Summary: Y/N Carlisle has never belonged to herself. Hidden away in the thorn-wrapped halls of Ebonforest, her life has been ruled by her brother’s ambition and cruelty. When Aven sells her hand to Eris Vanserra, the presumed heir to the Autumn Court, Y/N’s childhood dreams of freedom and love are shattered. What waits for her in the Forest House is no rescue, no fairy tale — only foxes in a den of fire, and a husband whispered to be as dangerous as his father.
A/N: This is a collection of One-shots organized in chronological order for a continuous story. Parts to this story may not be posted in timeline order.
ACT ONE: Little Bird
꒰ঌ ໒꒱ Will you catch me if I should fall? | Beneath the splendor of an Autumn wedding celebration, you struggle to survive the expectations placed upon you by the family you came from and the one you have just married into.
ACT TWO: The Fox's Wife
꒰ঌ ໒꒱ Cold | One month into an arranged marriage, you are still learning the rules of the Forest House—and whether the male you now call husband is someone to fear. A quiet night forces the first fracture in everything you have been taught.
꒰ঌ ໒꒱ Clover | A quiet afternoon in the gardens leads you somewhere unexpected within the Forest House grounds.
꒰ঌ ໒꒱ Better Blind Than Dead | A secret meeting in the forest shatters the fragile trust Eris and Y/N have spent months building. When Eris refuses to explain what she saw, Y/N is forced to confront the painful truth that protection and secrecy can sometimes look far too similar.
ACT THREE: The Fox and the Phoenix
꒰ঌ ໒꒱ In the Embers | Overwhelmed by inheriting Autumn’s power and shattered by your death, Eris nearly loses control of the Forest House until you return through the flames.
Summary: You continue hunting down the males responsible for what happened to you, leaving little room for mercy. With only two names left, your revenge draws closer to its end.
Warnings: Graphic violence, murder, blood and gore, vampirism/blood drinking, animalistic feeding, strangulation, choking, physical assault, body horror, references to sexual assault, torture-like intimidation, victim blaming, alcohol-related references, death.
A/N: This is a collection of One-shots organized in chronological order for a continuous story. Parts to this story may not be posted in timeline order.
WC: 2.6k
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Four were dead. Two remained.
You kept the count in your head because it gave the week structure.
Without it, the days blurred too easily.
There had been no sleep to divide one from the next, no exhaustion to drag you under and offer even a few merciful hours of nothing. There was only the endless dark beneath the mountain, the sting of hunger in your throat, and the names you repeated until they no longer sounded like names at all.
Six males had followed Royce that night.
Six had touched you.
Every one of them had laughed.
Four were dead.
Locke would make five.
He had been easier to find than you expected.
The males you had already hunted were predictable creatures. They returned to the same taverns, the same gambling rooms, the same private clubs where servants were trained not to look too closely at the stains on their sleeves. They surrounded themselves with people because they believed witnesses meant safety.
The first had died in an alley behind a pleasure house, his mouth still open around your name when you tore out his throat. The second had attempted to bargain. The third had tried to fight. The fourth had recognized you only after you smiled.
Locke had run.
Now, you stood in the center of his apartment while he cowered behind the bathroom door.
The rooms were smaller than you remembered. Perhaps everything appeared smaller now. Hallways, furniture, males. The world had once seemed full of things powerful enough to contain you. Now, nothing did.
The apartment itself had decayed around him. The carpet beneath your boots held old stains in shades too dark to identify. Faded wall coverings peeled away from the stone beneath. Cracks spread across the ceiling, and somewhere inside the walls, water dripped in a slow, steady rhythm.
Locke's heartbeat was louder. It battered against your senses from behind the bathroom door. Fast, uneven and desperate.
You could hear the blood rushing through every vessel in his body. Could hear the hitch in his breathing whenever the floor creaked beneath your weight. Could hear the frantic muttering beneath his breath. Curses tangled with prayers, as though the Mother might suddenly concern herself with a male like him.
"Come on, Locke," you called, letting sweetness coat your voice. "I only want to talk."
Something scraped against the other side of the door. He had wedged something beneath the handle. A narrow cabinet, judging by the drag of wood against tile. Perhaps he believed the door would hold. He had forgotten what you were. Or perhaps he had heard enough rumors to know exactly what you were and simply had nowhere else to go.
"I'm sorry," he gasped. "Y/N, I'm sorry, all right? Just—fuck. Please."
Sorry.
The word almost made you laugh.
He had not seemed sorry in the alleyway.
None of them had.
Not when they surrounded you. Not when Royce caught your wrists and held them down. Not when you screamed at the male who was meant to become your husband and watched amusement curl across his face instead of horror. Locke had stood close enough that you remembered the smell of wine on his breath. He had watched. Helped. Laughed when one of the others told you to stop struggling.
Now his voice cracked around apologies.
How curious that remorse always arrived after consequence.
You approached the bathroom door slowly, allowing each step to sound. Locke stopped breathing. You raised your hand and knocked three times. A polite little rhythm.
"Let me in, Locke." The silence on the other side trembled with him.
"Please," he whispered.
His heartbeat stumbled.
You tilted your head, listening.
He was pressed low to the floor now. His clothing dragged softly against the tile as he shifted farther from the door, though there was nowhere for him to go. The bathroom possessed no window. No second entrance. Only a ceramic tub, a washbasin, and the narrow space beside the toilet where he had apparently decided to fold himself into something small enough to escape your notice.
Pity.
You had hoped he might provide more entertainment.
The others had at least attempted to preserve their pride. One spat at you. Another reached for a blade with such confidence that you let him draw it, just to see the expression on his face when the metal snapped between your fingers.
Locke was already broken.
You wondered how long you could leave him there. How long before fear emptied his bladder. How long before he turned whatever weapon he had managed to find on himself, preferring death by his own hand to whatever he imagined you intended.
Your hunger stirred at the thought of his blood. The thought disgusted you, but it also thrilled something in you that had not existed before. You raised your hand once more, then stopped.
No.
Enough.
"Very well," you said.
You stepped away from the door, moved farther down the hall, and then waited. Locke remained silent for several seconds. His heart continued pounding hard enough that it seemed impossible his ribs could contain it. Slowly, however, the rhythm changed.
Hope.
A pathetic, cautious easing.
He thought you had left.
You allowed him exactly long enough to believe it.
Then you moved.
The hallway vanished around you. One instant, you stood near the sitting room. The next, your palm struck the bathroom door. The wood exploded inward. It slammed into the wall with a deafening crack, splintering around the lock. The cabinet wedged beneath the handle toppled sideways, scattering bottles and folded linens across the tile.
Locke screamed.
He had squeezed himself into the narrow gap between the toilet and the tub, knees drawn up, one hand gripping a short knife so tightly that his knuckles had gone pale. For one absurd moment, you simply looked at him. This male had helped destroy your life.
This?
This trembling thing pressed against dirty tile?
"You should see yourself," you murmured.
"Stay back!" He brandished the knife.
The blade shook so violently that light flashed along it.
You stepped into the bathroom.
Locke's voice climbed. "I said stay back!"
"You said many things that night." His face changed, recognition deepened into horror.
Good, you wanted him to remember. You wanted every detail to return at once. Your torn clothes, Royce's hands, your blood pooling on the street. You wanted him to understand that death had not saved him from you.
"I didn't—" Locke swallowed hard. "I didn't do what they did."
Your mouth curved.
There it was.
Not innocence.
Distinction.
He had spent the last month—perhaps longer—constructing a hierarchy of guilt inside his head. Measuring his hands against theirs. Convincing himself that watching was lesser. That holding you still was not the same as hurting you. That laughing did not count.
"You were there," you said.
"I tried to stop them." A lie.
His heartbeat betrayed him before the words finished leaving his mouth. You heard the tiny leap in its rhythm, the body's involuntary response to deceit. Your new senses were useful that way.
"No, you didn't."
"I told Royce it was enough."
"You told him to hurry." Locke's face drained of color.
You remembered his voice clearly. Had heard it in every silent hour since waking.
Hurry before someone comes.
As though the danger had been discovery.
Not what they were doing.
"You remember," you said softly.
He began crying.
Real tears. Hot and salt-scented, running freely down his face.
"I was drunk."
"So was Royce."
