a quick shower and you couldnât without me."
Everyone groaned but Rhysand gave Feyre a kiss.
They ate. They talked. They drank. The night moved past them.
At some point Mor leaned back in her chair, glass in hand, and said, "Onsen after we clean up? I want the full experience tonight. Hot water, snow, stars."
"Yes," Feyre said immediately. "Obviously."
"Elain?"
Elain opened her mouth.
"She can't," Rhysand said, while slicing himself a piece of lamb. "She promised me a match."
Elain laughed.
"Rhys," Feyre said, with the long-suffering tone she used when she was about to lose an argument. "Let her go in the hot water with us. She just got here."
"After the match," Rhys said.
Elain looked at Mor.
"I'll come in later," Elain said.
ââ
Rhysand set up the chessboard at the low table in front of the fire.
It was a beautiful board. Walnut and maple, heavy weighted pieces. She sat down on the floor across from him on a thick wool rug, her legs tucked under her, a fresh glass of wine on the small side table beside her.
"Black or white?" he said.
"White."
"Confident."
The game began.
She lost track of time almost immediately. She had been telling the truth when she said she liked playing him. He was good in a way that demanded her full attention, and her full attention on a chessboard was the closest she ever came to meditation. The fire crackled beside them. The sounds of the others drifted in and out, Mor and Feyre laughing as they crossed the great room in robes on their way out to the onsen, the heavy glass door sliding open and closed, the distant murmur of their voices on the deck.
Elain captured one of Rhysand's bishops on move seventeen.
"Hm," Rhysand said.
She did not respond. She was already three moves ahead.
The first hour passed.
Feyre came back inside, hair wet, pink-cheeked, wrapped in a thick robe. She walked over to the chess table.
"How long is this going to take?"
"Fifteen minutes a round," Azriel said. From the sofa. Not looking up from his book. He had returned at some point in the first hour, quietly, settling back into the same seat he had been in before dinner. He had not interrupted the game. He had not spoken.
But he had been watching.
"Fifteen minutes a round?" Feyre repeated. "How many rounds?"
"That's the part he doesn't tell you."
"Rhysand."
"What?"
"You are destroying her first evening here."
"It's fine," Elain said, looking up at her sister, smiling. "I'm enjoying. Really."
"You're sure?"
"Sure."
Cassian and Nesta had gone upstairs at some point. Elain hadn't seen them go. There was just the steady soft sound of the fire and the click of a chess piece being set down and, every so often, the very faint turn of a page from the sofa.
She moved her rook into a fork.
Rhysand exhaled through his nose. He pinched the bridge of it.
She looked up at him over the board. The fire had burned low. The lamps along the wall had dimmed at some point, automatic timers stepping the brightness down for the evening. Outside the windows, the deck lights were still on, and the onsen continued to steam, but the women had long since gone back to bed.
She looked at the sofa.
Azriel had gotten up.
She had not heard him go. The book was closed on the cushion where he had been sitting. She did not know when he had left. He had come and gone several times over the course of the evening.
She looked at the clock above the mantel.
It was past midnight.
It had been past midnight for a while.
Rhysand sighed. He looked at the board. He moved his queen. He sighed again. He moved his queen back.
She moved her bishop and checked him.
"Oh," he said. Quietly. With genuine appreciation. "Oh, that's good."
He looked at the board for a long minute. He was going to lose this game in seven or eight moves. He knew it. She knew it. They both kept playing anyway because that was the unspoken law of the game.
It took eleven moves.
She took his queen on the eleventh.
He resigned three moves after that.
Rhysand stood up. He stretched. "Thank you," he said. "Really. For doing this. I haven't had a game like that in a long time."
"You don't have to thank me. I had fun."
"You did?"
"I really did."
He nodded. He looked toward the staircase. Toward, presumably, the room where her sister was waiting for him.
"Get some sleep," he said.
"Okay."
"Goodnight, Elain."
"Goodnight, Rhys."
He went upstairs.
She sat on the floor for a moment after he was gone, looking at the empty chess board. She picked up the white queen and turned it over in her fingers, feeling the weight of it. The cabin had gone quiet around her, that late-night quiet that arrived when everyone in a house had gone to bed and the house itself had begun to settle.
Elain got up and went upstairs.
She went into her room. Closed the door quietly behind her. Stood for a moment.
She was annoyed.
Not at Rhys, exactly. Rhys had been Rhys, and she had agreed to the match, and she had wanted to win, and she had won. She was annoyed at herself. Annoyed for not spending any minute with Azriel.
She got into bed in her clothes and pulled out her phone.
The group chat had been silent for hours.
She typed: first day was a disaster. nothing happened. i played chess with rhys for five hours.
The replies came almost instantly. Both of them were up.
Nuala: five HOURS Cerridwen: elain what is wrong with you Nuala: why did you play chess for five hours Elain: because rhys wouldn't stop and i kept winning so he kept asking for one more Nuala: throw the game next time Elain: competitive integrity Nuala: competitive integrity is a thing you have when you are not on a romantic mountain weekend with the love of your life Elain: he is not the love of my life Nuala: MHM Cerridwen: what do you want to be doing right now Elain: the onsen. i wanted to try the onsen. i didn't get to. Cerridwen: then go now. Elain: it's almost two in the morning Nuala: and? Cerridwen: exactly. and? Cerridwen: what does the time matter on a vacation. there is no time on a vacation.Â
Elain stared at the screen.
She put the phone face-down on the duvet and looked at the ceiling.
Then she sat up.
She got out of bed and walked to her closet and opened it. The cobalt blue bikini was folded neatly on the shelf, the deepest of the blues, the colour Cerridwen had once said looked very good against her skin. She changed quickly. The cotton robe over the top. Slippers on her feet. Her hair pulled into a low loose twist.
She slipped out of her room.
ââ
When Elain arrived at the deck, she stopped.
She had assumed the dark she was walking toward was empty. That the steam she could see was the steam of an unoccupied pool waiting for her. That the cabin had finished settling and that this hour belonged to her alone.
It did not belong to her alone.
Azriel was at the far end of the onsen, his back against the stone, his arms resting along the rim, his head tipped slightly to one side. His hair was wet, pushed back from his face. The water came up to the middle of his chest, dark over the rest of him, the blue underwater lights turning everything beneath the surface into a slow geometry of pale ripples and shadow. His eyes had been on the sky. They moved to her the moment she rounded the corner.Â
Elain's heart did something terrible.
She did not have words for it. She had only the physical event, the violent reorganization of her entire chest cavity in the space of a single second, the heat that ran up her neck and into her face and out through the tips of her ears, the way her stomach simply stopped existing as an organ and became a hollow, churning absence she could feel behind her ribs. He was in the onsen.Â
She turned around.
She turned around without thinking, without breathing, on a pure animal reflex, and she heard her own voice come out before she had decided what to say.
"I'm sorry."
The words were thin. Embarrassed. She was already two steps away, her back to him, her slippers carrying her across the deck toward the glass doors.
"I didn't know you were here. I didn't think anyone was. I'll go."
"Elain."
His voice landed behind her. Low.Â
She did not turn around.
She stood there on the cold deck in her thin robe and looked at the snow on the railing in front of her and felt the world narrow to the single fact of his voice behind her in the dark.
"You don't have to go," he said.
A pause.
"If you want to come in, I can get out. I don't mind."
Elain closed her eyes.
She pressed her hand flat against the front of the robe, over her sternum, over the place where her heart was beating itself into a frenzy. She could feel the thud of it through the terry cloth. She could feel her own breath, too fast, too shallow, the small ragged rhythm of a body that had been ambushed by its own desire and did not yet know what to do with the ambush.
He had offered to get out.
"No," she said. "Please don't. I'll go back inside. I didn't mean to disturb you."
"You're not disturbing me."
She turned her head. Just enough to look at him over her shoulder. Just enough to see him through her hair, the bright wet line of him in the blue light, the steam rising around his shoulders. He had not moved. He was still in the same position, arms along the rim, head tilted, watching her with that careful unhurried attention.
"I don't mind the company," he said.
She did not know what to do with that sentence.
She stood very still for another second, half-turned away from him, her hand still pressed against her chest. Her breath was making a small white ghost in the air in front of her face. The deck was very cold under her slippers. The robe was thin. The heat lamps were doing what they could but she could feel the night going through her, finding the gaps in the fabric, raising the small fine hairs on her arms.
He saw it.
He saw her shiver, or saw the way she was standing with her shoulders drawn slightly inward, or saw something else she had not noticed about her own body. His brows drew together slightly. A small concerned shift.
"You're cold," he said. "Either come in or go inside."
It was not a command. He did not give commands. It was something quieter than that, gentler, the same low careful concern she had heard from him a hundred times now, in cafes and hallways and across the front seat of a truck. You went out without your jacket. You should eat something. Your hands are cold. The same voice that had sat with her after the worst day of her life and said let it out. The same voice that had said, in a noodle restaurant, not that you're getting used to someone taking care of you. That you're getting used to me.
She was getting used to him.
She had been getting used to him for two months and she was here in the snow because she had been getting used to him, and now the question he had asked her was the simplest, most practical question in the world, and the answer was supposed to be easy.
Inside, or in. Cold, or hot.
"Is itâappropriate, though?"
He looked at her for a moment. Then he said, "I've shared hot tubs with Mor and Amren more times than I can count."
And there it was. The reminder she hadn't asked for but probably needed, that this was normal for him. That proximity meant nothing, that skin meant nothing, that the fact she was standing here in a bathrobe with her heart trying to crack through her ribs was a her problem, not a him problem, and he was probably wondering why she was making this so difficult when it was just water.
"If you really don't mind," she said. Quietly. Still not quite looking at him. "I'll come in."
He nodded once. She saw it from the corner of her eye.
And then he did something that almost undid her.
He turned away.
Not all the way. He shifted his position so that his back was to her. He looked at the trees instead of at her, his profile turned to the snow, his attention given to the dark line of pines on the far side of the deck. He had simply turned. Given her the room to take off her robe.
Her throat tightened.
She walked to the side of the onsen on stiff legs. Her hands moved to the sash of the robe.
Her fingers were shaking. She could feel them shaking, the small uneven movements of them, and she did not know how much of the shaking was the cold and how much was the rest of it. The robe came open. She slipped it down off her shoulders and folded it neatly over the rail of the deck beside the onsen, and for the half second she stood there in the cold in only the cobalt bikini she felt more naked than she had ever felt in her life. The fabric was almost nothing. The straps were thin. The cut was lower across her hips than the cuts she usually allowed herself, and she felt the entire night air against her bare skin, against her stomach, against the small triangle of her chest exposed above the top of the bikini, and the wind found every place the fabric did not cover and reminded her of how little of her was covered.
He did not turn around.
She climbed in.
The water swallowed her in stages. Her foot first, then her calf, then her thigh, and the heat was almost too much after the cold of the deck. She gasped quietly. She lowered herself the rest of the way in a single slow movement, and the warmth closed around her hips, her waist, her ribs, her shoulders, and she let out a breath she had not known she had been holding, a long uneven sigh of a body finally allowed to surrender to something it had been bracing against.
The heat was unbelievable.
She had not understood, until this moment, what an onsen was. The shape of it, the way the water held you, the way the stone of the rim was warm against the back of her neck when she leaned back against it. She tilted her head against the stone and closed her eyes for just a second, and felt the heat begin to do its work, the slow loosening of every muscle she had been carrying tight since the moment she had stepped out of the van.
When she opened her eyes Azriel had turned back.
He was settled into his original position, his arms along the rim again, his eyes on hers. He was not staring. He had not done anything she could have called staring. He was simply looking at her now that she was in the water, his expression composed, the same careful attentive thing it always was, the same warmth at the corners of his eyes she had been trying to read for weeks.
The onsen was not large.
It had been built for closeness. Six feet across, maybe, the stone rim curving in a smooth oval, the bench underwater wide enough for three or four people to sit comfortably. They were on opposite sides. They were as far apart as the geometry of the pool allowed. And the distance was very small.Â
She was very aware of that.
She was aware of it in the same way she was aware of her own pulse, the way she was aware of the cold against the top of her head where her hair was pinned, the way she was aware of the steam rising between them and the dark above them and the absurd embarrassment of arithmetic her brain was performing without her permission.
She made herself look at the sky.
"It's beautiful," she said. Softly. To the stars.
"Yeah."
His voice was low. She could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing across the small space of water between them, and the small drip of his hand where it had risen above the surface to rest along the rim.
She let her eyes drift.
His tattoos.
She had caught them in pieces over the last few minutes, in the small accidental glances she could not stop herself from making. Now, with her eyes half-lidded and the silence between them soft enough to allow it, she let herself look properly. Once. Quickly.
Dark lines. Deep black ink against his skin in the blue light. They climbed the side of his neck in a single narrow band, crossed his collarbone, spread across the upper half of his chest in shapes she could not entirely read. Long curving lines that almost looked like writing and almost looked like wings. They wrapped over his shoulder and traveled down the long line of his arm.
He was beautiful.
She looked away.
She let her head tip back against the stone. Closed her eyes.
A small involuntary sigh came out of her.
A sigh that had nothing performative about it. The body letting go of something it had been holding. She felt the slow uncurling of the muscles at the base of her neck, the small treacherous knot that had been living there for weeks.
"That sounded like it hurt," Azriel said. Quietly.
She laughed. Small. Breathy. "My neck. And my back. I have been hunched over a desk since the new semester started and my body is filing a formal complaint."
She felt very brave.
She did not know where it had come from. The bravery. It had not been in her fifteen minutes ago when she had been standing in her room debating whether to come down. It had not been in her on the deck when she had been about to bolt. But she had been in the water for five minutes and the warmth had loosened something, or the dark had loosened something, or the simple fact of him sitting on the other side of the small pool in the middle of the night with the stars above them had loosened something, and she felt, for the first time in what might have been months, fully alive inside her own skin and unafraid of the man looking at her.
She turned her head toward him.
"It is really stuck," she said. "The knot. Between my shoulder blade and my spine. I can't reach it."
He looked at her.
The silence this time was a third kind. Not the careful one. Not the soft one. A new one. One she had not heard before. She could feel the air change between them in the way she had felt the air change in Room 402 when he had asked, very quietly, how does it feel.
"I can help," he said. "If you want."
The answer was already in her mouth.
"Yes," she said.
He moved.
The water rose against her ribs as he crossed the small distance between them. He lifted himself off his side of the pool and waded the few short steps through the heavy warm water and lowered himself beside her, on her right, close enough that the side of his thigh was almost against hers. Not touching. Almost.
"Turn around," he said. Quietly. Very low. "Show me where."
She turned.
She pivoted so that her back was to him. She lifted both hands and tucked the loose strands more securely behind her, baring the back of her neck and the line of her shoulders. The straps of the bikini sat thin and dark across her shoulder blades. She reached one hand back and pressed her fingers to the place between her left shoulder blade and her spine.
"Here," she said.
Her voice was thinner than she had intended. She could not control her voice.
She felt his hand before he had quite touched her. The small displacement of water in front of his fingers as he moved them through. The radiating warmth of his palm an inch from her skin. He paused there for a second, the smallest fraction of a second, and she understood with the suspended clarity of a moment that has slowed down that he was giving her one last chance to change her mind.
She did not change her mind.
His hand settled on her back.
The heel of his palm pressed gently against the spot she had pointed to, his fingers spreading along the curve of her shoulder, and Elain's eyes closed before she could stop them.
His hand was so warm.
He started slowly. Small slow circles with the heel of his palm against the muscle, the pressure building in increments, a pressure she had not realized she had been waiting for. He did not say anything. He did not make conversation. He worked with the same quiet attentive focus he gave to everything, his fingers finding the knot and working at the edges of it, his thumb pressing into the meat of the muscle beside her spine, and Elain felt the knot begin to give.
She felt the sound rise out of her before she could catch it.
A moan.
His hand stopped.
Not abruptly. The pressure simply eased. The slow circles slowed and slowed and ceased, and his palm rested very still against the place where the knot had been, and he held himself there for a second that had no measurable length.
She felt him breathe.
His breath was different now. Not the steady rhythm she had heard from him before. Something rougher. Something with an edge. She could feel it against the back of her neck, where her bare skin was exposed above the curve of her bikini, and the closeness of him was suddenly very real to her, the body of him behind her in the water, the bare chest she had glimpsed when she had first walked in, the long line of him only inches from her now.
His hand moved.
Not away. Down. He slid his palm along the side of her ribs in a single slow stroke, the heel of his hand following the line of her body where it dipped at her waist, his fingers tracing the curve until they settled, low, on the soft place above her hip. He paused there. Just paused. His hand rested at her hip under the water, large and warm and steady, and Elain stopped breathing.
He moved again.
His arm came around her.
He did it slowly. The way he did everything. The slow circle of his arm crossing the small space between them, and his hand sliding flat against the wet skin of her lower stomach. The heel of his palm pressed gently below her navel. His fingers spread across the soft warm plane of her belly. Five points of warmth against her bare skin under the water.
He pulled her back against him.
Not hard. The smallest pressure. Just enough that her back came to rest against the warm wall of his chest, and the back of her head settled against the curve of his shoulder, and the long line of him was suddenly behind her. She could feel his chest rising and falling against her shoulder blades. She could feel the steady warm length of his thigh against the back of hers under the water. She could feel the careful spread of his hand on her stomach holding her there, anchoring her to him, the small intimate weight of it doing something to her ability to remain a person.
His other hand returned to her shoulder.
His fingers slid up the wet line of her arm, along the curve of her neck, into the small loose hairs at the base of her skull, until his palm settled against the back of her head. He cradled her there. Two points of contact. One hand on the soft warm plane of her stomach. One hand at the back of her skull. The whole of her held between his palms, surrounded on every side by him.
She had stopped breathing several seconds ago. She had not noticed.
She breathed in.
She felt the breath move into her under his hand. Felt her stomach expand against the warmth of his palm. Felt the small involuntary press of her own body into his hand, the way a thing being held tightened gently against what was holding it. Her body knew what to do. Her body was doing it without her. She did not have to make any of the decisions her body was making.
The architecture of her wanting was older than her ability to refuse it, and her body tipped back into the warm cup of his hand, and her eyes closed, and she felt the small soft brush of his thumb against the side of her throat where her pulse was hammering.
He had to feel it. There was no way he did not feel it.
His fingers spread slightly on her stomach.
It was the smallest movement. The smallest possible adjustment of his hand. His fingers fanned out a fraction of an inch across her skin, taking up more of her, the warmth of him spreading further across the soft place under her navel, and Elain felt the air leave her in a slow uneven exhale.
She felt his forehead come to rest against the side of her neck.
Light. Barely there. His mouth was right there. His mouth was right next to her skin. She could feel his breath on her wet skin and it was uneven, very uneven, the breath of a body that was not under the control of the man inside it.
A second passed.
Then she felt his mouth.
Not a kiss. It was softer than that. It was barely there. The brush of his lips against the curve of her shoulder where it met her neck, the press of them no firmer than a whisper, the warmth of his mouth against her wet skin for one half second and then gone.
She turned her head.
Slowly. The smallest movement. She turned her face toward him without lifting it from where his hand still cradled, and her cheek brushed against the side of his face as she moved, and her mouth was very close to his mouth, and then she was looking at him.
He was very close.
His face was very close to hers. His eyes were already on hers. He had lifted his head from her shoulder when she had moved, and now they were looking at each other across a distance of perhaps three inches, and his eyes in the blue light were dark and open and full of something she had never seen in them before. Something that had no patience in it. Something that had nothing careful in it at all.
She had thought, for two months, that she understood the shape of how he looked at her.
She had not understood.
"Azriel," she whispered.
