Pairing: Azriel x Reader (Healer/Mate)
Rating: Mature (Stalking, Violence/Gore, High Angst)
Summary: You thought you were protecting the Spymaster by hiding your stalker. You were wrong. When the threat escalates, Azriel realizes that for all his sight, he missed the only danger that mattered.
Warnings: Stalking, home invasion, graphic violence (typical ACOTAR level), panic attacks.
Thank you so much to @onesliceperpie for this request! I absolutely loved this idea—the concept of a secret stalker added such a great layer of angst. I hope I did your vision justice!
The first time it happened, you thought you were losing your mind.
You had placed your healer’s satchel on the hook by the door—you always placed it there—but when you came out of the bath, it was sitting in the center of the dining table.
You had stared at it, a cold prickle of unease dancing down your spine. You lived alone in this apartment near the Rainbow. The wards were intact. The windows were locked. You blamed it on exhaustion. The war had ended months ago, but the influx of wounded at the clinic in Velaris hadn’t slowed down. You were overworked. You were tired.
A week later, your favorite mug was shattered in the sink. Two days after that, a dress you intended to wear for dinner with Azriel went missing, only to reappear days later, slashed down the back seam.
"You’re jumpy," Azriel said that evening.
He was standing in the shadows of your living room, his wings tucked tight against his back. The air around him was usually cooling, a comfort you had grown to crave, but tonight it felt suffocating.
"Long day," you lied, turning away to pour tea. Your hands shook. "Just a difficult case at the clinic."
You felt his shadows before you felt him. They curled around your waist, testing, tasting your mood. You flinched. It was a visceral, involuntary reaction—a byproduct of three weeks of feeling like eyes were watching you from the walls.
But Azriel didn’t know about the walls. He only saw you flinch away from him.
The shadows retracted violently, snapping back to him like wounded animals. When you turned, his hazel eyes were flat, the beautiful, lethal light in them extinguished.
"I should go," he said. His voice was devoid of inflection. "I have reports to file for Rhysand."
"Az, wait," you started, stepping forward.
"Rest, [Name]." He didn't look at you. "I won’t disturb you again."
He winnowed away before you could scream that he was the only thing you didn't want to be disturbed from. You sank to the floor, burying your face in your hands. You couldn't tell him. How could you? He was the High Lord’s Spymaster. He dealt with threats to the frantic stability of the courts.
If you told him you were scared of moved keys and broken cups, he would think you were fragile. Or worse, he would investigate, find nothing, and realize the bond had snapped for a female who was slowly losing her sanity.
You didn't see the figure standing on the rooftop across the street, watching you weep.
The escalation happened on a Tuesday.
You were supposed to meet Azriel at the river house. It was an olive branch. A chance to fix the chasm of silence that had grown between you over the last two weeks.
You were halfway out the door when you found the letter pinned to the outside of your wood frame with a jagged iron nail.
HE DOESN’T SEE YOU. NOT LIKE I DO. I REMEMBER YOUR HANDS ON ME. I REMEMBER YOUR MAGIC. YOU ARE MINE.
The memory hit you like a physical blow. The war. The triage tents. You had healed hundreds of Illyrians, Fae, and humans. Faces blurred together in a haze of blood and screaming. But the handwriting… it was erratic, frantic.
You slammed the door and locked it, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You couldn't go out there. He was watching.
You sent a message to the House of Wind, cancelling on Azriel. You blamed a migraine.
At the House of Wind, Azriel read the note. His shadows writhed, agitated, whispering of lies and fear, but Azriel silenced them.
"She’s pulling away," Cassian said quietly from the armchair, watching his brother.
"She is realizing she has a choice," Azriel said, his voice like grinding stones. "And she is choosing not to be saddled with a bastard who brings darkness wherever he goes."
Azriel went to the training ring and decimated five training dummies until his knuckles bled, trying to ignore the hollow ache in his chest where the mating bond should have been singing.
Two nights later, the storm broke.
Thunder rattled the windowpanes of your apartment. You were in the kitchen, brewing a sleeping draught because you hadn't slept in forty-eight hours.
The knock at the door was soft.
"Az?" you whispered, hope flaring in your chest.
The male standing there was Illyrian, but he wore common leathers, not the Siphons of a warrior. His face was scarred, his eyes manic and wide.
"Vane," you breathed, the name surfacing from the depths of your war memories. You had healed his leg. You had held his hand while he screamed.
"You remember," he smiled, and it was a grotesque, broken thing. He pushed his way inside. "I knew you would. You felt it too, didn't you? That moment? You fixed me."
