hey yâall. this is something iâve been working on for a long time. i have most of the story finished, just fixing little nuances and plot holes now. but i thought it was time to post the start of this story. this is a azrielxOC fic, and iâll say it now, if youâve read any other books by sjm and know the name âmaeveâ, i just really like the name lmao, thereâs no other connections to it. if it does well, iâll continue posting updates. and please, lmk what yaâll think :)
also, full credit to the artist in the collage above. they were just images i pulled off pinterest.
Maeveâs fingers itched with the urge to moveâviolently, decisively, with enough force to silence the room. To seize the heavy, silver goblet at her place setting, split Calenâs skull wide open with its ornate edge until bone shattered like porcelain and brain matter spilled in pale ribbons across the table. She wanted to hurl the gore straight into Tarenâs smirking face, wanted to see his pride curdle into something real and frightened. Maybe then theyâd stop talking about her like she was a prized broodmare up for auction.
But she didnât move. Couldnâtânot with him watching.
Her father sat at the head of the long mahogany table like a statue carved from shadow and fire, eyes dark as pitch, mouth thin with judgment. The air in the dining hall felt thick and cloying, the usual humid heat of the Autumn Court now suffocating. Like smoke curling into her lungs, like silk wrapping too tight around her throat. Every breath Maeve took was shallow. Measured. It had to be.
She sat still, a perfect doll with glassy eyes and frozen limbs. Chin up. Shoulders back. Spine straight. The posture of obedience. The armor of decorum. Sheâd learned it from her mother. From all the females in this gods-damned court whoâd swallowed their rage and learned to smile while bleeding.
She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper.
âI just think Maeven would do well to marry Garrick,â Calen drawled, voice thick with the false ease of privilege. It slithered through the room like oil on water, smug and slow. He leaned back in his chair, hands laced over his stomach like he already owned her, a grin curling across his face as if he thought himself clever. âHis fatherâs been your adviser for centuries, hasnât he, Father? Their familyâs loyal. Reliable.â
Maeveâs jaw tensed until her molars ached. Every tendon in her body pulled taut, ready to snap. Maeven. Her full name grated every raw and exposed nerve. It was a title more than an actual name.
Beneath the table, her motherâs fingers brushed against hers and gave a gentle squeeze. Reassuring. Familiar. A silent plea to endure. But Maeve didnât squeeze back. She couldnât. The touch felt like a shackle. A chain forged in velvet and silence. Her mother had once held that same chain. Still did.
Maeve was drowning in her own stillness.
She couldnât remember when the weariness had first sunk its claws into her. After the war, maybe. After the last time sheâd fought back and paid the price. Maybe it had always been there, growing louder with every passing year, every dinner like this. Every time they spoke of her like she wasnât there.
âI hear Carsus is still unwed,â Ronell added, too quickly, too eagerly. His voice cut through the silence like a knife meant for her throat. âHisââ
âEnough,â her father snapped.
The word struck the room like thunder, silencing laughter, smothering breath. Her brothers froze like hounds jerked to heel.
âI will inform everyone when I have made my decision.â
His decision.
Maeveâs fingers curled into fists beneath the table. She wanted to throw the entire dining set across the floor, wanted to shatter crystal and bone and ceramic. Wanted to burn the roast meat to ash and set fire to every velvet drape until only charred wood and smoke remained. Because they werenât just deciding who she should marry.
They were deciding her fate. Her body. Her future.
And not one of themânot onceâhad asked her what she wanted. She didnât exist in their conversation. Not as a person. Not even as a daughter. Just a resource. A bargaining chip. A well-bred box with a seal waiting to be traded.
She had always known this day would come. Her fatherâs tolerance of her independence, of her clever games and subtle defiance, had never been kindness. It had been calculation. Heâd let her dance at the edges of his control, knowing he would call her back when it suited him.
And now it suited him.
The war with Hybern had left the Courts shaken. Her father was consolidating power, looking for leverage. An alliance. A political tool.
And Maeveâbeautiful, clever, temperamental Maeveâhad finally become useful.
Dinner crawled on, thick as honey. Her food tasted like ash. The voices around her blurred into a haze of arrogance and self-congratulation, her brothers whispering venom cloaked in humor, each jab another test to see if sheâd break. She didnât. Her mask held. She moved like a queen. Like a statue. Like every perfect daughter before her.
But insideâinside she was screaming.
When the meal finally ended, Calen and Ronell swaggered to their feet, their wives rising behind them like well-trained shadows. Tarenâs wife, Alia, clutched her bellyâround and full with childâand shuffled after them, eyes downcast, face empty. Maeve didnât waste pity on her. Alia had chosen this. Sheâd become part of the cycle, and now she was breeding more of it.
They were all complicit.
âMaeven.â
Her fatherâs voice sliced into her thoughts, sharp as a blade. She turned to him slowly. He didnât need to raise his voice, the weight of it was enough.
âYes, Father?â Her voice was smooth, sweet, sickly with false obedience.
âI expect you to be on your best behavior while I search for a suitor. We donât want another⊠incident.â
Ah. There it was. The warning. She saw it in his eyes: the memory of fire, of blood smeared on marble, of her voice rising in defiance. The last time sheâd dared to act like she had a choice.
Maeve smiled, delicate and razor-sharp.
âOf course not, Father.â She stood, every movement laced with grace. Crossed the room and kissed his temple like the dutiful daughter she no longer pretended to be. âYou and my brothers returning from war brought me back to my senses. Nothing like that will happen again.â
A lie, cool and sweet as winter wine. Her father didnât look at her as she turned to leave, already lost in maps and ledgers and wine. Her mother watched, though. Eyes heavy with something like warning. Or guilt. Or maybe resignation.
Maeve met her gaze. Let her see itâthat glimmer of fire creeping out between the cracks.
Then she walked out.
Each step down the hall was a release. The doors shut behind her with a hush like breath. The corridor was dim, cool. Still. Blessedly empty. She didnât think. She just moved. Let her body carry her past the tapestries and braziers, past the staring portraits and golden sconces. Guards didnât speak. Servants bowed and disappeared. No one stopped her.
She found herself outside the library before she even realized where she was going.
The heavy door groaned softly as she opened it. The scent of leather and old parchment greeted her like a long-lost friend. Shadows hugged the corners of the room. The hearth was low, but still glowing.
Maeve moved through the room like a ghost. She bypassed the shelves, the desks, the cushioned reading chairs sheâd once hidden in. Went to the farthest corner and sank to the stone floor, back pressed to the wall. Her skirts pooled around her like spilled blood, the silk of her bodice too tight, her earrings too heavy, her scalp tender from the elaborate braids still tugging at her scalp.
And she breathed.
For the first time that nightâshe breathed.
She didnât cry. Didnât scream. But gods, she wanted to. She wanted to tear the books from the shelves and feed them to the fire. Wanted to feel something break. Because if she didnât, she might. She curled forward, elbows to knees, forehead to stone. The cold grounded her. The stillness steadied her.
But thisâthis space, this silenceâit was hers. A small rebellion. A corner of the world untouched by their greed. She let the quiet hold her like a secret.