His name came out of her on a breath. She did not know she had said it until she heard it. And he closed his eyes the moment she said it, closed them as if her voice saying his name was something he could not look at and survive, and his forehead dropped back to the curve of her shoulder, and his hand on her stomach tightened. The fingers spread, then gathered, the smallest gathering, a single fraction of an inch of grip closing around the soft skin under her navel, and Elain felt the small involuntary press of his palm pulling her infinitesimally closer to him before he caught himself and stopped.
She felt the shudder that went through him.
She felt it everywhere. Through his forehead against her shoulder, through his palm against her skull, through the warm flat weight of his hand on her stomach where his grip had nearly closed before he had forced it open again. A small involuntary tremor she would have missed if she had not been pressed against him on three different points of contact. The shudder of a body trying to hold something in and failing in a measurable way.
She could not move.
She could not speak.
She did not know what was supposed to happen next. She did not know if she was supposed to do something. She did not know if she had already done something. She knew only that she was held, and that the holding was costing him, and that she was going to remember this moment in the deck and the water and the absurd impossible stars above them for the rest of her life with the same clarity with which she remembered the names of her plants.
He lifted his head.
He looked at her.
"Elain," he said.
His voice was scraped raw. She had never heard a voice come out of him that sounded like this. Low and rough at the edges, almost a whisper, almost a word she would have to ask him to repeat.
"You should go inside."
She blinked.
The sentence did not match the rest of what was happening. The sentence did not fit.
"Is everything okay?" she asked.
Her voice was small. Confused. She could feel her face changing without her permission, the hurt of misreading something arriving in real time, the embarrassment of having tipped her head into his hand and made a sound and let him kiss her shoulder and turned her face to his and whispered his name. She had done all of that. He had been there for all of that. And he was telling her to go inside.
Something flickered behind his eyes.
Something raw. Something he was working very hard to keep on its leash.
"Elain," he said. His voice was softer this time. Almost pleading. "Please. Go inside."
She bit her lip.
She saw his eyes drop to her mouth.
She saw his pupils blow wide.
"Stop doing that," he said. He said the same thing a few days ago in her dorm room.Â
His voice had changed again. The pleading was gone. Something else was there. Something tighter, something pulled to its limit, something with no patience left in it at all.
He moved.
He took his hand off her and reached past her on either side and placed his palms flat against the stone rim of the onsen behind her, his arms bracketing her body on both sides, and he was so close to her then that she could see the individual droplets of water on his shoulders catching the blue light. His chest was right there in front of her. The scars on his hands were gripping the stone hard.
"Elain," he said. Very quietly. Right there in front of her. "If you do not stop biting your lip, and if you do not go inside right now, I do not think I can hold myself back any longer."
The world emptied of sound.
Elain could hear her own breath. Loud, in her ears, faster than she could control. She could hear the small rhythm of the water against the stone. She could hear, very distantly, the wind in the pines.
She could not hear anything else.
His face was three inches from hers. His mouth was three inches from hers. His pupils were huge and dark. His jaw was clenched. His breathing was shallow and uneven. He was holding the rim of the onsen behind her so hard his knuckles had gone white.
Her lip was still between her teeth.
She did not know what to do.
She did not know what he wanted her to do. She did not know what she wanted to do. Nothing in her had prepared her for this. She had not been prepared for the words I do not think I can hold myself back coming out of Azriel's mouth in a low rough voice three inches from her face in a hot pool under a winter sky at two in the morning.
She had wanted this.
She had wanted this. She had spent three days packing for this. She had put on this specific bikini because she had wanted some version of this, however vague, however unspecified. She had wanted him to look at her like this. She had wanted to feel his mouth on her shoulder. She had wanted, in the small honest part of her that she did not visit very often, much more than that.
And she was terrified.
She was terrified because she had no script. Because everyone who had ever touched her had touched her wrong, and the one person who had finally touched her right was telling her to go inside, and she did not know if she was supposed to read that as protection or rejection or a test or a door closing, and she did not know if she had it in her to find out.
She let her lip slip out from between her teeth.
She looked away from his face.
"You're right," she said.
Her voice did not sound like hers.
"I should go."
She felt him exhale.
She felt the small ragged breath leave him, and she did not look at him because she could not look at him, and she pushed gently against his chest, just the smallest pressure, and he moved. He took his hands off the stone rim and pulled back from her, and the space between them reopened, and the cold air of the deck poured back into the gap between their bodies where his heat had been.
She stood up.
The water fell from her in heavy sheets and the cold hit her body all at once, and Azriel, who had been telling himself he was not going to look, looked.
He could not help it. He was a man with two months of practiced restraint and that practice had been spent up over the last twenty minutes, the small steady reserve he kept in case of emergencies entirely drained by the sound she had made when he had found the knot in her shoulder, and now she was standing in front of him in the cobalt bikini in the cold air in the blue light and there was nothing left in him to make him look away.
He looked.
She was looking sideways, at the snow on the rail, her face turned away from him. She did not see him do it. She did not see the slow involuntary travel of his eyes up the long wet line of her body, from the place at her hips where the water still clung in beads to the small flat plane of her stomach to the place where her ribs lifted with the fast shallow rhythm of her breathing.
He saw it. He saw the dark fabric of the bikini and the way it had tightened across her chest, the way the small thin straps were holding very little of anything, the way her nipples had pulled hard against the wet fabric in two clear painful peaks. He saw the goosebumps rising along the tops of her arms. He saw the line of her collarbone catching the blue light. He saw the soft curve of her breast where it lifted with each fast breath she was taking.
He closed his eyes.
He dropped his head and looked at the water and did not look at her again, because if he looked at her again he was going to do something he could not undo, and she was already climbing the steps, already reaching for her robe, already pulling it on with hands he could see were shaking, and she did not need him watching her cover herself.
He heard the soft pad of her slippers on the deck.
He heard the glass door slide open and slide closed, and the small distant click of it latching behind her, and then she was gone.
The cabin was quiet again.
"Fuck," he said.
He leaned back against the stone. Tipped his head to the sky. The stars stared down at him in the dark, indifferent and beautiful and ancient, and he envied them. He envied the indifference. He envied not wanting.
"Fucking. Shit."
He could still smell her.
That was the part he had not been prepared for. The honeysuckle of her hair where she had tipped her head back against his hand. The jasmine of her skin, the soft warm smell of her that lived under everything else and that he had been cataloguing for weeks against his own better judgment, and it was in the water now. It was in the steam. It was on his hands where he had touched her. He lifted his palms out of the water and pressed the heels of them against his eyes and he could smell her on his own skin.
He thought about the sound she had made.
The small soft involuntary thing that had come out of her when his hand had found the knot. He had not been prepared for it. He had not known what she sounded like when her body was being touched the way it wanted to be touched. He had not known what that sound was going to do to him.
He thought about the way she had leaned into his hand.
The slow involuntary tip of her head back into the cup of his palm. The way her eyes had closed. The way the long line of her throat had been exposed to him, the wet skin and the pulse and the small fragile architecture of her, the place where his mouth would have gone if he had let himself, and the place where he could not let himself put his mouth because if he had put his mouth there he would not have stopped.
He thought about her mouth.
The small full curve of her lower lip caught between her teeth. The way her eyes had gone wide. The way she had bitten down harder when she had seen him looking. Stop doing that, he had said, and she had not stopped. She had bitten down harder. She had not understood what she was doing. Or she had understood exactly what she was doing. He could not tell which was worse, and both of them were undoing him.
He thought about how she had just looked.
Standing in front of him in the cobalt bikini with the water sheeting off her body. The cold against her wet skin. The way her breasts had pulled tight against the fabric. The way her ribs had moved. The way the line of her had been laid out in front of him in the dark like an offering he had not been allowed to accept, and he had looked at her and he had memorized the shape of her, and the memory was sitting in his body now and it was not going anywhere.
His hands went under the water.
His jaw locked.
He hated himself.
He hated the weakness of it. He hated that he was here, alone, in water that smelled like her, with the steam of her body still rising around him, needing something he could not have and settling for the only thing available to him. He had spent his entire adult life being a person who did not do this. Who did not lose his composure. Who did not allow his body to make decisions for him. Who did not need anything from anyone badly enough that the wanting could be heard in his voice.
He took himself in his hand under the water.
It did not take long. That was the worst part. The not-long-ness of it. He had been so close already, he had been so close to the edge for the last twenty minutes that the rest was a formality, the small mechanical resolution of a body that had been wound tight by the curve of her shoulder under his lips and the sound of her breath catching and the impossible warm cradle of her head in his hand.
He thought of her, while he did it.
He could not help it. He could not have stopped himself from thinking of her if he had tried, and he was not trying.
He thought of her mouth. The full soft curve of her lower lip caught between her teeth. The pink wet press of it. He thought of what it would feel like under his thumb, the small soft give of it, the way it would part for him if he traced it. He thought of what her teeth would feel like against the pad of his finger if she bit down. He thought of his thumb in her mouth.
He thought of her breasts.
He had seen them. He had seen them through the wet cobalt fabric a minute ago, the small full curve of them, the way the cold or his touch had pulled her nipples into two hard painful peaks against the bikini, and the image was sitting behind his eyes now and would not leave. He thought of what they would feel like in his hands. The weight of them. The way they would fit against his palm, the warmth of her skin pressed into the warm rough surface of his, the give of her where she was soft. He thought of squeezing. Gently first. Then not gently. The small involuntary sound she would make if he closed his hand on her, the way she had made the sound when he had found the knot in her shoulder.
He thought of his mouth on her.
The place between her breasts. The hollow of her throat. The curve of her shoulder where he had already put his mouth, but lower, lower, his mouth on the small hard peak he had seen through her bikini, his tongue against the pebbled skin of it, the way her back would arch off the stone if he closed his lips around her and pulled. The sound she would make. The way she would say his name when he made her make that sound. Azriel. The way she had whispered it tonight as if it were the only word she knew. The way she would whisper it again. Different this time. Wrecked. Open. The way she would say it if his hand was on her breast and his mouth was on her throat and his thigh was between her thighs in the water and the whole long shaking length of her was pressed against him because she could not hold herself up any longer.
He thought of her hips.
The small narrow line of them above the cobalt fabric. The place where his hands would have gone if he had allowed himself to put them there. He thought of pulling her against him in the water, the small light weight of her, the way her body would have settled against his lap with the heat of the water already between them. He thought of her thighs around his. He thought of the bikini under his fingers. The small thin tie at her hip he could have pulled. He thought of what she would sound like if he undid it. He thought of what she would sound like if he slid his hand under the wet fabric. He thought of the warmth of her, the small soft secret warmth, the warmth that would have nothing to do with the water and everything to do with what he had been doing to her for the last twenty minutes without ever touching her there.
He thought of her wanting it.
That was the part that undid him. That was the part that finished him. The thought of Elain Archeron in the cold and the steam and the dark with her head tipped back against his shoulder and her breath coming out shaking and her hand finding his under the water, guiding him, asking him for it without saying the word, because she had wanted it. She had wanted it. He had seen it in her face. He had felt it in her pulse under his thumb. He had heard it in the small involuntary sound she had made when his hand had been on her, and that sound, that sound, had been her body telling him what her mouth had not yet learned to say.
He came in the water under the indifferent stars with his face pressed against the back of his own hand on the stone rim and her name held silent behind his teeth, because he would not let himself say it. Not even alone. Not even like this. Her name was something he had not earned the right to use this way, and he was not going to use it this way, even if he was using everything else.
His breathing was uneven for a long time after.
He stayed in the water until it slowed.
Until the heat stopped feeling like the memory of her body and started feeling like temperature again. Until the steam carried the smell of her up and out and away into the cold dark sky over the mountain. Until the stars above him stopped looking like the line of her collarbone and went back to being stars.
When he got out he did not look at where she had been sitting.
He pulled the towel around his waist. Walked across the deck in his bare feet, the wood cold beneath him, his hair dripping. Slid the glass door open. Stepped through it. Slid it closed.
The great room was dark. The fire had died to ash. The small lamp by the sofa had gone off at some point, the timer he had not paid attention to clicking it down somewhere in the last hour. He walked through the dark in his wet feet and went up the staircase, the runner soft under him, leaving a small careful trail of water along the wood that he would erase in the morning. He would erase all of it in the morning. He would walk down this same staircase at seven and he would wipe up the water and he would put the towels in the wash and he would make coffee and he would smile at her when she came downstairs and he would pretend that none of this had happened.
That was what he did. That was what he had always done.
He reached the second floor. He walked past her door very quietly.
He did not stop.
He went into his room and closed the door behind him and leaned his back against it for a second in the dark. The room was cold. The window had been left open a crack. He could hear, faintly through the wall, the sound of her shower running. The small distant hiss of water. He stood with his back against the door and listened to it and tried to breathe normally and failed.
He needed a shower. He needed cold water. He pushed off the door.
He walked to the nightstand to set down his phone. The screen lit up when his hand brushed it.
He stopped.
One notification. The small soft glow of her name in the lock screen.
Elainđč11 minutes ago
He picked it up.
I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come out tonight.
He read it.
He read it again.
And the frustration that had finally, barely, begun to drain from his body came flooding back in a different shape, colder this time, sharper, because this was worse. This was worse than the wanting. This was her pulling away. This was her sitting in her room in her wet hair filing the entire evening into a category called mistake I made at midnight.
And he was going to have to see her at breakfast.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
The phone was in his hands. The cursor in the reply field blinked at him. He looked at it for a long minute.
He typed nothing.
He set the phone face-down on the nightstand. He stood up. He walked to the bathroom. He turned the shower on cold and stepped into it without taking the towel off, and stood with his face turned up into the spray with his hands flat against the tile wall and tried to think about anything that was not her.
It did not work.
He stood under the cold water for a long time after that.
âThis town is full of echoes. Itâs as if they were trapped in the gaps of the walls or beneath the cobblestones. As you walk you feel someone following in your footsteps. You hear things rustling. Laughter. Old laughter, as if it were tired of laughing. And voices that are weary from overuse. You hear all those things. I imagine the day will come when all these sounds wither away.ââPedro PĂĄramo, Juan Rulfo
For @elriel-month đ»đđȘ 17 - đđđ€đ„đ
âĄđœïžâËâčâĄ
For this prompt I wanted something playful, like Elain experimenting with cooking and baking, discovering some unintentional magic in her efforts.
âĄđœïžâËâčâĄ
"đ đšđšđ đąđŹ đđźđ« đđšđŻđ đđđ§đ đźđđ đ"
An Elriel Fanfic inspired by "Like Water for Chocolate" by Laura Esquivel
Elainâs burnt family dinner. Okay, maybe she hasnât. But shes thought about doing it. That still warrants a punishment from Azriel, right?
CW: Spanking, Dom/Sub, Edging, and General Kinkiness
â â â â ââââ ⥠âââ â â â âââ â â â ââââ ⥠âââ â â â ââ
Since Elain and Azriel moved into the townhouse, family dinners have mostly been hosted here. With Elain being the only one who enjoys cooking it seemed natural hosting duties would fall to her.
Rhys and Feyre leave after dinner first, mumbling something about Nyx needing to sleep. As if they hadnât been exchanging seductive looks with each other for most of the night.
Mor and Amren stay for a couple glasses of wine before they too head out. Mor giving Elain kisses on both cheeks, thanking her for the lovely meal she cooked.
Cassian and Nesta are the last to leave, Nesta looking like she was ready hours ago. But Cass, as usual, wouldnât shut up. Az loves his brother but heâs also glad to finally have some peace and quiet.
Azriel settles into his favourite arm chair, ankle resting on his knee. Whiskey in hand, skimming through a few reports before calling it a night.
Elain comes into the living room from the hall and stands by his chair. Her eyes looking down at his crossed legs. A pout tugs at her full lips. Az chuckles.
âAre you wanting to come sit on my lap, sweet girl?â After she nods, Azriel brings his raised foot back down. But as she moves towards him Elain doesnât sit. No. She drapes her stomach across his lap, her face dangling down beside his leg.
âWhat is this about, Elain?â A grin pulls on his lips.
âI burnt dinner.â Azriel fights back a laugh at that.
âNo. You did not.â And he would never be mad at her if she had.
âI thought about it.â She attempts again. This time Az cant hold in his laugh.
âSweetheart, Iâm not punishing you for something that only happened in your mind.â Elain squirms on top of him. Wiggling her hips. Before burying her face against his leg.
âI like it. When thereâs a reason,â Her voice is quiet, muffled by his pants. âfor you to punish me.â
Ah.
âSo you want to be naughty, then. Is that it?â He purrs. Az sets his reports to the side, keeping his whiskey in one hand.
âNo. I want to be good.â She says stubbornly, as if this whole thing wasnât her idea.
He snorts. âGood girls donât present their asses and beg to be spanked, Elain.âÂ
âI havenât begged.â Thereâs a hint of a challenge in her voice and although Az canât see her face, heâs sure Elain is smirking.
âYou will.â He promises darkly.
Reaching his free hand down beneath Elainâs skirt. Azriel brushes his fingers against her ankle before moving his hand up. Bringing up her skirts with him. Az caresses her stocking covered leg, slowly working his way up her soft thigh. His fingers tease the tops of her stocking. Cream coloured and held up with little blue bows tied up in the back. His favourite pair.Â
He flips up her skirt fully, and groans. Her stockings are the only piece of fabric covering her lower half. Perfectly framing her plump, round ass. Bare. Her sex already glistening.
âYou really have been naughty.â She must have planned this from the start. Burning dinner. Presenting herself completely bare, wearing his favourite stockings, begging to be spanked. But she couldnât bring herself to actually burn dinner.
 Az grins at that. Even when playing naughty, his sweet Elain still canât stop being good.
But, if she wants to be punished this badlyâŠ
âFilthy girl.â He scolds, fingers digging into her doughy ass. âShowing up to dinner without any panties on. Is that something good girls do?â
âIt was a mistake.âÂ
âYou mean the whole time we were eating dinner with our family, it somehow slipped your notice that your cunt was completely bare?â Azriel ask incredulously.
âI was still covered.â Elain grumbles.
âSemantics.â
Azriel tilts his head. Considering. He grins to himself, an idea forming.
âWell, youâve certainly earned a punishment. Unfortunately for you, Iâm not quite done yet. Be a good girl and hold this for me, while I finish my reports.âÂ
Az places his ice cold glass on one of Elainâs bare cheeks. Her spine arches. She squirms from the cold, her ass jiggling. The glass moves with her. Causing the whisky within to swirl dangerously close to the rim.Â
âIf you spill my drink, Elain, Iâm not letting you come for a week.â Azriel warns her softly.
She lets out a huff of annoyance, mixed in with a groan. But she obeys. And keeps her body still.
Azriel pretends to read. Taking a sip of whiskey on occasion. He makes sure to set the glass in a new place each time. Never allowing her body to fully adjust to the chill. And delights in watching her struggle not to move from the cold. Her plump ass jiggles from even the slightest movement. And it takes every bit of Azâs self control not to bend down and sink his teeth into it.
He continues the pretence of finishing his reports. The air too filled with the scent of her sweet arousal for him to read a damn thing. But still Az lets the minutes drag on. Just like he lets the ice melt in his cup. Watching as condensation forms outside the glass. Dripping cold water down into her crack. Her little hands fisting into his trousers as it does, but still she doesnât move. Doesnât offer so much as a word of complaint. Like the good girl she is.
His pant leg has grown damp from the honey dripping out of her sex. He wants nothing more than to taste it. But Azriel is a patient man. Elain wants to play, so heâll play with her slowly. Just the way that she likes.
When his drink is finally done, he sets it and the reports off to the side. Elain shakes her ass at him the moment the glass is gone.Â
Such in impudent little thing.
âI know youâve been naughty Elain, but surely you havenât forgotten you manners. If you want something from me, you better ask politely.â Azriel orders. His hands rubbing her clothed back rather than the place he knows she desperately wants to be touched.
âPlease, spank me.â She asks, halfheartedly.
âHmmm. I think you can ask nicer than that.â He muses.
