⚔️ - Excessive Violence / Graphic [most of what is here tbh]
The Fourth Wing
Little Healer | Garrick Tavis X OC
Forced into the Riders Quadrant after her father’s execution, healer-born Aeralyn Blackthorn must survive a world she never chose—while facing a man from her past and feelings that refuse to stay buried.
ONE | TWO | **on hold for rewrite**
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The Last Soft Thing In Basgiath | Xaden X Reader ⚔️
Basgiath isn’t a place for gentleness—but you never learned how to be anything else. When the Marked Ones are dumped into your section after Rider Survival Course, you choose compassion over obedience and quietly keep them alive while the rest of the infirmary looks away. Xaden Riorson doesn’t remember much of those days—only a soft voice, steady hands, and warmth in the dark. When he finally wakes, he realizes the healer who saved him might be the only soft thing left in Basgiath.
Azriel is the one who never waivers. Always in control and always collected. But, in a split second that all goes to hell, and now he has to trust you to get him out of this in one piece.
LINK
Between Chains and Shadows | Azriel X Reader ⚔️
[Bad Things Happen Bingo Prompt]
Azriel has been strung up for the better part of a week when his captors send in a servant healer with strict orders: keep him alive— nothing else. She walked into his cell with nothing and no one, but she never imagined that she would find someone who was everything.
LINK
Lesson Learned | Rhysand X Reader ⚔️
[Bad Things Happen Bingo Prompt]
Under the Mountain, kindness is a liability.
When a kitchen servant begins leaving bread and stolen tonic for Rhysand after one of Amarantha’s punishments.
He learns exactly how fatal softness can be.
Or: The moment Rhysand decided to become a monster.
Summary: After Rider Survival Course floods the infirmary with injured cadets, the Marked Ones are left on your floor with orders to ignore them. You refuse, stitching Xaden Riorson and his wing back together while exhaustion slowly catches up with you. As fever dreams drag him through memories he can’t escape, your voice becomes the only thing grounding him in reality. When he finally wakes, he realizes you never left—even when everyone else did.
MASTERLIST
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Chapter Sixteen
POV XADEN
A long silence stretches across the hallway. My heartbeat is thrumming in my ears; the organ working double time to pump blood to tense muscles.
Y/N doesn’t move. The memory of the last time I’d been in this position assaults me again. Once again, her head is tilted toward the floor, and her hands stay still by her sides.
Caden scoffs taking a step closer to her, “Y/N… if all it takes is a protection detail to get you on your back, you should’ve just said.” He leans close to her. “I’ll be happy to help when Riorson is done with you.”
Anger begins to simmer inside of me, I can feel raw, untapped rage boiling the blood in my veins.
She doesn’t reply; doesn’t even flinch.
I can imagine the wheels turning in her head. If she just stays still long enough, they’ll just leave her alone. They’ll get bored and walk away.
But I know they won’t this time… he won’t this time. Caden’s ego has been bruised too many times: the right hook I fed him in the gym, Y/N’s rejection.
He’s not here for entertainment.
He’s here to prove something.
My jaw tightens, and I grind my boots into the floor beneath me. My vision spins so fast I have to blink to focus my eyes.
She will never feel safe if she doesn’t know that she can protect herself, Sygael’s words are sharp with finality. You trained her, now you must trust her.
My jaw remains clenched, but my shoulders dip slightly. I take another half step further back into the shadows.
Then, the silence in the hall is broken.
Y/N lets out a long breath. I can see the way her shoulders rise and then settle as she inhales again.
The air in the corridor shifts as her posture straightens and she lifts her chin to Caden.
Her expression doesn’t change; she still has the same soft features and flushed cheeks. Caden smirks. He thinks he won; he expects her to deflate right there.
But I see the way green eyes shine in the afternoon light as they stare into him. There is nothing soft about them.
She pivots, her right elbow drops, and she shifts her weight into it.
I see it before it connects. I’ve watched her do it a hundred times over the past two weeks. She’s done it to me a hundred times, but she’s always pulled the punch.
This time she doesn’t.
The crack of bone against bone splits the air in the hallway. It’s sharp and unforgiving. She follows through without hesitation, driving her fist straight past his cheek bone like she was trained to… like she learned to.
Caden stumbles back a few steps, probably from shock more than pain. A curse spills from his mouth followed by bright red blood as he works to regain his footing.
Y/N doesn’t flinch. Her knuckles have to be throbbing, but she doesn’t move.
“If you’re going to say my name,” Her words match her expression, cold and steady, “make sure it’s worth the teeth you might lose.”
“You fucking bitch.” He lunges sloppily, throwing his right fist in her direction.
Y/N sees him coming, not enough for a full sidestep, but enough to shift out of his way so that the blow cuts nothing but air. He’s breathing heavily, his shoulders moving with his chest as he seethes. If Y/N is intimidated, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she settles her weight into her heels, getting ready for his next blow.
Her chin is still high, and her features now match the fire in her eyes. She doesn’t take her eyes off him as he straightens himself up for a second time.
Caden hesitates, it’s not obvious, just a subtle dip in the hands that he has propped in front of his face. His cheeks suddenly flush red as he looks at the riders that form a half circle behind him. They look at him with wide eyes, but they all shine with disapproval.
He looks pathetic right now. I see it and so do they.
Realization drains the color from his face.
Y/N sees it too and the tension dissipates from her shoulders.
The hallway is silent again.
The fight is already over.
Now that the air is no longer thick with pressure, I take a step out of the shadows. My boots tap softly against the stone floor, and the sound turns every head in the hall.
I don’t spare him a glance, I can imagine the bloody mouth, tight fists, and clenched jaw, I don’t have to see it.
I come to a stop to her right, dipping my gaze down to look at her. I don’t stand in front of her, rather, a step behind her. Just far enough behind to imply support rather than protection.
“Good follow through,” I say, casually. “You dropped your elbow too low though.”
For a heartbeat, I wonder if I’m going to be the next one on the receiving end of her fist, but then she snorts.
Actually, snorts.
All of the fire in her features has sizzled out, and the gentle curves of her face are back. Something loosens in my chest at the sight, and I feel the tension drain from my own shoulders.
I look at her for another long moment before I pivot to fix a cold stare at Caden.
“She doesn’t need me to fight her battles.” I say into the silent hall. “But I will stand beside her while she wins them.”
My eyes flicker between the growing bruise across his cheek and the blood that drips down his chin from a split lip, “Seems to me that she already has.”
Most of the cadets have the sense to scatter like ants, exiting the hallway quickly in each direction.
Caden doesn’t move. His mouth is twisted into an ugly frown, his hands clenched into fists at his side. Then, he takes half a step toward Y/N,
“This isn’t over,” he says, voice low and menacing. “Basgiath only has so many places to hide.”
I can see the flicker of hesitance in her eyes. I can’t help the way my muscles tense in anticipation, but the flash of doubt fades just as quickly as it came. Green irises shine with certainty, and she narrows her eyes at him.
“No,” Her voice is steady, there’s no evidence of any fleeting fear. “This is over.”
She reaches into her pocket and fishes out a folded paper. It’s folded impossibly small, and the only text I can make out reads,
“Safe spots…”
The familiar words wrap around my chest like a vice. The neatly scribed list of places where she felt safe was sitting in her hands, and she looked at it for a long moment. The ink is smudged in some places and the creases are worn, but it’s clear as day to me.
Y/N sucks in a deep breath, then she closes her fist, crushing it between her fingers. She looks dead in his eyes and tosses the ruined words at Caden’s feet.
There’s no one liner; no last words. She says nothing when his gaze drops to the paper and then backs up to her, confusion written across his face. She doesn’t bother to explain the deep meaning of the moment to him, but I know.
Y/N looks at me for a breath, eyes softening as she takes a step back.
Green eyes flash to me, she’s not asking for anything.
She’s telling me we’re done here.
I step forward into Caden’s space, keeping my voice quiet and controlled,
“The only thing worse than being a threat, is thinking you are one when you’re not.” I pause, mostly for effect. “But, let me make myself clear since I wasn’t clear enough the last time. If anything happens to her, you won’t need to look for somewhere to hide because I will already be there. Every dark corner you turn, I will be waiting in the shadows. Don’t forget… the shadows answer to me.”
Caden pales, taking one slow step back—away from Y/N. Then he takes another, his eyes narrow and flicker between us and I almost think he’s going to say something.
But he doesn’t. He turns on his heel and stalks down the long hallway, disappearing behind the two double doors at the end.
When the door swings shut behind him, all the tension drains out of me. I turn back to her,
“You alright?”
She huffs out a breath and shakes her head, “The monologue was a bit much and I didn’t expect to break my hand on anyone’s face today, but otherwise yes.”
My mouth twitches but I smother the smile, “The monologue worked and you should work on your aim.”
Her lips press together; her eyes don’t hold anymore heat as she gives me a long curious look.
Then, she turns without another word, taking long strides down the opposite end of the hallway toward the courtyard.
I make to follow but then pause as it crosses my mind that she’s been upset with me for the better part of three weeks.
For the love of all things, Sygael groans down the bond, just go.
I’m almost about to send back a self-deprecating retort, but then she stops. She doesn’t say a word, just waits a few paces away from the door.
Go.
Y/N turns slightly, looking over her shoulder at me before jerking her head toward the door.
Summary: After Rider Survival Course floods the infirmary with injured cadets, the Marked Ones are left on your floor with orders to ignore them. You refuse, stitching Xaden Riorson and his wing back together while exhaustion slowly catches up with you. As fever dreams drag him through memories he can’t escape, your voice becomes the only thing grounding him in reality. When he finally wakes, he realizes you never left—even when everyone else did.
MASTERLIST
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Chapter Fifteen
POV XADEN
I almost don’t even expect her to come.
I don’t know that I would if I were in her shoes. I’m still kicking myself for standing there like an idiot yesterday.
For watching her leave and for not stopping her.
Garrick had already chastised me for it, but in that moment, I every muscle in my body was stiff. The high from the kiss and the shock of losing control made it impossible to force my legs to follow her.
For the first time in a long time, I froze.
Finally, the doors open slowly and Garrick pushes through them. He holds one door open and there she is.
My heart clenches at the sight of her. I can’t deny the small increase in my heartrate every time she was near, but now that I knew what she felt like… what she tasted like. It was devastatingly different. Now, it’s like a vice around my ribcage that’s trying to suffocate me.
Her dark hair is messy, and her eyes are tired. She looks strikingly similar to the way she had when we’d met.
Exhausted.
Relief is the first wave that hits me… She came.
Then, the second wave comes, but it’s not warm like the first. It’s cold and sharp.
Y/N doesn’t look at me.
Not when she pushes past Garrick, or when she steps to the mat. Her eyes remain cast down at the mat below us.
She always looks for me. Even when she thinks I don’t see, or when she doesn’t even realize she does. I see the way her eyes flicker to me before moving away just as quickly.
Today, there is no flicker. No flash of green that locks on mine for even a moment.
A chill runs down my spine, and I have to stifle the shiver that threatens to rock my body.
“Y/N.” I say quietly, not sure what else to say.
Garrick filters in behind her, taking a seat on the chair next to the mat with a bored expression on his face. But I know him better.
He’s listening.
He’s making sure you don’t mess this up. Sgaeyl quips. Again.
“Riorson,” she says.
Riorson.
It feels like a jab; Gods it feels like a blade sinking in between my ribs, but its not. There’s no malice behind her words, just tired defeat. When I don’t answer she sighs, taking her boots off and laying them next to the mat,
“Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
**
“Again.”
Y/N nods. There’s no argument, or playful complaining.
Nothing.
She just shifts her position, bringing her hands up above her face before I can move to correct her stance.
Her moves are efficient, not perfect or practiced, but focused. As if she were just trying to get this over with.
There are no soft huffs when I knock her off balance.
She doesn’t narrow her eyes at me when I press harder.
Nothing.
“I’m tired.” She says after a few more rounds. “Let’s pick this up tomorrow.”
**
“Again.”
There’s a beat. It’s small but I feel it. A moment where her lips pressed together like she’s going to say something, but she doesn’t.