"I wasn't thinking."
"Neither was I, apparently, when I trusted any of you."
"I'll give you money." You stopped.
Locke saw it and mistook your stillness for interest.
"My father has accounts," he rushed on. "Gold, property, anything. I can leave the Hewn City. I'll go wherever you want. You'll never see me again."
"Money."
"Yes."
"You believe I came here for money."
"I don't know why you came!" Your hunger flared.
You crossed the remaining distance before he could react. Locke slashed upward, the knife striking your palm. The blade sank through skin and scraped bone. For half a second, both of you stared at it. Then the wound began to close around the metal.
Locke made a choking sound.
You wrapped your fingers around the blade and pulled it free. Dark blood coated the steel for only a moment before your skin sealed, leaving no trace but a thin smear across your palm.
His eyes widened as you bent the knife in half, the metal folding with a shriek. Then, you dropped it beside him. Locke screamed again and tried to scramble into the tub. His shoulder struck the ceramic edge. His heel slipped against the tile. You caught him by the front of his shirt and hauled him upright.
He weighed nothing, it was still difficult to understand. Fae males had once seemed solid to you. Strong. Dangerous. Now Locke's feet barely touched the floor as you held him against the wall.
"Be reasonable," he sobbed.
You stared at him.
The phrase was almost enough to make you lose control.
"Reasonable."
"I'm begging you."
"So did I." His mouth closed.
You leaned closer. He smelled like fear. Sweat, stale alcohol, and the sharp copper beneath his skin. The pulse in his throat beat frantically inches from your mouth, making your teeth ache.
You hated him for that too. Hated that even now, after everything, his body could command yours. That your hunger did not care whose blood ran beneath the skin. That some new, monstrous part of you heard his heartbeat and answered.
Locke saw where you were looking.
"No," he whispered.
You smiled, though it was not kind.
"Do you know what happened after you left me there?"
He shook his head violently.
"No? Royce never told you?"
"I haven't seen him." Another lie.
You tightened your grip.
The wall cracked behind him.
"Do not lie to me. I can sense it." His eyes darted over your face, searching for some remnant of the female he had known. Someone concerned with reputation, consequences, mercy. That female had died in that street.
"What happened to you?" he breathed. The question was quieter than his begging, almost awed.
Your expression went still.
"You did," you said. "You left me without a heartbeat, without sleep, without anything in the mirror I recognized."
Locke's breath caught.
"You and Royce and every male who stood there made this."
Your free hand closed around his jaw, forcing his face toward yours.
"I'm sorry."
"No, you're not," you said.
Locke broke. He sobbed openly now, words collapsing into each other. Apologies, pleas. Fragments of prayers. For a moment, you let him. You listened to his heart beat. You imagined stopping it with your hand. It would be easy, everything was easy now. Too easy.
The first male had surprised you with how fragile he was. You expected resistance, something worthy of all the fear you had once carried. Instead, bones broke beneath your fingers. Flesh tore. Blood came hot and fast. You had fed from him without meaning to, only once.
Long enough to realize the healer and Amren had been right. Blood was not disgusting once it touched your tongue. That knowledge had nearly destroyed you more completely than Royce had. Afterward, you vomited despite having nothing in your body to expel. You clawed at your own throat until the skin healed beneath your nails.
Locke stared at you now, unaware that you had already decided how this would end before stepping into his apartment.
"Where is Royce?" The sobbing stopped.
Not entirely. His breath continued hitching, but something guarded entered his eyes.
Loyalty?
No.
Fear of a greater monster.
Interesting.
"I don't know." Your hand tightened around his jaw until bone creaked.
"Where is he?"
"He left."
"Where?"
"I swear, I don't know." His heart—
Fast, but steady beneath the answer.
Truth.
Partially.
"You saw him."
"Days ago."
"When?"
"Three nights ago."
"Where?"
"At the Obsidian Room."
Of course.
The private club had always been one of Royce's favorites. Expensive enough to keep out anyone he considered beneath him, discreet enough to conceal nearly any appetite.
"What did he say?"
Locke hesitated, so you drove him harder against the wall. The stone fractured behind him from the force.
"He knows," Locke gasped.
Your hand went still. "Knows what?"
"That you're alive." The bathroom became silent except for the drip inside the wall.
"How?"
"I don't know. Someone saw you." One of the others, perhaps. One of the males you allowed to run for three whole streets before catching him.
You had wondered whether he managed to send warning ahead. A mistake, or perhaps not. Fear would improve Royce's final days.
"What else?"
"He's hiding," Locke added desperately. "He left the city. He said he was going somewhere you couldn't reach him."
"Where?"
"I don't know!" You searched his face, listening to the panicked rhythm in his chest.
Truth again.
Useless.
Locke saw your disappointment and rushed to fill it.
"He has people watching the entrances. He thinks you'll return through the main passages. He knows you're killing us."
You released his jaw and lowered him until his feet touched the tile. Locke sagged against the wall. Hope had appeared in his expression again. You watched it bloom. He thought information had purchased his life. Perhaps mercy had always been this cruel, letting someone see the door before closing it forever.
"Thank you," you said.
His face crumpled with relief.
"Y/N, I swear, I'll leave. You'll never—"
You struck him. His body slammed into the wall and dropped to the floor. He gasped, one hand flying to his ribs. You crouched before him.
"Do you remember what you said when I asked you to help me?" Locke shook his head.
You believed him. It had most likely been a forgettable sentence to him. For you, it had repeated for a month.
"You told me I was making it worse," you said.
His eyes squeezed shut.
You caught his chin and forced him to look at you.
"So I stopped asking."
"Please."
"And now you should too." Your hand closed around his throat.
Locke clawed at your wrist until his nails broke against your skin. You watched his face change as the air vanished. Watched the blood vessels darken beneath his skin. Watched terror strip away every polished mannerism and every inherited arrogance until only animal panic remained.
You could have ended it quickly, but you had decided not to. You held him exactly long enough for him to understand helplessness. Long enough for his body to betray him. Long enough for the world to narrow to pain, fear, and the knowledge that no one was coming.
Then you loosened your grip.
Locke dragged in a ragged breath. You allowed him one before your teeth sank into his throat. The blood was hot. The first taste flooded your mouth with life that was not yours. Locke convulsed beneath you, his hands striking weakly at your shoulders. You nearly recoiled. Nearly tore yourself away in disgust.
Then memory rose.
His laughter, his voice urging Royce to hurry. His hand around your ankle when you tried to crawl. So you drank. Locke weakened rapidly. His blows became shoves, then trembling touches, then nothing at all. The frantic beat beneath your mouth slowed.
Until finally, silence.
You lifted your head. For several seconds, you remained crouched over him, listening to the absence inside his body. No heartbeat, no prayer. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and looked down at the corpse.
You expected triumph, perhaps peace. Instead, there was only the same hollow ache that had followed the others. Revenge did not return anything. It did not warm your skin or restart your heart. It did not erase the alleyway. It did not transform you back into the female who walked into those streets trusting the male beside her.
But Locke would never laugh again.
That was enough for tonight.
You rose and stepped over his body. In the sitting room, you paused beside the cracked mirror hanging near the door. A stranger stared back. Too still, too flawless. Dark-eyed and bloodstained. For once, you did not look away.
One remained.
Royce knew you were coming.
Good.
You wanted him listening to every sound outside his door, wondering whether it belonged to you. You wanted him afraid of shadows, footsteps, strangers. You wanted him to feel your presence before he ever saw your face.
Let him run.
You had spent a month learning what you were capable of. He would spend what remained of his life learning the same.
Summary: After returning from a late-night hunt, you find Rhysand has already left for work.
Warnings: Mentions of blood feeding and hunting, animal death, playful jealousy/possessiveness, and suggestive sexual content.
A/N: This is a collection of One-shots organized in chronological order for a continuous story. Parts to this story may not be posted in timeline order.
WC: 4.3k
The leathers you wore were still cool against your skin when you crossed back into the Night Court.
The temperature changed almost at once.
Winter relinquished its grip reluctantly, the sharp cold clinging to your clothing and following you across the border like a final, spiteful hand. Beneath it, the familiar warmth of the Night Court greeted you. The soft morning breeze, the distant fragrance of the Sidra, the first golden traces of dawn spreading across the horizon.