Her body stills for a moment, as if debating. But then, Elain looks up at him. Her beautiful face flushed bright red. Doe eyes wide and pleading. âPlease punish me, Azriel. Please spank my naughty ass.â
âSee. I told you, you would beg. And how sweetly you do it.â His voice is soft and dark.
He leans down and grips her chin.
âSince you want this so badly, you better remember you manners and thank me for each and every one.â
â â â â ââââ ⥠âââ â â â âââ â â â ââââ ⥠âââ â â â ââ
Elain moans at that. The command in his voice. Her core pulsing. Azriel hasnât even touched her yet and shes practically on the edge. She has half a mind to tell him to forget this whole thing and just fuck her already. But no. Elain started this game, shes not going to back out now.
Tumblr: Prologue, One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six
AO3: Prologue, One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six
Pairing: Elain/Azriel
Warnings: Cannon typical levels of violence
Since the war with Hybern, Elain has settled in to a stable routine. Filling all her waking hours with labour, allowing no room for idle thoughts to grow. If asked, Elain will tell you sheâs doing fine. And she is. If she can only manage to ignore all the secrets that threaten to bury her alive.
Elainâs not the only one keeping secrets. When the loyalty of her estranged mate gets called into question and a religious order imbeds itself in the courts of Prythian, Elain must go undercover to find out more. Working directly with the Night Courts spymaster Azriel, who hasnât spoken to her in months. The male she desperately wants, but wonât ever have. The male who isnât her mate.
Summary:
âyou never yielded to me even a little of your past or your natureââThe Crimes of the Mathematics Proffessor, Clarice Lispektor
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
Mild afternoon sun beams down on Elain, cool wind caressing her skin. Dirt cakes her hands, mud splotches cover her muslin gown. Blue birds are chirping in the birch tree a few feet away from where she kneels in the garden. Baby birds welcoming home their arriving mother, mouth filled with fresh food.
The exileâs estate sits on sprawling grounds, close enough to the nearest town that it takes less than an hour to get there by horse. But still isolated enough to have deep woods surrounding it. The gardens are large and disorganized. Nothing seems to be dying and Elain hasnât seen any visible weeds but itâs clear no real love or passion has been shown to it. Garden beds house plants picked seemingly at random, snapdragons next to cactiâs next to thyme.Â
Not that the residents seem to care much, Vassa has only ever walked the gardens at night when the disarray is far less noticeable. Jurian doesnât seem like the type to do much strolling in flowers and LucienâŠElainâs not entirely sure about the source of his indifference.
Still, itâs enough of an affront to the eyes that Elain considers having strong words with the head gardener, but sheâs been unable to locate him. Thereâs a cabin on the edge of the property where Vassa told her the man lives but heâs been gone each time sheâs stopped by.
So with approval from Vassa, Elain plunders the gardeners shed and attempts to restore order to the chaos. Sheâs unlikely to be here long enough to enjoy the fruits of her labour but she enjoys the work anyway. Today Elain is planting hydrangeas she had Cerridwyn pick up in town, errands allowing the spy to slip away without drawing too much attention.
Since coming to live with the band of exiles a week ago, Elain has spent most of her days in the garden alone. Nuala and Cerridwyn are both wary about seeming too close to her in case their covers as spies are blown.Â
Eris hasnât shown his face since the day of the funeral. The idea that he might be off plotting somewhere while Elain is no closer to understanding his true intent irks her greatly.
And she hasnât gotten a chance to spend much time with the three exiles aside from dinner every night. As the sun rises each morning Vassa returns to a firebird. Elain hasnât seen her during the day, and hasnât asked to. Assuming that itâs a rather sensitive subject for the exiles.Â
Lucienâs presence has been sparse since the first night. Busy with emissary work or simply avoiding her, Elain isnât sure.Â
Jurian leaves in the morning most days, only returning for supper where conversations are pleasant if a bit bland. What heâs been up to remains unknown, meeting with Lords across the territory Elain gathers. But the contents of those meetings are still a mystery. Living in the servants quarters has left the twins too heavily observed for much spying and Elain hasnât been able to find out any information on her own.Â
Hasnât been able to do much of anything, really.Â
Elain thought coming here to spy would make her feel important. That she would finally get to do something of value. The success of the first night is starting to feel like a blip.
Elain grips the trowel in her hand firmly, the rough wooden handle digging into skin. She shoves it deep into the earth, dislocating clumps of soil and clay. Metal bangs on rock. Sighing she reaches her hand in and pulls it out, dirt loges beneath nails. She glides her thumb across the rough surface of the rock, tracing the texture.
Elain hasnât made any progress with the stones Azriel brought her for training, despite looking at them for half an hour every night. As for the jacketâŠshe hasnât touched it since that first night. Not with it reeking so badly of alcohol and sewage. It took three days of airing out her rooms just to get rid of the stench.
For days afterward Elain dreaded her next meeting with Azriel. The idea of looking him in the eye and informing him that the only thing sheâs accomplished all day is to plant azaleas. But he hasnât shown up all week. Not since the first night. Elain wonders if, like Lucien, Azriel is avoiding her.
Elain separates the roots of the hydrangeas. Placing them gently into the earth and packing soil around it.
Part of her is glad for the distance, and not only because she isnât making any progress with training or spying.
Being around Azriel is hard. Painful. Standing alone in a room with him, both thinking the same thing, wanting the same thing. And knowing it can never happen. Elain would rather avoid being in that position entirely than deal with the burning longing that comes for days afterward.
She still hasnât forgiven him for avoiding her for months. But when heâs close all that hurt and anger seems to leave her mind. Like the earth has tilted and Azrielâs now at the centre of it, drawing her in closer and closer. All rational thought leaves her mind, thereâs only him.
Whatâs wrong with her?Â
Elainâs never before been this indecisive. Wanting him close but being unwilling to do anything more. Being hurt when heâs gone but wanting distance when heâs near. How horrid that must make her.
And if he ever finds out the truth of what sheâs doneâŠhow this is all her fault.
Elain buries that thought. So deep in the garden of her mind youâd have to kill her to get it out. She almost never allows herself to think on any of the things buried there. Elain keeps her head looking forward, never turns back.
Itâs the only way to survive.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
For the past week Azriel has spent every morning in the library pouring over old text. Searching for anything that references seers and prophecy.
Clotho was right, there arenât many books to begin with and the ones he can find appear to be written about travelling charlatans. Nothing that describes seers blessed by the cauldron itself.
He sits in a little reading nook carved into the mountain, red stone surrounding him. Scenes of legendary battles decorate the pillars holding up the walls. Armoured heroes with mighty greatswords casting out scaled beast down into the abyss. Bodies twist in agony and nightmare.
Azrielâs desk, likewise, is carved into the mountain, brightly polished making the rock shine almost like gemstone. Discarded cups of tea and crumbled up notes litter his workspace. Along with a few books on mating bonds Az indulged in taking out and is now too embarrassed to put back.Â
Layered rugs, patterned in styles from a wide range of decades, line the floor. An overstuffed armchair sits before a small fireplace which brightens the room. Faelights in the ceiling doing the rest of the work.
The whole space is warm and cozy, but that comfort was a secondary motivation for Az picking the nook. The main one being because itâs the room furthest away from the general library. And Azriel doesnât really care to be seen by anyone else.
Clotho gave him permission to be in here, and many of the priestesses he trains have grown used to his presence. But stillâŠbeing in their safe space makes Az feel deeply self conscious. Always mindful of his movements and tone of voice.
And it hasnât escaped Azrielâs notice how many eyes he draws each time he browses the shelves for new tomes. Priestesses who glance and sigh as he walks by.Â
When it happens his mind inevitably drifts back to Elain. Those few times sheâs looked up at him with desire filling her beautiful doe eyes. Like sheâs moments away from inviting Azriel into her bed.
And that thought is not a welcomed one, certainly not in the library of all places. A guest he may be, but if Clotho catches him wandering around reeking of arousal she may skin him alive.Â
Heâd probably deserve it.
Try as he might, Azriel canât seem to stop thinking about Elain. He used to have such a good routine. He kept thoughts of her at bay during the day, indulged only at the very dead of night when even his shadows have fallen asleep. And thereâs no one around to see his shame as Azriel imagines that it was him the Cauldron chose as Elain mate.
Part of himself still canât quite believe that heâs not.
Heâs a big believer in fate, hears enough whispers from the shadow and stone to know it exist. Three human sisters being turned fae canât be a coincidence. The Mother chose them for some higher purpose that Azriel hasnât figured out yet.
And for two of them to be mated to his two brothers, while ElainâŠ
Az has only uttered that thought aloud once, to Rhysand. Which turned out badly enough that he decided to lock the idea deep within himself and never think of it again.Â
That lasted for about a day, until escaping their imprisonment, the words clawed back up again. Haunting him with relentless force.
Why isnât it me?
Ordinarily the answer would be simple. Because Azrielâs a shit who doesnât deserve her, thatâs how it was with Mor. But in this case it just so happens that Lucien is an even bigger shit who deserves Elain even less.Â
If she was mated to someone better than him this would all be so much easier. Azriel could step aside, watch her from a distance at peace knowing sheâs found happiness.Â
He tried that at first. Stayed away after she was turned fae despite being so drawn to her. Partly because Nesta was ready to claw out the eyes of anyone who merely looked towards the room Elain had locked herself inside of.
But also, because Azriel convinced himself that he had no place around her. Elainâs mate would come for her and everything would be fine. It wasnât until he saw how much she wasted away that Az realized how wrong he was. Lucienâs presence offered no comfort for Elain, he didnât even seem to understand how to help her.Â
So Azriel stepped forward, telling himself all the while that he would just do this one thing and then take a step back. Soon she would fall into her mates arms and never look his way again.
But that never happened. And it hasnât escaped Azrielâs notice that itâs his direction, not Lucienâs, her eyes turn to when theyâre both in a room.Â
Mor, she had never wanted him back. And there was some sick part of Azriel that was perfectly content with that. He could love her in his own quiet way and never have to worry about anything more. About corrupting someone so pure.
But Elain does want him. Was hurt when Azriel was avoiding her. Has never shied away from him or avoided his touch.
Thereâs a deeply pathetic part of himself that doesnât know what to do with someone who actually wants him back.
Heâs had lovers before, many of them. But thatâs only been physical. Heâs never fully allowed himself to open up to anyone. Not even Mor. And Azriel knows that if thereâs to be any future with Elain he would have to give her all of himself.
As much as he wants her, heâs not entirely sure heâs capable of doing that.
And she deserves someone who can. Someone gentle and kind who can touch her without worrying about the taint of his stained hands.
Azriel is torn away from his musings as soft footsteps approach from behind. He turns swiftly, scarred hand reaching for the dagger strapped to his belt.Â
Only to find Gwyn standing in the doorway shifting her weight between two feet, arms behind her back. His shadows, dancing idly on the rug before the fire, had not informed him sheâd arrived.Â
Az greets her politely which she returns. Thereâs a look of hesitation in her eyes, as there so often is, before she hides it again, as she always does.
âI uhhhâClotho, mentioned you were looking for books, on seers.â She addresses the wall beside Azrielâs head rather than his eyes. He tries not to think of that brutal day in Sangravah, knows sheâs doing the same.
âI work for a researcher named Merril, she can be a bit,â her brows furrow, âbut anyways, sheâs really smart. Collects a bunch of rare text. I was able to find this one for you.â From behind her back Gwyn pulls out a small, almost hand sized book, itâs leather bindings worn with age.Â
Prophets and the Voices of Time, author unknown.
Azriel stands and reaches for the book, speaking gently, âThis will be very helpful, thank you.â Â
âI will try to track down more if I can.â Gwyn gives him a firm nod, like a soldier committed to duty.
He returns it halfheartedly, attention drifting to the book in his ruined hand.
Itâs longer than the small size would suggest, over a thousand pagesâwhich are brittle enough to require great care when handing them. The text inside is tiny, blotted and smudged in places. Written in what appears to be an older dialect of the common tongue, which Azriel is only vaguely familiar with.
Whatever information the book may hold, itâs going to be a pain to read. He might even need to recruit Amren for help. Gwyn is still in the room, studying him with sharp interest. He raises a brow at her, she looks down blushing.
âSorry, Nesta sometimesâŠâÂ
âTells you things she shouldnât,â Azriel finishes for her.
Gwyn gives him a guilty expression, smiling a little, hooking shimmering strand of hair behind her ear.
âYes, and well she hasnât mentioned anything about seers,â she laughs a little, the shadows in the corner seem to sway in response. âI guess I was just wondering if Nesta has been seeing my future without telling me.â
Azriel smirks. âThat would be a harrowing thought.â
Mirth shines in Gwynâs depthless teal eyes. âI fear she might use her sight for evil not good. Laugh days before I trip down the stairs, call dibs on the last cupcake before itâs even baked.âÂ
She tells him in a hushed, conspiratorial voice, âNesta might even spoil the latest books for me before their release dates.â
His shadows glide closer to the one Gwyn casts. Shaking wildly, as if outraged on her behalf.
Azriel chuckles, the tension of the long hours he spent working leaving him. âGood thing you wonât have to worry about any of that. Prophecy is just a personal interest of mine.â He lies smoothly.Â
Elainâs powers are not widely known and heâs more than happy to keep it that way. The idea of what would happen if Elainâs ever captured by someone who knows sheâs a seer has kept Azriel up many nights before.
âOhâŠokay, thatâs good then,â Gwyn speaks softly, as if not quite believing him, before she bids him goodbye and leaves. As she walks away Azriel swears some of his shadows remain in her own.Â
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
Azrielâs head is pounding by the time he heads upstairs for training. Sunshine searing into his eyes after so long in the dim library.Â
From what heâs managed to gather the book Gwyn gave him does seem to be legit. Itâs about prophets, not seers, whose powers work differently. Still, itâs the closest thing heâs come across to information on Elainâs gifts.
But understanding the dialect is a slow moving hassle. Azriel decided against asking Amren, worrying that it might lead to Rhysâs interference in Elainâs training.Â
Cassian and Nesta are already at the training ring when he arrives. Itâs still a bit early for any of the priestesses to be here.
Az gives them both a nod in greeting. Picking up a practice sword, hoping to get in a bit of training before he begins his teaching. A row of new training dummies stand near the outer wall, all paid for out of Azrielâs pocket.Â
Cass told him just to charge it to the court as a military expense. But Az insisted. Mostly because the old ones getting ruined was entirely his fault. Also he has a large pile of gold lying around that he doesnât have much else to do with anyway.
Rhysand has always paid him a generous salary as spymaster, as did the previous High Lord. And Az rarely spends much on himself, his only real expense is paying for the upkeep for his motherâs estate. Only the basic maintenance cost. Heâd drown her in luxuries if he could but his mother would never allow that.
Az swings at the dummy, maintaining a flawless stance. Sword work is second nature for him. Something he no longer needs to think about, itâs in the way he breaths.Â
Sometimes Az wonders if after years of mistreatment his mother is still convinced she doesnât deserve to be cherished. Azriel has spent centuries trying to show her that she does.
His mother was the only thing that kept him together during his years of imprisonment. It chills him to think what kind of male he would be if he never felt the warmth of her love.
If his heart would have frosted over completely.
The priestesses arrive not long after Azriel begins training. Gwyn gives him a hesitant nod which he returns, before turning to his students.
Roslin has been making fast improvements in her swordplay and Deidre has become adept with a dagger. And NestaâŠ
Itâs shocking how much sheâs grown these past months. There was always a sharpness to her. But it lacked refinement. Now her blade work is better than some Illyrians who have trained for decades. As if she were crafted for battle, as if it were carved into her very bones.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
Elain dusts of her stained gown, picks up her gardening supplies and heads for the shed where theyâre stored. The sun hangs low in the air, bleeding through the clouds; staining them with an orange and gold hue.
Afternoon has almost passed, with Elain having spent most of it in the garden, even taking her lunch there alone. Sheâs come to miss sorely the afternoons spent feeding lunch to little Nyx, sometimes eating with Feyre and Rhys when their schedules allow.
She doesnât even have those lunches to look forward to when she returns home. Not with Elain now living in townhouse and she and Feyre not speaking. When she gets back itâll just be more dinning alone.
Sighing, Elain walks along the path to the garden shed. Long grass, honeysuckles and clovers have been left to grow wildly. It would almost be pleasant if it werenât for how inaccessible the overgrowth makes the shed.Â
Elain has no idea what the head gardener does all day because sheâs never actually seen him work, just a few grunt employees who handle the watering and weeding each day.
The shed door is stiff as Elain opens it, darkness greets her. She flicks on the oil lamp she left by the door, the one she carries frequently now, especially at night. A habit which was once done without so much as a thought for most of her life now strikes her as a massive inconvenience. How privileged she is to live in Prythian where everythingâs lit by faelight.Â
Elain wonders if that magic will make its way down here now that thereâs no longer a wall. If thereâs any fae out there working to better the lives of humans at all.
She sets her trowel and gardening sheers on a dusty shelf, a few stray bulbs Elain canât identify roll around aimlessly. Bags of stale fertilizer are left discarded, spilled over in a corner. She makes a note to herself to start some fresh compost.Â
Elain walks into a cobweb as she leaves. Quickly wiping off her face and arms, trying to shake off any stray spiders. There arenât any, all sheâs managed to do is smear dirt all over her face. Elain shakes her head, grinning to herself. She needed a bath before dinner anyway.
Elain stops by the kitchen on her way back inside. Coral tiles line the walls, rich oak coloured floors. A giant slab of white marble in the centre of the room where two staff are silently chopping potatoes and celery for dinner. A woman, with brown hair and matching meek looking eyes. And an orange haired young man, freckles scattering his mirthful seeming face.
Elain gives them an apologetic smile before stepping around them to get to the copper sink, splashing her face with water. Scrubbing herself clean.
As she stands up the scent of rosemary and thyme fill her lungs. âIt smells lovely in here,â she sighs.
âThank you, miss.â The merry looking young man says. Blue eyes shine up at hers, before he quickly looks back down again, a slight blush on his round cheeks.
Elain looks over at the kitchen scraps. âIf itâs not too much trouble, would you mind keeping some of those for me. I can come collect them each day, if its easier.â
âWhy ever would you want those?â The woman asks disdainfully, clearly not as shy as her appearance would suggest. âMilady,â she mumbles, after a scolding look from her companion.
âIâve been fixing up the garden. Some fresh compost would do it some good, I think,â Elain smiles kindly at them.
The woman looks about to say something biting before once again being silently reprimanded by the man. An intense look is shared between them.
âIs something wrong? If itâs too much of a botherââ
âItâs not that, milady,â the man cuts in. Elain gives him a questioning glance. âItâs really not for us to say,â he mumbles, not meeting her eye.
She directs her attention to the woman, who simply stares. Sensing sheâs not going to get anything more from them, Elain departs. The young man giving his assurance they will assist her in collecting scraps for compost.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
Elain nearly groans when she returns to her rooms. Of course Azriel would wait to show up again until sheâs completely covered in dirt.
Az stands leaning against a wall furthest from the windows line of sight. Nuala and Cerridwyn sit straight backed on navy armchairs opposite a cream coloured couch.
Elain stands by the door of the sitting room, gawking at them. Debating with herself if it would be unprofessional to run out of a meeting for a bath. Although, the idea of bathing, getting undressed, with Azriel so close byâŠ.
She chooses to sit down instead, ignoring the way her muddy gown is now staining the couch.
Az looks at Elain a bit sheepishly. âThis meeting isnât urgent, thereâs time for you to,â his wings ruffle, âget cleaned up if you wanted to.â
Thereâs a blush on his sharp golden cheeks, as if he too was thinking about Elain getting undressed in such close proximity. Heat spreads to her face, she shakes her head rapidly, mumbling that itâs fine.