She just looks at me; her green eyes don’t have a sparkle of amusement in them.
I sigh, “We can finish this tomorrow.”
**
“Again.”
She resets without a word.
I step in, testing her guard. She blocks and pivots. Her movements are clean, she’s getting better.
I try to tell myself this is what I wanted. I wanted her to be able to protect herself.
“That… That was good.” I say quietly. I’m scrambling for a reason to keep going, to keep her here. But I can’t come up with anything, so I just drop my shoulders and sigh, “Same time tomorrow?”
She just nods, turning on her heel and taking long strides out of the gym.
I watch her go, and something twists low in my chest.
This is wrong.
This is my fault.
**
“Again.”
She’s practiced now. The hits that I would have landed before, would have pulled, hit nothing but air. She dances around my blows, like she’s a fighter.
This is what you wanted. Sygael hums. Is it not?
Of course it is.
Sgaeyl chuffs at me, patronizingly. Well, she will be on her way soon enough, Shadow Weilder.
Cold dread washes over me at the thought of it.
“Again?” Y/N’s voice startles me.
“Yes,” I shake my head. “Again.”
**
“That’s enough for today.”
Y/N looks at me for a moment and then she nods. Where she usually would just turn on her heels and leave, she instead makes her way to the edge of the mat to collect her things. Garrick materializes next to me, arms crossed over his chest and his lips curled up into a smirk,
“She’s doing great, isn’t she?”
I nod once, not taking my eyes off the brown braid that shifts with her movements.
“So, when does she graduate from the Xaden Riorson Self Defense Course?” Sarcasm drips form his words.
“She doesn’t have to graduate. When she feels ready, she can just stop.” I bite out.
Garrick chuckles but his words come out serious, “If she finishes these training sessions, and you don’t change anything, you will be out of reasons to keep her close… Except of course for the one you’re afraid of.”
My breath almost catches in my throat.
I almost stop her when she stands and heads to the door.
It crosses my mind to follow as the double doors swing shut behind her.
But I don’t.
**
“Y/N.”
I’m taking large strides to catch up with her before she can sneak out of the gym. She pauses for a moment, not turning to me but also not continuing.
When the distance between us is closed, I reach out for her arm. My fingers brush lightly against the skin of her forearm.
She looks down at my hand, like it’s unfamiliar.
Unwanted.
I dropped my hand quickly as if she’d burned me.
“What…” I swallow. “Is something wrong?”
You are wasting time with your rhetorical questions. Sygael hisses down the bond. I ignore her, my eyes not wavering from the woman in front of me.
She smiles at me, but the smile is wrong. The skin at the corners of her eyes doesn’t crinkle. The dimple on her cheek doesn’t form.
It’s fake.
“No, of course not.” She replies.
“About last week—”
She cuts me off, “No hard feelings. I understand.”
No hard feelings?
I don’t stop her when she ducks around me and shuffles to the door. She turns for a moment to look back at me, her green eyes shine with emotion for a moment. But the depth is gone just as quickly as it came, and she pushes the rest of the way through the door.
Foolish. Sgaeyl wastes no time with her retort. You are a fool.
Well the fuck aware. I snap back, ready to slam down the door of our bond. But Sgaeyl is quicker; she always is.
Are you? The retort is clipped. From where I’m standing, you’ve pushed away the first thing you’ve truly wanted in a long time.
“I can’t have her.”
Y/N is gone now. It’s just me and my thoughts, so I speak out loud. “I don’t deserve her.”
Sgaeyl bristles, Deserve has nothing to do with it. You are scared.
“She’s… kind, and soft. She’s good.” I choke out. “She’s good and I’m—”
You are making decisions for her. You have decided that you are not worthy of her affection. You have decided that it’s best to keep your distance. A mercy, you seem to think. But, Shadow Weilder, you do not get to decide what she can survive— what she deserves. Her voice is so sharp that it echoes in my brain. This is her choice.
“I’m not selfish enough for that.” I say quietly. “I’m not selfish enough to let her choose me.”
Then you will lose her, not because you don’t deserve her, but because you are not brave enough.
“I will not be the one to destroy her.”
Let it be her own ruin. Let it be her choice.
“I won’t do that to her. I won’t take that.” I shake my head.
You already have.
I choke on the words. The truth of them feels like it will swallow me. Then, my legs are moving. I don’t even realize I’m taking long strides in the direction she left until I’m halfway out the door.
Shadows curl around me, and it’s like second nature, the way I sink into them. The dark corners of Basgiath welcome me as I slide between them.
Y/N is nearly out of the end of corridor when I see the familiar brown braid shining in the afternoon sun.
I’m nearly to her when other voices cut through the hallway.
I stopped.
Once again, I step back into the shadows. A painfully familiar darkness swallows me as I hold my breath. There is a group of cadets in front of her, blocking her pathway out of the corridor.
I can see her.
Her shoulders are tense and her posture is just as rigid.
There’s laughter, but there’s no humor. It’s cruel and cold.
“… wonder what she did to get Riorson on his back.”
“Heal them, then crawl into their bed. Me next.”
Something sharp twists in my chest.
Again. It’s happening again.
Blurry images begin to assault my vision.
I hear my own breathing. It’s ragged and uneven.
I can almost feel the reminisce of agony tingling my nerve endings.
Soft hands.
They’re cool against hot skin; careful and gentle.
“I’ve got you… You’re okay.” Her voice. I remember the kind hum as soft fingers brushed over the skin of my cheek. “I’m right here, you’re going to be okay.”
Steady hands and quiet assurances.
My vision clears and then it’s just her.
Standing there.
Alone, again.
But this time, it’s not like before. I’m not stepping forward to protect the soft voices that pulled me out of nightmares. It’s so much worse.
It’s Y/N.
It’s each soft laugh at mealtimes; every deep frown above the top of a book; the shy smiles across the room.
It’s not duty or debt.
It’s a deep-rooted desire to protect her.
“Where’s Riorson now, Healer?” I recognize that voice.
Caden.
“Did you think you meant something to him?” He spits. “That’s pathetic.”
I almost move to step out of the shadows. Every ounce of my being is begging me to take a step forward. The moment I was out of the shadows, they would yield. I knew they would.
But I hesitate.
It takes every ounce of self-control I can muster, but I shift back ever so slightly. I let the shadows of the hallway swallow me.
Let her choose. The deep growl vibrates down the bond, and it’s the final push I need.
And I do.
*****
Authors Note: We're coming to an end of this plotline (sad)
I am sorry for the late updates hehe but here's two in 24 hours since I did in fact slack for two weeks on this.
Also, point of contention via AO3 but I love Violet and I have no beef with Violet. This is purely my imagination using already developed characters to write fiction.
Summary: After Rider Survival Course floods the infirmary with injured cadets, the Marked Ones are left on your floor with orders to ignore them. You refuse, stitching Xaden Riorson and his wing back together while exhaustion slowly catches up with you. As fever dreams drag him through memories he can’t escape, your voice becomes the only thing grounding him in reality. When he finally wakes, he realizes you never left—even when everyone else did.
MASTERLIST
✨✨✨
Chapter 14
POV Y/N
For a heartbeat nothing happens. The warmth of his breath brushes against my lips, and I can feel the deep rise and fall of his chest against mine. I’m not sure if I’m even breathing; every inch of me is frozen.
There’s another beat.
I watch as dark eyes flicker to mine, then down to my lips, and back to my eyes. He closes the distance between us. Our lips brush, so softly that I’m sure he’s about to pull away.
Then, a sharp breath catches in my throat as a shiver runs down my spine. Whatever force was holding him back seemed to snap, and his lips were on mine. The hand that had been nursing his bruised ribs comes up to find my jaw. I gasp softly into his lips before slipping my eyes shut. He’s not soft or careful, need is radiating off him in waves. My hands reach up to grip him, to make sure this is real.
And it is very real.
Xaden doesn’t stop the movement of his lips when my fingers find the warm skin of his shoulders, instead he shifts closer as if he’d just been granted permission. The rough skin of his thumb brushes along my jaw, gently asking me to tilt my head. I obey, and he deepens the kiss.
My lips are moving in sync with his. There’s no hesitancy, just heat. If I was breathing before, I am definitely not now. All of the air rushes out of my lungs, another soft sound escaping from my chest.
He shifts again, and there is no space left between us. He pulls back for a moment, hand still hovering below my jaw and cheeks flushed red. He takes me in for a moment.
I must be a sight to see. I’m sure I’m drenched in sweat from the hour-long training session, and I can feel the deep heat in my own cheeks. The corner of his lip twitches up for a moment and he drags his thumb across my skin again.
His eyes flicker to my lips. He looks like he’s about to lean in again, and Gods I was going to let him. He lets out a soft breath against my lips,
“Y/N, I—”
“Can’t say I’ve ever trained like that before.” The voice cuts through what little space is between us. “You two want to walk me through this one?”
Both of our necks snap to the side to find Garrick wiggling his eyebrows at us. Suddenly, it is as if the world resumes,
“Oh Gods!” I cry. Despite myself, and the injuries Xaden has that I know are still sore, I shove my hands into his chest. He rolls off me gracefully, only wincing for a moment.
“Damn it, Garrick.” Xaden grunts, glaring at his friend.
Garrick holds up his hands in surrender, “Please, don’t stop on my accord.”
I don’t even spare them a glance, scrambling up from the mat. My eyes drift around the gym. Almost every cadet has their head turned in our direction, even the professors are gaping at the display.
Everyone is looking.
Except for Xaden. His eyes are cast down, burning a hole in the mat beneath us.
He’s the only one not looking at us.
I am mortified.
I just barely swallow the shriek that threatens to crawl out of my throat, and I turn on my heel to make a break for the door. Xaden doesn’t try to stop me as I push the heavy double doors open and dash down the hallway.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
I don’t stop running until I reach my dorm. I slam the door open and then throw myself onto my mattress. A scream rips out of my throat only to be muffled by the pillow I’ve shoved my face into.
Everyone saw.
The embarrassment continues to seep into me, but it’s not embarrassment that begins to cloud my eyes with wetness.
It’s the ache in my chest that wraps around my heart and squeezes. I can’t get him out of my head; the warmth of his lips, the rough callouses of his hands. As if a dam in my mind just burst, and I’m flooded with thoughts of him.
I see him in the dining hall.
The way his lips twitch in amusement when Garrick makes a grab for someone else’s food.
I see the way his eyebrows knit together in the middle as he walks into a room, as if daring someone to look at him too long.
I see dark eyes boring into me when he thinks I’m not looking.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will away the image of Xaden Riorson that floats in my head and drift into sleep.
But it’s futile.
All I can see is him.
And all he sees when he looks at me is an obligation— a debt to be paid.
When I wake up, I can tell its morning. Which means that I’ve been curled up in my bed pathetically since lunchtime yesterday. Sleep didn’t come easily to me; I’d tossed and turned all night long.
Exhaustion weighed down my bones, my legs heavy when I swung them over the edge of my bed. The only grace the Gods had given me was that it was finally the weekend.
No classes. Nowhere to be. No Xaden.
Just as the thought passed through my mind, the Gods laughed at me and there was a loud knock on the door.
No one ever knocks on my door.
I shift forward, letting my toes brush against the cold floor, but I don’t move to open it. The knocking continues,
“Wellness check!”
I groan, tilting to the left to drop heavily onto the mattress with my legs still on the edge of the bed.
Garrick.
“C’mon, Y/N!” He calls through the door. “If you don’t come out then I’m going to have to spar with him, and Gods only knows what lesson he’s going to teach today.”
I narrow my eyes at the closed door. I was foolish to think that Garrick, of all people, was going to just let this go.
The knocking continues and I let out a loud groan, jumping up and yanking the door open before I can convince myself not to. I give him the coldest look I can manage.
He couldn’t care less.
He stands, shoulders engulfing the doorway, with a crooked grin on his face as if I hadn’t had my worst day since I got to Basgiath less than eight hours ago. No, he just takes a step back, motioning me out of the room in front of him with one hand.
