Fae menstrual cycles are notoriously terrible to endure, but yours seem to be especially torturous. Mor normally helps you through your cycles, but when yours comes early and Mor is away, a certain Shadowsinger steps in to help.
never doubt
You thought the worst part of your week would be trekking through the grotesque bogs of the Dawn Court alongside a Shadowsinger that had royally pissed you off. If only. At least the worst situations can sometimes bring about the best revelations.
you're safe
After enduring weeks of torture in the Illyrian Steppes, you are left staring at the pieces of who you were before. You should be healing, but instead your anxiety and fear sink further in with every day that passes. You tell no one of your struggles, of your sleepless nights and lingering scars, until Azriel finds you alone in the library at an ungodly hour of night, and everything comes pouring out.
was it really a mistake?
Drinks at Cassian's birthday party land you in Azriel's arms, which then lands you in his bed. Your poor heart doesn't know what to think.
pure love
You were in love with Azriel. It was inevitable, really. Who could blame you for falling for the kind and gentle male? OR A series of moments that show your blooming love for Azriel, who was too busy cultivating his own love for you to notice.
thorns and toxins
Azriel knew something was off the moment you walked into the training room. You brushed him off, and ended up sending the poor male into a tailspin after you collapsed while sparring.
you make it better ~ part 2
Life as Nesta Archeron's friend had never been smooth-sailing, but you never would have thought it would land you in the fae lands, in a fae body, surrounded by unfamiliar...everything. You're struggling to adapt to your new life while dealing with the loss of your human one, but there is one fae male that makes it all just a little bit easier.
smothered flames ~ part 2
You were the Vanserras' best kept secret. That is, until you followed Eris to the Night Court, and you ended up finding more than you bargained for.
home
Leaving your family, leaving Azriel, for two whole months following Amarantha's reign of terror was harder than you anticipated. Azriel and you cling to each other upon your return.
lay your hand in mine
You never wanted to be a spy. You never wanted to work for the High Lord of Night. You never wanted to be trained by the male that faeries whispered horror stories about. Then again, those were just stories, and that very male might be your salvation.
thawed hearts
You had been a member of Rhys's court for decades, but no one knew where you really came from, or what your true heritage was. A trip to Illyria brings long-kept secrets to the light, and Azriel is there to help you in the aftermath.
love heals
Your first solo mission goes terribly wrong after you failed to heed Azriel's warnings. That doesn't stop him from saving you, and it certainly doesn't stop him from caring for you in the aftermath. You're convinced you don't deserve him, but that doesn't stop you from wanting him.
blush
You really like making Azriel blush.
lacy revelations
When Azriel visits your home for the first time, he stumbles across something you did not intend for him to find—though he certainly holds no complaints.
only love can hurt like this
You fell in love. That was a mistake.
because I care
Desperate to prove your worth to your overprotective friends, you turn to the one male who never seemed to care whether you soared or plummeted after your first mission goes terribly wrong. As it turns out, he cares very much.
find me in the afterglow
Cassian convinces Azriel to woo a Day Court princess.
downfall
You walked away after Azriel refused to accept your mating bond. When you finally return, you're left spinning after overhearing his cries to his brothers.
in my dreams
Azriel takes matters into his own hands when the leering males of Hewn City put you on edge. You never expected the night would lead to the two of you sharing a bed.
my infamy loves company ~ part 2
A creature like you was destined for solitude. A creature like you was destined to live out your long and wretched life alone. A creature like you could never have a mate.
a loving touch
Azriel had spent his entire life wishing for this—for you.
hold me tonight
As if life as the only human in Velaris was not terrible enough, you also had to endure the consequences of your mortal immune system. Azriel refuses to let you suffer alone.
Series
my heart has wings (complete)
You and Azriel long for the love your family members have found. That longing can easily turn into an isolating loneliness, so what if you rely on each other to numb that sickly feeling? What if your chance at love has been by your side for nearly a century?
bound by fear (complete)
You spent three decades suffering under the cruel thumb of your father. When you finally escaped, finally started to build your own life, the last thing you ever wanted was to find a mate.
it's nice to have a friend ~ part 2
Azriel was always meant to be yours. (childhood friends to lovers)
Blurbs
put this on
It's miserably hot out, and you made the mistake of trying to train. Your attempt to cool off leads to a bit of an awkward encounter with your friends, and a very jealous mate.
content warnings: hangover (nausea, headache, difficulty remembering), unknowing consumption of a recreational drug (mirthroot, past), suggestive themes, language
word count: 9.1k
synopsis: Azriel was always meant to be yours.
trope: childhood friends to lovers
part 1 ~ part 2 ~ part 3
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
Azriel was on the floor.
And he was shirtless.
And drooling.
The light beaming in through the window felt like an axe against your skull, the pain nearly cleaving you in two before you ducked your head under the pillows.
Pillows that were definitely not yours.
You flew up into a sitting position again, leaning over the bed to take in the male below.
Azriel was not wearing pants.
He was wearing underwear, thank the Mother, but it didn’t stop the panic that was rapidly climbing up your chest. Not when you were wearing only a too large shirt that smelled like him, and had nothing underneath.
At least Azriel was on the floor? But that almost made everything worse, because you had shared a bed more times than you could count. You had shared a bed last week. Why would he feel the need to sleep on the floor if—
A flare of pain in your head made you wince, your eyes snapping shut as you tried to take steadying breaths. This was the worst fucking hangover. Your mouth was dry and tasted foul, your hair was a wreck, your head was throbbing, and the light spilling into the room felt like staring into the sun.
You cracked your eyelids open slowly, forming small slits that were just enough to make out Azriel still sprawled on the floor, stomach down and wings splayed haphazardly, with just a single pillow for his head to rest on. Your gaze caught on a glass of water on the night stand, and your eyes widened as you grabbed it. You drank only half of it, your stomach revolting at the first large gulp, and the sudden wave of nausea had you taking deep breaths again.
You blindly reached to set the glass back on the nightstand, but in your lazy effort, you sat it on the edge, and it went clambering to the floor. Or—more specifically—on top of the male asleep on the floor. Thankfully, the glass didn’t shatter, but the water spilled all over Azriel’s face and pillow, causing him to bolt up right.
“What the fuck was that?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep and confusion.
“I’m sorry!” you hurried out, your loud voices making you wince. “I’m so sorry,” you said again, voice softening.
Azriel blinked a few times, pushing wet strands of hair out of his face. His eyes fell to the glass on its side, the wet spot on his pillow—which, in your defense, was also drool—and then they snapped to you.
His eyes were a little bloodshot, and dark circles laid beneath his eyes. It was the most disheveled you had ever seen him outside of fighting in literal wars, and there was something so ironically wholesome about seeing this male hungover and dazed and confused in nothing but his underwear. It was a state you knew very few had ever been privy to seeing Az in, and that sparked a flare of fondness and irrational possessiveness in your chest.
His throat bobbed as he stared at you wide eyed for a few seconds, taking in your own horrendous state. You did not even want to know what the hell you looked like—hell, probably. You probably looked like hell.
His shoulders finally relaxed, and he groaned as he rubbed a hand over his face. “What time is it?” he asked.
You bit your lip, glancing at the window only briefly. “I don’t know,” you groaned, falling back into the pillows. This was fucking absurd. “Early? Late? It’s fucking bright out, I can tell you that.”
At that, Azriel pushed himself up off the floor, walking over to the window to snap the drapes shut, dimming the light in the room. Some of the tension instantly left your body. “Thank you,” you murmured.
Azriel only nodded, his movements almost stiff as he picked up the glass on the floor and disappeared into the bathroom. You closed your eyes, your hands coming up to cover your face as your mind spun to piece together the night before, fragments coming back to you in mortifying flashes. Something cool gently knocked against your arm, and you lowered your hands to peer at a fresh glass of water in Azriel’s hand.
He smiled slightly, but his own weariness was obvious. “Here,” he said, passing you the glass as you pushed yourself up to rest against the headboard. You took a few slow sips before he handed you another vial with a blue liquid that gave you nauseating déjà vu. “Drink this,” he instructed, then went back into the bathroom.
You eyed the vial suspiciously, listening to the water run in the bathroom as you took another sip from your glass. Fuck it. It could only help, surely. Even if it tasted gross.
You popped the vial open and tossed the liquid back, shivering at the bitter taste that coated your tongue. You took another swallow of water to wash it away, and you prayed you didn’t puke it back up as your stomach turned.
Azriel reappeared then, your eyes tracking him as he walked over to the other side of the bed, still in nothing but his underwear. Which made you feel absolutely nothing at all, of course.
He climbed onto the bed, resting his back against the headboard, but he was overly mindful of positioning his wings so that they didn’t bump yours. There was enough space between you that it felt like a chasm, and somehow you felt more separated from him now than when he was passed out on the floor. The air was thick with awkward tension.
You rested your head back on the headboard with a gentle thud. Eventually, you caved and said with a groan, “This is the worst hangover of my life.”
A beat of silence passed, then Azriel said quietly, “I didn’t realize you drank that much.”
“Me neither.” You closed your eyes, letting out a long sigh. “I should know better than to blindly follow Mor.”
More silence followed, and your chest felt a little tighter the longer it stretched, but you kept your eyes closed and focused on keeping your breathing steady.
“How much do you remember?” Azriel finally asks, his tone still soft, but he seemed almost worried.
You opened your eyes, then slowly turned your head to look at him. He was watching you with unfairly clear eyes, sitting up straight against the headboard while you were slowly slumping further down into the pillows again.
Your stomach twisted as you let the memories of last night wash over you. The way Azriel held your hand as he led you through Rita’s. The first shot that quickly blurred into innumerable empty glasses. The way his body felt pressed against yours. The way your hips moved with his. The way his lips were soft and demanding.
It was like squinting through fogged over glass, trying to piece together smudged details that made up sharp fragments.
“How much do you remember?” you ask instead of answering, your voice raspy with both dehydration and embarrassment.
“Everything,” he answered quietly.
Your face warmed. “I remember puking in the alley,” you admitted reluctantly, your arm coming up to cover your eyes. “And pieces leading up to it, but after that—” You shrugged, dropping your arm to meet his eyes warily. “I don’t really know.”
Which…was a problem, now that you really started to think about it. You were in Azriel’s bed, in Azriel’s shirt, and you had no recollection of how that came to be. You couldn’t even remember leaving that alley, let alone climbing into bed.
“After that,” Azriel said gently, “I took you home. You didn’t want to sleep in your room, so I brought you here.”
You nodded once, then glanced down at the black shirt draped across your frame. “And my dress?”
Azriel winced, and your face was growing even hotter in anticipation of the words that might come out of his mouth. “There was vomit on your dress,” he said. “I helped you change. Then you went to bed.”
Unease clawed at your throat as you struggled to remember and still came up blank. You swallowed hard, then took another sip of the water you still had clutched in your hand. You ran your thumb over the lip of the glass once you brought it back down to your lap. Your smile was small and self-deprecating as you asked, half-jokingly, “And my underwear?”
Azriel’s head snapped toward you. “You’re not wearing underwear?”
You blinked, his words dousing you in cold water. Did he not remember everything from last night after all? Your mind started spinning with every possibility, and your face was hot from the thoughts alone. “Gods—Azriel, did we—”
“No! No, I swear. I don’t know where your—” His voice abruptly cut off. His eyes were locked on the foot of the bed, where a scrap of cobalt blue lace was strewn haphazardly.
Everything around you slowed as you both stared at the offending fabric. You slowly sat your glass of water down on the night stand before frantically launching yourself across the bed to grab the lace. You fisted the fabric in your hand as you awkwardly climbed off the bed, staring at Azriel with wide eyes from where you now stood at the foot of his bed. You had half the mind to thank the Mother that he was so large that his shirt was longer than your dress, and you were saved from any further mortification this morning—even if it sounds like he may have seen more than enough from you last night.
You licked your lips, heart pounding as you glanced around his room for any of your belongings, finding none, and then nodded to yourself repeatedly. “I should go,” you rushed out, avoiding Azriel’s eyes as panic flushed away the nausea and headache. You stumbled though when you took the first step toward his door, blinking quickly before the stars faded from your vision.
You heard the bed creak behind you, and you quickly continued your escape as Azriel followed close behind. “Y/N,” he said, but your ears were ringing and your face was burning and you were so embarrassed. You wished the mountain would fissure beneath your feet and swallow you whole.
“Thank you for—” You gestured wildly with no direction, your back still facing Azriel as you reached for the door knob.
“Y/N—”
You flung the door open, and then stopped in your tracks. Azriel’s chest bumped into your back, and his hand landed on your hip to keep you from careening forward.
Cassian stood there in the hall with a bowl of fruit and wild hair, his eyes wide as he stared at the two of you. He blinked once, and then twice, the three of you frozen as Cassian took in the sight before him. His eyes fell to your hand, which was still clutching your lace underwear.
Azriel snatched them from your hand, tossing them out of sight somewhere in his room. You blinked, your already soul-consuming embarrassment reaching horrifying multitudes.
Cassian’s free-hand came up to rub at his eyes, as if the sight of you and Azriel gave him a headache—or maybe he was just hungover—probably both.
His hand fell to his side, and he squinted at the two of you. “I thought the mirthroot shots were making me hallucinate.”
Cassian’s words momentarily cut through your blinding mortification, and you and Azriel both said, “The what?”
Cassian blinked owlishly at the two of you. “The…mirthroot shots?” His gaze darted from you up to Azriel, then back to you. “Mor was giving them to everyone.”
You tilted your head back, only to bump into Azriel’s chest. “I’m going to murder her,” you mumbled. Then you winced when you remembered taking the shots from her, not caring in the slightest what it was before downing it. You were fairly certain you had even said as much.
Cassian looked sheepish. “I don’t think she knew they were mirthroot at first. Then it was too late.”
That explained your hangover from hell.
“So,” Cassian said slowly, and your head snapped back up to look at him. “Are you two—”
“No,” you rushed out at the same time Azriel growled, “Cassian.”
He raised his hand with a shameless smirk on his face. “I’m just asking—”
“I have to go,” you said quickly, stepping away from Azriel, the cool air in the hallway licking away the heat that his body had radiated onto your skin. You glanced once back at Azriel’s room, another piece of your dignity withering away as you decided to leave behind your underwear in the name of escaping to your room as quickly as possible.
Azriel could keep them.
Or burn them.
Ferry them away to some interspace dimension.
You didn’t care.
You flung the door to your room open, slamming the door shut with a thud that echoed through your too still room. There were still clothes strewn around haphazardly from your rush to get ready the night before, and your training leathers laid in a pile by the bathroom. You sank down against the door, your head resting against the heavy wood once you were seated on the floor. Your hands came up to cover your face, and you begged the Mother to put you out of your misery.
~ ~ ~
“You’re up late.”
Your heart skipped a beat as your eyes snapped up to the male in the doorway. You smiled sheepishly as he walked closer, sitting next to you on the sofa. He was in his leathers, and his eyes were tired as he looked at the fire, the flames flickering in his irises.
You laid your book down in your lap, the pages splayed outward. “Are you okay?” you asked.
His throat bobbed, and it took him a few seconds before he turned to look at you. His smile was small, but it seemed genuine. “I’m just tired,” he said. He leaned back on the couch, his wings brushing against yours as they draped over the back. He glanced at you, and you smiled back, intentionally stretching your wing to brush against his again.
Your face was warm, and you weren’t sure it was from the fire. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Azriel sighed. “Now that Rhys is High Lord,” he said, “there is just so much that needs done.” He paused, his hand coming up to run through his hair. “Before, it was not my choice to serve the High Lord.”
You winced, looking down at your lap.
“Hey,” he said, his hand squeezing your wrist. “That is not your fault.”
“You sacrificed your freedom for me, Azriel,” you argued.
“And I would do it again,” he swore. He tugged at your wrist, and you forced your gaze to meet his again. “It was worth it, Y/N. I would have ended up serving on his court one way or another, at least I got to protect you by doing it.”
You nodded, and Azriel relaxed against the couch again. His hand slid down to hold yours, his fingers lazily playing with your own. You weren’t sure if he was even aware that he was doing it. “It’s different now, with Rhys. I chose to serve him. I want to. I’m loyal to him. I believe in him, and I trust his heart. He has plans for this court, and I want to help him bring them to fruition. It’s just…” He bit his lip, as if searching for the right words.
“A lot of pressure?” you asked.
He nodded. “A lot of pressure.”
You leaned against his shoulder, squeezing his hand. “I think that’s good,” you said softly.
Azriel hummed. “What do you mean?”
You shrugged. “It means you care,” you said. “You want to help people, Az. I think it would be bad if you just didn’t care at all.”
Azriel leaned his head against yours. Eventually he said, “Enough about me.” He sat up, and his gaze zeroed in on the book still in your lap. “Tell me about your book.”
Heat flooded your face, and you sat up straight. “Oh,” you laughed nervously. “No—it’s not—it’s pretty boring.”
Azriel frowned. “Tell me why it’s boring then.”
“I don’t—”
“At least let me look at it,” he said at the same time, plucking the book from your lap before you could even register what he was doing.
Your book that was still open to where you had been reading when he walked in. Azriel’s eyes danced as he read over the page, his lips slowly stretching into a smirk.
Mother help you.
“This is boring?” he asked, the taunt clear in his voice. As if the grin on his face wasn’t enough.
You yanked the book from his hands, snapping it shut. “Shut up, Az.”
“I had no idea this is what you read when you holed yourself away up here,” he teased.
You knew he was not being cruel, but embarrassment still made your stomach twist. You shrugged, your thumb running over the corner of the cover.
“Hey,” he said gently, and you forced yourself to meet his eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
You shrugged, your smile thin as you said, “I like it.” Then, maybe a bit foolishly, you added, “It’s safer…than the real thing.”
Azriel went still beside you. “What do you mean?” His voice was tight.
You had to force your mortification down deep to answer him, “I’ve only kissed a few males, and—” you forced out a laugh. “And it was kind of terrible.”
“All of them?”
You nodded. “All of them.” You shrugged, looking at the fire to avoid his eyes. “I don’t know. They were all drunken males at Rita’s, which is probably not the ideal place to meet a male. But I also think it might be me?” Your voice was small with your admission, and you hated the words that were tumbling out of your mouth, unsure why you couldn’t stop them or how your night had suddenly led you here. “I tense up, because I know I don’t want it to go any further. I just—I can’t. I can’t, not with my wings. I don’t—”
You forced yourself to take a breath, forced yourself to recenter in the moment, here, with Azriel. You dragged your gaze back to his, his eyes soft and patient as they watched you diligently. There was not an ounce of judgment in his gaze, and it made your shoulders relax slightly.
“You’ve…been with females. Right?” you asked shyly.
Azriel blinked. “Um,” he choked out, and it was nice to see a tint of red across his cheeks. It made you feel slightly less vulnerable. “Yes,” he said, “I have.”
“Did they touch your wings?”
Azriel’s face twisted briefly, then it quickly softened. “Sweetheart,” he said, and the name made you feel warm all over. “No one should touch your wings without permission.”
“I know that, Azriel,” you grumbled. “That doesn’t mean they won’t.”
He was quiet for a moment, then he said quietly, “It’s okay if you aren’t ready.”
“I hate it, though!” you exclaimed, the book finally sliding off your lap. “I just—I just want to—” Your words died in your throat as your gaze snagged on Azriel’s lips. Your heart pounded against your ribcage, and you were speaking again before you really thought. “Will you kiss me?”
“What?” Azriel choked out, his eyes bewildered.
It was possibly the most insane idea you had ever had, but you wanted to kiss a male and not feel like vomiting immediately after, damn it. Azriel was perfect. In more ways than one. You trusted him. He was, objectively, beautiful. He didn’t smell like a bar—he smelled like cedar and fresh snow, actually. He—he was perfect.
“Kiss me,” you said again. You forced yourself to meet his eyes. “Please.”
His lips parted. “Y/N,” he started to say, but you cut him off.
“Azriel,” you nearly pleaded. Nearly. You had enough pride not to beg him for a damned kiss. But you were not above persuasion. “I am nearly a century old, and I just want to know what it is like to enjoy a kiss without working my way through every washed up drunk at Rita’s—”
His hands were on your face as your words died in your throat, and in the next second his lips were pressed to yours. You froze, but just for a second, and Azriel was not deterred. His lips melded with yours gently, coaxing you to slowly start kissing him back.
Time seemed to stop around you. Everything slowed as Azriel kissed you, and kissed you, and kissed you. His lips were soft, and he tasted like rose tea, and you could devour him, right there on that very couch in the middle of Rhys’s personal library. Your entire body was electrified, every nerve ending came to life as you kissed your best friend.
He started to pull back, but you chased after him, your hands coming up to his neck to guide him back to you. He came easily, his own hands cupping your jaw and tangling in your hair. There was a fire burning in the center of your chest, and it felt like Azriel’s soul was living and breathing inside of you as his lips found yours over and over.
He moaned softly into your mouth, and suddenly the world tilted, and you remembered exactly where you were and who you were with. You pulled back, and Azriel separated from you, his hands slowly falling away as you pushed him back.
You swallowed hard, licking your lips once before wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Mother above.
You jumped to your feet with fragile composure, your book falling to the floor with a loud thud. Your heart was beating frantically, your pulse pounding in your ears, and your body was hot all over. Azriel was watching you with wide eyes, still sitting on the couch. “That was, um,” you said breathlessly, looking all around until your gaze finally fell back on him. “That was good.”
Azriel’s lips twitched. “Good,” he said, not really a question.
You bit the inside of your cheek, nodding. “Thank you.”
Azriel smiled. “Happy to help.”
“Right,” you whispered, trapped in a daze. You had just kissed your best friend. A lot. And you loved it. “Goodnight,” you rushed out, then made a beeline for the door.
You hurried down the halls, your mind racing as you neared your bedroom, as you opened your door and shut yourself safe inside. Your back fell against the door, your head thumping against the wood as a smile blossomed across your face and a laugh bubbled out of you.
That was better than any damned book.
~ ~ ~
“You have been an incredibly difficult female to find.”
You flinched at the voice behind you, your elbow banging into the wooden desk. You turned to meet Rhysand’s eyes, a smirk teasing his lips. You smiled sheepishly. “Sorry.”
He waved you off, walking closer to lean against the desk, making a show of taking in the dimly lit room of the library. You were deep beneath the main floor, layers of stone between you and everyone else in the world. The books and hushed steps of priestesses had been your sole company for days.
“You would think you were my scholar instead of my spy,” Rhys teased, but you heard the question in his voice.
You swallowed, aimlessly shuffling together some of the papers scattered in front of you. “Would that be a problem?” you asked quietly, avoiding Rhys’s gaze. “If I wanted to be, I mean?”
“Of course not,” Rhys said. He laid his palm down on the papers you were shuffling, your gaze reluctantly dragging up to meet his. His eyebrows raised slightly. “I didn’t realize you were unhappy with your position.”
“I’m not,” you assured him. “I’m just…”
“Not happy?”
You frowned. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
Rhys shrugged, pulling his hand back. “You tell me.”
You bit your bottom lip, looking at all the books and papers scattered around you. You had lost yourself to these walls, these words, for the last few days, and it was the most at peace you had felt in…a really long time. “Maybe,” you whispered. “I just miss it, sometimes. Your mother—” You hesitated, and you hated that the words got caught in your throat.
Rhys hummed in understanding. “My mother was many things,” he said quietly. “Beautifully cunning, was one of them.”
You smiled softly. “She gave me purpose when she brought me here. When she asked me to research childbirth and potions and medicine. When she asked me to help Madja.” You sighed, leaning back in your chair to look up at Rhys. “It’s just a different feeling than being a spy.”
It was all true. You missed the feeling of pages between your fingers and stringing sentences across books together to make a new—to make a discovery that would help others. Knowledge was, at its core, power. It was intoxicating when you first came to Velaris. You had never known such power existed, let alone one that could be at your very fingertips.
“And this has nothing to do with Azriel?”
Your breath hitched.
There was also that small fact that danced in the back of your mind. If you became a scholar again, you would no longer have to answer to Azriel. You had done well at avoiding him when you wanted these past few months, but resigning as a spy—well, that would make it all the more easier.
“That’s insulting,” you said instead.
Rhys held no remorse. “It’s a fair question.”
You rolled your eyes, feigning nonchalance and steeling your mental barriers as Rhys brushed against your mind. You scowled at him, and he only smirked.
“A kiss from a male is not going to decide my future career choices,” you growled.
Rhys' eyes lit up. “A kiss?” he laughed. “Well I wasn’t going to mention it—”
You groaned. “Enough, Rhysand.”
His eyes still danced with mirth, the faelights flickering in his violet irises. He seemed to debate his next words, and your shoulders sank with relief when he asked, “What have you been doing down here?” He picked up one of your notebooks—your personal notebook you realized with horror. “Mating bonds and desire,” he read aloud. “Matings bonds instill intrinsic—”
You snatched the notebook from his hands, your face hot. “Give me that.” You tossed it on the ground beside you. “That’s not what I’m researching.”
His brows raised. “No?” he asked, picking up the book that had The History of Mating Bonds embossed across the front.
“Not for you,” you countered, also taking the book from him.
Rhys pursed his lips, clearly not done tormenting you. “I was glad to see that you and Azriel had made up,” he mused. “Or should I say made out?”
“Rhys,” you pleaded.
“Now he’s back to moping around Velaris because you’ve holed yourself up down here. Researching mating bonds, apparently?”
“I told you that’s not all,” you grumbled, reaching for the much larger stack of papers and books across the desk. You slid them in front of Rhys pointedly.
He furrowed his brow. “The intricacies of mind compulsion?” He read the title of the first book aloud, then looked at your notes. His mouth turned into a frown, and your heart started to beat harder. “Potential targets of Koschei…Illyrians?”
You forced yourself to meet his gaze, nodding slowly.
“You think Koschei is controlling Illyrians?”
Not really, no. But wouldn’t it be nice if every terrible thing that had happened to you and so many others could be blamed on one entity? That the suffering you endured could be explained?
“Y/N,” Rhys said gently. “Sometimes evil is just evil.”
“I know,” you whispered.
Rhys squeezed your shoulder, a beat of silence passing between you before he said, “I wanted to tell you, I removed Freya’s husband from Windhaven.”
Your head snapped toward him. “What? Where is he?”
“Rotting in a cell in Hewn City.” He shrugged. “I haven’t had much time to go rifling through his mind, and I probably shouldn’t kill the male without proof of his crimes.” He grinned at you, his eyes glinting. “Though I can always expedite my investigation—”
“No,” you said. “Let him suffer.”
“As you wish,” Rhys said. “Speaking of Illyrians and Koschei, though,” he added slowly, “I have a mission for you. That is, if you don’t mind postponing the career change.”
You straightened. “Of course.”
Rhys picked up the sheet of paper with your notes detailing every link you could conceptualize between Illyria and Koschei, reading it with a worried frown on his face. “You’re not wrong that certain factions in Illyria would be vulnerable to Koschei’s…overzealous promises. Or would simply jump at the chance to see my head on a platter.”
Your stomach turned, knowing you had thought the same thing.
Rhys glanced at you, then laid the paper back down. “Koschei undoubtedly knows this. He’s already sent whispers into Kier’s court.”
“Kier?”
“Unfortunately,” Rhys grumbled. “Amren has done what she can to protect his mind from Koschei’s compulsion, but—”
“There’s only so much we know about him,” you finished softly.
“Precisely.” Rhys picked at a piece of lint on his arm, then folded them across his chest. “It presents us with an opportunity for a cover though. Azriel has not been able to infiltrate Koschei’s home nor the Mortal Queens’ castle. He’s managed to glean very little about how far Koschei’s influence reaches.”
“He’s mentioned that,” you said quietly.
“The queens are throwing a ball in two days.”
You scrunched your face up. “A ball?”
“Yes.” Rhys smirked. “And you will be attending—on behalf of the Court of Nightmares.”
“Me?” you asked. “How progressive of Keir to send a female liaison.”
Rhysand winced. “Well, not exactly.”
“Rhys.”
“Azriel will be going as the liaison,” he said, looking only slightly guilty. Your heart beat sped up. “You will be going as his wife.”
~ ~ ~
“Will it be weird?” you asked, fastening the last of your belts around your waist.
“What?” Azriel asked, absently cleaning his dagger. Truth-Teller, he called it. You had no idea where he got the obsidian blade, but he treated it like his first-born.
“Going on a mission together.”
Azriel frowned, sheathing Truth-Teller at his side. “Why would it be weird?”
You shrugged, nerves making you shaky as you stood in front of him, and your shakiness only made you more nervous. You felt like a fraud, wrapped in leather and strapped with weapons—like a child pretending they were a warrior. The sheath around your thigh slid down, hitting the floor with a clang that made you flinch.
Azriel kneeled on the ground to pick it up before you could, his fingers deftly undoing the buckle. His legs wrapped around your calf to guide your leg up, settling your boot-clad foot on his thigh. Your breath hitched when his fingers grazed your thigh, wrapping the leather sheath around you and securing it tight.
Then he lifted another thin strap of leather attached to the sheath, smiling softly as he weaved it under your belt. “You forgot to fasten this one,” he murmured quietly.
Your face was warm when his fingers fell away and you brought your foot back to the ground. “Thanks,” you whispered.
Azriel stood up, analyzing the rest of your gear with critical focus.
You bit your lip, anxiety still pushing up far too many inconsequential worries in the face of your first mission from Rhys. “Is it uncomfortable for you, being in charge of me?”
Azriel’s eyes snapped to yours. “No,” he said. “Is it for you?”
You automatically shook your head, then thought better of lying at a time like this, and slowly started to nod. Azriel frowned, and you hurried to explain, “I just—I’m scared of disappointing you.”
Azriel’s entire face went soft, his hazel eyes warm in the dim light of your room. “You could never disappoint me,” he said softly.
You shook your head. “You can’t say that.”
“It’s true,” he argued. “Y/N.” He took your face in his hands, forcing your eyes to meet his. “You could tell me right now that you aren’t ready, and you are not doing this mission, and I would be proud of you for standing up for yourself.”
You started to shake your head again, trying to close your eyes, but Azriel’s grip tightened. “You could go on this mission and decide to turn back at any point, and I would be proud of you for trying. Or we can go on this mission and get what we need, and I’ll be proud of you for doing it.”
Your eyes were burning as you stared at him, your entire body warming from the inside out as he brushed a gentle thumb over your cheek. “Do you want to go on this mission?”
You nodded. “I’m just scared.”
“That’s okay,” he assured. “I would be worried if you weren’t.”
You smiled slightly.
“Rhys trusts you. I trust you. I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I didn’t think you were ready.”
His words were meant to be soothing, but they only twisted your spiral tighter. “Rhys is an untried High Lord now,” you laughed drily. “His faith in me is all the more pressure not to royally fuck this up for him.”
Azriel’s hands dragged down your arms. “It’s going to be fine,” he soothed. “It’s just the Spring Court, anyway,” he grumbled. “Our relationship with them is already shit, and Tamlin is an untried High Lord too. If we get caught,” he shrugs, “oh well.”
You knew it was definitely not as simple as “oh well” if you got caught. Rhys needed these roses. He needed their magic to rebuild and revitalize Velaris. It was also just roses though, which you knew was Azriel’s point.
You nodded, letting out a deep breath.
“Okay?” Azriel asked.
You nodded again, then yanked Azriel down into a hug, your arms circling around his waist. His body curled around yours, his cheek pressing against yours as you held him close.
“It will be okay,” he murmured. “You’re not doing this alone. If anything happens, you’ll have me.”
You nodded your head against his chest, still not letting go as your breathing slowly calmed. You inhaled his scent and listened to his heart beat, and you thought for a moment that your hearts began to beat in tandem.
Azriel squeezed you tighter.
“You will always have me.”
~ ~ ~
Azriel was freaking out.
He had dealt with more nerves in these last few months than he had in all his centuries of life, and he was tired. He knew it was a mess of his own making, really, which made it worse. He felt like he was grasping at cobwebs every time he moved to try and fix this mess he had made after too many fucking drinks at Rita’s. Twice. With every step he made, the ground seemed to just crumble beneath him, and he was terrified that this might be the last chance he had to salvage whatever you were still willing to give him.
He wasn’t sure if he loved or hated Rhys for forcing the two of you on this mission. Maybe both. You had been hiding from him for days, again, and he couldn’t blame you. He never should have kissed you, let alone allowed it to escalate as it did, and every time his mind wandered to how the night might have progressed differently if you had not fallen ill so quickly, his stomach revolted with guilt.
He was drunk. He was—he knew he was—but he was sober enough to take care of you. That was his responsibility. He had promised you. He owed you, after all. It was his fault that he had taken one too many shots blindly from Cassian after relentless begging, and it was his fault he didn’t bother questioning Cassian when he slurred some nonsense about “flying without flying” as he passed him a brightly colored liquid that smelled and tasted overly medicinal.
He should have realized it was the same shot Mor had grown infatuated with throughout the night, and that you had taken with her in solidarity—and with maybe a little desperation, if he was honest with himself. He didn’t know exactly what was bothering with you, but he knew it had to be something he said that night at Rita’s, and fuck knows what else since then. The dinner with Soleil had been particularly terrible, but that was only one night.
He was fairly certain you were unaware of the bond. It was strange, every time he reached for the living, glowing tendril in his chest. He could trace it all the way to you, and it felt alive and intimate in a way he never knew existed, but it was dark. Quiet. Like it was asleep, and he never let himself reach close enough to risk tearing you from that peaceful slumber.
He wanted you more than anything. He had been in love with you since he was a boy, if he was entirely honest with himself, but he didn’t really understand what love was for a very long time. He didn’t know how to recognize it, how to differentiate it from the familial love he had felt toward his brothers. He just knew he would die for you, live for you, do anything for you—and maybe he was a bit foolish, for taking so long to realize.
Then after centuries, in the midst of a war tattered campground, as you yelled at him for being a godsdamned martyr while mending a tear in his wings, he felt the world tilt around him. He thought he was dying at first, when he felt that first tug against his ribcage and the air was yanked from his lungs. Then he sucked in a fresh breath, and grasped at the living thing pulsing inside him, and he followed it directly to you, kneeling before him. You had dirt and blood dried on your face, your leathers were torn, and he loved you—and you were his mate.
It took everything in him to control his face and shadows. He could hardly process that what he had longed for had just been so unceremoniously unveiled in the midst of chaos and carnage, and he knew that the last thing you needed to worry about was a mating bond.
He told Rhys and Cassian not long after, and it was not intentional, but he felt like he was dying hiding this blessing from everyone. He hated feeling like he was hiding you. He almost confessed everything, almost bared his entire soul to his brothers in a too small tent surrounded by exhausted warriors and friends and family after fighting for everything and claiming victory, but he thought better of it, and no one ever brought it up again.
Not until he apparently told you like a drunken fool on the streets of Velaris a year later.
He was just glad he didn’t say it was you. That you were his mate he adored and would eternally serve and pine for from afar if he must.
You had spent your life fighting for a future, for autonomy, and he could not steal that from you in the name of taking something he wanted. You had never spoken of mates. You had never seemed keen on finding a partner or spouse or having children. You always diverted any conversations Azriel had subtly prompted in the past, and he was never one to push you more than you wanted.
He could not—would not—force a mating bond on you. He would rather die.
He still selfishly hoped it would snap for you one day. He could not control fate, after all, and if it did—well, then it would be your choice what to do with it. It wouldn’t be something that he was forcing you to confront.
He could love you from afar. He could love you as a friend. He could love you however you needed him to. He did.
He also thought you might love him, and that was terrifying. He didn’t know how to navigate that possibility. Sometimes, he let himself think that maybe you were jealous of some amorphous mate he had drunkenly poured his heart out for, and maybe that was one of the roots of your shifting demeanor with him. It felt too foolish, though, too egotistical to consider for long. He had known you for centuries and had never seen you envy anyone.
However, he could not deny the signs that you felt something toward him. You had kissed him, even if you were drunk, and he was certain that you would have kissed him that night in Illyria if he had not pulled away. It was confusing, trying to decide the best way to handle such a delicate situation, and every move he made seemed to create a new fracture.
If you loved him, you could choose him for yourself, without the pressure of a mating bond.
But he also knew that you would never let yourself encroach on another person’s happiness, on his happiness, which meant you would protect Azriel’s mating bond with you from yourself if you thought it was with another.
It was a mindfuck.
“Azriel.”
Azriel spun around, his shadows darting behind his wings as he met your glare with wide eyes. You were standing across from him in this too small inn room with your hands clutching your dress to your chest. Waves of onyx fabric fell from your hips, shimmering in the faelights as you stepped closer.
Azriel swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry and face warm. “Sorry,” he said, and he hoped he sounded somewhat composed. “What did you say?”
Your lips pursed and your brow crinkled in frustration. He had no idea how long he had been lost in his thoughts, staring at a wall to give you privacy while you dressed.
“I need your help with this dress,” you huffed, and turned around to show him your open back.
It was a corset back, and if you let go of your bodice he was certain the entire dress would fall in a heap at your feet. He could see the hint of black lace lining your lower back, and his pulse thumped loudly in his ears as he stepped closer, allowing himself only another second to drink in the expanse of your bare.
He picked up the silken laces from the bed, his fingers grazing your skin as he threaded the first row and then pulled it taut. Your wings flared outward, and you reached for the desk crammed against the wall to hold yourself steady.
Azriel’s gaze lingered on your wings, then he frowned at the laces in his hands. The top of the dress was maybe a finger’s width away from the base of your wings. “Will this irritate your wings?” he asked.
You shifted impatiently, and he could practically hear you roll your eyes as you said, “According to Mor, no.”
Azriel’s frown deepened. He continued lacing the corset, but said quietly, “Mor does not have wings.”
“Trust me,” you gritted out when he tugged at the dress. “I know.”
“Do you want to wear something else?”
“Of course I do,” you huffed, still leaning over the desk. “But this is what Rhys gave me, and I have a part to play.” You waved at him flippantly, urging him to continue. “I’m meant to be your pretty plaything from the Court of Nightmares.”
Azriel couldn’t help the harsher tug on your laces, a startled oof falling from your lips. “You’re my wife,” he corrected quietly.
You were quiet at that, letting the soft slide of silk laces occupy the room.
If one of his shadows fell away from his grasp to slither down your arm, he didn’t stop them.
Eventually he pulled the final row tight, securing the corset with a bow. He should have stepped away then. He should have given you your space, but instead his hands grabbed you by your waist, and turned you around slowly to face him. Your chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as your eyes met his, and your irises were stunning against the smoky background Mor had crafted before you left—even if you would be unrecognizable to anyone else beneath the glamour.
“You are divine,” he told you, and the words felt like a hymn upon his lips. He forced the rest of the praises down deep into his soul, letting them coast along the bond in glimmering glyphs instead of speaking them aloud.
Your breath hitched.
You took a small step back, looking down at your dress as you smoothed over the fabric with your hands. “This dress is a monstrosity,” you argued, though the words lacked conviction. “And entirely impractical.”
Azriel shook his head, stepping forward to reclaim the space between you. He was a foolish, foolish male. He would do everything in his power to kindle this flame that glowed between you. How could he not? There was never really another option, as much as he might try to delude himself.
“I was not talking about the dress,” he told you quietly, warmth flooding his body as you looked up at him with wide and blinking eyes.
Your throat bobbed as you licked your lips, and Azriel could not help the flare of desire that sparked in his chest. You were ethereal, and powerful, and you were about to walk inside a ballroom full of fools and run circles around them. He loved every fiber of your being.
He reached for your hand, your skin soft against his scars. He lifted it slowly to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours as he left a lingering kiss against your skin. You blinked, and he gently lowered your hand back down, but he didn’t let go. “Let’s go make some friends, wife.”
~ ~ ~
The ball was more akin to a menagerie.
Azriel did not let his hand leave your waist as the two of you weaved through a sea of bodies, an eclectic and seemingly chaotic collection of faeries littering the ballroom floor. There were humans sprinkled throughout too, and Azriel’s chest tightened at the emptiness behind their gazes. The music that filled the room seemed slow and upbeat all at once, a tempo that left his heart beating fast in his chest.
He did not like this at all.
His hand tightened on your waist, and his lips brushed the shell of your ear as he leaned down to say, “Do not leave my side.”
Of course, you glared at him. “I can take care of myself.”
Azriel spun you so you were chest to chest, both of his hands now on your waist as your hands pressed against his chest. He swayed the two of you to the slightly off-beat music that made his skin crawl. His cheek brushed against yours as he leaned down again to speak to you quietly. “For all intents and purposes tonight, you are my wife.” He felt your breath fan out in a warm buff against his neck, and he brought one of his hands up to lace his fingers with yours, the two of you dancing slowly amongst the crowd. “Assume we are being watched.”
You nodded slightly, acquiescing as you leaned into him. “Why do I feel more like an exhibit than a guest?” you murmured.
And that was exactly how Azriel would describe it. The skin on the back of his neck prickled as if there were eyes on him from every direction, but his shadows had scattered to every corner of the room, and there was no one watching the two of you. No one that could be seen.
“There’s too many people here,” he said, eyes scouring the crowded floor. “And none of them seem particularly…noble.” It was not an insult, but no one here was dressed in finery that would be expected at a royal ball. He almost felt like the two of you were overdressed.
There were as many lesser fae as there were high fae, and that made him nervous—for them. He could not imagine that the Mortal Queens had decided to provide charity to the oppressed fae of Pyrthian, and if Koschei had any involvement in this gathering, he hated to think about why these people were gathered here. He also could not ignore that, technically, the two of you were lesser fae as well.
Kier had said the invitation was for his court nobles, who would have been High Fae, but Azriel trusted Kier as far as he could throw him, even with Rhys rifling through his mind.
“Do you think it’s a trap?” you murmured quietly in his ear.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, and he hated feeling unsteady. He hated how little information he had been able to collect from Koschei and the Mortal Queens, and how difficult it had been to glean any information from the shadows of the Continent. “No one knows who we are,” he said. “But this is not the crowd I anticipated.”
You went stiff in his arms. He ducked his head to meet your gaze, but your eyes remained glued over his shoulder. He squeezed your waist, pulling your gaze to him. “There are two Illyrians here,” you said quietly.
Azriel blinked. His grip tightened on your hand, and he imperceptibly shifted you closer to his body. “We anticipated this,” he murmured. It didn’t stop the rage from coursing through his veins.
It also meant that Koschei was almost definitely acting as a puppeteer for the Mortal Queens, either knowingly or unknowingly to them. That was expected, though, and that wasn’t why you and him were there. You were there to collect information, to find out who else might be involved. He had anticipated nobility from across courts, though, not a consortium of lesser fae.
“Az,” you said quietly, and he almost reminded you not to say his name, but then you shifted the two of you just enough so that he could see the Illyrians. He recognized them. They were from Windhaven. He was fairly certain one was a male you had spat at just weeks ago.
“They won’t recognize us,” he assured, though even he did not really believe his words. He could still see the sheen of the glamour Rhys had cast around your face, and he could feel the warmth of his on his skin, but it did nothing to hide the fact that you were Illyrians, and if they got close enough, they could recognize your scents. You had likely made an impression.
You bit your lip, your eyes shifting around the ballroom, but your gaze always lingered on them. “Look who they are speaking with.”
Azriel glanced again, careful not to stare. He sucked in a breath as a faerie moved to reveal the High Fae the Illyrians were standing next to. “Autumn Court soldiers.”
“And nobility,” you added. “That’s the first noble I’ve seen.”
“They could be under a thrall,” he said.
You shook your head, forcing your gaze away from the males. Your eyes were sharp when they met his gaze. “No,” you said. “They’re perfectly lucid.” A human bumped into you from behind, sending you careening into Azriel. He steadied you easily, even as you glared at the woman that stumbled away without an apology. “I’m not sure the same can be said of the humans,” you grumbled.
“They might be drunk on faerie wine.”
Your nose scrunched up in distaste. “These Mortal Queens are fools.”
“They could also be in a thrall,” he argued half-heartedly.
“Briallyn wasn’t.”
“No,” he agreed quietly.
“We need to split up,” you said.
Azriel did not agree. His grip on your waist tightened, and you cast a withering glare toward him. “No,” he said.
Your eyes narrowed, and you leaned in close. You hand trailed from his chest to the back of his neck, your nails grazing his hair at the nape of his neck. Your lips brushed the column of his throat as you murmured back, “Yes.”
He knew you were playing into your role. He knew the two of you very well could not argue in the middle of the ballroom, no matter how crowded. He knew you likely felt the same invisible eyes on your back that he did. It did not stop the rush of desire that ran through his veins or the goosebumps that pebbled his skin.
He swallowed hard. Then he tilted his head so his lips grazed your ear. “I do not think that is wise.”
“We are not doing this again,” you argued, your tone a touch harsher. “I can take care of myself, Azriel.” His jaw clenched, and he knew you were right. He hated himself for letting his own selfish fears dictate his decisions, and for trying to dictate yours.
Your eyes were soft when you pulled back to look at him, though. “There are too many people here for us to just stand here and dance in the middle of the floor.”
He was grateful in that moment that Rhys’s glamour did not hide you from him. You were stunning. Beautifully sharp in all the right places, power coursing through your veins and conviction shining in your eyes. You were more than capable. He had never doubted that. He just felt like he was dying every time you were in danger, and he could not fathom what it might feel like if something happened to you.
“Okay,” he whispered. He hated the ripple of shock on your face, but he loved the small smirk that graced your lips.
Azriel could not help himself.
He leaned down, his lips a hairs breadth away from yours as he paused for just a second, then he pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth. Your breath hitched as he pulled back, but he didn’t let either of your wallow in your complicated emotions. “Don’t wander far, wife,” he said, voice cool and detached, loud enough for those around you to hear.
Your eyes narrowed, but you bowed your head slightly, stepping away from Azriel. He forced himself to drop your hand, and he watched you until you disappeared in the throng of faeries.
HELLLOOO LOVIEEE!! Im so glad you’re alive!! How are you🥹
I can’t wait to read part four when I get off work in a few minutes 🩵🩵
hello!!!! I am good! thank you for asking 🥰 june was super busy and went so fast?? but I'm so glad I was finally able to get back to az and reader and get the new part out. I hope you enjoy!! I've already started working on the next one and I'm excited. we're getting close to the end! 🫶
content warnings: hangover (nausea, headache, difficulty remembering), unknowing consumption of a recreational drug (mirthroot, past), suggestive themes, language
word count: 9.1k
synopsis: Azriel was always meant to be yours.
trope: childhood friends to lovers
part 1 ~ part 2 ~ part 3
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
Azriel was on the floor.
And he was shirtless.
And drooling.
The light beaming in through the window felt like an axe against your skull, the pain nearly cleaving you in two before you ducked your head under the pillows.
Pillows that were definitely not yours.
You flew up into a sitting position again, leaning over the bed to take in the male below.
Azriel was not wearing pants.
He was wearing underwear, thank the Mother, but it didn’t stop the panic that was rapidly climbing up your chest. Not when you were wearing only a too large shirt that smelled like him, and had nothing underneath.
At least Azriel was on the floor? But that almost made everything worse, because you had shared a bed more times than you could count. You had shared a bed last week. Why would he feel the need to sleep on the floor if—
A flare of pain in your head made you wince, your eyes snapping shut as you tried to take steadying breaths. This was the worst fucking hangover. Your mouth was dry and tasted foul, your hair was a wreck, your head was throbbing, and the light spilling into the room felt like staring into the sun.
You cracked your eyelids open slowly, forming small slits that were just enough to make out Azriel still sprawled on the floor, stomach down and wings splayed haphazardly, with just a single pillow for his head to rest on. Your gaze caught on a glass of water on the night stand, and your eyes widened as you grabbed it. You drank only half of it, your stomach revolting at the first large gulp, and the sudden wave of nausea had you taking deep breaths again.
You blindly reached to set the glass back on the nightstand, but in your lazy effort, you sat it on the edge, and it went clambering to the floor. Or—more specifically—on top of the male asleep on the floor. Thankfully, the glass didn’t shatter, but the water spilled all over Azriel’s face and pillow, causing him to bolt up right.
“What the fuck was that?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep and confusion.
“I’m sorry!” you hurried out, your loud voices making you wince. “I’m so sorry,” you said again, voice softening.
Azriel blinked a few times, pushing wet strands of hair out of his face. His eyes fell to the glass on its side, the wet spot on his pillow—which, in your defense, was also drool—and then they snapped to you.
His eyes were a little bloodshot, and dark circles laid beneath his eyes. It was the most disheveled you had ever seen him outside of fighting in literal wars, and there was something so ironically wholesome about seeing this male hungover and dazed and confused in nothing but his underwear. It was a state you knew very few had ever been privy to seeing Az in, and that sparked a flare of fondness and irrational possessiveness in your chest.
His throat bobbed as he stared at you wide eyed for a few seconds, taking in your own horrendous state. You did not even want to know what the hell you looked like—hell, probably. You probably looked like hell.
His shoulders finally relaxed, and he groaned as he rubbed a hand over his face. “What time is it?” he asked.
You bit your lip, glancing at the window only briefly. “I don’t know,” you groaned, falling back into the pillows. This was fucking absurd. “Early? Late? It’s fucking bright out, I can tell you that.”
At that, Azriel pushed himself up off the floor, walking over to the window to snap the drapes shut, dimming the light in the room. Some of the tension instantly left your body. “Thank you,” you murmured.
Azriel only nodded, his movements almost stiff as he picked up the glass on the floor and disappeared into the bathroom. You closed your eyes, your hands coming up to cover your face as your mind spun to piece together the night before, fragments coming back to you in mortifying flashes. Something cool gently knocked against your arm, and you lowered your hands to peer at a fresh glass of water in Azriel’s hand.
He smiled slightly, but his own weariness was obvious. “Here,” he said, passing you the glass as you pushed yourself up to rest against the headboard. You took a few slow sips before he handed you another vial with a blue liquid that gave you nauseating déjà vu. “Drink this,” he instructed, then went back into the bathroom.
You eyed the vial suspiciously, listening to the water run in the bathroom as you took another sip from your glass. Fuck it. It could only help, surely. Even if it tasted gross.