You slowed as the River House came into view.
The manor stood peacefully beside the water, large and beautiful without appearing cold. Pale stone caught the rising sunlight. Tall windows reflected the river and the gradually brightening sky, while the gardens surrounding the property remained quiet beneath the early hour. The wards shifted around you as you approached, recognizing you instantly and opening without resistance.
Home.
The word had once meant the Hewn City, then it had meant nothing at all. Now it meant this house. More specifically, it meant the male who was hopefully still asleep somewhere inside it.
You reached up and loosened the binding that had kept your hair secured throughout the night. It fell free around you, carrying the faint scent of snow, pine, and mountain air.
The hunt had gone well enough.
You had originally ventured toward the Spring Court in search of a stag. The forests there had always offered excellent game, particularly in the colder months when the animals moved deeper between the trees. You had spent nearly an hour tracking one before sensing movement that was much too large and too irritable to belong to anything you wished to feed from.
Tamlin had been prowling nearby. Perhaps he had merely been patrolling his borders. Perhaps he had noticed your presence and decided to make himself known. Either way, you had not been interested in testing how long it would take the High Lord to ruin an otherwise peaceful evening.
So you crossed into Winter instead.
The mountain lion you eventually found had not been what you wanted, but it had served its purpose beautifully. Strong, healthy, and large enough to satisfy the hunger that had sharpened over the last several days.
Now you were fed, pleasantly tired, and in desperate need of your mate. You only hoped he remained exactly where you had left him.
In bed.
Warm.
Fast asleep.
Preferably still shirtless.
You opened the front door quietly and slipped inside, careful to shut it without allowing the heavy wood to strike the frame. The main hall remained dim and peaceful. No servants moved through the space yet. No members of the Inner Circle had appeared without invitation. No loud Illyrian males were raiding the kitchens.
Perfect.
You sent a silent prayer to the Mother that Rhysand had not yet risen. You had been gone for most of the night, and while the hunt had quieted the physical hunger inside you, it had done absolutely nothing for the other sort of ache that came whenever you spent too long away from him.
Not that you intended to tell him that.
He was insufferable enough already.
You moved up the main staircase without sound, passing framed portraits, painted landscapes, and pieces of artwork Rhysand had spent decades collecting. You ignored them all. At the end of the corridor stood the double doors leading into your shared bedroom. The faelights along the hallway had dimmed with the sunrise, allowing natural light to filter through the tall windows. It softened the house, painting the polished floors in shades of pale gold.
You pushed open the bedroom door and immediately frowned. The room was quiet. Worse, it was empty.
"Rhys?" No answer.
The bed stood partially disturbed. Your side remained exactly as you had left it, blankets pushed back and one pillow shifted out of place from where you had risen hours earlier. Rhysand's side, however, had been neatly straightened.
The traitor had gotten up.
You stepped farther into the room, studying the evidence as though his absence were a crime scene.
"Rhys?"
Still nothing.
That was strange. He should have greeted you the second you crossed the wards. The bond would have warmed with your return, and Rhysand usually noticed even the slightest shift in it. Even if he were elsewhere in the house, his voice should have entered your mind by now.
You crossed into the bathing chamber.
Empty.
The marble basin was dry. No clothing had been abandoned on the floor, no damp towel carelessly left behind. The room smelled faintly of his soap, proof that he had bathed recently, but nothing more.
You checked the walk-in wardrobe next.
Rows of gowns, leathers, cloaks, and jewelry greeted you. Rhysand's portion was irritatingly organized, while yours had begun slowly claiming the available space despite the wardrobe already being constructed largely for your benefit.
No husband.
You placed one hand on your hip.
Unacceptable.
You tugged on the mating bond. The response came almost immediately. A warm pull from the other end, followed by the unmistakable brush of Rhysand's amusement.
Good morning, darling.
You narrowed your eyes at nothing.
Where are you?
His laughter traveled through the bond, velvet-soft and entirely too pleased with itself.
Why? Is someone upset she cannot find me?
Your mouth flattened.
I am an excellent hunter, Rhysand. Do not insult me.
More laughter.
Bastard. The bond pulsed once, letting you know he had heard that thought as clearly as though you had shouted it.
I am at the House of Wind, he finally answered. Azriel wanted to discuss some information Nuala and Cerridwen uncovered.
You glanced toward the empty bed again.
His explanation did nothing to improve your mood.
Do you want me to send someone to retrieve you, or will you winnow up? You cringed at the thought.
If he sent Cassian, the male would talk continuously from the moment he arrived until the moment he deposited you at the House of Wind. He would ask about the hunt, complain that you had not invited him, question your choice of prey, and almost certainly fly too recklessly just to hear you threaten him.
Azriel, however—
That could be useful.
A slow smile touched your mouth.
You may send Azriel. I would love for him to carry me up to the mountain house. The bond went very still. You continued before Rhysand could respond. Or perhaps he and I could enjoy the morning together in the city. Since my mate clearly has more important things to do.
Rhysand's answer arrived with the distinct pressure of an oncoming headache.
It is barely morning, and already you choose to torment me.
You walked toward the vanity and began removing the small assortment of weapons hidden among your leathers.
You abandoned our bed.
You abandoned it first.
I was hunting.
And I was working.
One of those things was necessary.
I assume you mean yours.
Obviously. His exasperation warmed the bond.
You placed a knife on the vanity, followed by another from your boot. A third remained strapped beneath your sleeve, though you nearly forgot it was there. You had grown so accustomed to carrying weapons that you often discovered them only when changing.
Send Azriel, you repeated.
No.
The response came too quickly.
You smiled.
Possessive.
Discerning.
Jealous.
Experienced.
You paused while loosening the buckles around one wrist.
Experienced?
I have known Azriel for more than five centuries. I am aware of his appeal.
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Are you admitting that your spymaster is attractive?
Objectively.
How mature of you.
That does not mean I intend to deliver my mate into his arms simply because she has decided to punish me for attending a meeting.
It would hardly be punishment. Azriel is lovely company.
Rhysand did not answer.
You felt the silence through the bond.
Rhys? Nothing.
My love? Still nothing.
You smiled wider.
High Lord? The bedroom darkened.
Shadows spilled across the floor in a sudden rush, sliding over the polished wood and curling around the legs of the furniture. They gathered thickest beside the windows, where the morning light had begun creeping through the curtains, swallowing the pale gold until the corner of the bedroom was steeped in artificial night.
A male figure stepped from it a moment later.
Rhysand emerged fully dressed in black, his wings absent and irritation carved neatly across an otherwise unfairly beautiful face. His jacket was still fastened, his hair carefully arranged, suggesting he had indeed been halfway through something official before abandoning it.
You remained where you stood beside the bed, one hand resting near the clasp of your hunting leathers, and offered him an expression of perfectly manufactured innocence.
"Good morning," you greeted pleasantly, as though you had not deliberately sent a message designed to drag him out of a meeting.
Rhysand said nothing at first.
His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, taking in the loosened state of your hair, the fitted black leathers, and the weapons you had yet to remove. His gaze dropped last to your boots, where faint beads of melted snow darkened the floor beneath them.
When he looked back up, his expression had not improved.
"You are unbearable," he informed you.
"You came home," you replied, satisfaction already warming your voice.
"You threatened to spend the remainder of the morning with Azriel."
You lifted one shoulder in a delicate shrug. "I merely suggested that he might be willing to keep me company."
"You specifically suggested that he carry you upstairs."
"I cannot fly," you reminded him, as though this explained everything.
Rhysand's eyes narrowed. "You can winnow."
"Yes, but that is nowhere near as romantic." For several seconds, he only stared at you.
You stared back without remorse, waiting to see whether he intended to argue that being carried by his spymaster was not romantic in the slightest. Judging by the slight tightening of his jaw, he had considered it.
Before he could respond, however, something in his expression shifted.
The irritation did not vanish completely, but it receded beneath a quieter, more instinctive concern. His attention sharpened as he examined you again, this time not as an aggravated mate but as a predator recognizing a change in another.
"You fed," he said. It was not phrased as a question.
You nodded and resumed working at the clasp near your wrist. "A mountain lion."
His brow furrowed immediately. "In the Spring Court?"