I have half a mind to slam the door in his face. I can feel irritation heating up the tips of my ears. But, despite myself, I take a step forward. I’m still in the same clothes as yesterday, even my boots are still on, and I stalk out of my room with my hands clenched at my side.
The hallway is quiet; it usually is on the weekend. I’m grateful that we don’t pass too many cadets. I can just imagine what they’re thinking,
“Oh, it’s the idiot who kissed Xaden Riorson in front of the entire Basgiath student body.”
Embarrassment still pools in my stomach, only slightly soothed by the annoyance that I let live on my face.
Garrick doesn’t seem to notice, or care, that I do not want to spar with his friend today.
Today, or ever again.
He glances down at me for a moment before humming and turning back to the hallway in front of us.
“So, are you my protection detail for the day?” I snark.
Garrick barks out a laugh but doesn’t look at me, “Come on, I thought we were past this.”
“Past what?”
“You being prickly about us stalking you around Basgiath that one time.” He raises an eyebrow at me, waiting for me to reply.
I return a huff, crossing my arms over my chest and frowning, “What would give you that idea?”
Suddenly, he stops walking and gives me a knowing look. I can see the mischief shining in hazel eyes, so I concede,
“Okay, okay.” I sigh. “Yes, we’re past this… I’m just…”
“Touchy?” He supplies.
I frown at him again, but he turns to continue walking.
I follow with a huff. We have barely cleared twenty paces when he opens his mouth again,
“You look like you regret it.”
Garrick Tavis may be determined to talk about that, but I am not. I don’t answer, but I see the corners of his lips curl up when he continues,
“He doesn’t.”
I swallow the hitch in my throat, wanting desperately to change the subject. Despite myself, I entertain the conversation,
“I can assure you: he does.” I say quietly.
If it meant something to him, he would have said something. He would have stopped me from leaving. He would have come to get me today.
He couldn’t even look at me after.
If it meant something to him, I would be having this conversation with Xaden and not Garrick.
“You’re the one who threw him off of you like he was one fire.” Garrick reminds me.
I sigh, “I was...”
Before I can stop myself, I continue talking, “All he sees when he looks at me is… obligation. I helped him so he feels like he needs to return the favor. I know that. Everyone knows that. And everyone saw and I’m sure they—” I let out a heavy sigh, “The kiss… It meant something to me. Not to him.”
I expect him to laugh or make a joke. He doesn’t.
I can see Garrick’s expression, surprised at my honesty. To be fair, I was surprised as well. We’re coming up on the double doors to the gym, the same ones I had practically thrown myself out of not too long ago.
Right before we enter, Garrick pauses his stride and turns to me. I’m taken aback by the seriousness in his face; it’s the most serious I’ve ever seen him.
“Xaden… He’s good at big picture… strategy and sacrifice. He’s not… good at things that matter to him. He’s never really been allowed to have those.” Garrick says, sucking in a deep breath. “That doesn’t mean they don’t matter.”
His words steal the breath from my lungs. The raw honesty gnaws at my heart.
I want to believe him.
That it wasn’t just a moment that got away from him.
That it was me.
But in the time that I’ve known him, Xaden has never seemed to be one who hesitates, much less someone who hesitates when things matter. I’ve seen the way he chooses, always with confidence and certainty.
Hearing that it had mattered to him was almost worse, because that meant it just didn’t matter enough.
A/N: As always this was gonna be a smutty one-shot and it spiraled into a full fic. Here's part 1 of Cauldron-Knows-How-Many. Enjoy!
Summary: After a failed rebellion, Rhysand ends up enslaved to the Asteri as their Umbra Mortis; working off his debt to Amarantha he finds himself as the bodyguard to Senator Beron Vanserra's daughter after she's attacked by a mysterious shadow demon.
Content Warnings: Drinking, Language, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Blood and Gore, Canon Typical Violence
Steam clogs the room in suffocating puffs, the vapor from the scalding shower head hot enough to burn. He reaches out a bloodied hand and cranks it even higher, watching as the cascade of water flows red off his blistering skin. It’s still not hot enough to cleanse him of his sins.
Rhysand grabs the bar of soap--something cheap, citrus scented, regulation--and scrubs furiously at the gore caked under his finger nails, then at the blood stains in the grooves of his palms and over the bruises on his knuckles. He doesn’t stop until the suds are white again. Then he moves up his aching wrists, over forearms with fingerprint shaped bruises in them, over the twirling patterns of tattoos from a home long gone, up biceps spotted with scars and cuts, till he reaches his shoulders, where the dried blood is the thickest. He hisses as he scrubs at it, not because it hurts, but because the blood that isn’t his won’t come off, even under the near boiling water.
He tries turning up the heat again, no matter that every inch of his bare skin is red and raw. He’s still not clean. Even as the water starts to run clear again. Even as he scrubs and scrubs every curve and muscle, every inch of him is still not cleansed.
He’s still scrubbing as the heat runs out and the water turns icy. Still scrubbing when the bar of soap is gone, using his hands and his nails to claw at the mess he still feels wrapped around his body. It just won’t come off!
Eventually his hands become too shaky to continue his thorough cleaning. His teeth are chattering as he lowers himself onto the tiled floor, the cold porcelain biting into the back of his thighs. The water batters against him like a thousand ice picks now. He doesn’t care. He can only sit there, staring at the gray shower tiles. The last little rational part of him that’s still conscious knows that he should move to the bedroom and sleep--he’s so damn tired--but he can’t find the energy to do it.
Besides, he knows what he’ll see when he closes his eyes.
A knock on the bathroom door makes him flinch, breaking the staring contest with the wall.
“You dead in there, man?”
Jurian.
He’s too tired to answer. Too tired to move. Hell, even breathing feels exhausting.
Rhys runs a hand over his eyes, trying to pull himself together.
When it takes too long, Jurian pounds his fist against the door again. “Helion wants you in his office.”
He doesn’t groan. Doesn’t curse Helion or the Triarii or the gods that abandoned him. He doesn’t slander the Asteri or the brand they stamped onto his wrist. He doesn’t have the energy to complain about his miserable existence. He just puts his callused hands on the cold tile floor and forces himself to his feet. His body screams in protest, skin scraped raw, muscles battered and bruised. Slowly, hands still shaking, he turns off the water. There’s no more steam to cloud the bathroom mirror, so he looks away before he can see his reflection. He knows what he’ll see.
The towel on the hook by the door is rough against his still red skin as he ties it around his waste and opens up the door.
Jurian still stands there, looking like he was contemplating breaking down the door.
“Rough day, huh?”
Rhys pushes his way past him without a word.
They’re both here because of their decisions; both dogs at their master’s feet. That doesn’t make them friends. The barracks keep them within reach of each other, but that doesn’t mean they have to speak to each other either. He goes to his closet sized room and shuts the door behind him, just to ensure Jurian doesn’t follow. The other male is too chatty for his own good.
He dresses quickly, unthinkingly. It’s not as if he has a lot of options, everything in the closet is regulation: Stiff cargo pants, form fitting t-shirts, combat boots. They slide on like a thin set of armor.
His guns lay in the top drawer, disassembled and cleaned to a shine. He tightens the holsters around his thighs and puts one on each leg, then tucks a blade into the back of his belt, just hidden behind the shadow of his wings.
It’s cold in Lunathion this time of year, he grabs a leather jacket as an afterthought, sliding into it as he walks out the door.
“Good luck!” Vassa, another one of the Fallen, calls from the shared couch in the living room.
Jurian sits tucked on the opposite side of the couch, flipping through stations on the tv to find the sunball game. “Better you than me!” He says jokingly.
Rhys still says nothing as he steps into the elevator that makes up the front door and hits the button for the top floor of the building. He’d already given his report about his last mission, the fact that there’s another this soon makes unease sink like a rock in his stomach. Hadn’t he spilled enough blood today?
The elevator opens to an office framed by glass windows, bathing the usually starch space glow in golden light. Helion stands facing the windows, hands tucked behind his back, watching the sun slowly set.
“Lunathion isn’t as pretty as Prythian,” Helion says forlornly.
Rhys positions himself in front of the desk, hands behind his own back at attention. He knows how much Helion lost in the rebellion against Hybern, it is nearly as much as his own loss, but he can’t tell him that, not here. Not within the walls of the Commitium with the Asteri and Amarantha listening to their every word. So he says nothing. He’s gotten good at saying nothing; at shoving every want and desire down into the deepest, darkest parts of him until he can no longer reach them. He is not a male awarded the luxury of wanting; he is a tool, a well oiled weapon in the hands of his masters.
It’s only when the sun finally dips behind the sprawling city line that Helion finally turns to face him, his golden eyes damp with unshed tears. “You miss it too, don’t you?”
Helion had not led his people to their deaths on Mount Hermon. Helion hadn’t disrespected the Asteri and gone for their mouthpiece’s head. Helion hadn’t damned Prythian to destruction. Rhys had.
And he’d spent every damn day thinking about it.
When he doesn’t say anything, Helion snags a tissue off the desk and dries his eyes. Then he motions for Rhys to take a seat.
Rhys does obediently.
“You know I hate giving you missions back to back, especially after this last one.”
He tries not to think about the woman who had gripped onto his arm, nails digging through his shirt, begging and screaming for her husband’s life. She’d had no thought for her own self-preservation, nor had she tried to fight him. She had only held on and begged for him to be merciful, to spare them, and their unborn child.
“But this one came from her, so…”
Amarantha. The master that had bought him for more gold marks than he was worth, just to tout him around like a dog on a leash. The Umbra Mortis at her beck-and-call. She promised that if he killed 2,227 people to make up for the lives he’d taken from her people, then she would free him. She had never said she wouldn’t get creative with how he was presented with those challenges.
“It’s fine,” he lies. It’s not like he has a choice.
Helion pushes a manilla folder across the desk. “This one is different.”
Helion continues as he pulls out the file instead. The picture of a female fae is paper clipped to the front. She’s pretty; about his age; eyes a startling shade of amber that reminds him of embers in a fireplace. “Senator Vanserra is up for reelection next month. To keep the support of the Valbaraan fae, he’s arranged a marriage between his only daughter and one of their sons. Problem is, she was attacked last night, by some… thing.”
“Demon?” Rhys asks as he flips through the file. It’s mostly empty. The girl hasn’t done much after graduating college, just a few internships that had landed her a gig at the Archives. Only a few friends. No socials; that nearly makes a recluse in this town. No past relationships, just this arrangement with a male she’d probably met once. Yet, the back page of the file includes the police report, some crime scene photos of a trashed apartment, and another picture of the girl, this time with half her face slashed open. The report lists more stitches than he can count on not just her face, but her chest and left side as well.
“That’s what Vanserra would like to know.” Helion says as he rubs at his temples, clearly frustrated.
Rhys looks up briefly from the photos. “He doesn’t know?”
“See, here’s where things get weird.”
Rhys’s wings twitch behind him, the only sign of curiosity he’ll let slip.
“Her place? Surrounded by cameras and a private security detail. The girl is never, and I seriously mean never, not being monitored. Security guys log her meals, her movements, hell probably even how many times a minute she blinks. Beron knows everything she does as she does it. With the exception of last night.”
Rhys closes the file and sits up straighter.
“All the cameras went dark. Security is either dead or missing. The girl swears up and down that nothing unusual happened. She had dinner, went to bed, and woke up to something shadowy clawing at her face. She couldn’t see anything, blindly threw a couple fireballs at it, and that was it.”
“That’s…” a lie? Some kind of prank? He really doesn’t know what he wants to say about it.
“I know.” Helion says. “We’re missing something clearly. But Vanserra doesn’t want this to have any more media attention than it already has. He wants a quiet protection detail, who can keep tabs on his daughter and find out what the hell this all is. So naturally, Amarantha pulled your name.”
“What does he think happened?”
Helion pinches the bridge of his nose. “He said on the phone that he suspects his daughter is trying to find a way out of her coming marriage.”
Rhys looks back at the grizzly stitches in the photos. “He thinks she did this to herself?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you think?” Rhys asks with a frown. It would be pretty hard to make those slashes from those angles on their own, but he can’t totally discount it. He hasn’t encountered many demons with those kind of claws.