You popped the vial open and tossed the liquid back, shivering at the bitter taste that coated your tongue. You took another swallow of water to wash it away, and you prayed you didn’t puke it back up as your stomach turned.
Azriel reappeared then, your eyes tracking him as he walked over to the other side of the bed, still in nothing but his underwear. Which made you feel absolutely nothing at all, of course.
He climbed onto the bed, resting his back against the headboard, but he was overly mindful of positioning his wings so that they didn’t bump yours. There was enough space between you that it felt like a chasm, and somehow you felt more separated from him now than when he was passed out on the floor. The air was thick with awkward tension.
You rested your head back on the headboard with a gentle thud. Eventually, you caved and said with a groan, “This is the worst hangover of my life.”
A beat of silence passed, then Azriel said quietly, “I didn’t realize you drank that much.”
“Me neither.” You closed your eyes, letting out a long sigh. “I should know better than to blindly follow Mor.”
More silence followed, and your chest felt a little tighter the longer it stretched, but you kept your eyes closed and focused on keeping your breathing steady.
“How much do you remember?” Azriel finally asks, his tone still soft, but he seemed almost worried.
You opened your eyes, then slowly turned your head to look at him. He was watching you with unfairly clear eyes, sitting up straight against the headboard while you were slowly slumping further down into the pillows again.
Your stomach twisted as you let the memories of last night wash over you. The way Azriel held your hand as he led you through Rita’s. The first shot that quickly blurred into innumerable empty glasses. The way his body felt pressed against yours. The way your hips moved with his. The way his lips were soft and demanding.
It was like squinting through fogged over glass, trying to piece together smudged details that made up sharp fragments.
“How much do you remember?” you ask instead of answering, your voice raspy with both dehydration and embarrassment.
“Everything,” he answered quietly.
Your face warmed. “I remember puking in the alley,” you admitted reluctantly, your arm coming up to cover your eyes. “And pieces leading up to it, but after that—” You shrugged, dropping your arm to meet his eyes warily. “I don’t really know.”
Which…was a problem, now that you really started to think about it. You were in Azriel’s bed, in Azriel’s shirt, and you had no recollection of how that came to be. You couldn’t even remember leaving that alley, let alone climbing into bed.
“After that,” Azriel said gently, “I took you home. You didn’t want to sleep in your room, so I brought you here.”
You nodded once, then glanced down at the black shirt draped across your frame. “And my dress?”
Azriel winced, and your face was growing even hotter in anticipation of the words that might come out of his mouth. “There was vomit on your dress,” he said. “I helped you change. Then you went to bed.”
Unease clawed at your throat as you struggled to remember and still came up blank. You swallowed hard, then took another sip of the water you still had clutched in your hand. You ran your thumb over the lip of the glass once you brought it back down to your lap. Your smile was small and self-deprecating as you asked, half-jokingly, “And my underwear?”
Azriel’s head snapped toward you. “You’re not wearing underwear?”
You blinked, his words dousing you in cold water. Did he not remember everything from last night after all? Your mind started spinning with every possibility, and your face was hot from the thoughts alone. “Gods—Azriel, did we—”
“No! No, I swear. I don’t know where your—” His voice abruptly cut off. His eyes were locked on the foot of the bed, where a scrap of cobalt blue lace was strewn haphazardly.
Everything around you slowed as you both stared at the offending fabric. You slowly sat your glass of water down on the night stand before frantically launching yourself across the bed to grab the lace. You fisted the fabric in your hand as you awkwardly climbed off the bed, staring at Azriel with wide eyes from where you now stood at the foot of his bed. You had half the mind to thank the Mother that he was so large that his shirt was longer than your dress, and you were saved from any further mortification this morning—even if it sounds like he may have seen more than enough from you last night.
You licked your lips, heart pounding as you glanced around his room for any of your belongings, finding none, and then nodded to yourself repeatedly. “I should go,” you rushed out, avoiding Azriel’s eyes as panic flushed away the nausea and headache. You stumbled though when you took the first step toward his door, blinking quickly before the stars faded from your vision.
You heard the bed creak behind you, and you quickly continued your escape as Azriel followed close behind. “Y/N,” he said, but your ears were ringing and your face was burning and you were so embarrassed. You wished the mountain would fissure beneath your feet and swallow you whole.
“Thank you for—” You gestured wildly with no direction, your back still facing Azriel as you reached for the door knob.
“Y/N—”
You flung the door open, and then stopped in your tracks. Azriel’s chest bumped into your back, and his hand landed on your hip to keep you from careening forward.
Cassian stood there in the hall with a bowl of fruit and wild hair, his eyes wide as he stared at the two of you. He blinked once, and then twice, the three of you frozen as Cassian took in the sight before him. His eyes fell to your hand, which was still clutching your lace underwear.
Azriel snatched them from your hand, tossing them out of sight somewhere in his room. You blinked, your already soul-consuming embarrassment reaching horrifying multitudes.
Cassian’s free-hand came up to rub at his eyes, as if the sight of you and Azriel gave him a headache—or maybe he was just hungover—probably both.
His hand fell to his side, and he squinted at the two of you. “I thought the mirthroot shots were making me hallucinate.”
Cassian’s words momentarily cut through your blinding mortification, and you and Azriel both said, “The what?”
Cassian blinked owlishly at the two of you. “The…mirthroot shots?” His gaze darted from you up to Azriel, then back to you. “Mor was giving them to everyone.”
You tilted your head back, only to bump into Azriel’s chest. “I’m going to murder her,” you mumbled. Then you winced when you remembered taking the shots from her, not caring in the slightest what it was before downing it. You were fairly certain you had even said as much.
Cassian looked sheepish. “I don’t think she knew they were mirthroot at first. Then it was too late.”
That explained your hangover from hell.
“So,” Cassian said slowly, and your head snapped back up to look at him. “Are you two—”
“No,” you rushed out at the same time Azriel growled, “Cassian.”
He raised his hand with a shameless smirk on his face. “I’m just asking—”
“I have to go,” you said quickly, stepping away from Azriel, the cool air in the hallway licking away the heat that his body had radiated onto your skin. You glanced once back at Azriel’s room, another piece of your dignity withering away as you decided to leave behind your underwear in the name of escaping to your room as quickly as possible.
Azriel could keep them.
Or burn them.
Ferry them away to some interspace dimension.
You didn’t care.
You flung the door to your room open, slamming the door shut with a thud that echoed through your too still room. There were still clothes strewn around haphazardly from your rush to get ready the night before, and your training leathers laid in a pile by the bathroom. You sank down against the door, your head resting against the heavy wood once you were seated on the floor. Your hands came up to cover your face, and you begged the Mother to put you out of your misery.
~ ~ ~
“You’re up late.”
Your heart skipped a beat as your eyes snapped up to the male in the doorway. You smiled sheepishly as he walked closer, sitting next to you on the sofa. He was in his leathers, and his eyes were tired as he looked at the fire, the flames flickering in his irises.
You laid your book down in your lap, the pages splayed outward. “Are you okay?” you asked.
His throat bobbed, and it took him a few seconds before he turned to look at you. His smile was small, but it seemed genuine. “I’m just tired,” he said. He leaned back on the couch, his wings brushing against yours as they draped over the back. He glanced at you, and you smiled back, intentionally stretching your wing to brush against his again.
Your face was warm, and you weren’t sure it was from the fire. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Azriel sighed. “Now that Rhys is High Lord,” he said, “there is just so much that needs done.” He paused, his hand coming up to run through his hair. “Before, it was not my choice to serve the High Lord.”
You winced, looking down at your lap.
“Hey,” he said, his hand squeezing your wrist. “That is not your fault.”
“You sacrificed your freedom for me, Azriel,” you argued.
“And I would do it again,” he swore. He tugged at your wrist, and you forced your gaze to meet his again. “It was worth it, Y/N. I would have ended up serving on his court one way or another, at least I got to protect you by doing it.”
You nodded, and Azriel relaxed against the couch again. His hand slid down to hold yours, his fingers lazily playing with your own. You weren’t sure if he was even aware that he was doing it. “It’s different now, with Rhys. I chose to serve him. I want to. I’m loyal to him. I believe in him, and I trust his heart. He has plans for this court, and I want to help him bring them to fruition. It’s just…” He bit his lip, as if searching for the right words.
“A lot of pressure?” you asked.
He nodded. “A lot of pressure.”
You leaned against his shoulder, squeezing his hand. “I think that’s good,” you said softly.
Azriel hummed. “What do you mean?”
You shrugged. “It means you care,” you said. “You want to help people, Az. I think it would be bad if you just didn’t care at all.”
Azriel leaned his head against yours. Eventually he said, “Enough about me.” He sat up, and his gaze zeroed in on the book still in your lap. “Tell me about your book.”
Heat flooded your face, and you sat up straight. “Oh,” you laughed nervously. “No—it’s not—it’s pretty boring.”
Azriel frowned. “Tell me why it’s boring then.”
“I don’t—”
“At least let me look at it,” he said at the same time, plucking the book from your lap before you could even register what he was doing.
Your book that was still open to where you had been reading when he walked in. Azriel’s eyes danced as he read over the page, his lips slowly stretching into a smirk.
Mother help you.
“This is boring?” he asked, the taunt clear in his voice. As if the grin on his face wasn’t enough.
You yanked the book from his hands, snapping it shut. “Shut up, Az.”
“I had no idea this is what you read when you holed yourself away up here,” he teased.
You knew he was not being cruel, but embarrassment still made your stomach twist. You shrugged, your thumb running over the corner of the cover.
“Hey,” he said gently, and you forced yourself to meet his eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
You shrugged, your smile thin as you said, “I like it.” Then, maybe a bit foolishly, you added, “It’s safer…than the real thing.”
Azriel went still beside you. “What do you mean?” His voice was tight.
You had to force your mortification down deep to answer him, “I’ve only kissed a few males, and—” you forced out a laugh. “And it was kind of terrible.”
“All of them?”
You nodded. “All of them.” You shrugged, looking at the fire to avoid his eyes. “I don’t know. They were all drunken males at Rita’s, which is probably not the ideal place to meet a male. But I also think it might be me?” Your voice was small with your admission, and you hated the words that were tumbling out of your mouth, unsure why you couldn’t stop them or how your night had suddenly led you here. “I tense up, because I know I don’t want it to go any further. I just—I can’t. I can’t, not with my wings. I don’t—”
You forced yourself to take a breath, forced yourself to recenter in the moment, here, with Azriel. You dragged your gaze back to his, his eyes soft and patient as they watched you diligently. There was not an ounce of judgment in his gaze, and it made your shoulders relax slightly.
“You’ve…been with females. Right?” you asked shyly.
Azriel blinked. “Um,” he choked out, and it was nice to see a tint of red across his cheeks. It made you feel slightly less vulnerable. “Yes,” he said, “I have.”
“Did they touch your wings?”
Azriel’s face twisted briefly, then it quickly softened. “Sweetheart,” he said, and the name made you feel warm all over. “No one should touch your wings without permission.”
“I know that, Azriel,” you grumbled. “That doesn’t mean they won’t.”
He was quiet for a moment, then he said quietly, “It’s okay if you aren’t ready.”
“I hate it, though!” you exclaimed, the book finally sliding off your lap. “I just—I just want to—” Your words died in your throat as your gaze snagged on Azriel’s lips. Your heart pounded against your ribcage, and you were speaking again before you really thought. “Will you kiss me?”
“What?” Azriel choked out, his eyes bewildered.
It was possibly the most insane idea you had ever had, but you wanted to kiss a male and not feel like vomiting immediately after, damn it. Azriel was perfect. In more ways than one. You trusted him. He was, objectively, beautiful. He didn’t smell like a bar—he smelled like cedar and fresh snow, actually. He—he was perfect.
“Kiss me,” you said again. You forced yourself to meet his eyes. “Please.”
His lips parted. “Y/N,” he started to say, but you cut him off.
“Azriel,” you nearly pleaded. Nearly. You had enough pride not to beg him for a damned kiss. But you were not above persuasion. “I am nearly a century old, and I just want to know what it is like to enjoy a kiss without working my way through every washed up drunk at Rita’s—”
His hands were on your face as your words died in your throat, and in the next second his lips were pressed to yours. You froze, but just for a second, and Azriel was not deterred. His lips melded with yours gently, coaxing you to slowly start kissing him back.
Time seemed to stop around you. Everything slowed as Azriel kissed you, and kissed you, and kissed you. His lips were soft, and he tasted like rose tea, and you could devour him, right there on that very couch in the middle of Rhys’s personal library. Your entire body was electrified, every nerve ending came to life as you kissed your best friend.
He started to pull back, but you chased after him, your hands coming up to his neck to guide him back to you. He came easily, his own hands cupping your jaw and tangling in your hair. There was a fire burning in the center of your chest, and it felt like Azriel’s soul was living and breathing inside of you as his lips found yours over and over.
He moaned softly into your mouth, and suddenly the world tilted, and you remembered exactly where you were and who you were with. You pulled back, and Azriel separated from you, his hands slowly falling away as you pushed him back.
You swallowed hard, licking your lips once before wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Mother above.
You jumped to your feet with fragile composure, your book falling to the floor with a loud thud. Your heart was beating frantically, your pulse pounding in your ears, and your body was hot all over. Azriel was watching you with wide eyes, still sitting on the couch. “That was, um,” you said breathlessly, looking all around until your gaze finally fell back on him. “That was good.”
Azriel’s lips twitched. “Good,” he said, not really a question.
You bit the inside of your cheek, nodding. “Thank you.”
Azriel smiled. “Happy to help.”
“Right,” you whispered, trapped in a daze. You had just kissed your best friend. A lot. And you loved it. “Goodnight,” you rushed out, then made a beeline for the door.
You hurried down the halls, your mind racing as you neared your bedroom, as you opened your door and shut yourself safe inside. Your back fell against the door, your head thumping against the wood as a smile blossomed across your face and a laugh bubbled out of you.
That was better than any damned book.
~ ~ ~
“You have been an incredibly difficult female to find.”
You flinched at the voice behind you, your elbow banging into the wooden desk. You turned to meet Rhysand’s eyes, a smirk teasing his lips. You smiled sheepishly. “Sorry.”
He waved you off, walking closer to lean against the desk, making a show of taking in the dimly lit room of the library. You were deep beneath the main floor, layers of stone between you and everyone else in the world. The books and hushed steps of priestesses had been your sole company for days.
“You would think you were my scholar instead of my spy,” Rhys teased, but you heard the question in his voice.
You swallowed, aimlessly shuffling together some of the papers scattered in front of you. “Would that be a problem?” you asked quietly, avoiding Rhys’s gaze. “If I wanted to be, I mean?”
“Of course not,” Rhys said. He laid his palm down on the papers you were shuffling, your gaze reluctantly dragging up to meet his. His eyebrows raised slightly. “I didn’t realize you were unhappy with your position.”
“I’m not,” you assured him. “I’m just…”
“Not happy?”
You frowned. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
Rhys shrugged, pulling his hand back. “You tell me.”
You bit your bottom lip, looking at all the books and papers scattered around you. You had lost yourself to these walls, these words, for the last few days, and it was the most at peace you had felt in…a really long time. “Maybe,” you whispered. “I just miss it, sometimes. Your mother—” You hesitated, and you hated that the words got caught in your throat.
Rhys hummed in understanding. “My mother was many things,” he said quietly. “Beautifully cunning, was one of them.”
You smiled softly. “She gave me purpose when she brought me here. When she asked me to research childbirth and potions and medicine. When she asked me to help Madja.” You sighed, leaning back in your chair to look up at Rhys. “It’s just a different feeling than being a spy.”
It was all true. You missed the feeling of pages between your fingers and stringing sentences across books together to make a new—to make a discovery that would help others. Knowledge was, at its core, power. It was intoxicating when you first came to Velaris. You had never known such power existed, let alone one that could be at your very fingertips.
“And this has nothing to do with Azriel?”
Your breath hitched.
There was also that small fact that danced in the back of your mind. If you became a scholar again, you would no longer have to answer to Azriel. You had done well at avoiding him when you wanted these past few months, but resigning as a spy—well, that would make it all the more easier.
“That’s insulting,” you said instead.
Rhys held no remorse. “It’s a fair question.”
You rolled your eyes, feigning nonchalance and steeling your mental barriers as Rhys brushed against your mind. You scowled at him, and he only smirked.
“A kiss from a male is not going to decide my future career choices,” you growled.
Rhys' eyes lit up. “A kiss?” he laughed. “Well I wasn’t going to mention it—”
You groaned. “Enough, Rhysand.”
His eyes still danced with mirth, the faelights flickering in his violet irises. He seemed to debate his next words, and your shoulders sank with relief when he asked, “What have you been doing down here?” He picked up one of your notebooks—your personal notebook you realized with horror. “Mating bonds and desire,” he read aloud. “Matings bonds instill intrinsic—”
You snatched the notebook from his hands, your face hot. “Give me that.” You tossed it on the ground beside you. “That’s not what I’m researching.”
His brows raised. “No?” he asked, picking up the book that had The History of Mating Bonds embossed across the front.
“Not for you,” you countered, also taking the book from him.
Rhys pursed his lips, clearly not done tormenting you. “I was glad to see that you and Azriel had made up,” he mused. “Or should I say made out?”
“Rhys,” you pleaded.
“Now he’s back to moping around Velaris because you’ve holed yourself up down here. Researching mating bonds, apparently?”
“I told you that’s not all,” you grumbled, reaching for the much larger stack of papers and books across the desk. You slid them in front of Rhys pointedly.
He furrowed his brow. “The intricacies of mind compulsion?” He read the title of the first book aloud, then looked at your notes. His mouth turned into a frown, and your heart started to beat harder. “Potential targets of Koschei…Illyrians?”
You forced yourself to meet his gaze, nodding slowly.
“You think Koschei is controlling Illyrians?”
Not really, no. But wouldn’t it be nice if every terrible thing that had happened to you and so many others could be blamed on one entity? That the suffering you endured could be explained?
“Y/N,” Rhys said gently. “Sometimes evil is just evil.”
“I know,” you whispered.
Rhys squeezed your shoulder, a beat of silence passing between you before he said, “I wanted to tell you, I removed Freya’s husband from Windhaven.”
Your head snapped toward him. “What? Where is he?”
“Rotting in a cell in Hewn City.” He shrugged. “I haven’t had much time to go rifling through his mind, and I probably shouldn’t kill the male without proof of his crimes.” He grinned at you, his eyes glinting. “Though I can always expedite my investigation—”
“No,” you said. “Let him suffer.”
“As you wish,” Rhys said. “Speaking of Illyrians and Koschei, though,” he added slowly, “I have a mission for you. That is, if you don’t mind postponing the career change.”
You straightened. “Of course.”
Rhys picked up the sheet of paper with your notes detailing every link you could conceptualize between Illyria and Koschei, reading it with a worried frown on his face. “You’re not wrong that certain factions in Illyria would be vulnerable to Koschei’s…overzealous promises. Or would simply jump at the chance to see my head on a platter.”
Your stomach turned, knowing you had thought the same thing.
Rhys glanced at you, then laid the paper back down. “Koschei undoubtedly knows this. He’s already sent whispers into Kier’s court.”
“Kier?”
“Unfortunately,” Rhys grumbled. “Amren has done what she can to protect his mind from Koschei’s compulsion, but—”
“There’s only so much we know about him,” you finished softly.
“Precisely.” Rhys picked at a piece of lint on his arm, then folded them across his chest. “It presents us with an opportunity for a cover though. Azriel has not been able to infiltrate Koschei’s home nor the Mortal Queens’ castle. He’s managed to glean very little about how far Koschei’s influence reaches.”
“He’s mentioned that,” you said quietly.
“The queens are throwing a ball in two days.”
You scrunched your face up. “A ball?”
“Yes.” Rhys smirked. “And you will be attending—on behalf of the Court of Nightmares.”
“Me?” you asked. “How progressive of Keir to send a female liaison.”
Rhysand winced. “Well, not exactly.”
“Rhys.”
“Azriel will be going as the liaison,” he said, looking only slightly guilty. Your heart beat sped up. “You will be going as his wife.”
~ ~ ~
“Will it be weird?” you asked, fastening the last of your belts around your waist.
“What?” Azriel asked, absently cleaning his dagger. Truth-Teller, he called it. You had no idea where he got the obsidian blade, but he treated it like his first-born.
“Going on a mission together.”
Azriel frowned, sheathing Truth-Teller at his side. “Why would it be weird?”
You shrugged, nerves making you shaky as you stood in front of him, and your shakiness only made you more nervous. You felt like a fraud, wrapped in leather and strapped with weapons—like a child pretending they were a warrior. The sheath around your thigh slid down, hitting the floor with a clang that made you flinch.
Azriel kneeled on the ground to pick it up before you could, his fingers deftly undoing the buckle. His legs wrapped around your calf to guide your leg up, settling your boot-clad foot on his thigh. Your breath hitched when his fingers grazed your thigh, wrapping the leather sheath around you and securing it tight.
Then he lifted another thin strap of leather attached to the sheath, smiling softly as he weaved it under your belt. “You forgot to fasten this one,” he murmured quietly.
Your face was warm when his fingers fell away and you brought your foot back to the ground. “Thanks,” you whispered.
Azriel stood up, analyzing the rest of your gear with critical focus.
You bit your lip, anxiety still pushing up far too many inconsequential worries in the face of your first mission from Rhys. “Is it uncomfortable for you, being in charge of me?”
Azriel’s eyes snapped to yours. “No,” he said. “Is it for you?”
You automatically shook your head, then thought better of lying at a time like this, and slowly started to nod. Azriel frowned, and you hurried to explain, “I just—I’m scared of disappointing you.”
Azriel’s entire face went soft, his hazel eyes warm in the dim light of your room. “You could never disappoint me,” he said softly.
You shook your head. “You can’t say that.”
“It’s true,” he argued. “Y/N.” He took your face in his hands, forcing your eyes to meet his. “You could tell me right now that you aren’t ready, and you are not doing this mission, and I would be proud of you for standing up for yourself.”
You started to shake your head again, trying to close your eyes, but Azriel’s grip tightened. “You could go on this mission and decide to turn back at any point, and I would be proud of you for trying. Or we can go on this mission and get what we need, and I’ll be proud of you for doing it.”
Your eyes were burning as you stared at him, your entire body warming from the inside out as he brushed a gentle thumb over your cheek. “Do you want to go on this mission?”
You nodded. “I’m just scared.”
“That’s okay,” he assured. “I would be worried if you weren’t.”
You smiled slightly.
“Rhys trusts you. I trust you. I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I didn’t think you were ready.”
His words were meant to be soothing, but they only twisted your spiral tighter. “Rhys is an untried High Lord now,” you laughed drily. “His faith in me is all the more pressure not to royally fuck this up for him.”
Azriel’s hands dragged down your arms. “It’s going to be fine,” he soothed. “It’s just the Spring Court, anyway,” he grumbled. “Our relationship with them is already shit, and Tamlin is an untried High Lord too. If we get caught,” he shrugs, “oh well.”
You knew it was definitely not as simple as “oh well” if you got caught. Rhys needed these roses. He needed their magic to rebuild and revitalize Velaris. It was also just roses though, which you knew was Azriel’s point.
You nodded, letting out a deep breath.
“Okay?” Azriel asked.
You nodded again, then yanked Azriel down into a hug, your arms circling around his waist. His body curled around yours, his cheek pressing against yours as you held him close.
“It will be okay,” he murmured. “You’re not doing this alone. If anything happens, you’ll have me.”
You nodded your head against his chest, still not letting go as your breathing slowly calmed. You inhaled his scent and listened to his heart beat, and you thought for a moment that your hearts began to beat in tandem.
Azriel squeezed you tighter.
“You will always have me.”
~ ~ ~
Azriel was freaking out.
He had dealt with more nerves in these last few months than he had in all his centuries of life, and he was tired. He knew it was a mess of his own making, really, which made it worse. He felt like he was grasping at cobwebs every time he moved to try and fix this mess he had made after too many fucking drinks at Rita’s. Twice. With every step he made, the ground seemed to just crumble beneath him, and he was terrified that this might be the last chance he had to salvage whatever you were still willing to give him.
He wasn’t sure if he loved or hated Rhys for forcing the two of you on this mission. Maybe both. You had been hiding from him for days, again, and he couldn’t blame you. He never should have kissed you, let alone allowed it to escalate as it did, and every time his mind wandered to how the night might have progressed differently if you had not fallen ill so quickly, his stomach revolted with guilt.
He was drunk. He was—he knew he was—but he was sober enough to take care of you. That was his responsibility. He had promised you. He owed you, after all. It was his fault that he had taken one too many shots blindly from Cassian after relentless begging, and it was his fault he didn’t bother questioning Cassian when he slurred some nonsense about “flying without flying” as he passed him a brightly colored liquid that smelled and tasted overly medicinal.
He should have realized it was the same shot Mor had grown infatuated with throughout the night, and that you had taken with her in solidarity—and with maybe a little desperation, if he was honest with himself. He didn’t know exactly what was bothering with you, but he knew it had to be something he said that night at Rita’s, and fuck knows what else since then. The dinner with Soleil had been particularly terrible, but that was only one night.
He was fairly certain you were unaware of the bond. It was strange, every time he reached for the living, glowing tendril in his chest. He could trace it all the way to you, and it felt alive and intimate in a way he never knew existed, but it was dark. Quiet. Like it was asleep, and he never let himself reach close enough to risk tearing you from that peaceful slumber.
He wanted you more than anything. He had been in love with you since he was a boy, if he was entirely honest with himself, but he didn’t really understand what love was for a very long time. He didn’t know how to recognize it, how to differentiate it from the familial love he had felt toward his brothers. He just knew he would die for you, live for you, do anything for you—and maybe he was a bit foolish, for taking so long to realize.
Then after centuries, in the midst of a war tattered campground, as you yelled at him for being a godsdamned martyr while mending a tear in his wings, he felt the world tilt around him. He thought he was dying at first, when he felt that first tug against his ribcage and the air was yanked from his lungs. Then he sucked in a fresh breath, and grasped at the living thing pulsing inside him, and he followed it directly to you, kneeling before him. You had dirt and blood dried on your face, your leathers were torn, and he loved you—and you were his mate.
It took everything in him to control his face and shadows. He could hardly process that what he had longed for had just been so unceremoniously unveiled in the midst of chaos and carnage, and he knew that the last thing you needed to worry about was a mating bond.
He told Rhys and Cassian not long after, and it was not intentional, but he felt like he was dying hiding this blessing from everyone. He hated feeling like he was hiding you. He almost confessed everything, almost bared his entire soul to his brothers in a too small tent surrounded by exhausted warriors and friends and family after fighting for everything and claiming victory, but he thought better of it, and no one ever brought it up again.
Not until he apparently told you like a drunken fool on the streets of Velaris a year later.
He was just glad he didn’t say it was you. That you were his mate he adored and would eternally serve and pine for from afar if he must.
You had spent your life fighting for a future, for autonomy, and he could not steal that from you in the name of taking something he wanted. You had never spoken of mates. You had never seemed keen on finding a partner or spouse or having children. You always diverted any conversations Azriel had subtly prompted in the past, and he was never one to push you more than you wanted.
He could not—would not—force a mating bond on you. He would rather die.
He still selfishly hoped it would snap for you one day. He could not control fate, after all, and if it did—well, then it would be your choice what to do with it. It wouldn’t be something that he was forcing you to confront.
He could love you from afar. He could love you as a friend. He could love you however you needed him to. He did.
He also thought you might love him, and that was terrifying. He didn’t know how to navigate that possibility. Sometimes, he let himself think that maybe you were jealous of some amorphous mate he had drunkenly poured his heart out for, and maybe that was one of the roots of your shifting demeanor with him. It felt too foolish, though, too egotistical to consider for long. He had known you for centuries and had never seen you envy anyone.
However, he could not deny the signs that you felt something toward him. You had kissed him, even if you were drunk, and he was certain that you would have kissed him that night in Illyria if he had not pulled away. It was confusing, trying to decide the best way to handle such a delicate situation, and every move he made seemed to create a new fracture.
If you loved him, you could choose him for yourself, without the pressure of a mating bond.
But he also knew that you would never let yourself encroach on another person’s happiness, on his happiness, which meant you would protect Azriel’s mating bond with you from yourself if you thought it was with another.
It was a mindfuck.
“Azriel.”
Azriel spun around, his shadows darting behind his wings as he met your glare with wide eyes. You were standing across from him in this too small inn room with your hands clutching your dress to your chest. Waves of onyx fabric fell from your hips, shimmering in the faelights as you stepped closer.
Azriel swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry and face warm. “Sorry,” he said, and he hoped he sounded somewhat composed. “What did you say?”
Your lips pursed and your brow crinkled in frustration. He had no idea how long he had been lost in his thoughts, staring at a wall to give you privacy while you dressed.
“I need your help with this dress,” you huffed, and turned around to show him your open back.
It was a corset back, and if you let go of your bodice he was certain the entire dress would fall in a heap at your feet. He could see the hint of black lace lining your lower back, and his pulse thumped loudly in his ears as he stepped closer, allowing himself only another second to drink in the expanse of your bare.
He picked up the silken laces from the bed, his fingers grazing your skin as he threaded the first row and then pulled it taut. Your wings flared outward, and you reached for the desk crammed against the wall to hold yourself steady.
Azriel’s gaze lingered on your wings, then he frowned at the laces in his hands. The top of the dress was maybe a finger’s width away from the base of your wings. “Will this irritate your wings?” he asked.
You shifted impatiently, and he could practically hear you roll your eyes as you said, “According to Mor, no.”
Azriel’s frown deepened. He continued lacing the corset, but said quietly, “Mor does not have wings.”
“Trust me,” you gritted out when he tugged at the dress. “I know.”
“Do you want to wear something else?”
“Of course I do,” you huffed, still leaning over the desk. “But this is what Rhys gave me, and I have a part to play.” You waved at him flippantly, urging him to continue. “I’m meant to be your pretty plaything from the Court of Nightmares.”
Azriel couldn’t help the harsher tug on your laces, a startled oof falling from your lips. “You’re my wife,” he corrected quietly.
You were quiet at that, letting the soft slide of silk laces occupy the room.
If one of his shadows fell away from his grasp to slither down your arm, he didn’t stop them.
Eventually he pulled the final row tight, securing the corset with a bow. He should have stepped away then. He should have given you your space, but instead his hands grabbed you by your waist, and turned you around slowly to face him. Your chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as your eyes met his, and your irises were stunning against the smoky background Mor had crafted before you left—even if you would be unrecognizable to anyone else beneath the glamour.
“You are divine,” he told you, and the words felt like a hymn upon his lips. He forced the rest of the praises down deep into his soul, letting them coast along the bond in glimmering glyphs instead of speaking them aloud.
Your breath hitched.
You took a small step back, looking down at your dress as you smoothed over the fabric with your hands. “This dress is a monstrosity,” you argued, though the words lacked conviction. “And entirely impractical.”
Azriel shook his head, stepping forward to reclaim the space between you. He was a foolish, foolish male. He would do everything in his power to kindle this flame that glowed between you. How could he not? There was never really another option, as much as he might try to delude himself.
“I was not talking about the dress,” he told you quietly, warmth flooding his body as you looked up at him with wide and blinking eyes.
Your throat bobbed as you licked your lips, and Azriel could not help the flare of desire that sparked in his chest. You were ethereal, and powerful, and you were about to walk inside a ballroom full of fools and run circles around them. He loved every fiber of your being.
He reached for your hand, your skin soft against his scars. He lifted it slowly to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours as he left a lingering kiss against your skin. You blinked, and he gently lowered your hand back down, but he didn’t let go. “Let’s go make some friends, wife.”
~ ~ ~
The ball was more akin to a menagerie.
Azriel did not let his hand leave your waist as the two of you weaved through a sea of bodies, an eclectic and seemingly chaotic collection of faeries littering the ballroom floor. There were humans sprinkled throughout too, and Azriel’s chest tightened at the emptiness behind their gazes. The music that filled the room seemed slow and upbeat all at once, a tempo that left his heart beating fast in his chest.
He did not like this at all.
His hand tightened on your waist, and his lips brushed the shell of your ear as he leaned down to say, “Do not leave my side.”
Of course, you glared at him. “I can take care of myself.”
Azriel spun you so you were chest to chest, both of his hands now on your waist as your hands pressed against his chest. He swayed the two of you to the slightly off-beat music that made his skin crawl. His cheek brushed against yours as he leaned down again to speak to you quietly. “For all intents and purposes tonight, you are my wife.” He felt your breath fan out in a warm buff against his neck, and he brought one of his hands up to lace his fingers with yours, the two of you dancing slowly amongst the crowd. “Assume we are being watched.”
You nodded slightly, acquiescing as you leaned into him. “Why do I feel more like an exhibit than a guest?” you murmured.
And that was exactly how Azriel would describe it. The skin on the back of his neck prickled as if there were eyes on him from every direction, but his shadows had scattered to every corner of the room, and there was no one watching the two of you. No one that could be seen.
“There’s too many people here,” he said, eyes scouring the crowded floor. “And none of them seem particularly…noble.” It was not an insult, but no one here was dressed in finery that would be expected at a royal ball. He almost felt like the two of you were overdressed.
There were as many lesser fae as there were high fae, and that made him nervous—for them. He could not imagine that the Mortal Queens had decided to provide charity to the oppressed fae of Pyrthian, and if Koschei had any involvement in this gathering, he hated to think about why these people were gathered here. He also could not ignore that, technically, the two of you were lesser fae as well.
Kier had said the invitation was for his court nobles, who would have been High Fae, but Azriel trusted Kier as far as he could throw him, even with Rhys rifling through his mind.
“Do you think it’s a trap?” you murmured quietly in his ear.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, and he hated feeling unsteady. He hated how little information he had been able to collect from Koschei and the Mortal Queens, and how difficult it had been to glean any information from the shadows of the Continent. “No one knows who we are,” he said. “But this is not the crowd I anticipated.”
You went stiff in his arms. He ducked his head to meet your gaze, but your eyes remained glued over his shoulder. He squeezed your waist, pulling your gaze to him. “There are two Illyrians here,” you said quietly.
Azriel blinked. His grip tightened on your hand, and he imperceptibly shifted you closer to his body. “We anticipated this,” he murmured. It didn’t stop the rage from coursing through his veins.
It also meant that Koschei was almost definitely acting as a puppeteer for the Mortal Queens, either knowingly or unknowingly to them. That was expected, though, and that wasn’t why you and him were there. You were there to collect information, to find out who else might be involved. He had anticipated nobility from across courts, though, not a consortium of lesser fae.
“Az,” you said quietly, and he almost reminded you not to say his name, but then you shifted the two of you just enough so that he could see the Illyrians. He recognized them. They were from Windhaven. He was fairly certain one was a male you had spat at just weeks ago.
“They won’t recognize us,” he assured, though even he did not really believe his words. He could still see the sheen of the glamour Rhys had cast around your face, and he could feel the warmth of his on his skin, but it did nothing to hide the fact that you were Illyrians, and if they got close enough, they could recognize your scents. You had likely made an impression.
You bit your lip, your eyes shifting around the ballroom, but your gaze always lingered on them. “Look who they are speaking with.”
Azriel glanced again, careful not to stare. He sucked in a breath as a faerie moved to reveal the High Fae the Illyrians were standing next to. “Autumn Court soldiers.”
“And nobility,” you added. “That’s the first noble I’ve seen.”
“They could be under a thrall,” he said.
You shook your head, forcing your gaze away from the males. Your eyes were sharp when they met his gaze. “No,” you said. “They’re perfectly lucid.” A human bumped into you from behind, sending you careening into Azriel. He steadied you easily, even as you glared at the woman that stumbled away without an apology. “I’m not sure the same can be said of the humans,” you grumbled.
“They might be drunk on faerie wine.”
Your nose scrunched up in distaste. “These Mortal Queens are fools.”
“They could also be in a thrall,” he argued half-heartedly.
“Briallyn wasn’t.”
“No,” he agreed quietly.
“We need to split up,” you said.
Azriel did not agree. His grip on your waist tightened, and you cast a withering glare toward him. “No,” he said.
Your eyes narrowed, and you leaned in close. You hand trailed from his chest to the back of his neck, your nails grazing his hair at the nape of his neck. Your lips brushed the column of his throat as you murmured back, “Yes.”
He knew you were playing into your role. He knew the two of you very well could not argue in the middle of the ballroom, no matter how crowded. He knew you likely felt the same invisible eyes on your back that he did. It did not stop the rush of desire that ran through his veins or the goosebumps that pebbled his skin.
He swallowed hard. Then he tilted his head so his lips grazed your ear. “I do not think that is wise.”
“We are not doing this again,” you argued, your tone a touch harsher. “I can take care of myself, Azriel.” His jaw clenched, and he knew you were right. He hated himself for letting his own selfish fears dictate his decisions, and for trying to dictate yours.
Your eyes were soft when you pulled back to look at him, though. “There are too many people here for us to just stand here and dance in the middle of the floor.”
He was grateful in that moment that Rhys’s glamour did not hide you from him. You were stunning. Beautifully sharp in all the right places, power coursing through your veins and conviction shining in your eyes. You were more than capable. He had never doubted that. He just felt like he was dying every time you were in danger, and he could not fathom what it might feel like if something happened to you.
“Okay,” he whispered. He hated the ripple of shock on your face, but he loved the small smirk that graced your lips.
Azriel could not help himself.
He leaned down, his lips a hairs breadth away from yours as he paused for just a second, then he pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth. Your breath hitched as he pulled back, but he didn’t let either of your wallow in your complicated emotions. “Don’t wander far, wife,” he said, voice cool and detached, loud enough for those around you to hear.
Your eyes narrowed, but you bowed your head slightly, stepping away from Azriel. He forced himself to drop your hand, and he watched you until you disappeared in the throng of faeries.
content warnings: hangover (nausea, headache, difficulty remembering), unknowing consumption of a recreational drug (mirthroot, past), suggestive themes, language
word count: 9.1k
synopsis: Azriel was always meant to be yours.
trope: childhood friends to lovers
part 1 ~ part 2 ~ part 3
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
Azriel was on the floor.
And he was shirtless.
And drooling.
The light beaming in through the window felt like an axe against your skull, the pain nearly cleaving you in two before you ducked your head under the pillows.
Pillows that were definitely not yours.
You flew up into a sitting position again, leaning over the bed to take in the male below.
Azriel was not wearing pants.
He was wearing underwear, thank the Mother, but it didn’t stop the panic that was rapidly climbing up your chest. Not when you were wearing only a too large shirt that smelled like him, and had nothing underneath.
At least Azriel was on the floor? But that almost made everything worse, because you had shared a bed more times than you could count. You had shared a bed last week. Why would he feel the need to sleep on the floor if—
A flare of pain in your head made you wince, your eyes snapping shut as you tried to take steadying breaths. This was the worst fucking hangover. Your mouth was dry and tasted foul, your hair was a wreck, your head was throbbing, and the light spilling into the room felt like staring into the sun.
You cracked your eyelids open slowly, forming small slits that were just enough to make out Azriel still sprawled on the floor, stomach down and wings splayed haphazardly, with just a single pillow for his head to rest on. Your gaze caught on a glass of water on the night stand, and your eyes widened as you grabbed it. You drank only half of it, your stomach revolting at the first large gulp, and the sudden wave of nausea had you taking deep breaths again.
You blindly reached to set the glass back on the nightstand, but in your lazy effort, you sat it on the edge, and it went clambering to the floor. Or—more specifically—on top of the male asleep on the floor. Thankfully, the glass didn’t shatter, but the water spilled all over Azriel’s face and pillow, causing him to bolt up right.
“What the fuck was that?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep and confusion.
“I’m sorry!” you hurried out, your loud voices making you wince. “I’m so sorry,” you said again, voice softening.
Azriel blinked a few times, pushing wet strands of hair out of his face. His eyes fell to the glass on its side, the wet spot on his pillow—which, in your defense, was also drool—and then they snapped to you.
His eyes were a little bloodshot, and dark circles laid beneath his eyes. It was the most disheveled you had ever seen him outside of fighting in literal wars, and there was something so ironically wholesome about seeing this male hungover and dazed and confused in nothing but his underwear. It was a state you knew very few had ever been privy to seeing Az in, and that sparked a flare of fondness and irrational possessiveness in your chest.
His throat bobbed as he stared at you wide eyed for a few seconds, taking in your own horrendous state. You did not even want to know what the hell you looked like—hell, probably. You probably looked like hell.
His shoulders finally relaxed, and he groaned as he rubbed a hand over his face. “What time is it?” he asked.
You bit your lip, glancing at the window only briefly. “I don’t know,” you groaned, falling back into the pillows. This was fucking absurd. “Early? Late? It’s fucking bright out, I can tell you that.”
At that, Azriel pushed himself up off the floor, walking over to the window to snap the drapes shut, dimming the light in the room. Some of the tension instantly left your body. “Thank you,” you murmured.
Azriel only nodded, his movements almost stiff as he picked up the glass on the floor and disappeared into the bathroom. You closed your eyes, your hands coming up to cover your face as your mind spun to piece together the night before, fragments coming back to you in mortifying flashes. Something cool gently knocked against your arm, and you lowered your hands to peer at a fresh glass of water in Azriel’s hand.
He smiled slightly, but his own weariness was obvious. “Here,” he said, passing you the glass as you pushed yourself up to rest against the headboard. You took a few slow sips before he handed you another vial with a blue liquid that gave you nauseating déjà vu. “Drink this,” he instructed, then went back into the bathroom.
You eyed the vial suspiciously, listening to the water run in the bathroom as you took another sip from your glass. Fuck it. It could only help, surely. Even if it tasted gross.
You popped the vial open and tossed the liquid back, shivering at the bitter taste that coated your tongue. You took another swallow of water to wash it away, and you prayed you didn’t puke it back up as your stomach turned.
Azriel reappeared then, your eyes tracking him as he walked over to the other side of the bed, still in nothing but his underwear. Which made you feel absolutely nothing at all, of course.
He climbed onto the bed, resting his back against the headboard, but he was overly mindful of positioning his wings so that they didn’t bump yours. There was enough space between you that it felt like a chasm, and somehow you felt more separated from him now than when he was passed out on the floor. The air was thick with awkward tension.
You rested your head back on the headboard with a gentle thud. Eventually, you caved and said with a groan, “This is the worst hangover of my life.”
A beat of silence passed, then Azriel said quietly, “I didn’t realize you drank that much.”
“Me neither.” You closed your eyes, letting out a long sigh. “I should know better than to blindly follow Mor.”
More silence followed, and your chest felt a little tighter the longer it stretched, but you kept your eyes closed and focused on keeping your breathing steady.
“How much do you remember?” Azriel finally asks, his tone still soft, but he seemed almost worried.
You opened your eyes, then slowly turned your head to look at him. He was watching you with unfairly clear eyes, sitting up straight against the headboard while you were slowly slumping further down into the pillows again.
Your stomach twisted as you let the memories of last night wash over you. The way Azriel held your hand as he led you through Rita’s. The first shot that quickly blurred into innumerable empty glasses. The way his body felt pressed against yours. The way your hips moved with his. The way his lips were soft and demanding.
It was like squinting through fogged over glass, trying to piece together smudged details that made up sharp fragments.
“How much do you remember?” you ask instead of answering, your voice raspy with both dehydration and embarrassment.
“Everything,” he answered quietly.
Your face warmed. “I remember puking in the alley,” you admitted reluctantly, your arm coming up to cover your eyes. “And pieces leading up to it, but after that—” You shrugged, dropping your arm to meet his eyes warily. “I don’t really know.”
Which…was a problem, now that you really started to think about it. You were in Azriel’s bed, in Azriel’s shirt, and you had no recollection of how that came to be. You couldn’t even remember leaving that alley, let alone climbing into bed.
“After that,” Azriel said gently, “I took you home. You didn’t want to sleep in your room, so I brought you here.”
You nodded once, then glanced down at the black shirt draped across your frame. “And my dress?”
Azriel winced, and your face was growing even hotter in anticipation of the words that might come out of his mouth. “There was vomit on your dress,” he said. “I helped you change. Then you went to bed.”
Unease clawed at your throat as you struggled to remember and still came up blank. You swallowed hard, then took another sip of the water you still had clutched in your hand. You ran your thumb over the lip of the glass once you brought it back down to your lap. Your smile was small and self-deprecating as you asked, half-jokingly, “And my underwear?”
Azriel’s head snapped toward you. “You’re not wearing underwear?”
You blinked, his words dousing you in cold water. Did he not remember everything from last night after all? Your mind started spinning with every possibility, and your face was hot from the thoughts alone. “Gods—Azriel, did we—”
“No! No, I swear. I don’t know where your—” His voice abruptly cut off. His eyes were locked on the foot of the bed, where a scrap of cobalt blue lace was strewn haphazardly.
Everything around you slowed as you both stared at the offending fabric. You slowly sat your glass of water down on the night stand before frantically launching yourself across the bed to grab the lace. You fisted the fabric in your hand as you awkwardly climbed off the bed, staring at Azriel with wide eyes from where you now stood at the foot of his bed. You had half the mind to thank the Mother that he was so large that his shirt was longer than your dress, and you were saved from any further mortification this morning—even if it sounds like he may have seen more than enough from you last night.
You licked your lips, heart pounding as you glanced around his room for any of your belongings, finding none, and then nodded to yourself repeatedly. “I should go,” you rushed out, avoiding Azriel’s eyes as panic flushed away the nausea and headache. You stumbled though when you took the first step toward his door, blinking quickly before the stars faded from your vision.
You heard the bed creak behind you, and you quickly continued your escape as Azriel followed close behind. “Y/N,” he said, but your ears were ringing and your face was burning and you were so embarrassed. You wished the mountain would fissure beneath your feet and swallow you whole.
“Thank you for—” You gestured wildly with no direction, your back still facing Azriel as you reached for the door knob.
“Y/N—”
You flung the door open, and then stopped in your tracks. Azriel’s chest bumped into your back, and his hand landed on your hip to keep you from careening forward.
Cassian stood there in the hall with a bowl of fruit and wild hair, his eyes wide as he stared at the two of you. He blinked once, and then twice, the three of you frozen as Cassian took in the sight before him. His eyes fell to your hand, which was still clutching your lace underwear.
Azriel snatched them from your hand, tossing them out of sight somewhere in his room. You blinked, your already soul-consuming embarrassment reaching horrifying multitudes.
Cassian’s free-hand came up to rub at his eyes, as if the sight of you and Azriel gave him a headache—or maybe he was just hungover—probably both.
His hand fell to his side, and he squinted at the two of you. “I thought the mirthroot shots were making me hallucinate.”
Cassian’s words momentarily cut through your blinding mortification, and you and Azriel both said, “The what?”
Cassian blinked owlishly at the two of you. “The…mirthroot shots?” His gaze darted from you up to Azriel, then back to you. “Mor was giving them to everyone.”
You tilted your head back, only to bump into Azriel’s chest. “I’m going to murder her,” you mumbled. Then you winced when you remembered taking the shots from her, not caring in the slightest what it was before downing it. You were fairly certain you had even said as much.
Cassian looked sheepish. “I don’t think she knew they were mirthroot at first. Then it was too late.”
That explained your hangover from hell.
“So,” Cassian said slowly, and your head snapped back up to look at him. “Are you two—”
“No,” you rushed out at the same time Azriel growled, “Cassian.”
He raised his hand with a shameless smirk on his face. “I’m just asking—”
“I have to go,” you said quickly, stepping away from Azriel, the cool air in the hallway licking away the heat that his body had radiated onto your skin. You glanced once back at Azriel’s room, another piece of your dignity withering away as you decided to leave behind your underwear in the name of escaping to your room as quickly as possible.
Azriel could keep them.
Or burn them.
Ferry them away to some interspace dimension.
You didn’t care.
You flung the door to your room open, slamming the door shut with a thud that echoed through your too still room. There were still clothes strewn around haphazardly from your rush to get ready the night before, and your training leathers laid in a pile by the bathroom. You sank down against the door, your head resting against the heavy wood once you were seated on the floor. Your hands came up to cover your face, and you begged the Mother to put you out of your misery.
~ ~ ~
“You’re up late.”
Your heart skipped a beat as your eyes snapped up to the male in the doorway. You smiled sheepishly as he walked closer, sitting next to you on the sofa. He was in his leathers, and his eyes were tired as he looked at the fire, the flames flickering in his irises.
You laid your book down in your lap, the pages splayed outward. “Are you okay?” you asked.
His throat bobbed, and it took him a few seconds before he turned to look at you. His smile was small, but it seemed genuine. “I’m just tired,” he said. He leaned back on the couch, his wings brushing against yours as they draped over the back. He glanced at you, and you smiled back, intentionally stretching your wing to brush against his again.
Your face was warm, and you weren’t sure it was from the fire. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Azriel sighed. “Now that Rhys is High Lord,” he said, “there is just so much that needs done.” He paused, his hand coming up to run through his hair. “Before, it was not my choice to serve the High Lord.”
You winced, looking down at your lap.
“Hey,” he said, his hand squeezing your wrist. “That is not your fault.”
“You sacrificed your freedom for me, Azriel,” you argued.
“And I would do it again,” he swore. He tugged at your wrist, and you forced your gaze to meet his again. “It was worth it, Y/N. I would have ended up serving on his court one way or another, at least I got to protect you by doing it.”
You nodded, and Azriel relaxed against the couch again. His hand slid down to hold yours, his fingers lazily playing with your own. You weren’t sure if he was even aware that he was doing it. “It’s different now, with Rhys. I chose to serve him. I want to. I’m loyal to him. I believe in him, and I trust his heart. He has plans for this court, and I want to help him bring them to fruition. It’s just…” He bit his lip, as if searching for the right words.
“A lot of pressure?” you asked.
He nodded. “A lot of pressure.”
You leaned against his shoulder, squeezing his hand. “I think that’s good,” you said softly.
Azriel hummed. “What do you mean?”
You shrugged. “It means you care,” you said. “You want to help people, Az. I think it would be bad if you just didn’t care at all.”