Laughter rang through the River House like windchimes in a summer breezeâlight, effortless, golden. It echoed off the polished marble floors and arched ceilings, warm and familiar. The scent of roasted meat and honeyed wine lingered in the air, clinging to silk napkins and half-drunk goblets. Rhysandâs voice rose above the hum, lilting with amusement as he gestured broadly, the amethyst ring on his finger catching the candlelight in a flicker of purple fire.
Azriel sat beside him, still as a sentinel.
He smiled when it was expected. Chuckled in the right places. Nodded with quiet, amused agreement whenever the conversation tilted his way. Cassian was in the middle of an exaggerated retelling of a training mishapâarms flailing, wine splashing dangerously close to Nestaâs pristine dress as she rolled her eyes beside him with long-suffering affection.
Azriel let out a laugh, smooth and low.
It sounded real. It always did.
Heâd perfected the art of presence. Of wearing the right face. The Spymaster, friend, brotherâharmless, watchful. No one noticed how his gloved hand curled into the meat of his thigh beneath the table, fingernails biting through leather, anchoring him to sensation. No one saw the untouched plate of food cooling before him, the steam long faded to nothing.
They werenât looking. Not closely. Not at him.
They never were.
Azriel could fly to the darkest corners of the world, disappear into shadows soaked in blood and bone, and reemerge with his hands scrubbed clean, his expression neutral, his voice steady. And theyâd welcome him back like nothing had changed. Because that was his role. The quiet constant. The blade that stayed sharp no matter how many times it was used.
He raised his wine glass and took a slow sip. The liquid touched his tongue like airâno flavor, no warmth, just something to fill the silence. His gaze drifted toward the flame of the nearest candle, small and golden. It wavered slightly with the movement of the air, but never wavered enough to go out. Azriel stared at it, his expression carefully blank.
He wondered how it would feel. To go out like that. No scream. No fanfare. Just a flicker, a sighâand then nothing.
âAz,â Mor called from across the table. Her golden hair caught the lamplight like strands of fire. âYouâve been quiet tonight. Did Cassian finally beat you at sparring?â
His head lifted automatically. The mask settled over his features like a reflex, a worn thing. His lips curled in a small, wry smile. âJust once,â he said, his voice smooth as silk, tinged with amused disbelief. âAnd only because he cheated.â
Cassian barked a laugh. âI didnât cheat. You were off your game.â
Azrielâs smile didnât slip. But something in his voice cracked as he replied, âMaybe I was.â
It wasnât meant to sound like that. It wasnât meant to be real.
A breath of silence passed between them. Too short to draw attention. Too long for Azriel not to notice. Then Nesta rolled her eyes, Cassian leaned into another joke, and the room dissolved into laughter again.
Azriel lifted his glass once more. His fingers were steadyâby sheer will alone. But he didnât feel it. Any of it. The wine. The joy. The warmth. It all slid off him like water from polished stone.
They were all healing. Even after everything. Feyre and Rhys, bound together with quiet, unwavering devotion. Cassian and Nesta, forged in fire and softened by love. Mor, still radiant despite the scars. Amren, sly and amused, watching the room like a cat. Even Elainâfragile, delicate Elainâhad found her footing. Roots. Peace.
Azriel sat in the middle of it all, smiling with his mouth, while his chest rang hollow. He would die for any one of them. Loved them more than he could say. And yetâhe felt like a ghost. Like something half-formed, seated in a chair his body no longer fit.
No one noticed. He made sure of that. It was easier that way. Because if they saw itâtruly saw the black pit gnawing through his center, the aching silence where his soul used to echoâtheyâd never stop trying to fix it. And some things werenât meant to be fixed.
Some wounds bled forever.
He shifted in his seat, picked up his fork, set it down again.
Say something. Make a joke. Stay visible. Stay real.
Instead, his eyes drifted past Rhys, toward the massive windows that overlooked Velaris. The night had come in full, velvet and endless. Stars blinked down from the sky, cold and sharp and far too high to reach. And AzrielâAzriel had never felt farther from them.
Hours later, the house was silent.
Azriel sat in the darkest corner of his office, where the lamplight didnât reach. Shadows clung to the walls like ivy, curling over the bookshelves, wrapping around the furniture. The dagger across his lap glinted faintly as his fingers adjusted the leather straps securing it to his thigh.
Each movement was practiced. Ritual. Buckles tightened, plates locked into place, blades checked and sheathed with silent efficiency. His leathers, worn smooth by years of use, fit him like skinâthick, familiar, armored. They grounded him in ways the wine never could.
He exhaled slowly. His shadows swirled at his feet, restless.
The balcony door stood ajar behind him. A breeze drifted in from the gardens, lifting the edges of maps and scattered documents on his desk. Outside, moonlight silvered the Sidra, the river murmuring secrets to itself.
Still, something gnawed at his ribs. He was due at the Spring Court. Eris had sent word. Not a request. A summons. Laced with veiled disdain, as always. Eris enjoyed the illusion of controlâpoked at Azriel like a child testing the edges of a knife.
But beneath the smugness, there was fear. Always fear.
Azriel didnât need respect. He didnât want affection. He wanted thatâhesitation. The flinch before someone spoke his name. The quiet calculation of danger. Fear opened doors faster than charm ever could.
His shadows twitchedâthen shrank, pulling tight against the floorboards as a knock came at the door. He didnât look up. Didnât need to.
âElain,â he said softly, a moment before the door opened.
She stepped in quietly, a vision in moonlight. Pale blue fabric clung to her figure like mist. Her smile was soft, hesitant, glowing. âI thought you might still be here.â
The shadows receded further, obedient. They always did when she entered.
He adjusted the final strap across his thigh. âSpring Court,â he said, his tone flat.
âEris?â Her voice was gentle. Concerned.
He nodded once. âYes.â
She moved closer, eyes flicking over the armor at his chest, the glint of steel along his belt. âHe doesnât like you,â she teased.
Azriel met her gaze. âNo. But he fears me.â
It wasnât pride. Just fact.
She laughed quietly, but it didnât reach her eyes. âIs that⊠comforting?â
Not really.
But he didnât say that.
âYou donât have to go, do you?â she asked, too light, too casual. Her fingers toyed with the edge of his glove, brushing over the leather. âCanât you stay a little longer?â
Azriel stood. Towered.
Her fingers rested against his chest. âYou work too hard.â
âI donât need rest.â
The truth slipped out like a knife between ribs.
Elain tilted her head. âMaybe I could convince you otherwise.â
Her touch skimmed his wrist, delicate and sweet.
He felt nothing. Not warmth, not desire, not even guilt. But he smiled anyway. Just enough.
âMaybe you could,â he murmured.
She blushed, pleased. Rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. He didnât lean in.
Then she was gone.
And the moment the door clicked shutâhis shadows surged. They wrapped around him like armor. Like breath. Azriel let out a slow, quiet exhale, dragging a hand down his face. He should have ended it. Months ago. But pretending was easier than facing the truth: he didnât feel anything. Not for her. Not for this. Not anymore.