"Winter," you corrected. "Tamlin interrupted my search for a stag."
Every trace of humor disappeared from Rhysand's face.
The room seemed to tighten around him.
"He approached you?" he asked, his voice suddenly too calm.
"No. He was some distance away."
"Did he see you?" You considered the question for a moment, though there was little point pretending otherwise. Tamlin's senses were sharp enough that he would have noticed your presence even if he had not known precisely who was watching him.
"Most likely," you admitted.
"And?"
"Nothing happened." You loosened another fastening and glanced at Rhysand as if his concern were entirely unreasonable. "I left before he could decide whether he wished to make himself irritating."
Power stirred subtly around him. The shadows at his feet deepened, responding to the anger he was attempting to keep restrained.
You released a quiet sigh.
"Don't start."
Rhysand's brows lifted, though he offered no reply. Rhysand crossed the distance between you, moving with the effortless grace he had never managed to conceal. Even irritated, he carried himself like a male accustomed to commanding every room he entered.
He stopped directly in front of you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then he lifted one hand and brushed his thumb gently across your cheek. The warmth of him settled against your skin, as it always did. You leaned into his palm before pride could convince you to do otherwise. His expression softened instantly.
There had been a time when Rhysand touching you without warning would have earned him a broken wrist. There had been a time when allowing anyone close enough to fill your senses had felt intolerable, every heartbeat around you too loud, every living body a reminder of what yours no longer possessed.
Now, the rhythm beneath Rhysand's skin had become one of the most comforting sounds in existence.
Strong.
Familiar.
Entirely his.
Entirely yours.
"You're cold," he murmured.
"I am always cold."
His thumb passed once more over your cheek. "Colder than usual."
"I spent the night in the Winter Court. This cannot be surprising."
"And your leathers are wet."
"They will dry."
Rhysand glanced toward the bed, then back at you. "You are not getting beneath those blankets while wearing them."
You gave him an offended look. "I had no intention of doing such a thing."
"You absolutely did."
Your chin lifted. "You were supposed to still be asleep when I returned. I intended to climb directly on top of you and make the wet leathers your problem."
Rhysand went very still. For one dangerous second, the darkness in his gaze had nothing to do with anger. You watched him follow the image you had placed inside his head. His eyes drifted over you again, slower this time, lingering in a way that made the amusement in your chest bloom.
When his gaze returned to your face, you smiled sweetly.
"Unfortunately," you continued, "you ruined the moment by being responsible."
"Did I?"
"Yes. Entirely." His hands settled at your waist. You allowed him to pull you closer until the cold leather pressed against the warmth of his clothing.
"I could return to bed," Rhysand offered.
"It would not be the same now." You sighed.
"No?"
"The spontaneity has been lost."
"A tragedy."
"And entirely your fault," you reminded him.
Rhysand lowered his head until the tip of his nose brushed yours. "Then I apologize."
"You do not sound particularly sincere."
"I could become more convincing." His mouth hovered above yours, near enough that his breath warmed your lips. The intimacy of it made your fingers flex against his chest. You wanted to kiss him. You also wanted him to suffer, at least briefly for leaving the house before you returned.
Both desires were equally compelling.
"You have a meeting," you reminded him instead.
"Had," Rhysand corrected.
You blinked and drew back far enough to study him. "What do you mean, had?"
"I left."
"You abandoned Azriel?"
"He will recover."
"And Nuala and Cerridwen?"
"They are perfectly capable of briefing me later." The satisfaction that bloomed inside you slipped through the mating bond before you could conceal it.
Rhysand's mouth curved against yours.
"My spoiled, demanding mate."
You pulled away just enough to glare at him properly. "I am neither spoiled nor demanding."
"You threatened me with Azriel because I was not waiting in bed for you."
"I was informing you of the alternatives available to me." Rhysand's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly at your waist.
"You have no alternatives." The sheer arrogance of the statement made you bristle, exactly as he had intended. His eyes glittered with satisfaction. You placed one palm flat against his chest. Beneath your hand, his heart continued its calm, steady rhythm.
"You sound very certain of yourself."
"I am."
"And what has inspired this confidence?"
"Azriel values his continued existence." A startled laugh escaped you before you could prevent it. Rhysand used the opening to kiss you.
The first press of his mouth was slow and warm, almost unbearably familiar. Your irritation dissolved beneath it despite every intention to preserve it. You relaxed against him as his arms tightened around your body, holding you close while the lingering tension of the hunt drained from you in quiet increments.
This was what you had returned for.
Not the River House.
Not the city glowing outside the curtained windows.
Him.
Rhysand kissed you as though you had been gone for weeks rather than a single night. One hand slid into your loosened hair, fingers settling gently at the back of your head, while his other arm remained firm around your waist. You curled your hands into the front of his jacket.
He tasted like the coffee he must have taken downstairs, dark and faintly sweet. Beneath it was the familiar scent of cedar and night air, the warmth of his body, and the pulse you could hear more clearly now that you were pressed against him.
When he finally began to draw back, you followed without thinking. You stole another brief kiss before allowing even an inch of distance between you. The smile that spread across his face was unbearable. You let your forehead fall against his chest, hiding the smile you refused to let him see. His arms closed around you immediately.
The exhaustion creeping through your body was not the same as mortal tiredness. Sleep was not necessary for you, not in the way it remained necessary for Rhysand and most other living creatures. Still, hunting required concentration, and crossing multiple court borders had drained more magic than you cared to admit.
Now that you were fed, safe, and standing inside your own bedroom with Rhysand wrapped around you, your body wanted stillness. Rhysand noticed the change almost at once, as he always did. His hand began moving slowly along your back, tracing a soothing path over the cold leather.
"You need a bath," he murmured into your hair.
You tightened your arms around his waist. "I need the bed."
"You are covered in melted snow and whatever else you encountered in the forest."
"I am clean."
"You hunted a mountain lion."
"I killed a mountain lion," you corrected. "I did not roll around on the ground with it."
His chest shifted beneath your cheek with silent laughter.
"Darling."
"I have been away all night," you reminded him, tilting your face up toward his. "You abandoned me for a meeting before I returned, and now you expect me to spend the next hour alone in a bathing room."
"And whose decision was it to leave?" You stared at him. Rhysand stared back, clearly aware that logic would not rescue him here.
Eventually, he sighed. It was the theatrical sigh of a male who wanted the world to believe he had been defeated, rather than one who had been eagerly awaiting permission to indulge you.
"Fine," he conceded.
A pleased smile touched your mouth.
"But you are changing before you get into bed," he added. You released him long enough to remove the dagger strapped to your thigh. Before you could reach for the clasp at your shoulder, Rhysand's hands replaced yours.
He began helping you out of the cold leather, fingers careful as he loosened each fastening. His attention settled completely on the task, and on you, with the singular intensity you had always loved most.
The rest of the world vanished whenever Rhysand focused on you like this. Meetings ceased to matter, courts disappeared. There was only the warmth of his hands and the quiet concentration in his eyes as he peeled the damp leather away from your shoulder.
"You know," he said after a moment, his tone deceptively casual, "Azriel did ask whether you had returned safely."
You paused. "Did he?"
"Yes."
"How thoughtful of him." Rhysand's hands stilled against the loosened edge of your leather. The reaction was slight—the tightening of his fingers, the near-imperceptible shift of his jaw—but you knew him too well to miss it.
You looked up with a wicked smile. "Perhaps I should thank him personally."
His violet eyes lifted to yours. "You are very pleased with yourself."
"I am merely appreciating Azriel's concern."
"He is my spymaster. Vigilance is quite literally his profession."
"That does not make it any less thoughtful."
Rhysand drew the leather from your shoulder with measured care. The movement was firmer than before. Not enough to hurt, never that, but enough to acknowledge that he knew precisely what you were doing.
"I should tell him how much I value his attention," you continued.
Rhysand's eyes narrowed.
He had never been insecure about your feelings. He knew you loved him. Knew you chose him. Knew the bond between you could not be threatened by a harmless remark.
That did not mean he enjoyed being reminded that other males possessed eyes.
Or voices.
Or the ability to speak your name.
"And what exactly would you say to him?" he asked.
You pretended to consider it. "I might tell him it was sweet of him to worry."