Azriel leaned his head against yours. Eventually he said, “Enough about me.” He sat up, and his gaze zeroed in on the book still in your lap. “Tell me about your book.”
Heat flooded your face, and you sat up straight. “Oh,” you laughed nervously. “No—it’s not—it’s pretty boring.”
Azriel frowned. “Tell me why it’s boring then.”
“I don’t—”
“At least let me look at it,” he said at the same time, plucking the book from your lap before you could even register what he was doing.
Your book that was still open to where you had been reading when he walked in. Azriel’s eyes danced as he read over the page, his lips slowly stretching into a smirk.
Mother help you.
“This is boring?” he asked, the taunt clear in his voice. As if the grin on his face wasn’t enough.
You yanked the book from his hands, snapping it shut. “Shut up, Az.”
“I had no idea this is what you read when you holed yourself away up here,” he teased.
You knew he was not being cruel, but embarrassment still made your stomach twist. You shrugged, your thumb running over the corner of the cover.
“Hey,” he said gently, and you forced yourself to meet his eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
You shrugged, your smile thin as you said, “I like it.” Then, maybe a bit foolishly, you added, “It’s safer…than the real thing.”
Azriel went still beside you. “What do you mean?” His voice was tight.
You had to force your mortification down deep to answer him, “I’ve only kissed a few males, and—” you forced out a laugh. “And it was kind of terrible.”
“All of them?”
You nodded. “All of them.” You shrugged, looking at the fire to avoid his eyes. “I don’t know. They were all drunken males at Rita’s, which is probably not the ideal place to meet a male. But I also think it might be me?” Your voice was small with your admission, and you hated the words that were tumbling out of your mouth, unsure why you couldn’t stop them or how your night had suddenly led you here. “I tense up, because I know I don’t want it to go any further. I just—I can’t. I can’t, not with my wings. I don’t—”
You forced yourself to take a breath, forced yourself to recenter in the moment, here, with Azriel. You dragged your gaze back to his, his eyes soft and patient as they watched you diligently. There was not an ounce of judgment in his gaze, and it made your shoulders relax slightly.
“You’ve…been with females. Right?” you asked shyly.
Azriel blinked. “Um,” he choked out, and it was nice to see a tint of red across his cheeks. It made you feel slightly less vulnerable. “Yes,” he said, “I have.”
“Did they touch your wings?”
Azriel’s face twisted briefly, then it quickly softened. “Sweetheart,” he said, and the name made you feel warm all over. “No one should touch your wings without permission.”
“I know that, Azriel,” you grumbled. “That doesn’t mean they won’t.”
He was quiet for a moment, then he said quietly, “It’s okay if you aren’t ready.”
“I hate it, though!” you exclaimed, the book finally sliding off your lap. “I just—I just want to—” Your words died in your throat as your gaze snagged on Azriel’s lips. Your heart pounded against your ribcage, and you were speaking again before you really thought. “Will you kiss me?”
“What?” Azriel choked out, his eyes bewildered.
It was possibly the most insane idea you had ever had, but you wanted to kiss a male and not feel like vomiting immediately after, damn it. Azriel was perfect. In more ways than one. You trusted him. He was, objectively, beautiful. He didn’t smell like a bar—he smelled like cedar and fresh snow, actually. He—he was perfect.
“Kiss me,” you said again. You forced yourself to meet his eyes. “Please.”
His lips parted. “Y/N,” he started to say, but you cut him off.
“Azriel,” you nearly pleaded. Nearly. You had enough pride not to beg him for a damned kiss. But you were not above persuasion. “I am nearly a century old, and I just want to know what it is like to enjoy a kiss without working my way through every washed up drunk at Rita’s—”
His hands were on your face as your words died in your throat, and in the next second his lips were pressed to yours. You froze, but just for a second, and Azriel was not deterred. His lips melded with yours gently, coaxing you to slowly start kissing him back.
Time seemed to stop around you. Everything slowed as Azriel kissed you, and kissed you, and kissed you. His lips were soft, and he tasted like rose tea, and you could devour him, right there on that very couch in the middle of Rhys’s personal library. Your entire body was electrified, every nerve ending came to life as you kissed your best friend.
He started to pull back, but you chased after him, your hands coming up to his neck to guide him back to you. He came easily, his own hands cupping your jaw and tangling in your hair. There was a fire burning in the center of your chest, and it felt like Azriel’s soul was living and breathing inside of you as his lips found yours over and over.
He moaned softly into your mouth, and suddenly the world tilted, and you remembered exactly where you were and who you were with. You pulled back, and Azriel separated from you, his hands slowly falling away as you pushed him back.
You swallowed hard, licking your lips once before wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Mother above.
You jumped to your feet with fragile composure, your book falling to the floor with a loud thud. Your heart was beating frantically, your pulse pounding in your ears, and your body was hot all over. Azriel was watching you with wide eyes, still sitting on the couch. “That was, um,” you said breathlessly, looking all around until your gaze finally fell back on him. “That was good.”
Azriel’s lips twitched. “Good,” he said, not really a question.
You bit the inside of your cheek, nodding. “Thank you.”
Azriel smiled. “Happy to help.”
“Right,” you whispered, trapped in a daze. You had just kissed your best friend. A lot. And you loved it. “Goodnight,” you rushed out, then made a beeline for the door.
You hurried down the halls, your mind racing as you neared your bedroom, as you opened your door and shut yourself safe inside. Your back fell against the door, your head thumping against the wood as a smile blossomed across your face and a laugh bubbled out of you.
That was better than any damned book.
~ ~ ~
“You have been an incredibly difficult female to find.”
You flinched at the voice behind you, your elbow banging into the wooden desk. You turned to meet Rhysand’s eyes, a smirk teasing his lips. You smiled sheepishly. “Sorry.”
He waved you off, walking closer to lean against the desk, making a show of taking in the dimly lit room of the library. You were deep beneath the main floor, layers of stone between you and everyone else in the world. The books and hushed steps of priestesses had been your sole company for days.
“You would think you were my scholar instead of my spy,” Rhys teased, but you heard the question in his voice.
You swallowed, aimlessly shuffling together some of the papers scattered in front of you. “Would that be a problem?” you asked quietly, avoiding Rhys’s gaze. “If I wanted to be, I mean?”
“Of course not,” Rhys said. He laid his palm down on the papers you were shuffling, your gaze reluctantly dragging up to meet his. His eyebrows raised slightly. “I didn’t realize you were unhappy with your position.”
“I’m not,” you assured him. “I’m just…”
“Not happy?”
You frowned. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
Rhys shrugged, pulling his hand back. “You tell me.”
You bit your bottom lip, looking at all the books and papers scattered around you. You had lost yourself to these walls, these words, for the last few days, and it was the most at peace you had felt in…a really long time. “Maybe,” you whispered. “I just miss it, sometimes. Your mother—” You hesitated, and you hated that the words got caught in your throat.
Rhys hummed in understanding. “My mother was many things,” he said quietly. “Beautifully cunning, was one of them.”
You smiled softly. “She gave me purpose when she brought me here. When she asked me to research childbirth and potions and medicine. When she asked me to help Madja.” You sighed, leaning back in your chair to look up at Rhys. “It’s just a different feeling than being a spy.”
It was all true. You missed the feeling of pages between your fingers and stringing sentences across books together to make a new—to make a discovery that would help others. Knowledge was, at its core, power. It was intoxicating when you first came to Velaris. You had never known such power existed, let alone one that could be at your very fingertips.
“And this has nothing to do with Azriel?”
Your breath hitched.
There was also that small fact that danced in the back of your mind. If you became a scholar again, you would no longer have to answer to Azriel. You had done well at avoiding him when you wanted these past few months, but resigning as a spy—well, that would make it all the more easier.
“That’s insulting,” you said instead.
Rhys held no remorse. “It’s a fair question.”
You rolled your eyes, feigning nonchalance and steeling your mental barriers as Rhys brushed against your mind. You scowled at him, and he only smirked.
“A kiss from a male is not going to decide my future career choices,” you growled.
Rhys' eyes lit up. “A kiss?” he laughed. “Well I wasn’t going to mention it—”
You groaned. “Enough, Rhysand.”
His eyes still danced with mirth, the faelights flickering in his violet irises. He seemed to debate his next words, and your shoulders sank with relief when he asked, “What have you been doing down here?” He picked up one of your notebooks—your personal notebook you realized with horror. “Mating bonds and desire,” he read aloud. “Matings bonds instill intrinsic—”
You snatched the notebook from his hands, your face hot. “Give me that.” You tossed it on the ground beside you. “That’s not what I’m researching.”
His brows raised. “No?” he asked, picking up the book that had The History of Mating Bonds embossed across the front.
“Not for you,” you countered, also taking the book from him.
Rhys pursed his lips, clearly not done tormenting you. “I was glad to see that you and Azriel had made up,” he mused. “Or should I say made out?”
“Rhys,” you pleaded.
“Now he’s back to moping around Velaris because you’ve holed yourself up down here. Researching mating bonds, apparently?”
“I told you that’s not all,” you grumbled, reaching for the much larger stack of papers and books across the desk. You slid them in front of Rhys pointedly.
He furrowed his brow. “The intricacies of mind compulsion?” He read the title of the first book aloud, then looked at your notes. His mouth turned into a frown, and your heart started to beat harder. “Potential targets of Koschei…Illyrians?”
You forced yourself to meet his gaze, nodding slowly.
“You think Koschei is controlling Illyrians?”
Not really, no. But wouldn’t it be nice if every terrible thing that had happened to you and so many others could be blamed on one entity? That the suffering you endured could be explained?
“Y/N,” Rhys said gently. “Sometimes evil is just evil.”
“I know,” you whispered.
Rhys squeezed your shoulder, a beat of silence passing between you before he said, “I wanted to tell you, I removed Freya’s husband from Windhaven.”
Your head snapped toward him. “What? Where is he?”
“Rotting in a cell in Hewn City.” He shrugged. “I haven’t had much time to go rifling through his mind, and I probably shouldn’t kill the male without proof of his crimes.” He grinned at you, his eyes glinting. “Though I can always expedite my investigation—”
“No,” you said. “Let him suffer.”
“As you wish,” Rhys said. “Speaking of Illyrians and Koschei, though,” he added slowly, “I have a mission for you. That is, if you don’t mind postponing the career change.”
You straightened. “Of course.”
Rhys picked up the sheet of paper with your notes detailing every link you could conceptualize between Illyria and Koschei, reading it with a worried frown on his face. “You’re not wrong that certain factions in Illyria would be vulnerable to Koschei’s…overzealous promises. Or would simply jump at the chance to see my head on a platter.”
Your stomach turned, knowing you had thought the same thing.
Rhys glanced at you, then laid the paper back down. “Koschei undoubtedly knows this. He’s already sent whispers into Kier’s court.”
“Kier?”
“Unfortunately,” Rhys grumbled. “Amren has done what she can to protect his mind from Koschei’s compulsion, but—”
“There’s only so much we know about him,” you finished softly.
“Precisely.” Rhys picked at a piece of lint on his arm, then folded them across his chest. “It presents us with an opportunity for a cover though. Azriel has not been able to infiltrate Koschei’s home nor the Mortal Queens’ castle. He’s managed to glean very little about how far Koschei’s influence reaches.”
“He’s mentioned that,” you said quietly.
“The queens are throwing a ball in two days.”
You scrunched your face up. “A ball?”
“Yes.” Rhys smirked. “And you will be attending—on behalf of the Court of Nightmares.”
“Me?” you asked. “How progressive of Keir to send a female liaison.”
Rhysand winced. “Well, not exactly.”
“Rhys.”
“Azriel will be going as the liaison,” he said, looking only slightly guilty. Your heart beat sped up. “You will be going as his wife.”
~ ~ ~
“Will it be weird?” you asked, fastening the last of your belts around your waist.
“What?” Azriel asked, absently cleaning his dagger. Truth-Teller, he called it. You had no idea where he got the obsidian blade, but he treated it like his first-born.
“Going on a mission together.”
Azriel frowned, sheathing Truth-Teller at his side. “Why would it be weird?”
You shrugged, nerves making you shaky as you stood in front of him, and your shakiness only made you more nervous. You felt like a fraud, wrapped in leather and strapped with weapons—like a child pretending they were a warrior. The sheath around your thigh slid down, hitting the floor with a clang that made you flinch.
Azriel kneeled on the ground to pick it up before you could, his fingers deftly undoing the buckle. His legs wrapped around your calf to guide your leg up, settling your boot-clad foot on his thigh. Your breath hitched when his fingers grazed your thigh, wrapping the leather sheath around you and securing it tight.
Then he lifted another thin strap of leather attached to the sheath, smiling softly as he weaved it under your belt. “You forgot to fasten this one,” he murmured quietly.
Your face was warm when his fingers fell away and you brought your foot back to the ground. “Thanks,” you whispered.
Azriel stood up, analyzing the rest of your gear with critical focus.
You bit your lip, anxiety still pushing up far too many inconsequential worries in the face of your first mission from Rhys. “Is it uncomfortable for you, being in charge of me?”
Azriel’s eyes snapped to yours. “No,” he said. “Is it for you?”
You automatically shook your head, then thought better of lying at a time like this, and slowly started to nod. Azriel frowned, and you hurried to explain, “I just—I’m scared of disappointing you.”
Azriel’s entire face went soft, his hazel eyes warm in the dim light of your room. “You could never disappoint me,” he said softly.
You shook your head. “You can’t say that.”
“It’s true,” he argued. “Y/N.” He took your face in his hands, forcing your eyes to meet his. “You could tell me right now that you aren’t ready, and you are not doing this mission, and I would be proud of you for standing up for yourself.”
You started to shake your head again, trying to close your eyes, but Azriel’s grip tightened. “You could go on this mission and decide to turn back at any point, and I would be proud of you for trying. Or we can go on this mission and get what we need, and I’ll be proud of you for doing it.”
Your eyes were burning as you stared at him, your entire body warming from the inside out as he brushed a gentle thumb over your cheek. “Do you want to go on this mission?”
You nodded. “I’m just scared.”
“That’s okay,” he assured. “I would be worried if you weren’t.”
You smiled slightly.
“Rhys trusts you. I trust you. I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I didn’t think you were ready.”
His words were meant to be soothing, but they only twisted your spiral tighter. “Rhys is an untried High Lord now,” you laughed drily. “His faith in me is all the more pressure not to royally fuck this up for him.”
Azriel’s hands dragged down your arms. “It’s going to be fine,” he soothed. “It’s just the Spring Court, anyway,” he grumbled. “Our relationship with them is already shit, and Tamlin is an untried High Lord too. If we get caught,” he shrugs, “oh well.”
You knew it was definitely not as simple as “oh well” if you got caught. Rhys needed these roses. He needed their magic to rebuild and revitalize Velaris. It was also just roses though, which you knew was Azriel’s point.
You nodded, letting out a deep breath.
“Okay?” Azriel asked.
You nodded again, then yanked Azriel down into a hug, your arms circling around his waist. His body curled around yours, his cheek pressing against yours as you held him close.
“It will be okay,” he murmured. “You’re not doing this alone. If anything happens, you’ll have me.”
You nodded your head against his chest, still not letting go as your breathing slowly calmed. You inhaled his scent and listened to his heart beat, and you thought for a moment that your hearts began to beat in tandem.
Azriel squeezed you tighter.
“You will always have me.”
~ ~ ~
Azriel was freaking out.
He had dealt with more nerves in these last few months than he had in all his centuries of life, and he was tired. He knew it was a mess of his own making, really, which made it worse. He felt like he was grasping at cobwebs every time he moved to try and fix this mess he had made after too many fucking drinks at Rita’s. Twice. With every step he made, the ground seemed to just crumble beneath him, and he was terrified that this might be the last chance he had to salvage whatever you were still willing to give him.
He wasn’t sure if he loved or hated Rhys for forcing the two of you on this mission. Maybe both. You had been hiding from him for days, again, and he couldn’t blame you. He never should have kissed you, let alone allowed it to escalate as it did, and every time his mind wandered to how the night might have progressed differently if you had not fallen ill so quickly, his stomach revolted with guilt.
He was drunk. He was—he knew he was—but he was sober enough to take care of you. That was his responsibility. He had promised you. He owed you, after all. It was his fault that he had taken one too many shots blindly from Cassian after relentless begging, and it was his fault he didn’t bother questioning Cassian when he slurred some nonsense about “flying without flying” as he passed him a brightly colored liquid that smelled and tasted overly medicinal.
He should have realized it was the same shot Mor had grown infatuated with throughout the night, and that you had taken with her in solidarity—and with maybe a little desperation, if he was honest with himself. He didn’t know exactly what was bothering with you, but he knew it had to be something he said that night at Rita’s, and fuck knows what else since then. The dinner with Soleil had been particularly terrible, but that was only one night.
He was fairly certain you were unaware of the bond. It was strange, every time he reached for the living, glowing tendril in his chest. He could trace it all the way to you, and it felt alive and intimate in a way he never knew existed, but it was dark. Quiet. Like it was asleep, and he never let himself reach close enough to risk tearing you from that peaceful slumber.
He wanted you more than anything. He had been in love with you since he was a boy, if he was entirely honest with himself, but he didn’t really understand what love was for a very long time. He didn’t know how to recognize it, how to differentiate it from the familial love he had felt toward his brothers. He just knew he would die for you, live for you, do anything for you—and maybe he was a bit foolish, for taking so long to realize.
Then after centuries, in the midst of a war tattered campground, as you yelled at him for being a godsdamned martyr while mending a tear in his wings, he felt the world tilt around him. He thought he was dying at first, when he felt that first tug against his ribcage and the air was yanked from his lungs. Then he sucked in a fresh breath, and grasped at the living thing pulsing inside him, and he followed it directly to you, kneeling before him. You had dirt and blood dried on your face, your leathers were torn, and he loved you—and you were his mate.
It took everything in him to control his face and shadows. He could hardly process that what he had longed for had just been so unceremoniously unveiled in the midst of chaos and carnage, and he knew that the last thing you needed to worry about was a mating bond.
He told Rhys and Cassian not long after, and it was not intentional, but he felt like he was dying hiding this blessing from everyone. He hated feeling like he was hiding you. He almost confessed everything, almost bared his entire soul to his brothers in a too small tent surrounded by exhausted warriors and friends and family after fighting for everything and claiming victory, but he thought better of it, and no one ever brought it up again.
Not until he apparently told you like a drunken fool on the streets of Velaris a year later.
He was just glad he didn’t say it was you. That you were his mate he adored and would eternally serve and pine for from afar if he must.
You had spent your life fighting for a future, for autonomy, and he could not steal that from you in the name of taking something he wanted. You had never spoken of mates. You had never seemed keen on finding a partner or spouse or having children. You always diverted any conversations Azriel had subtly prompted in the past, and he was never one to push you more than you wanted.
He could not—would not—force a mating bond on you. He would rather die.
He still selfishly hoped it would snap for you one day. He could not control fate, after all, and if it did—well, then it would be your choice what to do with it. It wouldn’t be something that he was forcing you to confront.
He could love you from afar. He could love you as a friend. He could love you however you needed him to. He did.
He also thought you might love him, and that was terrifying. He didn’t know how to navigate that possibility. Sometimes, he let himself think that maybe you were jealous of some amorphous mate he had drunkenly poured his heart out for, and maybe that was one of the roots of your shifting demeanor with him. It felt too foolish, though, too egotistical to consider for long. He had known you for centuries and had never seen you envy anyone.
However, he could not deny the signs that you felt something toward him. You had kissed him, even if you were drunk, and he was certain that you would have kissed him that night in Illyria if he had not pulled away. It was confusing, trying to decide the best way to handle such a delicate situation, and every move he made seemed to create a new fracture.
If you loved him, you could choose him for yourself, without the pressure of a mating bond.
But he also knew that you would never let yourself encroach on another person’s happiness, on his happiness, which meant you would protect Azriel’s mating bond with you from yourself if you thought it was with another.
It was a mindfuck.
“Azriel.”
Azriel spun around, his shadows darting behind his wings as he met your glare with wide eyes. You were standing across from him in this too small inn room with your hands clutching your dress to your chest. Waves of onyx fabric fell from your hips, shimmering in the faelights as you stepped closer.
Azriel swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry and face warm. “Sorry,” he said, and he hoped he sounded somewhat composed. “What did you say?”
Your lips pursed and your brow crinkled in frustration. He had no idea how long he had been lost in his thoughts, staring at a wall to give you privacy while you dressed.
“I need your help with this dress,” you huffed, and turned around to show him your open back.
It was a corset back, and if you let go of your bodice he was certain the entire dress would fall in a heap at your feet. He could see the hint of black lace lining your lower back, and his pulse thumped loudly in his ears as he stepped closer, allowing himself only another second to drink in the expanse of your bare.
He picked up the silken laces from the bed, his fingers grazing your skin as he threaded the first row and then pulled it taut. Your wings flared outward, and you reached for the desk crammed against the wall to hold yourself steady.
Azriel’s gaze lingered on your wings, then he frowned at the laces in his hands. The top of the dress was maybe a finger’s width away from the base of your wings. “Will this irritate your wings?” he asked.
You shifted impatiently, and he could practically hear you roll your eyes as you said, “According to Mor, no.”
Azriel’s frown deepened. He continued lacing the corset, but said quietly, “Mor does not have wings.”
“Trust me,” you gritted out when he tugged at the dress. “I know.”
“Do you want to wear something else?”
“Of course I do,” you huffed, still leaning over the desk. “But this is what Rhys gave me, and I have a part to play.” You waved at him flippantly, urging him to continue. “I’m meant to be your pretty plaything from the Court of Nightmares.”
Azriel couldn’t help the harsher tug on your laces, a startled oof falling from your lips. “You’re my wife,” he corrected quietly.
You were quiet at that, letting the soft slide of silk laces occupy the room.
If one of his shadows fell away from his grasp to slither down your arm, he didn’t stop them.
Eventually he pulled the final row tight, securing the corset with a bow. He should have stepped away then. He should have given you your space, but instead his hands grabbed you by your waist, and turned you around slowly to face him. Your chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as your eyes met his, and your irises were stunning against the smoky background Mor had crafted before you left—even if you would be unrecognizable to anyone else beneath the glamour.
“You are divine,” he told you, and the words felt like a hymn upon his lips. He forced the rest of the praises down deep into his soul, letting them coast along the bond in glimmering glyphs instead of speaking them aloud.
Your breath hitched.
You took a small step back, looking down at your dress as you smoothed over the fabric with your hands. “This dress is a monstrosity,” you argued, though the words lacked conviction. “And entirely impractical.”
Azriel shook his head, stepping forward to reclaim the space between you. He was a foolish, foolish male. He would do everything in his power to kindle this flame that glowed between you. How could he not? There was never really another option, as much as he might try to delude himself.
“I was not talking about the dress,” he told you quietly, warmth flooding his body as you looked up at him with wide and blinking eyes.
Your throat bobbed as you licked your lips, and Azriel could not help the flare of desire that sparked in his chest. You were ethereal, and powerful, and you were about to walk inside a ballroom full of fools and run circles around them. He loved every fiber of your being.
He reached for your hand, your skin soft against his scars. He lifted it slowly to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours as he left a lingering kiss against your skin. You blinked, and he gently lowered your hand back down, but he didn’t let go. “Let’s go make some friends, wife.”
~ ~ ~
The ball was more akin to a menagerie.
Azriel did not let his hand leave your waist as the two of you weaved through a sea of bodies, an eclectic and seemingly chaotic collection of faeries littering the ballroom floor. There were humans sprinkled throughout too, and Azriel’s chest tightened at the emptiness behind their gazes. The music that filled the room seemed slow and upbeat all at once, a tempo that left his heart beating fast in his chest.
He did not like this at all.
His hand tightened on your waist, and his lips brushed the shell of your ear as he leaned down to say, “Do not leave my side.”
Of course, you glared at him. “I can take care of myself.”
Azriel spun you so you were chest to chest, both of his hands now on your waist as your hands pressed against his chest. He swayed the two of you to the slightly off-beat music that made his skin crawl. His cheek brushed against yours as he leaned down again to speak to you quietly. “For all intents and purposes tonight, you are my wife.” He felt your breath fan out in a warm buff against his neck, and he brought one of his hands up to lace his fingers with yours, the two of you dancing slowly amongst the crowd. “Assume we are being watched.”
You nodded slightly, acquiescing as you leaned into him. “Why do I feel more like an exhibit than a guest?” you murmured.
And that was exactly how Azriel would describe it. The skin on the back of his neck prickled as if there were eyes on him from every direction, but his shadows had scattered to every corner of the room, and there was no one watching the two of you. No one that could be seen.
“There’s too many people here,” he said, eyes scouring the crowded floor. “And none of them seem particularly…noble.” It was not an insult, but no one here was dressed in finery that would be expected at a royal ball. He almost felt like the two of you were overdressed.
There were as many lesser fae as there were high fae, and that made him nervous—for them. He could not imagine that the Mortal Queens had decided to provide charity to the oppressed fae of Pyrthian, and if Koschei had any involvement in this gathering, he hated to think about why these people were gathered here. He also could not ignore that, technically, the two of you were lesser fae as well.
Kier had said the invitation was for his court nobles, who would have been High Fae, but Azriel trusted Kier as far as he could throw him, even with Rhys rifling through his mind.
“Do you think it’s a trap?” you murmured quietly in his ear.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, and he hated feeling unsteady. He hated how little information he had been able to collect from Koschei and the Mortal Queens, and how difficult it had been to glean any information from the shadows of the Continent. “No one knows who we are,” he said. “But this is not the crowd I anticipated.”
You went stiff in his arms. He ducked his head to meet your gaze, but your eyes remained glued over his shoulder. He squeezed your waist, pulling your gaze to him. “There are two Illyrians here,” you said quietly.
Azriel blinked. His grip tightened on your hand, and he imperceptibly shifted you closer to his body. “We anticipated this,” he murmured. It didn’t stop the rage from coursing through his veins.
It also meant that Koschei was almost definitely acting as a puppeteer for the Mortal Queens, either knowingly or unknowingly to them. That was expected, though, and that wasn’t why you and him were there. You were there to collect information, to find out who else might be involved. He had anticipated nobility from across courts, though, not a consortium of lesser fae.
“Az,” you said quietly, and he almost reminded you not to say his name, but then you shifted the two of you just enough so that he could see the Illyrians. He recognized them. They were from Windhaven. He was fairly certain one was a male you had spat at just weeks ago.
“They won’t recognize us,” he assured, though even he did not really believe his words. He could still see the sheen of the glamour Rhys had cast around your face, and he could feel the warmth of his on his skin, but it did nothing to hide the fact that you were Illyrians, and if they got close enough, they could recognize your scents. You had likely made an impression.
You bit your lip, your eyes shifting around the ballroom, but your gaze always lingered on them. “Look who they are speaking with.”
Azriel glanced again, careful not to stare. He sucked in a breath as a faerie moved to reveal the High Fae the Illyrians were standing next to. “Autumn Court soldiers.”
“And nobility,” you added. “That’s the first noble I’ve seen.”
“They could be under a thrall,” he said.
You shook your head, forcing your gaze away from the males. Your eyes were sharp when they met his gaze. “No,” you said. “They’re perfectly lucid.” A human bumped into you from behind, sending you careening into Azriel. He steadied you easily, even as you glared at the woman that stumbled away without an apology. “I’m not sure the same can be said of the humans,” you grumbled.
“They might be drunk on faerie wine.”
Your nose scrunched up in distaste. “These Mortal Queens are fools.”
“They could also be in a thrall,” he argued half-heartedly.
“Briallyn wasn’t.”
“No,” he agreed quietly.
“We need to split up,” you said.
Azriel did not agree. His grip on your waist tightened, and you cast a withering glare toward him. “No,” he said.
Your eyes narrowed, and you leaned in close. You hand trailed from his chest to the back of his neck, your nails grazing his hair at the nape of his neck. Your lips brushed the column of his throat as you murmured back, “Yes.”
He knew you were playing into your role. He knew the two of you very well could not argue in the middle of the ballroom, no matter how crowded. He knew you likely felt the same invisible eyes on your back that he did. It did not stop the rush of desire that ran through his veins or the goosebumps that pebbled his skin.
He swallowed hard. Then he tilted his head so his lips grazed your ear. “I do not think that is wise.”
“We are not doing this again,” you argued, your tone a touch harsher. “I can take care of myself, Azriel.” His jaw clenched, and he knew you were right. He hated himself for letting his own selfish fears dictate his decisions, and for trying to dictate yours.
Your eyes were soft when you pulled back to look at him, though. “There are too many people here for us to just stand here and dance in the middle of the floor.”
He was grateful in that moment that Rhys’s glamour did not hide you from him. You were stunning. Beautifully sharp in all the right places, power coursing through your veins and conviction shining in your eyes. You were more than capable. He had never doubted that. He just felt like he was dying every time you were in danger, and he could not fathom what it might feel like if something happened to you.
“Okay,” he whispered. He hated the ripple of shock on your face, but he loved the small smirk that graced your lips.
Azriel could not help himself.
He leaned down, his lips a hairs breadth away from yours as he paused for just a second, then he pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth. Your breath hitched as he pulled back, but he didn’t let either of your wallow in your complicated emotions. “Don’t wander far, wife,” he said, voice cool and detached, loud enough for those around you to hear.
Your eyes narrowed, but you bowed your head slightly, stepping away from Azriel. He forced himself to drop your hand, and he watched you until you disappeared in the throng of faeries.
content warnings: alcohol intoxication, vomiting (brief, from the alcohol), reader has some possessive thoughts sue her, some grinding?, language, more angst and yearning I'm sorryyy
word count: 9.6k
synopsis: Azriel was always meant to be yours.
trope: childhood friends to lovers
part 1 ~ part 2
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
“Let me guess,” a low and familiar voice murmured into your ear. You fumbled with the jewel crested knife, nearly slicing your palm in your attempt to catch it. “Not flashy enough?”
You cast a sheepish smile to the merchant glowering at you behind the table before carefully setting the knife down. You twisted around to glare at Azriel, whose eyes danced with mischief. “It’s not for me, you ass,” you grumbled, stepping away from the table to continue weaving through the merchant stalls.
Azriel easily fell into step beside you. “Oh, I know,” he said. “You have a habit of gift shopping at the last minute.”
You merely cast him a sideways glance, knowing you had no defense. You half-heartedly examined a pair of leather gloves on another table, rubbing the fabric between your fingers before placing it back down. Really, how could you find a unique gift for a male that you had spent centuries of birthdays with?
“So, what are you thinking?” Azriel asked, walking beside you as you perused the tables.
You shrugged. “What did you get him?”
Azriel’s silence made you glance up, your eyes narrowing as Azriel toyed with a pair of gloves in a rotten shade of chartreuse. You forced out a disbelieving laugh, indignation licking at your spine. “You have to be kidding me,” you said. Azriel’s ministrations over the fabric paused. “You ignored me for four days, and now you want my help?”
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” he said quietly, still pretending to look at the gloves that neither of you would be buying.
“I have not seen your face since you dropped me on the terrace and then vanished into the night.”
“I did not vanish,” he argued, but his voice wavered. He finally met your eyes, and the wariness in his gaze only made you more exasperated.
You had spent the last four days torturing yourself with all of the possible reasons Azriel had disappeared. You had agonized over the very real possibility that your brief moment of foolishness in Windhaven had sent him right into the arms of his mate—because that was exactly where he should be.
You had nearly kissed him, and you knew he knew. He was the spymaster, for fuck’s sake. He was fluent in the art of body language. He knew you were about to kiss him in the middle of the kitchen of your pseudo-childhood home, and he pulled away from you. He pulled away, then ferried the two of you off to Velaris, and he disappeared. For four days.
Until now.
Because he wanted help buying Cassian’s birthday gift.
The slimy mixture of mortification, humiliation, and jealousy turned your stomach sour and your heart cold as you stared at the male across from you. Maybe it was hypocritical to be mad at him for the very thing you had done to him not long ago, but it felt justifiable at the time. It still did. You were acting out of self-preservation. Azriel—well you didn’t know what Azriel was doing, actually, which made it all the more infuriating.
“Will either of you be buying something today?” the female manning the merchant table asked pointedly, breaking you from your stupor.
You smiled at the female, fighting a wince at the irritation in her gaze. “Sorry, not today. Thank you for your time.” She pursed her lips in disapproval, and you hurried to add, “Your work is lovely.”
Azriel sent his own apologetic glance toward the female as he laid down the unfortunately ugly gloves, then he stepped around the table to grab you by your elbow and guide you away. You pulled away from his touch as soon as you were away from the disgruntled merchant, glaring at him. His hand fell to his side, curling into a fist. “We always buy Cassian a gift together,” he said.
“Not always.”
“Fine, for the last decade.”
“Well,” you said, voice tight, “things are different.”
Azriel reached for you again, pulling you to an abrupt stop in the middle of the market. “What does that mean?”
Sometimes you felt like you were losing your mind. You had been in love with him for over five centuries. You didn’t know it was love for that long—you didn’t really even let yourself consider it until much, much later—but it didn’t change the fact that it was love.
You had spent every night for the last couple of months replaying every memory you had with Azriel, trying to pinpoint when things changed for you. When did you fall for the male that was your closest friend? The soul-crushing truth was that there never was a change, there was never a shift that sent you toppling, because you loved him from the very beginning.
And it did not make sense to you how he could not feel even a fraction of what you felt for him, when you had lived through it all together.
Anger flared deep in your chest, smoking out the words tumbling around inside you before you could think them through. “Because you have a mate,” you snapped. “You should give Cassian a gift from you and your mate.”
Azriel might have tried to say something, but you didn’t stop. “Is that where you disappeared to? To be with her?” you asked, the center of your chest fracturing outward with every word. “Will she be there tomorrow? At Rita’s?”
The ache in your chest was somehow worse than it had ever been, so many clashing sources of heartbreak melding together into one messy and convoluted vat of poison. It was unfair. You should be able to shop with your friend for your other friend’s birthday without having an existential crisis over it, but this was too much. It was all just too much.
Azriel, to his credit, looked bewildered. “What are you talking about?”
Sometimes his oblivion to the heartache he had caused you, unintentionally or not, hurt worse than anything else.
“You have to be fucking kidding me—”
His hands suddenly grabbed your shoulders, his grip firm and unrelenting as his shadows swallowed the two of you whole. As soon as they deposited you on a familiar outcropping of the mountains overlooking the city, you shoved away from him, your fury building irrationally fast.
“Don’t do that,” you gritted through your teeth.
Azriel looked like he was at a loss. “I want to talk to you without the whole of the Velaris market square watching us.”
You stared at him, your arms falling to your sides. “You want to talk to me.”
“Yes!” he exclaimed, running a hand through his hair. “I want to talk to you.” His hand fell to his side, his wings drooping slightly behind him. “I don’t understand what is happening,” he said, and the quiet desolation in his voice made your heart twinge, despite everything.
“What do you mean?” you murmured, looking down at your boots.
“Don’t do that,” he snapped, his eyes wild with more emotion than he usually ever showed. Then his voice softened as he said, “Please. Please just—” He shook his head. “Things have been different,” he finally said, and all you could do was stare at him as your heart thundered against your chest, your mind racing to find a way to protect yourself from any more heartache. “Since that night at Rita’s, things have been different.”
You couldn’t stop the scoff that flew from your lips, though regret sliced through your chest at the wounded look on Azriel’s face. His throat bobbed as he stared off into the forest behind you. “Y/N,” he rasped, “I don’t know what I said.” He looked at you, and Mother, his eyes were glossy. “I don’t know what I did that night. I—I know I told you I have a mate,” he hurried to add, and the words seemed to feel like sandpaper against his throat. “I know that, but my shadows refuse to tell me anything else and, I just, I’m sorry if I said or did something—”
“You did nothing wrong, Azriel,” you cut him off quietly. As angry and hurt as you were, as much as you wished he had done something you could rationally hate him for just so it might dull some of this pain, you could not let him go on thinking he had done something terrible—not when all he had really done was find something everyone could only hope for. “You—” You swallowed hard, shoulders deflating as you forced the words out of your mouth. “You told me you found your mate, and you said nothing but lovely things about her.”
He looked like he didn’t believe you.
“I promise,” you said softly. “You had fun at Rita’s, and I helped you home, and you told your friend about something wonderful. That’s all.”
He stared at you for a moment, blinking slowly. Silence wrapped around you like a stiff blanket, scratching at your skin with every passing second. The sunlight beating down on your face was unseasonably warm. It felt wrong to be illuminated so brightly while Azriel grappled to tear apart the invisible walls you had desperately built between you. There was nowhere to hide.
Azriel stepped closer, and you hated the small hitch in your breath. You hated the way he noticed, and you hated that his steps faltered when he heard. You hated that there were mere feet between you, and he still felt worlds away.
“Why didn’t you visit my mother with me?”
Your eyes snapped to his, guilt sliding down your throat. “I—”
“And don’t lie to me,” Azriel cut you off, near pleading.
And what could you really say? That you were worried his mother would see your broken heart the second she set eyes on you? That you were worried you would have to endure his loving confessions about his long-awaited mate to his mother—his mother you loved and that you had known for centuries? That jealousy so potent and toxic would eat you alive and ruin anything that might still be salvageable of your friendship?
“I couldn’t.”
It wasn’t an answer. It didn’t explain anything, but it was the only thing you could say that was not a lie, and that was not as baring as the truth.
Azriel shook his head, looking up at the sky. “You know,” he said quietly, “I thought maybe things were okay, when you asked me to go to Windhaven.”
Your pulse pounded in your ears, thinking about how there was never any question of who would go with you to Windhaven. You were selfish, and there was never anyone else that could have gone with you to that camp.
“And when you came to me that night,” he continued, his eyes slowly falling back to yours. He looked lost, and you hated it. He huffed out a sad laugh. “I was actually grateful that we were there. That things felt normal.” His nose twitched, and his shadows seemed to spread outward in agitation. “Then you were pissed at me again.”
You shook your head slowly. “It wasn’t you I was angry with,” you said quietly. “Not really.”
Azriel looked at you incredulously.
You looked up to the sky. “Fine,” you admitted. “I was pissed at you for taking over.” You were pissed that he felt the need, that he acted like it was his duty, to protect you from some self-righteous male.
You were not his responsibility.
“I did not take over.” Azriel moved toward you, his boots stopping mere inches from yours, and you had to look up slightly to meet his eyes. “You can be pissed at me all you want, Y/N, I don’t care. No one will speak to you that way and get away with it.”
“I do not need—”
“I am always going to protect you!” His hands came up to cup your face, his gentle touch a startling contrast to the ferocity of his words. You stared at him wide eyed, his own gaze searching yours. “I told you that. You know that,” his voice softened exponentially, but his words were spoken with fervor. “I don’t care how angry you are. I don’t care if it pisses you off. I don’t care. I’m sorry—” He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling deep before letting it out slowly. “You are the most important person in my life,” he said softly. Your eyes burned. “I will always protect you with my life.”
Your hand came up to curl around one of his that was still cradling your cheek. Your mind was racing with his words. It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. A foolish, hopeful part of you wanted to consider that maybe—maybe he did feel the same. Maybe—
But you could not forget the terrible reality that he had a mate.
You loved him so much. It was intertwined with every fiber of your being and every thread of it throbbed with painful longing and hope that it might finally be recognized. Every thread was fraying with dread that it might never be tied off, that this love might be unmoored forever until you completely unraveled.
“Sweetheart,” Azriel murmured, and you closed your eyes as his thumb grazed the top of your cheek. “You’re shaking.”
Your eyes flew open, and you suddenly pulled away, his touch falling away from your face abruptly.
“Y/N—”
“I’m fine.”
You were not fine.
You had to get out of there.
“Wait, Y/N—”
You shook your head, your wings flaring out before you really even thought about flying. “I have to get Cassian a gift,” you muttered. Then you took off into the sky, leaving Azriel and your heart behind.
You shook off the tendril of shadow that clung to your wrist.
~ ~ ~
“And explain to me, Rhysand, why I should take this young female into my court?”
Your heart pounded in your chest as you fought against the urge to lean against Azriel. Your muscles trembled from the weight of your exhaustion and dread that this disillusioned plan would all collapse around you at any moment. You could not appear weak in front of the High Lord, not if you wanted this plan to work.
You could stand on your own two feet.
Azriel’s pinky grazed the back of your hand, a gentle touch that could easily be an accident, but then his wing bumped into yours, and you knew Azriel was far too careful for accidental touches. You let yourself breathe in deep, let the comforting and familiar scent of Azriel wash over you as Rhysand argued with his father.
Rhysand’s mother stood a step back from him, but still in front of you and Az, watching their exchange with pursed lips. Rhysand and his father had been talking in circles, their voices growing louder and the room growing darker with every passing minute.
“I think that’s enough,” Rhysand’s mother cut in, without an ounce of fear in her voice.
Rhysand and his father both went silent. Then his father’s eyes narrowed. “The boy must learn how to advocate for himself, Melina—”
“And he has, my Lord,” she agreed placatingly. She stepped closer, and Rhys fell back to stand beside you. “But this is ultimately my request of you. She is Rhysand’s friend, yes.” She glanced back at you with so much warmth and pity it made your stomach twist. “But she has no one. She is of no use in Illyria, no one who cares for her.”
Your eyes burned as her words lodged in your chest, the truth wrapped around them like barbed wire. Azriel stepped closer to you, his arm now nearly pressed against yours. The High Lord’s eyes fell to the two of you, and maybe you should have stepped away, maybe you should have moved closer to Rhys, but the thought of leaving Azriel made your head spin. So you stayed in place, with your arm pressed against Azriel’s, and his shadows licking against the back of your neck and hands.
“No one but us,” she continued, her voice softening, and it took everything in you to keep your tears at bay. “She is not safe in Illyria. Let her stay in the House of Wind. Let her work for me. I need the help.”
The High Lord was quiet for far too long. You desperately wanted to grab Azriel’s hand, but you didn't move. Instead, you waited, the four of you silent as you prayed to the Mother the High Lord agreed.
“Alright,” he said. “She can stay.” You were going to throw up. “But you are mine.”
He wasn’t looking at you. Your eyes slowly followed his gaze, slowly looking at the male standing still beside you.
“Father—” Rhysand started to protest, taking one step forward, but the High Lord cut him off.
“That’s my condition. You want her to stay here? Fine. She can stay. But so does he.”
“He still has to pass the Blood Rite,” Rhys argued.
“Fine,” the High Lord agreed. “You will finish your training, complete the Blood Rite in Spring, and then you will come work for me, Shadowsinger.”
This was insane. Azriel couldn’t sign his life away to the High Lord just because you asked for help.
“But father—”
“Okay.” Azriel stepped forward, his warmth vanishing from your side. “I agree, on one condition.”
“Azriel—” you and Rhysand both spoke at the same time. He glared at both of you.
The High Lord grinned. “In addition to her sanctuary here, you mean?”
You hated that he had yet to refer to you by your name, but you knew that, really, it was inconsequential compared to what your fate would be in Illyria.
“Yes,” Azriel said.
He was so large, standing in front of you. His leathers were stretched around muscles that lined his body, and his wings were wide behind his back that was ramrod straight, his head held high as he met his High Lord’s eye.
You weren’t children any more.
The High Lord waved his hand at Azriel. “Go on.”
“Y/N keeps her wings.”
You stopped breathing.
The High Lord raised his brows, but said nothing.
“Y/N stays here and works for the Lady of Night, and she keeps her wings.” He spared a brief glance at you, and when his eyes met yours, you finally released the breath trapped in your chest. “And I will work for you.”
An inexplicable warmth washed over you, working outward from the center of your chest, thawing the icy terror that you had been trapped in for the last 48 hours, even as you now feared for Azriel. You worried it was selfish to feel such relief when Azriel was practically signing his life away for you.
The High Lord smiled. “I accept.”
~ ~ ~
“We need to talk.”
You glanced at the male behind you, shaking your head as you focused on the training bag in front of you. You landed another punch, a heavy thud reverberating through the room. “Not now, Cassian.”
You heard his steps draw closer as you continued throwing punches, relishing in the dull ache blooming around your knuckles. The sun was just starting to rise, but you had been here for hours.
Cassian caught your fist before you could land the next punch, his face looking unimpressed. “Yes, now.”
You yanked your hand away, scowling at him as you shook your hand out. “What do you want?”
He raised his brows, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes. “Happy Birthday, Cassian. You're my dearest friend, Cassian. I’m so happy to celebrate another year of life with you, Cassian—”
You grabbed his shoulder quickly, your eyes wide. “I’m sorry. Mother—Cassian—”
Cassian smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s okay, Y/N.” He pushed gently at your shoulder, knocking your hand away from his own. “I’m just messing with you.”
“Still,” you murmured, shame making your face warm. You looked down to start unwrapping the cloth around your hands, then you looked back up at him sheepishly. “Happy Birthday.”
He grinned, tugging you into his side. “Thank you.” Then he turned you toward the terrace, guiding you to lean against the cool stone railing not yet warmed by the morning sun. “Now, we need to talk.”
You fought the urge to roll your eyes. “Fine. What is it?”
He leaned forward on his elbows, looking out over the city before glancing at you. “What’s going on with you and Az?”
You sniffed, rubbing at your nose as you looked out at the city, mirroring his position. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said pointedly, shifting his body so he faced you. “Why are things so damn awkward?”
Your face was hot now, and you wished you could pass it off as the sunlight hitting your cheeks. “They’re not,” you lied, terribly.
Cassian scoffed. “Y/N,” he said, unimpressed. You met his eyes warily. His eyes narrowed. “First, you avoided him for weeks. Then, there was the lovely dinner from Hell—”
Gods.
“—then you refused to visit his Mother—”
“He told you about that?” you interrupted, that same shame from when Azriel confronted you yesterday curdling in your stomach.
Cassian paused, seeming to think over his words before just saying, “Yes.” Then he kept going, “Then there was Windhaven, which we will also be talking about, by the way. Then he avoided you for days—”
So he was avoiding you.
“Then he apparently saw you yesterday, but walked into Rhys’s office like a storm cloud, and has been in a foul mood since.” He studied you quietly, and you knew he was leaving out every ounce of unbearable tension and awkwardness that had infused every minute between the events he laid in front of you. “So tell me,” he said, voice softening, “what happened?”
You could probably tell Cassian. You could probably cry, right now, in front of him on this terrace—on his birthday, no less—and he would not hesitate to try to pick up your broken pieces and find a way to glue them back together. He wouldn’t judge you.
But you felt too fragile to do that right now, and he deserved better than that on his birthday.
But he also deserved something, and maybe it would be nice to hand off just a piece of the weight crushing your soul.
“Do you know who his mate is?” you asked quietly, your voice as small as you felt.
Cassian was quiet for so long that you turned to look at him, and when you saw the painful understanding in his eyes you thought you might actually cry. “He hasn’t told me,” is what he finally says, looking back out over the city.
You chuckled weakly. “That’s not a no.”
His lips twitched. “It’s not a yes.”
“Cassian,” you said, staring at the side of his face until his eyes met yours again.
He sighed, leaning heavily against the balcony now. “I don’t know, no.”
Oh.
You bit your lip, not sure what you were expecting. You weren’t sure what you even wanted to hear. Maybe that he did know, and he hated her? Maybe that she was a terrible match and he didn’t know what the Mother was thinking?
You didn’t know.
“Nothing makes sense, if I’m honest with you,” Cassian said.
“What do you mean?”
He glanced at you. “I mean Azriel and his mate.” He tossed his hand toward you haphazardly, as if that cleared anything up.
“What?”
“I didn’t know he told you he found his mate.”
You blinked. You felt like he was talking in circles.
“Cassian,” you said, voice flat and tired. “We were all at that dinner.”
Cassian shook his head. “I mean before that.”
You swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah, well,” you said, “he did.”
His mouth twisted in thought. “Right. Surprising.”
“Cassian, what does this have to do with anything?”
He shrugged. “How long ago did he tell you?”
You threw your arms out. “I don’t know!” You did know. “A couple months ago? After Rita’s.”
He hummed. “Which is when things started to get tense—”
“Cassian,” you cut him off, your heart starting to race. “I’m not in the mood for this.”
Cassian immediately sobered, his expression turning serious. “Azriel found his mate over a year ago.”
You went cold. His words practically shoved you outside of your body, and you were floating just a few inches away from where you stood in front of him, grappling to reorient your already fractured reality to his words. “What?” you rasped.
Cassian shrugged, as if this was an entirely inconsequential detail. “He told me and Rhys a little over a year ago.”
You blinked. “So this entire time he—”
Cassian killed your words with a hard stare. “He what, Y/N?”
“I had no idea,” you said quietly. You had no idea things had changed so much sooner than you were even aware.
Yet they hadn’t, had they? Azriel never acted any different toward you. You were the one that made everything turn sour.
You frowned. “Over a year ago…we were at war,” you said slowly.
Cassian didn’t say anything.
“I thought he must have met her in Velaris, but—” You were going to be sick. “Oh gods, is it Elain?”
Cassian whipped his head to you. “What?” he asked. “Are you insane? Elain is mated to Lucien.”
You shook your head, all logic having been replaced with sick terror. “Mor then—”
“Y/N, for fuck’s sake,” Cassian said, cutting you off quickly. “It’s not Elain, and it’s not Mor.”
“You said you didn’t know—”
“Well I know it’s not them.”
“But—”
“I don’t know where or when he met her,” he said. “He didn’t tell us anything. He just…told us he had a mate. We were pestering him and he snapped, and then made us swear not to say a word because she didn’t know. That’s all, but I’m also not a fool.”
You scowled, recognizing his insinuation that you were a fool.
You were also tired of this conversation, and you were tired of the emotional whiplash. After a long beat of silence, you said, “Is it Nesta?”
Cassian growled, his eyes flashing with brief rage. You smiled, relieved that your jab landed successfully. His nostrils flared. “Enough.”
You rolled your eyes, leaning forward on the balcony again, letting your head droop. The two of you stood in silence for a while, the sun slowly rising higher in the sky as the sounds of the city slowly waking up washed over you.