"Vane, get out," you said, backing up toward the counter. "Please."
"He doesn't appreciate you," Vane spat, kicking the door shut behind him. The sound echoed like a gunshot. "The Spymaster. I see him. He leaves you alone. He makes you cry. I would never make you cry."
"Stay back." You reached for the knife block.
Vane laughed. He lunged, faster than you anticipated. He knocked the knife away and slammed you back against the cabinets. His hands—rough and calloused—pinned your wrists.
"I moved your things to show you," he hissed, his face inches from yours. "To show you how easy it is to get to you. To show you he can't protect you. He’s the Spymaster, and he’s blind."
You screamed, a raw, high-pitched sound, and dropped your mental shields. You didn't think; you just pulled on the bond. You yanked on that golden, shimmering thread connecting you to the shadows.
Vane’s hand clamped over your mouth. "Shhh. It’s okay. I’m going to take you away from here. Somewhere quiet. Where you can fix me again and again."
The air in the room dropped thirty degrees.
The candles blew out instantly.
There was no sound of winnowing. No crack of displacement. Just the sudden, heavy pressure of a presence so ancient and terrified that the room seemed to warp.
From the corner of the room, shadows poured out like spilled ink. They didn't creep; they surged.
Vane was ripped away from you.
It wasn't a fight. It was a dismantling.
Vane was thrown across the room, smashing into your bookshelf. Before he could hit the floor, a boot was on his throat.
Azriel stood there. His wings were flared so wide they scraped the walls. Seven Siphons glowed with a blue light so deep it looked black. His face was a mask of absolute, feral ruin.
"You," Azriel snarled. The sound wasn't Fae; it was monster.
Vane choked, clawing at Azriel’s boot. "Lord... Azriel..."
Azriel leaned down, Truth-Teller glinting in his hand. The black blade hummed, hungry. "I know you. Vane. 3rd Infantry. I approved your discharge papers myself."
"She... she needs me..." Vane wheezed.
Azriel’s shadows wrapped around Vane’s limbs, snapping the bones with sickening crunches. Vane screamed, but the shadows muffled it instantly.
"You touched her," Azriel whispered, and the quietness of it was more terrifying than the shouting. "You walked into her home. You made her afraid."
"Azriel!" you sobbed, sliding down the cabinets to the floor.
Azriel’s head snapped toward you. For a second, his eyes were entirely black, no whites, just the void. Then, he blinked, and the hazel returned, wide with panic.
He looked back at Vane. "If you ever breathe in her direction in the afterlife, I will find you there too."
Truth-Teller moved. It was over.
Azriel didn't holster the blade. He dropped it on the floor, ignoring the blood, and crossed the room to you in a blur.
He dropped to his knees, his hands hovering over you, shaking uncontrollably. The Spymaster, whose hands never shook, was vibrating.
"Did he hurt you?" His voice broke. "Did he—did I get here in time?"
"I'm okay," you gasped, reaching for him. "Az, I'm okay."
He collapsed forward, burying his face in your neck. His arms wrapped around you, crushing you to his chest. He smelled of cold rain, cedar, and death.
"I didn't know," he murmured against your skin, his voice wet. "I didn't know. I thought you were leaving me. I thought you hated me."
"I was trying to protect you," you cried, clutching his leathers. "I didn't want to be a burden. I didn't want you to worry."
Azriel pulled back, framing your face with his blood-stained hands. He didn't care about the mess. He looked at you with such intensity it burned.
"A burden?" He laughed, a dark, incredulous sound. "You are my mate. My soul. I hear the whispers of everyone in this city, [Name]. I know the secrets of High Lords and Queens. But I couldn't see you terrified in your own home because I was too busy hating myself."
He rested his forehead against yours.
"I am the Spymaster," he whispered. "And I was blind."
"It's over," you soothed him, your healing magic naturally rising to calm the frantic racing of his heart. "He's gone."
"You are never staying here again," Azriel stated, the possessive growl returning to his chest. "You are coming to the River House. Or the House of Wind. I don't care. But you are not sleeping out of my reach ever again."
"Okay," you breathed, leaning into his touch. "Okay."
The bond, which had been a thin, tense wire between you for months, suddenly roared to life. It snapped into place, golden and heavy and permanent.
Azriel shuddered as the connection solidified, his shadows wrapping around you, not to scare you this time, but to form a cocoon. A shield.
"Let me take you home," he said softly, lifting you into his arms as if you weighed nothing.
"Yes," you whispered. "Take me home."