His thumb dragged slowly over the inside of your wrist as he freed your arm from the damp leather.
"And then?"
"Then I would thank him."
"You already said that."
"Perhaps he deserves to hear it twice."
Rhysand looked at you for one long, silent moment.
You managed to hold his stare until the corner of your mouth betrayed you.
"You are enjoying this," he said.
"Immensely."
The silence that followed was exquisite. You watched the precise moment Rhysand decided he had entertained this conversation long enough. One second, he was standing before you with his hands at the straps of your hunting leathers. The next, shadows curled around your ankles.
The room tilted.
Your back met the mattress with a soft thump, the bedding dipping beneath your weight as Rhysand followed you down. He braced one hand beside your head, the other closing around your waist before you could shift away. Not that you intended to. The dark amusement in his eyes made your pulse-less body feel strangely alive.
"You think yourself very clever," he murmured.
"I know myself to be clever."
"And cruel."
"Only when necessary."
"Was this necessary?"
"Entirely." Rhysand lowered his head until his mouth hovered beside your ear.
"You wanted my attention." You turned your face slightly, your cheek brushing his.
"I had your attention."
"You wanted all of it." That earned him your silence. His mouth curved against your skin. He knew, of course he knew. Rhysand knew you too well to mistake the shape of your moods. You had not truly wanted Azriel. You had not even truly cared whether Azriel had asked after you, though the thoughtfulness pleased you.
What you wanted was this. Rhysand abandoning the world. Rhysand looking at you as though nothing beyond the room existed. Rhysand's composure cracking beneath the smallest suggestion that someone else might receive even a fraction of what belonged to him.
You lifted one hand and rested it against the side of his neck.
"Possessive male," you spoke to him softly.
Rhysand drew back enough to look at you.
"I am possessive."
"Territorial."
"That too."
"At least you are self-aware."
"I have never pretended otherwise where you are concerned." His hand slid from your waist to the loosened edge of your leathers. He peeled the damp material farther down your arm, never breaking eye contact.
The intimacy of it made the teasing catch in your throat. Rhysand had always known how to turn even the simplest gesture into something charged. A clasp undone, a sleeve drawn away. Warm fingers brushing over skin that had not held warmth in centuries. He made undressing you feel ceremonial, as if he were uncovering something precious rather than removing wet hunting clothes.
Rhysand bent and pressed his mouth to the corner of yours. Not a kiss, barely. Just enough contact to make you turn toward him. He pulled back before you could catch his lips.
"Whatever gratitude you intended to offer Azriel," he murmured, "you may find yourself too occupied to deliver it."
"With what?" His gaze dipped to your mouth.
"With remembering who came home when you called."
"You came home because you are hopelessly obedient."
"I came home because you are manipulative." His mouth brushed yours again, slower this time. You leaned up, but he evaded you. Your eyes opened to find Rhysand looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"You are being petty."
"I am proving a point."
"What point?"
"That you have no need to seek attention elsewhere." He kissed your jaw once, then moved lower. The warmth of his mouth moved over your cold skin, unhurried and deliberate. His hand remained secure at your waist, holding you precisely where he wanted you while his lips traced a path that made coherent thought increasingly inconvenient.
You tipped your head back despite yourself. Rhysand hummed against your throat.
Smug bastard.
His teeth grazed lightly over your skin. You tightened your fingers at the back of his neck, feeling the way his power seeped into the room, dimming the morning light until the bedroom felt wrapped in midnight. You opened your eyes to meet his.
Rhysand finally kissed you properly.
There was nothing tentative in it now. His mouth covered yours with warm, consuming certainty, one hand sliding into your hair while the other pulled you closer beneath him. The kiss was not harsh, but it was unmistakably possessive. A reminder, a claim neither of you required and both of you enjoyed.
You kissed him back with equal fervor, catching his lower lip between yours just enough to make his control slip. The sound he made in response was quiet, you felt it more than heard it. His hand tightened at your waist.
Rhysand pulled back barely an inch. You traced one finger along the fine collar of his jacket, then down the center of his chest.
"You truly left the meeting?"
"I truly left."
"Without explanation?"
"I said something urgent required my attention."
You lifted your eyebrows. "And they believed you?"
"Nuala did."
"Cerridwen?"
"Almost certainly not."
"Azriel?" Rhysand's expression flattened again.
You burst into laughter.
He caught your chin between his fingers. "You are determined to test me."
"I think you are very handsome when you are jealous."
"Darling."
"Rhysand." His eyes narrowed at your imitation of his tone.
You stroked your thumb along his jaw, allowing affection to replace the last of your mischief.
"I do not want Azriel."
"I know." Something in his face softened.
The possessive edge remained, because it was Rhysand and some things were woven too deeply into him to vanish entirely. But beneath it lived the devotion you had learned to recognize long before you were brave enough to name it.
You studied him.
"Then what exactly are you proving?"
Rhysand lowered his mouth to yours again, though this kiss was gentler.
"That I will always come when you ask." The words settled inside you.
For one dangerous moment, the playful mask slipped.
The alley.
The apartment.
The months spent believing that needing anyone was merely another way to hand them a weapon.
Rhysand had spent years teaching you otherwise, never through promises alone but through repetition. He came when you called. Withdrew when you needed distance without ever making you feel abandoned. Waited when touch was unbearable. Returned every time you feared he might not.
You slid both arms around his neck and pulled him closer.
Rhysand went willingly, settling more of his weight against you without crushing you.
"And if I ask you to remain here all morning?" you murmured.
"The meeting is already ruined."
"That was not my question." He kissed your temple.
"I will remain."
"And breakfast?"
"I will have it brought up."
"Something sweet."
"For me or for you to steal?"
"Yes." Rhysand smiled into your hair.
His hand resumed the task of removing your damp leathers, though he made no effort to move from above you.
"You still require a bath."
"Later."
"You smell like the forest."
"Is that a complaint?"
"No."
His mouth pressed to the line of your throat. Your grip tightened slightly around him. His lips brushed your skin once more, tender enough to unravel the last of your teasing. You laughed as shadows swept over the room, drawing the curtains fully closed and locking the morning beyond them.
Summary: After a dangerous retrieval mission, Azriel escorts you and Devon back to Velaris, where your injuries are treated and the artifact is turned over to Rhysand.
Warnings: none
A/N: This is a collection of One-shots organized in chronological order for a continuous story.
WC: 2.7k
Azriel had not realized how much he missed the quiet hum of Velaris until the city lights appeared beneath them. The flight back from the coast had been long. Longer than it should have felt. By the time the familiar spread of rooftops came into view, the Sidra cutting through the heart of the city like a ribbon of reflected starlight, something in his chest loosened.
The House of Wind loomed in the distance, carved against the darkening sky. Tonight, even that felt too far. Azriel wanted solid ground beneath his boots. Familiar stone. Silence that was not broken by crashing waves, collapsing temples, or Devon Hale's seemingly endless supply of commentary.
Two days.
That was all it had been. Two days that somehow felt closer to a month. Azriel flexed his fingers around the hilt of Truth-Teller, trying to work some of the tension from his hand as they descended toward the city. His wings ached, though not enough to draw concern. He had flown farther in worse conditions. Still, exhaustion had settled into his bones by the time his boots finally met the cobblestones.
Devon winnowed nearby with considerably less grace, you arriving with him. Azriel heard the quiet hiss that escaped you. His gaze moved toward you before he could stop himself. You had not bothered hiding the limp anymore. Interesting.
For most of the journey back, you had gone to irritating lengths to pretend nothing hurt. The uneven placement of your weight had betrayed you regardless. Your sleeve remained torn where the ancient ward had struck you. Beneath the ruined fabric, faint traces of the sigils were still visible against your skin.
And your hand...
Azriel's jaw tightened.
Still bleeding.
You had attempted to bind the injury with a strip of fabric torn from your clothing sometime during the return journey, poorly. The makeshift bandage was already soaked through.
Stubborn female.
He drew a slow breath through his nose.
Velaris greeted him with familiar scents. Rain lingering somewhere in the distance. Jasmine, the Sidra, stone cooling beneath the night sky. Home. He fixed his attention on the street ahead rather than you.
"River House first."
Devon dragged a hand across his face.
"We're not exactly dressed for company."
"You'll survive."