“I think there have been a lot of cases of women throwing themselves off cliffs to avoid marriages and with good reason, but still… there’s something about this one… feels like I’m looking at a puzzle with missing pieces.”
Rhys slides the file back into the envelope and sets it back on the desk. “It’ll be taken care of.”
Helion stands and glances back out the window. “Vanserra will meet you at her new apartment. Jurian and Vassa will provide assistance if needed and you’ll be required to check in with Beron and myself once a night.”
“Understood.” He turns to go.
“Rhys,” Helion says quietly. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, just be careful, all right?”
Rhys doesn’t tell him he feels the same as he steps into the elevator and lets the door close behind him. It doesn’t matter what he feels about it anyway.
------------------
The apartment is in an upscale neighborhood, just on the outskirts of town. Close enough to fae territory that Berron can get there quickly, but far enough away from the sprawling grounds of the Autumn estate to let his daughter maintain an air of independence.
The Senator is waiting in the apartment lobby when Rhys arrives.
While half of Prythian had immediately bowed to the Asteri’s arrival, the other half had followed Rhys on his path to rebellion. The 2,227 lives he owed weren’t enough to cover the number of lives he’d lost to Lunathion’s armies. Beron had never been on the battlefields, had so easily bent the knee and reaped the rewards of their new overlords from the beginning. Destruction had not touched him until now. It’s clear that Beron is not a male used to being on the receiving end of misfortune.
Beron won’t stand still in the lobby, pacing back and forth, hands wringing in front of him as he rattles off orders to the Aux members lent out as personal guards. Upon Rhys’s approach, he finally collects himself enough to stand still. “It’s about time!”
Rhys remains hidden under the hood of his helmet, shielded by the dark visor over his eyes, yet his reputation alone earns him a sneer of contempt as Beron takes him in.
“Amarantha promised me aid hours ago.”
“Apologies,” he lies. “There are sometimes delays in our communications from the capitol.”
Beron huffs in annoyance. “You were, at least, briefed on your responsibilities?”
“Yes, Senator.”
Beron fiddles with his shirt collar. “This is already becoming a media circus, I have all those damned reporters calling my office all hours of the day! It’s a miracle they’re not congregating outside like vultures.”
The flight over here had been uneventful, just the usual Lunathion traffic. Rhys had already done a quick sweep of the street and rooftop. Nothing and no one had been loitering.
“I’ll keep things quiet.” He promises.
“The crime scene will be opened to you later this evening, for now, introduce yourself to my daughter as her new protection detail. The Auxiliary can show you around their surveillance set up. Everything gets reported to me, understand?”
He nods. “Yes, sir.”
Beron points him in the direction of a staircase, tucked behind the mailroom. It used to bother Rhys that he had to take back entrances and hidden stairs instead of following the main flow of traffic; he doesn’t have that in him anymore. It’s routine now.
His mission’s apartment is on the sixteenth floor. A penthouse view that encompasses the whole top floor of the complex. Not exactly subtle; Beron clearly isn’t trying that hard to hide her.
There’s an elevator door on one end of the hallway, the door to the stairwell on the other. For roof access, she’d need a key to get through a bolted door inside the stairwell.
Two Aux members stand guard outside the only way in or out of the apartment. Both wolves by the smell of them. They say nothing as they let him inside.
For a brand new apartment, it’s well decorated. Probably one of those fancy elite interior design places that can renovate and furnish a place in a couple of hours doing. It’s all high end furniture, white and shiny and unused. The living room and kitchen have no dividing wall, just a long mahogany table that could serve twelve if necessary. The whole place smells like caramel apple candles and there’s half a dozen of them scattered around the sprawling space. A pot of coffee brews from an expensive looking machine on the counter, but it’s the only sign of movement as the door closes behind him.
He makes a quick assessment of the floor to ceiling windows that make up the far wall. None of them open. One way in, one way out. There’s a hall to the left, presumably leading to the bedroom.
He steps towards that direction as a door at the end of the dim hall opens.
“Oh. You must be my new babysitter.”
He’s spent the last 50 years cold; the rebellion had hollowed him out and left him a shell of his former self. There has only been blood and darkness, as if someone had locked him deep beneath a mountain, caged within stone, no light to be found. He had accepted it as he had the tattoo across his brow; had surrendered to the dark and let it chain him to his masters. Nothing in 50 years had made him wish for sunlight. He deserved this cold, dark cage. Yet, as his new mission stalks down the hall to face him, something aching and hungry claws its way out his rib cage. The cinnamon and burning cedar scent of her pushes its way through his mouthpiece—the breathing apparatuses situated in the helmet are supposed to filter out all scents, in case a room is filled with toxins, yet hers breaks its way through like it’s trying to personally introduce itself to him. He can’t help but breathe in deeper, letting the honeyed scent warm that thing inside him that’s cold and empty. For a flicker of a moment, he feels real; like he’s a person again and not just a weapon.
For a moment he forgets his place in the world and lets this fire-eyed creature approach him. Everything about her screams of restrained power—a wild fire caged within flesh and bones. It’s so strong her amber eyes glow with the flicker of flames.
Words escape him as she stops a hair width away, so close her forehead nearly touches the chin strap of his helmet. He can feel every second of her assessment like a brand. She doesn’t touch but she might as well have run her hands up his body with the heat that consumes his very being.
He can’t move. Can’t think. There’s just her. In his space. In his lungs.
“That’s a lot of leather for a babysitter,” she purrs, moving now to circle him like an animal inspecting its enclosure.
She’s looking for chinks in his armor, poking at the iron bars of her cage. His wings flatten tighter against his body as she loops around his back, and he forces himself not to turn and follow her. She’s not armed—there’s nowhere to hide a weapon, her legs are bare all the way up to the hem of her oversized band tshirt; she’s not going to fight. Not yet anyway.
Her breath on his wings makes his whole body tremble and he has to lock his knees to keep himself upright. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this. The last time he felt anything at all.
“The Umbra Mortis,” she muses, the words a caress down his spine instead of an insult. “But you’re not an angel?”
“No,” the voice modulator in the helmet still picks up the hitch in his voice as he scrambles to find the ability to speak. By the goddess, you’d think he’d never spoken to a female in his entire fucking life!
“Interesting,” she purrs as she comes back around to face him again. “Do you have to wear that ugly helmet the whole time?”
“Only when I’m hunting.”
She grins, or at least, she tries to, the movement pulls on her stitches and her whole body shrinks in on itself as she hisses through her teeth. A trickle of blood rolls down her lips and she finally steps out of his space, a hand pressed over her mouth.
He’s not sure what he thought she was going to do, but walking right to the massive fridge, pulling a bottle of vodka out of the lower freezer door and knocking back half the bottle in one gulp wasn’t it.
He’s still standing there, still staring dumbly at her as she drinks half the bottle in the next gulp. The words that come out of his mouth next make him feel like his brain and tongue have disconnected, “Should you be drinking that on painkillers?”
He’s still kicking himself when she sets the bottle down on the counter with a mirthless laugh. The fire in her eyes burns brighter as she sneers, “You think Beron would let me near painkillers?”
Something hot and heavy flairs in his gut, the feeling unfamiliar after all these years in the dark. Beron Vanserra always had an air about him that made Rhys suspect he was just like every other politician in Lunathion, but the admission still jars him. What kind of father would let his daughter suffer like that?
“You must not keep up with the tabloids,” she continues, pausing only to knock back another drink. “I tried to fucking kill myself by summoning a demon.”
He studies the curvature of the marks over her face, following the path down over her chin and throat before it disappears beneath her shirt collar.
“I’m clearly a danger to myself so the place has been cleared of all pills and sharp objects.” She holds the bottle up in salute. “Had to fork over a pretty hefty bribe to convince one of those wolves outside to sneak down to the liquor store on the corner.”
His mind works to process all the information she’s so willingly offering, but he can’t manage to make sense of it. Why would she tell him all this if it wasn’t true? What could she gain by slandering Beron knowing that he’d take that information back to him in the morning?
She takes the bottle with her as she plops herself down on the couch with a hiss, hand pressed over her damaged side. “You’re welcome to tell him I can think of a few more creative ways to get back at him for shackling me to that dickhead from Valbara. None of which involve me looking like this for the rest of my miserable existence.”
She looks small on the couch. The deeper into the bottle she gets, the more she seems to curl in on herself. It’s like watching a campfire burn out.
He steps closer, fascinated with her every move. She wants to toy with him, or maybe she had started out that way, but the pain of those injuries is clearly more intense than he’d anticipated they would be. None of this information tells him anything useful about that night, yet, he finds himself unconcerned about the details. Not if it means he gets to be near her a little while longer.
Rhys dares a step closer, then another, until he’s standing behind her with just the back of the couch between them. She doesn’t shy away from him like most people do; just snags the remote and flips on the tv to some reality show.
“Are you going to torture me?” She asks as she flips to a different channel.
All thought eddies out of his mind like someone had turned on a fan and thrown open a window. There’s only the pounding of his heart in his ears. He wants to tell her he doesn’t do that kind of thing, but it would be a lie.
For the first time in 50 years he wants to lie. He wants to be anything other than what he is right now in this moment.
“I think you’ve been hurt enough,” he says quietly.
She snorts and takes another drink from the bottle. “Tell that to my Father.”
The tv settles on some crappy romance about vampires. Fake blood splatters across the screen as she takes another sip from the bottle, slower this time. “You know you can sit, right?” She says after a while of him standing stock still behind her.
This is a mission. He needs to focus. Rhys gives himself a mental shake. “I need to check your room, if that’s all right?”
She raises the bottle in mock salute. “If I find I’m missing any of my lacey underthings, I’ll roast you alive.”
Despite himself, a laugh slips out of him. His voice modulator crackles from the unfamiliar noise. When was the last time he had laughed at anything?
“Trust me, Princess,” the words come from somewhere inside him he forgot existed, “if I wanted to take anything, it wouldn’t be from the drawer.”
Does he have a death wish?! He can’t talk to his superiors like that! He should know better.
But she only grins, the reflection caught in the tv screen as a spicy scene fades to black. It’s a faint flicker, but it’s there, a challenge glinting in those fiery eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind, Umbra Mortis.”
Fandom: ACOTAR | Prompt: Caught In A Snare | Azriel X Reader
Summary: Azriel is the one who never waivers. Always in control and always collected. But, in a split second that all goes to hell, and now he has to trust you to get him out of this in one piece.
🌟Content Warnings: Non-Graphic Violence, Injury, Wing Injury, Minor Descriptions of Blood, Physical Restraint
As always, please read with care <3 🌟
💓 Author Notes: You can access the link to my Bad Things Happen Bingo Card, I am actively writing for The Fourth Wing and ACOTAR.💓
**
You see it seconds before he steps over it.
Azriel is only a few paces in front of you. The Summer Court air is thick with humidity, and you have been trudging through the woods for what seems like forever.
You’d just finished wiping a bead of sweat of your forehead when a dim yellow glow catches your eye. It radiates from the ground, just visible through the foliage of the ground; so sublte that you almost don’t say anything.
But something about it just feels off.
“Az—”
It’s too late.
A loud crack echoes through the forest.
It happens so fast you can barely wrap your head around what just happened. One moment, Azriel is standing up right; his broad shoulders stiff and his wings tucked in slightly; every inch of him controlled and aware.
The next, he’s ripped off his feet. A deep shout leaves him as he’s yanked down hard. The sound of his body slamming into the forest floor send a cold shiver down your spine—for moment you almost forget how to breathe.
“Azriel!” You rush forward, to make your way to where he just collapsed.
“Don’t!” The quick steps you had been taking to each him halt as he rasps out the words. “Don’t come over here.”
Anxiety begins to form a pool of dread in your stomach. From where you’re standing, you can see most of him. He’s face down in the dirt, and completely still. You can see the tension in his muscles and the very shallow movement of his chest as he took small breaths.
That’s when you see it.
Thin, glinting metal is wrapped tightly around him. It coils up from his ankles to his shoulders in cruel loops. The silver gleams in the light and suddenly your heart is in your shoes. Small barbs are peppered along the wire, biting cruelly into his leathers… into his wings.