Cerridwyn coughs, hiding a laugh. Nuala elbows her. The stare Az gives them is frosty enough that they both grow stiff.Â
âI wanted to check in,â Azriel starts. âTo see the progress youâre making.â
Elain cringes internally. This was bound to happen eventually, but part of her was hoping she would have some more time before she and Azriel met again.Â
âI havenât,â she bites her lip, âmade much progress.â Az raises a brow, Elain goes on to tell him about everything. The inaccessibility of Vassa during the day, Jurianâs unknown meetings, Lucienâs sparse presence. Erisâs complete absence.
âLucien has been busy handling problems in Spring,â He informs her about a group of bandits seeking power there. âAs for the rest, just knowing Jurian is in meetings so often is useful for us. As is the fact that Vassaâs circumstances often leave her excluded from them.â
âIt means heâs making moves without her,â Cerridwyn clarifies.
âNot necessarily,â Nuala counters. âThey may have discussed their plans beforehand, at night.â
Elain considers that for a moment. âMaybe, but I havenât noticed them spending much time alone together.âÂ
âI havenât been able to get away enough to see much of them either,â Cerridwyn sighs. âThat Marlene is one nosy biââ
âOur rooms are very close to others,â Nuala informs Azriel, not even glancing towards her sister.Â
He nods. âServants talk. See if you can find out more from them. If Vassa and Jurian truly are engaged thereâs sure to be gossip about them slipping away together at night.âÂ
He gives Cerridwyn a pointed look. âBefriending this Marlene may be a good place to start.â
Cerridwyn looks about to say something but is silenced by a glance from her sister.
Azriel looks back to Elain. âNow, letâs discuss how your training has been going.â
She winces, looking down at her hands. âI uhh, havenât had any visions from the stones.â
âAnd the jacket?â
âI havenât touched it,â she mumbles.
Azriel tilts his head, waiting. âBecause of theâŠwell the smell.â Elain blushes, hoping she doesnât seem too rude by mentioning it.
âWhat smell?â
âWell it ummmâŠreeks.â Thatâs putting it mildly.
 Azrielâs eyes widen. âThere was no stench when I gave it to you, aside from the males scent, which I grant you isnât pleasant.â He looks to the twins. âHave you to noticed anything?â
âNo,â Nuala says slowly, glancing between Elain and Azriel.
âWait. Is that why you were airing out your room, Elain?â Cerridwynâs eyes light up. âI just assumed you found the air stale.â
âIt appears you have made some progress after all,â Azrielâs hazel eyes dance with warmth before he goes back into spymaster mode. âWhat exactly did the coat smell like?â
âWine, vomit and ahhhâŠraw sewage.â As a lady Elain would never utter the word shit. Even if that, indeed, is what it smelt like.Â
âThatâs extremely helpful. Thank you.â Thereâs sincerity in Azrielâs voice but Elain isnât quite sure why. She hasnât even done anything, not really.
âI donât understand, how can I be having visions without realizing it? And how useful can my visions be if I canât tell them apart from reality?â She muses, trying not to feel too discouraged.
Her visions have never been consistent. Some days Elain canât make them stop, reality and dreams bleed together blurring the lines between whatâs real and fake. But she can also go weeks without having a single vision.Â
None of it makes any sense.
âEverything in due time, Elain. Training, like spying, requires patience. You canât expect to get results in just a few days,â Azriel tells her gently. Moving away from where he was standing to sit beside her on the couch.Â
âItâs been over a week,â she grumbles. The twins take this as a good time to leave. Walking through the nearest wall without saying a word.
Az holds out a hand, Elain glances up at him. âTake it. I want to show you something.âÂ
She hesitates for a moment. Painfully aware that they are now alone together again. Heâs sitting close enough to her that Azriel can likely her her beating heart.Â
Elain takes his hand without a word. Inky darkness swirls around them, she clings tighter to Azriel as they approach the space between places. Closing her eyes so she doesnât have to she the things that sometimes lurk inside shadows.
Looking around Elain finds herself standing in what appears to be a brick tunnel. Awful stench slams into her.
Coughing, hand covering her face, Elain whirls around to face Azriel. âWhy the hells would you bring me here?â She demands, disgust overtaking her good manners.
Azriel chuckles, scarred hand also covering his face. âThis is the sewer system of Dawn court.â She gives him a bewildered look.Â
âAnd I brought you here,â he continues, âbecause one of my spies went missing a few weeks back. And I think your vision has just helped me find him.â
Elain glances around her, faelights shine overhead, on the other side of the tunnel murky brown water flows, she doesnât even want to consider whatâs mixed into it.Â
âHeâs notâŠâ she hesitates, whispering. âDead, is he?â
âLetâs hope not. Come on.â Azriel walks on ahead, Elain following after him.Â
They walk for what feels like ages in silence. Each moment spent trying not to breath in filth. The path widens to a fork in the tunnel. Water continuing to flow on once side, a stone walkway on the other.
âMaintenance room,â Azriel informs her. He opens the door, letting it bang on the wall. A few people groan in response. Bodies are all over the floor, bottles rolling around, the air so filled with alcohol it almost overtakes the scent of sewage.
âAlso a common drinking place for deadbeats who have been kicked out of every tavern in the city. Speaking of which,â Az raises his voice gesturing to a man in black curled up with a bottle in the corner of the room. âEzell, I think itâs about time for you to go home.â
The man lazily gets up, grumbling to himself, before making his way over to Azriel and Elain âShe left me, boss. My wife wants nothing to do with me.âÂ
âWhich one?â Az asks bluntly.
The three of them make their way back to the tunnels entrance. With Azrielâs spy complaining about his relationship problems almost the whole way. Apparently this is only one of several failed marriages the male has been through.
âThen there was Molly, she was a dear thing,â he tells Elain fondly. âNever did like me leaving for work though.â She wonders how much the female knew about his job. If spies are permitted to tell their loved ones anything about what they actually do.
âOh and Tanya, canât forget her, she used to cook up a mean pot roast. And could kill a man with just one look in her eye,â pride fills Ezellâs voice. His large barrel shaped chest puffing out.
âThat seems unlikely,â Az mumbles, wings tucked in tight avoiding the tunnel walls.
âItâs true, boss. Half banshee she was.â Azriel give Elain a look that suggest he very much doubts that. She holds back a giggle.
Thereâs something oddly charming about the male, Elain decides. Despite wallowing in actual filth thereâs a cheerfulness to him that bleeds through his sorrow. As if heâs long grown accustomed to all kinds of hardship. Itâs the same thing Elain sometimes senses from Cerridwyn.
Like sheâs learned to bear pain with a smile on her face.
âBut enough about me and my petty problems. Itâs an honour to meet you,â he sketches a bow towards Elain. âEven if Iâm in no state to be meeting such a fine lady.â He chuckles. Elain gives him a soft smile.Â
âIâm hardly dressed for the occasion myself.â She gestures to her muddy gown.
âNonsense. A lady is always dressed perfectly, in whatever clothes she chooses to wear,â he gives her a friendly crocked grin.
âWatch it,â Azriel tells him darkly, shadows curling around his wings. For a moment Elain wonders if heâs jealous of the male.
Ezell directs an amused look towards Elain, like heâs thinking the same thing. Thereâs warmth to his dark eyes, almost softening his overall hard face.
Ezellâs brown hair is cropped short, thereâs a brutal sharpness to his jaw. His nose is long, hawklike, looking like itâs been broken a few times. With scars being so rare amongst fae Elain can only imagine what caused it.
Truthfully, Ezell looks like a hardened criminal. The type of male Elain would avoid on the street based on his appearance. She feels ashamed of that, that she could be so judgmental without fully knowing a person.
Elain mentions as much to Azriel once they drop the spy off at his apartment.
He chuckles, âHonestly, I think most of Ezellâs problems would be solved if more females learned to avoid him.â
âNot very lucky in love, is he?â She asks him wryly.Â
âNo, when I found him,â shadows drip off of him, slipping down his legs. âWell, letâs just say most of my spies have stories of their own.â Thereâs a finality to his voice that prevents Elain from any further questions, despite her curiosity.
It occurs to her how much of a sign of trust it was for Azriel to bring her with him tonight. To meet another one of his spies. His words the other night come back to her, spies arenât granted quick and painless deaths.Â
Sheâs lain awake in bed thinking about it almost every night since heâs said it. Wonders how many times Azriel has seen such a thing happen.
âThank you, for taking me tonight,â She tells him sincerely. Grabbing his hand, preparing to winnow back to the manor.
âWalking around in sewage wouldnât be my first choice of an evening with you.â Thereâs enough heat in Azrielâs hazel eyes that Elain quickly looks away. She can feel the blush staining her cheeks as she wonders what his first choice would have been, if he had his way.Â
Mostly to distract herself from that thought, she jokes, âLuckily I was a mess before we left, so itâs no trouble.â She gestures to her still muddy gown, sporting new stains that Elainâs going to have to burn to get out.
Azriel gazes down at her intensely, sharp jaw tightening. Moonlight illuminating his face as he grips her hand tighter. âYou look beautiful,â he says softly. Shadows surround them, Azriel winnowing them both away before Elain has a chance to respond.Â
As they get to her sitting room she opens her mouth to speak, red faced and heart racing, but Azriel beats her to it. âDo you know why I wanted you to come with me tonight?âÂ
When she doesnât reply he continues, âIt might have taken me weeks of looking before I thought to look for Ezell in the sewers. By that time someone else could have gotten to him first. I could have found my spy dead,â his voice gets strained towards the end of the sentence.
âBut Ezell is safe, at home in bed. Because of you,â he tells her. Admiration filling his face. Itâs enough to make her feel deeply self conscious.
Elain looks down. âIt wasnât really that special. I didnât even do anything,â she mumbles.
âYou are powerful Elain. And what you do is important. Never underestimate yourself,â Azriel sounds so sure when he says it. Elain doesnât quite believe him but nods softly anyways.
He leaves her not long after. After a very long bath Elain continues her routine of gazing at the stones Azriel gave to her. That night, Elain swears she hears the call of seagulls as her fingers caress the dark gray stone. Strong gust of wind blowing as she touches another one.
Elain smiles to herself, feels almost good as she falls asleep. As long as she ignores the ivy slowly growing in the corner of her bedroom.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
Notes:
Not a super eventful chapter.
Wanted some breathing room before getting back to the plot. Which, truthfully isnât a kind of writing I have much experience with. So, sorry if this chapter is a bit weaker than the others.
The inn thrummed with life like a living, breathing thing of warmth and noise. Golden candlelight flickering against dark wooden beams, laughter rising and falling like music and the scent of spiced wine and roasted meat curled thickly through the air. Somewhere, a fiddle sang a lilting tune, with its melody weaving between the low murmur of voices and the occasional burst of raucous amusement.
Elain sat poised at their small corner table, with her delicate fingers wrapped around the stem of her wineglass. Her posture was composed, her eyes, however, were bright and observant and absolutely missed nothing. Across from her, Nuala leaned forward, with her shadows weaving and clinging to her like a second skin. Her sharp gaze glinted with quiet mischief, while Cerridwen reclined with deceptive ease, her attention no less keen beneath that languid exterior.
âOverhearing is a useful skill,â Nuala murmured, her voice low enough to be swallowed by the din around them. âBut it is passive and safe. Tonight, we test something more⊠deliberate.â
Elain glanced between the twins. âSo⊠what exactly do you want me to do?â
Cerridwenâs lips curved, slow and knowing. âWeâll choose a target for you. Draw them in and make them speak.â
Elain arched a delicate brow, glancing between them. Â âA male,â Nuala decided simply, tapping a finger against the table.
Elain blinked, her grip tightening ever so slightly on her glass. âA male?â She huffed a soft, incredulous breath and gestured lightly to her side, where Azriel sat stretched in his chair, one arm draped loosely over its back with his shadows whispering lazily around him like tendrils of living night. âAnd how am I meant to do that,â she asked pinching her eyebrows together, âwhen there is already a male sitting beside me?â
âYes,â Cerridwen added, amusement dancing in her eyes. âYou must learn to invite attention, even when you are not alone.â
Nualaâs smile sharpened. âWomen are rarely unaccompanied in places like this. It means nothing, unless you allow it to.â
âIt is all in the suggestion,â Cerridwen added softly. âIn the glance that lingers a heartbeat too long, the tilt of your body, the smallest invitation offered and withdrawn.â
âInterest,â Nuala finished. âWithout ever speaking it aloud.â
Elain hesitated and uncertainty flickered across her features, but then she nodded in understanding.
âGood,â Nuala said, rising smoothly to her feet. âWeâll be at the bar.â
âTry not to make them fall in love with you,â Cerridwen teased, already slipping into the crowd beside her twin.
Left alone, save for the silent, watchful presence at her side, Elain exhaled slowly and turned her attention outward.
The room unfolded before her in layers: clusters of merchants hunched over their cups, travelers weary from the road, soldiers boasting too loudly at a long table near the hearth. She let her gaze drift, just as the twins had taught her. Not darting, nor searching, but wandering with quiet intent. A glance here, a fleeting brush of eye contact there, her lashes lowering just enough to soften the look before she turned away.
Nothing.
She tried again, this time letting her attention linger on a lone male seated near the bar, her head tilting ever so slightly as she lifted her glass to her lips, the candlelight catching in her hair like molten gold.
Still nothing.
Beside her, Azriel remained outwardly at ease, his posture loose, almost indolent but his shadows had stilled and then coiled tighter. Â His gaze tracked every movement she made, every subtle shift in her expression, every quiet attempt to draw anotherâs attention.
And with each passing moment, something dark and possessive tightened in his chest. Because eventually, well eventually someone would notice. Eventually, some male would look at her, truly look at her, and see what Azriel saw: that soft, luminous beauty, that quiet grace and that hidden steel beneath it all. His jaw clenched.
Elain tried once more, offering a faint, tentative smile toward a passing glance that never returned, and then, with a soft sigh, she sank back into her chair, feeling the fragile thread of confidence slipping through her fingers. âI donât have whatever magic this is,â she murmured, almost to herself, âthat makes males interested in speaking to me, let alone approach me.â
A low, warm chuckle brushed the air beside her.
She turned, finding Azriel already watching her, something softer and something dangerously fond glimmering beneath the shadows in his hazel eyes.
âThat isnât true,â he said quietly. âTheyâre simply too blind to recognize whatâs in front of them.â
A small smile curved her lips, though doubt still lingered in her gaze. âThen how do males do it?â she asked and tilted her head with gentle curiosity.
Azriel shifted then, turning fully toward her, his elbow coming to rest on the table as he leaned into it and his posture became unguarded in a way few had ever witnessed. The shadows around him seemed to hush, as if even they were listening intently.
His eyes darkened, hooded and intent as they traced the delicate lines of her face.
âThey look,â he said, his voice dropping and threading through the noise of the inn like something meant only for her.
It wasnât just a glance; this was something else entirely. He held her gaze, steady and unwavering and long enough that the air between them seemed to thicken and to hum.
âThey donât look away,â he continued, softer now and his gaze flicked briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes with deliberate slowness. âNot until you feel it.â
A warmth bloomed beneath her skin, spreading like sunlight through her veins.
âAnd their bodyâŠâ His voice dipped further, quieter and rougher. âIt follows and angles toward what they want, what theyâre drawn to. Without hesitation.â
As if to prove his point, he shifted closer and every line of him aligned with hers, his presence suddenly overwhelming in its quiet intensity.
Everything about him; his gaze, his stillness and the subtle pull of his shadows was fixed entirely and irrevocably only on her.
Elainâs eyes slowly took all of him in and then she swallowed. Azrielâs eyes snagged on the movement and when Elain lifted her chin slightly and deliberately exposed and elongated more of her neck, the shadows vibrated in a low and seductive growl.
At the bar, Nuala accepted their drinks, but her attention caught sharply on the corner of the room. Her eyes narrowed for a second and then she gasped.
âLook,â she muttered, gripping Cerridwenâs wrist. Her sister followed her gaze and promptly choked on a laugh.
Where the twins knew Elain should have been sitting, there was nothing for the untrained eye to see. There was only Azriel, seated alone in the dimly lit corner, leaning forward as though murmuring to himself like some drunken fool.
Cerridwen pressed a hand to her mouth, her shoulders shaking. âHe cannot be serious.â
Nualaâs lips twitched despite herself, and her sharp eyes gleamed with realization. âHeâs hidden her.â
Indeed, Azrielâs shadows had curled thickly and possessively around Elain, cloaking her entirely from sight and erasing her from the world beyond that table as though she existed only for him.
Cerridwen shook her head, laughter slipping free. âHe is utterly gone for her.â
Nuala hummed, watching the way he leaned closer and the way his attention never once wavered. âIf he wasnât hiding her,â she said softly, a hint of admiration threading through her tone, âevery male in this room would be racing and stumbling over themselves just for the chance to reach her first.â
And at the table, unseen by all but him, Elain leaned forward ever so slightly as her voice breathed a teasing question. âAnd does that truly work?â She looked up at him, her big eyes shining in the flicker of the candlelight.
Azrielâs lips curved, slow and certain and his gaze was locked on hers as if the rest of the world had long since ceased to exist.
âI divide thousands of times into as many times as the number of instances running by, fragmented as I am and the moments so fragileâmy only vow is to life born with time and growing along with it: only in time itself is there room enough for me.ââĂgua Viva, Clarice Lispector
Chapter Five: Azriel Holmes and the Female Dressed in Black
Tumblr: Prologue, One, Two, Three, Four, Five
AO3: Prologue, One, Two, Three, Four, Five
Pairing: Elain/Azriel
Warnings: Cannon typical levels of violence
Since the war with Hybern, Elain has settled in to a stable routine. Filling all her waking hours with labour, allowing no room for idle thoughts to grow. If asked, Elain will tell you sheâs doing fine. And she is. If she can only manage to ignore all the secrets that threaten to bury her alive.
Elainâs not the only one keeping secrets. When the loyalty of her estranged mate gets called into question and a religious order imbeds itself in the courts of Prythian, Elain must go undercover to find out more. Working directly with the Night Courts spymaster Azriel, who hasnât spoken to her in months. The male she desperately wants, but wonât ever have. The male who isnât her mate.
Summary:
âthe foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in wait for you in foreign, unpossessed placesââInvisible Cities, Italo Calvino
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
Pavement splinters and cracks open, tendrils of ivy wiggle out like caterpillars, making their way cautiously towards the inn. They lean up against brick walls for strength, slowly creeping in through windows like thieves in the night. Where they pattern the inn with leaves, decorating it like wallpaper.
Elain runs in and out of guests rooms. Wrapping thick vines around her arms and pulling. Pain sears up her, but she doesnât stop or hesitate. Just drops the torn ivy to the ground and does the same thing again. And again. Over and over Elain rips ivy out, until blue bruises ribbon her arms and she can feel the dripping of blood.
Itâs only then that she allows herself a moments of rest. As she watches, dread sinking in her like a stone, as branches spread out like a net. Trapping the inn once more.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
Elain sits on the bed of her room in the inn, Cerridwyn behind her styling her hair. Nuala off to the side picking out clothes. Elain spent most of yesterday wandering the town, having arrived a day early for the funeral.Â
The twins joined her shortly before it became clear that their presence attracted too much attention. The townsfolk have grown somewhat used to fae, Lucien as it turns out has been know to visit local taverns, and fae merchants have started arriving for trade now that the wall is gone.
But these have all been âhighâ fae, humanlike aside from their grace and beauty. The half-wraiths with their strange colouring, like dark mist given form, are a new sight here. And while the humans havenât said anything directly, itâs clear the wraiths are not entirely welcome.
Elain tried to raise concerns about their safety, but the look Cerridwyn gave her in response was vicious enough that Elain had to consider if it was really their safety she should be worried about. Hopefully after today, theyâll be moving to the much more isolated manor the band of exiles resides in.Â
Elainâs not entirely prepared for the funeral, the inevitable humiliation of being denied entrance. The idea of not being able to pay her respects is wounding despite knowing Lord Nolan, like Grayson, wanted nothing to do with her since becoming fae.
