Priorities
Pairing: Azriel x Reader (feat. The Inner Circle)
Rating: Teen (Fluff, Humor, Protective Azriel)
Summary: Azriel brings you to dinner. The Inner Circle is shocked to discover that their lethal Spymaster is actually a mother hen.
The air in the House of Wind was always thin, crisp, and terrifyingly high up. But that wasn’t why my heart was hammering against my ribs. It was the people in the dining room.
I had arrived only this morning, exhausted and travel-worn, and Azriel had immediately tucked me away into a guest suite with strict instructions to sleep. Now, awake and feeling painfully underdressed, I walked toward the sound of voices.
The room went silent the moment I stepped through the archway.
They were all there. The legends. Rhysand, lounging with a goblet of wine; Feyre, radiant and terrifyingly beautiful; Mor, dressed in red silk; Amren, polishing a diamond with a napkin; and Cassian, mid-bite of a bread roll.
And Azriel.
He stood up immediately, his chair scraping against the stone floor. The shadows that usually clung to him like armor seemed to soften the moment his hazel eyes found mine.
"I—um," I stammered, gripping the doorframe. "Nice to meet you a—"
I didn't even finish the sentence. Azriel was already there, his hand pressing gently but firmly against the small of my back, guiding me forward. He didn’t introduce me. He didn’t wait for them to bow or wave. He just ushered me to the empty seat beside his own as if shielding me from their gaze.
"Sit," he murmured, pulling the chair out for me.
I sat. The silence in the room was heavy, thick with confusion. I dared to glance up and saw five pairs of eyes wide with shock. Cassian still hadn't chewed the bread in his mouth.
Azriel ignored them all. He sat down and immediately reached for the serving platters.
"You need protein," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the table. He piled roasted chicken onto my plate, followed by a heap of greens and roasted potatoes. He didn't ask what I wanted; he just curated the perfect plate, pushed it in front of me, and then poured me a glass of water. "Eat."
"Thank you," I whispered, picking up my fork.
I felt a tickle on my hand. I looked down.
Azriel’s shadows.
Usually, I’d heard they were spies, whisperers of secrets, cold and terrifying. But a small, smoky tendril had curled around my wrist like a bracelet. Another one, tiny and curious, drifted across the table cloth and poked my pinkie finger.
I smiled involuntarily. I nudged my pinkie against it. The shadow nudged back. It was a game. I pushed; it pushed back, swirling around my skin in a cool, velvet caress. It felt… affectionate.
"Are you warm enough?" Azriel asked.
I looked up. He wasn't looking at his food. He wasn't looking at his High Lord. He was looking at me, his face angled toward mine, ignoring the rest of the room entirely. His gaze was intense, scanning my face for any sign of fatigue.
"I'm okay," I said softly.
He reached out, his siphons glowing dimly, and tucked a stray hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my jaw for a fraction of a second too long. "You still look tired. If you need to leave, tell me. I’ll take you back."
"Azriel," I breathed, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. "I'm fine. Really."
He held my gaze, his eyes darkening. "Okay. Just eat."
The silence around us stretched until it was almost unbearable. Then, a fork clattered onto a plate.
We both looked up.
Rhysand was staring at Azriel with his brows raised so high they were nearly in his hairline. Feyre had her chin in her hand, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. Amren looked bored, but her eyes were sharp.
And Cassian… Cassian looked like he had just seen a ghost.
"So," Cassian said, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat. "Are we… are we seeing this? Is everyone seeing this?"
"We are seeing it," Mor breathed, her eyes sparkling with delight. She leaned over the table, pointing a manicured finger at Azriel. "Azriel. Shadowsinger. Spymaster. You are serving chicken."
"He’s nesting," Rhysand drawled, swirling his wine. "Look at the shadows. They’re basically purring."
Azriel stiffened beside me, but he didn't pull away. He didn't even recall his shadows; the little one was still wrapped possessively around my pinkie. He shot his brothers a lethal glare. "Shut up."
"I have never," Amren said, slicing her steak with surgical precision, "seen those shadows touch anyone without intent to kill or maim. And yet, that one appears to be… cuddling."
"It is cuddling!" Feyre laughed, leaning forward. "Oh, Az, look at you."
"I am simply ensuring my guest is comfortable," Azriel said icily, though he picked up the salt shaker and dusted my potatoes for me without me even asking.
"Comfortable?" Cassian choked out a laugh. "Brother, you cut her meat. I saw you. You didn't think we saw, but you cut the steak before you put it on her plate. You don't even cut my meat, and I’ve known you for five centuries."
"You have hands, Cassian," Azriel snapped. "Use them."
"And the hair tuck!" Mor squealed, clapping her hands together. "Rhys, did you see the hair tuck? The tenderness! The intensity!"
"I saw," Rhysand smirked, his violet eyes dancing between me and Azriel. "I’m currently winning a bet I made with myself fifty years ago."
I shrank slightly in my seat, overwhelmed, but Azriel’s hand found mine under the table. His thumb brushed over my knuckles, grounding me.
"Ignore them," Azriel said, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register again, loud enough only for me. He turned his back slightly to the High Lord of the Night Court, effectively shutting out the most powerful fae in history to focus solely on me. "Do you like the potatoes? I can get the chef to make something else."
The table erupted into chaos again.
"He's blocking us out!" Cassian shouted, slamming his hand on the table. "He’s literally giving his High Lord the cold shoulder to ask about potatoes!"
"This is the best dinner I've ever attended," Mor declared, pouring herself more wine.
I looked at Azriel. He rolled his eyes at his family, but when he looked back at me, the annoyance vanished, replaced by that quiet, simmering warmth.
"They're idiots," he whispered, a faint, rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Eat your food."