As if he can feel your gaze on him, he shifts slightly. Almost immediately following the movement, a choked gasp leaves his mouth.
Your stomach twists impossibly tighter as realization washes over you.
The more he moves, the tighter it pulls.
The deeper it digs into him.
Fuck.
Your pulse is roaring in your ears.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
For a second, you can’t think. You stand there, your spine rigid as you continue to stare at him.
That shouldn’t be able to hold him. You didn’t think anything could possibly be strong enough to hold the male.
Yet there he was tangled in wire on the forest ground.
You try to force the shakiness out of your voice when you speak, “Azriel… What do I… What should I do?”
He doesn’t move; just lets out a huff against the dirt beneath him, “Nothing.”
Your breath catches in your throat, “I’m not just going to stand here and—”
“You will.” His voice is sharp with finality. “Do. Not. Move. Y/N.”
The foot you had begun to lift freezes mid-step, then you slowly bring it back to land where it had been. It feels audacious to flinch at his tone given the situation, but you do anyway. The forest is quiet and still, as if it too, is waiting to see how this would play out.
“There could be more,” he continues. His voice lacks the sharp edge this time. “If you take one wrong step—”
He cuts himself off with a sharp gasp. You can see that the wire has shifted; you can hear the noise it makes as it tightens.
“Fuck.” He breathes out.
You lift your foot once again to go to him, “Azriel!”
“Y/N, I said don’t move damn it!” Azriel grits out the words through clenched teeth, like he wants to slam his head against the forest floor in frustration, but he knows the cost that would come with. “Please, just—”
You drop your foot back down once again, not being able to stand hearing him so desperate, “Okay. Okay, I’m not going to move.”
He exhales softly in relief. His shadows dart around him erratically, swirling around the wire and then sliding between you and their master; as if begging you to help him.
Gods, you want to.
“I can’t just leave you like this.” You choke out, hot tears burning the back of your eyes.
“You can’t help me if you end up beside me.” He says softly.
Any protest you had dies on your lips,
“Okay, tell me what you need me to do.”
Silence stretches between the two of you as Azriel works to come up with an answer. You and him both know that if he tells you to tuck tail and run, that won’t happen.
“Carefully look for anchor points,” He says finally. “Don’t move, just look. There has to be at least two anchor points… and, don’t— Please don’t touch anything that glows.”
Your throat tightens, but you don’t move. Not even an inch. Instead, you gaze darts downward to the forest floor. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of every root, patch of dirt, and ray of sunlight that peaks through the dome of trees above you.
Searching.
Scanning.
Despite spinning in your head, you try to keep your gaze slow and smart.
“Az?” You squeak out.
He hums, forehead still pressed against the dirt.
“Does it…” You trail off, feeling stupid for even thinking of asking.
Does it hurt?
Of course it hurts.
The baritone of his voice is kind when he speaks, “I’m okay, Y/N.”
A lie.
You can hear it in his voice; just a slight dip in the way he says your name gives him away.
But don’t call him on it. Partly because you feel guilty that he feels the need to comfort you when he’s the one hurting; and partly because the fact that he sounds like himself is the only thing keeping you steady.
You continue searching for the anchor points.
Finally, you see one. It’s small enough to fit in the palm of your hand; just a spool of wire that rests at the bottom of a tree. You drag your eyes across the extended wire to Azriel’s body. You flinch when you catch sight of the tiny barbs that are digging into the sensitive membrane of his wings, but don’t react any further. Then, you follow the other wire away from his body and to a second spool resting at an adjacent tree.
It looks so simple.
The wire seems so thin; like it shouldn’t be strong enough to hold down the male. You’d seen him break chains much thicker and stronger than this, yet this little silver strand had him incapacitated.
“I can see the anchor.” You say quietly. “It’s… It’s just a spool… You can’t break the wire?”
You choke on your words as soon as they leave your mouth—You’re just full of stupid questions today.
Of course he can’t break the wire. If he could, he would have.
Once again, he remains equanimous, “It’s not like chains or rope. If I try to force my way out, it will slice my wings to the bone before I even get close.”
The realization makes you nauseous.
This trap was made for him—for someone like him; to use his own strength against him.
“I have to move; I can’t release it from here.”
He lets out a low exhale and his head shifts slightly in your direction, “Y/N…”
“It’s okay, Az.” You reassure him, as you shift your weight to take a cautious step. “I’ve got you.”
You can see the muscles in his jaw tense, but he makes no other attempt to move. With a deep, steadying breath you take a step forward. When nothing happens, you take another.
Your steps are slow and calculated; you make sure to study the foliage beneath your feet for a long moment before you step.
The forest is quiet.
There is no rustling of creatures or even wind. Just the soft crunch of forest floor every time you take another step.
You’re hardly two paces away from Azriel.
You lift your foot to take another careful step.
This time, when your foot lands, there is a metallic click that makes your blood go cold.
“Y/N!” Azriel roars.
“Az don’t move!”
The next sequence of events plays out quickly; hardly a heartbeat passes between them.
A crack echoes through the air—the same crack as before.
Azriel shifts his whole body, as if he physically can’t stop himself from going to you. You couldn’t see his face before, as it was pressed into the dirt, but in the split second that he shifts you can see the grimace of pain that is already etched into his features. You watch in horror as his face contorts from a grimace of pain to pure agony and a shout is dragged from his throat. The wire tightens around him again, drawing thin lines of blood from his wings.
You catch the glint of silver in the corner of your eye. With speed and agility you didn’t even know you possessed, you threw yourself to the ground just moments before an identical wire tried to snare you as well.
Your body hits the ground with a heavy thump that knocks the air from your lungs. You gasp, trying desperately to suck oxygen back in.
To your right, Azriel is making similar deep breaths of air; except he is trying to breathe through pain.
When you finally have enough air to stop the black dots that pepper your vision, you turn your gaze to Azriel. His fists are clenched at his side, and his jaw is clenched,
“Y/N…” He grits out between his teeth.
“I’m okay, Az.” You breathe out, still working to catch your breath.
Azriel had slammed the door to your bond shut tight as soon as he hit the ground before, but even through the block, you can feel the relief that flickers across it.
For a long moment, neither of you move.
The forest quiets down again until all you can hear is your heart pounding in your ears and Azriel’s labored breathing. His face is pressed down into the dirt again, but now you’re closer and you can see the way his eyes are scrunched shut.
“I’m okay.” You repeat, moving slightly toward him.
“Don’t move, Y/N.” He grunts. “Just… Please.”
It’s the closest to begging you’ve ever heard him. It’s as if your heart cracks inside your chest. You can see the glint of the spool. It’s almost laughing at you, it seems like it should be so easy to just pull the pin and let the tension unwind.
Too easy.
You glace to the other spool and see an identical pin.
“I can see the anchor.” You breathe. “If I release one, the other one is going to tighten.”
He grunts, shaking his head against the dirt, “Just do it.”
“There has to be another way.” You’re not talking to him, more so just speaking out loud. “Whoever set these would have a way to open it without dicing up what’s inside.”
Azriel snorts, “Or they set it for fun and they don’t care what happens. Just release one and then carefully go to release the other one. Madja can do damage control.”
“Not happening.”
If you could just figure out a way to pull them both at the same time…
“Y/N…” He sounds exhausted and exasperated.
“I got it.” You breathe.
Slowly, you lift your boot to press it down over the pin. It resists at first and your breath hitches, then it gives slightly.
You give a sigh of relief.
Then, you stretch to the other side. Hovered over Azriel’s prone form, you find the other pin quickly and press it down with your thumb.
Your pulse spikes, anxiety crawling up in your throat.
“Y/N…” Azriel whispers again.
“I got it.” You grunt, drawing your brows together in determination. “Just don’t move.”
A quiet, strained grunt of agreement comes from beneath you.
You brace yourself.
One.
Two.
You release your boot and your finger simultaneously.
At first, nothing happens and you feel dread beginning to pool in your stomach.
Then, so softly you hardly hear it, the spools both release with a hiss.
Azriel jerks in anticipation, and you wince—waiting for the spools to tighten and then chop him up.
Every muscle in your body is tense with anticipation, expecting the Gods forsaken wire to just snap closed and shred him to pieces.
But it doesn’t.
It’s almost anticlimactic the way that the spools just go lax.
The wire is still digging into Azriel’s flesh, but you can see his body go boneless when the tension is released.
You sigh heavily, dropping from your crouch to sit back on your heels. Azriel grunts, flexing his muscles slowly. A test—to see if he’s actually free.
The adrenaline in you has suddenly evaporated and you’re bone tired. Slowly, you drag yourself over to where he still lays and stop at his feet. The wire is wrapped around his legs, still tight and digging into his leathers, but it hasn’t broken skin yet. You slowly work the thin metal around his ankles and then up his calves, trying your best not to knick him or yourself in the process.
“I’ve got you.” You mutter. “I’ve got you.”
He doesn’t speak for a long time. As you get to the bottom of his wings, you can’t help but wince at the sight of them. The small barbs are dug into the first layer of membrane and slowly weeping small amounts of blood.
“My wings…” He whispers.
“Are okay.” You say with as much confidence as you can. “It’s not as bad as we thought. They’ll be sore for a bit, but no muscle damage.”
Azriel sighs in relief, “Pull them out.”
“Az, it’s still going to—”
He cuts you off with what can only be described as a whine, “Please, I just— I can’t—”
You shush him, “Okay, okay.”
Slowly and with as much gentleness as you can offer, you slowly begin to pull the barbed wire out of the sensitive membranes—trying desperately to pretend you don’t hear the soft hitches of his breathing or the way his muscles tense and untense as each barb is pulled free.
When you get to the top of his wings, your hands are caked in dirt and blood from the amount of times you needed to drag the wire out from his prone position. But, the relief in his features when the last barb is out is worth it.
“All done.” You say, dropping the wire to the ground as if it were on fire. “Easy.”
He starts to push himself up onto his elbows, only to drop back down to this chest with a huff. You reach out to steady him but he shakes you off.
“I’m good.”
You flinch at his tone and his expression softened immediately, “It’s not… I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s okay.” You say, but you don’t try to help him up again. He slowly raises himself until he’s sitting up and he looks at you, guilt ridden. “It’s okay, Az. I understand.”
You can’t imagine how he felt being helpless. Azriel, a male who is always in control and always calculated, must have been crawling in his skin.
He turns away from you and slowly stretches out his wings, “Can you… Can you look?”
You gape at him, “It’s okay, you don’t have to—”
“I want you to.”
You suck in a deep breath and carefully shift your hand to hover near the base of his wing before reaching out lightly.
He tenses but he doesn’t pull away.
Your fingers brush along the edge of each angry red line that crosses his wings—his beautiful wings, “There. Like I said, not as bad as we thought.”
He lets out a choked laugh, “Never doubted you for a second.”
You let out a huff of disbelief, “You absolutely did.”
He turns toward you this time, hazel eyes searching yours, “… Maybe a little.”
He hovers his pointer finger and thumb together to show the amount of doubt he had. You laugh and wave away his hand.
“Nex time, don’t step in glowing traps.”
He chuckles and then replies dryly, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
His face is caked in dirt and his eyes still look like he’s in pain, but you reach a hand up to his cheek despite this. Just to make sure he’s still there.
To make sure he’s okay.
He doesn’t pull away, so you rub your thumb gently against his cheek,
“Don’t scare me like that again, Azriel.”
He leans into your touch and sighs, “I’ll add that to the list.”
Summary: After Rider Survival Course floods the infirmary with injured cadets, the Marked Ones are left on your floor with orders to ignore them. You refuse, stitching Xaden Riorson and his wing back together while exhaustion slowly catches up with you. As fever dreams drag him through memories he can’t escape, your voice becomes the only thing grounding him in reality. When he finally wakes, he realizes you never left—even when everyone else did.
MASTERLIST
✨✨✨
Thirteen
Y/N
Anxiety buzzes through me as the two men square off. They’re nearly chest to chest with nostrils flaring and jaws clenched. Despite the growing dark bruising splashed across his nose, Xaden looks dangerous.