She can still hear his rejection ringing in her ears years later. Not you, never you.Â
Nuala pulls Elain out of her thoughts, holding up a lavender gown, lace down the bodice, white gemstones sewn into it. âThis one, I think, will do nicely.â She nods confidently.
Elain hesitates, unsure if Nuala understands the human customs, âIt will be expected of me to wear black.â
âWe can glamour it, Elain,â Cerridwyn chuckles behind her.
Right, she forgot. For some reason being back in human lands makes her feel almost human again.
Cerridwyn finishes with her hair, elaborately braiding it up, pinning black pearls and a dark scrap lace into it. Nuala helps her get dressed, lacing her corset tightly and pulling on the heavy woollen skirts.
Now that itâs black the gown Nuala picked out is perfect for the occasion. Somber, but still elegant. One that showcases that while she is no longer human, Elain is still a lady of high standing. Which, Nuala assures her is important, âItâll make them look worse, for turning you away.â
Spying as it turns out is half about how you appear to others, particularly the ones you want information from. And for that, today Elain needs to seem vulnerable and wounded.Â
She takes a coach to the Nolan manor alone. The twins close by if she needs them, but out of sight. Turning themselves into wind and shadow, similar to Azrielâs abilities.
As she watches the rolling fields around her, overgrown grass blowing in the wind like the waves of a great ocean, Elainâs thoughts drift to her departure yesterday. It all happened so quick, planning her trip late at night, leaving before sunrise, only Rhys and Feyre were there to see her off. Elain would have loved to say goodbye to baby Nyx, but she didnât want to disturb his sleep. Her heart aches at leaving, Elain doesnât know the next time sheâll see her nephew again.
And NestaâŠ
The plans were made so fast there wasnât time to tell her sister. Feyreâs probably told her by now. Will she resent Elain for not even bothering to say goodbye? Truthfully Elainâs not entire sure she would have wanted to. Things between them are different now, the closeness they once had is long gone.
Elain suspected it that first Solstice, when Nesta began to pull away from everyone, that there would be no going back to what they had before. And this new relationship between them, Elain doesnât know what it is or how to navigate it.
Clouds float overhead, fluffy like cotton, some drifting in front of the sun. Dividing the light pouring in through her coach window, encasing half of it in shadow.
Elain is happy for her sister, sheâs found a purpose with training, has made friends, fallen in love. But sheâd be lying if she said there isnât a twinge of resentment. Nesta apologized to Feyre, to Amren, even Rhys. Not to Elain. Not for blaming her for their fathers death. Did the hurt Nesta caused her mean so little that it didnât ever register to her sister?Â
Instead, Nesta simply moved on with her life with hardly a glance back.
Part of Elain is relieved, that Nesta has finally let people in. For years Elain was the only positive relationship her sister had. And though she would never admit it, there were times when Elain felt burdened by that fact. Nesta could be mean and downright cruel at times, but any distance between them was impossible. Not unless Elain was willing to leave her sister completely alone.
It was like that with their father too. Back when they all lived in the cabin together. She was the only one of his daughters who would really speak to him. Had no other choice, because if she gave in to resentment he would have no one else. Would be doomed to walk the halls of their too small home like a ghost. Someone people see but look right through, as if he were nothing at all. Elain couldnât bare that thought.Â
So she put her anger aside, buried it in the gardens of her mind, and loved him. Loved him because no one else was going to.Â
Sometimes Elain dreams of the cabin. She sees herself sitting in her fathers broken down armchair, all alone. A tapestry in her hand, threads of it unwinding. She keeps wrapping lose yarn around her fingers, trying to use her body to bind everything together. But she can never manage to hold on. Somethings always slips away.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
Elain has been on Azrielâs mind from the moment he got up this morning. He slept through most of yesterday, having missed seeing her off. Instead he slipped away at night to check in with the twins that sheâs doing alright. The idea of her staying in the human realm, around not only Lucien but fae hating humans as well, is enough to keep him on edge.
But he trained both Nuala and Cerridwyn in stealth and combat, Azriel trust them to keep an eye on her. The conversation between him and his spies last night was tight and tense. He still hasnât forgotten their disobedience and Az made that displeasure perfectly clear.
Azriel finishes up some reports and heads down to the library. He greets Clotho sitting at her desk by the door, asking her to locate some books on seers for him.Â
She peers up at him, a knowing look seems to bleed through the hood hiding her face. A pen glides across the paper on her desk.
I can have some of the acolytes look, but this is not the best place for it.
Azriel arches a brow, this library is one of the biggest in Prythian. Surely it must have something.Â
Reading the confusion on his face, somehow through her hood, Clotho continues, Seer magic is considered sacred in our order. Most writing on it is carefully guarded by the High Priestesses.Â
Azriel knew the rumours of the High Priestesses communing with the Cauldron, but he hadnât realized the magic involved was so hidden. Heâll have to figure out something else for Elainâs visions for the time being. Until he can get his hands on more information.Â
The idea of sending his spies to plunder a holy place is not exactly one he welcomes. His devote mother might burry him alive if she ever found out, for starters.Â
And Az himself has always held faith in high regard. Partly because as a shadowsinger, he can sense destiny and fate in ways others cannot. He canât see things like Elain can, but the stones and wind have been known to whisper prophecy to him on occasion.
But also, because religion has always been a comfort for him. The stories his mother used to tell him as a boy, in the rare time he got to see her, remained with Azriel in the endless hours he spent alone. The gentle arms of the Mother pulling him in to her loving embrace. She became the only source of light and warmth in that cold, dark, prison. Itâs what allowed him to survive, she became his hope of a better place.
So Az canât find it in himself to steal from the High Priestesses, wonât defile their order, even if it might help Elain.
Azriel leaves the library, with Clotho promising to send word if any books on seers turn up. Heâd take a look himself but there are more pressing matters at hand. Like tracking down his wayward Dawn spy.
The first place Azriel checks is Ezellâs apartment in the city. He doesnât really expect the male to be there, but itâs worth a try.
The warding of the place is still secure, Az has a mage on his payroll who maintains them for all his spies, despite forbidding them from storing important documents in their own home. Still, Azriel takes security seriously, spies are always vulnerable targets for assassination attempts. Heâs learned that lesson the hard way more than once throughout his many years as spymaster.Â
Which is why Nuala and Cerridwyn taking Elain out the other night was such a problem. If he doesnât have the correct information he canât make sure theyâre safe. The twins jeopardized, not just Elainâs safety but also their own. And itâs going to take Azriel some time before he can forgive them for that.
Az sends his shadows to keep watch for any unwanted visitor as he picks the apartment lock. Heâs already approved for entrance by the warding, but winnowing inside is forbidden to anyone who isnât Ezell.Â
Azriel shakes his head as he enters. The place is a complete mess; dirt by the door, scuff marks on the wall, empty wine bottles rolling around, a couch laying on its side. Judging by the dirty clothes strewn everywhere Az chalks it up to the male being a complete slob rather than any sign of a struggle. Thereâs a dead fish floating in a cloudy bowl, Azriel canât tell if itâs an indication of how long Ezellâs been missing, from the state of the apartment Az wouldnât be surprised if the male simply forgot the fish exists.
Being here fills Az with strong distaste, and after doing a through search heâs glad to leave. Azriel canât stand being around filth, not after being forced to live in it like an animal for years. There was a time in his life when even a simple bath was considered a luxury. He pushes down those memories, tucks them away until theyâre nothing.
With no new leads on his missing spy, Az cancels his plans for the day, including informing Cassian he wonât be around for training. And then heads off to continue his search in Dawn.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
The walls of the manor are taller than the forest that surround it. So tall they seem to blot out the sun. Nesta told her once she thought this place looked like a prison. Elain thought to herself that prisons do an awfully good job at keeping everyone else out.
Elain always felt a sense of safety coming here. Memories rush forward of when Tamlin, in beast form, torn down the door to her family home and stole her sister away. All while Elain cowered uselessly behind someone else, not doing a thing to help. To scared to even speak.
She used to tell herself that something like that could never happen here.
But she knows better now. Even this fortress with its three layers of walls isnât truly enough to protect humans from the fae. Elain wonders how the occupants feel about that fact. What Jurian and Grayson discuss when no one else is around.
She glances up at the guard tower, attempting to steal her nerves to announce her arrival. Elain glances around for other visitors, Nuala advised her to make sure her rejection is seen by an audience, so word can spread to the band of exiles.
A few men and women dressed in black pass by and enter. Elain moves back out of view, not quite ready, she wants to cause a commotion. Needs a bigger crowd. She looks around for more people.
Elain spots a tuft of red hair poking out from behind a tree at the edge of the woods. Eris Vanserra peaks his head out then darts it back again. Elain glances around, checking for unwanted observers, before grabbing her heavy skirts and trekking over to the woods to joins him.
By the time she gets to the tree Eris is gone, peaking out from behind a different one some distance away. Elain huffs a little, gathers her skirt, then follows him. Heâs gone again by the time she gets there.
Eris does this again and again, leading Elain deeper and deeper into the dark woods, before he finally stops. Leaning nonchalantly against a solid oak, her irritation simmers at the sight of him. Beads of sweat drip down her face from walking this far in a tight corset.
If it had been any of the other Archeron sisters they would have already been throwing a shoe at his head, luckily for Eris heâs meeting with a lady who would never resort to such things. Despite the strong temptation Elain feels to do so.
As annoyed as she is, Elain has to admit this is the perfect spot to meet, far removed from any unwanted eyes.
âWhy are you here?â She asks him tightly.
âJust wanted to say hi to my sister-in-law,â he grins, âand my new spy.â Thereâs a sharp glint in his russet eyes.
So thatâs why he gave her intel at the dinner party the other night. Pulling the strings to get Elain where he wanted her, so he can use her like a pawn.
âIâm not spying for you, and we are not related,â she states cooly, hands brushing her ruffled skirts.
âAh, well, I beg to differ,â Eris waves a hand dismissively. âBecause you are here to spy for someone, and the way I see it, if you donât want that information getting out, youâll tell me what you know as well.â
Great. Just great.
âIâm surprised your brother isnât willing to give you updates, Eris.â Elain says plainly, as if sheâs unaware of their strained relationship.
He winces just slightly, almost imperceptibly if it werenât for her sharp eye. Before fixing the cufflink on his green jacket, and saying cooly, âMy brother has his own agenda that doesnât always align with mine. I need someone who shares my interest. And like it or not, you and I are allies.â
Since Eris is in an alliance with her court itâs likely he would be given updates regardless, but Elain isnât exactly jumping at the chance to be the one to do it. She nods her agreement anyway, because Elain canât risk him telling Lucien her real motivation for being here.
âAnd what exactly is your brothers interest in all of this?â Elain asks carefully. That part she still canât figure out, Grayson, Vassa and Jurian all clearly benefit in taking over the human lands. Lucien does not.
Eris tilts his head to the side, considering, âI really couldnât say. But if youâre any kind of spy you might want to start by finding out.â
After their conversation is over Eris winnows away, off to doâŠwell, whatever it is he does when heâs not busy being a snake. As Elain makes her way back to the manor Cerridwyn appears beside her.
âThereâs no need to be so annoyed with him, Elain,â she says cheerfully. âThis is actually a positive development.â
âIs it?â Elain raises a brow, wipes a few beads of sweat off it. She really hopes she doesnât look too disheveled for the funeral. Not that sheâll be allowed to attend.
Cerridwyn chuckes, âRemember, I told you before spying is like a game. Well, Eris just revealed him hand.â
âDid he?â She asks, curiosity peaking. âIt seemed more like I was the one on my toes.â
âAppearing on the defensive is not always a bad thing. It means people expect less from you, which makes them reveal too much without meaning to.â
âAnd what did Eris reveal?â
âThat he wants informational. Knowing what a person wants can be just as vital for spying as collecting the information itself.â
Elain thinks about it. Eris wants a spy in the human lands. Which means he must have some interest in the territory that he hasnât shared with the Night Court yet. Could acting as his spy get him to reveal those interest?
âEither way, we should inform the spymaster soon of this development.â Cerridwyn says tightly. before disappearing again. Thereâs tension between them, Elain can tell. She wonders what heâs said to them over the other night. Elain tucks that thought away and heads back to the manor, trying not to get lost in the woods on her way.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
Azriel stands in the windy mountains deep within Dawn territory. He just spoke with his other spies in the region to no luck. No oneâs heard from Ezell in weeks, that fact is not unusual as itâs rare for spies to communicate while undercover. But it means Az has no leads in locating his lost spy.
This isnât the first time Ezell has disappeared without a word. Last time Azriel found him on a small island just off the coast of the continent, having wed a paid companion he met drunk at a pleasure house. The marriage did not last long, as the female soon learned that she was just another name in a long list of females Ezell has pledged eternity to.
Az hopes the male is just off somewhere drunk again. Ezell, a shit he may be, is still an excellent spy and his death would be a major loss for Azrielâs information network. Especially with war brewing. Az had even been considering moving Ezell away from Dawn somewhere else, perhaps to Autumn. He already has many spies stationed there but he could use one closer to Beron.Â
Especially since Eris isnât forthcoming with information when it doesnât benefit him, self serving bastard. Azriel kicks a few rocks, frustrations getting to him. Working with Eris is something heâs accepted as a necessity but he hasnât forgotten about him abandoning Mor in the woods. Even if she, herself, seems to have moved beyond it, after five hundred years, Azriel isnât sure why.
Rocks cascade and roll down the mountainside. Wind helping to send them far down the cliffs edge. Az watches it closely. An idea forming in his head. Reaching down, he picks up a stone and pockets it. He may have just found a solution to the problem of Elain and his missing spy.
He winnows back to Ezellâs apartment complex.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
A crowd of people have formed as Elain walks back to the Nolan manor. She slips in and joins the group. Drawing more than a few eyes, whispers surround her. About Lord Graysons ex-betrothed showing up again now turned fae. Elain keeps her head high, glad her heavy skirts are able to hide the way her legs are trembling.Â
Sheâs always struggled with the shakiness of her limbs, especially when her nerves are bad.Â
Her mother dragged her to a healer for it once, back when she was alive and they still had wealth. But nothing could be found that was wrong, Elainâs mother scolded her heavily afterward. Partly for wasting her time, but also for potentially ruining her value in the marriage market should rumour spread of her being an invalid.
Elain was eight at the time.
Guards stationed by the gate turn and look at her as Elain walks through the towering walls. Another set not far off. The estate hasnât changed much since sheâs last been here, though she canât hear the barking of dogs. Sheâs unsure if hounds have been locked away for the funeral or if itâs come to someoneâs attention how ineffective they are against fae. Either way Elainâs glad theyâre gone.
A heavily armoured man walks in front of her, looking down with disgust, âYour kind are not welcome here.â
Heads turn in her direction, a few mourners stop to watch. Good. Let them see how sheâs treated, let them talk.
Elain squares her shoulders, and attempts to steady her voice, âLord Nolan was once to be my father, I have the right to pay my respects.â
Some onlookers nod in agreement, more shake their head in distaste. âYou have no rights here girl,â the guard tells her darkly, âand if you had any respect for the late Lord Nolan you wouldnât have stepped foot in his home where filth like you is unwanted.â
Even though she planned this from the start Elain canât stop the pain from coming. The wetness of her eyes is not faked as she says, âPlease, I just want to say my last goodbyes.â
âThen you can say them from the other side of that wall.â Several other guards come to join them, Elain turns to leave before it causes too much of a commotion. Though she doubts theyâd resort to violence with an audience.
She keeps her head low, allows her tears to flow freely, earning several looks of pity as she leaves. Whispers sing all around her, gossip spreading like wildfire and Elain knows word will make it back to the band of exiles before long.
As humiliating as this all is, and despite her hurt, Elain has to fight off a smirk. She did good today, she thinks.Â
The twins tell her as much as they find themselves back at the inn. The three of them in the little sitting room adjoining her room.
âSeriously, Elain youâre a natural.â Cerridwyn grins, sprawled out on a couch, wine in hand. âYou should have seen Nuala the first time she had to go undercover, got so nervous she puked on her targets shoes.â She snorts from laughter. Thereâs something deeply charming about the way her nose crinkles when she laughs.
âI seem to recall that was you.â Nuala says flatly, sipping her wine.Â
Cerridwyn shrugs, âMemory is up for interpretation.â
âIt most certainly is not.â Nuala deadpans. Elain giggles in response, feeling a slight buzz from the whiskey she drank after arriving, hoping to take off some of the edge from the funeral today.
She licks her lips, and then brings up the topic theyâve been avoiding these last couple of days, âAbout AzrielâŠheâs not still mad is he, at me going spying with you?â The twins share a tense look, Nuala downs the rest of her wine.
âItâs not you heâs upset with.â Cerridwyn says softly.
He blames them. Elain looks down at her feet, guilt rising. She should have known something like this would happen. She got in the way of their working relationship just like sheâs getting in the way of everything else for Azriel.
âIâm sorry,â she whispers.
Nuala places her hand firmly on Elainâs shoulder, âThis is not for you to worry about. I made the call. Not you or Cerridwyn, me. And I donât regret it. You did good work the other day, just like you did today.â Elain meets her eye, thereâs warmth it them and something else she canât quite place.
âThings were never easy for us, my sister and I. Wraiths donât have a good reputation, even half ones are not well liked, spying for us has always beenââ Nuala pauses, head turning. âSomeoneâs at the door,â she whispers.
Cerridwyn moves halfway across the room in the blink of an eye, holding a dagger Elain hasnât seen her with before, and stands by the door. She gestures for Elain to open it, positioning herself to be hidden behind.
Standing on the other side is, âLucien.â She glances behind him, âVassa, Jurian. Welcome.â While the day has not fully ended the sun has set early, freeing Vassa from the firebird sheâs been cursed as. Elain wonders if Jurian alone went to the funeral today, or if Lucien somehow managed to get invited as well.Â
Not that heâd wish to attend. Thereâs something deeply ironic about how they seem to have traded places. Her in Prythian, Lucien living in the human lands Elain so desperately wished to return to for years. Part of her still does.
She politely invites them in, Lucien hesitant, Jurian looking like heâd rather be anywhere else. Vassa is the only one who looks pleased to be here, Elain suspects visiting was her idea. Indeed, thereâs a look of pity on the womanâs face as she notes the funeral gown Elain is still wearing.Â
Lucien notes it too, giving her a solemn nod, mumbling some condolences.
As she turns around, Elain notices that the two half-wraiths are gone. Hiding or somewhere else entirely she doesnât know.
She directs her guest to the sitting room, Elain suspects the twins picked out the room for this exact purpose. There a floral love seat and two green armchair sit before a fire, a small coffee table in the middleâthe twins wine glasses no longer on it.
Elain takes one of the chairs, not wanting to risk sitting beside Lucien who sits on the sofa, the furthest spot from her line of sight. Vassa sits gracefully beside him, dressed in finery Elain suspects someone else is paying for, looking every bit the queen. Finally Jurian takes a seat on the other armchair, directly across from Elain.
âI can have the inn-keep bring up drinks, if youâd like.â She starts cordially. Some discomfort rising in her at Lucien being so close, which she tries to hide. If sheâs going to be living with them, Elain will need to manage being around him. Somehow the idea doesnât bother her so much. As horrible as it is, knowing sheâs being duplicitous makes being around him easier.Â
Like itâs not really her sitting across from herâŠmate, but someone else. Just a character Elain is playing.
âYou donât have to trouble yourself,â Vassa waves away Elainâs offer of refreshments. Jurian looks as if he would have appreciated a strong drink. Sheâs only met the man in passing a couple of times so Elain is unsure about why he seems so on edge in her presence.Â
Sheâs not exactly sorry about that fact, not as the memory comes back to Elain of Feyre telling her that it was him who shot Azriel through the chest that day in Hybern.