Velaris had always felt like home.
Even that first night you crossed the city’s borders, clinging to Rhys and Azriel in mild terror, something settled inside you as soon as you were within the city’s limits. The air was cleaner. Fresh. It was still just as cold as Illyria, but it didn’t have that bitter tang that licked at your skin when you crossed the camp’s borders.
The air smelled like salt and jasmine. It was so unlike the stale and rotten air that wafted through Windhaven that, at the time, you could hardly fathom that a whole city full of faeries lived here. Now you were one of them.
“I heard about Windhaven.”
You let out a long breath, your shoulders falling. You were tired. “Cassian,” you said, a warning, but he shook his head.
“I’m done talking about Az.”
You rolled your lip between your teeth and looked out over the city, taking in the soft and joyful life that pulsed through the streets. The stark contrast between here and an Illyrian camp was sometimes so jarring it made your bones ache. “Yeah,” you said quietly, not sure what else to say.
He placed a hand on your shoulder, squeezing once. “You saved that girl.”
You let out a bitter laugh, refusing to meet his eyes. “Right,” you said, “or I just made it worse for her after we left.”
“You didn’t.”
His words held so much certainty, you couldn’t help but turn to meet his gaze. Cassian wasn’t necessarily one for platitudes, but how could he know that for sure? “What?”
“You didn’t make things worse,” he said. “You saved her wings.”
“But how—”
“I’ve been to Windhaven every day since your return,” he explained, his voice unusually soft. Your eyes burned as he stared back at you with overwhelming sincerity. “I’m headed there after this. No one will touch her wings. They all know what will happen if anything happens to that girl—oh.”
You threw yourself into Cassian before he could finish his sentence, your arms circling him in a vice. He let out a soft chuckle before he quickly returned the hug, one hand coming up to rest on the back of your head. “This is much nicer than, What do you want, Cassian? Not now, Cassian—”
You squeezed him harder. “Shut up.”
~ ~ ~
“I want to teach you how to fight.”
You barely glanced at Azriel as you slid another book back onto the shelf. “Me?” you asked, disbelieving.
Azriel followed behind you as you pushed the shelving cart further down the aisle. “Yes.”
“Why?” you asked, pointedly sliding another book back into place.
Why me? Is what you didn’t say. I’m a scholar. I’m the High Lady’s right-hand. I’m not a warrior.
“Why not?”
You ignored him, continuing on with your shelving duties—which, really, were not yours, but there was also no one else willing to voluntarily work in the library. At least, no one that the High Lord had authorized. You liked being here anyway, and the few librarians scattered throughout didn’t mind.
“You are more than capable.”
You hummed. “Yes,” you agreed. “Doesn’t mean I want to.”
Suddenly Azriel’s hand was on your wrist, and he had you twisted around so that your chest was pinned to the book shelf. His point was clearly made, but still he didn’t move away. His body was pressed against yours, his chest grazing the base of your wings with every inhale.
His lips might have briefly brushed the shell of your ear before he said, “I’m serious, Y/N.” His grip on you relaxed, letting go of your arm that he had pinned behind your back, but he didn’t move away. “War is coming.” Which sounded very serious, but all you could think about was how his body was pressed against yours, and his breath was warm against your ear. Goosebumps pebbled along your arms.
Azriel pulled away, and you had to blink yourself back to reality before you slowly turned around to face him.
Your face was warm. Azriel seemed unaffected—serious and stoic as always.
“This city is meant to be impenetrable, I know, but—” He cut himself off, looking away.
“You’re worried,” you said quietly.
He nodded. His shadows slowly curled around your ankles, one gliding up your leg to then curl around your wrist. “If we go to war,” he said, voice hushed, “I won’t be here.”
Your stomach twisted. It had been years since you moved to Velaris, and years since Azriel had become the High Lord’s spy. Your time with Azriel was fleeting as it was. Stolen moments peppered over the years whenever he could slip away, but he has always been around. Sometimes months passed without talking to him, but you knew deep in your bones that if Azriel was worried about this war, it would happen, and he would be gone much longer than a couple of months.
“I just want to know that you’re safe,” he continued, as if he thought he still had to convince you. “I know it might be complicated for you,” he said slowly, gently, as if he was coaxing a timid animal. “Training, I mean. After everything that happened in Windhaven. But it would just be me, and—”
“That was a test,” you cut him off, realization washing over you.
Azriel’s mouth shut, his eyes wide.
“That—” You gestured between him and the bookshelf behind you. “You—you were seeing how I would react?”
Azriel looked only mildly guilty. “Yes.”
Irritation flared in your gut. He was right, of course. You had never spoken about why you never trained. You had never even told him outright that you didn’t want to, but the offer had always been there, unspoken, waiting quietly, and you never took it. Now Azriel was forcing you to confront it, and he knew fully well why you might be hesitant to let someone put their hands on you.
But Azriel had just pinned you to a shelf with his entire body, and not even a flicker of fear arose inside you. Fear was the last thing you felt.
“I’m sorry,” Azriel eventually said. You knew he meant it, but you also knew he didn’t regret it.
“No,” you said, biting the inside of your cheek once as you contemplated his words. “You made your point. And you’re right.”
Azriel’s gaze was a mix of sympathy and worry. “I’m sorry—” he started to say again.
“I want to know how to fight,” you cut him off. His shoulders seemed to visibly relax at the words, and your stomach fluttered at the flash of pride you might have seen in his eyes. You weren’t doing this for him, though. You needed to be able to defend yourself. It was unwise as it was that you had gone this long in the House of Wind without learning.
“But I also want to know how to hide,” you said, and his eyes glinted with excitement. You couldn’t help but grin when you added, “Like a spy.”
~ ~ ~
Your steps faltered as soon as you felt his presence. Your blade wobbled as it came down, losing its clean momentum from your misplaced footing. You growled in frustration, slashing the blade through the air once more before spinning around.
Azriel was standing there in the shadows, watching you quietly.
“What are you doing here, Azriel?”
He walked closer, the moonlight illuminating his face as he stepped into the clearing. He studied you for a moment, his eyes lingering on the sword in your hand. “You’re late for Rita’s.”
You glanced at the sky, your heart dropping when you realized just how far the moon had traveled. You had meant to leave at sunset. “Fuck,” you cursed. Your grip tightened on your sword as you ran a hand through your hair, cursing again when your fingers got caught.
“It’s okay,” Azriel said, voice soft. He moved closer to gently guide your hand away from your face, then smoothed a hand over your hair. He smiled softly when he pulled his hand away, almost hesitant. “Cassian won’t mind.”
You stared at him, taking in the way the moonlight illuminated the hazel of his eyes and glinted off the inky strands of hair that fell over his forehead. He was wearing a black button-up that clung to his body perfectly, molding the contour of his muscles with perfect definition.
You blinked, then shook your head. “It’s not okay,” you grumbled, taking a step back.
Cassian had just spent the morning of his birthday comforting you, letting you lean on him. The least you could do is show up to his birthday party.
“Y/N,” Azriel said, “It’s okay. They were only just leaving the River House when I left to find you. I told them I was picking you up.”
You frowned. “How did you know where I was?”
Azriel’s lips twitched, like the question amused him. “You weren’t hard to find.”
You tried to argue, wanting to point out that you were in a random clearing in the mountains, but Azriel silenced you when he stepped closer again. “You were sloppy,” he said, nodding toward the sword.
“I’m aware,” you snapped.
“You’re fighting angry.”
“I know, Az,” you groaned. “I don’t need the lecture right now.”
“I’m not trying to lecture you,” he said gently. He stepped even closer, the heat from his body pressing against your skin. “Lift the sword.”
“We’re late,” you warned.
“So what’s a few more minutes? Lift it.” He circled around you, moving so that he stood at your back. You waited a moment, but eventually lifted the sword again.
“Good,” he murmured. He was crowding your space now, his body brushing against yours. You could hardly breathe. “Lower your wings for me?” he asked softly, a low hum that reverberated through your body.
Your wings lowered.
Azriel’s arm covered yours, his hand enclosing yours that held the hilt of the sword. “Right now,” he said, practically talking directly into your ear. “You’re angry, and it’s making your movements messy, because that anger is radiating in every direction. Your body doesn’t know what to do with it.”
You swallowed hard, your breaths heavy as you let the truth in his words wash over you. You were angry. You had been angry for months, and sometimes it felt so loud and potent that it might just consume you. It felt like there was nowhere for it to go.
“I always taught you not to fight angry—but, really, that’s shit advice,” he said.
You couldn’t help but smile.
“You care too much to not get angry when you’re fighting,” he continued. You weren’t sure if you should be insulted, but then he said, “That’s not a bad thing, Y/N. Just channel it. Let that anger stabilize you.”
You sucked in a sharp breath when his other hand grazed the membrane of your wing, your body going still when that hand settled on your hip.
“I’m sorry,” Azriel said quietly, his body also going still.
Your heart was beating frantically in your chest, and you were sure he could hear it, but you nodded your head anyway. “It’s okay,” you told him breathlessly.
A beat of silence passed, then Azriel’s hand slid a little closer to your front, his fingers grazing your abdomen. “Direct that anger to your core,” he murmured. His tone had permanently dropped, a low lull in the delicate silence around you. His hand slid back to your hip, then pushed you to step forward with him. “Let that anger guide your movements. Don’t let it force them.”
The two of you stepped back, and his chest was flush with your back. “Now swing. Let your anger extend into your blade. Keep it sharp and defined.”
You closed your eyes for just a moment, taking a deep and steadying breath as you gripped the anger swirling through you. You imagined it as an anchor, locking your mind and body as one. You imagined it as sharp as the blade in your hand. You imagined it washing over your muscles, powering the force of your movements. You swung the blade in one of the most complicated moves you knew, the angles between movements sharp and defined with an elegance you had been reaching for all night.
You grinned as you finished, relief you had been desperate for settling over you. Azriel’s touch fell away, and you turned around to meet his eyes.
He was smiling too. “Now we can go to the party.”
Your grin only widened. “Thank you.”
Azriel’s smile then wavered, his expression suddenly sobering. “Y/N,” he said, “about yesterday—”
“Az—”
“I’m sorry.”
You stared at him. “You’re sorry? Az, you did nothing—”
“I did nothing wrong, so you’ve said,” he brushed you off. “But something is upsetting you,” he went on, voice gentle again. “And Windhaven—it was hard. I know that. And I wasn’t there for you when we got back, and so I’m sorry for that.”
You looked away, eyes falling to your boots, your toes mere inches away from Azriel’s. You shrugged a little, then finally met his eyes again. “I haven’t really been there for you that last couple of months,” you admitted quietly. “So I guess we’re even. Or, really, I still have much to make up—”
“We don’t do that,” Azriel interrupted softly.
“Do what?”
“Keep score,” he said. You felt warm all over as you stood under his gaze, relishing in the comfort of this male you had known and loved your entire life. Just his presence, without worrying about mates or relationships or boundaries that may or may not exist for the first time in months, was enough to quell the fury and despair that had been warring inside your soul for weeks.
You nodded, knowing he was right.
“Whenever you’re ready to talk about whatever is bothering you, I’ll be here to listen,” he promised. “But for tonight,” he said, a smile slowly stretching across his face again, “Let’s have fun and celebrate our friend.”
Your own smile didn’t quite reach your eyes as you half-heartedly joked, “Will you be getting as drunk as our last night at Rita’s?”
Azriel grabbed your hand, jostling it lightly between you before tugging you close again, his shadows already creeping in around you. “No,” he hummed, mirth in his eyes. “I think it’s your turn tonight.”
Your grin was real as you said, “I like the sound of that.”
~ ~ ~
You weren’t kidding when you told Azriel you liked his plan for tonight—specifically, you getting drunk.
He had taken you back to the House of Wind, and he waited for you to bathe and get dressed before taking you to Rita’s. You would like to think that his cheeks were tinged pink as he grabbed your waist because of you—because you were in a silken dress that shimmered in the moonlight and defined every curve of your body, and you felt good, for the first time in a while.
The two of you were silent as he pulled you in close by your hips, his chest lightly brushing yours before his shadows cocooned the two of you in their familiar embrace. Time always seemed to bend when you traveled through the shadows, warping around your body in a way that felt too fast and too slow all at once. The entire time your eyes were glued to his, his own gaze unwavering as he stared back.
You were in front of Rita’s before you could blink, and yet it felt like those seconds with Azriel’s hands on your body and his eyes stuck to yours had stretched into years. Your heart was racing again. It was becoming a problem.
You stepped back, breaking eye contact with an awkward cough. Your body felt far too warm in the chilled night air. Azriel’s hands fell away from your waist, and you took a second to smooth your hands over your dress, recentering yourself before walking into the crowded tavern.
Azriel watched you, and eventually you forced yourself to smile before meeting his gaze again. “Here we go,” you said with a grin that felt too tight on your face.
You didn’t wait for Azriel before you pushed through the door, the dim lighting and cacophony of music and voices disorienting at first. You scanned the room for your friends, and it wasn’t until Azriel placed a gentle hand on the small of your back and pointed toward a corner of the room that you found them.
He laced his fingers with yours before you could even take a step, guiding you through the sea of bodies. His skin was warm against yours, and you relished in the feeling of your hand in his. He pulled you closer to him when an especially tipsy faerie bumped into your shoulder, jostling the two of you.
Eventually you reached the booth everyone was crammed in, Cassian sitting on the end with a wide grin. You expected Azriel to drop your hand, but he only squeezed it tighter when the two of you stopped in front of the table. Your face was hot when Cassian’s gaze dragged up from your hands to your face.
His eyes were already glossy in the dim light, and empty glasses were scattered across the surface of the table. You hoped he kept his questions and observations to himself tonight.
He pushed up from the table, with Nesta stabilizing it frantically as he bumped the corner and glasses clattered together. Cassian didn’t notice, and he pulled you into him for a hug, effectively breaking Azriel’s hold on your hand. “You’re here!” Cassian cheered.
You laughed as your face squished awkwardly against his chest, his arm squeezing your waist on just the verge of too tight. “Happy Birthday, Cass,” you said again, even if you already saw him this morning. This morning felt forever ago anyway.
Cassian pulled back, his gaze set on the male behind you. He kept one arm around your waist before he reached for Azriel, tugging him into a clumsy hug that you were still held hostage in. The three of you were a mess of arms and wings, Azriel’s body half covering your own and Cassian held you both by one arm.
Azriel would deny it, but he was smiling as Cassian hugged him. Even if he didn’t wait long before extricating himself from the messy embrace. You managed to break away too, your hands squeezing Cassian’s forearms once before falling away. “I’ll have to give your gift tomorrow,” you told him.
Cassian’s brow furrowed. “Az already gave me—” His words died as his gaze flicked behind you, and your neck felt hot. Cassian’s smile faltered, but you could tell he fought to keep it on his face, even if the alcohol running through him had eroded his already thin filter. “I can’t wait,” he said.
Your smile was tight, and you were ready to escape the awkward tension that had fallen over you. You locked eyes with Mor on the end of the booth, relief washing over you when she stood up. She grabbed your hand, immediately dragging you toward the bar as she declared it was time for more drinks.
She dropped your hand once you reached the bar, her gaze sympathetic as you gathered your bearings. You didn’t hear what she ordered as you took in the crowd around you, the floor flooded with dancing bodies and loud music. Mor handed you a glass of blue liquid, and you didn’t bother asking what it was before you tossed it back.
Which might have been a mistake, because it was foul.
You gagged, clanking the glass down on the counter. “Mor, what the hell was that?”
She also gagged as she downed her own, her class clinking against yours as she sat it down. “Disgusting,” she said, wiping her mouth. Then her eyes glinted. “But effective.” She waved toward the bartender ordering another round of something that hopefully didn’t taste like acid.
She leaned against the bar while you waited, her gaze flitting up and down before settling back on your eyes. “I figured it was that kind of night.”
You leaned against the bar next to her, your arm brushing hers as someone bumped into you. “Yeah,” you said with a weak laugh. “You could say that.”
Mor glanced toward the table with your friends. You followed her gaze, and your heart skipped a beat when your eyes met Azriel’s, who had taken Mor’s seat at the booth. His shadows were mostly hidden behind his wings, but a few stray ones pulsed to a slow beat. You averted your gaze, your skin feeling even more flushed.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Mor asked, and you were fairly certain she knew more than you had ever told her, just like Cassian, and Nesta, and probably everyone else around you.
“Nope.”
The bartender brought your drinks, and Mor handed you another glass, this time with a pink liquid. “This one is better, I promise,” she said, then clinked her glass against yours. “Let’s get drunk.” Then she tossed the liquid back.
You grinned, following her lead, relieved when the liquid was smooth and sweet. “Let’s dance,” you said, grabbing her hand as you sat the glass down, the two of you giggling as you pushed into the sea of bodies.
It was hot. So many bodies brushed against yours, so many faeries overheating the room as you all moved to the music. Song after song drifted over you, and Mor came and went with drinks in hand more times than you could count. Your blood felt fuzzy, your entire body vibrating from the alcohol coursing through your veins and the electric buzz that permeated the air.
At some point Cassian and Nesta joined you, periodically dancing with you and Mor when they weren’t entirely absorbed with each other. Your head was light and hazy, and you almost forgot why you had felt so heavy before.
Then a hand grabbed your waist from behind, familiar scarred fingers curling around the curve of your hip. You leaned back, your body connecting with a warm chest you knew better than your own skin. Your skin was hot and flushed, tingling all over as the scent of salt and cedar and something so uniquely Azriel enveloped you.
Your head lulled against him, your body moving against his in time with the music. His other hand settled on your other hip, and you let him guide your body however he saw fit. Your heart was racing and your stomach was fluttering, and you never wanted this feeling to end. You never wanted Azriel’s grip on your body to fade, and you never wanted another male to touch you like he was now. You wanted him to claim you in this crowd of people. You wanted everyone to know that you were his.
You wanted everyone to know that he was yours.
Azriel had always been yours.
Your hand came up to curl around the back of his neck, pulling his face down to meet your gaze. You had to tilt your head back to see him, but Mother above, he was everything you ever wanted. He was the most beautiful male alive, and you wanted him so much it hurt.
Why did it have to hurt?
You turned around to face him, his hands never leaving your hips. Your chest grazed against his, and you met his eyes as he continued guiding your bodies together in a dance that was for the two of you alone. Your eyes never left his, his own eyes glossy in the lights streaming across the room. He had a lazy smile on his face that made your stomach flutter, and when he tugged your body closer you sucked in a sharp breath.
“Azriel,” you murmured. In the back of your head, you thought it should have been a warning, but really it was a plea.
Your arms looped around his neck as his thigh slotted between yours, and you thought you might die when your core grazed the rough fabric of his pants. The hem of your dress was undoubtedly rucked indecently high, but you didn’t care. You just wanted more. You wanted everything.
Azriel slowly ground your bodies together in a rhythm that you thought might have loosely followed the music, but it was hard to tell. It was hard to think of anything other than the building pleasure low in your belly and Azriel’s hands on your waist and his breath against your cheek. You guided his head up with your hand splayed on his cheek, and when he met your eyes he looked like he might devour you there in the middle of Rita’s.
It was exactly how you had always wanted him to look at you.
You wanted him to want you. You wanted him to forget about anyone else that might think they had a piece of his heart, because Azriel was yours.
Azriel’s tongue briefly wet his lips, and you didn’t think before you pushed yourself up on your toes to capture his lips with yours.
And he kissed you back.
Your head was floating, possibly completely detached from the rest of you. You weren’t entirely sure you were even still inside your own body, except for the feeling of an undeniable warmth that flooded through your chest. Azriel’s hands slid from your hips to the back of your thighs, his fingers curling around the hem of your dress and tugging it down, all while his lips chased yours.
His hands gripped your legs tight, his fingers undoubtedly leaving indents in your flesh as he simultaneously tugged you closer and kept your dress from sliding too far up. Sparks of electricity flew everywhere your body touched his, leaving your entire body vibrating. The sounds of the music and the voices around dulled into a muffled buzz, your entire world view shifting to focus solely on Azriel.
Your skin was hot with want, flamed only by inconceivable stores of repressed emotions and desire breaking through the surface. You wanted to curl inside of Azriel and never leave. You wanted this moment to stretch for an eternity, bottling up the euphoria coursing through you and never letting it fizzle away.
One of his hands had migrated to your face, cupping your jaw in a way that you thought might have been reverence. The touch was so gentle compared to the firm grip his other hand still had on your thigh, guiding your body against his lazily as your lips melded with fervor.
Why had you never done this?
Well, you had once—
His teeth nipped your lower lip, making you gasp at the light sting before his lips latched onto the sensitive skin below your ear. Your stomach flipped, and your heart was pounding as he moved down the column of your throat, the drag of his lips leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Someone bumped into Azriel, and the two of you careened to the side a bit, his grip tightening on you as a low growl rumbled from his throat. The floor still tilted beneath you even as he held you upright, and you blinked once, and then twice, willing the feeling away.
Then you were engulfed in darkness that was cool against your skin, and you were stumbling backward until your back met a wall. Azriel started laughing against your neck, his hands still holding your hips, and he was likely the reason you didn’t completely crash into the wooden wall behind you.
You started laughing too, vaguely recognizing that you were outside of Rita’s now, only the moon lighting the dim alley. The air was cool, but it only made you feel more flushed, more exposed now that you were alone with Azriel.
Azriel resumed his kisses along your neck, trailing down to your collarbone as he slotted his thigh back between your legs. The pressure at your core was consuming, traveling upward in shaky tendrils that stole your breath and twisted your stomach.
There was a cacophony of sensations traveling through your body. Azriel’s hands on your waist. His lips on your neck. His whispers that sounded like “perfect” and “beautiful” but you couldn’t be sure because your ears sort of felt like they had been stuffed with cotton. The tension in your core that felt like a confusing blend of impending euphoria smeared with doom.
Your breaths started to grow faster, and fuck, it was really hot.
The world was spinning.
You gripped Azriel’s shoulders, and at first he sank further into you, his body melting into yours. Then your motions slowed, and your mouth was watering, and you must have pushed him back a bit, because his lips were no longer on your skin, and his hands were cupping your face.
“Hey,” he said, squeezing your face slightly to drag your eyes to him. You blinked, trying to focus, but the high you had been riding was crashing down fast, and your head was no longer blissfully floating. “Y/N,” he said, and you pulled your gaze back to him again. “Are you okay?”
He sounded worried.
Maybe you should be?
Maybe you shouldn’t have drank that last shot Mor gave you, or the one before that.
You might be really drunk.
You might—
You threw up.
Everything came rushing up, and you crumbled to the ground, knees hitting the stone hard with stray pebbles biting at your skin. You heaved, and heaved, expelling the monstrous cocktail of alcohol you had tossed down throughout the night.
Gentle hands brushed your hair away from your face, rubbing your back soothingly as you shook, irrational fear coursing through you. Maybe you were dying.
But eventually the nausea passed, and while your head still spun and your thoughts were covered in mud, you knew you were not, in fact, dying. You were just drunk.
Far drunker than you had ever been, but still just drunk.
You were also crying, but your tears were quiet and quickly wiped away by Azriel with gentle hushes. “You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’re okay, sweetheart.”
“I’m sorry,” you said, or maybe it sounded more like a whimper. Your throat hurt. You weren’t sure what exactly you were apologizing for, but you felt like it needed to be said.
“No,” Azriel choked out, wiping his thumb under your eye again. He swayed a bit, or maybe that was you. “My turn to take care of you, right?”
You closed your eyes, smiling a little, leaning your head back against the wall that you somehow had ended up sitting against. Your chest pulsed with warmth again, washing away the chill that had crashed inside you, and replacing the uncomfortable heat you had been washed in moments ago.
Azriel lifted you, your body curling into his chest with ease. You hid your face against his chest, the thump of his heart calming your still racing one.
Azriel would take care of you.
You loved him.
~ ~ ~
a/n: I won't lie this part was a little hard for me to write because it felt it little bit like a filler but I needed it to get to the next part which I'm excited for!!
Thinking about it’s nice to have a friend and them being at Rita’s and Cassian being so drunk that when he sees them the next morning he’s like “were you guys making out at rita’s? Because that was my birthday wish. I used my birthday wish on you two idiots. I expect both of you to use a birthday wish on me next.”
- @daycourtofficial
wait this is hilarious 🤣 cassian would give them infinite amounts of shit for his birthday being the reason they got together they will never hear the end of it. this just gave me an idea for the next part thank youuu
content warnings: alcohol intoxication, vomiting (brief, from the alcohol), reader has some possessive thoughts sue her, language, more angst and yearning I'm sorryyy
word count: 9.6k
synopsis: Azriel was always meant to be yours.
trope: childhood friends to lovers
part 1 ~ part 2
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
“Let me guess,” a low and familiar voice murmured into your ear. You fumbled with the jewel crested knife, nearly slicing your palm in your attempt to catch it. “Not flashy enough?”
You cast a sheepish smile to the merchant glowering at you behind the table before carefully setting the knife down. You twisted around to glare at Azriel, whose eyes danced with mischief. “It’s not for me, you ass,” you grumbled, stepping away from the table to continue weaving through the merchant stalls.
Azriel easily fell into step beside you. “Oh, I know,” he said. “You have a habit of gift shopping at the last minute.”
You merely cast him a sideways glance, knowing you had no defense. You half-heartedly examined a pair of leather gloves on another table, rubbing the fabric between your fingers before placing it back down. Really, how could you find a unique gift for a male that you had spent centuries of birthdays with?
“So, what are you thinking?” Azriel asked, walking beside you as you perused the tables.
You shrugged. “What did you get him?”
Azriel’s silence made you glance up, your eyes narrowing as Azriel toyed with a pair of gloves in a rotten shade of chartreuse. You forced out a disbelieving laugh, indignation licking at your spine. “You have to be kidding me,” you said. Azriel’s ministrations over the fabric paused. “You ignored me for four days, and now you want my help?”
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” he said quietly, still pretending to look at the gloves that neither of you would be buying.
“I have not seen your face since you dropped me on the terrace and then vanished into the night.”
“I did not vanish,” he argued, but his voice wavered. He finally met your eyes, and the wariness in his gaze only made you more exasperated.
You had spent the last four days torturing yourself with all of the possible reasons Azriel had disappeared. You had agonized over the very real possibility that your brief moment of foolishness in Windhaven had sent him right into the arms of his mate—because that was exactly where he should be.
You had nearly kissed him, and you knew he knew. He was the spymaster, for fuck’s sake. He was fluent in the art of body language. He knew you were about to kiss him in the middle of the kitchen of your pseudo-childhood home, and he pulled away from you. He pulled away, then ferried the two of you off to Velaris, and he disappeared. For four days.
Until now.
Because he wanted help buying Cassian’s birthday gift.
The slimy mixture of mortification, humiliation, and jealousy turned your stomach sour and your heart cold as you stared at the male across from you. Maybe it was hypocritical to be mad at him for the very thing you had done to him not long ago, but it felt justifiable at the time. It still did. You were acting out of self-preservation. Azriel—well you didn’t know what Azriel was doing, actually, which made it all the more infuriating.
“Will either of you be buying something today?” the female manning the merchant table asked pointedly, breaking you from your stupor.
You smiled at the female, fighting a wince at the irritation in her gaze. “Sorry, not today. Thank you for your time.” She pursed her lips in disapproval, and you hurried to add, “Your work is lovely.”
Azriel sent his own apologetic glance toward the female as he laid down the unfortunately ugly gloves, then he stepped around the table to grab you by your elbow and guide you away. You pulled away from his touch as soon as you were away from the disgruntled merchant, glaring at him. His hand fell to his side, curling into a fist. “We always buy Cassian a gift together,” he said.
“Not always.”
“Fine, for the last decade.”
“Well,” you said, voice tight, “things are different.”
Azriel reached for you again, pulling you to an abrupt stop in the middle of the market. “What does that mean?”
Sometimes you felt like you were losing your mind. You had been in love with him for over five centuries. You didn’t know it was love for that long—you didn’t really even let yourself consider it until much, much later—but it didn’t change the fact that it was love.
You had spent every night for the last couple of months replaying every memory you had with Azriel, trying to pinpoint when things changed for you. When did you fall for the male that was your closest friend? The soul-crushing truth was that there never was a change, there was never a shift that sent you toppling, because you loved him from the very beginning.
And it did not make sense to you how he could not feel even a fraction of what you felt for him, when you had lived through it all together.
Anger flared deep in your chest, smoking out the words tumbling around inside you before you could think them through. “Because you have a mate,” you snapped. “You should give Cassian a gift from you and your mate.”
Azriel might have tried to say something, but you didn’t stop. “Is that where you disappeared to? To be with her?” you asked, the center of your chest fracturing outward with every word. “Will she be there tomorrow? At Rita’s?”
The ache in your chest was somehow worse than it had ever been, so many clashing sources of heartbreak melding together into one messy and convoluted vat of poison. It was unfair. You should be able to shop with your friend for your other friend’s birthday without having an existential crisis over it, but this was too much. It was all just too much.
Azriel, to his credit, looked bewildered. “What are you talking about?”
Sometimes his oblivion to the heartache he had caused you, unintentionally or not, hurt worse than anything else.
“You have to be fucking kidding me—”
His hands suddenly grabbed your shoulders, his grip firm and unrelenting as his shadows swallowed the two of you whole. As soon as they deposited you on a familiar outcropping of the mountains overlooking the city, you shoved away from him, your fury building irrationally fast.
“Don’t do that,” you gritted through your teeth.
Azriel looked like he was at a loss. “I want to talk to you without the whole of the Velaris market square watching us.”
You stared at him, your arms falling to your sides. “You want to talk to me.”
“Yes!” he exclaimed, running a hand through his hair. “I want to talk to you.” His hand fell to his side, his wings drooping slightly behind him. “I don’t understand what is happening,” he said, and the quiet desolation in his voice made your heart twinge, despite everything.
“What do you mean?” you murmured, looking down at your boots.
“Don’t do that,” he snapped, his eyes wild with more emotion than he usually ever showed. Then his voice softened as he said, “Please. Please just—” He shook his head. “Things have been different,” he finally said, and all you could do was stare at him as your heart thundered against your chest, your mind racing to find a way to protect yourself from any more heartache. “Since that night at Rita’s, things have been different.”
You couldn’t stop the scoff that flew from your lips, though regret sliced through your chest at the wounded look on Azriel’s face. His throat bobbed as he stared off into the forest behind you. “Y/N,” he rasped, “I don’t know what I said.” He looked at you, and Mother, his eyes were glossy. “I don’t know what I did that night. I—I know I told you I have a mate,” he hurried to add, and the words seemed to feel like sandpaper against his throat. “I know that, but my shadows refuse to tell me anything else and, I just, I’m sorry if I said or did something—”
“You did nothing wrong, Azriel,” you cut him off quietly. As angry and hurt as you were, as much as you wished he had done something you could rationally hate him for just so it might dull some of this pain, you could not let him go on thinking he had done something terrible—not when all he had really done was find something everyone could only hope for. “You—” You swallowed hard, shoulders deflating as you forced the words out of your mouth. “You told me you found your mate, and you said nothing but lovely things about her.”
He looked like he didn’t believe you.
“I promise,” you said softly. “You had fun at Rita’s, and I helped you home, and you told your friend about something wonderful. That’s all.”
He stared at you for a moment, blinking slowly. Silence wrapped around you like a stiff blanket, scratching at your skin with every passing second. The sunlight beating down on your face was unseasonably warm. It felt wrong to be illuminated so brightly while Azriel grappled to tear apart the invisible walls you had desperately built between you. There was nowhere to hide.
Azriel stepped closer, and you hated the small hitch in your breath. You hated the way he noticed, and you hated that his steps faltered when he heard. You hated that there were mere feet between you, and he still felt worlds away.
“Why didn’t you visit my mother with me?”
Your eyes snapped to his, guilt sliding down your throat. “I—”
“And don’t lie to me,” Azriel cut you off, near pleading.
And what could you really say? That you were worried his mother would see your broken heart the second she set eyes on you? That you were worried you would have to endure his loving confessions about his long-awaited mate to his mother—his mother you loved and that you had known for centuries? That jealousy so potent and toxic would eat you alive and ruin anything that might still be salvageable of your friendship?
“I couldn’t.”
It wasn’t an answer. It didn’t explain anything, but it was the only thing you could say that was not a lie, and that was not as baring as the truth.
Azriel shook his head, looking up at the sky. “You know,” he said quietly, “I thought maybe things were okay, when you asked me to go to Windhaven.”
Your pulse pounded in your ears, thinking about how there was never any question of who would go with you to Windhaven. You were selfish, and there was never anyone else that could have gone with you to that camp.
“And when you came to me that night,” he continued, his eyes slowly falling back to yours. He looked lost, and you hated it. He huffed out a sad laugh. “I was actually grateful that we were there. That things felt normal.” His nose twitched, and his shadows seemed to spread outward in agitation. “Then you were pissed at me again.”
You shook your head slowly. “It wasn’t you I was angry with,” you said quietly. “Not really.”
Azriel looked at you incredulously.
You looked up to the sky. “Fine,” you admitted. “I was pissed at you for taking over.” You were pissed that he felt the need, that he acted like it was his duty, to protect you from some self-righteous male.
You were not his responsibility.
“I did not take over.” Azriel moved toward you, his boots stopping mere inches from yours, and you had to look up slightly to meet his eyes. “You can be pissed at me all you want, Y/N, I don’t care. No one will speak to you that way and get away with it.”
“I do not need—”
“I am always going to protect you!” His hands came up to cup your face, his gentle touch a startling contrast to the ferocity of his words. You stared at him wide eyed, his own gaze searching yours. “I told you that. You know that,” his voice softened exponentially, but his words were spoken with fervor. “I don’t care how angry you are. I don’t care if it pisses you off. I don’t care. I’m sorry—” He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling deep before letting it out slowly. “You are the most important person in my life,” he said softly. Your eyes burned. “I will always protect you with my life.”
Your hand came up to curl around one of his that was still cradling your cheek. Your mind was racing with his words. It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. A foolish, hopeful part of you wanted to consider that maybe—maybe he did feel the same. Maybe—
But you could not forget the terrible reality that he had a mate.
You loved him so much. It was intertwined with every fiber of your being and every thread of it throbbed with painful longing and hope that it might finally be recognized. Every thread was fraying with dread that it might never be tied off, that this love might be unmoored forever until you completely unraveled.
“Sweetheart,” Azriel murmured, and you closed your eyes as his thumb grazed the top of your cheek. “You’re shaking.”
Your eyes flew open, and you suddenly pulled away, his touch falling away from your face abruptly.
“Y/N—”
“I’m fine.”
You were not fine.
You had to get out of there.
“Wait, Y/N—”
You shook your head, your wings flaring out before you really even thought about flying. “I have to get Cassian a gift,” you muttered. Then you took off into the sky, leaving Azriel and your heart behind.
You shook off the tendril of shadow that clung to your wrist.
~ ~ ~
“And explain to me, Rhysand, why I should take this young female into my court?”
Your heart pounded in your chest as you fought against the urge to lean against Azriel. Your muscles trembled from the weight of your exhaustion and dread that this disillusioned plan would all collapse around you at any moment. You could not appear weak in front of the High Lord, not if you wanted this plan to work.
You could stand on your own two feet.
Azriel’s pinky grazed the back of your hand, a gentle touch that could easily be an accident, but then his wing bumped into yours, and you knew Azriel was far too careful for accidental touches. You let yourself breathe in deep, let the comforting and familiar scent of Azriel wash over you as Rhysand argued with his father.
Rhysand’s mother stood a step back from him, but still in front of you and Az, watching their exchange with pursed lips. Rhysand and his father had been talking in circles, their voices growing louder and the room growing darker with every passing minute.
“I think that’s enough,” Rhysand’s mother cut in, without an ounce of fear in her voice.
Rhysand and his father both went silent. Then his father’s eyes narrowed. “The boy must learn how to advocate for himself, Melina—”
“And he has, my Lord,” she agreed placatingly. She stepped closer, and Rhys fell back to stand beside you. “But this is ultimately my request of you. She is Rhysand’s friend, yes.” She glanced back at you with so much warmth and pity it made your stomach twist. “But she has no one. She is of no use in Illyria, no one who cares for her.”
Your eyes burned as her words lodged in your chest, the truth wrapped around them like barbed wire. Azriel stepped closer to you, his arm now nearly pressed against yours. The High Lord’s eyes fell to the two of you, and maybe you should have stepped away, maybe you should have moved closer to Rhys, but the thought of leaving Azriel made your head spin. So you stayed in place, with your arm pressed against Azriel’s, and his shadows licking against the back of your neck and hands.
“No one but us,” she continued, her voice softening, and it took everything in you to keep your tears at bay. “She is not safe in Illyria. Let her stay in the House of Wind. Let her work for me. I need the help.”
The High Lord was quiet for far too long. You desperately wanted to grab Azriel’s hand, but you didn't move. Instead, you waited, the four of you silent as you prayed to the Mother the High Lord agreed.
“Alright,” he said. “She can stay.” You were going to throw up. “But you are mine.”
He wasn’t looking at you. Your eyes slowly followed his gaze, slowly looking at the male standing still beside you.
“Father—” Rhysand started to protest, taking one step forward, but the High Lord cut him off.
“That’s my condition. You want her to stay here? Fine. She can stay. But so does he.”
“He still has to pass the Blood Rite,” Rhys argued.
“Fine,” the High Lord agreed. “You will finish your training, complete the Blood Rite in Spring, and then you will come work for me, Shadowsinger.”
This was insane. Azriel couldn’t sign his life away to the High Lord just because you asked for help.
“But father—”
“Okay.” Azriel stepped forward, his warmth vanishing from your side. “I agree, on one condition.”
“Azriel—” you and Rhysand both spoke at the same time. He glared at both of you.
The High Lord grinned. “In addition to her sanctuary here, you mean?”
You hated that he had yet to refer to you by your name, but you knew that, really, it was inconsequential compared to what your fate would be in Illyria.
“Yes,” Azriel said.
He was so large, standing in front of you. His leathers were stretched around muscles that lined his body, and his wings were wide behind his back that was ramrod straight, his head held high as he met his High Lord’s eye.
You weren’t children any more.
The High Lord waved his hand at Azriel. “Go on.”
“Y/N keeps her wings.”
You stopped breathing.
The High Lord raised his brows, but said nothing.
“Y/N stays here and works for the Lady of Night, and she keeps her wings.” He spared a brief glance at you, and when his eyes met yours, you finally released the breath trapped in your chest. “And I will work for you.”
An inexplicable warmth washed over you, working outward from the center of your chest, thawing the icy terror that you had been trapped in for the last 48 hours, even as you now feared for Azriel. You worried it was selfish to feel such relief when Azriel was practically signing his life away for you.
The High Lord smiled. “I accept.”
~ ~ ~
“We need to talk.”
You glanced at the male behind you, shaking your head as you focused on the training bag in front of you. You landed another punch, a heavy thud reverberating through the room. “Not now, Cassian.”
You heard his steps draw closer as you continued throwing punches, relishing in the dull ache blooming around your knuckles. The sun was just starting to rise, but you had been here for hours.
Cassian caught your fist before you could land the next punch, his face looking unimpressed. “Yes, now.”
You yanked your hand away, scowling at him as you shook your hand out. “What do you want?”
He raised his brows, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes. “Happy Birthday, Cassian. You're my dearest friend, Cassian. I’m so happy to celebrate another year of life with you, Cassian—”
You grabbed his shoulder quickly, your eyes wide. “I’m sorry. Mother—Cassian—”
Cassian smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s okay, Y/N.” He pushed gently at your shoulder, knocking your hand away from his own. “I’m just messing with you.”
“Still,” you murmured, shame making your face warm. You looked down to start unwrapping the cloth around your hands, then you looked back up at him sheepishly. “Happy Birthday.”
He grinned, tugging you into his side. “Thank you.” Then he turned you toward the terrace, guiding you to lean against the cool stone railing not yet warmed by the morning sun. “Now, we need to talk.”
You fought the urge to roll your eyes. “Fine. What is it?”
He leaned forward on his elbows, looking out over the city before glancing at you. “What’s going on with you and Az?”
You sniffed, rubbing at your nose as you looked out at the city, mirroring his position. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said pointedly, shifting his body so he faced you. “Why are things so damn awkward?”
Your face was hot now, and you wished you could pass it off as the sunlight hitting your cheeks. “They’re not,” you lied, terribly.
Cassian scoffed. “Y/N,” he said, unimpressed. You met his eyes warily. His eyes narrowed. “First, you avoided him for weeks. Then, there was the lovely dinner from Hell—”
Gods.
“—then you refused to visit his Mother—”
“He told you about that?” you interrupted, that same shame from when Azriel confronted you yesterday curdling in your stomach.
Cassian paused, seeming to think over his words before just saying, “Yes.” Then he kept going, “Then there was Windhaven, which we will also be talking about, by the way. Then he avoided you for days—”
So he was avoiding you.
“Then he apparently saw you yesterday, but walked into Rhys’s office like a storm cloud, and has been in a foul mood since.” He studied you quietly, and you knew he was leaving out every ounce of unbearable tension and awkwardness that had infused every minute between the events he laid in front of you. “So tell me,” he said, voice softening, “what happened?”
You could probably tell Cassian. You could probably cry, right now, in front of him on this terrace—on his birthday, no less—and he would not hesitate to try to pick up your broken pieces and find a way to glue them back together. He wouldn’t judge you.
But you felt too fragile to do that right now, and he deserved better than that on his birthday.
But he also deserved something, and maybe it would be nice to hand off just a piece of the weight crushing your soul.
“Do you know who his mate is?” you asked quietly, your voice as small as you felt.
Cassian was quiet for so long that you turned to look at him, and when you saw the painful understanding in his eyes you thought you might actually cry. “He hasn’t told me,” is what he finally says, looking back out over the city.
You chuckled weakly. “That’s not a no.”
His lips twitched. “It’s not a yes.”
“Cassian,” you said, staring at the side of his face until his eyes met yours again.
He sighed, leaning heavily against the balcony now. “I don’t know, no.”
Oh.
You bit your lip, not sure what you were expecting. You weren’t sure what you even wanted to hear. Maybe that he did know, and he hated her? Maybe that she was a terrible match and he didn’t know what the Mother was thinking?
You didn’t know.
“Nothing makes sense, if I’m honest with you,” Cassian said.
“What do you mean?”
He glanced at you. “I mean Azriel and his mate.” He tossed his hand toward you haphazardly, as if that cleared anything up.
“What?”
“I didn’t know he told you he found his mate.”
You blinked. You felt like he was talking in circles.
“Cassian,” you said, voice flat and tired. “We were all at that dinner.”
Cassian shook his head. “I mean before that.”
You swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah, well,” you said, “he did.”
His mouth twisted in thought. “Right. Surprising.”
“Cassian, what does this have to do with anything?”
He shrugged. “How long ago did he tell you?”
You threw your arms out. “I don’t know!” You did know. “A couple months ago? After Rita’s.”
He hummed. “Which is when things started to get tense—”
“Cassian,” you cut him off, your heart starting to race. “I’m not in the mood for this.”
Cassian immediately sobered, his expression turning serious. “Azriel found his mate over a year ago.”
You went cold. His words practically shoved you outside of your body, and you were floating just a few inches away from where you stood in front of him, grappling to reorient your already fractured reality to his words. “What?” you rasped.
Cassian shrugged, as if this was an entirely inconsequential detail. “He told me and Rhys a little over a year ago.”
You blinked. “So this entire time he—”
Cassian killed your words with a hard stare. “He what, Y/N?”
“I had no idea,” you said quietly. You had no idea things had changed so much sooner than you were even aware.
Yet they hadn’t, had they? Azriel never acted any different toward you. You were the one that made everything turn sour.
You frowned. “Over a year ago…we were at war,” you said slowly.
Cassian didn’t say anything.
“I thought he must have met her in Velaris, but—” You were going to be sick. “Oh gods, is it Elain?”
Cassian whipped his head to you. “What?” he asked. “Are you insane? Elain is mated to Lucien.”
You shook your head, all logic having been replaced with sick terror. “Mor then—”
“Y/N, for fuck’s sake,” Cassian said, cutting you off quickly. “It’s not Elain, and it’s not Mor.”
“You said you didn’t know—”
“Well I know it’s not them.”
“But—”
“I don’t know where or when he met her,” he said. “He didn’t tell us anything. He just…told us he had a mate. We were pestering him and he snapped, and then made us swear not to say a word because she didn’t know. That’s all, but I’m also not a fool.”
You scowled, recognizing his insinuation that you were a fool.
You were also tired of this conversation, and you were tired of the emotional whiplash. After a long beat of silence, you said, “Is it Nesta?”
Cassian growled, his eyes flashing with brief rage. You smiled, relieved that your jab landed successfully. His nostrils flared. “Enough.”
You rolled your eyes, leaning forward on the balcony again, letting your head droop. The two of you stood in silence for a while, the sun slowly rising higher in the sky as the sounds of the city slowly waking up washed over you.
Velaris had always felt like home.
Even that first night you crossed the city’s borders, clinging to Rhys and Azriel in mild terror, something settled inside you as soon as you were within the city’s limits. The air was cleaner. Fresh. It was still just as cold as Illyria, but it didn’t have that bitter tang that licked at your skin when you crossed the camp’s borders.
The air smelled like salt and jasmine. It was so unlike the stale and rotten air that wafted through Windhaven that, at the time, you could hardly fathom that a whole city full of faeries lived here. Now you were one of them.
“I heard about Windhaven.”
You let out a long breath, your shoulders falling. You were tired. “Cassian,” you said, a warning, but he shook his head.
“I’m done talking about Az.”
You rolled your lip between your teeth and looked out over the city, taking in the soft and joyful life that pulsed through the streets. The stark contrast between here and an Illyrian camp was sometimes so jarring it made your bones ache. “Yeah,” you said quietly, not sure what else to say.
He placed a hand on your shoulder, squeezing once. “You saved that girl.”
You let out a bitter laugh, refusing to meet his eyes. “Right,” you said, “or I just made it worse for her after we left.”
“You didn’t.”
His words held so much certainty, you couldn’t help but turn to meet his gaze. Cassian wasn’t necessarily one for platitudes, but how could he know that for sure? “What?”
“You didn’t make things worse,” he said. “You saved her wings.”
“But how—”
“I’ve been to Windhaven every day since your return,” he explained, his voice unusually soft. Your eyes burned as he stared back at you with overwhelming sincerity. “I’m headed there after this. No one will touch her wings. They all know what will happen if anything happens to that girl—oh.”
You threw yourself into Cassian before he could finish his sentence, your arms circling him in a vice. He let out a soft chuckle before he quickly returned the hug, one hand coming up to rest on the back of your head. “This is much nicer than, What do you want, Cassian? Not now, Cassian—”
You squeezed him harder. “Shut up.”
~ ~ ~
“I want to teach you how to fight.”
You barely glanced at Azriel as you slid another book back onto the shelf. “Me?” you asked, disbelieving.
Azriel followed behind you as you pushed the shelving cart further down the aisle. “Yes.”
“Why?” you asked, pointedly sliding another book back into place.
Why me? Is what you didn’t say. I’m a scholar. I’m the High Lady’s right-hand. I’m not a warrior.
“Why not?”
You ignored him, continuing on with your shelving duties—which, really, were not yours, but there was also no one else willing to voluntarily work in the library. At least, no one that the High Lord had authorized. You liked being here anyway, and the few librarians scattered throughout didn’t mind.
“You are more than capable.”
You hummed. “Yes,” you agreed. “Doesn’t mean I want to.”
Suddenly Azriel’s hand was on your wrist, and he had you twisted around so that your chest was pinned to the book shelf. His point was clearly made, but still he didn’t move away. His body was pressed against yours, his chest grazing the base of your wings with every inhale.
His lips might have briefly brushed the shell of your ear before he said, “I’m serious, Y/N.” His grip on you relaxed, letting go of your arm that he had pinned behind your back, but he didn’t move away. “War is coming.” Which sounded very serious, but all you could think about was how his body was pressed against yours, and his breath was warm against your ear. Goosebumps pebbled along your arms.
Azriel pulled away, and you had to blink yourself back to reality before you slowly turned around to face him.
Your face was warm. Azriel seemed unaffected—serious and stoic as always.
“This city is meant to be impenetrable, I know, but—” He cut himself off, looking away.
“You’re worried,” you said quietly.
He nodded. His shadows slowly curled around your ankles, one gliding up your leg to then curl around your wrist. “If we go to war,” he said, voice hushed, “I won’t be here.”
Your stomach twisted. It had been years since you moved to Velaris, and years since Azriel had become the High Lord’s spy. Your time with Azriel was fleeting as it was. Stolen moments peppered over the years whenever he could slip away, but he has always been around. Sometimes months passed without talking to him, but you knew deep in your bones that if Azriel was worried about this war, it would happen, and he would be gone much longer than a couple of months.
“I just want to know that you’re safe,” he continued, as if he thought he still had to convince you. “I know it might be complicated for you,” he said slowly, gently, as if he was coaxing a timid animal. “Training, I mean. After everything that happened in Windhaven. But it would just be me, and—”
“That was a test,” you cut him off, realization washing over you.
Azriel’s mouth shut, his eyes wide.
“That—” You gestured between him and the bookshelf behind you. “You—you were seeing how I would react?”
Azriel looked only mildly guilty. “Yes.”
Irritation flared in your gut. He was right, of course. You had never spoken about why you never trained. You had never even told him outright that you didn’t want to, but the offer had always been there, unspoken, waiting quietly, and you never took it. Now Azriel was forcing you to confront it, and he knew fully well why you might be hesitant to let someone put their hands on you.
But Azriel had just pinned you to a shelf with his entire body, and not even a flicker of fear arose inside you. Fear was the last thing you felt.
“I’m sorry,” Azriel eventually said. You knew he meant it, but you also knew he didn’t regret it.
“No,” you said, biting the inside of your cheek once as you contemplated his words. “You made your point. And you’re right.”
Azriel’s gaze was a mix of sympathy and worry. “I’m sorry—” he started to say again.