Just routine. Just silence. Just the mask.
He fastened the last of his gear, stepped out onto the balcony. The wind met him like an old friend. Above, the stars gleamed cold and unblinking. And Azriel launched into the nightânothing but darkness and silence and blades.
Buddy! The world is a flaming pile of horse shit! Governments topple, natural disasters happen, fucking STARS explode! You yourself are a beautiful bundle of dead universe that will never exist again! Talk about what you love!
Azriel couldnât breathe. He couldnât fucking breathe. The overwhelming tightness was strangling his lungs, crushing his already broken heart. And someone was screaming, he couldnât hear anything over the screaming.
Where was he, anyway?
He tried to take in his surroundings, to see where and what was going on. But his vision was so fucking blurry he couldnât make out anything other than the outline of people. They were standing over him, trying to haul him up. Apparently he was laying on the ground, clutching something wet and warm to his chest. But the pain, which radiated over his entire body, wouldnât let him move, even if he wanted to. It hurt too much.
âAzriel!â Someone screamed.
He felt the sting of a slap land across his face, and suddenly the whole world came back into focus.
It was Azriel that was screaming, voice raw. His vision cleared, of what he realized were tears, and the grief stricken faces of his family appeared. And he also realized he was speaking, repeating the same words over and over again.
âNo, no, no!â
âStay with me!â
All consuming anguish slammed into him. Ophelia was dead. Ophelia, his mate. His fucking mate, was dead. Azriel couldnât feel her on the other side of the bond anymore. Couldnât feel her chest rise with life-saving air, he just couldnât feel her. Her beautiful eyes would never open, her mouth would never tip to the side with a cheeky smile, and he wouldnât ever get to hear his name on his lips again.
Dead.
He held onto her tighter, how he should have all those nights ago. He should have told her everything when he had the chance, should have beared his fucking soul to her. Even if she had rejected him, he still should have told her.
âMadja is on her way.â Azriel heard someone say. He was so lost in his agony he had no idea who was speaking. âAzriel, we need you to let her goâ
A primal snarl tore from his lips, and they backed away, hands up in a placating gesture.
âYouâre going to have to knock him out.â Another said.
âI know. Iâm just afraid of what heâll do when he wakes.â
Cool hands grabbed onto his temple and Azriel thrashed, trying to throw whoever that was off of him. He was like a raging wild animal, like something out of the Middle. He was no longer the calm and collected male like everyone knew. It was pure carnal rage.
Long, razor sharp claws tore their way through his minds shield, destroying them to get inside. Azriel screamed louder, blood trickling from his nose. The sounds of his family faded away, so all that was left was the sound of soft spoken voices, cooing and hushing him. Lulling him to sleep. He fought, pushing back against those claws. But they only held on tighter.
Slowly, he slumped to the ground, arms falling away from Opheliaâs bleeding body.
Azriel woke with a start, like something had scared him out of his deep slumber. That hadnât been a normal sleep, it was only darkness with him floating forever in the nothingness. But he still felt pain raging all over his body. The pain of the mating bond breaking, slowly fading away into nothing.
Would that be all thatâs left? Nothing?
He sat up sluggishly, the joints in his body popping and cracking. He was no longer out in that cursed field, but tucked into his room in the House of Wind. His bloody leathers had been stripped from his body, replaced with leisure clothes. Someone had changed and bathed him, as he saw no signs of her blood anywhere on his body. How long had he been out?
Getting to his feet, he walked towards the door. But he stopped as he passed the mirror, seeing his ghastly reflection. Azriel studied himself, hating what stared back. His wings now dragged behind him, the talons scraping the floor. There were deep purple marks under his bloodshot eyes, like he had been crying while he slept. And he looked incredibly pale, skin taking on a sickly pallor.
The look of someone with an utterly shattered heart. Thatâs what he looked like now.
A messy knot of emotions rose up his throat and Azriel stumbled, grasping the wood of the dressing table. His shoulders shook with each deep inhale he took, but it just seemed like he couldnât catch his breath. His fingers gripped the wood so tightly that they turned white. He just couldnât get his head clear, couldnât stop hearing her broken cries.
Whimpering with frustration, he lashed out, his closed fist connecting with the mirror. It exploded into a thousand tiny pieces, small shards embedding themselves in his knuckles. Thick red blood seeped out of his wounds, but already his Illyrian healing was trying to take control. He watched numbly as his cuts turned pink with new skin, but was instantly shredded back open by the glass.
Suddenly, the door flew open and Cassian rushed in. He halted in his tracks, taking in the scene of his brother standing there with a shattered mirror and blood running down his hand.
âYouâre awake.â He croaked, eyes misty with unshed tears.
Azriel didnât respond. Instead, he picked up a scrap of linen and wrapped it around his knuckles to staunch the bleeding.
âYouâll need that cleaned out, thereâs glass-â
âNo.â Azriel snarled.
âAzâŠâ Cassian tried, taking small steps in his direction.
âI said no!â His teeth flashed. âFuck the glass, fuck everything! There is nothing left for me here, my mate is fucking dead. DEAD. And I might as well join her!â
They both stood there in deafening silence, just staring at each other. The realization of what Azriel had just admitted struck Cassian like a slap. His breath hitched in his chest, and Cassians mouth opened and closed, as if he were a fish out of water, trying to think of something to say. But there was nothing he could say that would take away this hurt.
âBut she lives.â
Except that.
Azriels head snapped towards his brother, eyes going so wide that they almost popped straight out of his head.
âWhat?â He asked, voice barely above a whisper.
âMadja brought her back. Sheâ still unconscious but-â
Azriel didnât stick around to hear the rest of what he said, because he burst past Cassian, sprinting towards her room. Alive? She was alive? He couldnât wrap his destroyed thoughts around it. He had felt the bond break, and watched her take her last breath, how could she be alive? This had to be some type of cruel joke his brothers were playing on him, there was no way-
He opened Opheliaâs bedroom door so hard that it bounced off the wall, hinges rattling with the force. He took a step, and then another, before his knees gave out. But Rhys was there, catching him under his arm, and kept him upright.
âEasy, brother.â His voice was soft, softer than he had ever heard it.
What Azriel saw confused him. Ophelia was there, laying on her bed as if she was sleeping. She had been washed and changed just as Azriel had, no traces of blood remaining on her. Feyre and Madja stood on the other side of the bed, and the two stared at him, unsure of what his next move would be.
âHow?â Azrielâs voice broke, and for the millionth time that day, tears rushed to his eyes.
âWe got to her just in time.â Madja was there, putting various medical supplies back into a bag. The old female turned to Feyre and said something under her breath. But his shadows heard her.
Watch him. The bond hasnât returned, and Iâm afraid heâll do somethingâŠsomething I canât heal.
Feyre nodded and thanked the healer before dismissing her.
âHow are you feeling, Az?â Feyre asked, and just then Rhys released the grip he had on Azriels arm.
But he didnât hear her. Instead, he slowly crept towards the edge of Opheliaâs bed. She looked so incredibly peaceful, like the events of the past week hadn't happened at all.