âWe actually arenât planning to stay for long,â Vassa continues, âwe heard you were in town and came to invite you for dinner actually.â Heard she was rejected from the funeral, when Vassa got the idea to invite her over out of pity, more like. Lucien and Jurian share a look, as if they too were just thinking that.
âThat would be lovely, thank you,â Elain gives a hesitant smile, one of someone wounded and trying not to show it.Â
Lucien catches it and darts his head down. âWe would be glad to have you,â he says tightly.
The trio depart for the manor without her, dinner still being a few hours off. Leaving Elain with more than enough time to get dressed for the occasion.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
The estate is surprisingly more opulent than Elain expected. Not as extravagant as some of her former homes, but still perfectly dignified for the residence of two nobility and an emissary. Silk wallpaper lines the walls, hand carved decorative trimmings painted in gold. Marble bust on top of end tables throughout the elongated hallways. Scenes of summer and spring painted above them.
Whoeverâs paying for this went all out. And Elainâs certain the person bankrolling the estate doesnât call this place home.Â
âThis is lovely,â Elain says carefully as they make their way to the dinning room. âHow long have you lived here?âÂ
Meaning, how long has the person covering your expenses been planning to make you king and queen? Because itâs the only reason Elain can think of for someone to pay for this estate.
âOh, itâs marvellous isnât it?â Vassa sighs. âIt was given to us not long after the war.â Elain suspect it would be too suspicious to inquire just who, exactly, is paying their expenses.
The dinning room is just as grand as the rest of the place, dark green wallpaper, accents of gold. A large mirror taking up a wall, reflecting the shimmering crystal candider above head. Elain has lived by faelight for so long she had almost forgotten just how dazzling a room lit by candlelight can be.
Vassa sits at the head of the ebony table, Jurian taking the other end. Both in fine evening clothes looking every bit like royalty and very much not in love. Lucien and Elain sit across from each other, both awkwardly avoiding eye contact. âItâs much smaller than my old palace,â Vassa continues, âbut Iâve come to love that. Itâs freeing to not be constantly surrounded by guards.â
âBut Iâm sure they must have provided a sense of safety,â Elain fishes, curious about the security measures here.
âNot that they did fuck all when the other queens sold her to that piece of shit,â Jurian grunts.Â
Both Vassa and Lucien wince. The latter saying apologetically, âJurian is still adjusting, please forgive him for forgetting the proper way to speak when a lady is present.âÂ
Elain nods at him timidly before speaking, âSurely heâs had enough practice with Queen Vassa living here.â
Jurian laughs harshly, Lucien chuckles as well, âIâm not entirely sure Vassa qualifies as a lady.â
âShe most certainly does not,â Jurian snorts.
âYou two make me sound like such a savage. Ignore them Elain.â Vassa smiles at her. Elain gives a tight one back.Â
Dinner is served by two human servants, Elain wonders how many they employ. And where their loyalties lie, her mind going to the twin spies who frequently pose as household staff. The food is elegant but dinner is not formal as she might have expected.
âElain, here you have to try this.â Vassa moves a bowl in front of her, inside is what looks like several different cuts of meat chopped up with heavy seasoning. âItâs a traditional dish of my homeland.â
âAhhâactually I donâtâŠâ Elain hesitates, not wanting to appear rude.
âShe doesnât eat meat.â Lucien speaks for her. Elain glances over at him, surprised he knows that about her. Theyâve only shared meals a handful of times and sheâs mostly spent them attempting to avoid him. She didnât realize he observed her enough to notice her eating habits.
Elain hasnât touched animal flesh since the day her family moved out of the cabin. It took weeks before the sight of it stopped curdling her stomach. Too many memories of meals where that was all they had, sometimes still bloody and half raw after the firewood ran outâstarvation making them far too weak for chopping wood. But they ate it half cooked anyway, because in the years of poverty meat was survival.Â
But itâs not anymore. And Elain can no longer bring herself to consume a life now that sheâs not on the brink of death. To take more than she already has.
Sometimes when she sees meat served at the dinner table all Elain can see is Feyre. Going off into those woods to hunt, all alone, little more than a child. The shame of Elain sitting safe at home too weak to help her. Just another useless mouth to feed.
The theft of a life and her sisterâs innocence bound together in one bloody package.
âMy apologies, you should have told us we would have prepared something else for you.â Elain waves her hand, telling Vassa itâs fine. She really doesnât want to cause trouble.
The conversation shifts to everyday life for the trio in the human lands, with Vassa doing most of the talking, Jurian making teasing comments now and then. Lucien still appears hesitant, the other two exchange glances, like the behaviour is unusual for him. Elainâs likely to blame for that. Somehow she canât find it in herself to feel guilty.
Not much of interest is revealed before the conversation shifts back around to Elain and her travels.
âHow long do you plan on staying for, if you donât mind me asking.â Vassa inquires.
âI was only planning on a short trip but,â Elain bites her lip. âTruthfully it was not easy for me to come, and now that I haveâŠâ
âYour not quite ready to go back,â Jurian speaks for her, unusually gentle. âItâs hard, visiting a formal homeland and discovering thereâs no longer a place for you.â His eyes are haunted enough that Elain feels a stab of remorse at deceiving him.
âI know I canât go back,â Elain says quietly, not lying. âBut part of me still canât say goodbye. I donât know how Iâll manage to leave tomorrow.â
âThen stay.â Lucien says softly. âThere are spare rooms, you may stay in one of them. If you want.â His voice gets a touch strained as he finishes the sentence.
Though this was her goal all along, Elain suddenly feels a sense of trepidation at staying with Lucien under the same roof. She allows some of it to show, âI wouldnât want to impose.âÂ
âNonsense, thereâs always room for another exile. Stay as long as youâd like.â Vassa grins with such warmth that Elain feels guilt rise in her.
After dinner Vassa shows Elain to her room. Itâs much larger than her place at the inn. A sitting room decorated in dark blue and silver. Glass doors on one wall which open up to a balcony, wisteria growing off it. Behind another set of double doors is a spacious bedroom, like the sitting area itâs blue and silver but with much softer hues. Accents of white decorate it giving the room a dreamlike feel.
Vassa finds a room for Elains handmaidens down by the servants quarters. Elain would feel safer with them closer but has a feeling that request would attract unwanted attention. Lucien has met the twins before but doesnât know theyâre anything more than servants. Still, Elain doesnât want to risk blowing their cover.
The twins arrive with her luggage and then the whole thing is settled. Elain has become an exile.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
Azriel visits the manor at nightfall, not really expecting updates this soon, but he canât stay away. The first visit is a precarious one, having no idea where Elain and the twins are staying he winnows to an isolated part of the estate remaining in shadows until he catches their scent.
He slips into the bedroom, finds the trio in a sitting area. Nuala and Cerridwyn sitting upright as if they were expecting him.
Elain however looks surprised. Sheâs already undressed for bed, wearing a silk nightgown that goes to her ankles. But the fabric is thin, clinging to her in a ways that highlight the soft curves of her body. Itâs far more of her than he ordinarily sees and Azriel tries very hard not to look as Elain, red faced, mumbles an excuse and runs from the room.
Cerridwyn gives him a knowing smirk, Az has a withering retort on the tip of his tongue but refrains from saying it as Elain returns to the room wearing a heavy robe, still blushing.
Az scolds himself, he should have set up a time with her for nightly reports. Elainâs someone who values modesty, he should have known barging in here while sheâs in a nightgown wouldnât be okayâas delicious as the sight may be.
The twins both stand up, both still a bit tense in his presence. âWe have no new updates to report, spymaster.â Nuala states, before her and her sister turn into mist and walk through a wall.
âItâs nice to see theyâre taking their job a chaperones seriously,â Elain mumbles.
Azriel chuckes âWell, Rhys said they had to be present during reports, he never specified for how long.â Elain grins in response before quickly looking away.
The last time they were alone together hangs heavy in the air. Az still hasnât gotten her words out of his head.
I donât trust you to stick around.
He pushes down that thought. Just as he pushes down his very sharp awareness that heâs now alone in a room with Elain, an empty bed in the next room. Beneath the robe sheâs still in just a nightgown and the thought crosses Azrielâs mind that she might not be wearing much underneath it. All heâd have to do is push it up and put his mouth between herâ
âDonât be mad at the twins,â Elain says quietly.
 Azriel blinks a few times, shaking off his dirty thoughts, praying she doesnât notice the stiffness of his wings. âThey disobeyed me,â he says carefully. Attempting not to let his displeasure with them bleed into his voice.
âFine. But I went on that mission too, if you blame them you should also blame me.â Thereâs a sharp determination in her eyes.
âYou didnât know any better, they did,â And that ultimately is what it comes down to. Azriel trained them himself, he taught them better than this.
âWas what they did really so wrong? Eris wouldnât have told them what he told me,â Elain attempts, thereâs enough of a pleading look in her eyes that Az wants to give in completely. But he canât, not on this. And Elain has to understand the risks.
âI need to know where my spies are, what theyâre doing and who theyâre doing it with. For my work, but also their own safety.â Thereâs a firm professionalism to his voice, one that reflects his many years as spymaster. âWhat do you suppose happens if your dear friends were ever captured? Spies are not granted quick painless deaths, Elain.â
 Az would know, itâs happened to his operates before. Many of them. And heâs done they exact same thing in return to the spies of his enemies.
He winces at the guilty expression on her face. Az realizes he may have gone to far. What is he thinking bringing up torture with Elain?
But she doesnât balk, just squares her shoulders and says, âI understand. It wonât happen again.â
âElain, it wasnât my intention to blame you.â Azriel runs his hands through his hair, âIf anything Iâm at fault, I knew how close you three were getting, something like this was bound to happen eventually. I should have predicted it.â
âItâs not your fault either,â Elain tells him softly. Heâs about to disagree but she continues, âEris spoke to me today.â
The news is surprising, which is not a regular occurrence for the spymaster. Elain goes on to tell him about her meeting with Eris and what he wants.
âCerridwynâs right, this is a positive development,â He mumbles, thought churning on what Erisâs goal might be.
âBecause he might accidentally reveal more of what he wants?â Elain looks up a him, waiting for approval. Azriel canât help the twinge of pride he feels looking down at her. As concerned as he is about her safety, itâs clear Elainâs a natural at this. And her desire for praiseâŠ
Mother save him
Az tucks that observation down deep, he can reflect on it more later tonight. When even the shadows have fallen asleep.
âYou did good today,â he tells her sincerely, warmth in his voice. She beams up at him, Az feels like his heart might melt from the sight.Â
Mostly to distract himself from that feeling, he reaches into a shadow and pulls out a box, âI have something for you.â
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
Elain attempts to still her racing heart as she reaches for the small wooden box. Tries to ignore the shakiness of her hands. She gently opens it, resting on a cushion inside are three different stones. Elain glances up at him.
âThese are for your visions.â The confusion must be clear on her face because Az continues, âI picked each stone up from a different location. I want you to look at them and tell me where I got them from.â
âI donâtâŠâ Elain chews her lip, âI wouldnât know how.âÂ
âJust pick one up and try,â he encourages gently. Thereâs such warmth in his eye, that Elainâs stomach flips in response. She looks away quickly hoping he doesnât notice her rising blush.
To distract herself Elain picks up the middle stone. Judging by its appearance, smooth and dark grey, it came from somewhere by the water. Elain says as much to Azriel.
âYes, but where specifically,â he pushes. âUse your sight, did I pick it up from the river or the sea?â
Elain closes her eyes. âI can hear the waves, feel the wind.â The breeze is cool on her skin, there but also not at the same time. Like feeling the wind of a dream.
âAnd?â
And not much else, itâs like sheâs looking through a layer of fog. Elain tries to look harder but all she achieves is a searing pain in her head. âI canât do it.â Elain tries to keep the sense of defeat out of her voice.
âItâs okay, I didnât expect you to get it on the first try. You havenât had any training, mastering your powers will take time.â Azriel gazes down at her, expression soft. The candlelight of the sitting room highlights the planes of his beautiful face. Elain suddenly feels very self conscious about the fact that sheâs only in a nightgown, even with the robe covering her.
Thereâs a heat in his eye, like Azriel was just thinking the same thing, his gaze drifts down her body before quickly looking away. He reaches into a shadow pulling out what looks like a coat.
âThereâs something else I want you to try to do,â Az says a touch tightly, readjusting his wings. âI want you to locate the man who owns this jacket.â
Elain scrunches her brows as she reaches for it, âI donât know if I canâŠâ
âNot now, try before you go to bed each night. First the stones and then the coat.â
Elain nods hesitantly in agreement.Â
Azriel departs not long after. His scent of mist and cedar linger in the air long after heâs gone. Elain feels too warm going to bed that night. A burning ache which has nothing to do with the temperature of her room.
Since the war with Hybern, Elain has settled in to a stable routine. Filling all her waking hours with labour, allowing no room for idle thoughts to grow. If asked, Elain will tell you sheâs doing fine. And she is. If she can only manage to ignore all the secrets that threaten to bury her alive.
Elainâs not the only one keeping secrets. When the loyalty of her estranged mate gets called into question and a religious order imbeds itself in the courts of Prythian, Elain must go undercover to find out more. Working directly with the Night Courts spymaster Azriel, who hasnât spoken to her in months. The male she desperately wants, but wonât ever have. The male who isnât her mate.
Summary:
âit was now too late and too far to go back, and I went on. And the mists had all solemnly risen now, and the world lay spread out before me.â âGreat Expectations, Charles Dickens
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
Rhysand sits before his desk, face cold but calm, hands carefully folded in front of him. âAny updates on the human queens for me?â He asks his spymaster, tone flat.
Well, if Rhys isnât going to bring up Azriel leaving with Elain yesterday, Az certainly isnât going to either. He stands in Rhysâ office, having arrived recently to give his regular updates. As he entered the River House his shadows informed him that Elain isnât home. Azriel tries to tuck away the rising worry of not knowing where she is.
âMy spies have given reports of priest from the region visiting the queens court,â Azriel informs his High Lord, letting none of his nerves show. âIt seems debates are taking place between them on who should replace Briallyn now that sheâs deceased.â
Rhysâ face remains impassive, moonlight from the window beside him illuminating it, âYour last report said her closest relative now governs the territory.â
âHer closest male relative, traditionally the lands are ruled by a queen. Thereâs been talk of the remaining queens overseeing the kingdom until a woman can be found to rule it.â
Rhysand sighs, âThey will be keeping an eye on the army too, I take it.â
Azriel nods in confirmation.
Rhys clenches his jaw, âThen we can expect war from them soon.â And that, perhaps is why heâs chosen not to mention yesterday. Because a spymaster, particularly one thatâs a shadowsinger, is an invaluable asset during a war.
Azriel seethes at the though, memories coming back to him of the days he served a very different High Lord. One who made shrewd decisions like that constantly. His shadows bleed into the carpet.
He wishes he could have more faith in his brothers and his motivations. But after Rhys saw fit to interfere in Azrielâs personal life by ordering him not to pursue Elain, Az finds it difficult.
Rhys leans back in his chair, exhaustion and stress all over his face. Itâs enough for Az to feel guilty over his resentment, knowing his brother has a lot on his shoulders right now. Azriel shouldnât be thinking about himself. Selfish asshole.
âAndâŠSpring, how are things going there?â Rhys asks tentatively.
âA group of bandits has risen up hoping to seize power, Iâve placed a spy within the group.â Az shifts his weight, shadows circling his wrist, as he breaks the news, âTheyâre not much of a threat, but it points to a larger issue thatâs not getting any better. There have been no improvements with Tamlin and I think itâs time to look at other options.â
Stabilize the court without Tamlin, before Autumn has a chance to invade it. Or use it as a base to launch an invasion into the human lands.
Rhys nods solemnly, like heâs been considering all this on his own, âStabilizing Spring will be difficult without someone who has magic over the land.â
âThere are ways around that,â Azriel says darkly. His shadows curl around his ear informing him that Elain has returned. Some tension leaves his body knowing sheâs safe.
âTamlin has no known heirs,â Rhys hedges, âthereâs no telling who will inherit Spring once heâs dead. And Iâd rather deal with someone I know thanââ
Elain bust into the office, wearing a tight fitting formal gown. Looking stunning, if a touch disheveled. Azriel tries very hard not to look like heâs gawking, which he is.
âElain,â Rhys looks surprised, before an apologetic expression takes over. âWe were just in a meeting,â he says attempting to dismiss her.
âVassa and Jurian are getting married.â She blurts out, looking over at Az and Rhys. Tension clear in her body.
Rhys brows raise, âWhat?â
Elain speaks so fast sheâs barley breathing, âTheyâre forming an alliance, theyâre going to take over the human lands.â
Rhys sits up straighter, âSlow down, slow down. How do you know this? Did you see it?â
âI, umm,â a look of guilt crosses her face, âI heard it at a dinner party I went to,â she mummers avoiding Azrielâs eye.
Az stiffens, pieces clicking together. Nualaâs irritation with him this afternoon, Elainâs absence when he came in, her formal attire. The twins took her spying without his permission.
âAnd who told you, at this dinner party?â Rhys inquires while Az is distracted.
âIt was, umm,â she looks down, mumbling, âEris Vanserra.â
Azriel exchanges a pointed glance with Rhysand, âIâll go get Amren.â
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
âJurian the bastard, I bet heâs been planning this the whole time.â Amren grumbles, sprawled out, taking up an entire couch. Az stands with his arms crossed leaning against the wall not far from her.
Elain sits on the other couch in Rhysâ office awkwardly. Still wearing her evening gown, hands in her lap, trying not to look like a disobedient child. Judging by the frosty expression on Azrielâs face he knows exactly what sheâs been up to, thankfully no one else seems interested in where she went tonight. Feyre and Rhys likely feeling too guilty over yesterday to question her, and Amren because wellâŠsheâs Amren.
âI should have seen it. He was a King before he died, why wouldnât he want another crown,â Az says ruefully, almost to himself.
âHe already made an alliance with Nolan when we met them,â Feyre points out from where sheâs sitting perched on the arm of Rhysâ chair, âthe human lands of Prythian may have been part of their deal.â
âNo,â Elain cuts in, âLord Nolan was a traditionalist.â And the tradition for the humans of Prythian was that they donât ever bow to kings. âHe would never have supported something like this. But Grayson...â
Elain looks down at her hands, a sudden sense of shame taking over her.
âHe mentioned it to you before,â Feyre speaks for her. Amren shares a look with Rhys.
âYes...He,â Elain licks her lips, attempts to keep her hand from shaking, âhe thought humanity needed to be united by a king to defend against the fae.â Elain hadnât taken him seriously at the time, because thereâs never been a human king in Prythian, such a thing didnât seem possible. But now that the wall has come down, with a king and queen residing in the territoryâŠ
âThen the three of them have been plotting together this the whole time,â Az says softly.
âCircling like vultures waiting to strike the moment Lord Nolan dropped dead,â distaste fills Rhysandâs voice.
âAre we even sure somethings going on?â Feyre asks diplomatically. âJurian and Vassa have known each other long enough, maybe they really have fallen in love.â
This may be a fair point, but there can be no doubt that Feyreâs friendship with Lucien is the reason sheâs making it. Judging by the looks in the room, Elain isnât the only one coming to that conclusion.
âIf this were innocent Lucien wouldnât have tried to hide it,â Rhys tells her gently, placing a hand on the waist of his mate. Feyre bites her lip.
âLikely waiting to tell us when the weddings already happened and its too late to stop it,â Amren clicks her tongue.
âIt might be too late to stop it now,â Rhys says tightly. âJurian and Vassa have been living down there for over two years. They must have allies by now, their aid during the war has more than earned them respect. We canât just go barging in there to stop this wedding. Itâll ruin any trust we have with the humans.â
Amren scrunches her nose, Elain suspects if it were up to her, Amren would have no problem with simply barging in there to stop the wedding.