“I want to know how to fight,” you cut him off. His shoulders seemed to visibly relax at the words, and your stomach fluttered at the flash of pride you might have seen in his eyes. You weren’t doing this for him, though. You needed to be able to defend yourself. It was unwise as it was that you had gone this long in the House of Wind without learning.
“But I also want to know how to hide,” you said, and his eyes glinted with excitement. You couldn’t help but grin when you added, “Like a spy.”
~ ~ ~
Your steps faltered as soon as you felt his presence. Your blade wobbled as it came down, losing its clean momentum from your misplaced footing. You growled in frustration, slashing the blade through the air once more before spinning around.
Azriel was standing there in the shadows, watching you quietly.
“What are you doing here, Azriel?”
He walked closer, the moonlight illuminating his face as he stepped into the clearing. He studied you for a moment, his eyes lingering on the sword in your hand. “You’re late for Rita’s.”
You glanced at the sky, your heart dropping when you realized just how far the moon had traveled. You had meant to leave at sunset. “Fuck,” you cursed. Your grip tightened on your sword as you ran a hand through your hair, cursing again when your fingers got caught.
“It’s okay,” Azriel said, voice soft. He moved closer to gently guide your hand away from your face, then smoothed a hand over your hair. He smiled softly when he pulled his hand away, almost hesitant. “Cassian won’t mind.”
You stared at him, taking in the way the moonlight illuminated the hazel of his eyes and glinted off the inky strands of hair that fell over his forehead. He was wearing a black button-up that clung to his body perfectly, molding the contour of his muscles with perfect definition.
You blinked, then shook your head. “It’s not okay,” you grumbled, taking a step back.
Cassian had just spent the morning of his birthday comforting you, letting you lean on him. The least you could do is show up to his birthday party.
“Y/N,” Azriel said, “It’s okay. They were only just leaving the River House when I left to find you. I told them I was picking you up.”
You frowned. “How did you know where I was?”
Azriel’s lips twitched, like the question amused him. “You weren’t hard to find.”
You tried to argue, wanting to point out that you were in a random clearing in the mountains, but Azriel silenced you when he stepped closer again. “You were sloppy,” he said, nodding toward the sword.
“I’m aware,” you snapped.
“You’re fighting angry.”
“I know, Az,” you groaned. “I don’t need the lecture right now.”
“I’m not trying to lecture you,” he said gently. He stepped even closer, the heat from his body pressing against your skin. “Lift the sword.”
“We’re late,” you warned.
“So what’s a few more minutes? Lift it.” He circled around you, moving so that he stood at your back. You waited a moment, but eventually lifted the sword again.
“Good,” he murmured. He was crowding your space now, his body brushing against yours. You could hardly breathe. “Lower your wings for me?” he asked softly, a low hum that reverberated through your body.
Your wings lowered.
Azriel’s arm covered yours, his hand enclosing yours that held the hilt of the sword. “Right now,” he said, practically talking directly into your ear. “You’re angry, and it’s making your movements messy, because that anger is radiating in every direction. Your body doesn’t know what to do with it.”
You swallowed hard, your breaths heavy as you let the truth in his words wash over you. You were angry. You had been angry for months, and sometimes it felt so loud and potent that it might just consume you. It felt like there was nowhere for it to go.
“I always taught you not to fight angry—but, really, that’s shit advice,” he said.
You couldn’t help but smile.
“You care too much to not get angry when you’re fighting,” he continued. You weren’t sure if you should be insulted, but then he said, “That’s not a bad thing, Y/N. Just channel it. Let that anger stabilize you.”
You sucked in a sharp breath when his other hand grazed the membrane of your wing, your body going still when that hand settled on your hip.
“I’m sorry,” Azriel said quietly, his body also going still.
Your heart was beating frantically in your chest, and you were sure he could hear it, but you nodded your head anyway. “It’s okay,” you told him breathlessly.
A beat of silence passed, then Azriel’s hand slid a little closer to your front, his fingers grazing your abdomen. “Direct that anger to your core,” he murmured. His tone had permanently dropped, a low lull in the delicate silence around you. His hand slid back to your hip, then pushed you to step forward with him. “Let that anger guide your movements. Don’t let it force them.”
The two of you stepped back, and his chest was flush with your back. “Now swing. Let your anger extend into your blade. Keep it sharp and defined.”
You closed your eyes for just a moment, taking a deep and steadying breath as you gripped the anger swirling through you. You imagined it as an anchor, locking your mind and body as one. You imagined it as sharp as the blade in your hand. You imagined it washing over your muscles, powering the force of your movements. You swung the blade in one of the most complicated moves you knew, the angles between movements sharp and defined with an elegance you had been reaching for all night.
You grinned as you finished, relief you had been desperate for settling over you. Azriel’s touch fell away, and you turned around to meet his eyes.
He was smiling too. “Now we can go to the party.”
Your grin only widened. “Thank you.”
Azriel’s smile then wavered, his expression suddenly sobering. “Y/N,” he said, “about yesterday—”
“Az—”
“I’m sorry.”
You stared at him. “You’re sorry? Az, you did nothing—”
“I did nothing wrong, so you’ve said,” he brushed you off. “But something is upsetting you,” he went on, voice gentle again. “And Windhaven—it was hard. I know that. And I wasn’t there for you when we got back, and so I’m sorry for that.”
You looked away, eyes falling to your boots, your toes mere inches away from Azriel’s. You shrugged a little, then finally met his eyes again. “I haven’t really been there for you that last couple of months,” you admitted quietly. “So I guess we’re even. Or, really, I still have much to make up—”
“We don’t do that,” Azriel interrupted softly.
“Do what?”
“Keep score,” he said. You felt warm all over as you stood under his gaze, relishing in the comfort of this male you had known and loved your entire life. Just his presence, without worrying about mates or relationships or boundaries that may or may not exist for the first time in months, was enough to quell the fury and despair that had been warring inside your soul for weeks.
You nodded, knowing he was right.
“Whenever you’re ready to talk about whatever is bothering you, I’ll be here to listen,” he promised. “But for tonight,” he said, a smile slowly stretching across his face again, “Let’s have fun and celebrate our friend.”
Your own smile didn’t quite reach your eyes as you half-heartedly joked, “Will you be getting as drunk as our last night at Rita’s?”
Azriel grabbed your hand, jostling it lightly between you before tugging you close again, his shadows already creeping in around you. “No,” he hummed, mirth in his eyes. “I think it’s your turn tonight.”
Your grin was real as you said, “I like the sound of that.”
~ ~ ~
You weren’t kidding when you told Azriel you liked his plan for tonight—specifically, you getting drunk.
He had taken you back to the House of Wind, and he waited for you to bathe and get dressed before taking you to Rita’s. You would like to think that his cheeks were tinged pink as he grabbed your waist because of you—because you were in a silken dress that shimmered in the moonlight and defined every curve of your body, and you felt good, for the first time in a while.
The two of you were silent as he pulled you in close by your hips, his chest lightly brushing yours before his shadows cocooned the two of you in their familiar embrace. Time always seemed to bend when you traveled through the shadows, warping around your body in a way that felt too fast and too slow all at once. The entire time your eyes were glued to his, his own gaze unwavering as he stared back.
You were in front of Rita’s before you could blink, and yet it felt like those seconds with Azriel’s hands on your body and his eyes stuck to yours had stretched into years. Your heart was racing again. It was becoming a problem.
You stepped back, breaking eye contact with an awkward cough. Your body felt far too warm in the chilled night air. Azriel’s hands fell away from your waist, and you took a second to smooth your hands over your dress, recentering yourself before walking into the crowded tavern.
Azriel watched you, and eventually you forced yourself to smile before meeting his gaze again. “Here we go,” you said with a grin that felt too tight on your face.
You didn’t wait for Azriel before you pushed through the door, the dim lighting and cacophony of music and voices disorienting at first. You scanned the room for your friends, and it wasn’t until Azriel placed a gentle hand on the small of your back and pointed toward a corner of the room that you found them.
He laced his fingers with yours before you could even take a step, guiding you through the sea of bodies. His skin was warm against yours, and you relished in the feeling of your hand in his. He pulled you closer to him when an especially tipsy faerie bumped into your shoulder, jostling the two of you.
Eventually you reached the booth everyone was crammed in, Cassian sitting on the end with a wide grin. You expected Azriel to drop your hand, but he only squeezed it tighter when the two of you stopped in front of the table. Your face was hot when Cassian’s gaze dragged up from your hands to your face.
His eyes were already glossy in the dim light, and empty glasses were scattered across the surface of the table. You hoped he kept his questions and observations to himself tonight.
He pushed up from the table, with Nesta stabilizing it frantically as he bumped the corner and glasses clattered together. Cassian didn’t notice, and he pulled you into him for a hug, effectively breaking Azriel’s hold on your hand. “You’re here!” Cassian cheered.
You laughed as your face squished awkwardly against his chest, his arm squeezing your waist on just the verge of too tight. “Happy Birthday, Cass,” you said again, even if you already saw him this morning. This morning felt forever ago anyway.
Cassian pulled back, his gaze set on the male behind you. He kept one arm around your waist before he reached for Azriel, tugging him into a clumsy hug that you were still held hostage in. The three of you were a mess of arms and wings, Azriel’s body half covering your own and Cassian held you both by one arm.
Azriel would deny it, but he was smiling as Cassian hugged him. Even if he didn’t wait long before extricating himself from the messy embrace. You managed to break away too, your hands squeezing Cassian’s forearms once before falling away. “I’ll have to give your gift tomorrow,” you told him.
Cassian’s brow furrowed. “Az already gave me—” His words died as his gaze flicked behind you, and your neck felt hot. Cassian’s smile faltered, but you could tell he fought to keep it on his face, even if the alcohol running through him had eroded his already thin filter. “I can’t wait,” he said.
Your smile was tight, and you were ready to escape the awkward tension that had fallen over you. You locked eyes with Mor on the end of the booth, relief washing over you when she stood up. She grabbed your hand, immediately dragging you toward the bar as she declared it was time for more drinks.
She dropped your hand once you reached the bar, her gaze sympathetic as you gathered your bearings. You didn’t hear what she ordered as you took in the crowd around you, the floor flooded with dancing bodies and loud music. Mor handed you a glass of blue liquid, and you didn’t bother asking what it was before you tossed it back.
Which might have been a mistake, because it was foul.
You gagged, clanking the glass down on the counter. “Mor, what the hell was that?”
She also gagged as she downed her own, her class clinking against yours as she sat it down. “Disgusting,” she said, wiping her mouth. Then her eyes glinted. “But effective.” She waved toward the bartender ordering another round of something that hopefully didn’t taste like acid.
She leaned against the bar while you waited, her gaze flitting up and down before settling back on your eyes. “I figured it was that kind of night.”
You leaned against the bar next to her, your arm brushing hers as someone bumped into you. “Yeah,” you said with a weak laugh. “You could say that.”
Mor glanced toward the table with your friends. You followed her gaze, and your heart skipped a beat when your eyes met Azriel’s, who had taken Mor’s seat at the booth. His shadows were mostly hidden behind his wings, but a few stray ones pulsed to a slow beat. You averted your gaze, your skin feeling even more flushed.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Mor asked, and you were fairly certain she knew more than you had ever told her, just like Cassian, and Nesta, and probably everyone else around you.
“Nope.”
The bartender brought your drinks, and Mor handed you another glass, this time with a pink liquid. “This one is better, I promise,” she said, then clinked her glass against yours. “Let’s get drunk.” Then she tossed the liquid back.
You grinned, following her lead, relieved when the liquid was smooth and sweet. “Let’s dance,” you said, grabbing her hand as you sat the glass down, the two of you giggling as you pushed into the sea of bodies.
It was hot. So many bodies brushed against yours, so many faeries overheating the room as you all moved to the music. Song after song drifted over you, and Mor came and went with drinks in hand more times than you could count. Your blood felt fuzzy, your entire body vibrating from the alcohol coursing through your veins and the electric buzz that permeated the air.
At some point Cassian and Nesta joined you, periodically dancing with you and Mor when they weren’t entirely absorbed with each other. Your head was light and hazy, and you almost forgot why you had felt so heavy before.
Then a hand grabbed your waist from behind, familiar scarred fingers curling around the curve of your hip. You leaned back, your body connecting with a warm chest you knew better than your own skin. Your skin was hot and flushed, tingling all over as the scent of salt and cedar and something so uniquely Azriel enveloped you.
Your head lulled against him, your body moving against his in time with the music. His other hand settled on your other hip, and you let him guide your body however he saw fit. Your heart was racing and your stomach was fluttering, and you never wanted this feeling to end. You never wanted Azriel’s grip on your body to fade, and you never wanted another male to touch you like he was now. You wanted him to claim you in this crowd of people. You wanted everyone to know that you were his.
You wanted everyone to know that he was yours.
Azriel had always been yours.
Your hand came up to curl around the back of his neck, pulling his face down to meet your gaze. You had to tilt your head back to see him, but Mother above, he was everything you ever wanted. He was the most beautiful male alive, and you wanted him so much it hurt.
Why did it have to hurt?
You turned around to face him, his hands never leaving your hips. Your chest grazed against his, and you met his eyes as he continued guiding your bodies together in a dance that was for the two of you alone. Your eyes never left his, his own eyes glossy in the lights streaming across the room. He had a lazy smile on his face that made your stomach flutter, and when he tugged your body closer you sucked in a sharp breath.
“Azriel,” you murmured. In the back of your head, you thought it should have been a warning, but really it was a plea.
Your arms looped around his neck as his thigh slotted between yours, and you thought you might die when your core grazed the rough fabric of his pants. The hem of your dress was undoubtedly rucked indecently high, but you didn’t care. You just wanted more. You wanted everything.
Azriel slowly ground your bodies together in a rhythm that you thought might have loosely followed the music, but it was hard to tell. It was hard to think of anything other than the building pleasure low in your belly and Azriel’s hands on your waist and his breath against your cheek. You guided his head up with your hand splayed on his cheek, and when he met your eyes he looked like he might devour you there in the middle of Rita’s.
It was exactly how you had always wanted him to look at you.
You wanted him to want you. You wanted him to forget about anyone else that might think they had a piece of his heart, because Azriel was yours.
Azriel’s tongue briefly wet his lips, and you didn’t think before you pushed yourself up on your toes to capture his lips with yours.
And he kissed you back.
Your head was floating, possibly completely detached from the rest of you. You weren’t entirely sure you were even still inside your own body, except for the feeling of an undeniable warmth that flooded through your chest. Azriel’s hands slid from your hips to the back of your thighs, his fingers curling around the hem of your dress and tugging it down, all while his lips chased yours.
His hands gripped your legs tight, his fingers undoubtedly leaving indents in your flesh as he simultaneously tugged you closer and kept your dress from sliding too far up. Sparks of electricity flew everywhere your body touched his, leaving your entire body vibrating. The sounds of the music and the voices around dulled into a muffled buzz, your entire world view shifting to focus solely on Azriel.
Your skin was hot with want, flamed only by inconceivable stores of repressed emotions and desire breaking through the surface. You wanted to curl inside of Azriel and never leave. You wanted this moment to stretch for an eternity, bottling up the euphoria coursing through you and never letting it fizzle away.
One of his hands had migrated to your face, cupping your jaw in a way that you thought might have been reverence. The touch was so gentle compared to the firm grip his other hand still had on your thigh, guiding your body against his lazily as your lips melded with fervor.
Why had you never done this?
Well, you had once—
His teeth nipped your lower lip, making you gasp at the light sting before his lips latched onto the sensitive skin below your ear. Your stomach flipped, and your heart was pounding as he moved down the column of your throat, the drag of his lips leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Someone bumped into Azriel, and the two of you careened to the side a bit, his grip tightening on you as a low growl rumbled from his throat. The floor still tilted beneath you even as he held you upright, and you blinked once, and then twice, willing the feeling away.
Then you were engulfed in darkness that was cool against your skin, and you were stumbling backward until your back met a wall. Azriel started laughing against your neck, his hands still holding your hips, and he was likely the reason you didn’t completely crash into the wooden wall behind you.
You started laughing too, vaguely recognizing that you were outside of Rita’s now, only the moon lighting the dim alley. The air was cool, but it only made you feel more flushed, more exposed now that you were alone with Azriel.
Azriel resumed his kisses along your neck, trailing down to your collarbone as he slotted his thigh back between your legs. The pressure at your core was consuming, traveling upward in shaky tendrils that stole your breath and twisted your stomach.
There was a cacophony of sensations traveling through your body. Azriel’s hands on your waist. His lips on your neck. His whispers that sounded like “perfect” and “beautiful” but you couldn’t be sure because your ears sort of felt like they had been stuffed with cotton. The tension in your core that felt like a confusing blend of impending euphoria smeared with doom.
Your breaths started to grow faster, and fuck, it was really hot.
The world was spinning.
You gripped Azriel’s shoulders, and at first he sank further into you, his body melting into yours. Then your motions slowed, and your mouth was watering, and you must have pushed him back a bit, because his lips were no longer on your skin, and his hands were cupping your face.
“Hey,” he said, squeezing your face slightly to drag your eyes to him. You blinked, trying to focus, but the high you had been riding was crashing down fast, and your head was no longer blissfully floating. “Y/N,” he said, and you pulled your gaze back to him again. “Are you okay?”
He sounded worried.
Maybe you should be?
Maybe you shouldn’t have drank that last shot Mor gave you, or the one before that.
You might be really drunk.
You might—
You threw up.
Everything came rushing up, and you crumbled to the ground, knees hitting the stone hard with stray pebbles biting at your skin. You heaved, and heaved, expelling the monstrous cocktail of alcohol you had tossed down throughout the night.
Gentle hands brushed your hair away from your face, rubbing your back soothingly as you shook, irrational fear coursing through you. Maybe you were dying.
But eventually the nausea passed, and while your head still spun and your thoughts were covered in mud, you knew you were not, in fact, dying. You were just drunk.
Far drunker than you had ever been, but still just drunk.
You were also crying, but your tears were quiet and quickly wiped away by Azriel with gentle hushes. “You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’re okay, sweetheart.”
“I’m sorry,” you said, or maybe it sounded more like a whimper. Your throat hurt. You weren’t sure what exactly you were apologizing for, but you felt like it needed to be said.
“No,” Azriel choked out, wiping his thumb under your eye again. He swayed a bit, or maybe that was you. “My turn to take care of you, right?”
You closed your eyes, smiling a little, leaning your head back against the wall that you somehow had ended up sitting against. Your chest pulsed with warmth again, washing away the chill that had crashed inside you, and replacing the uncomfortable heat you had been washed in moments ago.
Azriel lifted you, your body curling into his chest with ease. You hid your face against his chest, the thump of his heart calming your still racing one.
Azriel would take care of you.
You loved him.
~ ~ ~
a/n: I won't lie this part was a little hard for me to write because it felt it little bit like a filler but I needed it to get to the next part which I'm excited for!!
content warnings: alcohol intoxication, vomiting (brief, from the alcohol), reader has some possessive thoughts sue her, some grinding?, language, more angst and yearning I'm sorryyy
word count: 9.6k
synopsis: Azriel was always meant to be yours.
trope: childhood friends to lovers
part 1 ~ part 2
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
“Let me guess,” a low and familiar voice murmured into your ear. You fumbled with the jewel crested knife, nearly slicing your palm in your attempt to catch it. “Not flashy enough?”
You cast a sheepish smile to the merchant glowering at you behind the table before carefully setting the knife down. You twisted around to glare at Azriel, whose eyes danced with mischief. “It’s not for me, you ass,” you grumbled, stepping away from the table to continue weaving through the merchant stalls.
Azriel easily fell into step beside you. “Oh, I know,” he said. “You have a habit of gift shopping at the last minute.”
You merely cast him a sideways glance, knowing you had no defense. You half-heartedly examined a pair of leather gloves on another table, rubbing the fabric between your fingers before placing it back down. Really, how could you find a unique gift for a male that you had spent centuries of birthdays with?
“So, what are you thinking?” Azriel asked, walking beside you as you perused the tables.
You shrugged. “What did you get him?”
Azriel’s silence made you glance up, your eyes narrowing as Azriel toyed with a pair of gloves in a rotten shade of chartreuse. You forced out a disbelieving laugh, indignation licking at your spine. “You have to be kidding me,” you said. Azriel’s ministrations over the fabric paused. “You ignored me for four days, and now you want my help?”
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” he said quietly, still pretending to look at the gloves that neither of you would be buying.
“I have not seen your face since you dropped me on the terrace and then vanished into the night.”
“I did not vanish,” he argued, but his voice wavered. He finally met your eyes, and the wariness in his gaze only made you more exasperated.
You had spent the last four days torturing yourself with all of the possible reasons Azriel had disappeared. You had agonized over the very real possibility that your brief moment of foolishness in Windhaven had sent him right into the arms of his mate—because that was exactly where he should be.
You had nearly kissed him, and you knew he knew. He was the spymaster, for fuck’s sake. He was fluent in the art of body language. He knew you were about to kiss him in the middle of the kitchen of your pseudo-childhood home, and he pulled away from you. He pulled away, then ferried the two of you off to Velaris, and he disappeared. For four days.
Until now.
Because he wanted help buying Cassian’s birthday gift.
The slimy mixture of mortification, humiliation, and jealousy turned your stomach sour and your heart cold as you stared at the male across from you. Maybe it was hypocritical to be mad at him for the very thing you had done to him not long ago, but it felt justifiable at the time. It still did. You were acting out of self-preservation. Azriel—well you didn’t know what Azriel was doing, actually, which made it all the more infuriating.
“Will either of you be buying something today?” the female manning the merchant table asked pointedly, breaking you from your stupor.
You smiled at the female, fighting a wince at the irritation in her gaze. “Sorry, not today. Thank you for your time.” She pursed her lips in disapproval, and you hurried to add, “Your work is lovely.”
Azriel sent his own apologetic glance toward the female as he laid down the unfortunately ugly gloves, then he stepped around the table to grab you by your elbow and guide you away. You pulled away from his touch as soon as you were away from the disgruntled merchant, glaring at him. His hand fell to his side, curling into a fist. “We always buy Cassian a gift together,” he said.
“Not always.”
“Fine, for the last decade.”
“Well,” you said, voice tight, “things are different.”
Azriel reached for you again, pulling you to an abrupt stop in the middle of the market. “What does that mean?”
Sometimes you felt like you were losing your mind. You had been in love with him for over five centuries. You didn’t know it was love for that long—you didn’t really even let yourself consider it until much, much later—but it didn’t change the fact that it was love.
You had spent every night for the last couple of months replaying every memory you had with Azriel, trying to pinpoint when things changed for you. When did you fall for the male that was your closest friend? The soul-crushing truth was that there never was a change, there was never a shift that sent you toppling, because you loved him from the very beginning.
And it did not make sense to you how he could not feel even a fraction of what you felt for him, when you had lived through it all together.
Anger flared deep in your chest, smoking out the words tumbling around inside you before you could think them through. “Because you have a mate,” you snapped. “You should give Cassian a gift from you and your mate.”
Azriel might have tried to say something, but you didn’t stop. “Is that where you disappeared to? To be with her?” you asked, the center of your chest fracturing outward with every word. “Will she be there tomorrow? At Rita’s?”
The ache in your chest was somehow worse than it had ever been, so many clashing sources of heartbreak melding together into one messy and convoluted vat of poison. It was unfair. You should be able to shop with your friend for your other friend’s birthday without having an existential crisis over it, but this was too much. It was all just too much.
Azriel, to his credit, looked bewildered. “What are you talking about?”
Sometimes his oblivion to the heartache he had caused you, unintentionally or not, hurt worse than anything else.
“You have to be fucking kidding me—”
His hands suddenly grabbed your shoulders, his grip firm and unrelenting as his shadows swallowed the two of you whole. As soon as they deposited you on a familiar outcropping of the mountains overlooking the city, you shoved away from him, your fury building irrationally fast.
“Don’t do that,” you gritted through your teeth.
Azriel looked like he was at a loss. “I want to talk to you without the whole of the Velaris market square watching us.”
You stared at him, your arms falling to your sides. “You want to talk to me.”
“Yes!” he exclaimed, running a hand through his hair. “I want to talk to you.” His hand fell to his side, his wings drooping slightly behind him. “I don’t understand what is happening,” he said, and the quiet desolation in his voice made your heart twinge, despite everything.
“What do you mean?” you murmured, looking down at your boots.
“Don’t do that,” he snapped, his eyes wild with more emotion than he usually ever showed. Then his voice softened as he said, “Please. Please just—” He shook his head. “Things have been different,” he finally said, and all you could do was stare at him as your heart thundered against your chest, your mind racing to find a way to protect yourself from any more heartache. “Since that night at Rita’s, things have been different.”
You couldn’t stop the scoff that flew from your lips, though regret sliced through your chest at the wounded look on Azriel’s face. His throat bobbed as he stared off into the forest behind you. “Y/N,” he rasped, “I don’t know what I said.” He looked at you, and Mother, his eyes were glossy. “I don’t know what I did that night. I—I know I told you I have a mate,” he hurried to add, and the words seemed to feel like sandpaper against his throat. “I know that, but my shadows refuse to tell me anything else and, I just, I’m sorry if I said or did something—”
“You did nothing wrong, Azriel,” you cut him off quietly. As angry and hurt as you were, as much as you wished he had done something you could rationally hate him for just so it might dull some of this pain, you could not let him go on thinking he had done something terrible—not when all he had really done was find something everyone could only hope for. “You—” You swallowed hard, shoulders deflating as you forced the words out of your mouth. “You told me you found your mate, and you said nothing but lovely things about her.”
He looked like he didn’t believe you.
“I promise,” you said softly. “You had fun at Rita’s, and I helped you home, and you told your friend about something wonderful. That’s all.”
He stared at you for a moment, blinking slowly. Silence wrapped around you like a stiff blanket, scratching at your skin with every passing second. The sunlight beating down on your face was unseasonably warm. It felt wrong to be illuminated so brightly while Azriel grappled to tear apart the invisible walls you had desperately built between you. There was nowhere to hide.
Azriel stepped closer, and you hated the small hitch in your breath. You hated the way he noticed, and you hated that his steps faltered when he heard. You hated that there were mere feet between you, and he still felt worlds away.
“Why didn’t you visit my mother with me?”
Your eyes snapped to his, guilt sliding down your throat. “I—”
“And don’t lie to me,” Azriel cut you off, near pleading.
And what could you really say? That you were worried his mother would see your broken heart the second she set eyes on you? That you were worried you would have to endure his loving confessions about his long-awaited mate to his mother—his mother you loved and that you had known for centuries? That jealousy so potent and toxic would eat you alive and ruin anything that might still be salvageable of your friendship?
“I couldn’t.”
It wasn’t an answer. It didn’t explain anything, but it was the only thing you could say that was not a lie, and that was not as baring as the truth.
Azriel shook his head, looking up at the sky. “You know,” he said quietly, “I thought maybe things were okay, when you asked me to go to Windhaven.”
Your pulse pounded in your ears, thinking about how there was never any question of who would go with you to Windhaven. You were selfish, and there was never anyone else that could have gone with you to that camp.
“And when you came to me that night,” he continued, his eyes slowly falling back to yours. He looked lost, and you hated it. He huffed out a sad laugh. “I was actually grateful that we were there. That things felt normal.” His nose twitched, and his shadows seemed to spread outward in agitation. “Then you were pissed at me again.”
You shook your head slowly. “It wasn’t you I was angry with,” you said quietly. “Not really.”
Azriel looked at you incredulously.
You looked up to the sky. “Fine,” you admitted. “I was pissed at you for taking over.” You were pissed that he felt the need, that he acted like it was his duty, to protect you from some self-righteous male.
You were not his responsibility.
“I did not take over.” Azriel moved toward you, his boots stopping mere inches from yours, and you had to look up slightly to meet his eyes. “You can be pissed at me all you want, Y/N, I don’t care. No one will speak to you that way and get away with it.”
“I do not need—”
“I am always going to protect you!” His hands came up to cup your face, his gentle touch a startling contrast to the ferocity of his words. You stared at him wide eyed, his own gaze searching yours. “I told you that. You know that,” his voice softened exponentially, but his words were spoken with fervor. “I don’t care how angry you are. I don’t care if it pisses you off. I don’t care. I’m sorry—” He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling deep before letting it out slowly. “You are the most important person in my life,” he said softly. Your eyes burned. “I will always protect you with my life.”
Your hand came up to curl around one of his that was still cradling your cheek. Your mind was racing with his words. It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. A foolish, hopeful part of you wanted to consider that maybe—maybe he did feel the same. Maybe—
But you could not forget the terrible reality that he had a mate.
You loved him so much. It was intertwined with every fiber of your being and every thread of it throbbed with painful longing and hope that it might finally be recognized. Every thread was fraying with dread that it might never be tied off, that this love might be unmoored forever until you completely unraveled.
“Sweetheart,” Azriel murmured, and you closed your eyes as his thumb grazed the top of your cheek. “You’re shaking.”
Your eyes flew open, and you suddenly pulled away, his touch falling away from your face abruptly.
“Y/N—”
“I’m fine.”
You were not fine.
You had to get out of there.
“Wait, Y/N—”
You shook your head, your wings flaring out before you really even thought about flying. “I have to get Cassian a gift,” you muttered. Then you took off into the sky, leaving Azriel and your heart behind.
You shook off the tendril of shadow that clung to your wrist.
~ ~ ~
“And explain to me, Rhysand, why I should take this young female into my court?”
Your heart pounded in your chest as you fought against the urge to lean against Azriel. Your muscles trembled from the weight of your exhaustion and dread that this disillusioned plan would all collapse around you at any moment. You could not appear weak in front of the High Lord, not if you wanted this plan to work.
You could stand on your own two feet.
Azriel’s pinky grazed the back of your hand, a gentle touch that could easily be an accident, but then his wing bumped into yours, and you knew Azriel was far too careful for accidental touches. You let yourself breathe in deep, let the comforting and familiar scent of Azriel wash over you as Rhysand argued with his father.
Rhysand’s mother stood a step back from him, but still in front of you and Az, watching their exchange with pursed lips. Rhysand and his father had been talking in circles, their voices growing louder and the room growing darker with every passing minute.
“I think that’s enough,” Rhysand’s mother cut in, without an ounce of fear in her voice.
Rhysand and his father both went silent. Then his father’s eyes narrowed. “The boy must learn how to advocate for himself, Melina—”
“And he has, my Lord,” she agreed placatingly. She stepped closer, and Rhys fell back to stand beside you. “But this is ultimately my request of you. She is Rhysand’s friend, yes.” She glanced back at you with so much warmth and pity it made your stomach twist. “But she has no one. She is of no use in Illyria, no one who cares for her.”
Your eyes burned as her words lodged in your chest, the truth wrapped around them like barbed wire. Azriel stepped closer to you, his arm now nearly pressed against yours. The High Lord’s eyes fell to the two of you, and maybe you should have stepped away, maybe you should have moved closer to Rhys, but the thought of leaving Azriel made your head spin. So you stayed in place, with your arm pressed against Azriel’s, and his shadows licking against the back of your neck and hands.
“No one but us,” she continued, her voice softening, and it took everything in you to keep your tears at bay. “She is not safe in Illyria. Let her stay in the House of Wind. Let her work for me. I need the help.”
The High Lord was quiet for far too long. You desperately wanted to grab Azriel’s hand, but you didn't move. Instead, you waited, the four of you silent as you prayed to the Mother the High Lord agreed.
“Alright,” he said. “She can stay.” You were going to throw up. “But you are mine.”
He wasn’t looking at you. Your eyes slowly followed his gaze, slowly looking at the male standing still beside you.
“Father—” Rhysand started to protest, taking one step forward, but the High Lord cut him off.
“That’s my condition. You want her to stay here? Fine. She can stay. But so does he.”
“He still has to pass the Blood Rite,” Rhys argued.
“Fine,” the High Lord agreed. “You will finish your training, complete the Blood Rite in Spring, and then you will come work for me, Shadowsinger.”
This was insane. Azriel couldn’t sign his life away to the High Lord just because you asked for help.
“But father—”
“Okay.” Azriel stepped forward, his warmth vanishing from your side. “I agree, on one condition.”
“Azriel—” you and Rhysand both spoke at the same time. He glared at both of you.
The High Lord grinned. “In addition to her sanctuary here, you mean?”
You hated that he had yet to refer to you by your name, but you knew that, really, it was inconsequential compared to what your fate would be in Illyria.
“Yes,” Azriel said.
He was so large, standing in front of you. His leathers were stretched around muscles that lined his body, and his wings were wide behind his back that was ramrod straight, his head held high as he met his High Lord’s eye.
You weren’t children any more.
The High Lord waved his hand at Azriel. “Go on.”
“Y/N keeps her wings.”
You stopped breathing.
The High Lord raised his brows, but said nothing.
“Y/N stays here and works for the Lady of Night, and she keeps her wings.” He spared a brief glance at you, and when his eyes met yours, you finally released the breath trapped in your chest. “And I will work for you.”
An inexplicable warmth washed over you, working outward from the center of your chest, thawing the icy terror that you had been trapped in for the last 48 hours, even as you now feared for Azriel. You worried it was selfish to feel such relief when Azriel was practically signing his life away for you.
The High Lord smiled. “I accept.”
~ ~ ~
“We need to talk.”
You glanced at the male behind you, shaking your head as you focused on the training bag in front of you. You landed another punch, a heavy thud reverberating through the room. “Not now, Cassian.”
You heard his steps draw closer as you continued throwing punches, relishing in the dull ache blooming around your knuckles. The sun was just starting to rise, but you had been here for hours.
Cassian caught your fist before you could land the next punch, his face looking unimpressed. “Yes, now.”
You yanked your hand away, scowling at him as you shook your hand out. “What do you want?”
He raised his brows, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes. “Happy Birthday, Cassian. You're my dearest friend, Cassian. I’m so happy to celebrate another year of life with you, Cassian—”
You grabbed his shoulder quickly, your eyes wide. “I’m sorry. Mother—Cassian—”
Cassian smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s okay, Y/N.” He pushed gently at your shoulder, knocking your hand away from his own. “I’m just messing with you.”
“Still,” you murmured, shame making your face warm. You looked down to start unwrapping the cloth around your hands, then you looked back up at him sheepishly. “Happy Birthday.”
He grinned, tugging you into his side. “Thank you.” Then he turned you toward the terrace, guiding you to lean against the cool stone railing not yet warmed by the morning sun. “Now, we need to talk.”
You fought the urge to roll your eyes. “Fine. What is it?”
He leaned forward on his elbows, looking out over the city before glancing at you. “What’s going on with you and Az?”
You sniffed, rubbing at your nose as you looked out at the city, mirroring his position. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said pointedly, shifting his body so he faced you. “Why are things so damn awkward?”
Your face was hot now, and you wished you could pass it off as the sunlight hitting your cheeks. “They’re not,” you lied, terribly.
Cassian scoffed. “Y/N,” he said, unimpressed. You met his eyes warily. His eyes narrowed. “First, you avoided him for weeks. Then, there was the lovely dinner from Hell—”
Gods.
“—then you refused to visit his Mother—”
“He told you about that?” you interrupted, that same shame from when Azriel confronted you yesterday curdling in your stomach.
Cassian paused, seeming to think over his words before just saying, “Yes.” Then he kept going, “Then there was Windhaven, which we will also be talking about, by the way. Then he avoided you for days—”
So he was avoiding you.
“Then he apparently saw you yesterday, but walked into Rhys’s office like a storm cloud, and has been in a foul mood since.” He studied you quietly, and you knew he was leaving out every ounce of unbearable tension and awkwardness that had infused every minute between the events he laid in front of you. “So tell me,” he said, voice softening, “what happened?”
You could probably tell Cassian. You could probably cry, right now, in front of him on this terrace—on his birthday, no less—and he would not hesitate to try to pick up your broken pieces and find a way to glue them back together. He wouldn’t judge you.
But you felt too fragile to do that right now, and he deserved better than that on his birthday.
But he also deserved something, and maybe it would be nice to hand off just a piece of the weight crushing your soul.
“Do you know who his mate is?” you asked quietly, your voice as small as you felt.
Cassian was quiet for so long that you turned to look at him, and when you saw the painful understanding in his eyes you thought you might actually cry. “He hasn’t told me,” is what he finally says, looking back out over the city.
You chuckled weakly. “That’s not a no.”
His lips twitched. “It’s not a yes.”
“Cassian,” you said, staring at the side of his face until his eyes met yours again.
He sighed, leaning heavily against the balcony now. “I don’t know, no.”
Oh.
You bit your lip, not sure what you were expecting. You weren’t sure what you even wanted to hear. Maybe that he did know, and he hated her? Maybe that she was a terrible match and he didn’t know what the Mother was thinking?
You didn’t know.
“Nothing makes sense, if I’m honest with you,” Cassian said.
“What do you mean?”
He glanced at you. “I mean Azriel and his mate.” He tossed his hand toward you haphazardly, as if that cleared anything up.
“What?”
“I didn’t know he told you he found his mate.”
You blinked. You felt like he was talking in circles.
“Cassian,” you said, voice flat and tired. “We were all at that dinner.”
Cassian shook his head. “I mean before that.”
You swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah, well,” you said, “he did.”
His mouth twisted in thought. “Right. Surprising.”
“Cassian, what does this have to do with anything?”
He shrugged. “How long ago did he tell you?”
You threw your arms out. “I don’t know!” You did know. “A couple months ago? After Rita’s.”
He hummed. “Which is when things started to get tense—”
“Cassian,” you cut him off, your heart starting to race. “I’m not in the mood for this.”
Cassian immediately sobered, his expression turning serious. “Azriel found his mate over a year ago.”
You went cold. His words practically shoved you outside of your body, and you were floating just a few inches away from where you stood in front of him, grappling to reorient your already fractured reality to his words. “What?” you rasped.
Cassian shrugged, as if this was an entirely inconsequential detail. “He told me and Rhys a little over a year ago.”
You blinked. “So this entire time he—”
Cassian killed your words with a hard stare. “He what, Y/N?”
“I had no idea,” you said quietly. You had no idea things had changed so much sooner than you were even aware.
Yet they hadn’t, had they? Azriel never acted any different toward you. You were the one that made everything turn sour.
You frowned. “Over a year ago…we were at war,” you said slowly.
Cassian didn’t say anything.
“I thought he must have met her in Velaris, but—” You were going to be sick. “Oh gods, is it Elain?”
Cassian whipped his head to you. “What?” he asked. “Are you insane? Elain is mated to Lucien.”
You shook your head, all logic having been replaced with sick terror. “Mor then—”
“Y/N, for fuck’s sake,” Cassian said, cutting you off quickly. “It’s not Elain, and it’s not Mor.”
“You said you didn’t know—”
“Well I know it’s not them.”
“But—”
“I don’t know where or when he met her,” he said. “He didn’t tell us anything. He just…told us he had a mate. We were pestering him and he snapped, and then made us swear not to say a word because she didn’t know. That’s all, but I’m also not a fool.”
You scowled, recognizing his insinuation that you were a fool.
You were also tired of this conversation, and you were tired of the emotional whiplash. After a long beat of silence, you said, “Is it Nesta?”
Cassian growled, his eyes flashing with brief rage. You smiled, relieved that your jab landed successfully. His nostrils flared. “Enough.”
You rolled your eyes, leaning forward on the balcony again, letting your head droop. The two of you stood in silence for a while, the sun slowly rising higher in the sky as the sounds of the city slowly waking up washed over you.
Velaris had always felt like home.
Even that first night you crossed the city’s borders, clinging to Rhys and Azriel in mild terror, something settled inside you as soon as you were within the city’s limits. The air was cleaner. Fresh. It was still just as cold as Illyria, but it didn’t have that bitter tang that licked at your skin when you crossed the camp’s borders.
The air smelled like salt and jasmine. It was so unlike the stale and rotten air that wafted through Windhaven that, at the time, you could hardly fathom that a whole city full of faeries lived here. Now you were one of them.
“I heard about Windhaven.”
You let out a long breath, your shoulders falling. You were tired. “Cassian,” you said, a warning, but he shook his head.
“I’m done talking about Az.”
You rolled your lip between your teeth and looked out over the city, taking in the soft and joyful life that pulsed through the streets. The stark contrast between here and an Illyrian camp was sometimes so jarring it made your bones ache. “Yeah,” you said quietly, not sure what else to say.
He placed a hand on your shoulder, squeezing once. “You saved that girl.”
You let out a bitter laugh, refusing to meet his eyes. “Right,” you said, “or I just made it worse for her after we left.”
“You didn’t.”
His words held so much certainty, you couldn’t help but turn to meet his gaze. Cassian wasn’t necessarily one for platitudes, but how could he know that for sure? “What?”
“You didn’t make things worse,” he said. “You saved her wings.”
“But how—”
“I’ve been to Windhaven every day since your return,” he explained, his voice unusually soft. Your eyes burned as he stared back at you with overwhelming sincerity. “I’m headed there after this. No one will touch her wings. They all know what will happen if anything happens to that girl—oh.”
You threw yourself into Cassian before he could finish his sentence, your arms circling him in a vice. He let out a soft chuckle before he quickly returned the hug, one hand coming up to rest on the back of your head. “This is much nicer than, What do you want, Cassian? Not now, Cassian—”
You squeezed him harder. “Shut up.”
~ ~ ~
“I want to teach you how to fight.”
You barely glanced at Azriel as you slid another book back onto the shelf. “Me?” you asked, disbelieving.
Azriel followed behind you as you pushed the shelving cart further down the aisle. “Yes.”
“Why?” you asked, pointedly sliding another book back into place.
Why me? Is what you didn’t say. I’m a scholar. I’m the High Lady’s right-hand. I’m not a warrior.
“Why not?”
You ignored him, continuing on with your shelving duties—which, really, were not yours, but there was also no one else willing to voluntarily work in the library. At least, no one that the High Lord had authorized. You liked being here anyway, and the few librarians scattered throughout didn’t mind.
“You are more than capable.”
You hummed. “Yes,” you agreed. “Doesn’t mean I want to.”
Suddenly Azriel’s hand was on your wrist, and he had you twisted around so that your chest was pinned to the book shelf. His point was clearly made, but still he didn’t move away. His body was pressed against yours, his chest grazing the base of your wings with every inhale.
His lips might have briefly brushed the shell of your ear before he said, “I’m serious, Y/N.” His grip on you relaxed, letting go of your arm that he had pinned behind your back, but he didn’t move away. “War is coming.” Which sounded very serious, but all you could think about was how his body was pressed against yours, and his breath was warm against your ear. Goosebumps pebbled along your arms.
Azriel pulled away, and you had to blink yourself back to reality before you slowly turned around to face him.
Your face was warm. Azriel seemed unaffected—serious and stoic as always.
“This city is meant to be impenetrable, I know, but—” He cut himself off, looking away.
“You’re worried,” you said quietly.
He nodded. His shadows slowly curled around your ankles, one gliding up your leg to then curl around your wrist. “If we go to war,” he said, voice hushed, “I won’t be here.”
Your stomach twisted. It had been years since you moved to Velaris, and years since Azriel had become the High Lord’s spy. Your time with Azriel was fleeting as it was. Stolen moments peppered over the years whenever he could slip away, but he has always been around. Sometimes months passed without talking to him, but you knew deep in your bones that if Azriel was worried about this war, it would happen, and he would be gone much longer than a couple of months.
“I just want to know that you’re safe,” he continued, as if he thought he still had to convince you. “I know it might be complicated for you,” he said slowly, gently, as if he was coaxing a timid animal. “Training, I mean. After everything that happened in Windhaven. But it would just be me, and—”
“That was a test,” you cut him off, realization washing over you.
Azriel’s mouth shut, his eyes wide.
“That—” You gestured between him and the bookshelf behind you. “You—you were seeing how I would react?”
Azriel looked only mildly guilty. “Yes.”
Irritation flared in your gut. He was right, of course. You had never spoken about why you never trained. You had never even told him outright that you didn’t want to, but the offer had always been there, unspoken, waiting quietly, and you never took it. Now Azriel was forcing you to confront it, and he knew fully well why you might be hesitant to let someone put their hands on you.
But Azriel had just pinned you to a shelf with his entire body, and not even a flicker of fear arose inside you. Fear was the last thing you felt.
“I’m sorry,” Azriel eventually said. You knew he meant it, but you also knew he didn’t regret it.
“No,” you said, biting the inside of your cheek once as you contemplated his words. “You made your point. And you’re right.”
Azriel’s gaze was a mix of sympathy and worry. “I’m sorry—” he started to say again.
“I want to know how to fight,” you cut him off. His shoulders seemed to visibly relax at the words, and your stomach fluttered at the flash of pride you might have seen in his eyes. You weren’t doing this for him, though. You needed to be able to defend yourself. It was unwise as it was that you had gone this long in the House of Wind without learning.
“But I also want to know how to hide,” you said, and his eyes glinted with excitement. You couldn’t help but grin when you added, “Like a spy.”
~ ~ ~
Your steps faltered as soon as you felt his presence. Your blade wobbled as it came down, losing its clean momentum from your misplaced footing. You growled in frustration, slashing the blade through the air once more before spinning around.
Azriel was standing there in the shadows, watching you quietly.
“What are you doing here, Azriel?”
He walked closer, the moonlight illuminating his face as he stepped into the clearing. He studied you for a moment, his eyes lingering on the sword in your hand. “You’re late for Rita’s.”
You glanced at the sky, your heart dropping when you realized just how far the moon had traveled. You had meant to leave at sunset. “Fuck,” you cursed. Your grip tightened on your sword as you ran a hand through your hair, cursing again when your fingers got caught.
“It’s okay,” Azriel said, voice soft. He moved closer to gently guide your hand away from your face, then smoothed a hand over your hair. He smiled softly when he pulled his hand away, almost hesitant. “Cassian won’t mind.”
You stared at him, taking in the way the moonlight illuminated the hazel of his eyes and glinted off the inky strands of hair that fell over his forehead. He was wearing a black button-up that clung to his body perfectly, molding the contour of his muscles with perfect definition.
You blinked, then shook your head. “It’s not okay,” you grumbled, taking a step back.
Cassian had just spent the morning of his birthday comforting you, letting you lean on him. The least you could do is show up to his birthday party.
“Y/N,” Azriel said, “It’s okay. They were only just leaving the River House when I left to find you. I told them I was picking you up.”
You frowned. “How did you know where I was?”
Azriel’s lips twitched, like the question amused him. “You weren’t hard to find.”
You tried to argue, wanting to point out that you were in a random clearing in the mountains, but Azriel silenced you when he stepped closer again. “You were sloppy,” he said, nodding toward the sword.
“I’m aware,” you snapped.
“You’re fighting angry.”
“I know, Az,” you groaned. “I don’t need the lecture right now.”
“I’m not trying to lecture you,” he said gently. He stepped even closer, the heat from his body pressing against your skin. “Lift the sword.”
“We’re late,” you warned.
“So what’s a few more minutes? Lift it.” He circled around you, moving so that he stood at your back. You waited a moment, but eventually lifted the sword again.
“Good,” he murmured. He was crowding your space now, his body brushing against yours. You could hardly breathe. “Lower your wings for me?” he asked softly, a low hum that reverberated through your body.
Your wings lowered.
Azriel’s arm covered yours, his hand enclosing yours that held the hilt of the sword. “Right now,” he said, practically talking directly into your ear. “You’re angry, and it’s making your movements messy, because that anger is radiating in every direction. Your body doesn’t know what to do with it.”
You swallowed hard, your breaths heavy as you let the truth in his words wash over you. You were angry. You had been angry for months, and sometimes it felt so loud and potent that it might just consume you. It felt like there was nowhere for it to go.
“I always taught you not to fight angry—but, really, that’s shit advice,” he said.
You couldn’t help but smile.
“You care too much to not get angry when you’re fighting,” he continued. You weren’t sure if you should be insulted, but then he said, “That’s not a bad thing, Y/N. Just channel it. Let that anger stabilize you.”
You sucked in a sharp breath when his other hand grazed the membrane of your wing, your body going still when that hand settled on your hip.
“I’m sorry,” Azriel said quietly, his body also going still.
Your heart was beating frantically in your chest, and you were sure he could hear it, but you nodded your head anyway. “It’s okay,” you told him breathlessly.
A beat of silence passed, then Azriel’s hand slid a little closer to your front, his fingers grazing your abdomen. “Direct that anger to your core,” he murmured. His tone had permanently dropped, a low lull in the delicate silence around you. His hand slid back to your hip, then pushed you to step forward with him. “Let that anger guide your movements. Don’t let it force them.”
The two of you stepped back, and his chest was flush with your back. “Now swing. Let your anger extend into your blade. Keep it sharp and defined.”
You closed your eyes for just a moment, taking a deep and steadying breath as you gripped the anger swirling through you. You imagined it as an anchor, locking your mind and body as one. You imagined it as sharp as the blade in your hand. You imagined it washing over your muscles, powering the force of your movements. You swung the blade in one of the most complicated moves you knew, the angles between movements sharp and defined with an elegance you had been reaching for all night.
You grinned as you finished, relief you had been desperate for settling over you. Azriel’s touch fell away, and you turned around to meet his eyes.
He was smiling too. “Now we can go to the party.”
Your grin only widened. “Thank you.”
Azriel’s smile then wavered, his expression suddenly sobering. “Y/N,” he said, “about yesterday—”
“Az—”
“I’m sorry.”
You stared at him. “You’re sorry? Az, you did nothing—”
“I did nothing wrong, so you’ve said,” he brushed you off. “But something is upsetting you,” he went on, voice gentle again. “And Windhaven—it was hard. I know that. And I wasn’t there for you when we got back, and so I’m sorry for that.”
You looked away, eyes falling to your boots, your toes mere inches away from Azriel’s. You shrugged a little, then finally met his eyes again. “I haven’t really been there for you that last couple of months,” you admitted quietly. “So I guess we’re even. Or, really, I still have much to make up—”
“We don’t do that,” Azriel interrupted softly.
“Do what?”