He took her slender hand in his, and it was so cold. He supposed that was normal considering how much blood she had lost. They had been laying in a puddle of it. And still, it just didnât seem possible that she was alive.
âWhy hasnât the bond returned?â Azriel whispered, scared that if spoke too loud it would wake her.
âMadja said it would take time.â Rhys said, coming to his side.
Time. If there was anything Azriel knew how to do was wait. He had waited his entire life for Ophelia, he could wait just a little bit longer. So, he grabbed a reclining chair and dragged it to the side of her bed, and plopped down in it.
Three things were clear to Ophelia as she laid in the eternal darkness.
One, her mother was Lady of the Autumn Court and her father was Lord of the Day Court, and Lucien was her brother.
Two, her entire body was screaming in pain. It was a never ending barrage, it felt she was being set on fire over and over again. It felt like she was being stripped of her flesh, and someone was sticking needles in the exposed skin.
Three, Azriel was her mate.
Mate.
The cauldron had blessed and cursed her with a mate. And out of everyone, in the entirety of Prythian, it was him. Azriel.
His name on her tongue felt like taking a cold, refreshing gulp of water. It felt like life, death, and everything in between. Something as big as ruling the world seemed possible with him by her side, or even just getting out of bed for the day. Knowing that he was there, waiting for her. She could do it all.
But where was he?
He wasnât here with her, in this endless pit of dark nothingness. But she could sense him, his scent lingering on the tip of her nose. It was smokey and sweet, the boldness of each taste coming together each time, it was intoxicating. Like she could drown in him, but he would be there to keep her afloat.
Ophelia could feel him now. He was so close but yet so far away. It felt like she could reach out and touch him, but when she tried, her body screamed in protest. Everything hurt. Every miniscule movement that was made had her already exhausted mind slip farther and farther into the darkness.
So she laid there, feeling nothing and everything. Waiting for her mate.
Something was wrong. Azriel didnât know what, but he could no longer feel Ophelia as strongly on the other side of the bond. Her presence was just a flicker of energy, like a spark that refused to light.
âWeâre moving in. Now.â He quietly growled.
Mor, Cassian, and Nesta had all deliberately disobeyed Rhysands instructions to not enter the Autumn Court territory without his permission. They would all surely pay for it.
But at this moment, he didnât care what Rhysands punishment would be. He could cut off Azriels wings, set his hands alight, and throw him into the Sidra and he would take it. As long as he got Ophelia back. He was beyond grateful that his friends were risking their own lives and Rhysands wrath to find her too.
His shadows cast the corridor in front of them into darkness, snuffing out the fae lights lining the walls. They moved silently, as a unit. Quickly and quietly taking out any guards that they came across. What was more blood on Azriels hands? As far as he was concerned they were all complicit in this crime.
Gaining access to the Forest Palace wasnât easy. It had taken them entirely too long. They had to wait for changing of the guard and had to slaughter their way through just to get in. It was messy and harsh, but they did it all without raising alarm.
Azriel led them through twisting and turning hallways, going farther and farther down into the lower levels. He didnât know where he was going, it was just a feeling. He could feel that tug at the bond growing tighter and further down they went.
None of them questioned him, and thank the Mother for that. He wasnât sure how he would respond. They all were calm and quiet around him since departing from Velaris, as if a single word would set him off.
He supposed it would. After departing the River House, he had flown out into the forest and taken out several acres of trees with his siphons before collapsing. He had been trembling, barely containing the anguish and rage that was crawling under his skin. It was nightfall before Cassian found him, telling him that they were leaving to find her.
Suddenly, the feeling in his chest exploded into a frenzying warmth, spreading across his body. Azriel halted in front of a small, dingy cell, and his friends stopped at his heals.
âWhat is it?â Mor whispered.
The metallic scent of blood was so overpowering that it almost masked hers. Almost.
He would know that combination of scent anywhere. Jasmine, lavender, and chamomile. With just a hint of lemon. Before it had calmed his wildest nerves. Now, it ramped them up, dreading what he would find in there.
In two strides, he was at the door. He grasped the lock on the cell and the faint blue light of his siphons illuminated the space. He barely heard the metal hit the ground as he flung the door open and rushed in.
What he saw would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Ophelia was slumped against the wall, hands chained above her head. Small, precise cuts littered her mostly naked body. Deep burn scars around her neck, wrists and ankles. The only thing that covered her was a red see-through chemise. No. The chemise was white. It was stained red. With her blood.
And Azriels heart stopped beating at the sight of the dagger embedded to the hilt in Opheliaâs side.
âCauldron-â Cassian gasped, coming to stand beside him.
âHelp me.â His voice was tight, despair laced in every word. Azriels eyes stung with unshed tears. No, he couldnât do that. Not here, not now.
If she didnât make it-
Cassian braced Ophelia up, mindful of her wounds, as Azriel broke the chains around her wrists. He stooped down and took her small broken form from Cassians arms, careful of the dagger. A soft, broken whimper came from the bloody mass that was Ophelia. It shattered his heart even further.
But she was alive, she was still alive.
âWe have to get her back to Velaris.â His voice was raw, full of the promise of death and bone deep despair.
âWinnowing could move the dagger around.â Cassian responded quietly, looking down at her.
âWe could take her to the Winter Court-â Mor started.
âNo.â Azriel snarled. âShe needs to be home, not in some frozen waste land.â
âBut the risk-â
âI know the fucking risk!â He was starting to panic now. It was rising to the surface, the pressure building and building against his too tight skin.
âWhatever the decision, it needs to be made now. We have company.â Nesta hissed from the front of the cell.
âGo to them. Iâll meet you back at the River House.â
His shadows swirled around them, Cassian disappeared from sight, his brothers eyes full of sadness and quiet rage. He knew he would make them pay for what they did.
In the cold emptiness, he brought Ophelia closer to him. Praying to the Mother that she would make this, she had to make this. If Azriel needed anything in his life to go right, it was now.
Azriel swore to the Mother and to the Cauldron that when she had recovered, he would tell her everything. About his messy emotions, the feeling of how unworthy he was to her, and that they were mates. He was hers.
But oh, the Mother was cruel.
His feet hit the solid ground just outside the River House, the world swimming back into focus. Panting, he looked down at Ophelia.
His mate.
She almost looked like she was sleeping, if it wasnât for the agonizing pain he felt on the other side of the bond. It was so intense that he momentarily swayed before reality gripped him by the throat. The dagger was no longer there. It laid several feet away in the grass.
The panic he had been barely keeping at bay finally bubbled over.
Blood was pouring from the wound, fast. Too fast. Gasping, he went to his knees, laying her in the damp morning grass. His scarred hands pressed into her side attempting to staunch the bleed, but it was no use. Blood seeped past his fingers, coating his hands.
Rhys. Rhys I need you.
âPhia? Phia, I need you to open your eyes.â He whispered.
âIt hurts.â She whimpered. The pain he heard from her snapped something deep and vital in his head.