âYou canât honestly think Lucienâs in on this,â Feyre defends, clearly uncomfortable. âHeâs not human, he gains nothing from it.â
âWhatever his involvement, itâs clear we can no longer trust him,â Rhys says rubbing her back. âIf heâs hidden thisâŠthereâs no telling what else heâs hiding.â
âIâll go over all his reports,â Azriel states. âSee what I can validate through other means, and Iâll start having his movements trailed.â
âIâm surprised you arenât doing that now. Been slacking at the job, spymaster?â Amren teases. Az sinks back further into shadow.
Guilt twists in Elainâs gut, this is her fault. Azriel hasnât been looking too closely into Lucien because of her.
âThereâs also the problem of humanity needing to forge its own path,â Feyre continues. âIf the humans of Prythian want to be ruled by a King and Queen, who are we too interfere with that?â She looks to Rhys who nods in agreement.
Amren snorts dismissively, âVassa, who is bound to Koschei and Jurian...â
âMiriyam and Drakon still donât trust him,â Azriel points out, like thatâs reason enough to doubt him. âJurian met with the human queens while working for Hybern. We have no way of knowing what went on between them behind closed doors.â
âFine, so weâll keep a close eye on them,â Feyre decides. âBut at this point we have no cause to openly get involved.â
âSo any move we make must be done in secret,â Rhys looks to Azriel, who gives him a nod, shadows curling around his ears.
âBut thereâs still the problem of Lucien,â Amren points out. âWe canât replace him as emissary without making it obvious weâre on to the lying little shit.â
âHe didnât lie,â Feyre argues, Amren looks ready to give a biting retort before Elain interrupts, âIâll go.â
Everyone in the room looks at her, as if they temporally forgot she was there. She sits up straighter, gracefully, trying not to shake from nerves, âThe funeral for Lord Nolan will be in a few days. Iâll show up to pay my respects.â
âTheyâll just turn you away,â Amren waves a hand in dismissal.
âUnwelcome in my former homeland, almost like an exile,â Elain emphasizes slowly. A look of pride flashes through Azrielâs face, before it goes cold again. Like he forgot for a moment that heâs mad at her.
Stars twinkle in Rhysandâs eyes, Elain can see the gears churning in his head, âLuckily, thereâs an entire band of exiles to take pity on you.â
Worry paints Feyreâs face she glances at Rhys then Elain, âI donât like it. There are many fae haters in those parts and Elain, your not exactly trained in combat.â Her brows knit together.
âMy mate will be there to protect me.â Honey drips from Elainâs voice. Guilt flashes in Feyreâs eyes, Elain gives her sister a lovely smile.
âSheâs right,â Amren chimes in. âNo harm will come to her in Lucienâs presence. Heâll die to protect her, the mating instinct will demand it of him.â
âThose same instincts,â Azriel adds, voice deadly soft, âmight prevent him from letting her go afterwards.â
âIf Lucien tries anything Iâll drag him to the dungeons of Hewn City myself,â overwhelming power seeps out of Rhysand.
From the dark look in Azrielâs eye there can be no doubt what kind of treatment Lucien can expect should he find himself in the pits of Hewn City. Elain notes this but tucks it away, having no idea what exactly she feels about that thought.
âItâs decided then,â Rhys concludes, âElain should leave first thing in the morning if sheâs going to make the funeral.â She nods in agreement.
âThe twins will go with you as well,â he tells her. âIt will be expected for a lady of your station to travel with handmaidens. You will use them to send reports back to Az.â
âShe should give them directly to me,â Azriel steps out of the shadows. âThe twins wonât always be able to winnow away unnoticed. And itâs better for me to receive reports without delay. Especially if Jurian has been plotting with the queens.â
Rhys looks conflicted but nods anyway, âFine. But I want the twins present for reports as well, in case they find information Elain has missed.â She tries not to be offended by that suggestion. Knowing perfectly well Rhysand has other motivations for wanting the twins present.
Az nods solemnly, as if he also understands the unspoken implication. That he and Elain are not to be alone together.
âIâll go tell the twins.â Feyre stands up. Informing them of their duties as chaperones too, no doubt. Amren practically runs from the room once the meeting is done, mumbling something about Varian being all alone in her bed.
As Elain stands to leave Azriel catches her eye, clearly wanting to talk about the twins taking her spying tonight. âIâm going to go pack,â she bolts from the room before Az can get in a word.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
After not sleeping for two days Azriel wants nothing more than to go to bed. Instead, after returning to the House of Wind, he sends his shadows to inform Nuala and Cerridwyn heâd like a word in his office.
The both arrive ten minutes later, a sheepish expression on both their faces.
Azriel decided to take a page out of Rhysandâs book, asking carefully, âPlease inform me what you learned from your target.â
Nuala stands a bit straighter before replying, âHe approached me not long after dinner. Wanting to spend time alone together.â
âAnd?â
âHe was very talkativeâŠduring and after,â Cerridwyn winces slightly at her sisters words. âHe informed me of a scheme of large scale tax fraud by nobleman all across Prythian.â Azriel tilts his head in acknowledgment, the news of the wealthy not paying taxes hardly surprising or of much interest.
âApparently there has been talk amongst them of an incoming war,â Nuala continues. âSome noblemen are planning to fund the war effort, in exchange for territorial claims.â
Now that, does peak Azrielâs interest, âWho and what side?â
âHe didnât say.â Az will have to place a spy close to the banker in Autumn until the male reveals more. Nuala would be preferable, since sheâs already made contact, but wonât be available while sheâs in the human lands with Elain.
âGood job,â he tells her tightly. Dismissing them.
Nuala and Cerridwyn exchange a look. âIs thatâŠis that all?â Cerridwyn asks hesitantly.
âWe will discuss the rest of what happened tonight later.â Azriel informs them.
He decides to postpone their reprimanding, partly because heâs so exhausted heâs about to faint. But also because Az is well aware of just what Nuala had to do tonight to get the information she did.
Itâs not something he would ever ask of her, but both the twins have done so before of their own initiative. A very useful tactic, just another tool in the arsenal of his best spies.
Azriel wishes it wasnât. But he respects both of them too much to give orders on what they can and canât do with their bodies. Ordinary their judgement is flawless. Tonight it wasnât. And if the risks involved werenât so serious he would be inclined to forgive them for taking Elain spying tonight.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
Elain wakes up before sunrise, having slept poorly last night. She had a hard time falling asleep, thoughts spiralling in her head. Going back to the human realm after being gone for so long. Possibly seeing Grayson again, living with Lucien. Spying. What if sheâs not good at it? What she fails, or they figure out why sheâs there?
But Elain feels determined to do this. Sheâs still buzzing from her talk with Eris last night, getting information from him. And despite Azriel being clearly unhappy the twins took her with them, Elain knows Eris wouldnât have told them what he told her.
The question has crossed her mind about how Eris got his intel in the first place, and why he saw fit to tell her. He made his interest in Elain clear enough last night, she just wish she could figure out why.
She gets dressed and heads downstairs. The twins left before her, having already picked out an inn and taking care of her luggage. Elain had plans to travel light with only one suitcase before Nuala packed practically half her wardrobe into several trunks.
Explaining to her the importance of appearances when spying. And if her friends are posing as simple servants, then Elain is to maintain the image of high standing lady. Naive, and a touch vain, someone people notice but often dismiss as insignificant.
Feyre and Rhys are waiting to see her off as Elain reaches the bottom of the stairs. Feyre looks as if she wants to speak with her, walking closer. Elain ignores this, grabbing Rhysandâs hand. âLetâs go,â she tells him. He gives Feyre an apologetic look, then winnows them both away.
As they get to the human lands Rhys says, âDonât be too hard on her for the other night. It wasnât an easy choice, for either of us.â
âEither.â Her voice sounds hollow, raw. Rhys winces but does not contradict her.
Of course he was involved. Probably interfered long before her sister. Elain shouldnât be surprised by this. But somehow she is. Her relationship with her brother-in-law has always been a pleasant one. That he could be conspiring behind her back never occurred to Elain.
âYou can go now,â she says cordially. âI do not require an escort to see me to the door.â
âElain, Iâm not letting you walk there alone.â
She ignore him and starts walking. Turning around she says in the distance, polite and casual, the way one speaks at afternoon tea, âWhile Iâm gone, if you could be so kind, please see to it that my belongings are moved into the townhouse.â
Elain doesnât wait for a response as she walks off.
Wounds from the war with Hybern still scar the land even two years later. Black husks of dead trees, patches of brown grass, likely burnt by magic, unable to regrow. Hollowed out buildings, stones crumbling, the humans who lived in them still not returned from where they fled, if they managed to escape at all. Weeds left to grow freely from the abandonment, bees buzzing wildly around wildflowers.
Morning sun shines above her, birds chirping in the distance. Signs of healing start to become more apparent as Elain approaches the town. Old buildings with new bricks in some sections, others with a fresh coat of paint likely hiding repairs. She can hear the laughter of children, see humans in the market going about their day.
Sheâs never been to this town before, but itâs close enough to the place she used to call home that it holds a sense of familiarity. Thereâs hand painted sign over the inn, a little goat on it. The one in her old town had a lion on it. A pair of orange cats that would dart through the legs of visitors as they passed by. The owner used to sit outside it sometimes, chewing sunflower seeds. He gave Elain some for her garden once. They didnât grow, the seeds long dead, but she still appreciated the gesture greatly.
Elain wonât ever see him again. Sheâll never go back to that old home. Sheâs has a new home now, and when she returns to Velaris that home will be different than the one she left. For the first time in her life Elain is alone. She takes a breath to stop from trembling and enters the inn.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
Notes:
Sorry for the delay, had some personal issues come up. Updates should be back to a weekly schedule if everything goes right.
Since the war with Hybern, Elain has settled in to a stable routine. Filling all her waking hours with labour, allowing no room for idle thoughts to grow. If asked, Elain will tell you sheâs doing fine. And she is. If she can only manage to ignore all the secrets that threaten to bury her alive.
Elainâs not the only one keeping secrets. When the loyalty of her estranged mate gets called into question and a religious order imbeds itself in the courts of Prythian, Elain must go undercover to find out more. Working directly with the Night Courts spymaster Azriel, who hasnât spoken to her in months. The male she desperately wants, but wonât ever have. The male who isnât her mate.
Notes:
adapt and be responsive, that to be as others wanted you to be was fundamental to getting ahead in the worldââAudition, Katie Kitamura
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
Elanâs head is pounding like someoneâs inside it with a mallet tenderizing meat. Running out of the bathtub she slept in, she nearly trips on blankets in her hurry to throw up. This mornings vomiting session is more from the bottle of whiskey she drank for dinner last night rather than any unpleasant dreams.
Sheâs not entirely sure thatâs much of an improvement.
Whether it was the Mothers mercy for yesterdays awfulness, or sleeping on a room filled with light, Elain was blessed with a dreamless sleep. She does this sometimes, when the visions get truly bad, fills the bathroom with light and sleeps in there. Itâs much smaller than her room making it easier to chase away the dark. Plus it doesnât open up to the hall. And Elain doesnât really want to explain to anyone else all the light bleeding through her door.
Not that it matters much now. Sheâll be living alone soon, where she wonât have to explain anything to anyone.Â
Where itâll be just Elain and the all things living inside her head.
That thought alone is almost enough to make her back out of this whole thing. Sheâs never lived on her own before. The idea of it makes her feel like she walking off into the abyss.
But Elain canât stay here. Not anymore.
She brushes her teeth, then drags her blankets back to her bed. Her movements are sluggish, she feels utterly drained. Like a towel forgotten at the beach, stiff, dry and bleached from the sun.Â
Gardening is normally her happy place on days like these. It has always soothed even her worst pains. But Elain doesnât want to leave her room. Canât stand the idea of seeing anyone else. She has this fear that the moment she opens her door someone will be waiting on the other side, demanding to speak with her about last night.Â
Instead Elain crawls back into bed, the softness of it strange after spending the whole night sleeping in a hard tub. Try as she might, she canât stop her mind from going over and over the previous day.
Shame prickles under her skin.
Elain shouldnât have left the house yesterday. Just sat for tea with Lucien and kept her pretty, little mouth shut. And she would have, if she wasnât so weak. Letting one tiny, little vision get to her head.
Honestly itâs pathetic.
And her arguments with Az and FeyreâŠwhat was she thinking? Elain knows nothing can happen between Azriel and her, knows it better than anyone else. Why is she causing problems for everyone else over something she can never have?Â
Playing with Azriel in the way she did yesterday, teasing him when she has no intentions of following through. Toying with his emotion for her amusement. How could she do that?
Because sheâs selfish. Horrible, wicked and cruel.
She was in such a bad mood and it felt so damn good seeing Az after so long. Elain gave into that feeling without thinking about anything or anyone else. And nowâŠ
Mess, sheâs everything a mess. And the thought of cleaning it up makes her feel like sheâs drowning.
Elain wishes she had a distraction, but there arenât many of those to be found in her room.
Just a stack of romance books Nesta shoved at her a few weeks back. All about Illyrian males. Elain pointedly did not comment on that fact.
Sheâs has never been much of a romance reader, but she gave one a try not long after receiving them. Was even enjoying it. Until she got to the part where the lovers are revealed to be mates. Elain hasnât touched a romance book since.
So instead of doing anything even remotely productive, Elain cocoons herself in blankets and stares blankly at the wall.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
Azriel would like nothing more than to skip breakfast. But after missing lunch and dinner yesterday his body is begging for food. Sleep as well, but heâs choosing to ignore that. Knowing that the wounded look on Elainâs face yesterday is waiting for him the moment he closes his eyes.
His muscles almost sigh in relief as Azriel sits down for breakfast. Every single part of his body feels inflamed after training all night. He hasnât pushed himself this hard in wellâŠAz isnât sure heâs ever trained this hard.
The house sets a plate of sausage and eggs down, stacked high with enough food to feed three people. He sends his shadows through the stone house whispering to it thank you. Azriel reaches for the tray of coffee on the table, his shadows inform Az the house disapproves of this. He sends the shadows to tell the house it can mind its own business, they hiss at him rather than repeat it.
Disobedient littleâ
Nesta and Cassian walk in, giving him a polite greeting. As they sit down plates of food appear before them. Az pours himself two large cups of coffee, ignoring the raised brow on Nestas face. And the glance she shares with Cass. Confirming what Azriel already knows. He looks like complete shit.
His shadows swarm around him, like flies circling a carcass.
âSo,â Nesta starts casually, fork playing with her eggs, âIt looks like the priestesses will be having a day off this afternoon.â
âItâll be longer than that,â Cass grunts, âNot until we can replace every training dummy we have.â His fork spears a sausage.
Az keeps his face neutral, taking a calm sip of his coffee, âThey can train without them.â And he needs the distraction.
âNot if they want to avoid breaking their necks,â Nesta snorts. âAfter you ripped through the dummies, you left the beads inside them rolling around everywhere.â She takes a bite of eggs, chewing, âIâm surprised you didnât slip and fall off the mountain last night.âÂ
Az almost did, more than once. He isnât entirely sure that would have been such a bad thing.Â
Despite his foul mood, Azriel recognizes trashing a shared space is more than a little bit rude. âI apologize, I will see to it that the training grounds are cleaned up.â
âAz, thatâs not what weâŠâ Nesta gives a pleading look to Cassian who sits up straighter.
âWhat we mean, brother, is that both of us are here if you need to talk about anything.â He says earnestly.
Azriel takes both his coffees and stands up, ignoring the screaming of his sore muscles. âIâm perfectly fine.â
Cassian opens his mouth to say more but Az leaves before he can get the chance to.Â
As he gets to the end of the hall his shadows inform him that Nesta is now scolding Cass for scaring him off by being too sappy. As miserable as Azriel feels he canât help but to chuckle at that.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
When he gets to the training grounds Gwyn is already there sweeping up. Azriel cringes as he takes in the view. The place is a complete disaster.
Its not just the beads rolling everywhere, but the ripped open dummies strewn about as well. Last night Az had been striking hard enough to send them flying across the grounds, knocking over everything in their path. Mostly weapon racks. Azriel canât see any actual weapons, which means theyâre now dangerously hidden beneath all the beads.
Shame rises up in Az. He was in such a bad mood it hadnât fully registered what he was doing last night. And if it had, he would have never left a shared space in such disarray.
He looks at Gwyn cleaning and winces, âThis is my mess, you shouldnât have to be the one to do that.âÂ
Gwyn practically jumps at the sound of his voice. Az scolds himself for not making enough noise as he approached her. Memories come back to him of his mother doing the exact same thing with his fatherâs voice.
But Gwyn doesnât seem too bothered, âItâs okay, I donât mind helping.â She tucks a piece of hair behind a pointed ear, âItâs nice actually. Spending some time out in sunshine after being cooped up in the library for so long.â She tilts her head up letting light shine on her, coppery hair shimmering.
Indeed, Gwyn has a healthy glow to her, these long months of training have even given her a slight tan. Maybe cleaning up has more to do with her own needs rather than anything Azrielâs done.
She goes back to sweeping, quietly humming to herself. Not wanting to disturb her, Az gives Gwyn a nod and goes to find another broom.
They work together in silence, cleaning up Azâs mess. With each bit of debris thatâs removed Azriel can feel some of the tension leaving his body. Like threads bound too tight slowly being loosened by unseen hands. Even his shadows have gone quiet. And though he would never ask for it, Az has to admit that thereâs something soothing in having Gwynâs help.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
Afternoon comes around and Az spends it going over reports from his spies. Not much of it is new to him. Spring is still in disarray, rumour has it there is a group of bandits looking to seize power now that Tamlins out of the picture. The High Priestess in Winter has been meeting someone in secret, presumably a new lover. A prominent banker is here in the city and the courts noblemen are looking to create alliances with him, likely as a form of tax evasion.Â
He hasnât heard from one of his spies in Dawn in a few weeks, Azriel might need to do some digging into what happened to him. An ally Thesean may be, but heâd be a fool not to sharply question the spy of another court should he get his hands on them.
Azriel makes a note to inform Rhysand about the bandits in Spring, though he doubts theyâre much of a threat. The missing spy can wait until Az learns more.
Lazy mid afternoon sun drifts in through the window behind his desk. Not sleeping at all last night is really starting to get at him. Az feels like heâs seeing through a layer of fog and his blood feels like someone mixed sand into it. He ignores this, âCoffee, please.â Az asks the house, instead a pillow and blanket plop down on his leather office couch.
 âLook, I still need to meet Rhys tonight,â and after yesterday, theres no possible way that particular meeting is going to go well, âIâll try to get some sleep after, but I need to work for right now.â The house sets a coffee on his desk, as Azriel takes a sip, it puts down a coaster.
You donât listen to us when we tell you to sleep, his shadows seem to whine.
Because you donât have the ability to take away my food, Azriel hums to them.
Yet.
Az isnât sure if the though came from him or them, he shivers at the implication anyway.
Nuala enters the office as Az is placing his coffee down. She informs him Cerridwyn is busy out with the target, who as it turns out is a dead end. Azriel had a feeling that might end up being the case. With spying sometimes you donât always know where the information you want lies. Which is why Az always has several backup plans. He informs Nuala of one of them.
As she turns to leave he says casually, as if its an afterthought, âAnd Elain,â
Nuala raises a brow.
âDid she,â His wings twitch, âDid she get home okay?â
The half-wraith gives him a withering glare, âI will not report her movements to you.â
âThatâs notâŠwhat I mean isâŠâ Az reconsiders. Why is he grovelling to his own spy? He attempts to put some authority back into his voice, âDespite your new found loyalties to Elain, I am still your boss. If I ask for information regarding her, you will give it.â
Nuala stares blankly at him, slams her reports on his desk. Then turns into mist and walks through the wall. A gust of wind tears through the office after shes gone. Knocking Azrielâs coffee straight into his lap. Az winces.