“Keep score,” he said. You felt warm all over as you stood under his gaze, relishing in the comfort of this male you had known and loved your entire life. Just his presence, without worrying about mates or relationships or boundaries that may or may not exist for the first time in months, was enough to quell the fury and despair that had been warring inside your soul for weeks.
You nodded, knowing he was right.
“Whenever you’re ready to talk about whatever is bothering you, I’ll be here to listen,” he promised. “But for tonight,” he said, a smile slowly stretching across his face again, “Let’s have fun and celebrate our friend.”
Your own smile didn’t quite reach your eyes as you half-heartedly joked, “Will you be getting as drunk as our last night at Rita’s?”
Azriel grabbed your hand, jostling it lightly between you before tugging you close again, his shadows already creeping in around you. “No,” he hummed, mirth in his eyes. “I think it’s your turn tonight.”
Your grin was real as you said, “I like the sound of that.”
~ ~ ~
You weren’t kidding when you told Azriel you liked his plan for tonight—specifically, you getting drunk.
He had taken you back to the House of Wind, and he waited for you to bathe and get dressed before taking you to Rita’s. You would like to think that his cheeks were tinged pink as he grabbed your waist because of you—because you were in a silken dress that shimmered in the moonlight and defined every curve of your body, and you felt good, for the first time in a while.
The two of you were silent as he pulled you in close by your hips, his chest lightly brushing yours before his shadows cocooned the two of you in their familiar embrace. Time always seemed to bend when you traveled through the shadows, warping around your body in a way that felt too fast and too slow all at once. The entire time your eyes were glued to his, his own gaze unwavering as he stared back.
You were in front of Rita’s before you could blink, and yet it felt like those seconds with Azriel’s hands on your body and his eyes stuck to yours had stretched into years. Your heart was racing again. It was becoming a problem.
You stepped back, breaking eye contact with an awkward cough. Your body felt far too warm in the chilled night air. Azriel’s hands fell away from your waist, and you took a second to smooth your hands over your dress, recentering yourself before walking into the crowded tavern.
Azriel watched you, and eventually you forced yourself to smile before meeting his gaze again. “Here we go,” you said with a grin that felt too tight on your face.
You didn’t wait for Azriel before you pushed through the door, the dim lighting and cacophony of music and voices disorienting at first. You scanned the room for your friends, and it wasn’t until Azriel placed a gentle hand on the small of your back and pointed toward a corner of the room that you found them.
He laced his fingers with yours before you could even take a step, guiding you through the sea of bodies. His skin was warm against yours, and you relished in the feeling of your hand in his. He pulled you closer to him when an especially tipsy faerie bumped into your shoulder, jostling the two of you.
Eventually you reached the booth everyone was crammed in, Cassian sitting on the end with a wide grin. You expected Azriel to drop your hand, but he only squeezed it tighter when the two of you stopped in front of the table. Your face was hot when Cassian’s gaze dragged up from your hands to your face.
His eyes were already glossy in the dim light, and empty glasses were scattered across the surface of the table. You hoped he kept his questions and observations to himself tonight.
He pushed up from the table, with Nesta stabilizing it frantically as he bumped the corner and glasses clattered together. Cassian didn’t notice, and he pulled you into him for a hug, effectively breaking Azriel’s hold on your hand. “You’re here!” Cassian cheered.
You laughed as your face squished awkwardly against his chest, his arm squeezing your waist on just the verge of too tight. “Happy Birthday, Cass,” you said again, even if you already saw him this morning. This morning felt forever ago anyway.
Cassian pulled back, his gaze set on the male behind you. He kept one arm around your waist before he reached for Azriel, tugging him into a clumsy hug that you were still held hostage in. The three of you were a mess of arms and wings, Azriel’s body half covering your own and Cassian held you both by one arm.
Azriel would deny it, but he was smiling as Cassian hugged him. Even if he didn’t wait long before extricating himself from the messy embrace. You managed to break away too, your hands squeezing Cassian’s forearms once before falling away. “I’ll have to give your gift tomorrow,” you told him.
Cassian’s brow furrowed. “Az already gave me—” His words died as his gaze flicked behind you, and your neck felt hot. Cassian’s smile faltered, but you could tell he fought to keep it on his face, even if the alcohol running through him had eroded his already thin filter. “I can’t wait,” he said.
Your smile was tight, and you were ready to escape the awkward tension that had fallen over you. You locked eyes with Mor on the end of the booth, relief washing over you when she stood up. She grabbed your hand, immediately dragging you toward the bar as she declared it was time for more drinks.
She dropped your hand once you reached the bar, her gaze sympathetic as you gathered your bearings. You didn’t hear what she ordered as you took in the crowd around you, the floor flooded with dancing bodies and loud music. Mor handed you a glass of blue liquid, and you didn’t bother asking what it was before you tossed it back.
Which might have been a mistake, because it was foul.
You gagged, clanking the glass down on the counter. “Mor, what the hell was that?”
She also gagged as she downed her own, her class clinking against yours as she sat it down. “Disgusting,” she said, wiping her mouth. Then her eyes glinted. “But effective.” She waved toward the bartender ordering another round of something that hopefully didn’t taste like acid.
She leaned against the bar while you waited, her gaze flitting up and down before settling back on your eyes. “I figured it was that kind of night.”
You leaned against the bar next to her, your arm brushing hers as someone bumped into you. “Yeah,” you said with a weak laugh. “You could say that.”
Mor glanced toward the table with your friends. You followed her gaze, and your heart skipped a beat when your eyes met Azriel’s, who had taken Mor’s seat at the booth. His shadows were mostly hidden behind his wings, but a few stray ones pulsed to a slow beat. You averted your gaze, your skin feeling even more flushed.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Mor asked, and you were fairly certain she knew more than you had ever told her, just like Cassian, and Nesta, and probably everyone else around you.
“Nope.”
The bartender brought your drinks, and Mor handed you another glass, this time with a pink liquid. “This one is better, I promise,” she said, then clinked her glass against yours. “Let’s get drunk.” Then she tossed the liquid back.
You grinned, following her lead, relieved when the liquid was smooth and sweet. “Let’s dance,” you said, grabbing her hand as you sat the glass down, the two of you giggling as you pushed into the sea of bodies.
It was hot. So many bodies brushed against yours, so many faeries overheating the room as you all moved to the music. Song after song drifted over you, and Mor came and went with drinks in hand more times than you could count. Your blood felt fuzzy, your entire body vibrating from the alcohol coursing through your veins and the electric buzz that permeated the air.
At some point Cassian and Nesta joined you, periodically dancing with you and Mor when they weren’t entirely absorbed with each other. Your head was light and hazy, and you almost forgot why you had felt so heavy before.
Then a hand grabbed your waist from behind, familiar scarred fingers curling around the curve of your hip. You leaned back, your body connecting with a warm chest you knew better than your own skin. Your skin was hot and flushed, tingling all over as the scent of salt and cedar and something so uniquely Azriel enveloped you.
Your head lulled against him, your body moving against his in time with the music. His other hand settled on your other hip, and you let him guide your body however he saw fit. Your heart was racing and your stomach was fluttering, and you never wanted this feeling to end. You never wanted Azriel’s grip on your body to fade, and you never wanted another male to touch you like he was now. You wanted him to claim you in this crowd of people. You wanted everyone to know that you were his.
You wanted everyone to know that he was yours.
Azriel had always been yours.
Your hand came up to curl around the back of his neck, pulling his face down to meet your gaze. You had to tilt your head back to see him, but Mother above, he was everything you ever wanted. He was the most beautiful male alive, and you wanted him so much it hurt.
Why did it have to hurt?
You turned around to face him, his hands never leaving your hips. Your chest grazed against his, and you met his eyes as he continued guiding your bodies together in a dance that was for the two of you alone. Your eyes never left his, his own eyes glossy in the lights streaming across the room. He had a lazy smile on his face that made your stomach flutter, and when he tugged your body closer you sucked in a sharp breath.
“Azriel,” you murmured. In the back of your head, you thought it should have been a warning, but really it was a plea.
Your arms looped around his neck as his thigh slotted between yours, and you thought you might die when your core grazed the rough fabric of his pants. The hem of your dress was undoubtedly rucked indecently high, but you didn’t care. You just wanted more. You wanted everything.
Azriel slowly ground your bodies together in a rhythm that you thought might have loosely followed the music, but it was hard to tell. It was hard to think of anything other than the building pleasure low in your belly and Azriel’s hands on your waist and his breath against your cheek. You guided his head up with your hand splayed on his cheek, and when he met your eyes he looked like he might devour you there in the middle of Rita’s.
It was exactly how you had always wanted him to look at you.
You wanted him to want you. You wanted him to forget about anyone else that might think they had a piece of his heart, because Azriel was yours.
Azriel’s tongue briefly wet his lips, and you didn’t think before you pushed yourself up on your toes to capture his lips with yours.
And he kissed you back.
Your head was floating, possibly completely detached from the rest of you. You weren’t entirely sure you were even still inside your own body, except for the feeling of an undeniable warmth that flooded through your chest. Azriel’s hands slid from your hips to the back of your thighs, his fingers curling around the hem of your dress and tugging it down, all while his lips chased yours.
His hands gripped your legs tight, his fingers undoubtedly leaving indents in your flesh as he simultaneously tugged you closer and kept your dress from sliding too far up. Sparks of electricity flew everywhere your body touched his, leaving your entire body vibrating. The sounds of the music and the voices around dulled into a muffled buzz, your entire world view shifting to focus solely on Azriel.
Your skin was hot with want, flamed only by inconceivable stores of repressed emotions and desire breaking through the surface. You wanted to curl inside of Azriel and never leave. You wanted this moment to stretch for an eternity, bottling up the euphoria coursing through you and never letting it fizzle away.
One of his hands had migrated to your face, cupping your jaw in a way that you thought might have been reverence. The touch was so gentle compared to the firm grip his other hand still had on your thigh, guiding your body against his lazily as your lips melded with fervor.
Why had you never done this?
Well, you had once—
His teeth nipped your lower lip, making you gasp at the light sting before his lips latched onto the sensitive skin below your ear. Your stomach flipped, and your heart was pounding as he moved down the column of your throat, the drag of his lips leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Someone bumped into Azriel, and the two of you careened to the side a bit, his grip tightening on you as a low growl rumbled from his throat. The floor still tilted beneath you even as he held you upright, and you blinked once, and then twice, willing the feeling away.
Then you were engulfed in darkness that was cool against your skin, and you were stumbling backward until your back met a wall. Azriel started laughing against your neck, his hands still holding your hips, and he was likely the reason you didn’t completely crash into the wooden wall behind you.
You started laughing too, vaguely recognizing that you were outside of Rita’s now, only the moon lighting the dim alley. The air was cool, but it only made you feel more flushed, more exposed now that you were alone with Azriel.
Azriel resumed his kisses along your neck, trailing down to your collarbone as he slotted his thigh back between your legs. The pressure at your core was consuming, traveling upward in shaky tendrils that stole your breath and twisted your stomach.
There was a cacophony of sensations traveling through your body. Azriel’s hands on your waist. His lips on your neck. His whispers that sounded like “perfect” and “beautiful” but you couldn’t be sure because your ears sort of felt like they had been stuffed with cotton. The tension in your core that felt like a confusing blend of impending euphoria smeared with doom.
Your breaths started to grow faster, and fuck, it was really hot.
The world was spinning.
You gripped Azriel’s shoulders, and at first he sank further into you, his body melting into yours. Then your motions slowed, and your mouth was watering, and you must have pushed him back a bit, because his lips were no longer on your skin, and his hands were cupping your face.
“Hey,” he said, squeezing your face slightly to drag your eyes to him. You blinked, trying to focus, but the high you had been riding was crashing down fast, and your head was no longer blissfully floating. “Y/N,” he said, and you pulled your gaze back to him again. “Are you okay?”
He sounded worried.
Maybe you should be?
Maybe you shouldn’t have drank that last shot Mor gave you, or the one before that.
You might be really drunk.
You might—
You threw up.
Everything came rushing up, and you crumbled to the ground, knees hitting the stone hard with stray pebbles biting at your skin. You heaved, and heaved, expelling the monstrous cocktail of alcohol you had tossed down throughout the night.
Gentle hands brushed your hair away from your face, rubbing your back soothingly as you shook, irrational fear coursing through you. Maybe you were dying.
But eventually the nausea passed, and while your head still spun and your thoughts were covered in mud, you knew you were not, in fact, dying. You were just drunk.
Far drunker than you had ever been, but still just drunk.
You were also crying, but your tears were quiet and quickly wiped away by Azriel with gentle hushes. “You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’re okay, sweetheart.”
“I’m sorry,” you said, or maybe it sounded more like a whimper. Your throat hurt. You weren’t sure what exactly you were apologizing for, but you felt like it needed to be said.
“No,” Azriel choked out, wiping his thumb under your eye again. He swayed a bit, or maybe that was you. “My turn to take care of you, right?”
You closed your eyes, smiling a little, leaning your head back against the wall that you somehow had ended up sitting against. Your chest pulsed with warmth again, washing away the chill that had crashed inside you, and replacing the uncomfortable heat you had been washed in moments ago.
Azriel lifted you, your body curling into his chest with ease. You hid your face against his chest, the thump of his heart calming your still racing one.
Azriel would take care of you.
You loved him.
~ ~ ~
part 4
~ ~ ~
a/n: I won't lie this part was a little hard for me to write because it felt it little bit like a filler but I needed it to get to the next part which I'm excited for!!
Hiiii! I was re reading some of your works (obsessed!) and I was wondering if you’d ever consider a pt. 2 to hold me tonight? It’s such a great angsty piece and really just pulls on the heartstrings 😭
hello!! thank you for reading and I’m so glad you liked it 🫶🏻 I wish I could say yes….but it’s hard for me to go back to a story once I consider it done. I wrote hold me tonight when I was sick back in the winter and it was meant to just be a one off to pass the time, so idk if I could write a pt 2 now without it feeling forced? I’m sorry :(
I love sick fics and angst and the caretaking trope though so trust there will be more fics like that in the future!
Hi, love your writing and was wondering when your requests will be open again. I have a great idea and I need my favorite writer to write it!!! ✨✨
hello!! thank you you’re so sweet 🥲 I probably won’t open requests at least until after I’m done with this series! it will just depend on how I’m feeling after that if I want to open requests but I’ve definitely thought about it. I love hearing everyone’s different ideas so much but I also feel bad when I don’t get to everyone’s requests 🙈
content warnings: apathetic parental figure, death of a parent, abuse from a guardian, implied domestic violence, canon-typical violence, menstrual cycle/blood, anxiety/fear, heavy emphasis on (and depiction of) maltreatment of females and misogyny in Illyrian culture, language, angst, more yearning
word count: 9.8k
synopsis: Azriel was always meant to be yours.
trope: childhood friends to lovers
part 1
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
“I need your help.”
Azriel froze, his wings flaring out before turning around to face you. “Hello to you, too.”
You smiled sheepishly, your heart beating hard against your ribs. “Sorry,” you said, slowly closing the distance between you. The faelights lining the hall glinted in his eyes, mirth shining in his irises. There were no real signs of annoyance, and that relieved you more than it should—more than you had any right to feel. “Hi.”
Azriel smiled, his shoulders relaxing. “Hi.”
“Hi,” you said again, warmth creeping up your neck.
Azriel’s smile widened.
You cleared your throat, hating the way the tips of your ears burned under his gaze. “I need your help,” you said again.
Azriel’s smile faded, his expression sobering. “What’s wrong?”
“I have to go to Windhaven.”
Azriel went preternaturally still.
The words made your stomach twist, sharp claws scraping at the inside of your chest. Just thinking of going back there made your heart race and skin prickle. You had only been back a handful of times, only on occasions where it was absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, this was one of those times.
You could not go back alone.
No matter how necessary the trip, you would not step foot inside that camp without someone else with you.
Without Azriel.
“Why.” His voice was cold with little inflection, the question not really a question at all.
You rubbed at your upper arm, shifting under his gaze. “Do you remember my friend, Freya?”
Azriel furrowed his brows, a clear challenge in his gaze. “Your friend.”
You rolled your eyes. “Fine, a girl a few years above me that I ate lunch with.” It was too pitiful to argue that she was your friend—at least, that you considered her one. Even if she barely spoke to you, even if the most communication you held with her was not until after you fled Windhaven, and it was really only a channel of necessity.
She was kind.
And she was a victim of the same toxicity and abuse that you were. The only difference was that you made friends in higher places, and you got out.
Azriel nodded slowly, and you weren’t sure if he remembered her or if he was telling you to continue. It didn’t really matter.
“They found her body in the woods last week.” The words were hollow as they fell from your lips. Clinical and unfeeling. You kept the guilt and pain and anger shoved deep inside, hidden from the surface where they could fester.
Azriel stepped closer, mere inches now between the toes of your boots. His scent wafted over you, and his shadows extended out to curl around your wrists. You didn’t deserve their comfort. It was not yours to take—the same thought had sent you spiraling mere weeks ago in the kitchen above you—but you needed it. You needed the comfort so desperately there was nothing else to do but take it.
“What happened?” Azriel asked.
You shook your head, chest aching as you replayed the conversation with Rhys. “No one is talking. No one reported it. The only reason—” Your voice cracked, and you inhaled sharply, willing your emotions away. “The only reason we know is because I asked Cassian to check on her. It had been too long since I heard from her, and I was worried.”
“You talked with her?” Azriel asked, surprise limning his voice.
You nodded, staring at the floor. “Sporadically. Her, and a few other girls I grew up with. It wasn’t—it’s not friendship—not really. I just, I wanted—” You rubbed a hand over your face, steeling the tremble that was taking hold. “I wanted them to have someone they could turn to if they needed help.” You shook your head. “A lot of good it did.”
Azriel grabbed you by your shoulders, his grip firm and sudden. “Y/N,” he said, forcing your gaze to meet his. “This was not your fault.”
Your nose burned and your eyes started to water. “It feels like it,” you whispered. “I left them there.”
Azriel shook his head. “You survived. You had to leave. Y/N—” he said again, his hand coming up to pull your gaze back to him. “You had no choice.”
You couldn’t stop the trembling of your lip, and Azriel didn’t hesitate to pull you into his chest, your face falling against the familiar leather covering his chest. A sob fell from your lips, and he squeezed you tighter, one arm wrapped beneath your wings while the other hand held your head against his chest. “We’ll find out what happened to her,” he murmured against the top of your head.
You cried.
You cried in the arms of the male you loved and you knew you could never have, but would always want, and who had always been there.
~ ~ ~
“They clipped Lara’s wings today.”
Azriel stopped in his tracks, the crunch of his boots on the snow dusted forest floor falling silent. His shadows flew outward, moving haphazardly all around the two of you, swirling with restless anger that had nowhere to go. He clenched his fist, and slowly they slithered back to pool beneath his wings.
“Is she okay?” he asked softly.
You shrugged, continuing your walk. “I don’t know how any of them survive it,” you said, voice desolate with the inevitable future in front of you. “But her father was angry. She hid two cycles from him,” you said, then swallowed hard. “He did it himself.”
As if losing flight was not torturous enough. As if you were not horrified enough at the prospect of the camp healer stealing your wings power from you, what Lara endured was a new source of terror.
Azriel reclaimed his place beside you, matching his pace to yours despite his height over you. “My mother is terrible,” you murmured. “Cruel at the worst of times, apathetic at best.” You stretched out your hand to let a tendril of shadow weave between your fingers. Your lips twitched, just barely. “But it is hard to hate her when I see what they have done. When I think about what my father must have been like. It is no doubt a mercy that he died when I was just a babe.”
Azriel was watching you when you finally turned to look at him. “It could be me next,” you rasped.
He started shaking his head, but you didn’t let him speak. “I am fourteen, Azriel.” You huffed a sad and pathetic laugh. “I take the herbs Lara gave me, but even those only got her to seventeen—sixteen, really.”
Azriel grabbed your arm, stopping you. “Rhys’s mother was never clipped.”
You scoffed, pulling your arm away. “She is the Lady of the Night Court. Her mate is the High Lord and he stopped them.” You shook your head. “My mother is a widowed laundress that the camp lords look at as a speck of dirt on their boots.”
This time it was you who reached for him, your hand wrapping around his forearm and squeezing tighter than you should. “I can’t lose my wings, Azriel,” you told him, your desperation and fear clear in your voice. “Flying is all I have.”
He nodded, his free hand coming up to grab your shoulder. “I won’t let them take them.”
~ ~ ~
Windhaven was as cold and drab as you remembered. You didn’t understand how Cassian could stomach coming back here all the time. The air was bitter enough to make your lungs burn, and the scowls of the males that watched your every move made your stomach roil.
You hated how much this place still affected you.
Azriel walked beside you, his wings flared wide and with all seven siphons gleaming in the scarce sunlight that pushed through the overcast skies. He didn’t touch you, but his presence was close enough to feel his warmth radiate against you. You willed your spine into a rod of steel, your back straight and head held high, wings wide enough that they occasionally brushed against Azriel’s.
That was a statement in and of itself.
Azriel briefly met your eyes before he pulled open the door to the only tavern in Windhaven, where you would inevitably find Devlon. Azriel gestured for you to enter first. You nodded once, then stepped over the threshold. The air was musty and thick with the scent of sweat and booze, and you suddenly missed the bitter cold of the Illyrian wind. The door swung shut with a loud thud, Azriel’s chest briefly brushing your shoulder as he stepped behind you.
Your eyes scanned the seedy room, ignoring the leers and sneers of the males scattered around worn and decrepit wooden tables. It did not take long to find Devlon hiding in the back, tucked inside a booth in the back corner, his closest men surrounding him.
It did not take long for him to find you.
His eyes widened for a moment before they narrowed into a scowl. He tossed some coins on the table, his hand of cards following as you made your way toward him. “Lord Devlon,” you barked, your voice loud and sharp in the muffled murmur of the tavern. Azriel stayed a mere half a pace behind you. You stopped in front of his table, your eyes never leaving his. “We need to have a talk.”
He scoffed, then reached for his glass of amber liquid. “It’s not bad enough I have to listen to the bastard of a guard dog Rhysand sends every month?”
You felt Azriel bristle behind you. You felt his flare of anger and unbridled rage flare deep inside your own chest. You smirked, your eyes sharp and lips curled back just enough that it might even be considered a snarl. You leaned closer, your hand resting on the disgustingly damp and sticky tabletop as you met his eyes. “Come with me.”
Then you pulled back, and you walked out the back entrance, leaving Devlon and his men to bumble around like idiots in front of Azriel. You didn’t wait to hear the open and slam of the door before walking toward the fighting ring at the center of the camp.
You didn’t fight the self-satisfied smile that bloomed on your face as you heard the sound of two sets of footsteps in the freshly fallen snow. You made a show of looking around, but you did your best not to look in the direction of anywhere that might stab you through the heart. When the footsteps settled, when you felt that familiar grounding presence at your side again, you finally turned around to face Devlon.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” you drawled, he and you knowing very well the camp looks the same as it did five centuries ago.
“Get on with it,” he snapped, flinging his hand out. “What could Rhysand possibly want now?”
Your face turned stony, all faux amusement dropping from your eyes. “Who murdered Freya?”
“Who?” he had the audacity to sneer.
“You know who,” you snarled, stepping close. “Unless you mean to tell me that you don’t even know who lives and dies in your own camp.”
His eyes flared with undiluted rage, his throat bobbing. He glanced at Azriel behind you, his lip curling in disgust. “She was found in the woods. Stupid bitch wandered away from camp, made herself lunch for some animal.”
A gentle phantom touch brushed the back of your neck, soothing the flare of anger that roared inside you.
“Who found her?” you made yourself ask, voice tight.
“Her husband.”
“And you believed him?”
“You question the integrity of one of my generals?”
The words squeezed the air from your lungs. “A general,” you repeated. “Your general’s wife died, and you forgot who she was?”
Devlon didn’t respond.
You tilted your head back, folding your hands behind your back. “Forgive me if I do not trust your judgement of character,” you sneered. “We will be staying a few days.” You turned to Azriel, whose eyes were cold daggers pointed directly at Devlon. “We will continue this in the morning. Early,” you added, looking him up and down with blatant disgust. “Sober.”
You turned on your heel, heading for the only place you ever once called home in this wretched camp.
~ ~ ~
“Where are you going?”
You turned toward the voice that had appeared beside you, their jovial warmth friendly and unthreatening. Cassian was grinning as he fell into step with you, his hair pulled back with a leather tie he had undoubtedly cut himself. Pieces were falling down and around his face, and he squinted briefly as he pushed one out of his eyes.
You huffed, stopping. “Come here.”
Cassian blinked owlishly, but stepped closer anyway. You twirled your finger. “Turn around, and crouch down.”
He did as you asked, and when your fingers undid the loose knot in his hair his shoulders started shaking with laughter. “You’re a mess,” you grumbled.
“At least I tried to tame it.”
You rolled your eyes. “You could just cut it.”
He lifted a hand to his chest, his cheeks stretching into a grin as you pulled all of his hair back. “You wound me.”
You wound the leather around his hair, tying it in a tight knot, then patted his shoulder. “There,” you said.
Cassian rose to his full height, pulling you into his side with a grin still plastered to his face. “Thank you.”
You shoved him away lightly, continuing on your path. Cassian didn’t leave. “Where are you going?” he asked again.
“Flying,” you huffed.
“With who?”
You cut him a glance. “You are such a busybody,” you mumbled. “I’m meeting Azriel.”
Cassian’s brows raised. “You two spend a lot of time together.”
Your glare was sharper this time. “He’s my friend.”
“I’m your friend,” Cassian countered. “Your first friend.”
You huffed a laugh. “I didn’t know stealing my cookies was your version of friendship.”
He bumped your shoulder. “I did that once. Then gave you two back the next day.”
You smiled softly, then shrugged. You both knew that you really became close friends through Azriel, but it didn’t matter how. You had Az, Cas, and Rhys now. You weren’t alone. That’s all that mattered. “Azriel is my favorite friend.”
“Okay,” he huffed. “That one hurt.”
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, your grin widening when you found him glaring.
“No, but seriously,” he said, stopping you again with a hand on your arm. “Is there something—”
“Y/N.”
Your head snapped toward the familiar quiet voice, your smile morphing into something softer. The center of your chest warmed when you saw him, your heart racing as he walked closer to you and Cassian. He glanced warily at Cassian, an uncharacteristic uncertainty settling on his face. “I didn’t know Cassian was coming with us.”
Before Cassian could open his fat mouth, you shook your head quickly. “He’s not.” You looked at Cassian, smiling and raising your eyebrows pointedly. “He was just leaving. Right, Cas?”
Cassian looked far from pleased from you evading his interrogation, but acquiesced nonetheless. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I’ll see you at training tomorrow, Az.” He clapped you on the shoulder, firmer than necessary, his eyes flaring with mischief and a promise to resume this conversation later—not that there was anything to talk about. “Thanks for your help, sweetheart.”
Your eyes widened, your cheeks flaring with heat at his stupid pet name, and knowing exactly why he said it.
He grinned, leaving the two of you alone with a half-hearted wave.
You took a deep breath, calming the flush of your cheeks before facing Azriel again. He was still watching Cassian walk back toward the camp. His jaw twitched, and he jumped when you touched his arm.
You smiled softly again when he looked at you. “Ready?” you asked.
He nodded silently, falling into step beside you. The clearing you usually met at wasn’t far.
“Is there something going on with you and Cas?” Azriel asked quietly. His shoulders were tense and his wings were flared, and his shadows were moving around him restlessly.
“What?” you asked. “No! He was just being an ass.” You waved away the notion, grimacing slightly. “As usual.”
“Oh.” Some of the tension visibly fell away from Azriel, his shoulders falling a bit. A small smile pulled at his lips when he looked at you again. It started to grow, and mischief glinted in his eyes the longer he watched you.
“What?” you asked again, growing wary.
He shook his head, looking away for a moment. “Nothing.” He licked his lips, the smile still fighting to stay on his face. “Did I tell you I learned something new?”
“No,” you said slowly. “At training?”
“Not quite.”
His arms reached out to circle your waist, and he pulled your body flush against his, sending your heart into a frenzy. You met his eyes in bewilderment, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement, and suddenly the two of you were engulfed in darkness.
In shadows.
You clung to Azriel as your body fell through some otherworldly ether, his shadows cocooning the two of you in a cool swath of silk as you catapulted through space.
Then light blinded you, and you buried your face in his chest before you started to freefall. You screamed as you plummeted, and Azriel laughed as his wings spread out, catching the two of you in the air with a harsh jolt.
You pulled your head away from his chest, just barely meeting his eyes. “What the hell was that?” you yelled.
Azriel’s eyes were bright as he carried you through the sky, the drag of your own wings against the wind not seeming to bother him in the slightest. He shrugged, meeting your gaze with a relaxed smile. “Rhys called it winnowing, but he said it feels different from when he does it.”
You were smiling as you shook your head. “You’re an asshole.”
Azriel grinned, and giggled when he spun the two of you around, the wind whipping at your face. “Your face was priceless,” he laughed.
“You could hardly even see it,” you scoffed.
Azriel looked lighter than he had in a long time—maybe since you had known him. He looked beautiful. You hated the dagger of worry that stabbed at your chest. “Maybe don’t tell anyone else about this?” you said carefully.
Azriel’s eyes shuttered, his jaw clenching. He nodded, as if he had already decided the same thing. “They already think I’m different enough—a threat.”
You shook your head, pulling one of your hands free from their clutch on his leathers to cup his face. “This is amazing, Az,” you said, voice as gentle as you could make it in the wind around you.
“I had to tell you,” he said.
“I’m glad you did.”
~ ~ ~
Azriel followed behind you silently, his presence warm at your back as you walked past roaming males in the dark of the camp. Only once you enter Rhys’s house—his mother’s house—and the door shut behind the two of you, did Azriel speak.
“I did not know we would be staying.”
You turned around quickly, guilt unfurling rapidly in your chest. “Neither did I.” You swallowed hard, looking around at the achingly familiar furniture covered with only a faint layer of dust. Cassian must come here. “I’m sorry. You can leave. I should never have—”
“I am not leaving you here,” he said quickly, moving close.
“I can’t ask you to stay here, Azriel. It’s unfair. You don’t deserve—”
“I can handle Devlon, and I can handle sleeping on this rancid land.” His voice was smooth and steady, his eyes not leaving yours. “I’m not worried about me,” he said quietly. “I’m worried about you.”
You breathed in deep, the dust floating around you scratching at your throat. “I’ll be fine,” you said, nodding as if that would make it true. “I need to do this for Freya.”
Azriel nodded, his hand coming out to rub your upper arm. “We’re going to find who did this.” His jaw clenched, the muscle in the corner jumping. “We might already know who.”
You let out a hollow, exasperated laugh. “How is it still like this?” you asked. “How are these things still happening? How is Devlon, of all Illyrians, considered the most progressive camp lord?”
“I don’t know,” he murmured, his hand gently coaxing you to fall against his chest, his arms circling around your waste. “I’ve long thought they’re past saving.”
“It’s not fair.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you wanted to burrow inside of him. You wanted to cling to him like dew, and never leave. You wanted him. All of him. Forever.
~ ~ ~
“Azriel,” you rasped, leaning over his bed. You reached for him, shaking his shoulders far less gently than you should to wake a sleeping Illyrian male. “Azriel,” you sobbed.
He shot up in bed, his shadows flaring out to wrap around you. Not to protect him—to soothe you. You only cried harder.
“What happened?” he hurried out, sleep slipping from the panicked syllables. “Y/N?” He reached for you, pulling you down onto his bed as he sat up. “Hey—hey, what happened? Are you hurt?”
“She’s dead,” you hiccuped. You collapsed against him, your head falling into his lap as you curled up on your side. “She’s dead. My mother—”
Azriel’s arms held you tight, his wings curling around the two of you, a heavy warmth that dulled the sharpest edges of the cold terror protruding from your chest. You faintly heard the opening of a door. You didn’t care.
“She was the general’s mistress,” you rasped. “She didn’t know I knew, but I did. He—he—” Another sob tore from your throat, agony rippling through you. “What do I do? Where do I go?”
Azriel held you tight, rocking you gently. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
You fell asleep wrapped in his arms, with your head in his lap and his wings covering your trembling body, and tears slowly drying on your cheeks in the dark of night.
~ ~ ~
The mattress in Cassian’s old room was cold and lumpy, a worn down sack of cotton that was falling apart at the seams. It had surely been replaced in the five centuries since you left here, but it was long past due for another.
You wiggled around, the sheets catching around your feet and causing a flare of irritation in your chest. Eventually you yanked them down over your chest, your arms falling at your sides with a huff. Moonlight streamed in through the single window, no drapes to block it from falling across your skin. Your heart was beating hard in your chest, a half-beat off rhythm as your mind struggled to find rest in this place that had left so many scars on your soul.
Cassian’s scent lingered in the air, on the old shirt you had found shoved inside his wardrobe. It was familiar, at least. It masked all of the other acrid scents that bombarded you the second you stepped foot inside this camp.
You were still left feeling hollow. You ached from the inside out, and every minute that passed without sleep pricked against your skin—a stark reminder that you would be in no shape to confront Devlon in a few mere hours if you spent the night lying awake in the closest place you had to a childhood home.
Even if you were never allowed to live there.
The house was silent, save for your frustrated sighs. A stillness that felt more suffocating than peaceful falling over you. You tried to listen for Azriel, for his heartbeat, his breaths—anything to distract your spiraling mind—but it was utterly silent.
You knew he was still here. You could feel his presence, even if he was lying in the room across the hall. You couldn’t explain it, but you had always been able to feel him when he was near.
A sixth sense that was beginning to feel more like a curse than a blessing. A taunt, rather than a glimmer of hope. He was not yours to keep track of. He was not yours to want.
And yet, you knew the only thing, the only person, that could calm your racing mind and rising anxieties, was him.
It was selfish to take from him what he should be giving to another. It was selfish to hate the female that would one day have him, that had done nothing wrong but be blessed with Azriel as her mate.
He just—he had always been yours, in some twisted, round about way. Ever since you were young and naive and just happy to have a friend, he was yours. And you were his.
It was futile to talk yourself out of going to him. The wooden floors were rough against the soles of your feet as you opened your door, hesitating for only a second as you looked down the empty hallway, then walked toward Azriel’s door.
You fist hovered in front of the door, your heart pounding as you chastised yourself for wanting him—for needing him. You didn’t just want Azriel, you needed him like you needed air. If there was ever any doubt that he was a lifeline to your heart, this impromptu trip to hell had incinerated it.
You knocked. It was just a soft rap on the door, quiet enough that he might not hear it—if he were anyone else.
“Come in,” his muffled voice called.
Something warmed in your chest knowing that at least you had not been lying awake alone. You opened the door slowly, an unusual shyness cloaking you as you met his eyes. He was under his covers, his back resting against the wall at the head of the bed.
His torso was bare.
Your eyes lingered on his chest, on the curve of his pectorals that border the ridges of his abdomen. You watched the movement of a shadow that flitted across his stomach, then hid behind his back. Your eyes snapped up to meet his. Your mouth was dry when you said, “I can’t sleep.”
His cheeks seem flushed in the glow of the candle beside his bed. “Me neither,” he murmured.
You shut the door behind you, your eyes not leaving his. “Can I stay here?” you asked quietly.
Azriel nodded, his lips turning up so softly it melted one of the many icy tendrils curled around your ribs. He shifted closer to the edge of the far too small bed to hold two Illyrians, patting the small space beside him.
Your shoulders relaxed, falling from where they had been pinned close to your ears without you noticing. It was then that you noticed your legs were bare, and nothing but Cassian’s thread bare shirt was covering your skin.
In theory, this was not a big deal.
You and Azriel had been friends for centuries. You had seen each other in various states of undress in the most vulnerable and inopportune times, had cared for each other in moments of distress—this should have been nothing.
It still felt different.
It felt raw and intimate in a way you had never experienced, and you again felt foolish and guilty.
This was wrong. You should leave. You should leave, and not take advantage of your kind and unsuspecting friend when you knew you were only feeding your poor and delusional heart with misplaced hope that would logically never bloom to fruition. However, only your mind had the luxury of logic, and it was doing a piss poor job at protecting your feeble heart from further ruin.
You moved toward his bed, pulling back the covers and nestling down into the edge of the pillow behind him. Your nose was level with his hip with barely an inch between you, and your wings were drooping over the side of the bed, but you were infinitely more comfortable in here, beside Azriel, than you had been alone across the hall.
Azriel leaned over toward the bedside table, blowing the candle out with a small puff of air, then sank down into the bed so he was face to face with you, your heads sharing the lone pillow at the head of his bed. His soft cedar scent wrapped around you, his warmth enveloping you like a second blanket, and your eyes grew tired embarrassingly quickly.
You took in the muted hazel of his eyes, the flecks that glinted in the moon beams cast around the room, and you thought he might have been doing the same, his eyes never wavering from yours. Goosebumps pebbled across your skin, and the smile that pulled at your lips was entirely involuntary, pure content and love consuming your weary and battered mind for the first time in months—the Illyrian hell hole outside these walls be damned.
“Goodnight,” Azriel murmured, his voice growing heavy with his own exhaustion.
You might have moved impossibly closer, you might have let your legs brush his and your arms graze against the warm skin of his chest—it was purely due to the lack of space, of course. Azriel smiled softly at you, and his arms wrapped around your body, pulling you tighter against his chest, forcing your head to rest directly against him.
You melted into him, of course. His arms had always been where you felt safest, even in the darkest and most trying times of your life. There was no fighting it.
Even if that terrible, fleeting stone of guilt ricocheted through your body. Even if it just barely grazed your heart, reminding you of the precarious edge you were standing on, an inevitably agonizing heart break waiting for you below.
Tonight you would ignore it just a little longer. Tonight you would hide from your shredded soul in the arms of the male you loved, and would pretend, for just a few hours, he loved you too.
~ ~ ~
“Augustus makes an attor seem friendly.”
Your words were meant to be joking. They were meant to just be a jeering jab at your horrible cousin who you had never properly met, had not known existed until Devlon thrust you into his care the day after your mother’s funeral. Instead they sounded hollow and aching, entirely too much truth weighing them down.
Azriel noticed.
“Has he done something?” he asked quietly, as if he was afraid too loud a cadence might summon the wretched male to this desolate clearing.
You blinked, staring blankly at the snow below you. You were tired of snow. You were tired of the cold. Sixteen years spent living in eternal winter, and you were prepared to commit an atrocity if it meant you never had to see these snow-covered mountains again.
“Nothing new.”
You felt the tension rippling off of Azriel. His siphons littering his chest and arms flared, his copious stores of power simmering over. “That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s not good enough.”
Your head snapped toward him, your lips pulling back in an instinctive snarl. “It’s all I can give you.”
Azriel blinked, otherwise unflinching against your anger. “You’re keeping things from me,” he said quietly.
It was the truth, and it hurt, no matter how gentle he laid it in front of you.
Your mother was unkind. You even thought her cruel, once. Now you lived with a male who knew the true definition of cruelty. A male so toxic he made your hair stand straight on your arms and a chill ran down your spine every time you stepped foot through the door. A male who yelled instead of spoke, whose anger was a baseline state for him.
He was a male that used violence more than words. Who left bruises in his wake. Who reminded you every day he hated you, and he hated his uncle that impregnated the whore that birthed you, and was stupid enough to get herself killed.
What of his father? you sometimes wanted to ask. Was he stupid too? How did he die?
Speaking those words would be sure to get you killed.
A hand wrapped around your arm, the sudden touch making you flinch, your entire body curving away out of pure instinct. Your body froze when you realized what you did, when you recognized the scarred hand that had immediately fell away from you.
Horror sluiced through you when you met Azriel’s wide, vicious eyes. He was trembling, his shadows stretching out farther than he usually let them these days, his wings twitching behind him. “Let me see your arm.”
“No.”
“Y/N,” he said, your name spoken so low and slowly it forced your mind to slow down. “Let me see.”
“I can’t,” you whispered, your voice cracking.
Azriel’s jaw clenched, a puff of air leaving his nose as his hand squeezed into a fist, then slowly uncurled. “Please,” he asked gently. “I only want to help.”
“You have to promise me you won’t do anything,” you pleaded. Azriel’s throat bobbed as you stared at him. “Promise me, Azriel.”
“I promise,” he whispered.
You nodded, sniffing once to push away the tears that were beginning to burn at the back of your throat. You shrugged out of your jacket, exposing your bare arms to the bitter cold, and revealing the mottled bruises in various colors decorating your skin.
Azriel’s breath hitched when he saw. You couldn’t meet his eyes, and you hated that you still flinched when he touched your arm. He froze, staring at your face. You could only nod.
He continued his inspection, his hands gently grazing over your skin, careful not to hurt you. A tear fell from the corner of your eye, and you quickly wiped it away. Then his fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, squeezing the fabric tight, and when you finally met his gaze, gave him the permission he was seeking, he lifted your shirt.
“Y/N,” he said, his voice broken as he took in the purple blooms across your ribs. His fingers lightly traced the ridges of your ribcage, pulling away only when you sucked in a sharp breath as he passed over a sensitive area. He lowered your shirt slowly, and you could feel him staring at you, even as you stared down at the snow. “He could have killed you,” he whispered.
“He threatened to this morning,” you admittedly quietly, pathetically. “That was a first.”
He helped you slide your coat back on, doing up the wing slats silently with careful fingers.
“You need to report him?”
You laughed mirthlessly. “To who? Devlon?” You shook your head. “I’ll be fine.” You stood up from the boulder the two of you had been perched upon, your boot slipping just a bit before you gained your composure. “I’ve survived a year with him. I can survive more.”
“Y/N—”
“I’ll see you later, Azriel.”
~ ~ ~
“My condolences for the passing of your wife.”
The male leaning against the wall of one of the buildings surrounding the square, watching the young males train, lazily dragged his gaze up to meet yours. His eyes flit to Azriel standing behind you, a flash of contempt shining in his irises before he seemed to force it away. He met your gaze again, his arms still crossed over his chest as he said flatly, “My wife is dead. Your condolences mean nothing.”
“I’m sure,” you answered, forcing sympathy into your tone. “I grew up with Freya,” you said, watching him carefully. “She was my friend.”
The male went rigid, indignation and rage roaring behind his eyes. “She never told me she was friends with one of the High Lord’s whores. Though, it’s unsurprising.”
Azriel stepped forward, but you blocked his path. “What happened to her?” you asked, ignoring his disrespect.
His eyes narrowed, and he finally stood up straight. “She ran off in the middle of the night after letting her delusions mislead her. Guess she wandered too far, made herself a meal.”
You had no idea what he meant by that, but you knew in your bones you were staring into the eyes of the male that ended Freya’s life. And he was a general of one of the most respected legions in the Illyrian army. Rhys would terminate him immediately, with or without concrete proof—he would come and dig through his mind if that was what it took, but you wanted to handle this yourself. You wanted to force them to admit to their atrocities for once, and force them to do something about it.
“It’s just hard to imagine,” you pondered, voice floaty and distant as you turned to look out at the woods in the distance. “Five centuries she’s lived here…” You shook your head. “Do you have any children?”
“No.”
You looked him up and down, making no effort to hide your analysis of him. You pursed your lips, your facade falling away, and your stony armour falling back into place. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
You turned away, but you only made it a few steps toward Devlon’s quarters before an ear splitting scream rang through the camp. You flinched, stumbling back into Azriel, who caught you with steady hands. “What the hell was that?” you asked breathlessly.
The scream rang out again, this time sobs following after. It did not take long to find the source, two males dragging a young girl by her arms to the center of the square, her knees dragging on the snow covered ground. The males fighting in the wing didn’t even look at her.
They threw her to the ground.
Then they grabbed her wings.
“Get off of her!” The words tore out of you, loud and guttural as you took off for the young female lying in the snow, her skin bruised and discolored in a way yours once had been at that very same age. “Get your fucking hands off of her!”
The two males snapped their heads toward you, and only then did the clang of swords die out. Everyone was watching now, even some females coming out of the buildings scattered around. They sneered at you, ready to fire back, then their eyes fell to the presence at your side, to the shadows forming a thick blanket of smoke at your feet. Only then did they let her go, leaving her lying in the cold.
You shoved one of them out of the way, making him stumble, and Azriel was between the two of you before the male could react. You crouched down, gently helping the girl up. Tears streaked her cheeks, her hair damp from the snow and plastered to the side of her face. She was shaking. “Come on,” you said, voice steady. “Come on.”
She sniffed once, her eyes meeting yours, then taking in your leathers, and the way your wings were stretched wide behind your back, the way they were meant to. She nodded, letting you help her up by her arm, but she did most of the work. She glared at the male beside her, watching the two of you with pure disdain.
Then she spat at his boots.
He barely made a move before you shoved her behind you, and you grinned at the male. “You will not touch her,” you ordered, voice low and threatening. Then, looking around at all the males, and females, staring at you, you yelled, “In case you all forgot, wing clipping is banned by the High Lord!”
You stepped closer to the male that she spat at, shoving one finger against his chest. “You will not touch her,” you hissed.
You cast one last glare at the male, then turned around toward the girl. She was on her cycle. Your stomach twisted, too many horrific memories pressing at the edges of your mind. “Where is your mother?” you asked quietly.
She glanced to the side, to where a female was standing in the doorway of a tailor shop. Her hands were curled into tight fists, and her eyes were wide with terror and fury. You nodded toward the woman. “Go.”
The girl did not hesitate, running to her mother who embraced her in her arms, an unusually blatant display of affection in an Illyrian camp. You hoped her mother did not have bruises to match her own, but it was likely.
“What the hell is going on?” a grating male voice bellowed over the square.
You rolled your eyes, turning away from the mother and daughter once they hurried inside their shop to find Devlon, his eyes ablaze.
No one spoke. The general you had spoken to moments ago was gone, unsurprisingly.
“You are all dismissed,” Azriel ordered, his voice cold and lethal.
No one moved.
Azriel swung his gaze around the camp, his wings flaring wide and siphons gleaming. “Go.”
Everyone scattered, a dull murmur filling the square as males gathered their belongings, heading anywhere away from here. Azriel stepped in front of you, his body practically vibrating with rage. “Devlon,” he growled. “Wing clipping is banned in all Illyrian camps.”
Devlon’s eyes narrowed. “It is,” he agreed, begrudgingly.
“And yet, Y/N just stopped two of your males from clipping a girl they had pinned in the snow.”
Devlon said nothing, but the ire burning in his eyes made your blood rush through your head, a dull thump pounding in your ears. You stepped closer to him, the snow crunching beneath your boots with every slow step that brought you inches away from Devlon. You met his eyes, uncaring that he was taller and broader than you. You were not the terrified girl he once threw to the wolves with the flick of his hand five centuries ago.
“I will find out exactly what happened to Freya,” you hissed, venom lacing every syllable. “And I will personally see that any male that so much as thinks—” You stabbed Devlon in the chest with your finger, his nostrils flaring at the disrespect. “—of touching another female’s wings is dealt with appropriately.”
You leaned back, heart pounding as you looked Devlon up and down, your body vibrating with centuries of pent up fury and resentment and hatred for this wretched place filled with wretched men. “You forget your place, Devlon,” you spat.
“You fucking low-life bitch, mewing and preening for—” His words died with an abrupt wheeze, dark tendrils of shadow whipping around his throat and forcing their way inside his mouth, one even curling out of his nose. You stumbled back a step from the shock, Azriel moving in front of you with predatory grace.
“I would be very careful with your words,” he murmured, his voice cold and lethal. Devlon’s face grew redder by the second, his eyes starting to bulge as Azriel leaned down to meet his eyes. “I am not my brothers. I will not hesitate to find a new camp lord.”
The shadows pulled back, tucking beneath Azriel’s wings or wrapping around your ankles. Devlon keeled over just as Azriel stepped back, gasping and wheezing with watery eyes.
The look on Azriel’s face was pure disdain. “We’re done here.”
~ ~ ~
Panic clawed at your spine, sharp and cloying pain chasing after you no matter how far you ran.
You were so foolish. You knew, deep down, that it was only a matter of time before nature inevitably turned on you. It didn’t matter how many herbs and serums you stuffed down your throat day after day. Your cycle was inevitable.
You should have been prepared. You should have thought about its arrival beyond the bone deep dread that flooded your body every time you saw another girl in the mess hall with freshly clipped wings and sallow eyes. You knew you were only delaying the inevitable, and now it was finally here.
Maybe if your mother were still alive you might have hid it. Maybe she would not have cared enough to drag you to a healer, her own disdain for this camp possibly protecting you from its wretched customs. Or maybe she would have dragged you to the healer out of spite.
There was no doubt what Augustus would do.
He wouldn’t even take you to a healer. He would likely slash your wings to shreds himself, going farther than just robbing you of their function. He loathed your mere existence. The only reason you were not dead was his delusional dream of becoming one of Devlon’s prized generals, and Devlon was the one that had dumped you in Augustus’s care.
You knew as soon as he returned from wherever he slinked away to, as soon as walked through that door, he would smell the blood, and it would be over for you.
So you ran.
As soon as the cloying metallic scent hit your nose a.nd the stabbing pain shot through your abdomen, you stuffed your bare feet in your boots and shoved your arms in your coat and you ran. You wore nothing but a thin night gown underneath your leather jacket, your bare calves exposed to the bitter air and sharp cold of the snow-covered forest.
You had nowhere to go. Nowhere to run to. Nothing to help you survive alone in the Illyrian steppes, but all you could think about was that you would not survive the night if you stayed in that house in the center of camp.
You just had to make it far enough away from camp that no one could find you. No one could smell you. You just had to keep moving, even if the tears running down your cheeks were frozen on your skin and your hands were numb. Even if you felt like you were being ripped apart from the inside out and felt an uncomfortable and foreign moisture spread between your thighs. Even if you worried that the farther you fled into the forest, Illyrian males would no longer be your only threat.
Somehow you reached the clearing that you and Azriel would meet in, less frequently now that you were older. The open land that once felt freeing now left you open and exposed, entirely vulnerable. You sniffed once, ignoring the tears that clung to your lashes and stuffing down the slimy terror sluicing through your veins, and you kept running.