âI know, I know sweetheart.â Azriels cheeks were wet with the tears he had been holding back for weeks. No- years.
âAzriel?â Her eyes fluttered open, squinting up at him. âYouâre here.â She sounded so relieved, he wondered if she thought this was a dream.
âYes, Phia. Iâm here with you. Now stay with me, help is coming,â He sobbed.
Rhysand!
She muttered incoherently, and it wasnât til later til Azriel would realize what she was saying.
Stay with me.
The familiar scent of Cassian, Mor, and Nesta invaded his senses, momentarily taking over the smell of blood. He heard one of them cry out, felt their grief slam into him. But he couldnât look away.
He whispered small encouragements to her, begging and pleading with Rhys in his head to fucking hurry.
Almost there.
âHeâs almost here Phia. Just hang on.â His eyes swept down her body, examining the wound. It was ghastly, deep and jagged with infection just starting to set in. Mother, how long had that been in there?
He looked back up to her face and his gut twisted. Her eyes were shut, her lips unmoving. âHey, hey! Do not shut your eyes. Please,â A painful sobbed ripped from the depths of Azriels chest. âPlease open your eyes!â
âSo tired.â She whispered, struggling to open her eye lids. âAz, Iâm so tired.â
Hands suddenly replaced where Azriels were. Someone was talking, shouting at the others but he wasnât sure who it was, and he didnât care. Maybe it was Rhysand, or was it Feyre?
Moving carefully, he cradled her head in his lap. The back of her scalp was sticky with blood, the entire ground around them was drenched in it.
âStay. Stay here with me.â He whispered to her, smoothing her hair away from her sweaty and sallow forehead.
âYouâre my mate.â Azriel choked out in broken sobs. âOphelia youâre my mate.â
It had been a week since Ophelia left. A week since he heard her laughter, saw her smiling at him or swooning at her dizzying scent. It was already starting to slowly fade from the House of Wind. Without it, Azriel thought he might go crazy.
Even more than usual.
His shadows had told him that the day afterâŠthe day after Ritaâs, Rhys had picked her up from the balcony outside her room. So, he figured she was out running a mission. But a week was unusual. She was normally gone for a couple days before she came back. Yet something just wasnât sitting right with him. She had always checked in if she was going to be gone longer than what she said. And as far as he knew, she hadnât.
And if he asked about her, he would seem desperate.
Okay, he was desperate. Desperate for her. For them to finally happen. Azriel was finally ready to tell her everything that he had been holding back all these months.
When she finally let him kiss her, he thought everything would fall into place. Things would work out, just as they worked out for his brothers. But of course not, nothing was that simple when it came to Azriel. The cauldron had cursed him, it was more than obvious now.
Had he done something wrong? Maybe he had misread the entire situation and took it too far. But she had wanted him, she was just as greedy to touch him as he was her. Everything had felt right, perfect, up until the moment Cassian had interrupted them.
Azriel was still pissed at him for it.
âYou alright?â Feyre asked as Azriel stormed through the doors of the River House.
âFine.â He spat back. As soon as the words left his mouth, he winced.
He didnât mean to come off hateful towards his High Lady. He stopped walking and sighed up towards the ceiling, before turning around. âIâm sorry, itâs just-â What the fuck could he tell her? âBeen a rough week.â
âI understand.â She smiled softly at him, her blue-grey eyes full of knowing. âCome, Rhys said he had something important for everyone.â
It was true, Rhys had summoned everyone to the River House. Maybe it was something Ophelia had relayed back to him and something was finally happening between the Human Queens and the Autumn Court. But as he and Feyre entered one of the sitting rooms, he could tell it was something much worse than that.
Eris was here.
âNow that Az is finally here, we can get started.â Rhys shot Azriel a accusatory ïżŒïżŒglare from across the room.
âAs you all know, Az and Phia had been gaining intelligence from the Autumn Court. It has been hard but every piece of information counts.â He began.
Rhys took a steadying breath, place a hand in his mates lower back. âLast week, I sent Ophelia out on a solo mission.â
A knot took form in Azriels chest. His knees felt weak and unsteady.
âShe told me she would only be there for a couple of days, but obviously hadnât returned yet.â
The knot tightened, it was getting hard to breathe.
âFeyre and I thought she may have found out something important and was still running reconnaissance, but when we traveled to the mountains in the Winter Court to see if the mental link would work if we were closer. YetâŠnothing.â
The wood of the door frame shattered in Azrielâs hand, splinters embedding themselves into his palm. Many turned to look at him, but Rhys pressed on, ignoring his outburst.
âThatâs when Eris returned, and told us.â There was a harsh moment of silence, and Azriels anxiety grew to a tipping point.
âSheâs being held captive by my father and brothers.â Eris finished for him.
The room exploded into darkness.
Azriel couldnât breathe, it felt like his breath was being sucked out of his chest. His ears were ringing, and he could have sworn there was blood on his hands. Whose blood was that? Was it his? When had he ended up on the ground?
Azriel!
His shadows receded back into him, only a little. He shook his head clear of that voice. He could only hear Ophelias. Could only hear her laugh, see her smile, see her.
Azriel!
Another voice. Female this time, he knew that voice. It had shown him kindness and compassion. Tried to look beneath all the scars. Just like Ophelia tried.
Black and red was all he saw.
Suddenly, someone was behind him, gripping him so hard from behind he could have sworn one of his ribs cracked.
His shadows finally dissipated and he was staring down at the wreckage that was Eris. The males face was beaten so badly he was hardly recognizable. Had he done that? He looked down at his hands, knuckles busted open. Hands coated in blood, a mix between his own and Erisâs.
He had definitely done that.
People were shouting at him, shouting at each other. But he couldnât hear them, couldnât see them. All he saw was Ophelia sitting on the counter, smiling at him. He had lost her before he even had her. Now, she was a captive. In the cauldron cursed Autumn Court.
The world suddenly snapped back into focus is a dizzying rush. He spun towards Rhys, teeth bared, pushing who he now realized as Cassian, off of him.
âYou sent my mate to die!â
Silence.
Utter silence.
Feyre was the first one to speak. âYour mate is alive, Azriel.â Her tone was calm and steady, how he figured she would have talked to a wild animal who was cornered and scared. âYou would have feltâŠâ She trailed off, glancing at Rhysand. âYou would have felt it.â
Azriel snarled again, turning on his heel.
âWhere do you think you are going?â This voice was not Rhysand, his brother. This was the voice of his High Lord.
âGetting her back.â
âI cannot let you do that, shadowsinger.â Power rumbled throughout the room, the entire house.
A dark, humorless laugh came from Azriel. âYou tore half of Prythian apart for your mate.â His voice was as cold as the steel of a blade. âI will do worse for mine.â
A cold splash of water woke Ophelia up. Gasping, she looked around wildly and found the sneering face of Beron staring down at her, eyes alight with barely leashed rage. She now knew why he was called Lord of Fire. It was evident in those deep-set brown eyes.
Great, she was already starting to go insane.
âSleep well?â He chuckled, taking a few steps back from her. She didnât know why, it wasnât like she could reach him with her arms chained above her head.