He probably deserved that.
He can add authority with employees along with his self control to the list of things sweet Elain has slowly been taking from him. Az runs his hands through his hair and sighs.
Itâs a good thing sheâs only ever met the two spies, otherwise he may wind up with a full blown coup on his hands. And he really has lost his damn mind, because somehow that thought doesnât seem to bother Azriel.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
Elain is still moping in bed by late afternoon when the twins come to find her. Nuala bearing soup and a sandwich, Cerridwyn whiskey and a smirk. Elain downs the whiskey in one go. Then starts on the food, giving Nuala a grateful smile. She really is starving after not eating all day.
Neither of them pry or ask for any information. They both likely now she left with Azriel yesterday. Elain has her suspicions theyâre the ones who told him where to find her. And her argument with Feyre, it didnât involve screaming but it wasnât exactly quiet either.
But they donât comment on that. Instead Nuala and Cerridwyn gently sit on her bed next to her, as she eats. Silently letting Elain know they know sheâs hurting and are here for her.
âWe have a new target,â Nuala says carefully, well aware Elain doesnât want to talk about the person who gave the assignment. âAnother high standing Autumn fae, banker this time. Visiting Velaris for a few days on a business trip. One of the cityâs noblemen is hosting a dinner in his honour.â
Cerridwyn flexes her eyebrows, âWanna come spying with us?â
Elain looks to Nuala, the more responsible of the two, âDonât you need permissionââ
Nuala firmly cuts her off, âDo you want to come, Elain?â
After her argument with Feyre last night, sheâs not exactly jumping at the idea of helping the court. But Elain has to admit sheâs longing to do something of value, especially after doing nothing but lay in bed the whole day. She considers it. Spying, stepping into the role someone else. A person who doesnât have any of the problems Elain is facing. The perfect distraction for the mess of her life that sheâs nowhere near ready to clean up.
âYes, I think,â she sits up straighter, âI think I might like that.â
Quite a lot actually.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
The twins help her dress, picking out one of her more formal evening gowns. A tight fitting navy dress that, while still modest, is lower on the bust than Elain normally wears. Cerridwyn coils her hair, Nuala applies makeup to her face, subtle but eye catching.
Elain looks over to the twins and their simple gowns, âAre you sure you two have the time to be helping me, donât you still have to get dressed?â
âWeâll be stationed in the kitchen.â Cerridwyn informs her.
âOh.â Elain just assumed that theyâd be going with her as guest. How else are they supposed to get close to the banker tonight?
Reading the confusion on her face Nauala clarifies, âItâs actually easier this way, to spy.â
Elain starts to question why, but is silenced by the lipstick Nuala starts applying.
âSome males like it, seducing the help,â Cerridwyn chimes in. âTaking lovers they view as beneath them, it gives them a sense of power.â
Elain scrunches her nose at that thought.
âAnd that arrogance makes them weak. Easy to manipulate and control.â Nuala says, a dark look in her eye. Thereâs a story there, something sheâs never shared with Elain before.
âIf your going to be a spy, Elain, your going to have to get used to this sort of thing.â Nuala tells her as Cerridwyn pins bronze flowers into her hair. âPlaying to a persons vanity, finding their weaknesses and using it to your advantage.â
âItâs actually pretty fun, once you get the hang of it.â Cerridwyn adds cheerfully, âThink of it like a game. But the only one who knows youâre playing is you.â She gives Elain a toothy grin.
âI donâtâŠI mean, Iâm not really a spy. Tonight is just a one time thing.â And Elainâs not entirely sure what sheâs actually meant to do all night. Is she supposed to court this merchant? Sheâs not ready for something like that. Maybe this whole thing is a mistake.
The twins exchange a glance, as if reading her mind.
âNo oneâs asking you to seduce anyone, Elain.â Nuala reassures her.
âAnd Azriel would probably kill us ifââ Cerridwyn goes quiet as Nuala gives her a pointed look at the mention of he who shall not be named. Elain looks down at her nails.
Nualaâs painted little violets in them, sheâs really quite talented. Maybe she should ask Feyre for recommendations of painting supplies as a gift for next Solstice.
 Oh wait, theyâre not speaking. The thought has Elain shrinking into herself.
âOur methods wouldnât really work for you.â Nuala says gently, misreading Elainâs discomfort, âYou have far to much of an innocent look, seduction would appear out of character. Especially for a high standing high-fae female.â
âNot like us half-breed whorââ
âEnough, sister.â Nuala cuts Cerridwyn off sharply.
Elain shifts uncomfortably. Itâs not the first time something like this has come up. The difference in how sheâs treated by society due to her status as âhighâ fae. Elainâs never entirely sure how to respond to something like that. Sheâs spent most of her life as a human and still doesnât quite feel like any kind of fae.
âSheâs going to have to learn how things work eventually,â Cerridwyn says, firmer than she ordinarily speaks, âThe people youâll be dinning with tonight, Elain, nobleman theyâre not exactly what you would call open minded.â
Nuala sighs, resigning to the necessity of the conversation, âYou may hear things you donât like tonight. Not just about me and my sister, but also the High Lord and,â Nuala searches for words, âand other Illyrians that he employs.â Meaning Azriel.
Nuala continues, âItâs important that you donât argue with them on it.â
Elain stiffens, âIf I hear something cruelââ
âWe are there to spy tonight. Not discuss ethics. If you canât keep your mouth shut while offended, it might be best for you not to come.â
That makes Elain pause. This is serious enough that they wonât take her if sheâs going to start arguments over the dinner table. But stillâŠcan she really sit there smiling politely while listening to blatant rudeness?
âMy sister and I will be okay,â Cerridwyn says in that chipper voice of hers, which Elain knows is put on, âWeâve heard all of it before, it really doesnât bother us.â
That doesnât exactly make Elain feel any better about this whole thing. But still, she nods in agreement. Because theyâre both taking a risk by bringing her tonight, are doing it because they know sheâs upset. And Elain wonât repay their kindness by causing trouble for them at work.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
The sun has set by the time sheâs done getting dressed. Elain takes Naulaâs hand walking with her into a shadowy mist, dew clings to her skin. Itâs the first time sheâs ever winnowed with one of the half-wraiths, shes not even sure itâs winnowing at all. More like evaporating into the wind and air until theyâre drifting somewhere else.
In front of them is a sprawling estate. The gardens of it are well maintained but not to her taste. All order and harsh lines, the gardens of someone looking to dominate nature rather that embrace it. To her left Elain can see Velaris in the distance, nestled between two mountains, shining like a star.
At they walk up the winding stone road, nerves start to take her. Despite living with the High Lord and Lady sheâs never had much interaction with the courts nobility. What will she even say to this Autumn banker theyâre here to spy on? Is he expecting her? How did the twins even get her invited on such a short notice?
âThey do know Iâm coming, right?â Elain asks, attempting not to let her nervousness show.
âOf course. Torrin, the host is thrilled to have you.â Nuala says tightly, Elain gives her a confused look.
 âHe seems to be under the impression that the High Lord was keeping you locked away,â Cerridwyn adds, tone flat, âDue to jealousy of other males seeing the famed beauty of the Night Court.âÂ
Elainâs cheeks redden, âThey canât honestly think Rhys would do something like that.â
âThey do.â Nuala says cooly.
Their discussion in her bedroom comes back to Elain. Is she really going to have to sit there and listen to Rhys be insulted all night?
As they approach the door the twins disappear into shadow, walking through a wall instead. Apparently thereâs some kind of protocol in place against the âhelpâ using the front door. Elain hasnât even met the nobleman yet, but she already dislikes him greatly.
She gives herself a moment, to calm her nerves, then Elain knocks on the door.
A fae female with multi coloured hair and butterfly wings opens it. âLesserâ fae and beautiful, the kind of female Elain expects this Torrin deems acceptable to work as public facing âhelpâ but nothing beyond that.Â
Or maybe a few other things, Cerridwynâs words about seducing the help come back to her. Elain fights off a shiver at that thought.
The female doesnât give Elain her name, just escorts her through the house with hardly a word. Elain resist the urge to scrunch up her nose with distaste as she walks through the estate. Gold, marble, gemstones, velvet, and even more gold.
Her old homes were both opulent in their own way, excluding the cabin. But those estates were tastefully decorated with care, a perfect combination of simplicity and luxury. This manor was not designed with such an eye. It seems to have been decorated by someone shoving as much wealth as they can possibly fit into every available space.
The female leads her to a drawing room where the others have already gathered. Elain wants to thank her but doesnât. Assuming showing good manners to her âlessersâ isnât part of the role of high standing socialite shes playing tonight.
Like the rest of the house the drawing room is revoltingly extravagant. And it doesnât escape her notice that sheâs the only female in it.Â
âAh, there you are my dear!â A male with pointed ears and a red bloated face greets her, âJust in time for dinner. We were all worried that half-breed wouldnât allow you out tonight.â
She had expected it would take a little more time before the insults started. Elain ignores it and gives the male, presumably the host Torrin, a polite smile, âMy apologies sir, I had trouble deciding what to wear.â A few males chuckle.
âWell, Iâm sure I speak for everyone here, when I say Iâm certainly glad you did. You look absolutely stunning, my dear.â My dear, not a term Elain appreciates being used by a stranger. Still, she forces a blush and smiles sweetly. Her eyes scanning the room for the Autumn fae.Â
She spots a male with red hair, glass of whiskey in hand. As his eyes meet hers thereâs a fiery look in them, Elain nods at him shyly.
âWell, I think thatâs all of us. Dinner may be served now.â Torrin shepherds his guest to the door.
âWait, thereâs one more.â The Autumn fae moves closer, âI hope you donât mind, I invited an old friend to tag along.â
âNo worries, no worries.â Torrin waves a hand, âThe more the merrier, as they say.â The nobleman snaps his fingers as if summoning a dog. A servant scurries in, head down. Torrin begins informing, not asking the fae that dinner will now be serving one more.
Elain hopes they keep extra food for situations like this and the chef isnât now struggling to cook an unplanned meal. A stab of guilt goes through her at the thought of Nuala and Cerridwyn down in the kitchen.
As they wait for the unexpected guest, Elain makes her way over to the Autumn banker. âI havenât the pleasure to make your acquaintance. I heard you are to be the guest of honour tonight, sir.âÂ
He give her a smile that makes her skin crawl, âIndeed I am, Hilton, at your service. And how very lucky I am, to have the rose of the Night Court out of her prison to enhance my stay in Velaris with such beauty.â
Elain resists the urge to roll her eyes, instead dropping her head coyly, âYou are far too kind, sir. If it would not be to presumptuous of me,â she bites her lip, âmay I dine beside you tonight?â
Hiltons face breaks out in delight. âIf our host doesnât mind, I would be glad to have you by my side all night.â His tone leaves no questions as to what other context those words could apply to.
The host gives his approval, Elain will be placed by the head of the table next to both of them. Along with Hiltons other guest.
Despite the unwanted flirtations, that she will no doubt have to endure all night, Elain is feeling good about what just happened. Itâs far easier than she thought it would be. Donning the mask of socialite again. Itâs been so long, Elain had forgotten that sheâs actually good at this. Able to blend into high society effortlessly, as if slipping on a second skin.
She might even get some information of value tonight. And that thought has her practically buzzing with excitement. Footsteps echo in the hall as, presumably, the uninvited guest finally arrives. As she turns around Elain has to clench her jaw so it doesnât open in shock.
Standing in the doorway is Eris Vanserra.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
They all make their way to the dinning room. Elain keeping back, far away from Eris, politely making small talk with a few of the other guest.
But her goal to keep away from Eris is quickly placed out of reach as they all sit down at a massive mahogany table. Gold and crystal chandeliers above them, purple velvet lining the gilded chairs.
Torrin sits at the head of the table, Hilton to his left whom Elain is seated beside. Eris Venesara sits directly across from her, smirking and impossible to avoid.Â
Dinner is severed by a collection of identical males, or one male who can exist in many places at once. Handsome, winged like a dragonfly, clean cut brown hair and the eyes, shinning like gemstones, likeâ
âInsects, the lot of them.â A white haired male sitting beside Eris tells Elain, noticing her stare, âBreed like it too, fifty identical babes to one mother.âÂ
Elain bristles with indignation, she allows some of it to show, hoping the male misreads it as distain for the staff and not him.
âI happen to be rather fond of them myself,â Torrin almost sounds offended. Lest it come across as if he were showing kindness to those beneath him, Torrin continues, âI find their service provides a certain aesthetic value for my formal dinning.â
As much as she loathes to admit it, Elain finds herself agreeing with the nobleman. Thereâs something almost hypnotic watching the identical males move in synchronicity. As if they were all one entity.
Dishes are set down in unison. Elegant looking bowls of soup as a starter. The males pour the wine then fade into the background.
Eris catches her eye, clearly intending to start a conversation. Elain cringes, avoiding him all night would be far too noticeably rude. But she doesnât exactly want to engage in conversation with the male who left Mor alone in the woods.
âYou know,â he drawls bring a spoon to his mouth, âdespite you now being practically a part of my family, I donât believe weâve ever actually met.â Indeed Elainâs only seen him once or twice in passing during the war. She wouldnât have even been able to recognize him if it wasnât for Erisâ resemblance to his brother.
âIt is a shame,â she says politely, âthat I have never gotten the pleasure.â Hilton gives a little snort at her wording, which Elain gracefully ignores.
She brings her spoon to her lips and nearly drops it as she tastes the soup. Itâs good, unbelievably good. Light and gentle as an appetizer and yet still rich and flavourful. Elain hopes the two spies in the kitchen think to steal some recipes tonight.Â
âTruly?â Thereâs a sharp glimmer in Erisâ eye, that of a predator spotting weakness, âI was under the impression that you wanted nothing to do with Lucien or his family.â Torrin chokes on his wine. But the other Autumn fae, Hilton, nods in agreement. As if this topic has come up before. Perhaps in their court.
Elain cringes internally. She hadnât realized her estrangement to her mate was so well known. âI have simply been preoccupied with other things. There was a war going on, after all.â She takes another bite of soup, keeping her body relaxed.
âAhh, is that so? Then perhaps now that the war is over you would like to pay a visit to Autumn.â He takes a sip of wine, âNow that youâre mated to one of its sons, the land is practically your home.âÂ
What game is he playing here? Is this just to taunt her? He canât possibly actually want Elain to visit, when they both know heâs in the middle of staging a coup.
âMy homeland is truly lovely at this time of year,â Hilton inserts himself into the conversation, âIt would suit you well.â
âThatâs assuming the half-breed even letâs her go.â Torrin scoffs, disdainfully, âDespite my joy in having you here, I must admit, my dear, you would be far safer in the respectable hands of Autumns High Lord.â Elain seriously doubts that, and judging by Erisâ raised brow heâs thinking the exact same thing.
âItâs just a shame about the circumstances,â Hilton leans in closer to her, âA beauty like you is wasted on a seventh son.â The males hot, breathy voice caresses her skin. It takes every bit of Elainâs poise not to cringe away.
âWell the lovely female obviously knows Lucienâs beneath her,â Torrin chuckes, â Thatâs why she wants nothing to do with him.â Laughter rings out around the table.
Elainâs temper flares. She never though sheâd be in a position where needed to defend Lucienâs honour butâŠ
But nothing. She promised the twins sheâd keep her mouth shut.
But that was back in her bedroom, where she didnât have to listen to cruel, jeering laughs. Or feel the indignation setting fire to her skin.
Maybe she wasnât cut out for something like this. Maybe sheâll fail at spying tonight just like she fails at everything else. Weak, useless.
Elain opens her mouth, to say what, she doesnât know, but someone beats her to it.
âA seventh son he may be,â Eris drawls, looking completely disinterested, âbut my brother is still the son of a High Lord. Remind me dear Torrin, what Lordship your father holds?â
The noblemanâs face goes beet red, âAhhâwell, hmmm.â He looks to the male beside Elain, âRonaldo, how was your summer vacation, I hear that sour wife of yours was giving you trouble.â
The conversation quickly devolves into talk of wives. Elain tunes most of it out, glancing over at Eris, wine glass swirling in his hand as if nothing just happens. He spots her eye, and brings the glass to his mouth taking a slow sip.Â
Elain looks away.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
After dinner and dessert they make their way back into the drawing room, some of the males giving her disapproving glances. Which informs Elain that the fae, like humans, typically exclude females from after dinner drinks. But shes the only female here and good manners dictate against leaving a guest in a separate room alone.
Elain hopes she can use that to her advantage, her eyes scanning for Hilton. Heâs in a conversation with a black haired male she hasnât been introduced to. She had hoped to talk to him alone, but maybe this is better, maybe she can get them talking about business.
She makes her way over to them, as Elain does a warm hand grabs her wrist. Eris, dragging her to an isolated corner of the room.
âYou should not be here.â Eris hisses
âWhere I do or do not go, sir, is none of your concern.â Elain says cooly, moving to rejoin the rest of the group. Eris snatches her wrist agian.
âDid that shadowingsinger set you up for this?â He clicks his tongue. âHe must really hate you, that or heâs been slacking at his job.â
Elain certainly isnât going to admit she came here without Azriel knowing. A sharp glimmer in Erisâ eye tells her he realizes anyway.Â
âOh you little fool, you have no idea what you almost walked into, do you?â He shakes his head, clearly amused.
Elain tries to keep the confusion off her face, âIâm not entirely sure what you mean, sir.â
âGods, enough with the polite lady act.â He scoffs, âWhat I mean is that Hilton is not the type of male one leaves females alone with.â A chill goes down her spine at the implication.
She tries to respond but her tongue suddenly feels dry.Â
Eris looks down at her, a look of smugness, like heâs gotten exactly what he wants from her. âSince Iâve just saved you from an unspeakable fate, it seems only fair that you show me some gratitude. Iâm thinking Iâll ask for a favour, which you will now grant me at my leisure.â
How about the favour of not informing your father about you plotting to kill him? Elain almost snaps at him.
But, sheâs curious. About what exactly Erisâ goal is here, what is it heâs looking for from her?
So despite having no intentions of returning the favour, she gives him a wide eyed look and nods slightly. The gesture of someone realizing theyâve been caught in a trap which they have no choice but to go along with.
If he recognizes the falsehood in her agreement, Eris gives no signs. âI heard my brother was in the city, I donât suppose you have spoken to him.â
âI was busy yesterday and wasnât given the chance.â Elain lies smoothly.
Eris sighs, almost to himself, âWell, itâs no matter, I doubt he would have wanted to speak with you regardless.â
He gives her a lazy smirk, âRumour has it heâs been living with another female, a human woman. She might end up becoming a rival for you, if youâre not carful. Although,â he draws out the word, âit would seem that wonât be much of an issue before long.â
Thereâs a glint in his eye, as he waits for Elain to ask. She hates giving him the satisfaction, but she is here to spy, after all. âWhat do you mean?â
âOh, did my brother not put it in his report?â He feigns surprise, âI just assumed you knew.â
He pauses, waiting again. Elain shoves down her rising irritation, asking calmly, âKnow what?â
âIt would seem, that the little fire bird and eyeball are about to be wed.â Eris chuckles.
Vassa and Jurian are getting married? Elain takes a step back in shock. The news spinning in her head.
Queen, of a land in the heart of the continent. And a former King, thought of as the saviour of humanity. Soon to be a King once more. A King and Queen uniting together in human lands at the edge of Prythian. A land without rulers.
A blatant power grab from both of them.
And Lucien, the emissary of the Night Court, hadnât informed anyone.
ââ ·đ„žÂ· ââ
Notes:
After finishing this chapter I realized Iâve been spelling Cerridwenâs name wrong this whole time.
Iâve decided to keep it because, honestly, I like my spelling better.
Sorry to anyone that annoys.
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