It was as clear as if it had already happened. As clear as if she’d been there. But it hadn’t happened and Elain would not be there when it did.
Azriel stood naked under a stream of hot water, face buried in his forearm, breath heavy. The muscles of his back and buttocks flexed and clenched with each hurried stroke of his scarred hand. His beautiful scarred hand. There was something desperate about the look on his face, in the curve of his shoulders. Perhaps something haunted, too.
He bit into his lower lip, eyes wrinkled shut, body curled forward.
“Elain—” He came with a groan and a jerk of his hips and then it was over. He washed the mess away, ran a hand over his jaw. Water dripped everywhere. For a moment, it was hard to see his face, nearly hidden by steam from the water. But she saw it as he pulled the curtain and stepped out—shame. He was ashamed.
Ashamed of himself for what he’d just done. For thinking of her. For saying her name.
He wrapped a towel around his waist and braced himself over the sink. His head hung low. Shadows swirled—over his skin, caressing his neck. He ignored them. Too ashamed to accept any comfort. Too disgusted with himself. He stared down at his hands.
The vision ended and Elain blinked. She sat in the garden. The air was cold but the waning day was sunny, bright.
Azriel had gone into the city for a meeting. She’d chosen to stay behind. It’d been a few weeks since their encounter in the kitchen. Since she’d come onto him and he’d run away. But she told herself it was fine.
Because it was.
After dinner that night, he’d acted as if nothing had changed between them. And maybe that was because nothing truly had. They’d gone to sleep in the living room atop the makeshift bed they’d built when she’d first come to stay. She couldn’t remember how long ago that had been, but she remembered being sad. Remembered when she’d let Az take that sadness away. And she remembered when she’d decided that there was nothing wrong with wanting to move on with her life.
Even if it wasn’t the life she’d originally planned for.
Heavy footsteps crunched what was left of the fall leaves. “I’m back,” Az said from across the garden. “I just wanted you to know I was back.”
Elain smiled, shielding her eyes from the sun as it just began to set. “Welcome home.”
A ghost of a smile brushed his lips, he hid it fast. He looked down at his feet, then hers. He blinked. “You’re wearing trousers.”
Indeed she was. A pair of old loose fitted trousers of Azriel’s she’d taken in and hemmed to fit her. She raised an eyebrow. “Such insights, spymaster. I see now why the High Lord and Lady keep you around.”
Az smiled, showing teeth and folding his arms across his chest. He wore a pair of dark trousers and a loose fitting cream shirt. The long sleeves were rolled almost to his elbows and the few buttons at the collar had been left open. The cobalt of his siphons simmered like icy flames in the waning daylight.
He glanced at his shadow—so long it stretched across the space between them, practically touching Elain. “You should never offend a shadowsinger.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Because.” He took a step forward, his shadow just grazing the tops of her knees where she knelt. “Dark things happen.”
Az vanished just as his shadow swirled and darkened. It spread across the garden in the form of a winged warrior then it morphed into a bird and flickered across the pumpkins and the dirt. She spun around to follow it. It flew into her own shadow and grew until it looked as if she had wings—great, powerful illyrian wings. They beat in time with a cold wind that blew in from the ocean. They slipped over her shadow’s shoulders like a flowing cape, then slipped down—becoming a ballgown—then further…
Until they became a field of sunflowers bobbing in the breeze all around her shadow.
Elain smiled. And moved to make it appear as if she were actually among the field. Tiny butterflies and birds of shadow moved through the scene. She threw her arms up and spun to make her shadow dance through the image.
When she opened her eyes it was gone.
“Azriel, you’re an artist.” She looked around. “Az? Where are you?” She stared hard at her shadow. “I know you’re in there. Come out.”
He did not.
“Fine.” She turned on a heel and began walking toward the house. A step outside the garden’s gate she spun around fast, expecting to catch him—
Only to be disappointed when all she saw was her own, ordinary shadow. She could have sworn she heard a deep chuckle.
“I’m going inside and I’m going to make myself dinner and leave none for you.” She turned again, putting on a show of marching toward the house. Once in the backyard, she locked up the tools in a small shed and moved to walk around front.
She was rounding the sunny back corner when a dark figure appeared in her periphery. Too close. Too big. Too much like that one time they’d come for her. Fear flooded her senses and she leapt back. A terrified scream on her lips—
Only to realize that it was Azriel’s damn shadow that had jumped out at her.
He stepped out of the darkness and—and he was laughing. Not his usual dark chuckling, but open, gasping laughter.
“It’s not funny,” she yelled, relief cooling the hot, sticky sweat on her back. “You scared me half to death.”
“You should’ve seen the look—”
“It’s not funny, Azriel.”
He stopped at the tone of her voice, the look on her face. She fought to keep the tears from her eyes. He reached out, “Elain—”
“Don’t.”
“Elain, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s fine.” She swatted his hand away and stormed around the house.
Only to run face first into him when he appeared in front of her.
He placed his hands on her shoulders, keeping her against him. “I’m sorry I scared you.” His voice was low, warm.
One of his thumbs flinched—as if aching to move across her skin.
She inhaled sharply. Suddenly aware of all the space that wasn’t between them. She wasn’t sure how, but she was pretty sure he was aware as well. But…
Neither moved.
“It’s all right. It just—I just thought…” That renegade thumb began to rub small circles on her shoulder. His hands were large, warm where they held her. It was just cold enough that their breath began to fog.
She traced the lines of his tattoos through the opening in his shirt with her eyes.
“Tell me.”