Caden’s lips pull up into a smirk, confidence radiating off him, “Don’t worry, Riorson. I’m sure she’ll fix your bad mood tonight.”
Xaden doesn’t hesitate. The hit comes and connects before my brain can catch up with my eyes. His fist cracks against Caden’s jaw mercilessly. The other cadet’s head snaps to the left and he staggers a few steps back.
Xaden doesn’t offer a response. Instead, he rolls his shoulders, returning his cold glare to its previous position.
The tension in the air is palpable.
A small crowd of cadets has formed a half circle behind them and they’re watching with wide eyes.
Caden swipes the back of his hand across his lips, smearing the blood that blossoms from the corner, and then he lets out a bark of laughter.
“Didn’t realize stray healers could turn you soft, Riorson.”
The jab does nothing to Xaden. He doesn’t even bristle at the insult.
Caden shifts his gaze over to me and he drags his eyes slowly down my body and then back up again, licking his lips. “But I can see why she’s got you playing guard dog. If I was bagging that every night, I wouldn’t want to share either. Let me ask, is Y/N—”
Whatever he was going to say died in his throat when Xaden throws another vicious right hook at his jaw. When the crack of bone against bone rings in the air, Caden’s body drops to the floor. I can hear the groan of pain he lets out but Xaden doesn’t stop. He clears the distance between them in one stride, fisting the front of Caden’s uniform in one hand, pulling him up a few inches and then throwing him against the floor. This time, his skull smacks against cement and the daze in his eyes is immediate.
“Keep her name out of your mouth.” Xaden’s voice is low and silky.
Heat floods my cheeks then runs down my spine. I’d spent the better part of the last month being angry that he was protective, but right now…
Right now, the deep baritone of his voice shot ice down my spine.
Right now, it didn’t seem like such a bad arrangement after all.
“Matter of fact,” Xaden drops his grip on the fabric. Caden’s body goes boneless against the cement floor as he is shoved back. Xaden straightens to his full size, glowering at the growing crowd. “That goes for all of you.”
There’s no sound from the audience of cadets.
No one moves.
I watch, mouth agape, as Xaden rolls his shoulder and turns to me. His expression is still serious, and I can’t help but drop my gaze to his swollen nose.
“Come on.” He jerks his head toward an empty mat on the furthest side of the gym. “You’re with me.”
He doesn’t even wait for me, nor does he spare a glance to Caden. He just turns on his heel and walks away.
I shoot Garrick a questioning glance, but he just shrugs his shoulders. As if this just a normal afternoon.
Like Xaden didn’t just…
I blink.
One time.
Then another.
Then, as I release a long breath of air through my nose, I follow.
✨ :-) ✨
I don’t speak as I try to keep up with his long strides.
He doesn’t turn around, or speak, until we’re standing on the opposite side of the gym.
We’re alone in this corner of the room, even Garrick is still seated in the same place.
Xaden’s chest is rising and falling quickly, his jaw is stiff and his fists are clenched by his side. I let a few more moments of silence stretch between us before I lift my gaze to him.
I hesitate for a moment, sucking in a deep breath between my teeth, “…Thank you.”
The words are quiet, if he had been a few inches further away from me, he might not have even heard me.
The movement of his chest slows and his fists unclench. Onyx eyes lift, burning into me though dark lashes,
“For what?”
“For—” I sigh heavily, slumping my shoulders. “You know what for… You didn’t have to—”
“I did.”
I snap my mouth closed. I study him for a long second and he holds my gaze.
“Besides,” he continues, but this time the seriousness has begun to wash away and his tone is teasing, “I can’t get my ass kicked and let someone talk like that in the same day. Not everything is about you, Y/N.”
I gape at him.
He blinks at me.
My eyes narrow, “…You… You are so unbelievable. This is exactly why—”
The left corner of his mouth twitches and he lifts his hands in mock surrender, “Easy. I’m joking.”
My nostrils flare. I watch with a heated expression as he deflated a bit.
“You don’t have to thank me.” He says quietly, all the humor has drained from his expression. “You deserve to feel safe... I went about it wrong before. I want to make sure that you feel safe— when no one else is there.”
I don’t speak. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, trying to ignore the way that my chest clenches.
The moment between us is gone just as quickly as came, and he squares his shoulders. Xaden shudders slightly, as if trying to brush off the intensity of his words.
“I’m going to train you.” He says matter of factly.
“Train me to what?”
“To protect yourself.”
I blink at him. “Xaden, I—”
“I don’t care if you never use it. I hope you never do. But I’m not asking, Y/N. So, get into a fighting stance.” His tone isn’t sharp or mocking, its just certain. “You need to know you can… I need to know you can.
I glance down at my hands, then back up at him. I suck in a breath and hold them in front of my face.
He gives me a sour look and I sigh, dropping my hands in defeat.
“I’ve never done this before.” I admit quietly. “I’m not a fighter.”
He sighs, taking a step toward me to grasp my elbows. He adjusts them as he speaks, propping them up to hover in front of my face again, “I know. But no one is born knowing how to fight, you train and you learn.”
I snort, “Easy for you to say.”
I allow him to curl my hands into fists, trying to catch his eye.
When Xaden finally looks at me, it’s with an unreadable expression, almost sadness, “I wasn’t born knowing how to fight either.”
His words are quiet; almost as if the sentence was a sacred admission. I scanned him up and down slowly.
It’s difficult to believe that Xaden had ever not been… well, Xaden. When I’d first met him in the infirmary, I had hardly been studying his physique; much more concerned with keeping him alive. But now I can see, he is all hard muscle. It stretched across his chest and around to his back. I can’t wrap my brain around him ever being… vulnerable.
Like a light switch, his face morphs into a teasing smile, “C’mon, square your feet with your shoulders.”
I exhale slowly, aware that the moment between us has faded.
“Fine.” I huff. “But if I break something, you’re going to have to heal me.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, “Deal.”
✨ :-) ✨
“Relax.” Xaden’s hands are on my wrists; gentle and firm as he adjusts me for what seems like the hundredth time in the last hour. “You’re locking your elbows.”
Once again, I try to mirror the stance that I’ve watched the riders do all day: feet planted, hands raised. I try to force my mind to relax and unlock my elbows, but I just can’t. I groan in frustration.
“I feel stupid.” I groan, dropping my hands down to my sides.
“You’re not.” Xaden replies. “You’re learning.”
“I do; this is pointless. I’m not built for this.” I try to keep the high-pitched whine that is threatening to crawl up my throat, out of my voice. “I can’t do this.”
He hesitates for a moment, then takes a step closer. We’re practically chest to chest when he stops approaching me. With two fingers, he gently tilts my chin up.
“I’m not trying to turn you into someone you’re not... I’m doing this to make you feel safe.” My lungs forget how to work properly when his thumb brushes briefly along my jaw below he pulls his hand back. The movement is quick, as if I was on fire and had burned him.
There was a long beat.
My mouth opens.
Then closes.
I nod once, gaping at him still.
Then, as if there hadn’t almost been an intimate moment between us, he claps his hands together,
“Elbows up.”
“Again.”
✨ :-) ✨
I want to stomp my feet in frustration like a child. Then, I feel him step behind me and my breath hitches. Xaden’s large hands find my arms, guiding them up and into a protective stance.
His breath is hot in my ear when he speaks, “Shift your weight before you throw your punch.”
He gently tugs my elbow, cocking it back for a faux punch and then pushes it forward to show the path that it will take if I ever figure out how to land one.
“Again, Y/N.”
This time, I pull my elbow back on my own. As I push it forward slowly into a right hook, his hands press lightly against both sides of my hips to move my body with the blow.
I’m trying to focus.
I’m trying to get this right.
But his body is so close that I can smell him.
I can feel the warmth right radiates from his chest.
He drops his hands from my waist, but he doesn’t take a step back, “Now you try.”
I move.
It’s not perfect by any means, but it finally follows the path that he’s been trying to teach me.
Xaden steps back, hand lingering only half a second longer than it probably should before it’s gone completely. My chest clenches at the loss.
Gods, what is going on with me?
“Good.” He says. “Again.”
I don’t turn around to look at him, don’t matter how much I want to.
Want to see his features as he speaks.
Want to see the firm chest that had just been warming the skin of my back.
I don’t, though.
I just raise my hands one more time, squaring myself up to throw another punch.
✨ :-) ✨
“Try it on me this time.”
I gape at him, shaking my head, “No, I’ll hurt you.”
He snorts, “I doubt that.”
I don’t even entertain his cocky comment, “I could hurt you.”
Xaden chuckles, taking a step back to create some space between us, “That’s the point.”
He’s not going to give up. He stands there waiting for me to move. I sigh heavily; I have a feeling in my chest that this isn’t going to go well.
“Good.” He nods at me. “Now, just like we’ve been practicing. Put some weight behind the hit, shift your hips, and then follow through.”
There is really no point in arguing with him. So, I do.
Feet shoulder width apart.
Knees bent.
Elbow back.
Push it forward.
Follow through.
My fist connects.
Hard.
Right into his ribs.
The same ribs… the injured ribs.
I can hear the breath being sucked from his lungs. He bends forward slightly, trying not to fold over, and one hand comes up to his side.
I feel sick.
“Oh Gods!” I rush forward, panic and guilt hitting me wave after wave. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hit your ribs! I didn’t even aim! I’m so—”
I reach for him without thinking but he shifts at the same time to adjust himself. Then, were too close, moving in a jumbled mess.
Our limbs tangle and then we’re falling.
My back smacks against the mat and the air rushes out of me. I gasp softly. Xaden catches himself; one arm propped next to my head on his elbow, the other still holding his ribs gingerly.
I blink up at him, trying to suck air back into my lungs, “I’m sorry… I didn’t—”
“It’s…” He lets out a sharp exhale. It might have been a laugh if it wasn’t accompanied by a wince. “It’s okay. That was great… Good… Good job.”
“I’m sorry.” I repeat quietly. “I didn’t mean to almost kill you.”
He snorts, then forces another wince off of his features, “You did not almost kill me.”
I stare at him.
His eyes are so dark that I can’t tell where pupil meets iris. His chest is mere inches from mine.
I wonder if he can feel how fast my heart is beating.
The arm that is wrapped around his torso relaxes, and before either of us can speak, he reaches down to push a wayward piece of hair out of my face.
He should move.
I should move.
I can’t stop my eyes from flicking down to his mouth and then back up. I can feel the movements of his chest slow.
The noise around us fades, I can’t pull my gaze away from the deep, dark eyes in front of me. His head tilts ever so slightly, leaning in half an inch.
He’s going to kiss me.
I expect my brain to go into hyper drive— to run through every possible case scenario where this could end badly.
But I don’t.
My brain and the gym are both equally quiet in my hears.
He leans another half inch into me.
He’s giving me a chance to stop this. I should, I know I should.
But I don’t move, waiting patiently as he dips down centimeter by centimeter.
Summary: After Rider Survival Course floods the infirmary with injured cadets, the Marked Ones are left on your floor with orders to ignore them. You refuse, stitching Xaden Riorson and his wing back together while exhaustion slowly catches up with you. As fever dreams drag him through memories he can’t escape, your voice becomes the only thing grounding him in reality. When he finally wakes, he realizes you never left—even when everyone else did.
MASTERLIST
✨✨✨
PART TWELVE
XADEN
The next afternoon, the gym is packed. There are four more sparring rings than usual and two times the cadets.
The healers are observing drills.
I could say that I hardly noticed her; but that would be a lie. She is a bright blue beacon in a sea of black riding leathers. She’s perched on a stool on the opposite end of the mat, sleeves pushed up to her elbows as she takes notes in the book on her lap.
“Riorson and Talbot!” Professor Emetterio reads from his clipboard. “On the mat!”
I’m stepping onto the cool plastic when a brown braid shifts in the corner of my eye and sunlight catches the hair.
Emetterio is talking, but about what, I could not tell you. All I can hear is the soft laughter that floats across the gym.
My chest feels tight and my jaw clenches on its own.
She has stopped writing, instead of visibly listening to the Rider who is standing next to her as he speaks. I recognize him vaguely as one of the cadets who had sent her rushing out of the dining hall.