âGo fuck yourself.â She spat, spittle flying from her chapped lips.
âSo much fire in you, even after weâve put most of it out.â Beron hummed. âBe good and listen, and maybe my sons wonât visit you tonight.â
Ophelia shut her mouth, biting down on her tongue so hard it drew blood. She didnât think she could stand another visit from his twisted sons. That would be her final breaking point.
Her fae healing could only do so much to the burn scars around her wrists and ankles.
âVery good. Now,â He cleared his throat. âThere once was a little flame princess, who stole the heart of her entire kingdom. She was the youngest of the king's children, having several elder brothers. And when her powers started developing, there was something different about them. They were too bright, burned too hot. So the king went to the queen, asking how this could happen? How could his daughter have the power of light when they were fire?â He took a deep breath, his eyes scanning her face.
âThatâs when the king learned that the little flame princess was instead, a little sun princess. That his queen had tricked him into raising not one but two bastard children, right under his nose.â
âSo your wife fucked another male, what does this have to do with me?â Ophelia muttered.
Beron inched towards her, a sick and twisted smile spread across his face, unnerving her. âEverything.â
She laughed. Yeah, Ophelia was definitely going crazy.
âThe king was torn on what to do. See, he had come to love his little sun princess. But her blood was not his. So, he locked her in a tower, high away from everyone. Determined to keep her safe and secure. He would send his true children in to keep her company from time to time, but soon the king learned that they had scared his beautiful sun princess. She was ugly, littered with hideous scars that no magic would heal or hide.â
Ophelia felt like she was going to be sick. She tried to squeeze her eyes shut to stop the room from spinning but images flashed behind her eyelids. Images that were too bright and vivid to just be her imagination.
âTo end her suffering, the king finally set the little princess free. He let her roam his kingdom for a bit before setting his hounds out. But alas, she has been spirited away to the kingdom of his enemies, a dark and nightmarish kingdom.â
âStop.â Ophelia wheezed.
âAnd just when the king was almost done healing from his pain, he found her on the outskirts of his kingdom. A spy.â
The hot hands of the Autumn Court Lord wrapped around her throat, cutting off her airway. Heat danced at his finger tips, searing her skin, charring her pale flesh.
âA spying whore for the Court of Nightmares.â
His hand curled tighter around her throat, and she was sure he was going to break her neck.
âYouâre insane.â Ophelia gasped, eyes meeting his. They burned with such hatred that she was sure this was it. He would bring her death.
âLittle princess, you havenât seen anything yet.â
With his free hand, he reached toward his jewel encrusted belt. He pulled on the hilt of a dagger, which had the pattern and swirls of the Autumn Court sigil on the gleaming blade. A blade made of ashwood.
Without even blinking, he plunged the dagger into her side, to the hilt. Pain exploded from the area, her vision going out momentarily. Her instincts kicked in, trying to overwrite the pain by blocking it out. But it was too much, too overwhelming.
Ophelia screamed, her voice going hoarse as she thrashed against the pain, and against his hold on her throat. Her body went into survival mode, bucking and kicking the best she could to get away, to get away from the pain.
âYou will die here, just as you were born here.â Beron snarled, finally releasing her throat.
Gasping and sputtering, she tried to reach for the dagger with her bound hands. But she couldnât reach it. Blood poured freely from her wound, coating the floor. A sliver of thought returned to her and she glared up at Beron, her entire body twitching.
âIâŠâ Blood bubbled out of her mouth and dribbled down her chin. âWill fucking kill you.â
The last thing Ophelia heard was the sound of laughter as Beron left her cell, the sound echoing in the darkness.
Ophelia was only slightly hung over the next morning, thankfully. She was up early, earlier than normal. To be honest, she hadnât slept at all. That moment she had shared with Azriel kept replaying in her head. Her thoughts kept tossing between she should have stayed and she should have pushed him off sooner. She had let it get too far and it didnât go far enough.
She stared at her naked reflection in the full length body mirror. Ugly scars littered her body. Fae healing rarely left scars, but when they were severe enough they stayed. Madja had tried telling her that it was the scars of the mind that kept the scars of the body from healing, but she brushed her off.
The ones that had seen her naked had tried to ask, but when she felt their thoughts lingering too long, she was already out the door. Ophelia didnât feel like sharing her traumas with strangers anyway.
As her eyes tracked up her body, they landed on the already fading purple and yellow marks that Azriel had left on her. TheseâŠthese werenât ugly. These were beautiful, these were made from him. Carefully, the pads of her fingers grazed one and instantly felt a rush of heat pool between her legs.
Gasping, she turned away from herself, shame dampening the rush of desire that took over her entire body. She was so stupid, so stupid that for a second she actually let herself believe that she could have someone. She had felt alive with Azriel holding her so close. It was like breathing the first breath of fresh air after being held under water too long.
Shoving those thoughts out of her head, Ophelia dressed herself. A simple black turtleneck with matching black pants. The turtleneck was the only clothing that would cover the marks Azriel had left. She didnât need her busy body friends asking questions, if Cassian hadnât already told everyone.
Rhys?
A moment later, she got a reply.
Phia? Youâre up early.
She rolled her eyes at the invisible response. She did not have the energy to bicker with him this morning.
Could you come get me? I have some things Iâd like to go over with you.
Canât you have Cass or Az? Iâm currentlyâŠindisposed.
Gagging to herself, she took a deep breath and pressed him harder.
Cassian has training with the priestesses, I donât want to bother him.
Okay? What about Az?
Rhys!
Fine, fine. Iâll be there soon.
You better not smell like sex.
She could have sworn she heard laughter as Rhysand slammed the walls of his mind shut. She loved Rhys like a brother and now Feyre as a sister. When he came back from Under the Mountain rambling about how he had found his mate, she couldnât have been happier. He deserved it, after all.
The day Rhys welcomed Ophelia into his court with open arms was both fuzzy and crystal clear in her mind. Her and Mor had found each other, both on the brink of death on the edges of the Autumn Courts forest. When she had thought they would both succumb to their woundsâŠthere he was.
Azriel.
His shadows had swirled around them and it felt strange, but comforting. He held them both as they silently sobbed before winnowing back to Velaris.
But unlike Mor, Ophelia couldnât remember a single thing before that moment. Rhys had tried, Madja had tried. But it was just blank. Sometimes she would get flashes, a warm sun, the smell of smoke, burnt oranges and brown, the bright flash of a knife as it flayed her skin open. But the only thing she did remember was her name.
Ophelia.
In those first few days, she said it to herself silently and allowed like a prayer. She had no idea who she was or where she came from, but she did have that. And nobody could take it from her.
It took her years to fully recover, and that was only physically. Mentally was another story. But there were more important things she had to deal with, so she pushed it down. Some days it felt like it would all come bubbling to the surface, her skin remembering the feeling of what it felt like to be shredded to bits, but her mind having no memory of it. It was its own brand of personal torture. Those days she took sleeping drafts and stayed in bed, not wanting her friends to see the madness that was brewing behind her eyes.