You managed to cross the clearing, catapulting into the tree line on the other side, hissing as a branch scraped your cheek. You were so tired, so weak, and you were in so much pain. The ground seemed to shift abruptly before righting itself, the trees spinning as you put one foot in front of the other, desperate to make it out of here. Flying was not an option if you wanted to go undetected, but running was rapidly failing you.
Your ankle twisted with a chilling snap, your foot falling into a snow covered hole. You careened forward, unable to catch yourself before landing sharply on your arm, the snow doing very little to cushion your fall. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood as you stifled your scream, a sharp gasp leaving your lips as you pushed yourself to sit up and pulled your foot from the sunken in ground.
You were trembling, and your head was spinning as you fought to catch your breath. Terror stabbed your chest as a male materialized in front of you, his wings stretched wide behind him, the moonlight illuminating his silhouette.
You were going to die.
“Y/N.”
You shut your eyes, a pathetic whimper falling from your lips as you shook in the snow, waiting for the inevitable.
“Y/N, it’s me,” he said again, voice soft and familiar.
You forced your eyes open, Azriel’s scent wafting over you as he crouched beside you.
Terror still clung to your skin, your world spinning and reality crashing down around you. You started shaking your head, fresh tears falling from your eyes. “Please,” you rasped. “Please. Please.” Your voice broke around your sobs. “Please don’t—” You coughed, and you leaned forward as another sharp pain stabbed at your abdomen.
“Hey—hey,” Azriel said hurriedly. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. Y/N, I would never.”
His words sloshed around inside your head, tumbling around and around as you tried to listen. You slumped forward suddenly, and his hands shot out to catch you, but you quickly flinched away.
“No. Y/N, hey.” His hands were still firm on your arms, his warmth radiating into your frozen skin. “You’re safe with me.” He looked you in the eyes, and his muted hazel irises in the dark of night stared back at you, warm and familiar, even if they were laced with panic. “Are you hurt? What—”
He suddenly went rigid, his nostrils flaring as he quickly scanned your body, and you got to watch the realization dawn on his face. A swell of mortification mixed with your fear, even if you were in agony and crumpled in pain on the cold wet ground.
You stared at him, your lip trembling ever so slightly. “Please don’t make me go back,” you whispered.
Azriel’s face fell. “Y/N—”
You were shaking your head again. “I can’t lose my wings.” You gasped for air, fighting the sobs pushing at your throat. “I can’t, Azriel. It’s the only thing I have. Please—”
“No one is going to touch your wings,” he swore, and for a half second, you wanted to believe him. “But you can’t stay here. I have to take you back—”
“No,” you cried, your hand weakly clutching the front of his leathers. “No. Please—”
Azriel’s gloved hands came up to cup your face gently, his warmth a balm to the stinging cold. “I’m going to take you back to my home. Rhysand’s mother won’t be home until morning, but she will help. While we wait, you can bathe, warm up, sleep. You will be safe there.”
You swallowed hard, your throat burning from your cries. “What about Rhysand and Cassian?”
His thumbs gently stroked your cheeks. “They will be there. Hey,” he said, coaxing your face back up to meet his when you looked away, “They would never hurt you. They’re your friends.”
You nodded slowly, your grip on his leathers going lax. Your fingers ached from the cold, and your joints were growing stiff.
“Okay?” he asked.
You nodded again.
“Good,” he murmured. He pulled his hands away, and he slid his leather gloves off. “Here,” he said, then took your hand in his now bare one, his skin hot against yours. He slid the glove over your hand, the material warm from him, and it was a relief so intense you nearly started crying again. He took your other hand in his, doing the same.
“There,” he hummed, then reached up to brush your hair away from your face. “I’m not leaving you,” he promised. “No one is touching your wings.”
You stared at him for a moment, taking in the fuzzy contours of his face that you knew like the back of your hand, even in the dark of night. You slowly fell back inside yourself, slowly came down from the terror and adrenaline that had pushed you through the Illyrian forests, away from Windhaven, and recognized the world around you.
You recognized the gentle stroke of shadows on your exposed calves. You recognized the cedar sent curling around you. You recognized the kernel of warmth in the center of you that came to life every time Azriel was near—even now, when you were panic-stricken and exhausted, it was still there.
You remembered that you trusted him, and you were safe. Maybe you should have ran to him, instead of away from Windhaven. Maybe you would have made things worse if someone had caught you. Maybe he would be angry that you had acted so rash, so foolish, when the sun rose over the horizon. There were a lot of uncertainties, many you would never have the answer to, but you did know Azriel would protect you, and he would never hurt you.
You forgot sometimes how quickly Illyria weathered boys into males, children into adults. Azriel was eighteen now, and while you could still see that eleven year old boy behind the mess hall with rosy cheeks and messy hair, he was entirely male now. He was formidable in every sense of the word. In the spring, he would complete the Blood Rite, likely alongside Rhys and Cass, and there was no question of if they would pass.
Everyone feared them. Everyone whispered about the Shadowsinger, but no one outwardly antagonized him—not anymore. If someone with too much gall challenged him, they learned their lesson quickly. Azriel was undoubtedly fearsome.
But not to you.
You never feared him.
You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around him, and you tucked your head against his chest. His arms quickly circled your body, overly mindful of your wings, but his palm still rubbed soothing circles along your lower back. “Thank you,” you whispered. “I don’t know how you found me, or how you knew to look for me—” Azriel squeezed you a little tighter. “But thank you.”
Suddenly one of his arms was under your legs, and you whimpered as your ankle shifted, which he gently apologized for. Then he lifted you, and you were finally out of the freezing snow that had seeped through your clothes.
You let your head loll against his chest, grateful for the warmth his body radiated and the shield from the wind his shadows had slowly built around you. “Thank you,” you whispered again.
He pressed his lips to the top of your head, a gesture that was so sweet and fond and new that your heart flipped inside your chest, and you wanted to cry for an entirely different reason.
~ ~ ~
As soon as the door shut behind Azriel with a heavy thud, you whirled around to face him. “What the hell was that?”
Azriel blinked, stopping in the entry way. “You know Devlon is a piece of—”
“I’m not talking about Devlon, Azriel. I’m talking about you.”
“What?”
You shook your head, hands balling into fists at your sides. You felt suffocated, angry, and out of control. This house held too many memories. This entire camp was littered with knives sharpened by horrific memories that were ready to stab you at first glance. There would never be any forgetting, even after centuries had passed.
“I was handling Devlon,” you grit out.
“I know.” Azriel stepped closer. “I was there.”
“Then why did you—”
“He does not get to speak to you that way,” Azriel growled.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles!”
Azriel’s mouth opened and then snapped shut, as if he thought better of whatever he was about to say. “I am always going to protect you, Y/N,” he said finally, his voice quieter than before.
You swallowed hard, your nose burning as bile stung the back of your throat. “I don’t need you to.”
Azriel shook his head. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t do that. Don’t ask me not to—” He tilted his head back, and his shadows broke free from behind his back in shaky tendrils, a rare slip of restraint. “I have protected you since the day I met you,” he rasped. The words sounded strangled and desperate, and they knocked the air from your lungs. “I want to. I need to. Please do not ask me to stop.”
You wanted to spit something vitriolic back, just because you were hurting—for more than one reason—and he was standing directly in your line of fire.
Then you met his eyes, which were glossy in the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window, and his shadows were vibrating with barely restrained emotion. Your shoulders fell, and then you looked away.
“Let’s go home,” he said quietly.
You nodded, even if your chest was suddenly tight. “You should go.”
“No,” Azriel said, and you looked at him warily. “We are going home. I’m not leaving you here, and if either of us stay in this camp another damned minute we might actually murder someone.”
“But Freya—”
“Rhys will handle it.”
“It’s my responsibility, Azriel.”
“It’s your responsibility to take care of yourself,” he volleyed back. Then he said again, “Rhys will handle it.”
“But the wing clipping—”
“Will not be fixed overnight. Cassian will take care of it.”
You closed your eyes, an all-consuming sense of failure corroding away at your bones. What was the point? What was the point of any of this if you could not help these females? Over five centuries of fighting and arguing and defying and still, nothing had changed. It was not enough. You could never do enough—
“Stop,” Azriel growled, his hands suddenly on your shoulders. “Stop. This is not your burden to bear alone. It’s not yours at all. None of this is your fault.”
You started to protest, but he leaned down closer to meet your eyes. “But you care,” he said softly. “You care about the females in this camp, because you are good. You are kind and compassionate and good, Y/N. You have not failed them, I promise you. You saved that girl today, and we will help the rest of them. I promise you.”
It was too much.
You depended on him too much, because somehow his words had soothed your soul, muting the spiraling stream of toxicity in your mind. Somehow his touch grounded you, and reminded you who you were, and where you were, and who you were with.
You were never really mad at him.
You were angry at the universe, and Illyria, and the Mother, but never him. He had done nothing wrong.
You loved him so much you thought your bones might break from the weight of it.
Your heart might combust from the agony of knowing he belonged to another, because he was yours. He was always meant to be yours. You needed him.
You wanted to hug him.
You wanted to kiss him.
Maybe, this was still salvageable. Maybe Azriel felt this too. Maybe he would understand, and everything he had said about how happy he was to find his mate a few months ago was just the rambling of a drunken male. Maybe he was deflecting, and if you just kissed him—
Azriel stepped away.
His hands fell from your shoulders.
The permanent chill in the air seeped back into your skin.
content warnings: apathetic parental figure, death of a parent, abuse from a guardian, implied domestic violence, canon-typical violence, menstrual cycle/blood, anxiety/fear, heavy emphasis on (and depiction of) maltreatment of females and misogyny in Illyrian culture, language, angst, more yearning
word count: 9.8k
synopsis: Azriel was always meant to be yours.
trope: childhood friends to lovers
part 1
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
“I need your help.”
Azriel froze, his wings flaring out before turning around to face you. “Hello to you, too.”
You smiled sheepishly, your heart beating hard against your ribs. “Sorry,” you said, slowly closing the distance between you. The faelights lining the hall glinted in his eyes, mirth shining in his irises. There were no real signs of annoyance, and that relieved you more than it should—more than you had any right to feel. “Hi.”
Azriel smiled, his shoulders relaxing. “Hi.”
“Hi,” you said again, warmth creeping up your neck.
Azriel’s smile widened.
You cleared your throat, hating the way the tips of your ears burned under his gaze. “I need your help,” you said again.
Azriel’s smile faded, his expression sobering. “What’s wrong?”
“I have to go to Windhaven.”
Azriel went preternaturally still.
The words made your stomach twist, sharp claws scraping at the inside of your chest. Just thinking of going back there made your heart race and skin prickle. You had only been back a handful of times, only on occasions where it was absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, this was one of those times.
You could not go back alone.
No matter how necessary the trip, you would not step foot inside that camp without someone else with you.
Without Azriel.
“Why.” His voice was cold with little inflection, the question not really a question at all.
You rubbed at your upper arm, shifting under his gaze. “Do you remember my friend, Freya?”
Azriel furrowed his brows, a clear challenge in his gaze. “Your friend.”
You rolled your eyes. “Fine, a girl a few years above me that I ate lunch with.” It was too pitiful to argue that she was your friend—at least, that you considered her one. Even if she barely spoke to you, even if the most communication you held with her was not until after you fled Windhaven, and it was really only a channel of necessity.
She was kind.
And she was a victim of the same toxicity and abuse that you were. The only difference was that you made friends in higher places, and you got out.
Azriel nodded slowly, and you weren’t sure if he remembered her or if he was telling you to continue. It didn’t really matter.
“They found her body in the woods last week.” The words were hollow as they fell from your lips. Clinical and unfeeling. You kept the guilt and pain and anger shoved deep inside, hidden from the surface where they could fester.
Azriel stepped closer, mere inches now between the toes of your boots. His scent wafted over you, and his shadows extended out to curl around your wrists. You didn’t deserve their comfort. It was not yours to take—the same thought had sent you spiraling mere weeks ago in the kitchen above you—but you needed it. You needed the comfort so desperately there was nothing else to do but take it.
“What happened?” Azriel asked.
You shook your head, chest aching as you replayed the conversation with Rhys. “No one is talking. No one reported it. The only reason—” Your voice cracked, and you inhaled sharply, willing your emotions away. “The only reason we know is because I asked Cassian to check on her. It had been too long since I heard from her, and I was worried.”
“You talked with her?” Azriel asked, surprise limning his voice.
You nodded, staring at the floor. “Sporadically. Her, and a few other girls I grew up with. It wasn’t—it’s not friendship—not really. I just, I wanted—” You rubbed a hand over your face, steeling the tremble that was taking hold. “I wanted them to have someone they could turn to if they needed help.” You shook your head. “A lot of good it did.”
Azriel grabbed you by your shoulders, his grip firm and sudden. “Y/N,” he said, forcing your gaze to meet his. “This was not your fault.”
Your nose burned and your eyes started to water. “It feels like it,” you whispered. “I left them there.”
Azriel shook his head. “You survived. You had to leave. Y/N—” he said again, his hand coming up to pull your gaze back to him. “You had no choice.”
You couldn’t stop the trembling of your lip, and Azriel didn’t hesitate to pull you into his chest, your face falling against the familiar leather covering his chest. A sob fell from your lips, and he squeezed you tighter, one arm wrapped beneath your wings while the other hand held your head against his chest. “We’ll find out what happened to her,” he murmured against the top of your head.
You cried.
You cried in the arms of the male you loved and you knew you could never have, but would always want, and who had always been there.
~ ~ ~
“They clipped Lara’s wings today.”
Azriel stopped in his tracks, the crunch of his boots on the snow dusted forest floor falling silent. His shadows flew outward, moving haphazardly all around the two of you, swirling with restless anger that had nowhere to go. He clenched his fist, and slowly they slithered back to pool beneath his wings.
“Is she okay?” he asked softly.
You shrugged, continuing your walk. “I don’t know how any of them survive it,” you said, voice desolate with the inevitable future in front of you. “But her father was angry. She hid two cycles from him,” you said, then swallowed hard. “He did it himself.”
As if losing flight was not torturous enough. As if you were not horrified enough at the prospect of the camp healer stealing your wings power from you, what Lara endured was a new source of terror.
Azriel reclaimed his place beside you, matching his pace to yours despite his height over you. “My mother is terrible,” you murmured. “Cruel at the worst of times, apathetic at best.” You stretched out your hand to let a tendril of shadow weave between your fingers. Your lips twitched, just barely. “But it is hard to hate her when I see what they have done. When I think about what my father must have been like. It is no doubt a mercy that he died when I was just a babe.”
Azriel was watching you when you finally turned to look at him. “It could be me next,” you rasped.
He started shaking his head, but you didn’t let him speak. “I am fourteen, Azriel.” You huffed a sad and pathetic laugh. “I take the herbs Lara gave me, but even those only got her to seventeen—sixteen, really.”
Azriel grabbed your arm, stopping you. “Rhys’s mother was never clipped.”
You scoffed, pulling your arm away. “She is the Lady of the Night Court. Her mate is the High Lord and he stopped them.” You shook your head. “My mother is a widowed laundress that the camp lords look at as a speck of dirt on their boots.”
This time it was you who reached for him, your hand wrapping around his forearm and squeezing tighter than you should. “I can’t lose my wings, Azriel,” you told him, your desperation and fear clear in your voice. “Flying is all I have.”
He nodded, his free hand coming up to grab your shoulder. “I won’t let them take them.”
~ ~ ~
Windhaven was as cold and drab as you remembered. You didn’t understand how Cassian could stomach coming back here all the time. The air was bitter enough to make your lungs burn, and the scowls of the males that watched your every move made your stomach roil.
You hated how much this place still affected you.
Azriel walked beside you, his wings flared wide and with all seven siphons gleaming in the scarce sunlight that pushed through the overcast skies. He didn’t touch you, but his presence was close enough to feel his warmth radiate against you. You willed your spine into a rod of steel, your back straight and head held high, wings wide enough that they occasionally brushed against Azriel’s.
That was a statement in and of itself.
Azriel briefly met your eyes before he pulled open the door to the only tavern in Windhaven, where you would inevitably find Devlon. Azriel gestured for you to enter first. You nodded once, then stepped over the threshold. The air was musty and thick with the scent of sweat and booze, and you suddenly missed the bitter cold of the Illyrian wind. The door swung shut with a loud thud, Azriel’s chest briefly brushing your shoulder as he stepped behind you.
Your eyes scanned the seedy room, ignoring the leers and sneers of the males scattered around worn and decrepit wooden tables. It did not take long to find Devlon hiding in the back, tucked inside a booth in the back corner, his closest men surrounding him.
It did not take long for him to find you.
His eyes widened for a moment before they narrowed into a scowl. He tossed some coins on the table, his hand of cards following as you made your way toward him. “Lord Devlon,” you barked, your voice loud and sharp in the muffled murmur of the tavern. Azriel stayed a mere half a pace behind you. You stopped in front of his table, your eyes never leaving his. “We need to have a talk.”
He scoffed, then reached for his glass of amber liquid. “It’s not bad enough I have to listen to the bastard of a guard dog Rhysand sends every month?”
You felt Azriel bristle behind you. You felt his flare of anger and unbridled rage flare deep inside your own chest. You smirked, your eyes sharp and lips curled back just enough that it might even be considered a snarl. You leaned closer, your hand resting on the disgustingly damp and sticky tabletop as you met his eyes. “Come with me.”
Then you pulled back, and you walked out the back entrance, leaving Devlon and his men to bumble around like idiots in front of Azriel. You didn’t wait to hear the open and slam of the door before walking toward the fighting ring at the center of the camp.
You didn’t fight the self-satisfied smile that bloomed on your face as you heard the sound of two sets of footsteps in the freshly fallen snow. You made a show of looking around, but you did your best not to look in the direction of anywhere that might stab you through the heart. When the footsteps settled, when you felt that familiar grounding presence at your side again, you finally turned around to face Devlon.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” you drawled, he and you knowing very well the camp looks the same as it did five centuries ago.
“Get on with it,” he snapped, flinging his hand out. “What could Rhysand possibly want now?”
Your face turned stony, all faux amusement dropping from your eyes. “Who murdered Freya?”
“Who?” he had the audacity to sneer.
“You know who,” you snarled, stepping close. “Unless you mean to tell me that you don’t even know who lives and dies in your own camp.”
His eyes flared with undiluted rage, his throat bobbing. He glanced at Azriel behind you, his lip curling in disgust. “She was found in the woods. Stupid bitch wandered away from camp, made herself lunch for some animal.”
A gentle phantom touch brushed the back of your neck, soothing the flare of anger that roared inside you.
“Who found her?” you made yourself ask, voice tight.
“Her husband.”
“And you believed him?”
“You question the integrity of one of my generals?”
The words squeezed the air from your lungs. “A general,” you repeated. “Your general’s wife died, and you forgot who she was?”
Devlon didn’t respond.
You tilted your head back, folding your hands behind your back. “Forgive me if I do not trust your judgement of character,” you sneered. “We will be staying a few days.” You turned to Azriel, whose eyes were cold daggers pointed directly at Devlon. “We will continue this in the morning. Early,” you added, looking him up and down with blatant disgust. “Sober.”
You turned on your heel, heading for the only place you ever once called home in this wretched camp.
~ ~ ~
“Where are you going?”
You turned toward the voice that had appeared beside you, their jovial warmth friendly and unthreatening. Cassian was grinning as he fell into step with you, his hair pulled back with a leather tie he had undoubtedly cut himself. Pieces were falling down and around his face, and he squinted briefly as he pushed one out of his eyes.
You huffed, stopping. “Come here.”
Cassian blinked owlishly, but stepped closer anyway. You twirled your finger. “Turn around, and crouch down.”
He did as you asked, and when your fingers undid the loose knot in his hair his shoulders started shaking with laughter. “You’re a mess,” you grumbled.
“At least I tried to tame it.”
You rolled your eyes. “You could just cut it.”
He lifted a hand to his chest, his cheeks stretching into a grin as you pulled all of his hair back. “You wound me.”
You wound the leather around his hair, tying it in a tight knot, then patted his shoulder. “There,” you said.
Cassian rose to his full height, pulling you into his side with a grin still plastered to his face. “Thank you.”
You shoved him away lightly, continuing on your path. Cassian didn’t leave. “Where are you going?” he asked again.
“Flying,” you huffed.
“With who?”
You cut him a glance. “You are such a busybody,” you mumbled. “I’m meeting Azriel.”
Cassian’s brows raised. “You two spend a lot of time together.”
Your glare was sharper this time. “He’s my friend.”
“I’m your friend,” Cassian countered. “Your first friend.”
You huffed a laugh. “I didn’t know stealing my cookies was your version of friendship.”
He bumped your shoulder. “I did that once. Then gave you two back the next day.”
You smiled softly, then shrugged. You both knew that you really became close friends through Azriel, but it didn’t matter how. You had Az, Cas, and Rhys now. You weren’t alone. That’s all that mattered. “Azriel is my favorite friend.”
“Okay,” he huffed. “That one hurt.”
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, your grin widening when you found him glaring.
“No, but seriously,” he said, stopping you again with a hand on your arm. “Is there something—”
“Y/N.”
Your head snapped toward the familiar quiet voice, your smile morphing into something softer. The center of your chest warmed when you saw him, your heart racing as he walked closer to you and Cassian. He glanced warily at Cassian, an uncharacteristic uncertainty settling on his face. “I didn’t know Cassian was coming with us.”
Before Cassian could open his fat mouth, you shook your head quickly. “He’s not.” You looked at Cassian, smiling and raising your eyebrows pointedly. “He was just leaving. Right, Cas?”
Cassian looked far from pleased from you evading his interrogation, but acquiesced nonetheless. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I’ll see you at training tomorrow, Az.” He clapped you on the shoulder, firmer than necessary, his eyes flaring with mischief and a promise to resume this conversation later—not that there was anything to talk about. “Thanks for your help, sweetheart.”
Your eyes widened, your cheeks flaring with heat at his stupid pet name, and knowing exactly why he said it.
He grinned, leaving the two of you alone with a half-hearted wave.
You took a deep breath, calming the flush of your cheeks before facing Azriel again. He was still watching Cassian walk back toward the camp. His jaw twitched, and he jumped when you touched his arm.
You smiled softly again when he looked at you. “Ready?” you asked.
He nodded silently, falling into step beside you. The clearing you usually met at wasn’t far.
“Is there something going on with you and Cas?” Azriel asked quietly. His shoulders were tense and his wings were flared, and his shadows were moving around him restlessly.
“What?” you asked. “No! He was just being an ass.” You waved away the notion, grimacing slightly. “As usual.”
“Oh.” Some of the tension visibly fell away from Azriel, his shoulders falling a bit. A small smile pulled at his lips when he looked at you again. It started to grow, and mischief glinted in his eyes the longer he watched you.
“What?” you asked again, growing wary.
He shook his head, looking away for a moment. “Nothing.” He licked his lips, the smile still fighting to stay on his face. “Did I tell you I learned something new?”
“No,” you said slowly. “At training?”
“Not quite.”
His arms reached out to circle your waist, and he pulled your body flush against his, sending your heart into a frenzy. You met his eyes in bewilderment, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement, and suddenly the two of you were engulfed in darkness.
In shadows.
You clung to Azriel as your body fell through some otherworldly ether, his shadows cocooning the two of you in a cool swath of silk as you catapulted through space.
Then light blinded you, and you buried your face in his chest before you started to freefall. You screamed as you plummeted, and Azriel laughed as his wings spread out, catching the two of you in the air with a harsh jolt.
You pulled your head away from his chest, just barely meeting his eyes. “What the hell was that?” you yelled.
Azriel’s eyes were bright as he carried you through the sky, the drag of your own wings against the wind not seeming to bother him in the slightest. He shrugged, meeting your gaze with a relaxed smile. “Rhys called it winnowing, but he said it feels different from when he does it.”
You were smiling as you shook your head. “You’re an asshole.”
Azriel grinned, and giggled when he spun the two of you around, the wind whipping at your face. “Your face was priceless,” he laughed.
“You could hardly even see it,” you scoffed.
Azriel looked lighter than he had in a long time—maybe since you had known him. He looked beautiful. You hated the dagger of worry that stabbed at your chest. “Maybe don’t tell anyone else about this?” you said carefully.
Azriel’s eyes shuttered, his jaw clenching. He nodded, as if he had already decided the same thing. “They already think I’m different enough—a threat.”
You shook your head, pulling one of your hands free from their clutch on his leathers to cup his face. “This is amazing, Az,” you said, voice as gentle as you could make it in the wind around you.
“I had to tell you,” he said.
“I’m glad you did.”
~ ~ ~
Azriel followed behind you silently, his presence warm at your back as you walked past roaming males in the dark of the camp. Only once you enter Rhys’s house—his mother’s house—and the door shut behind the two of you, did Azriel speak.
“I did not know we would be staying.”
You turned around quickly, guilt unfurling rapidly in your chest. “Neither did I.” You swallowed hard, looking around at the achingly familiar furniture covered with only a faint layer of dust. Cassian must come here. “I’m sorry. You can leave. I should never have—”
“I am not leaving you here,” he said quickly, moving close.
“I can’t ask you to stay here, Azriel. It’s unfair. You don’t deserve—”
“I can handle Devlon, and I can handle sleeping on this rancid land.” His voice was smooth and steady, his eyes not leaving yours. “I’m not worried about me,” he said quietly. “I’m worried about you.”
You breathed in deep, the dust floating around you scratching at your throat. “I’ll be fine,” you said, nodding as if that would make it true. “I need to do this for Freya.”
Azriel nodded, his hand coming out to rub your upper arm. “We’re going to find who did this.” His jaw clenched, the muscle in the corner jumping. “We might already know who.”
You let out a hollow, exasperated laugh. “How is it still like this?” you asked. “How are these things still happening? How is Devlon, of all Illyrians, considered the most progressive camp lord?”
“I don’t know,” he murmured, his hand gently coaxing you to fall against his chest, his arms circling around your waste. “I’ve long thought they’re past saving.”
“It’s not fair.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you wanted to burrow inside of him. You wanted to cling to him like dew, and never leave. You wanted him. All of him. Forever.
~ ~ ~
“Azriel,” you rasped, leaning over his bed. You reached for him, shaking his shoulders far less gently than you should to wake a sleeping Illyrian male. “Azriel,” you sobbed.
He shot up in bed, his shadows flaring out to wrap around you. Not to protect him—to soothe you. You only cried harder.
“What happened?” he hurried out, sleep slipping from the panicked syllables. “Y/N?” He reached for you, pulling you down onto his bed as he sat up. “Hey—hey, what happened? Are you hurt?”
“She’s dead,” you hiccuped. You collapsed against him, your head falling into his lap as you curled up on your side. “She’s dead. My mother—”
Azriel’s arms held you tight, his wings curling around the two of you, a heavy warmth that dulled the sharpest edges of the cold terror protruding from your chest. You faintly heard the opening of a door. You didn’t care.
“She was the general’s mistress,” you rasped. “She didn’t know I knew, but I did. He—he—” Another sob tore from your throat, agony rippling through you. “What do I do? Where do I go?”
Azriel held you tight, rocking you gently. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
You fell asleep wrapped in his arms, with your head in his lap and his wings covering your trembling body, and tears slowly drying on your cheeks in the dark of night.
~ ~ ~
The mattress in Cassian’s old room was cold and lumpy, a worn down sack of cotton that was falling apart at the seams. It had surely been replaced in the five centuries since you left here, but it was long past due for another.
You wiggled around, the sheets catching around your feet and causing a flare of irritation in your chest. Eventually you yanked them down over your chest, your arms falling at your sides with a huff. Moonlight streamed in through the single window, no drapes to block it from falling across your skin. Your heart was beating hard in your chest, a half-beat off rhythm as your mind struggled to find rest in this place that had left so many scars on your soul.
Cassian’s scent lingered in the air, on the old shirt you had found shoved inside his wardrobe. It was familiar, at least. It masked all of the other acrid scents that bombarded you the second you stepped foot inside this camp.
You were still left feeling hollow. You ached from the inside out, and every minute that passed without sleep pricked against your skin—a stark reminder that you would be in no shape to confront Devlon in a few mere hours if you spent the night lying awake in the closest place you had to a childhood home.
Even if you were never allowed to live there.
The house was silent, save for your frustrated sighs. A stillness that felt more suffocating than peaceful falling over you. You tried to listen for Azriel, for his heartbeat, his breaths—anything to distract your spiraling mind—but it was utterly silent.
You knew he was still here. You could feel his presence, even if he was lying in the room across the hall. You couldn’t explain it, but you had always been able to feel him when he was near.
A sixth sense that was beginning to feel more like a curse than a blessing. A taunt, rather than a glimmer of hope. He was not yours to keep track of. He was not yours to want.
And yet, you knew the only thing, the only person, that could calm your racing mind and rising anxieties, was him.
It was selfish to take from him what he should be giving to another. It was selfish to hate the female that would one day have him, that had done nothing wrong but be blessed with Azriel as her mate.
He just—he had always been yours, in some twisted, round about way. Ever since you were young and naive and just happy to have a friend, he was yours. And you were his.
It was futile to talk yourself out of going to him. The wooden floors were rough against the soles of your feet as you opened your door, hesitating for only a second as you looked down the empty hallway, then walked toward Azriel’s door.
You fist hovered in front of the door, your heart pounding as you chastised yourself for wanting him—for needing him. You didn’t just want Azriel, you needed him like you needed air. If there was ever any doubt that he was a lifeline to your heart, this impromptu trip to hell had incinerated it.
You knocked. It was just a soft rap on the door, quiet enough that he might not hear it—if he were anyone else.
“Come in,” his muffled voice called.
Something warmed in your chest knowing that at least you had not been lying awake alone. You opened the door slowly, an unusual shyness cloaking you as you met his eyes. He was under his covers, his back resting against the wall at the head of the bed.
His torso was bare.
Your eyes lingered on his chest, on the curve of his pectorals that border the ridges of his abdomen. You watched the movement of a shadow that flitted across his stomach, then hid behind his back. Your eyes snapped up to meet his. Your mouth was dry when you said, “I can’t sleep.”
His cheeks seem flushed in the glow of the candle beside his bed. “Me neither,” he murmured.
You shut the door behind you, your eyes not leaving his. “Can I stay here?” you asked quietly.
Azriel nodded, his lips turning up so softly it melted one of the many icy tendrils curled around your ribs. He shifted closer to the edge of the far too small bed to hold two Illyrians, patting the small space beside him.
Your shoulders relaxed, falling from where they had been pinned close to your ears without you noticing. It was then that you noticed your legs were bare, and nothing but Cassian’s thread bare shirt was covering your skin.
In theory, this was not a big deal.
You and Azriel had been friends for centuries. You had seen each other in various states of undress in the most vulnerable and inopportune times, had cared for each other in moments of distress—this should have been nothing.
It still felt different.
It felt raw and intimate in a way you had never experienced, and you again felt foolish and guilty.
This was wrong. You should leave. You should leave, and not take advantage of your kind and unsuspecting friend when you knew you were only feeding your poor and delusional heart with misplaced hope that would logically never bloom to fruition. However, only your mind had the luxury of logic, and it was doing a piss poor job at protecting your feeble heart from further ruin.
You moved toward his bed, pulling back the covers and nestling down into the edge of the pillow behind him. Your nose was level with his hip with barely an inch between you, and your wings were drooping over the side of the bed, but you were infinitely more comfortable in here, beside Azriel, than you had been alone across the hall.
Azriel leaned over toward the bedside table, blowing the candle out with a small puff of air, then sank down into the bed so he was face to face with you, your heads sharing the lone pillow at the head of his bed. His soft cedar scent wrapped around you, his warmth enveloping you like a second blanket, and your eyes grew tired embarrassingly quickly.
You took in the muted hazel of his eyes, the flecks that glinted in the moon beams cast around the room, and you thought he might have been doing the same, his eyes never wavering from yours. Goosebumps pebbled across your skin, and the smile that pulled at your lips was entirely involuntary, pure content and love consuming your weary and battered mind for the first time in months—the Illyrian hell hole outside these walls be damned.
“Goodnight,” Azriel murmured, his voice growing heavy with his own exhaustion.
You might have moved impossibly closer, you might have let your legs brush his and your arms graze against the warm skin of his chest—it was purely due to the lack of space, of course. Azriel smiled softly at you, and his arms wrapped around your body, pulling you tighter against his chest, forcing your head to rest directly against him.
You melted into him, of course. His arms had always been where you felt safest, even in the darkest and most trying times of your life. There was no fighting it.
Even if that terrible, fleeting stone of guilt ricocheted through your body. Even if it just barely grazed your heart, reminding you of the precarious edge you were standing on, an inevitably agonizing heart break waiting for you below.
Tonight you would ignore it just a little longer. Tonight you would hide from your shredded soul in the arms of the male you loved, and would pretend, for just a few hours, he loved you too.
~ ~ ~
“Augustus makes an attor seem friendly.”
Your words were meant to be joking. They were meant to just be a jeering jab at your horrible cousin who you had never properly met, had not known existed until Devlon thrust you into his care the day after your mother’s funeral. Instead they sounded hollow and aching, entirely too much truth weighing them down.
Azriel noticed.
“Has he done something?” he asked quietly, as if he was afraid too loud a cadence might summon the wretched male to this desolate clearing.
You blinked, staring blankly at the snow below you. You were tired of snow. You were tired of the cold. Sixteen years spent living in eternal winter, and you were prepared to commit an atrocity if it meant you never had to see these snow-covered mountains again.
“Nothing new.”
You felt the tension rippling off of Azriel. His siphons littering his chest and arms flared, his copious stores of power simmering over. “That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s not good enough.”
Your head snapped toward him, your lips pulling back in an instinctive snarl. “It’s all I can give you.”
Azriel blinked, otherwise unflinching against your anger. “You’re keeping things from me,” he said quietly.
It was the truth, and it hurt, no matter how gentle he laid it in front of you.
Your mother was unkind. You even thought her cruel, once. Now you lived with a male who knew the true definition of cruelty. A male so toxic he made your hair stand straight on your arms and a chill ran down your spine every time you stepped foot through the door. A male who yelled instead of spoke, whose anger was a baseline state for him.
He was a male that used violence more than words. Who left bruises in his wake. Who reminded you every day he hated you, and he hated his uncle that impregnated the whore that birthed you, and was stupid enough to get herself killed.
What of his father? you sometimes wanted to ask. Was he stupid too? How did he die?
Speaking those words would be sure to get you killed.
A hand wrapped around your arm, the sudden touch making you flinch, your entire body curving away out of pure instinct. Your body froze when you realized what you did, when you recognized the scarred hand that had immediately fell away from you.
Horror sluiced through you when you met Azriel’s wide, vicious eyes. He was trembling, his shadows stretching out farther than he usually let them these days, his wings twitching behind him. “Let me see your arm.”
“No.”
“Y/N,” he said, your name spoken so low and slowly it forced your mind to slow down. “Let me see.”
“I can’t,” you whispered, your voice cracking.
Azriel’s jaw clenched, a puff of air leaving his nose as his hand squeezed into a fist, then slowly uncurled. “Please,” he asked gently. “I only want to help.”
“You have to promise me you won’t do anything,” you pleaded. Azriel’s throat bobbed as you stared at him. “Promise me, Azriel.”
“I promise,” he whispered.
You nodded, sniffing once to push away the tears that were beginning to burn at the back of your throat. You shrugged out of your jacket, exposing your bare arms to the bitter cold, and revealing the mottled bruises in various colors decorating your skin.
Azriel’s breath hitched when he saw. You couldn’t meet his eyes, and you hated that you still flinched when he touched your arm. He froze, staring at your face. You could only nod.
He continued his inspection, his hands gently grazing over your skin, careful not to hurt you. A tear fell from the corner of your eye, and you quickly wiped it away. Then his fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, squeezing the fabric tight, and when you finally met his gaze, gave him the permission he was seeking, he lifted your shirt.
“Y/N,” he said, his voice broken as he took in the purple blooms across your ribs. His fingers lightly traced the ridges of your ribcage, pulling away only when you sucked in a sharp breath as he passed over a sensitive area. He lowered your shirt slowly, and you could feel him staring at you, even as you stared down at the snow. “He could have killed you,” he whispered.
“He threatened to this morning,” you admittedly quietly, pathetically. “That was a first.”
He helped you slide your coat back on, doing up the wing slats silently with careful fingers.
“You need to report him?”
You laughed mirthlessly. “To who? Devlon?” You shook your head. “I’ll be fine.” You stood up from the boulder the two of you had been perched upon, your boot slipping just a bit before you gained your composure. “I’ve survived a year with him. I can survive more.”
“Y/N—”
“I’ll see you later, Azriel.”
~ ~ ~
“My condolences for the passing of your wife.”
The male leaning against the wall of one of the buildings surrounding the square, watching the young males train, lazily dragged his gaze up to meet yours. His eyes flit to Azriel standing behind you, a flash of contempt shining in his irises before he seemed to force it away. He met your gaze again, his arms still crossed over his chest as he said flatly, “My wife is dead. Your condolences mean nothing.”
“I’m sure,” you answered, forcing sympathy into your tone. “I grew up with Freya,” you said, watching him carefully. “She was my friend.”
The male went rigid, indignation and rage roaring behind his eyes. “She never told me she was friends with one of the High Lord’s whores. Though, it’s unsurprising.”
Azriel stepped forward, but you blocked his path. “What happened to her?” you asked, ignoring his disrespect.
His eyes narrowed, and he finally stood up straight. “She ran off in the middle of the night after letting her delusions mislead her. Guess she wandered too far, made herself a meal.”
You had no idea what he meant by that, but you knew in your bones you were staring into the eyes of the male that ended Freya’s life. And he was a general of one of the most respected legions in the Illyrian army. Rhys would terminate him immediately, with or without concrete proof—he would come and dig through his mind if that was what it took, but you wanted to handle this yourself. You wanted to force them to admit to their atrocities for once, and force them to do something about it.
“It’s just hard to imagine,” you pondered, voice floaty and distant as you turned to look out at the woods in the distance. “Five centuries she’s lived here…” You shook your head. “Do you have any children?”
“No.”
You looked him up and down, making no effort to hide your analysis of him. You pursed your lips, your facade falling away, and your stony armour falling back into place. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
You turned away, but you only made it a few steps toward Devlon’s quarters before an ear splitting scream rang through the camp. You flinched, stumbling back into Azriel, who caught you with steady hands. “What the hell was that?” you asked breathlessly.
The scream rang out again, this time sobs following after. It did not take long to find the source, two males dragging a young girl by her arms to the center of the square, her knees dragging on the snow covered ground. The males fighting in the wing didn’t even look at her.
They threw her to the ground.
Then they grabbed her wings.
“Get off of her!” The words tore out of you, loud and guttural as you took off for the young female lying in the snow, her skin bruised and discolored in a way yours once had been at that very same age. “Get your fucking hands off of her!”
The two males snapped their heads toward you, and only then did the clang of swords die out. Everyone was watching now, even some females coming out of the buildings scattered around. They sneered at you, ready to fire back, then their eyes fell to the presence at your side, to the shadows forming a thick blanket of smoke at your feet. Only then did they let her go, leaving her lying in the cold.
You shoved one of them out of the way, making him stumble, and Azriel was between the two of you before the male could react. You crouched down, gently helping the girl up. Tears streaked her cheeks, her hair damp from the snow and plastered to the side of her face. She was shaking. “Come on,” you said, voice steady. “Come on.”
She sniffed once, her eyes meeting yours, then taking in your leathers, and the way your wings were stretched wide behind your back, the way they were meant to. She nodded, letting you help her up by her arm, but she did most of the work. She glared at the male beside her, watching the two of you with pure disdain.
Then she spat at his boots.
He barely made a move before you shoved her behind you, and you grinned at the male. “You will not touch her,” you ordered, voice low and threatening. Then, looking around at all the males, and females, staring at you, you yelled, “In case you all forgot, wing clipping is banned by the High Lord!”
You stepped closer to the male that she spat at, shoving one finger against his chest. “You will not touch her,” you hissed.
You cast one last glare at the male, then turned around toward the girl. She was on her cycle. Your stomach twisted, too many horrific memories pressing at the edges of your mind. “Where is your mother?” you asked quietly.
She glanced to the side, to where a female was standing in the doorway of a tailor shop. Her hands were curled into tight fists, and her eyes were wide with terror and fury. You nodded toward the woman. “Go.”
The girl did not hesitate, running to her mother who embraced her in her arms, an unusually blatant display of affection in an Illyrian camp. You hoped her mother did not have bruises to match her own, but it was likely.
“What the hell is going on?” a grating male voice bellowed over the square.
You rolled your eyes, turning away from the mother and daughter once they hurried inside their shop to find Devlon, his eyes ablaze.
No one spoke. The general you had spoken to moments ago was gone, unsurprisingly.
“You are all dismissed,” Azriel ordered, his voice cold and lethal.
No one moved.
Azriel swung his gaze around the camp, his wings flaring wide and siphons gleaming. “Go.”
Everyone scattered, a dull murmur filling the square as males gathered their belongings, heading anywhere away from here. Azriel stepped in front of you, his body practically vibrating with rage. “Devlon,” he growled. “Wing clipping is banned in all Illyrian camps.”
Devlon’s eyes narrowed. “It is,” he agreed, begrudgingly.
“And yet, Y/N just stopped two of your males from clipping a girl they had pinned in the snow.”
Devlon said nothing, but the ire burning in his eyes made your blood rush through your head, a dull thump pounding in your ears. You stepped closer to him, the snow crunching beneath your boots with every slow step that brought you inches away from Devlon. You met his eyes, uncaring that he was taller and broader than you. You were not the terrified girl he once threw to the wolves with the flick of his hand five centuries ago.
“I will find out exactly what happened to Freya,” you hissed, venom lacing every syllable. “And I will personally see that any male that so much as thinks—” You stabbed Devlon in the chest with your finger, his nostrils flaring at the disrespect. “—of touching another female’s wings is dealt with appropriately.”
You leaned back, heart pounding as you looked Devlon up and down, your body vibrating with centuries of pent up fury and resentment and hatred for this wretched place filled with wretched men. “You forget your place, Devlon,” you spat.
“You fucking low-life bitch, mewing and preening for—” His words died with an abrupt wheeze, dark tendrils of shadow whipping around his throat and forcing their way inside his mouth, one even curling out of his nose. You stumbled back a step from the shock, Azriel moving in front of you with predatory grace.
“I would be very careful with your words,” he murmured, his voice cold and lethal. Devlon’s face grew redder by the second, his eyes starting to bulge as Azriel leaned down to meet his eyes. “I am not my brothers. I will not hesitate to find a new camp lord.”
The shadows pulled back, tucking beneath Azriel’s wings or wrapping around your ankles. Devlon keeled over just as Azriel stepped back, gasping and wheezing with watery eyes.
The look on Azriel’s face was pure disdain. “We’re done here.”
~ ~ ~
Panic clawed at your spine, sharp and cloying pain chasing after you no matter how far you ran.
You were so foolish. You knew, deep down, that it was only a matter of time before nature inevitably turned on you. It didn’t matter how many herbs and serums you stuffed down your throat day after day. Your cycle was inevitable.
You should have been prepared. You should have thought about its arrival beyond the bone deep dread that flooded your body every time you saw another girl in the mess hall with freshly clipped wings and sallow eyes. You knew you were only delaying the inevitable, and now it was finally here.
Maybe if your mother were still alive you might have hid it. Maybe she would not have cared enough to drag you to a healer, her own disdain for this camp possibly protecting you from its wretched customs. Or maybe she would have dragged you to the healer out of spite.
There was no doubt what Augustus would do.
He wouldn’t even take you to a healer. He would likely slash your wings to shreds himself, going farther than just robbing you of their function. He loathed your mere existence. The only reason you were not dead was his delusional dream of becoming one of Devlon’s prized generals, and Devlon was the one that had dumped you in Augustus’s care.
You knew as soon as he returned from wherever he slinked away to, as soon as walked through that door, he would smell the blood, and it would be over for you.
So you ran.
As soon as the cloying metallic scent hit your nose a.nd the stabbing pain shot through your abdomen, you stuffed your bare feet in your boots and shoved your arms in your coat and you ran. You wore nothing but a thin night gown underneath your leather jacket, your bare calves exposed to the bitter air and sharp cold of the snow-covered forest.
You had nowhere to go. Nowhere to run to. Nothing to help you survive alone in the Illyrian steppes, but all you could think about was that you would not survive the night if you stayed in that house in the center of camp.
You just had to make it far enough away from camp that no one could find you. No one could smell you. You just had to keep moving, even if the tears running down your cheeks were frozen on your skin and your hands were numb. Even if you felt like you were being ripped apart from the inside out and felt an uncomfortable and foreign moisture spread between your thighs. Even if you worried that the farther you fled into the forest, Illyrian males would no longer be your only threat.
Somehow you reached the clearing that you and Azriel would meet in, less frequently now that you were older. The open land that once felt freeing now left you open and exposed, entirely vulnerable. You sniffed once, ignoring the tears that clung to your lashes and stuffing down the slimy terror sluicing through your veins, and you kept running.
You managed to cross the clearing, catapulting into the tree line on the other side, hissing as a branch scraped your cheek. You were so tired, so weak, and you were in so much pain. The ground seemed to shift abruptly before righting itself, the trees spinning as you put one foot in front of the other, desperate to make it out of here. Flying was not an option if you wanted to go undetected, but running was rapidly failing you.
Your ankle twisted with a chilling snap, your foot falling into a snow covered hole. You careened forward, unable to catch yourself before landing sharply on your arm, the snow doing very little to cushion your fall. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood as you stifled your scream, a sharp gasp leaving your lips as you pushed yourself to sit up and pulled your foot from the sunken in ground.
You were trembling, and your head was spinning as you fought to catch your breath. Terror stabbed your chest as a male materialized in front of you, his wings stretched wide behind him, the moonlight illuminating his silhouette.
You were going to die.
“Y/N.”
You shut your eyes, a pathetic whimper falling from your lips as you shook in the snow, waiting for the inevitable.
“Y/N, it’s me,” he said again, voice soft and familiar.
You forced your eyes open, Azriel’s scent wafting over you as he crouched beside you.
Terror still clung to your skin, your world spinning and reality crashing down around you. You started shaking your head, fresh tears falling from your eyes. “Please,” you rasped. “Please. Please.” Your voice broke around your sobs. “Please don’t—” You coughed, and you leaned forward as another sharp pain stabbed at your abdomen.
“Hey—hey,” Azriel said hurriedly. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. Y/N, I would never.”
His words sloshed around inside your head, tumbling around and around as you tried to listen. You slumped forward suddenly, and his hands shot out to catch you, but you quickly flinched away.
“No. Y/N, hey.” His hands were still firm on your arms, his warmth radiating into your frozen skin. “You’re safe with me.” He looked you in the eyes, and his muted hazel irises in the dark of night stared back at you, warm and familiar, even if they were laced with panic. “Are you hurt? What—”
He suddenly went rigid, his nostrils flaring as he quickly scanned your body, and you got to watch the realization dawn on his face. A swell of mortification mixed with your fear, even if you were in agony and crumpled in pain on the cold wet ground.
You stared at him, your lip trembling ever so slightly. “Please don’t make me go back,” you whispered.
Azriel’s face fell. “Y/N—”
You were shaking your head again. “I can’t lose my wings.” You gasped for air, fighting the sobs pushing at your throat. “I can’t, Azriel. It’s the only thing I have. Please—”
“No one is going to touch your wings,” he swore, and for a half second, you wanted to believe him. “But you can’t stay here. I have to take you back—”
“No,” you cried, your hand weakly clutching the front of his leathers. “No. Please—”
Azriel’s gloved hands came up to cup your face gently, his warmth a balm to the stinging cold. “I’m going to take you back to my home. Rhysand’s mother won’t be home until morning, but she will help. While we wait, you can bathe, warm up, sleep. You will be safe there.”
You swallowed hard, your throat burning from your cries. “What about Rhysand and Cassian?”
His thumbs gently stroked your cheeks. “They will be there. Hey,” he said, coaxing your face back up to meet his when you looked away, “They would never hurt you. They’re your friends.”
You nodded slowly, your grip on his leathers going lax. Your fingers ached from the cold, and your joints were growing stiff.
“Okay?” he asked.
You nodded again.
“Good,” he murmured. He pulled his hands away, and he slid his leather gloves off. “Here,” he said, then took your hand in his now bare one, his skin hot against yours. He slid the glove over your hand, the material warm from him, and it was a relief so intense you nearly started crying again. He took your other hand in his, doing the same.
“There,” he hummed, then reached up to brush your hair away from your face. “I’m not leaving you,” he promised. “No one is touching your wings.”
You stared at him for a moment, taking in the fuzzy contours of his face that you knew like the back of your hand, even in the dark of night. You slowly fell back inside yourself, slowly came down from the terror and adrenaline that had pushed you through the Illyrian forests, away from Windhaven, and recognized the world around you.
You recognized the gentle stroke of shadows on your exposed calves. You recognized the cedar sent curling around you. You recognized the kernel of warmth in the center of you that came to life every time Azriel was near—even now, when you were panic-stricken and exhausted, it was still there.
You remembered that you trusted him, and you were safe. Maybe you should have ran to him, instead of away from Windhaven. Maybe you would have made things worse if someone had caught you. Maybe he would be angry that you had acted so rash, so foolish, when the sun rose over the horizon. There were a lot of uncertainties, many you would never have the answer to, but you did know Azriel would protect you, and he would never hurt you.
You forgot sometimes how quickly Illyria weathered boys into males, children into adults. Azriel was eighteen now, and while you could still see that eleven year old boy behind the mess hall with rosy cheeks and messy hair, he was entirely male now. He was formidable in every sense of the word. In the spring, he would complete the Blood Rite, likely alongside Rhys and Cass, and there was no question of if they would pass.
Everyone feared them. Everyone whispered about the Shadowsinger, but no one outwardly antagonized him—not anymore. If someone with too much gall challenged him, they learned their lesson quickly. Azriel was undoubtedly fearsome.
But not to you.
You never feared him.