She swallowed hard, and brought her hands up, weaving them in the fabric on the sides of his shirt. He breathed in very, very slowly and deeply. “The night they came for Nesta and me. She woke me up with a hand over my mouth. I’d never been so scared. It was the look on her face.” She shook her head. “Nesta never gets scared, never fears. At least not that she shows. She didn’t speak, just pointed to the window. We were halfway across the room when the soldiers came in. They were quiet. As if they were worried about waking us—it was strange. I remember thinking it was strange.” She tightened her hold on his shirt. “They looked like giants in the darkness. Huge figures moving toward us. I’d never seen males so big—except you and Cassian. So I knew, we knew, who—what—they were. And…and I knew we were going to die, that I was going to die.”
Azriel rubbed her shoulders. “That must have been very hard.”
She looked up at him, willing every ounce of pity she could into her face. She said, “It was awful,” and reached for his arm, stepping to the side—and then bent as she swept his feet out from under him. He slammed into the ground, flat on his back.
Elain stood over him, hands on her hips. “That was for scaring me.”
Azriel smiled. “I’m going to kill Cassian for teaching you that.”
“Then you’ll have killed an innocent male.”
“Who?”
She leaned over. “The fearsome shadowsinger asking the seer for information. Oh how the mighty have f—” She slammed into the ground with a curse.
Azriel braced his hands on either side of her head and leaned in. “You were saying?”
“Feyre didn’t teach me how to avoid that move.” Azriel only smiled. “So now that you have me at your mercy, what are you going to do with me oh mighty shadowsinger?” she dared.
As quickly as she’d fallen, the air between them went taut. Every fiber of her being waited for what he would say next, what he might do.
He stared at her.
She stared at him.
With a finger, she hooked the loose hem on his shirt. Twirled it. Up, up, up—she grazed the golden brown skin of his stomach.
Azriel hissed in a breath, eyes going a bit heavy in the lid.
She placed her entire hand on his stomach and smoothed it around to lay on his back.
Azriel needed no push. His mouth was on hers in a second. His lips large and skilled as he fit them between hers. His tongue darted out and that was all she needed.
Elain wrapped a leg around his waist and rolled him onto his back. Their lips never once lost contact. Her hands roved under his shirt, over the muscles of his chest to his shoulders. He pulled her shirt untucked, slipped a large, hot hand across the small of her back, fisting the other in her hair. He angled her mouth where he wanted it, where he needed it to give her strong thorough kisses.
She didn’t mind at all.
He tasted like summer sun, like the warmth of a whisper, like too-sweet blackberries.
She ground her hips into him and moaned when she found him swollen and hard. She reached between them, stroking him with a hand through his trousers. “I want this,” she said. He groaned. “I’ve wanted this for a very long time.”
He rolled them over—and ground the length of him between her legs. She thought she might lose consciousness from the feel of him. From the deep, powerful strokes promised by the strong muscles of his waist, hips and thighs.
She grabbed his rear beneath his trousers. Gods he was well muscled. And she wanted to feel those powerful strokes with her hands as he drove into her.
She let go of his backside and pulled her shirt off. “Touch me.” His lips found hers the same moment his hands found her breasts. And Azriel didn’t bother to touch them above the fabric of her undergarments. He pulled the straps down, and put his hands on her bare breasts. An action so sudden and unexpected she arched into his touch, a whimper escaping her throat.
He rolled her nipples hard between his thumbs and fingers. No one had ever done that to her before. She was not a virgin. She’d let Graysen atop her, inside her, twice. But each time had been short, and he’d insisted that she keep her dress on. He’d allowed her to touch him, suck him, but he’d only ever sunk his fingers to test her readiness before he sunk his cock. She’d asked him why he did not want to see her naked, or taste her below the mouth and he’d said it would be improper for her to let him touch her like that, and he’d wait for their wedding night when it would not stain her reputation. She’d agreed.
And used to hate herself for it…
But as Azriel’s skilled hands rubbed and rolled and pulled her swollen nipples almost to the point of pain, she was glad. She doubted Graysen would ever have touched her with this kind of skill. And Elain wanted more—wanted everything.
She unhooked Azriel’s belt. He lifted his hips for her and she pulled the trousers open, the generous length of him springing free into her waiting hand.
Azriel pumped into it. Once, twice—
He buried his face in her neck. “Tell me to stop.”
“I want this,” she whispered. Still he pumped his hips. The smooth length of him, like velvet in her hand.
He growled in frustration then slipped his hand beneath her trousers and right into her. Her hips bucked off the ground at the sudden, very pleasing, intrusion. She moaned. His fingers were thick. He only worked one inside her and she felt full. But maybe it was his scars.
“Ask me to stop, please.” She shook her head, kissing him again. She moved her hand to slide along the one he had inside her, to feel where they were connected. “Say stop,” he begged.
“Stop.”
Everything stopped. She froze. Azriel panted—panted like he’d been frightened, scared.
She put her hand on his shoulder. “Az?”
He pushed off her, stuffing himself back into his trousers and standing. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t even look at her. Just stooped to pick up her shirt and hand it to her. Then he was walking away.
Elain wasn’t sure how long she laid there, clutching her shirt to her bare breasts. But when she finally moved it was long past dark. Her skin was cold, numb.
He hadn’t come back out.
And he wasn’t in the house when she entered.
He wasn’t there when she got out of the shower.
And he wasn’t there the next morning when she woke up alone in the makeshift bed they’d built in their living room—his living room.
[Watercliff part 6 - At least one more part!] part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5