Iâm here, where are you?
The sound of Rhys' voice jarred her from her thoughts, and Ophelia realized she had been pacing.
Come to my balcony, please.
I will if you tell me whatâs wrong.
She didnât reply, instead grabbing her bag and pulling it over her shoulders, and secured her daggers to her thighs. A moment later she heard the flapping of wings and the sound of boots thudding on her balcony.
Coming out, she squinted her eyes at Rhys. âYou smell like sex.â She said, scrunching up her nose.
âThank you.â Rhys smiled as he gathered her up in his arms. He didnât speak again until they were almost to the River House.
âCare to tell me whatâs wrong?â
âNot particularly.â Ophelia grumbled.
âIâm guessing it has to do something with Az?â
Ophelia jolted, whipping her head towards him. âHow-â
âCassian may have mentioned something last night about how he had caught you two, and you ran off and now Azriel is, well, I donât know what Azriel is right now.â
Ophelia was silent for a moment longer.
âDid he do something-â
âNo! Mother Rhys, no!â Ophelia gasped, shocked he would even think like that. âItâs me. I canât-canât-â
âHey, itâs okay.â He reassured her, as they touched down on the flat rooftop. âTrust me I understand, itâs just that I donât think Az does.â
She took several steps away from him, distancing herself. Like she always does when someone got too close.
âNothing he did was anything I didnât want.â She told him, looking him in his violet eyes. Crossing her arms, she waited for some kind of scolding. She knew she hurt Azriel, and she also knew the boys were very protective of each other.
âI still think you should talk to him. Explain yourself instead of hiding.â
Sighing, she leaned her head back, looking up at the morning sky. âEnough about me, thatâs not why Iâm here.â
âI know, and the answer is already yes.â
Leaning in, she kissed her brother on the cheek. âIâll be back soon, three days tops.â
Then, she winnowed. One moment she was in Velaris, her High Lord standing before her. The next, she was standing in a quiet forest, the burnt orange and red leaves swaying in the crisp breeze.
Ophelia always thought the Autumn Court was beautiful. There was just something about how the air permanently smelled like apples and the way the fallen leaves crunched underneath her boots. But the people here? She hated them more than anything.
Normally, it was Azriel and her that came on these missions. Scouting out Beron and his Court seemed like a full time job, lately. There were constant meetings being held inside his castle, troops moving about on the Spring Courts border.
It seemed like Beron had taken a page from the Human Queens book and completely warded his castle, Azriels shadows couldnât even get it. So they were out here every couple of days, looking for the weak points.
But now, she couldnât work with Azriel. Not without risking talking about what happened between them, what had changed. Mother, why werenât males content with being only friends? But had they only just been friends? Az was softer to her than most, kinder and sweeter. He was one of the only ones that would check on her when she was having those types of days. She thought it was because of his own trauma, that he understood. But was it only just that?
The hairs on the back of Ophelia's neck prickled suddenly. Crouching low, she took stock of her surroundings. The landscape around her was empty, mostly forest and a couple farms. There wasnât a lot in this part of the court. But that feeling lingered, almost like she was being watched.
A branch snapped behind her and she whirled, sending her dagger flying. She knew she hit her mark when someone whale in pain. Ophelia began to rapidly prepare her energy to winnow, but she wasnât fast enough.
An arrow embedded itself deep into her shoulder, coming out the other end and pinning her against a nearby tree. Screaming internally, she tried to winnow again. But her powers just disappeared inside her. One moment they were there, beneath the surface of her skin, and then they were gone.
Fucking ash arrows.
âLook at this!â Someone laughed, off in the distance. âA whore from the Court of Nightmares!â
A small group of soldiers materialized out of the shadows of the trees. All had bows, and all were trained on her. Ophelia snarled, but her fight was draining. Too quickly it was draining. She didnât recognize the males, except one. It was one of Erisâs brothers. As he drew closer, she saw that he held her dagger, which dripped with blood. He crouched down in front of her, a twisted grin spread across his face.
âYouâre coming with me.â He snarled, before plunging the dagger into Ophelia's leg.
The burning world of gold and brown and red, all faded to black.
The pulsing music at Ritaâs felt like it was mimicking the rapid heartbeat in Ophielaâs chest. Every dip and sway that she was led into by strange males made her feel heady and dizzy. It felt like her feet barely touched the floor as she was spun into arm after arm, song after song. The three bottles of wine that her and Mor consumed before coming didnât help either.
Like Nesta, dancing made her feel something. Less empty, less of a broken shell. Like the patterns she twirled into on the dance floor could somehow form the broken shards of herself back together.
From her place in the crowd she could spy her friends sitting at the permanently reserved table, playing a game of cards. All were focused on the current hand, throwing chips into the pile and cursing at each other. All except one pair of dark hazel eyes. He was almost invisible, tucked into the corner, his black leathers causing him to blend in even more. But beneath the swirling mass of darkness, Ophelia could see him.
Maybe that was one difference between her and Prythians most notorious spymaster.ïżŒ He was comfortable in the dark where no one could see him. But Ophelia was most comfortable under the blazing lights, where almost anyone could see her. Where she could paint a face was calm and happy, and no one would suspect a thing. They were almost exact opposites, but maybe thatâs what attracted her to him.
Strong hands suddenly gripped her waist and she was being pulled against a hard chest, breaking her staring contest with the spymaster. The male laughed in her ear, saying something. But she wasnât sure what he said, her head was swimming by this point. She danced with him for a bit before excusing herself and pushed her way through the churning bodies, making her way to the table.
Those hazel eyes were on her again, watching her hips sway to the music. Placing her hands on the table and leaning over, she shouted at them so they could hear.
âDoes anyone mind taking me home?â Winnowing while drunk was a bad idea. She learned her lesson the hard way when she almost drowned in the Sidra. She didnât want to end a few inches off from the balcony of the House of Wind and fall to her death. That would be embarrassing.
Feyra opened her mouth to speak but Azriel beat her to it, setting his cards down.
âI fold.â He told the table. âIâm ready to get out of here anyway.â He stood, his wings ruffling at the movement.
As the two made their way to the doors, Ophelia could have sworn she heard Cassian yelling that Az had a full house. There was no way he could have been on a cusp of winning for him to just walk out like that, Az was too competitive. She must have heard him wrong.
They walked out into the muggy summer night. It was scorching this time of year, the night time only a little more tolerable than the day. The light blue dress that Ophelia had on stuck to her in the most uncomfortable of places. It was a pretty dress, a little on the short side, but one that would now have to be thoroughly washed. It reeked of sweat and wine and unfamiliar males.
Azriel and Ophelia walked in silence for a bit, the sounds of distant parties and conversations being drowned out by the rushing water as they approached the bridge to the Sidra. She traced the amazingly carved detail with her fingers on the rails, before stopping and turning to look down at the water.
Azriel inhaled softly as if he were about to speak, but Ophelia cut him off.
âDid I tell you about the time I almost drowned in the Sidra?â
She glanced behind her to the Illyrian, whose stoic features wavered just slightly at her admission. Whatever he was about to say, she had stopped him. If she were being honest with herself, which was rare, sheâd wish she had let him speak.