You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around him, and you tucked your head against his chest. His arms quickly circled your body, overly mindful of your wings, but his palm still rubbed soothing circles along your lower back. “Thank you,” you whispered. “I don’t know how you found me, or how you knew to look for me—” Azriel squeezed you a little tighter. “But thank you.”
Suddenly one of his arms was under your legs, and you whimpered as your ankle shifted, which he gently apologized for. Then he lifted you, and you were finally out of the freezing snow that had seeped through your clothes.
You let your head loll against his chest, grateful for the warmth his body radiated and the shield from the wind his shadows had slowly built around you. “Thank you,” you whispered again.
He pressed his lips to the top of your head, a gesture that was so sweet and fond and new that your heart flipped inside your chest, and you wanted to cry for an entirely different reason.
~ ~ ~
As soon as the door shut behind Azriel with a heavy thud, you whirled around to face him. “What the hell was that?”
Azriel blinked, stopping in the entry way. “You know Devlon is a piece of—”
“I’m not talking about Devlon, Azriel. I’m talking about you.”
“What?”
You shook your head, hands balling into fists at your sides. You felt suffocated, angry, and out of control. This house held too many memories. This entire camp was littered with knives sharpened by horrific memories that were ready to stab you at first glance. There would never be any forgetting, even after centuries had passed.
“I was handling Devlon,” you grit out.
“I know.” Azriel stepped closer. “I was there.”
“Then why did you—”
“He does not get to speak to you that way,” Azriel growled.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles!”
Azriel’s mouth opened and then snapped shut, as if he thought better of whatever he was about to say. “I am always going to protect you, Y/N,” he said finally, his voice quieter than before.
You swallowed hard, your nose burning as bile stung the back of your throat. “I don’t need you to.”
Azriel shook his head. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t do that. Don’t ask me not to—” He tilted his head back, and his shadows broke free from behind his back in shaky tendrils, a rare slip of restraint. “I have protected you since the day I met you,” he rasped. The words sounded strangled and desperate, and they knocked the air from your lungs. “I want to. I need to. Please do not ask me to stop.”
You wanted to spit something vitriolic back, just because you were hurting—for more than one reason—and he was standing directly in your line of fire.
Then you met his eyes, which were glossy in the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window, and his shadows were vibrating with barely restrained emotion. Your shoulders fell, and then you looked away.
“Let’s go home,” he said quietly.
You nodded, even if your chest was suddenly tight. “You should go.”
“No,” Azriel said, and you looked at him warily. “We are going home. I’m not leaving you here, and if either of us stay in this camp another damned minute we might actually murder someone.”
“But Freya—”
“Rhys will handle it.”
“It’s my responsibility, Azriel.”
“It’s your responsibility to take care of yourself,” he volleyed back. Then he said again, “Rhys will handle it.”
“But the wing clipping—”
“Will not be fixed overnight. Cassian will take care of it.”
You closed your eyes, an all-consuming sense of failure corroding away at your bones. What was the point? What was the point of any of this if you could not help these females? Over five centuries of fighting and arguing and defying and still, nothing had changed. It was not enough. You could never do enough—
“Stop,” Azriel growled, his hands suddenly on your shoulders. “Stop. This is not your burden to bear alone. It’s not yours at all. None of this is your fault.”
You started to protest, but he leaned down closer to meet your eyes. “But you care,” he said softly. “You care about the females in this camp, because you are good. You are kind and compassionate and good, Y/N. You have not failed them, I promise you. You saved that girl today, and we will help the rest of them. I promise you.”
It was too much.
You depended on him too much, because somehow his words had soothed your soul, muting the spiraling stream of toxicity in your mind. Somehow his touch grounded you, and reminded you who you were, and where you were, and who you were with.
You were never really mad at him.
You were angry at the universe, and Illyria, and the Mother, but never him. He had done nothing wrong.
You loved him so much you thought your bones might break from the weight of it.
Your heart might combust from the agony of knowing he belonged to another, because he was yours. He was always meant to be yours. You needed him.
You wanted to hug him.
You wanted to kiss him.
Maybe, this was still salvageable. Maybe Azriel felt this too. Maybe he would understand, and everything he had said about how happy he was to find his mate a few months ago was just the rambling of a drunken male. Maybe he was deflecting, and if you just kissed him—
Azriel stepped away.
His hands fell from your shoulders.
The permanent chill in the air seeped back into your skin.
content warnings: apathetic parental figure, death of a parent, abuse from a guardian, implied domestic violence, canon-typical violence, menstrual cycle/blood, anxiety/fear, heavy emphasis on (and depiction of) maltreatment of females and misogyny in Illyrian culture, language, angst, more yearning
word count: 9.8k
synopsis: Azriel was always meant to be yours.
trope: childhood friends to lovers
part 1
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
“I need your help.”
Azriel froze, his wings flaring out before turning around to face you. “Hello to you, too.”
You smiled sheepishly, your heart beating hard against your ribs. “Sorry,” you said, slowly closing the distance between you. The faelights lining the hall glinted in his eyes, mirth shining in his irises. There were no real signs of annoyance, and that relieved you more than it should—more than you had any right to feel. “Hi.”
Azriel smiled, his shoulders relaxing. “Hi.”
“Hi,” you said again, warmth creeping up your neck.
Azriel’s smile widened.
You cleared your throat, hating the way the tips of your ears burned under his gaze. “I need your help,” you said again.
Azriel’s smile faded, his expression sobering. “What’s wrong?”
“I have to go to Windhaven.”
Azriel went preternaturally still.
The words made your stomach twist, sharp claws scraping at the inside of your chest. Just thinking of going back there made your heart race and skin prickle. You had only been back a handful of times, only on occasions where it was absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, this was one of those times.
You could not go back alone.
No matter how necessary the trip, you would not step foot inside that camp without someone else with you.
Without Azriel.
“Why.” His voice was cold with little inflection, the question not really a question at all.
You rubbed at your upper arm, shifting under his gaze. “Do you remember my friend, Freya?”
Azriel furrowed his brows, a clear challenge in his gaze. “Your friend.”
You rolled your eyes. “Fine, a girl a few years above me that I ate lunch with.” It was too pitiful to argue that she was your friend—at least, that you considered her one. Even if she barely spoke to you, even if the most communication you held with her was not until after you fled Windhaven, and it was really only a channel of necessity.
She was kind.
And she was a victim of the same toxicity and abuse that you were. The only difference was that you made friends in higher places, and you got out.
Azriel nodded slowly, and you weren’t sure if he remembered her or if he was telling you to continue. It didn’t really matter.
“They found her body in the woods last week.” The words were hollow as they fell from your lips. Clinical and unfeeling. You kept the guilt and pain and anger shoved deep inside, hidden from the surface where they could fester.
Azriel stepped closer, mere inches now between the toes of your boots. His scent wafted over you, and his shadows extended out to curl around your wrists. You didn’t deserve their comfort. It was not yours to take—the same thought had sent you spiraling mere weeks ago in the kitchen above you—but you needed it. You needed the comfort so desperately there was nothing else to do but take it.
“What happened?” Azriel asked.
You shook your head, chest aching as you replayed the conversation with Rhys. “No one is talking. No one reported it. The only reason—” Your voice cracked, and you inhaled sharply, willing your emotions away. “The only reason we know is because I asked Cassian to check on her. It had been too long since I heard from her, and I was worried.”
“You talked with her?” Azriel asked, surprise limning his voice.
You nodded, staring at the floor. “Sporadically. Her, and a few other girls I grew up with. It wasn’t—it’s not friendship—not really. I just, I wanted—” You rubbed a hand over your face, steeling the tremble that was taking hold. “I wanted them to have someone they could turn to if they needed help.” You shook your head. “A lot of good it did.”
Azriel grabbed you by your shoulders, his grip firm and sudden. “Y/N,” he said, forcing your gaze to meet his. “This was not your fault.”
Your nose burned and your eyes started to water. “It feels like it,” you whispered. “I left them there.”
Azriel shook his head. “You survived. You had to leave. Y/N—” he said again, his hand coming up to pull your gaze back to him. “You had no choice.”
You couldn’t stop the trembling of your lip, and Azriel didn’t hesitate to pull you into his chest, your face falling against the familiar leather covering his chest. A sob fell from your lips, and he squeezed you tighter, one arm wrapped beneath your wings while the other hand held your head against his chest. “We’ll find out what happened to her,” he murmured against the top of your head.
You cried.
You cried in the arms of the male you loved and you knew you could never have, but would always want, and who had always been there.
~ ~ ~
“They clipped Lara’s wings today.”
Azriel stopped in his tracks, the crunch of his boots on the snow dusted forest floor falling silent. His shadows flew outward, moving haphazardly all around the two of you, swirling with restless anger that had nowhere to go. He clenched his fist, and slowly they slithered back to pool beneath his wings.
“Is she okay?” he asked softly.
You shrugged, continuing your walk. “I don’t know how any of them survive it,” you said, voice desolate with the inevitable future in front of you. “But her father was angry. She hid two cycles from him,” you said, then swallowed hard. “He did it himself.”
As if losing flight was not torturous enough. As if you were not horrified enough at the prospect of the camp healer stealing your wings power from you, what Lara endured was a new source of terror.
Azriel reclaimed his place beside you, matching his pace to yours despite his height over you. “My mother is terrible,” you murmured. “Cruel at the worst of times, apathetic at best.” You stretched out your hand to let a tendril of shadow weave between your fingers. Your lips twitched, just barely. “But it is hard to hate her when I see what they have done. When I think about what my father must have been like. It is no doubt a mercy that he died when I was just a babe.”
Azriel was watching you when you finally turned to look at him. “It could be me next,” you rasped.
He started shaking his head, but you didn’t let him speak. “I am fourteen, Azriel.” You huffed a sad and pathetic laugh. “I take the herbs Lara gave me, but even those only got her to seventeen—sixteen, really.”
Azriel grabbed your arm, stopping you. “Rhys’s mother was never clipped.”
You scoffed, pulling your arm away. “She is the Lady of the Night Court. Her mate is the High Lord and he stopped them.” You shook your head. “My mother is a widowed laundress that the camp lords look at as a speck of dirt on their boots.”
This time it was you who reached for him, your hand wrapping around his forearm and squeezing tighter than you should. “I can’t lose my wings, Azriel,” you told him, your desperation and fear clear in your voice. “Flying is all I have.”
He nodded, his free hand coming up to grab your shoulder. “I won’t let them take them.”
~ ~ ~
Windhaven was as cold and drab as you remembered. You didn’t understand how Cassian could stomach coming back here all the time. The air was bitter enough to make your lungs burn, and the scowls of the males that watched your every move made your stomach roil.
You hated how much this place still affected you.
Azriel walked beside you, his wings flared wide and with all seven siphons gleaming in the scarce sunlight that pushed through the overcast skies. He didn’t touch you, but his presence was close enough to feel his warmth radiate against you. You willed your spine into a rod of steel, your back straight and head held high, wings wide enough that they occasionally brushed against Azriel’s.
That was a statement in and of itself.
Azriel briefly met your eyes before he pulled open the door to the only tavern in Windhaven, where you would inevitably find Devlon. Azriel gestured for you to enter first. You nodded once, then stepped over the threshold. The air was musty and thick with the scent of sweat and booze, and you suddenly missed the bitter cold of the Illyrian wind. The door swung shut with a loud thud, Azriel’s chest briefly brushing your shoulder as he stepped behind you.
Your eyes scanned the seedy room, ignoring the leers and sneers of the males scattered around worn and decrepit wooden tables. It did not take long to find Devlon hiding in the back, tucked inside a booth in the back corner, his closest men surrounding him.
It did not take long for him to find you.
His eyes widened for a moment before they narrowed into a scowl. He tossed some coins on the table, his hand of cards following as you made your way toward him. “Lord Devlon,” you barked, your voice loud and sharp in the muffled murmur of the tavern. Azriel stayed a mere half a pace behind you. You stopped in front of his table, your eyes never leaving his. “We need to have a talk.”
He scoffed, then reached for his glass of amber liquid. “It’s not bad enough I have to listen to the bastard of a guard dog Rhysand sends every month?”
You felt Azriel bristle behind you. You felt his flare of anger and unbridled rage flare deep inside your own chest. You smirked, your eyes sharp and lips curled back just enough that it might even be considered a snarl. You leaned closer, your hand resting on the disgustingly damp and sticky tabletop as you met his eyes. “Come with me.”
Then you pulled back, and you walked out the back entrance, leaving Devlon and his men to bumble around like idiots in front of Azriel. You didn’t wait to hear the open and slam of the door before walking toward the fighting ring at the center of the camp.
You didn’t fight the self-satisfied smile that bloomed on your face as you heard the sound of two sets of footsteps in the freshly fallen snow. You made a show of looking around, but you did your best not to look in the direction of anywhere that might stab you through the heart. When the footsteps settled, when you felt that familiar grounding presence at your side again, you finally turned around to face Devlon.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” you drawled, he and you knowing very well the camp looks the same as it did five centuries ago.
“Get on with it,” he snapped, flinging his hand out. “What could Rhysand possibly want now?”
Your face turned stony, all faux amusement dropping from your eyes. “Who murdered Freya?”
“Who?” he had the audacity to sneer.
“You know who,” you snarled, stepping close. “Unless you mean to tell me that you don’t even know who lives and dies in your own camp.”
His eyes flared with undiluted rage, his throat bobbing. He glanced at Azriel behind you, his lip curling in disgust. “She was found in the woods. Stupid bitch wandered away from camp, made herself lunch for some animal.”
A gentle phantom touch brushed the back of your neck, soothing the flare of anger that roared inside you.
“Who found her?” you made yourself ask, voice tight.
“Her husband.”
“And you believed him?”
“You question the integrity of one of my generals?”
The words squeezed the air from your lungs. “A general,” you repeated. “Your general’s wife died, and you forgot who she was?”
Devlon didn’t respond.
You tilted your head back, folding your hands behind your back. “Forgive me if I do not trust your judgement of character,” you sneered. “We will be staying a few days.” You turned to Azriel, whose eyes were cold daggers pointed directly at Devlon. “We will continue this in the morning. Early,” you added, looking him up and down with blatant disgust. “Sober.”
You turned on your heel, heading for the only place you ever once called home in this wretched camp.
~ ~ ~
“Where are you going?”
You turned toward the voice that had appeared beside you, their jovial warmth friendly and unthreatening. Cassian was grinning as he fell into step with you, his hair pulled back with a leather tie he had undoubtedly cut himself. Pieces were falling down and around his face, and he squinted briefly as he pushed one out of his eyes.
You huffed, stopping. “Come here.”
Cassian blinked owlishly, but stepped closer anyway. You twirled your finger. “Turn around, and crouch down.”
He did as you asked, and when your fingers undid the loose knot in his hair his shoulders started shaking with laughter. “You’re a mess,” you grumbled.
“At least I tried to tame it.”
You rolled your eyes. “You could just cut it.”
He lifted a hand to his chest, his cheeks stretching into a grin as you pulled all of his hair back. “You wound me.”
You wound the leather around his hair, tying it in a tight knot, then patted his shoulder. “There,” you said.
Cassian rose to his full height, pulling you into his side with a grin still plastered to his face. “Thank you.”
You shoved him away lightly, continuing on your path. Cassian didn’t leave. “Where are you going?” he asked again.
“Flying,” you huffed.
“With who?”
You cut him a glance. “You are such a busybody,” you mumbled. “I’m meeting Azriel.”
Cassian’s brows raised. “You two spend a lot of time together.”
Your glare was sharper this time. “He’s my friend.”
“I’m your friend,” Cassian countered. “Your first friend.”
You huffed a laugh. “I didn’t know stealing my cookies was your version of friendship.”
He bumped your shoulder. “I did that once. Then gave you two back the next day.”
You smiled softly, then shrugged. You both knew that you really became close friends through Azriel, but it didn’t matter how. You had Az, Cas, and Rhys now. You weren’t alone. That’s all that mattered. “Azriel is my favorite friend.”
“Okay,” he huffed. “That one hurt.”
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, your grin widening when you found him glaring.
“No, but seriously,” he said, stopping you again with a hand on your arm. “Is there something—”
“Y/N.”
Your head snapped toward the familiar quiet voice, your smile morphing into something softer. The center of your chest warmed when you saw him, your heart racing as he walked closer to you and Cassian. He glanced warily at Cassian, an uncharacteristic uncertainty settling on his face. “I didn’t know Cassian was coming with us.”
Before Cassian could open his fat mouth, you shook your head quickly. “He’s not.” You looked at Cassian, smiling and raising your eyebrows pointedly. “He was just leaving. Right, Cas?”
Cassian looked far from pleased from you evading his interrogation, but acquiesced nonetheless. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I’ll see you at training tomorrow, Az.” He clapped you on the shoulder, firmer than necessary, his eyes flaring with mischief and a promise to resume this conversation later—not that there was anything to talk about. “Thanks for your help, sweetheart.”
Your eyes widened, your cheeks flaring with heat at his stupid pet name, and knowing exactly why he said it.
He grinned, leaving the two of you alone with a half-hearted wave.
You took a deep breath, calming the flush of your cheeks before facing Azriel again. He was still watching Cassian walk back toward the camp. His jaw twitched, and he jumped when you touched his arm.
You smiled softly again when he looked at you. “Ready?” you asked.
He nodded silently, falling into step beside you. The clearing you usually met at wasn’t far.
“Is there something going on with you and Cas?” Azriel asked quietly. His shoulders were tense and his wings were flared, and his shadows were moving around him restlessly.
“What?” you asked. “No! He was just being an ass.” You waved away the notion, grimacing slightly. “As usual.”
“Oh.” Some of the tension visibly fell away from Azriel, his shoulders falling a bit. A small smile pulled at his lips when he looked at you again. It started to grow, and mischief glinted in his eyes the longer he watched you.
“What?” you asked again, growing wary.
He shook his head, looking away for a moment. “Nothing.” He licked his lips, the smile still fighting to stay on his face. “Did I tell you I learned something new?”
“No,” you said slowly. “At training?”
“Not quite.”
His arms reached out to circle your waist, and he pulled your body flush against his, sending your heart into a frenzy. You met his eyes in bewilderment, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement, and suddenly the two of you were engulfed in darkness.
In shadows.
You clung to Azriel as your body fell through some otherworldly ether, his shadows cocooning the two of you in a cool swath of silk as you catapulted through space.
Then light blinded you, and you buried your face in his chest before you started to freefall. You screamed as you plummeted, and Azriel laughed as his wings spread out, catching the two of you in the air with a harsh jolt.
You pulled your head away from his chest, just barely meeting his eyes. “What the hell was that?” you yelled.
Azriel’s eyes were bright as he carried you through the sky, the drag of your own wings against the wind not seeming to bother him in the slightest. He shrugged, meeting your gaze with a relaxed smile. “Rhys called it winnowing, but he said it feels different from when he does it.”
You were smiling as you shook your head. “You’re an asshole.”
Azriel grinned, and giggled when he spun the two of you around, the wind whipping at your face. “Your face was priceless,” he laughed.
“You could hardly even see it,” you scoffed.
Azriel looked lighter than he had in a long time—maybe since you had known him. He looked beautiful. You hated the dagger of worry that stabbed at your chest. “Maybe don’t tell anyone else about this?” you said carefully.
Azriel’s eyes shuttered, his jaw clenching. He nodded, as if he had already decided the same thing. “They already think I’m different enough—a threat.”
You shook your head, pulling one of your hands free from their clutch on his leathers to cup his face. “This is amazing, Az,” you said, voice as gentle as you could make it in the wind around you.
“I had to tell you,” he said.
“I’m glad you did.”
~ ~ ~
Azriel followed behind you silently, his presence warm at your back as you walked past roaming males in the dark of the camp. Only once you enter Rhys’s house—his mother’s house—and the door shut behind the two of you, did Azriel speak.
“I did not know we would be staying.”
You turned around quickly, guilt unfurling rapidly in your chest. “Neither did I.” You swallowed hard, looking around at the achingly familiar furniture covered with only a faint layer of dust. Cassian must come here. “I’m sorry. You can leave. I should never have—”
“I am not leaving you here,” he said quickly, moving close.
“I can’t ask you to stay here, Azriel. It’s unfair. You don’t deserve—”
“I can handle Devlon, and I can handle sleeping on this rancid land.” His voice was smooth and steady, his eyes not leaving yours. “I’m not worried about me,” he said quietly. “I’m worried about you.”
You breathed in deep, the dust floating around you scratching at your throat. “I’ll be fine,” you said, nodding as if that would make it true. “I need to do this for Freya.”
Azriel nodded, his hand coming out to rub your upper arm. “We’re going to find who did this.” His jaw clenched, the muscle in the corner jumping. “We might already know who.”
You let out a hollow, exasperated laugh. “How is it still like this?” you asked. “How are these things still happening? How is Devlon, of all Illyrians, considered the most progressive camp lord?”
“I don’t know,” he murmured, his hand gently coaxing you to fall against his chest, his arms circling around your waste. “I’ve long thought they’re past saving.”
“It’s not fair.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you wanted to burrow inside of him. You wanted to cling to him like dew, and never leave. You wanted him. All of him. Forever.
~ ~ ~
“Azriel,” you rasped, leaning over his bed. You reached for him, shaking his shoulders far less gently than you should to wake a sleeping Illyrian male. “Azriel,” you sobbed.
He shot up in bed, his shadows flaring out to wrap around you. Not to protect him—to soothe you. You only cried harder.
“What happened?” he hurried out, sleep slipping from the panicked syllables. “Y/N?” He reached for you, pulling you down onto his bed as he sat up. “Hey—hey, what happened? Are you hurt?”
“She’s dead,” you hiccuped. You collapsed against him, your head falling into his lap as you curled up on your side. “She’s dead. My mother—”
Azriel’s arms held you tight, his wings curling around the two of you, a heavy warmth that dulled the sharpest edges of the cold terror protruding from your chest. You faintly heard the opening of a door. You didn’t care.
“She was the general’s mistress,” you rasped. “She didn’t know I knew, but I did. He—he—” Another sob tore from your throat, agony rippling through you. “What do I do? Where do I go?”
Azriel held you tight, rocking you gently. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
You fell asleep wrapped in his arms, with your head in his lap and his wings covering your trembling body, and tears slowly drying on your cheeks in the dark of night.
~ ~ ~
The mattress in Cassian’s old room was cold and lumpy, a worn down sack of cotton that was falling apart at the seams. It had surely been replaced in the five centuries since you left here, but it was long past due for another.
You wiggled around, the sheets catching around your feet and causing a flare of irritation in your chest. Eventually you yanked them down over your chest, your arms falling at your sides with a huff. Moonlight streamed in through the single window, no drapes to block it from falling across your skin. Your heart was beating hard in your chest, a half-beat off rhythm as your mind struggled to find rest in this place that had left so many scars on your soul.
Cassian’s scent lingered in the air, on the old shirt you had found shoved inside his wardrobe. It was familiar, at least. It masked all of the other acrid scents that bombarded you the second you stepped foot inside this camp.
You were still left feeling hollow. You ached from the inside out, and every minute that passed without sleep pricked against your skin—a stark reminder that you would be in no shape to confront Devlon in a few mere hours if you spent the night lying awake in the closest place you had to a childhood home.
Even if you were never allowed to live there.
The house was silent, save for your frustrated sighs. A stillness that felt more suffocating than peaceful falling over you. You tried to listen for Azriel, for his heartbeat, his breaths—anything to distract your spiraling mind—but it was utterly silent.
You knew he was still here. You could feel his presence, even if he was lying in the room across the hall. You couldn’t explain it, but you had always been able to feel him when he was near.
A sixth sense that was beginning to feel more like a curse than a blessing. A taunt, rather than a glimmer of hope. He was not yours to keep track of. He was not yours to want.
And yet, you knew the only thing, the only person, that could calm your racing mind and rising anxieties, was him.
It was selfish to take from him what he should be giving to another. It was selfish to hate the female that would one day have him, that had done nothing wrong but be blessed with Azriel as her mate.
He just—he had always been yours, in some twisted, round about way. Ever since you were young and naive and just happy to have a friend, he was yours. And you were his.
It was futile to talk yourself out of going to him. The wooden floors were rough against the soles of your feet as you opened your door, hesitating for only a second as you looked down the empty hallway, then walked toward Azriel’s door.
You fist hovered in front of the door, your heart pounding as you chastised yourself for wanting him—for needing him. You didn’t just want Azriel, you needed him like you needed air. If there was ever any doubt that he was a lifeline to your heart, this impromptu trip to hell had incinerated it.
You knocked. It was just a soft rap on the door, quiet enough that he might not hear it—if he were anyone else.
“Come in,” his muffled voice called.
Something warmed in your chest knowing that at least you had not been lying awake alone. You opened the door slowly, an unusual shyness cloaking you as you met his eyes. He was under his covers, his back resting against the wall at the head of the bed.
His torso was bare.
Your eyes lingered on his chest, on the curve of his pectorals that border the ridges of his abdomen. You watched the movement of a shadow that flitted across his stomach, then hid behind his back. Your eyes snapped up to meet his. Your mouth was dry when you said, “I can’t sleep.”
His cheeks seem flushed in the glow of the candle beside his bed. “Me neither,” he murmured.
You shut the door behind you, your eyes not leaving his. “Can I stay here?” you asked quietly.
Azriel nodded, his lips turning up so softly it melted one of the many icy tendrils curled around your ribs. He shifted closer to the edge of the far too small bed to hold two Illyrians, patting the small space beside him.
Your shoulders relaxed, falling from where they had been pinned close to your ears without you noticing. It was then that you noticed your legs were bare, and nothing but Cassian’s thread bare shirt was covering your skin.
In theory, this was not a big deal.
You and Azriel had been friends for centuries. You had seen each other in various states of undress in the most vulnerable and inopportune times, had cared for each other in moments of distress—this should have been nothing.
It still felt different.
It felt raw and intimate in a way you had never experienced, and you again felt foolish and guilty.
This was wrong. You should leave. You should leave, and not take advantage of your kind and unsuspecting friend when you knew you were only feeding your poor and delusional heart with misplaced hope that would logically never bloom to fruition. However, only your mind had the luxury of logic, and it was doing a piss poor job at protecting your feeble heart from further ruin.
You moved toward his bed, pulling back the covers and nestling down into the edge of the pillow behind him. Your nose was level with his hip with barely an inch between you, and your wings were drooping over the side of the bed, but you were infinitely more comfortable in here, beside Azriel, than you had been alone across the hall.
Azriel leaned over toward the bedside table, blowing the candle out with a small puff of air, then sank down into the bed so he was face to face with you, your heads sharing the lone pillow at the head of his bed. His soft cedar scent wrapped around you, his warmth enveloping you like a second blanket, and your eyes grew tired embarrassingly quickly.
You took in the muted hazel of his eyes, the flecks that glinted in the moon beams cast around the room, and you thought he might have been doing the same, his eyes never wavering from yours. Goosebumps pebbled across your skin, and the smile that pulled at your lips was entirely involuntary, pure content and love consuming your weary and battered mind for the first time in months—the Illyrian hell hole outside these walls be damned.
“Goodnight,” Azriel murmured, his voice growing heavy with his own exhaustion.
You might have moved impossibly closer, you might have let your legs brush his and your arms graze against the warm skin of his chest—it was purely due to the lack of space, of course. Azriel smiled softly at you, and his arms wrapped around your body, pulling you tighter against his chest, forcing your head to rest directly against him.
You melted into him, of course. His arms had always been where you felt safest, even in the darkest and most trying times of your life. There was no fighting it.
Even if that terrible, fleeting stone of guilt ricocheted through your body. Even if it just barely grazed your heart, reminding you of the precarious edge you were standing on, an inevitably agonizing heart break waiting for you below.
Tonight you would ignore it just a little longer. Tonight you would hide from your shredded soul in the arms of the male you loved, and would pretend, for just a few hours, he loved you too.
~ ~ ~
“Augustus makes an attor seem friendly.”
Your words were meant to be joking. They were meant to just be a jeering jab at your horrible cousin who you had never properly met, had not known existed until Devlon thrust you into his care the day after your mother’s funeral. Instead they sounded hollow and aching, entirely too much truth weighing them down.
Azriel noticed.
“Has he done something?” he asked quietly, as if he was afraid too loud a cadence might summon the wretched male to this desolate clearing.
You blinked, staring blankly at the snow below you. You were tired of snow. You were tired of the cold. Sixteen years spent living in eternal winter, and you were prepared to commit an atrocity if it meant you never had to see these snow-covered mountains again.
“Nothing new.”
You felt the tension rippling off of Azriel. His siphons littering his chest and arms flared, his copious stores of power simmering over. “That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s not good enough.”
Your head snapped toward him, your lips pulling back in an instinctive snarl. “It’s all I can give you.”
Azriel blinked, otherwise unflinching against your anger. “You’re keeping things from me,” he said quietly.
It was the truth, and it hurt, no matter how gentle he laid it in front of you.
Your mother was unkind. You even thought her cruel, once. Now you lived with a male who knew the true definition of cruelty. A male so toxic he made your hair stand straight on your arms and a chill ran down your spine every time you stepped foot through the door. A male who yelled instead of spoke, whose anger was a baseline state for him.
He was a male that used violence more than words. Who left bruises in his wake. Who reminded you every day he hated you, and he hated his uncle that impregnated the whore that birthed you, and was stupid enough to get herself killed.
What of his father? you sometimes wanted to ask. Was he stupid too? How did he die?
Speaking those words would be sure to get you killed.
A hand wrapped around your arm, the sudden touch making you flinch, your entire body curving away out of pure instinct. Your body froze when you realized what you did, when you recognized the scarred hand that had immediately fell away from you.
Horror sluiced through you when you met Azriel’s wide, vicious eyes. He was trembling, his shadows stretching out farther than he usually let them these days, his wings twitching behind him. “Let me see your arm.”
“No.”
“Y/N,” he said, your name spoken so low and slowly it forced your mind to slow down. “Let me see.”
“I can’t,” you whispered, your voice cracking.
Azriel’s jaw clenched, a puff of air leaving his nose as his hand squeezed into a fist, then slowly uncurled. “Please,” he asked gently. “I only want to help.”
“You have to promise me you won’t do anything,” you pleaded. Azriel’s throat bobbed as you stared at him. “Promise me, Azriel.”
“I promise,” he whispered.
You nodded, sniffing once to push away the tears that were beginning to burn at the back of your throat. You shrugged out of your jacket, exposing your bare arms to the bitter cold, and revealing the mottled bruises in various colors decorating your skin.
Azriel’s breath hitched when he saw. You couldn’t meet his eyes, and you hated that you still flinched when he touched your arm. He froze, staring at your face. You could only nod.
He continued his inspection, his hands gently grazing over your skin, careful not to hurt you. A tear fell from the corner of your eye, and you quickly wiped it away. Then his fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, squeezing the fabric tight, and when you finally met his gaze, gave him the permission he was seeking, he lifted your shirt.
“Y/N,” he said, his voice broken as he took in the purple blooms across your ribs. His fingers lightly traced the ridges of your ribcage, pulling away only when you sucked in a sharp breath as he passed over a sensitive area. He lowered your shirt slowly, and you could feel him staring at you, even as you stared down at the snow. “He could have killed you,” he whispered.
“He threatened to this morning,” you admittedly quietly, pathetically. “That was a first.”
He helped you slide your coat back on, doing up the wing slats silently with careful fingers.
“You need to report him?”
You laughed mirthlessly. “To who? Devlon?” You shook your head. “I’ll be fine.” You stood up from the boulder the two of you had been perched upon, your boot slipping just a bit before you gained your composure. “I’ve survived a year with him. I can survive more.”
“Y/N—”
“I’ll see you later, Azriel.”
~ ~ ~
“My condolences for the passing of your wife.”
The male leaning against the wall of one of the buildings surrounding the square, watching the young males train, lazily dragged his gaze up to meet yours. His eyes flit to Azriel standing behind you, a flash of contempt shining in his irises before he seemed to force it away. He met your gaze again, his arms still crossed over his chest as he said flatly, “My wife is dead. Your condolences mean nothing.”
“I’m sure,” you answered, forcing sympathy into your tone. “I grew up with Freya,” you said, watching him carefully. “She was my friend.”
The male went rigid, indignation and rage roaring behind his eyes. “She never told me she was friends with one of the High Lord’s whores. Though, it’s unsurprising.”
Azriel stepped forward, but you blocked his path. “What happened to her?” you asked, ignoring his disrespect.
His eyes narrowed, and he finally stood up straight. “She ran off in the middle of the night after letting her delusions mislead her. Guess she wandered too far, made herself a meal.”
You had no idea what he meant by that, but you knew in your bones you were staring into the eyes of the male that ended Freya’s life. And he was a general of one of the most respected legions in the Illyrian army. Rhys would terminate him immediately, with or without concrete proof—he would come and dig through his mind if that was what it took, but you wanted to handle this yourself. You wanted to force them to admit to their atrocities for once, and force them to do something about it.
“It’s just hard to imagine,” you pondered, voice floaty and distant as you turned to look out at the woods in the distance. “Five centuries she’s lived here…” You shook your head. “Do you have any children?”
“No.”
You looked him up and down, making no effort to hide your analysis of him. You pursed your lips, your facade falling away, and your stony armour falling back into place. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
You turned away, but you only made it a few steps toward Devlon’s quarters before an ear splitting scream rang through the camp. You flinched, stumbling back into Azriel, who caught you with steady hands. “What the hell was that?” you asked breathlessly.
The scream rang out again, this time sobs following after. It did not take long to find the source, two males dragging a young girl by her arms to the center of the square, her knees dragging on the snow covered ground. The males fighting in the wing didn’t even look at her.
They threw her to the ground.
Then they grabbed her wings.
“Get off of her!” The words tore out of you, loud and guttural as you took off for the young female lying in the snow, her skin bruised and discolored in a way yours once had been at that very same age. “Get your fucking hands off of her!”
The two males snapped their heads toward you, and only then did the clang of swords die out. Everyone was watching now, even some females coming out of the buildings scattered around. They sneered at you, ready to fire back, then their eyes fell to the presence at your side, to the shadows forming a thick blanket of smoke at your feet. Only then did they let her go, leaving her lying in the cold.
You shoved one of them out of the way, making him stumble, and Azriel was between the two of you before the male could react. You crouched down, gently helping the girl up. Tears streaked her cheeks, her hair damp from the snow and plastered to the side of her face. She was shaking. “Come on,” you said, voice steady. “Come on.”
She sniffed once, her eyes meeting yours, then taking in your leathers, and the way your wings were stretched wide behind your back, the way they were meant to. She nodded, letting you help her up by her arm, but she did most of the work. She glared at the male beside her, watching the two of you with pure disdain.
Then she spat at his boots.
He barely made a move before you shoved her behind you, and you grinned at the male. “You will not touch her,” you ordered, voice low and threatening. Then, looking around at all the males, and females, staring at you, you yelled, “In case you all forgot, wing clipping is banned by the High Lord!”
You stepped closer to the male that she spat at, shoving one finger against his chest. “You will not touch her,” you hissed.
You cast one last glare at the male, then turned around toward the girl. She was on her cycle. Your stomach twisted, too many horrific memories pressing at the edges of your mind. “Where is your mother?” you asked quietly.
She glanced to the side, to where a female was standing in the doorway of a tailor shop. Her hands were curled into tight fists, and her eyes were wide with terror and fury. You nodded toward the woman. “Go.”
The girl did not hesitate, running to her mother who embraced her in her arms, an unusually blatant display of affection in an Illyrian camp. You hoped her mother did not have bruises to match her own, but it was likely.
“What the hell is going on?” a grating male voice bellowed over the square.
You rolled your eyes, turning away from the mother and daughter once they hurried inside their shop to find Devlon, his eyes ablaze.
No one spoke. The general you had spoken to moments ago was gone, unsurprisingly.
“You are all dismissed,” Azriel ordered, his voice cold and lethal.
No one moved.
Azriel swung his gaze around the camp, his wings flaring wide and siphons gleaming. “Go.”
Everyone scattered, a dull murmur filling the square as males gathered their belongings, heading anywhere away from here. Azriel stepped in front of you, his body practically vibrating with rage. “Devlon,” he growled. “Wing clipping is banned in all Illyrian camps.”
Devlon’s eyes narrowed. “It is,” he agreed, begrudgingly.
“And yet, Y/N just stopped two of your males from clipping a girl they had pinned in the snow.”
Devlon said nothing, but the ire burning in his eyes made your blood rush through your head, a dull thump pounding in your ears. You stepped closer to him, the snow crunching beneath your boots with every slow step that brought you inches away from Devlon. You met his eyes, uncaring that he was taller and broader than you. You were not the terrified girl he once threw to the wolves with the flick of his hand five centuries ago.
“I will find out exactly what happened to Freya,” you hissed, venom lacing every syllable. “And I will personally see that any male that so much as thinks—” You stabbed Devlon in the chest with your finger, his nostrils flaring at the disrespect. “—of touching another female’s wings is dealt with appropriately.”
You leaned back, heart pounding as you looked Devlon up and down, your body vibrating with centuries of pent up fury and resentment and hatred for this wretched place filled with wretched men. “You forget your place, Devlon,” you spat.
“You fucking low-life bitch, mewing and preening for—” His words died with an abrupt wheeze, dark tendrils of shadow whipping around his throat and forcing their way inside his mouth, one even curling out of his nose. You stumbled back a step from the shock, Azriel moving in front of you with predatory grace.
“I would be very careful with your words,” he murmured, his voice cold and lethal. Devlon’s face grew redder by the second, his eyes starting to bulge as Azriel leaned down to meet his eyes. “I am not my brothers. I will not hesitate to find a new camp lord.”
The shadows pulled back, tucking beneath Azriel’s wings or wrapping around your ankles. Devlon keeled over just as Azriel stepped back, gasping and wheezing with watery eyes.
The look on Azriel’s face was pure disdain. “We’re done here.”
~ ~ ~
Panic clawed at your spine, sharp and cloying pain chasing after you no matter how far you ran.
You were so foolish. You knew, deep down, that it was only a matter of time before nature inevitably turned on you. It didn’t matter how many herbs and serums you stuffed down your throat day after day. Your cycle was inevitable.
You should have been prepared. You should have thought about its arrival beyond the bone deep dread that flooded your body every time you saw another girl in the mess hall with freshly clipped wings and sallow eyes. You knew you were only delaying the inevitable, and now it was finally here.
Maybe if your mother were still alive you might have hid it. Maybe she would not have cared enough to drag you to a healer, her own disdain for this camp possibly protecting you from its wretched customs. Or maybe she would have dragged you to the healer out of spite.
There was no doubt what Augustus would do.
He wouldn’t even take you to a healer. He would likely slash your wings to shreds himself, going farther than just robbing you of their function. He loathed your mere existence. The only reason you were not dead was his delusional dream of becoming one of Devlon’s prized generals, and Devlon was the one that had dumped you in Augustus’s care.
You knew as soon as he returned from wherever he slinked away to, as soon as walked through that door, he would smell the blood, and it would be over for you.
So you ran.
As soon as the cloying metallic scent hit your nose a.nd the stabbing pain shot through your abdomen, you stuffed your bare feet in your boots and shoved your arms in your coat and you ran. You wore nothing but a thin night gown underneath your leather jacket, your bare calves exposed to the bitter air and sharp cold of the snow-covered forest.
You had nowhere to go. Nowhere to run to. Nothing to help you survive alone in the Illyrian steppes, but all you could think about was that you would not survive the night if you stayed in that house in the center of camp.
You just had to make it far enough away from camp that no one could find you. No one could smell you. You just had to keep moving, even if the tears running down your cheeks were frozen on your skin and your hands were numb. Even if you felt like you were being ripped apart from the inside out and felt an uncomfortable and foreign moisture spread between your thighs. Even if you worried that the farther you fled into the forest, Illyrian males would no longer be your only threat.
Somehow you reached the clearing that you and Azriel would meet in, less frequently now that you were older. The open land that once felt freeing now left you open and exposed, entirely vulnerable. You sniffed once, ignoring the tears that clung to your lashes and stuffing down the slimy terror sluicing through your veins, and you kept running.
You managed to cross the clearing, catapulting into the tree line on the other side, hissing as a branch scraped your cheek. You were so tired, so weak, and you were in so much pain. The ground seemed to shift abruptly before righting itself, the trees spinning as you put one foot in front of the other, desperate to make it out of here. Flying was not an option if you wanted to go undetected, but running was rapidly failing you.
Your ankle twisted with a chilling snap, your foot falling into a snow covered hole. You careened forward, unable to catch yourself before landing sharply on your arm, the snow doing very little to cushion your fall. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood as you stifled your scream, a sharp gasp leaving your lips as you pushed yourself to sit up and pulled your foot from the sunken in ground.
You were trembling, and your head was spinning as you fought to catch your breath. Terror stabbed your chest as a male materialized in front of you, his wings stretched wide behind him, the moonlight illuminating his silhouette.
You were going to die.
“Y/N.”
You shut your eyes, a pathetic whimper falling from your lips as you shook in the snow, waiting for the inevitable.
“Y/N, it’s me,” he said again, voice soft and familiar.
You forced your eyes open, Azriel’s scent wafting over you as he crouched beside you.
Terror still clung to your skin, your world spinning and reality crashing down around you. You started shaking your head, fresh tears falling from your eyes. “Please,” you rasped. “Please. Please.” Your voice broke around your sobs. “Please don’t—” You coughed, and you leaned forward as another sharp pain stabbed at your abdomen.
“Hey—hey,” Azriel said hurriedly. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. Y/N, I would never.”
His words sloshed around inside your head, tumbling around and around as you tried to listen. You slumped forward suddenly, and his hands shot out to catch you, but you quickly flinched away.
“No. Y/N, hey.” His hands were still firm on your arms, his warmth radiating into your frozen skin. “You’re safe with me.” He looked you in the eyes, and his muted hazel irises in the dark of night stared back at you, warm and familiar, even if they were laced with panic. “Are you hurt? What—”
He suddenly went rigid, his nostrils flaring as he quickly scanned your body, and you got to watch the realization dawn on his face. A swell of mortification mixed with your fear, even if you were in agony and crumpled in pain on the cold wet ground.
You stared at him, your lip trembling ever so slightly. “Please don’t make me go back,” you whispered.
Azriel’s face fell. “Y/N—”
You were shaking your head again. “I can’t lose my wings.” You gasped for air, fighting the sobs pushing at your throat. “I can’t, Azriel. It’s the only thing I have. Please—”
“No one is going to touch your wings,” he swore, and for a half second, you wanted to believe him. “But you can’t stay here. I have to take you back—”
“No,” you cried, your hand weakly clutching the front of his leathers. “No. Please—”
Azriel’s gloved hands came up to cup your face gently, his warmth a balm to the stinging cold. “I’m going to take you back to my home. Rhysand’s mother won’t be home until morning, but she will help. While we wait, you can bathe, warm up, sleep. You will be safe there.”
You swallowed hard, your throat burning from your cries. “What about Rhysand and Cassian?”
His thumbs gently stroked your cheeks. “They will be there. Hey,” he said, coaxing your face back up to meet his when you looked away, “They would never hurt you. They’re your friends.”
You nodded slowly, your grip on his leathers going lax. Your fingers ached from the cold, and your joints were growing stiff.
“Okay?” he asked.
You nodded again.
“Good,” he murmured. He pulled his hands away, and he slid his leather gloves off. “Here,” he said, then took your hand in his now bare one, his skin hot against yours. He slid the glove over your hand, the material warm from him, and it was a relief so intense you nearly started crying again. He took your other hand in his, doing the same.
“There,” he hummed, then reached up to brush your hair away from your face. “I’m not leaving you,” he promised. “No one is touching your wings.”
You stared at him for a moment, taking in the fuzzy contours of his face that you knew like the back of your hand, even in the dark of night. You slowly fell back inside yourself, slowly came down from the terror and adrenaline that had pushed you through the Illyrian forests, away from Windhaven, and recognized the world around you.
You recognized the gentle stroke of shadows on your exposed calves. You recognized the cedar sent curling around you. You recognized the kernel of warmth in the center of you that came to life every time Azriel was near—even now, when you were panic-stricken and exhausted, it was still there.
You remembered that you trusted him, and you were safe. Maybe you should have ran to him, instead of away from Windhaven. Maybe you would have made things worse if someone had caught you. Maybe he would be angry that you had acted so rash, so foolish, when the sun rose over the horizon. There were a lot of uncertainties, many you would never have the answer to, but you did know Azriel would protect you, and he would never hurt you.
You forgot sometimes how quickly Illyria weathered boys into males, children into adults. Azriel was eighteen now, and while you could still see that eleven year old boy behind the mess hall with rosy cheeks and messy hair, he was entirely male now. He was formidable in every sense of the word. In the spring, he would complete the Blood Rite, likely alongside Rhys and Cass, and there was no question of if they would pass.
Everyone feared them. Everyone whispered about the Shadowsinger, but no one outwardly antagonized him—not anymore. If someone with too much gall challenged him, they learned their lesson quickly. Azriel was undoubtedly fearsome.
But not to you.
You never feared him.
You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around him, and you tucked your head against his chest. His arms quickly circled your body, overly mindful of your wings, but his palm still rubbed soothing circles along your lower back. “Thank you,” you whispered. “I don’t know how you found me, or how you knew to look for me—” Azriel squeezed you a little tighter. “But thank you.”
Suddenly one of his arms was under your legs, and you whimpered as your ankle shifted, which he gently apologized for. Then he lifted you, and you were finally out of the freezing snow that had seeped through your clothes.
You let your head loll against his chest, grateful for the warmth his body radiated and the shield from the wind his shadows had slowly built around you. “Thank you,” you whispered again.
He pressed his lips to the top of your head, a gesture that was so sweet and fond and new that your heart flipped inside your chest, and you wanted to cry for an entirely different reason.
~ ~ ~
As soon as the door shut behind Azriel with a heavy thud, you whirled around to face him. “What the hell was that?”
Azriel blinked, stopping in the entry way. “You know Devlon is a piece of—”
“I’m not talking about Devlon, Azriel. I’m talking about you.”
“What?”
You shook your head, hands balling into fists at your sides. You felt suffocated, angry, and out of control. This house held too many memories. This entire camp was littered with knives sharpened by horrific memories that were ready to stab you at first glance. There would never be any forgetting, even after centuries had passed.
“I was handling Devlon,” you grit out.
“I know.” Azriel stepped closer. “I was there.”
“Then why did you—”
“He does not get to speak to you that way,” Azriel growled.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles!”
Azriel’s mouth opened and then snapped shut, as if he thought better of whatever he was about to say. “I am always going to protect you, Y/N,” he said finally, his voice quieter than before.
You swallowed hard, your nose burning as bile stung the back of your throat. “I don’t need you to.”
Azriel shook his head. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t do that. Don’t ask me not to—” He tilted his head back, and his shadows broke free from behind his back in shaky tendrils, a rare slip of restraint. “I have protected you since the day I met you,” he rasped. The words sounded strangled and desperate, and they knocked the air from your lungs. “I want to. I need to. Please do not ask me to stop.”
You wanted to spit something vitriolic back, just because you were hurting—for more than one reason—and he was standing directly in your line of fire.
Then you met his eyes, which were glossy in the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window, and his shadows were vibrating with barely restrained emotion. Your shoulders fell, and then you looked away.
“Let’s go home,” he said quietly.
You nodded, even if your chest was suddenly tight. “You should go.”
“No,” Azriel said, and you looked at him warily. “We are going home. I’m not leaving you here, and if either of us stay in this camp another damned minute we might actually murder someone.”
“But Freya—”
“Rhys will handle it.”
“It’s my responsibility, Azriel.”
“It’s your responsibility to take care of yourself,” he volleyed back. Then he said again, “Rhys will handle it.”
“But the wing clipping—”
“Will not be fixed overnight. Cassian will take care of it.”
You closed your eyes, an all-consuming sense of failure corroding away at your bones. What was the point? What was the point of any of this if you could not help these females? Over five centuries of fighting and arguing and defying and still, nothing had changed. It was not enough. You could never do enough—
“Stop,” Azriel growled, his hands suddenly on your shoulders. “Stop. This is not your burden to bear alone. It’s not yours at all. None of this is your fault.”
You started to protest, but he leaned down closer to meet your eyes. “But you care,” he said softly. “You care about the females in this camp, because you are good. You are kind and compassionate and good, Y/N. You have not failed them, I promise you. You saved that girl today, and we will help the rest of them. I promise you.”
It was too much.
You depended on him too much, because somehow his words had soothed your soul, muting the spiraling stream of toxicity in your mind. Somehow his touch grounded you, and reminded you who you were, and where you were, and who you were with.
You were never really mad at him.
You were angry at the universe, and Illyria, and the Mother, but never him. He had done nothing wrong.
You loved him so much you thought your bones might break from the weight of it.
Your heart might combust from the agony of knowing he belonged to another, because he was yours. He was always meant to be yours. You needed him.
You wanted to hug him.
You wanted to kiss him.
Maybe, this was still salvageable. Maybe Azriel felt this too. Maybe he would understand, and everything he had said about how happy he was to find his mate a few months ago was just the rambling of a drunken male. Maybe he was deflecting, and if you just kissed him—
Azriel stepped away.
His hands fell from your shoulders.
The permanent chill in the air seeped back into your skin.
Hiiiiii I know a while back you said you have school stuff going on so literally no pressure (bc congrats that’s so awesome!) but I was wondering if you have an idea of how many parts the new series will be?? I have such a hard time starting unfinished series bc I want to know everything lol 😂 but I also love your works so much and it’s a struggle to resist reading the new one until it’s all complete haha
hello!! first of all thank you so much for reading and for your kind words! I totally understand the conflict in starting an ongoing series so no worries about asking lol.
right now I have it (very roughly) plotted out to be 4-5 parts. it could of course end up longer if I get toward the end and feel like I have more to write, but I will say it will be 4 parts minimum! I have part 2 nearly done, but I still have to finish and edit it. my goal is to post every 1-2 weeks, but that’s also just a tentative timeline (especially because I always end up making parts longer than I anticipate lol)