"Yeah, sure. But will the house survive her tracking blood through the halls?" Azriel turned his head slowly. Devon's grin disappeared.
"Right," the mercenary muttered, glancing toward you. "That was my cue to shut up."
Azriel said nothing, his attention had already shifted inward. He reached for the familiar thread connecting his mind to Rhysand's.
Rhys.
The response came almost immediately. His brother's presence opened within his mind, dark and vast and strangely familiar, like stars scattered across an endless night.
You're back.
We are. Azriel glanced briefly toward the wrapped weapon secured at his side. Artifact secured. No casualties.
There was a slight pause.
And the mercenaries?
His eyes found you again. You had moved toward a nearby lamppost while Devon attempted to adjust one of his weapon straps. You leaned against the iron post as though it were merely convenient. Your posture had sagged slightly now that you were back in Velaris. Exhaustion had settled into every line of you. Salt still clung to your clothes and skin. Dust from the temple remained in places the sea had failed to wash clean.
The hand hanging at your side trembled once, barely. Azriel saw it.
Alive, he answered. A beat passed. Injured.
I'll have Madja waiting at the River House. Feyre is here with Nyx.
Then, after a pause:
You've been gone too long, brother.
Azriel exhaled slowly.
He could have argued, could have reminded Rhysand that two days was hardly an absence worth commenting on. But they both knew Rhys did not mean the mission.
I know. The connection faded.
Azriel looked toward you and Devon again.
"A healer named Madja will meet us at the River House," he said. "She'll see to your injuries."
You immediately pushed away from the lamppost.
"I told you, I'm fine." Azriel stared at you.
"You're bleeding."
"It's nothing." His wings shifted behind him.
Irritation threaded through his exhaustion. "You're limping."
Your expression tightened. "Barely."
"Your hand is still bleeding."
"It does that."
"And earlier you mentioned a possible concussion."
"That was mostly a joke."
"Mostly?" You opened your mouth. When Azriel raised a brow, you closed it again.
"Madja is seeing you," he finished.
Your jaw tightened. For half a second, he expected you to argue. He was beginning to understand that arguing appeared to be your preferred response whenever someone told you something you did not want to hear.
Instead, you looked away. Devon remained suspiciously quiet. Apparently the mercenary had developed survival instincts sometime during the flight home.
Azriel turned toward the street. "Move."
Velaris had grown quiet with the late hour. The three of you walked beneath pools of warm lamplight while the distant sound of the Sidra filled the spaces between buildings. Azriel led, his shadows spread naturally around him. They slipped beneath balconies and through alleys, searching corners and rooftops for anything out of place.
Habit.
A necessary habit.
He told himself that was why several of them kept drifting backward, toward you. The shadows whispered at the edge of his hearing.
Tired. Azriel ignored them.
Another curled around his shoulder. Hurting.
He tightened his jaw. He knew, he did not need them narrating the obvious. He also did not need to keep looking behind him. And yet he did. Once to make sure you were keeping pace. Again because your steps had grown quieter. A third time because you stumbled.
Your boot caught unevenly against the cobblestones, and you reached toward the nearest wall to steady yourself. Azriel moved before thought could interfere. One moment he was several paces ahead. The next, his hand had closed around your arm.
"Careful." You blinked at him, genuine surprise crossed your face before you buried it.
His grip remained steady against your arm. Your pulse jumped beneath his fingers. It was fast. Though whether from exhaustion, pain, or being startled, he could not tell.
"I said I'm fine," you muttered, softer this time.
Azriel did not release you. "You said that an hour ago."
"Still true." His gaze searched your face.
There was absolutely nothing convincing about the stubborn set of your mouth, nothing.
Devon cleared his throat loudly. "So are we going to stand in the street arguing until dawn, or am I actually getting paid tonight?"
Azriel released you.
"Let's go." Devon grinned.
They continued toward the river. Soon, the bridge leading toward the River House came into view. Its pale marble gleamed beneath the moonlight. Across the water, Azriel could already sense Rhysand. Feyre's presence glowed beside his, different but no less powerful. Beneath them both came something softer. Small, bright.
Nyx.
A faint peal of laughter carried across the grounds. Something tightened in Azriel's chest. He had not seen the babe properly in weeks. Not because he could not, but because he had chosen not to. Feyre and Rhys deserved peace, their family deserved space. That was what Azriel had told himself whenever he declined dinners or found an excuse to remain occupied with work.
It was easier that way. Easier than sitting within the warmth of their home and being reminded how badly some buried, shameful part of him wanted something similar. He pushed the thought aside.
His shadows would not settle. They continued drifting toward you. One skimmed along the ground near your injured leg. Another hovered near your burned arm. The remnants of Summer magic still whispered beneath your skin, ancient and foreign. He disliked it.
Azriel forced his attention toward the River House. Two days and the mission was complete. He could hand over the weapon. Madja could deal with your injuries. The mercenaries could collect their payment. Then Azriel could return to his own work.
Work that did not involve half-human females who walked willingly into collapsing temples and then complained when someone suggested they might require medical attention.
Simple.
He opened the doors then stepped aside. Warmth spilled outward immediately. The River House possessed a kind of warmth unlike anywhere else in Velaris. Not merely temperature, but life. The scent of jasmine mingled with paint and polished wood. Protective wards hummed quietly through the walls.
Azriel noticed you stopped at the threshold. Your attention lifted toward the vaulted ceiling. Then the enormous windows framing the night sky. The art, the architecture.
Your posture tightened. The same sort of reaction he had seen from soldiers entering sacred places after years spent sleeping in mud and blood. Devon had precisely the opposite response.
He whistled. "Not bad."
His hand reached toward the marble banister.
"Don't touch anything." Devon froze.
Slowly, he looked toward Azriel.
"Relax, Shadows. I'm appreciating the craftsmanship." Azriel's wings opened a fraction.
Devon immediately raised both hands. "Not touching."
Good.
Azriel turned and continued down the hall. Their footsteps echoed quietly behind him. Farther within the house came another burst of laughter. Feyre. Then Nyx's softer babbling. Azriel's chest tightened again. He ignored it. Instead, he listened to the footsteps behind him.
Devon's were steady, but yours were not. The limp had become impossible to hide on the polished floor. He glanced over his shoulder. You were studying the portraits lining the walls. Landscapes of Velaris, Starfall captured in paint. You looked at everything carefully. Not greedily, not like someone cataloguing objects worth stealing, as Azriel might once have expected of a mercenary.
He pushed open the door to Rhysand's study without knocking. Blue light reflected from the Sidra through the enormous windows. Rhys sat behind his desk in his usual deceptively relaxed posture. Anyone unfamiliar with him might have mistaken it for laziness. Azriel knew better, his brother noticed everything.
Feyre stood nearby with Nyx resting against her. The babe was nearly asleep, one tiny hand tangled stubbornly in his mother's hair. Madja waited in one of the chairs near the wall, a leather bag of supplies resting near her feet. Her eyes immediately swept over the new arrivals.
"Welcome back," Rhys said.
The words were casual, though the authority beneath them was not.
"I take it the mission was...eventful."
Azriel inclined his head.
"The artifact is secured. The temple collapsed, but we made it out before the tide turned."
Rhysand's attention shifted beyond him, toward you. The High Lord's expression remained unchanged, though Azriel caught the flicker of curiosity beneath it.
Feyre looked too.
"Madja," Rhys said.
The healer rose immediately.
"You there. Come closer, child."
Nothing happened.
Azriel looked toward you. You had stopped moving. Madja waited with one hand extended but you simply stared. Not frightened, not exactly. He followed your gaze. Rhys and Feyre stood beside one another, night and starlight. Nyx stirred sleepily in Feyre's arms and peered toward the strangers with drowsy curiosity.
Azriel understood then, at least partially.
To him, they were Rhys and Feyre.
His brother.
His High Lord.
His High Lady.
His family.
To most of Prythian, they were something else entirely.
Legends given flesh.
The Night Triumphant.
The Stars Eternal.
Feyre Cursebreaker.
And you—
Azriel looked toward you again. Half-fae, Half-human. The significance struck him with surprising force. The human world knew Feyre differently. Before she had become High Fae, before she had become High Lady, Feyre had been human. Mortal, fragile by Prythian's standards. And somehow she had ended up here, standing beside the most powerful High Lord in Prythian with their son resting in her arms.