His lips tilt up in the corners, and he tilts his head to her ear to say something.
When she laughs this time, it’s softer. It sounds closer to a shift than a laugh.
It isn’t the laugh that she uses at mealtimes with Garrick.
It’s forced. Fake.
Focus, Sgaeyl grumbles in my head.
I have to drag my eyes off the spectacle to the cadet in front of me, just in time to shift my weight back slightly to avoid a bow staff coming toward my ribs.
“Eyes up, Riorson!” Garrick calls from my left.
I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. As we circle around the ring, my gaze flicks back to Y/N. The cadet is leaning into her space and he’s still speaking low next to her ear; but her eyes are fixed on the mat.
The wooden pole flies up to connect with my face, but I dodge once again. I try to relax my shoulders, bringing my hands up in front of my face.
She’s smiles again.
Shadow Wielder.
Too late.
I don’t even see the staff swing; I just feel its impact when pain explodes across my skull. I’m still watching her when my vision blurs and stars float int front of me. I have to push back the instinct to raise my hand to the blow. I could feel blood already beginning to drip from my hairline.
“Fuck.” Garrick breathes.
I shoot him a glare. The rider in front of me smirks, raising his weapon once again. Blood drips down the side of my face, my brain is already throbbing in my skull.
Warm liquid escapes from my hairline, sliding down my neck and disappearing into the collar of my top. I don’t even bother wiping the blood clean.
I shake my head, trying to bring my attention back. The other cadet, Talbot, is bouncing between his feet.
We circle again.
I dodge a few well-placed blows to my torso and land a few on him. There is a thin sheet of sweat that makes my shirt stick to my chest; it rises and falls with my heavy breathing. I’m about to aim a hit to Talbot’s face.
Then Y/N laughs again and my attention flickers once again.
I feel Sgaeyl huff through the bond right before the staff cracks across my ribs. White hot pain spreads across my ribcage. Although I’d been mended weeks ago, the ache of shattered ribs had lingered, and I can’t stop the grunt of pain that slips out.
It takes everything I have to not double over to protect my midsection.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
“Ready to tap out, Riorson?” My opponent taunts.
I roll my shoulders, straightening up and leveling a glare at him. I pretend that I don’t see a flash of blue in the corner of my eye.
That I don’t notice the way she has stopped laughing.
That her notebook is now closed in her lap, and despite that the cadet next to her continues to talk; she is no longer leaned to listen.
Green eyes are wide as she watches the match; if I didn’t know any better, I would think that she’s worried.
I don’t entertain my opponent’s banter, and I throw my own right hook. My fist connects with the top of his cheek bone.
We continue to exchange blows. He dodges an elbow and I sidestep his staff. I start to think that I’ve gotten my focus back.
That is until I catch a glimpse of Y/N standing up in her chair. The cadet next to her has a hand hovering at her waist and she’s shaking her head no. He doesn’t seem to care because he reaches out to grasp the exposed skin of her wrist and pulls her to him.
I see red.
Then, I see white.
The blunt end of the bo staff slams into fragile cartilage and the sound of my nose breaking rings in my ears.
My knees buckle and suddenly I’m staring at the ceiling. I’m still blinking dots out of my vision when the end of the weapon is shoved under my chin.
“Alright,” Professor Emetterio sighs. “That’s enough.”
I close my eyes for a moment trying to stop the spinning of the room. When I open them, Garrick is above me with a hand reached out to help me up,
“You know, you’re allowed to talk to her,” Garrick sorts. “You don’t have get your ass kicked to get her attention.”
Emetterio pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head and sighing. He waves a hand in my direction,
“Get off my mat before you bleed all over it, Riorson.”
Garrick grasps my elbow, pulling me up right and then to my feet. I sway for a moment, more disoriented than I would like to admit. I can already feel as the skin stretched across the bridge of my nose begins to swell. Blood runs over my lips and down my neck.
My ribs ache as I gingerly make my way to an empty stool a few feet away.
“C’mon, Xaden.” Garrick nudges me. “Let’s get you looked at.”
I grunt, wiping blood from my face and making a point to spit the red liquid that pooled in the back of my throat to the floor below me, “I’m fine.”
“You’re not, let’s go.”
He all but drags me to the opposite side of the mat where the healers are gathered.
Professor Krell levels a stare at me as we stop in front of him. The expression on his face swirls with annoyance and disgust. His eyes look me up and down before he points to a folding exam table a few feet away.
“Y/L/N!” He calls.
Y/N materializes next to Garrick, eyes shining with concern. Her eyes flicker between me and the professor. But he doesn’t spare us a second look. He just turns slightly to the cadet taking notes next to him,
“Cadet Y/L/N can take care of him.” He says nonchalantly. “She’s made it clear she’s willing to dirty herself with the Marked Cadets.”
The cadets around us snicker and I can feel Garrick’s posture go rigid.
Y/N doesn’t laugh. She places a soft hand on Garrick’s arm and leads us to the exam table.
Then, I’m sat on top of the plastic folding table with my gaze fixed on the floor beneath my feet. A few droplets of blood make their way from my nose to the stone below me, and I briefly wonder who had to clean that up.
Y/N had stepped away to collect supplies, and she was now making her way back. She stops in front of me, dropping the gauze on the table next to me and crossing her arms.
Part of me thinks she might just leave the bandages here and make me take care of it myself.
I probably deserve that.
I know she won’t though.
For a few moments, she doesn’t speak. She just looks at me.
She’s not angry, but it’s not a soft look either. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head as she takes me in.
She sighs, “You look like shit.”
My nose throbs more when I lift my gaze to meet her eyes.
“Thank you.”
She takes a step forward so that she’s standing between my knees and reaches out a gentle hand to lift my chin, “You’re still bleeding.”
The corners of my lips twitch, threatening to curl up into a smile, “I am aware.”
She shifts the light grip on my chin to turn my head. The other hand comes up, moving hair to get a better look at the slowly weeping wound. Y/N sighs, reaching to my left to pick up a roll of gauze.
I’m painfully aware of how close she is to me. The gym is loud around us, cadets continuing to spar, but the air between us feels quiet.
She hums softly, dabbing carefully at the cut near my hairline. She exhales,
“You shouldn’t have let him hit you so many times,” she huffs.
I breathe out a laugh, “Let him?”
She drops the dirty gauze to the other side of the exam table, her lips pressed together to stifle a smile. I watch quietly as she continues to work, gently covering the wound with some type of healing balm.
“Well, at least you don’t need sutures.” She muses.
Then, she’s looking at the bridge of my nose wearily. I’m sure it’s bent grossly out of shape; she’s going to need to set it. She seems to think the same thing. Her thumbs press gently along both sides of the bridge of my nose.
White hot pain spreads across my face.
“Wait— “
She doesn’t.
She applies pressure, and a sharp crack echoes through my skull. My vision blanks out for a moment, and I can’t form a thought.
“Fuck!”
More blood pours from my nose, and she pushes a piece of gauze up under it so that it doesn’t stain my chin.
“Hold this.” Y/N watches as I blink black dots from my vision. “Your eyes are watering.”
“I got hit in the face with a staff.” I shot back.
She hums as she reaches for clean gauze, wiping blood from under my nose.
Then, she’s moving away from my broken nose and down to my sore ribs. She hesitates, her hands hovering near tender skin. She drags her bottom lip between her teeth as she presses gently along my ribs.
There’s a sharp twinge of pain, like someone shoved a hot knife between them. I suck in a sharp breath, but I’m able to stop myself from wincing.
“There it is,” she says, dropping her hands and reaching over to get another tin.
“That’s old.” I mutter. “They were worse before.”
“I know, I remember what they looked like when it happened.” Her eyes glaze over for a moment as she says it as if it were an unpleasant memory.
The balm in this one is dark yellow, and it smells like herbs. She doesn’t ask before slipping cold fingers under the hem of my shirt, gently rubbing the cool mixture against the heat of sore ribs.
“They’re still tender.”
I have to unclench my jaw to reply, “Occupational hazard.”
Her hand had been making small circles over my side, but now they’re still and she leans back to look at me for a long moment.
“You know, you didn’t have to get beat up just to prove a point.” She says softly.
I stare at her blankly for a moment, “I wasn’t proving a point.”
Y/N’s eyebrows raise and she makes a face, “Really? Then what was that?”
I meet her gaze but don’t speak. The honest answer is worse than the one she came up with.
She isn’t going to drop it though,
“You were staring.” She says, green eyes study my face, lingering on the bridge of my nose for an extra moment. I shift my weight, and the movement sends a pang of pain through my torso.
She notices and her eyes soften. She doesn’t meet my gaze when she speaks, “You don’t have to worry about me.”
Sgaeyl snorts in my head, do not let the poor girl feel guilty for your inability to control your jealousy.
“I wasn’t worried.”
Y/N looks like she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t argue.
There is a long pause; silence fills the space between us. Her eyes don’t hold any heat as she studies me.
Finally, Y/N sighs and takes a half step forward. She’s so close that the blue fabric of her uniform brushes against the black leather on my thighs.
“You waited.”
I look at her confused, “What?”
“In the hallway that day.” She sighs. “You waited until they were actually going to hurt me to step in.”
My stomach tightens and there is an apology at the tip of my tongue; but she continues without waiting for an answer.
“You trusted me to handle it.” She pauses, dropping her eyes down to face the floor. “I didn’t handle it.”
It’s a quiet admission. Shame heats her cheeks until they’re flushed pink.
“I’m good at avoiding things,” she continues. “Thinking three steps ahead so I don’t end up in situations like that in the first place. Then, when it happens… I just… freeze.”
I blink at her.
She doesn’t meet my gaze. Instead, letting out a small, empty laugh,
“You had to step in and save me like some sort of damsel. And… and I was embarrassed. Not angry.” Y/N sucks in a deep breath, then lets it out through her nose. “Then you started following me around everywhere and it felt like… like I was a burden. A responsibility you felt like you had to take care of because I helped you in the infirmary.”
I open my mouth to speak but shut it quickly when I see that she’s not done yet.
“And then, in the courtyard that day, I realized that I’ve never actually shown you that I can handle myself… So, I can’t really blame you for thinking I couldn’t.”
I blink again.
For a long beat, I just stare at her.
I’m trying to digest everything she just said.
Honesty. Vulnerability.
My jaw clenched, and my chest ached.
She is apologizing to me?
“You’re not a burden.” The statement comes out sharp. Short and definite. Y/N looks up at me, startled by tone.
But I need her to know that my words aren’t sympathy. That what I’m about to say isn’t just to appease her.
Despite the ache that flares in my ribs, I shift forward.
“I wasn’t trying to protect you because I thought you were incapable,” I say quietly.
She frowns at me, but she lets me keep going.
“I did it because I couldn’t stand the thought of watching you get hurt again."
Silence stretches between us. The noise of the gym becomes muffled as green irises search mine.
I can practically see the gears turning in her head as she tries to decide if I’m being genuine. A few more quiet moments pass between us before I clear my throat, the awkwardness threatening to swallow me.
I look away first.
“Don’t make it a thing,” I breathe, rubbing a hand across the back of my neck.
Despite herself, the corners of her lips twitch up into an amused smile, “You’re the one who said it.”
I grunt, looking anywhere but her face.
Remarkable, Sgaeyl huffs. You are both equally determined to avoid the obvious.
Before I can respond to Sgaeyl or Y/N, a shadow falls over us.
Y/N feels it too.
“Well,” a voice says, cold amusement in its tone. “guess I should’ve gotten my ass handed to me too.”
Her shoulders straighten and I can swear she unconsciously shifts closer to me.
The moment is gone as quickly as it came.
I look past her. The cadet, the one who had been chatting her up next to the sparing mat, stands behind her. He’s leaning on a support beam near the exam table, arms crossed across his chest as he takes us in.
His eyes flick from her to me and then to where she stands between my legs.
Finally, he brings his gaze back up to y/n. His brows furrow and he scoffs. Y/n pushes a strand of hair behind her ear,
“If you need assistance, then sit, Caden.” She says softly.
Caden makes no attempt to move to the bench.