âMor and I had a few too many glasses of Rhys aged wine,â She continued. âDidnât think it would hit me that hard. When I tried to winnow home I landed face first into cold water. Sobered me up pretty quick.â
She turned around, gazing up into those damned hazel eyes. She expected to see some sort of amusement in his eyes, but all she found was worry.
âI could have taken you home that day.â
Ophelia shrugged. âHonestly, I think you were on a mission for Rhys. Plus, I wouldnât want to bother you with my drunkenness.â She lifted her palms up to the sky, a smile twitching at her lips.
âI donât mind your drunkenness.â That same smile creeping up on the corners of his own thick, lush lips.
Damnit.
Something had changed, shifted, between Ophelia and Azriel. For centuries, she had considered Azriel as a friend, a good friend. But almost three months ago, that had changed. She didnât know what it was, or didnât want to admit to herself what it was, but it happened. Az and her had been sparring early in the evening like usual. They were trying to perfect a new technique they thought of, when somehow Ophelia managed to knock Azriel on his ass.
He had stared up at her with such awe and bewilderment she thought he might have cracked his head open on the ground. When she helped him up his hands were clammy and hot, and he quickly excused himself from the session.
Ever since then, Azriel had been, well, nice. Not just the forced politeness she was used to when it came to the spymaster. He had been offering to help her, spending time with her scouting out the Autumn Court, which she knew he hated. It was strange, even Rhys admitted his brother's actions were strange.
Ophelia, snapping out of her thoughts, realized she had been staring far too long at Azriel. Clearing her throat, she looked away. She was glad it was hot out or else she felt like he might have called her out on the blush that was creeping across her cheeks.
âDo you mind?â She asked, lifting her arms out to him. âIâm ready for bed.â
Azriel nodded silently, and picked her up like she weighed less than a feather. She laid her head on his chest and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the feeling of her stomach to drop once he took flight. Hearing the leathery snap of his wings, the ground whooshed out from underneath them. She sucked in a breath as his wings caught the warm breeze, spreading them out behind him.
Velaris was always beautiful, but Ophelia was convinced it looked the most beautiful from above. She watched as the streaming lights grew distant as they flew farther away from the city. It made her heart hurt to watch it go.
They flew silently towards the House of Wind, the only sound of Azrielâs wings occasionally flapping. She looked over his shoulder, the thin membrane of his wings looked so silky. Ophelia knew how prized an Illyrian's wings were to them. They would rather be dead than be without their wings.
Still, they looked so smooth and soft. Tentatively, she reached a hand out and lightly ran her hand across the cool skin. She heard Azriel gasp, and they dipped in the sky.
âShit!â She squawked, nails digging into his neck. âSorry! I didnât think-â
âIf you donât want me to drop you, sweetheart, I wouldnât do that again.â Azriel grunted. Something had changed in his voice, it sounded gruffer. She was so caught up in what just happened she almost missed it.
He had called her sweetheart.
Azriel landed on the balcony without any more close calls. Though Ophelia supposed she was to blame for that. He set her down gently and she smoothed out her dress, making sure everything was covered.
âI need a drink.â She announced, but mostly for the house to hear.
âYou had about three bottles of wine, four shots of vodka, and a beer. You need more?â Azriel said from behind her, humor laced in his tone.
âWell, looks like someone was counting.â She smirked to herself. âBut no, I need tea. Care to join?â
Sauntering into the kitchen, she saw the house instantly set out another hot mug and she picked it up, handing it to Azriel. âItâs my secret blend.â She smiled, picking up her own mug. Taking a small sip, she sighed contentedly.
She hopped up on the counter watching as Azriel did the same. âJasmine, lavender, and chamomile.â He offered. âWith a hint of lemon.â
Ophelia rolled her eyes, smirking. âI suppose being a spymaster you have to know the differences between tastes. Wouldnât want someone to be poisoned, now would you?â
âNo, itâs just what you smell like.â
Opheliaâs heart skipped a beat. She stared down at her mug in her now trembling hands. Desperately, she tried to think of a witty come-back. Something to diffuse to tension that was quickly building in the kitchen. She heard the clink of his mug being set down on the counter, and the shuffle of his boots as he approached her.
âPhia,â Azriel whispered. âLook at me.â Inhaling sharply, she did just that. She felt his hands grab hers and set the mug down, his eyes never leaving hers. His eyes were alight with swirling colors, his pupils almost covering his entire iris.
âAzâŠâ Before she could get another word out, his lips were on hers.
Gasping at the electric shock that started at the base of her skull, making its way down her tailbone, she shuddered. Did she shudder because of that or because of Azriel, Azriel was finally kissing her? She wasnât sure she wanted to know the answer right now.
He broke away from her after a long moment, resting his forehead on hers. He was panting, they were panting. This time when Azriel tried to speak, she was the one to cut him off. Her lips slotted over his, her slender arms wrapping around his neck pulling him closer.
They were a blur of gnashing teeth and tongues, their breathing turning almost frantic. Azrielâs rough hands gripped her hips, pulling her even closer to him. Instinct kicked in and Ophelia grabbed onto his waist with her legs. Nothing but a few scraps of clothing separated them now.
Wait.
Azriel bit down on her bottom lip, a quiet moan rippled from her mouth. He pulled away, but not going very far. He kissed her cheek, then her jaw, then that spot right behind her ear. Ophelia moaned again, louder this time, arching into his touch.
She said she didnât want this.
Azrielâs chuckled, his breath tickled against her overheating skin. He continued kissing down the length of her throat, and her hands found their way to his thick hair, tugging softly. Ophelia felt triumphant when he let out a moan of his own. Then, she was leaning farther and farther back so he could have easy access to her, gasping and moaning when he bit down just to soothe the sting with his tongue. His mouth was setting ablaze a burning path down her chest that she thought the coolest of waters couldnât put out.
She wasnât allowed to want this.
His hand came up to cup her breast through the material of her dress, his thick thumb swiping lazily over the peaked nipple. She was squirming now, her soaked core rutting ever so slightly against the very large bulge in his leathers. She wanted more, needed more. Needed to feel him in every way possible, to feel exactly what the honed muscles could do.
She shouldnât want this.
Azriel finally pulled away from the assault he was levying against her front and his eyes found hers. âSweetheart, do you-â
âWell itâs about damn time!â A voice boomed from down the hall.
Ophelia had never seen Azriel move so fast. One moment she was sprawled out on the counter top, the next Azriel had her behind his back, guarding her from being seen by Cass and Nesta, who had just caught them in a very compromising situation. A snarl she had never heard from Azriel ripped from his throat.
âOh come now, Az! How many times have you walked in on me and Ness? Itâs only fair I get you back.â
But she didnât wait for Azrielâs reply, because she was already sprinting to her room.
bitches be like "I love this person more than most of my family I want to hold them forever" and it's a fictional character with twenty lifetimes worth of trauma
origamiaround
areudirty
gummygunk
stormborns
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