Azriel watched your attention linger on her. Whatever crossed your face was not fear. That much he knew. Recognition, maybe. Awe. Something softer he could not name. You had spent two days making jokes in the face of danger. Laughing with Devon, mocking Azriel, walking into a temple that might have killed you because the blood in your veins happened to make you useful. Yet standing before Feyre seemed to leave you more vulnerable than any of it.
Feyre noticed too, ff course she did.
Her expression softened.
"Madja doesn't bite," she said gently, the humor warmed the words. A faint smile appeared on your face.
Azriel moved slightly closer.
"Go on," he murmured.
The words were quiet enough that they were meant only for you. Your attention snapped toward him. For a heartbeat, you simply looked at him. No sarcasm, no challenge. No irritating little smile designed specifically to get beneath his skin. Just something unguarded.
Then you nodded.
Once.
And crossed the room toward Madja.
Azriel watched you go. You stepped from shadow into the warm light surrounding Feyre and Nyx. Something about the image caught beneath his ribs. He did not know enough about you to understand why. Only that the female who had joked her way through an ancient ruin suddenly looked painfully human standing beside someone who had once been exactly that.
Human, and survived it.
Devon shifted beside him, his leather creaked. Azriel remembered the mercenary existed. Devon, apparently, had developed an entirely new problem. The male looked terrified. His usual swagger had vanished, his shoulders had gone rigid. His gaze flicked between Rhysand and Azriel as though deciding whether bowing, speaking, or throwing himself from the nearest window would produce the least offensive result.
Rhys noticed, his violet eyes gleamed faintly.
"You must be Devon Hale."
Devon straightened so quickly that Azriel almost heard his spine snap into place.
"Uh. Yes, sir."
Azriel closed his eyes briefly.
"That's me. Devon of..." He hesitated. "Well, nowhere really. Mercenary-for-hire. Temporary associate of your spymaster."
Rhysand's mouth twitched. "I see."
"Good to meet you," Devon continued.
Too quickly.
"Heard plenty about you. Not bad things, obviously. I mean, you're the High Lord, so obviously I wouldn't—"
"Devon." Azriel did not raise his voice.
He did not need to.
Devon stopped. "Right. Sorry."
Rhysand was very clearly trying not to laugh.
"Relax," he said. "I'm not going to smite you for being nervous."
Devon blinked. "You can do that?"
Azriel slowly turned his head. "Devon."
"Right." The mercenary stared at the floor.
Rhys's mouth curved. Azriel suspected he would hear about this later, repeatedly. Rhys eventually looked toward him again, the amusement fading.
"You said the wards were volatile." Azriel's shoulders tightened. "How close did we come to losing her?"
Closer than Azriel wanted to remember, though he saw it anyway. The temple collapsing, stone crashing into the surf. His shadows striking uselessly against wards they could not penetrate. That moment of silence after the ruin came down.
One of his shadows moved along the wall beside him.
"She got the job done."
Rhys raised a brow.
"That isn't what I asked."
Azriel looked at his brother. There it was, that infuriating expression Rhys wore whenever he already knew exactly what Azriel was thinking and merely wanted to force him to say it. Azriel resisted for several seconds before responding.
"She's capable." His gaze flicked briefly toward where Madja had begun examining your arm. "Reckless." A shadow curled near his boot. "Resourceful."
Another whispered near his shoulder.
Brave.
Azriel ignored it.
"The wards should have killed her," he finished. "They didn't."
Rhys leaned back.
"Half-fae blood can behave unpredictably with older magic. Sometimes the mortal side changes how certain enchantments respond." Azriel said nothing.
Devon looked like he wanted to contribute. One glance from Azriel persuaded him otherwise. Rhys's attention moved to the weapon.
"And the blade?" Azriel carefully removed the wrapped artifact and placed it onto the desk. Even beneath several layers of dark fabric, its magic pulsed.
"Still active," Azriel said. "The enchantment is old. I can't tell whether it's entirely defensive or something else."
Rhys studied it.
"We'll have Feyre and Amren examine it." Azriel inclined his head.
For several moments, silence settled over the study. Rhys observed the blade. Devon attempted not to appear terrified. Azriel did what he always did, watched. His attention drifted once more toward you. Madja had taken your injured hand. You were clearly trying not to react while the healer examined it.
Azriel realized his hands had curled tightly behind his back only when Rhys spoke again.
"You did well."
Azriel's gaze returned to him.
"All of you," Rhys added. "I'll arrange payment and have someone escort your associates back once Madja is finished."
"Appreciate it," Devon said.
His voice cracked halfway through the word.
Rhysand's expression softened. "Truly, Devon. You're safe here. No one in this house bites."
Devon muttered, "Not what I've heard."
One of Azriel's shadows darted across the floor. It hooked around Devon's boot and tugged. The mercenary stumbled, his eyes widening.
Rhys laughed.
"He's joking," Rhys told Azriel.
Azriel watched Devon regain his balance. "Mm."
He remained unconvinced. Eventually, Rhys turned his attention back toward the weapon. Azriel's gaze drifted toward you again. Madja's healing magic glowed faintly around your injured arm. He should have felt relief. The mission was finished, the artifact was secured, no one had died.
You were back in Velaris.
Alive.
Safe enough to argue with healers and insult his shadows another day.
There was nothing left for him to worry about. Yet the knot beneath his ribs remained. Azriel watched Madja's magic flicker around your skin. His shadows hovered nearby despite his repeated attempts to call them back.
A/N: This is a collection of One-shots organized in chronological order for a continuous story.
WC: 1.3k
Azriel winnowed in a rush of shadow, the beach dissolving around him. For one disorienting heartbeat there was only darkness, pressure, and the familiar pull of magic. Then the world reformed.
Devon stood exactly where Azriel had left him near the edge of the cliff, pacing with both hands planted on his hips. The male’s head snapped up the instant Azriel appeared.
“About damn time." Azriel ignored the greeting.
Devon looked past hin, then around him.
His brows drew together. “Where is she?”
Azriel did not answer immediately. The sudden quiet after the chaos below pressed against him. His shadows swirled close, restless from the moment his boots touched stone.
“She was behind me,” he said at last.
Devon only stared at him.
Azriel turned toward the shoreline below. The tide had begun reclaiming the beach. White water surged farther over the sand with every wave, breaking against scattered pieces of rubble. The temple sat half-swallowed by the cliff, what remained of its entrance disappearing beneath dust, water, and fractured stone.
No movement.
No sign of you.
Nothing.
Azriel’s shadows shot away before conscious thought could catch up. They streamed over the cliff edge like spilled smoke, descending through gullies and cracks in the rock. Their whispers crowded suddenly into his mind.
Not here.
Not below.
East.
Ridge.
One shadow returned faster than the others.
It snapped against his ear sharply enough to feel like a reprimand.
Climbing.
Azriel blinked. “She’s what?”
Devon’s head jerked toward him. “What?”
Azriel barely heard him. His shadows continued feeding him impressions. The rock, hands slipping against stone.
His shoulders tightened. “She didn’t follow.”
Devon frowned. “What do you mean, she didn’t follow?”
Azriel looked toward the far side of the ruins. “She’s still below.”
Devon stared at him. Then realization slowly crossed his face. “You left her down there?”
“I assumed she could winnow after me.” Silence.
Devon’s mouth dropped open. Then he laughed, actually laughed. The sound came out sharp and incredulous as he clutched his chest like Azriel had delivered the finest joke he had ever heard. Azriel slowly turned his head.
“She can’t winnow, dumbass.” Azriel’s expression went still.
Devon either failed to notice the warning or decided his amusement outweighed his survival instincts.
“She’s half-fae,” he continued, as if explaining the concept to an unusually dense child. “Her magic doesn’t work like that.”
Azriel’s jaw tightened.
Devon gestured dramatically toward him.
“You didn’t know? You? The almighty Shadowsinger? Master of secrets, terror in the dark, collector of everyone’s deepest—”
“Are you finished?” The temperature of Azriel’s voice finally reached him.
Devon’s grin faltered.
A shadow hissed beside Azriel’s ear.
Blood.
Another curled around his wrist.
Slipping.
The amusement vanished from Devon’s face when he saw Azriel’s expression change.
Azriel swore beneath his breath.
“Shit.” He stepped from the edge.
Wind tore upward as Azriel dropped. His wings opened hard behind him, catching the coastal current and wrenching him out of the fall. His shadows rushed aheadm marking the path through the cliffside before he could see it himself.
There, farther east.
Azriel’s stomach dropped. You had already survived the temple collapsing around you. The wards had burned you. Your arm had been injured, your hand was bleeding. And apparently, rather than simply waiting where he might easily find you, you had decided to climb a godsdamned cliff.
Idiot.
He could not entirely determine whether the thought was directed at you or himself. Probably both. You could have called out. Could have waited or could have done almost anything other than drag an injured body up a sheer rock face.
But no.
You would rather haul yourself up a cliff with bleeding hands than admit you required assistance.
His wings angled, the distance disappeared beneath him. As he drew closer, the details became clearer. Your movements were controlled, but they were slow. One hand searched for the next hold while your injured arm remained closer to your body than the other. Your boots struggled for purchase against loose stone.
His shadows reached you before he did. They wound around the rock near your hands. Hovered beneath your feet.
They whispered frantically.
Careful.
Loose.
You swatted one away.
Azriel landed several feet above you. The impact scattered dirt and loose pebbles down the slope. Your head snapped upward while he folded his wings.
“Enjoying yourself?” The glare you gave him could have stripped paint from wood.
“Didn’t know disappearing was part of the plan.”
“I assumed you could winnow.” Your laugh was breathless.
“You assumed wrong.” Azriel exhaled through his nose.
His wings twitched once before folding tighter behind him. “Give me your hand.”
You immediately returned your attention to the cliff. “I’ve got it.”
“You don’t.”
“I said—” Your boot slipped.
Stone crumbled beneath your heel. Your body jerked downward and Azriel’s shadows lashed out. One wrapped around your wrist, another caught around your waist. Azriel moved at the same instant. His hand closed around your forearm and hauled you upward. You had barely enough time to suck in a breath before he dragged you over the ledge.
Momentum carried you forward, straight into him. Your body struck his chest. For one second, neither of you moved. Azriel could feel you breathing too fast. The frantic rhythm of your heart through layers of clothing and leather. The sea roared far beneath you.
His shadows gathered immediately. One brushed over your shoulder, another circled your wrist. A third slid over your injured arm as though inspecting the damage. You shoved away from him.
“Stop doing that.” Azriel arched a brow.
“Stopping you from falling?”
“Acting like I need saving.” Something unpleasant tightened behind his ribs.
“You were falling.”
“I slipped.”
“That tends to precede falling.” Your glare sharpened, Azriel only stared back.
You brushed past him.
No thanks.
No acknowledgment.
Nothing except pure offended pride as you continued toward the upper ridge.
Azriel watched you go. His wings opened once behind him, more an involuntary release of tension than anything intentional. Devon’s laughter carried faintly from above. He was beginning to dislike that male intensely.
By the time Azriel reached the top, you were dragging yourself over the final stretch. Devon stood several paces away. His arms opened theatrically.
“Well, look who finally—” He stopped, any trace of humor vanished.
Azriel’s attention shifted toward you. Now that the immediate danger had passed, there was no disguising the damage. Dust and dried blood marked your skin, mud coated your boots. Your clothing had been torn in several places. The fabric over one knee had split, revealing another shallow scrape beneath it. Your burned arm remained stiff at your side and the hand you had used to climb was bleeding again.
Devon swore softly. “Shit.”
You straightened, or tried to. “I’m fine.”
Devon took a cautious step toward you. “You look like you got dragged through Hel.”
“Could’ve been worse.” Your voice had gone flat.
The same tone you seemed to use whenever your body began betraying how exhausted you actually were. Devon reached toward your injured arm.
“Let me see—”
“I said I’m fine.” You stepped backward.
Devon stopped.
His expression changed.
“Fine?” he repeated, quieter. “You look like you can barely stand.”
“I can stand.” Azriel watched your shoulder shift.
“You could have died.” The words escaped before Azriel decided to say them.
Silence.
You looked toward him, your expression sharpened immediately. The same glare you had given Devon. Azriel expected an argument. But for once, none came. Your mouth pressed into a thin line, and then you simply looked away. Perhaps you did not have enough energy left to fight both of them.
Devon released a long breath and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Well.” His gaze moved between you and Azriel. “At least everyone’s still in one piece.”
A pause. “More or less.”
No one laughed.
Azriel’s wings shifted restlessly. His shadows gathered around his boots. Then betrayed him when some drifted back towards you. They curled around your ankles before slipping upward toward your injured hand. Their whispers crowded his senses once more.
Hurt.
Azriel pulled them back.
They resisted.
Hurt.
Enough.
He forced the shadows closer to himself.
“Let’s move.” His voice came out lower than intended. “The longer we stay here, the more likely someone notices what happened.”
Devon looked toward you, then at the distance they still had to cover. “She can barely stand.”
“I can stand just fine.” Azriel’s jaw flexed.
There was no point arguing, not here. He could have offered to carry you. Could have flown you the remaining distance. He considered it, briefly, then dismissed the idea. He had started to learn exactly how you reacted when assistance resembled rescue. Your pride would keep you walking until your legs collapsed beneath you. Azriel was beginning to understand that forcing you would only make the situation worse.
So he turned toward the ridge. His shadows spread ahead, scouting the route.
I genuinely don’t care what Gwayne’s sexuality is. I ship Gwaymund, I enjoy Gwayston, I read female reader fics, and I love his relationship with Daeron. But after the last episode, where Gwayne is potentially gay (and it’s not even 100% confirmed lol), suddenly everything about him has been reduced to he’s gay.
Like… no. 😭 Don’t flatten such a great character into one trait.
Gwayne is warm, kind, and generous enough to make that offer to Cole. He’s observant, smart, and protective enough to figure out the assassins. He’s sharp-tongued and sarcastic with Ormund while still being genuine. Those are the things that made me love him as a character.
Now every discussion is just “he’s in love with Criston,” “he thought the Baratheon was hot,” “Ormund confirmed he’s gay.” Like… what?? 😭
I can absolutely see the implication in the Cole scene. But the Ormund scene? I get why people interpret it that way, but how are people suddenly taking Ormund’s words 100% after seeing what kind of person he is? 😭 He was clearly trying to embarrass Gwayne, establish dominance, and make himself look more capable, especially because Gwayne keeps getting in the way of his influence over Daeron. And the assassin scene literally ends with Gwayne proving himself through his actions instead of words.
The Baratheon thing is even funnier. Since when did a man calling another man handsome automatically make him gay? 😭 I feel like people completely missed Gwayne’s actual point. He remembered that Baratheon because his light chestnut hair stood out from the usual dark-haired Baratheons. That’s why he recognized him.
What annoys me even more is seeing writers who make Gwayne x female reader fics getting harassed????? Please leave creators alone. 😭 If it’s not your thing, just scroll. We can all ship him with whoever we want.
I miss when people talked about how handsome, funny, and knightly Gwayne is, or actually discussed his dynamics with Cole, Daeron, Alicent, and Ormund. Now every conversation somehow circles back to “he yearns for a man.”
He’s so much more than that!!!😭 I love him since I saw him jousting with Daemon in s1 and I am so happy his role gets bigger and bigger and Freddie is amazing. Please protect Gwayne and Freddie from this toxic fandom😭
These past two weeks have been really hectic at work. I’ve been doing some pretty weird hours like doubles or overnight and blah blah blah.
These stories have not been forgotten, I just haven’t had time for editing during this time. I should be able to work on some stuff over the next few days to have content for next week. Most likely starting with Rhysand’s story, then Azriel, and then continuing Eris.
Hi there!! I was just wondering if your bride of flames series has been re written at some point? I feel like I remember it starting off a little differently with the main girl leaving her family estate with her brother to marry Eris and having a moment where she looks back at her maid and friend (maybe named Arya) when the carriage drives off. I wasn’t sure if that was your fic or if im remembering a different series and confusing it lol
No, you are correct!
That was the original start to the story I had posted at some point last year. I’m basically revamping everything and playing things out differently now because I wasn’t happy with how it was going