“But, when I asked if you wanted to have a meal together last week you happened to be too busy.”
Y/N’s cheeks flush pink, “I am busy.”
“So, you’ll make time to help—no to stoop to touching him—” He jerks his chin to the relic on my arm. “But, you’re too good to carve out a few moments with me?”
She opens her mouth to reply just as he pushes off the beam to take a step toward us. Y/N’s mouth snaps shut, and he copies his movement, taking her own step back until her back is so close to my chest that I can smell her shampoo.
“But I guess that makes sense if you’re Riorson’s new pet.”
That’s enough of that.
Despite the ache that swallows my chest when I move, I slide of the side of the table. I pause for a moment, meeting her gaze.
Asking for permission.
“Watch out for your ribs.” She mutters.
Permission granted.
“Careful.” I warn. Any softness that I had held during our previous conversation has disappeared.
Caden smirks at me, giving me a long up and down before his smirk turns into a sneer, “Why would I do that?”
“Because I just lost my first match in two years. I wouldn’t bet on me losing another.”
The color in his face drains for a moment, before he can hide it.
“I just got hit in the head.” I level a glare at the cadet in front of me.
Summary: After Rider Survival Course floods the infirmary with injured cadets, the Marked Ones are left on your floor with orders to ignore them. You refuse, stitching Xaden Riorson and his wing back together while exhaustion slowly catches up with you. As fever dreams drag him through memories he can’t escape, your voice becomes the only thing grounding him in reality. When he finally wakes, he realizes you never left—even when everyone else did.
MASTERLIST
✨✨✨
PART ELEVEN
XADEN
She doesn’t wait for a reply.
Great, because I don’t have one.
Y/N throws her bag over her shoulder and brushes past me. I watch as the end of her braid shifts in the wind, and she stomps to the dorms. Then, I’m staring at the empty space where she’d stood.
The silence of the night stretches through the courtyard.
Even though I want to, I don’t follow.
I look to the bench she was sitting at, take two strides toward it and drop down onto the hard stone. I drop my face into my palms.
Well, that went well.
You pushed her away.
My jaw tightens; I am trying to protect her.
Yes. I noticed.
I exhale through my nose to prepare for the sarcasm I know is coming.
Have you considered, she continues, perhaps not insulting the person you are trying to protect while you do it?
I have half a mind to shove my head between my ears and shout, but instead I drag a hand through my hair and sigh.
“I didn’t insult her. She’s just being stubborn.”
Well, if you are trying to convince her to allow you to help— you are doing remarkably poorly.
I glare at the ground between my feet and huff out a breath.
For the second time tonight, I am at a loss for words.
Next to me on the bench, is a small book. As I pick up the worn paperback, a small slip of paper falls out of the front cover.
My curiosity flares and I reach for it,
“Safe Spots,” It reads.
“Washroom – 2+ Hours after Dinner
Western Stairwell – Before Morning drills
Courtyard – early afternoon or after battle brief.”
I drag my eyes down the rest of the list.
Every single line has a place on campus and how to avoid the most riders as possible.
The thought of her going through the trouble of making a list to avoid crossing paths with the riders send an uncomfortable throbbing through my chest.
This is how she protects herself, Sgaeyl says, too gently for my liking, She has a plan. She does not want your protection; not because she does not need it. But because you are making her feel like a burden.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until my lungs beg for air. My stomach sinks, and I’m suddenly grateful I haven’t eaten at dinner because I’m nearly certain that I would be getting it back right now.
I flip the page over, and in the same handwriting is another list.
“Riorson + Co.” I swallow hard and my chest tightens. For a moment I just stare at the title of the list, then I continue to read.
“Soren — courtyard after sunrise
Tessa — training rings after dinner
Zyra — only checks library — don't go to the library
Riorson — Avoid places with shadows.”
It feels like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs. I place the list back into the cover of the book and close it tightly— as if that would change anything.
It doesn’t.
I just wanted to protect her. Yet, somewhere along the way, I’ve just become another thing she has to avoid.
The feeling sits heavy in my chest; unwelcome and uncomfortable.
You could leave her alone, Sgaeyl offers.
I rub my hand across my sternum to ease the ache that has built beneath my ribs. Cold wind whips my cheeks, and I gaze out to the emptiness in front of me.
“Yeah,” I say. “I could.”
The words are bitter. They taste like a lie. Even now, knowing that she’d gone through great lengths to avoid me, I can’t help by hold my gaze or an extra moment on every shadow that move in the courtyard.
Just in case she comes back.
I do my best to give her space. It helps that I already know her routine, since now I know where not to go. So, it’s entirely not my fault when I’m walking down the hall that passes the clinic and I hear her voice.
“… two days ago.”
I stop in my tracks outside the clinic. Unlike the regular infirmary, there is no triage bay in the clinic. It’s only a small room with a hand full of medical equipment and an examination table. The door is cracked open just enough for voices to slip into the hallway.
“Two days ago?” Another voice scolds.
“It’s fine,” Y/N says quietly. “It will heal. I had to come because I couldn’t suture it on my own.”
Suture it on her own.
I feel sick to my stomach.
There’s the sound of metal on metal and then a long breath.
“Y/L/N,” the other healer sighs. “Why didn’t you report this sooner?”
There’s a pause.
The sound of something else clinking onto metal breaks the silence.
“I just… I didn’t want to be a bother.”
The nausea that I feel gets worse when something tightens beneath my ribs.
A bother?
Sgaeyl hums as if to say, you see?
There is a soft rustling of exam table paper being shifted against and then the sound of boots on the floor. I hear her thank the healer in the clinic, but I’ve turned on my heel and continued walking down the hall before she can see me.
Somewhere between the lines of keeping my distance and quietly watching, I start to notice things. At first, I was focused on routines, trying to scope out danger.
Trying to keep her safe.
I wasn’t sure when I began to notice threat that her braid always hangs over her left shoulder. And if it falls to the right side her eyebrows knit together in the middle and she moves it away as quickly as possible.
The way her nose scrunched as she reads. How her expression pinches when she comes across something particularly confusing, and she drags her bottom lip between her teeth in thought.
I notice that she rolls her sleeves to her elbows when she writes, so the fabric doesn’t drag through the ink.
She does that because she’s left-handed.
I don’t remember learning any of those things.
It feels like muscle memory: waiting for her to move her braid, watching as her expression relaxes once she turns a page, listening as she grunts in frustration when she accidentally smudges ink when she writes.
It feels like something I’ve always known; like I just know.
The dining hall is the hardest place to pretend I don’t notice her. The first day after our conversation in the courtyard, I had taken a sharp turn in the opposite direction of Y/N’s table. I had no intention of putting myself in her space.
Garrick had no such qualms.
He had brushed past me, taking long strides to the table in the far corner. He dropped his tray to the seat to at her right, following the action with his body. I had gaped at him when he shot her a goofy Garrick smile and began pointing to her tray—presumably to try to mooch some extra dinner.
He had turned his head to wave me over with his chin, and I reluctantly followed. Y/N and I both listened intently while Garrick filled the space with his voice.
She never spoke to me, and I never looked too long.
Only sparing small glances in her direction, then jerking my gaze away.
Everyday, when she got up from the table to head out the door, I had to tense every muscle in my body to not get up and follow her.
Today, she seemed distracted. Most days, she had a book flat on the table next to her tray and she would hum absentmindedly as she listened to Garrick talk; nodding at each pause so he knew she was listening.
Today, she only had her food in front of her, one elbow rested on the table and the other used a fork to push food around her tray.
Garrick was chatting away about his last sparring session,
“… then the idiot tried to sweep my legs out— thought he had me, too— but I saw him coming.” He said around a mouth full of food, arms gesturing wildly. “I shifted my weight and set him flat on the mat before he knew what hit him.”
He pauses, waiting for a reaction— looking at Y/N expectantly. But she keeps her gaze on her tray.
Garrick looks at me briefly with his eyebrows furrowed, “… Y/N, is everything okay?”
At the sound of her name, her head jerks up. There is a moment of confusion in her eyes, but she quickly recovers and smiles at him, “I’m sorry! Garrick, that’s great.”’
Garrick, that’s great?
Before either of us could reply, the double doors to the dining hall slid open and a large group of riders passed the threshold. Y/N tried to stiffly a sharp intake of breath, but the soft noise still found its way to my ears. She dropped her fork to the tray and pushed her uneaten food to Garrick.
Worry begins to wrap around my chest, squeezing tightly. I shift my body so I can scan the group of cadets that walked in, but none of them look particularly familiar.
She smiled apologetically, “That’s awesome. The healers are sitting in on sparing tomorrow, so you can show me in real time. But I have to run, I have a lot of reading to catch up on.”
She collects her pack and throws it over her shoulder. For a moment, she allows her gaze to rest on me.
My lungs forget their job for a moment, and I almost think she’s going to say something to me. She hasn’t said a word directly to me since… well, since I yelled at her.
My hopes deflate when she just nods at me, then slips out the opposite door of the dining hall. I wait two beats.
She protects herself by avoiding danger all together.
Two more beats.
What is she protecting herself from now?
Then I stand.
Garrick’s gaze shoots up to follow my movements,
“Xaden…” He warns. “Don’t.”
I raise my eyebrows, feigning surprise, “I’m not—”
“You know what you’re doing. If you start following her again, she won’t sit with us anymore,” He points his fork at me. “And she shares her food.”
He pauses, his jaw moving as he looks at me and chews. I can’t help but glance quickly at the door she had just exited out of, counting in my head how many seconds ahead of me she is.
It doesn’t seem like he wants a reply, but if he does, he doesn’t wait— he continues.
“I don’t know why you don’t just tell her you were an overprotective asshole and you’re sorry.”
I bristle, “Why would I apologize when I was trying to help her?”
Garrick snorts, nearly choking on his food, “Because you’re a condescending asshole.”
My jaw clenches and I narrow my eyes at him, “I— “
“You just can’t stand the idea that you care about someone you didn’t take a blood oath for.” Garrick deadpans.
I want to argue, but it’s futile.
Garrick knows me better than that.
I sigh, taking one last gaze at the door before I drop back into my seat, “It doesn’t matter. She hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you.”
I open my mouth to argue but I’m interrupted once again.
“She’s upset with you, and she’s doubling down.” His hazel eyes are healthy serious now.
“But, I didn’t—“ the words come out soft, my resolve to fight about this slowly disappearing.
“You did.” He shifts his body to drive his gaze further into me. “You had to pick a reason to care that wasn’t just caring. And, for some reason you picked an offensive one.”
I open my mouth— then close it.
Garrick sighs, dropping his fork to his tray and pushing it away,
“If she hated you, she wouldn’t sit with us at meals. She wouldn’t give you those quick glances— you know the same ones that you give her— when you both think no one is watching… Is it so awful to have something that you care about further than duty?”
No, it isn’t.
But admitting it aloud is a whole different beast.
Summary: After Rider Survival Course floods the infirmary with injured cadets, the Marked Ones are left on your floor with orders to ignore them. You refuse, stitching Xaden Riorson and his wing back together while exhaustion slowly catches up with you. As fever dreams drag him through memories he can’t escape, your voice becomes the only thing grounding him in reality. When he finally wakes, he realizes you never left—even when everyone else did.
MASTERLIST
✨✨✨
PART TEN
POV XADEN
The routine changed.
Initially, I thought nothing of it. The earlier starts to the day and the lingering after lessons. That didn’t mean anything, she’s a person not a robot. She’s allowed to change her patterns.
It didn’t mean anything until the fourth day in a row that I arrived at the dining hall for lunch, metal tray in hand only to see Garrick sitting alone. There were two things wrong with this:
First, it looked as though Garrick hadn’t even touched his fork— let alone his meal.
Never a good sign.
Second, Y/N was nowhere to be seen. Again.
I narrowed my eyes at the empty wooden table, then I placed my tray down and dropped into the chair next to Garrick. He spared me a sideways glance before dragging a hand through his hair.
“She’s been changing her routine,” He sighs.
I clenched my jaw, gripping the sides of the tray so hard that I thought it might snap,
“Well fucking aware.”
Garrick has the decency to look remorseful as he pushed the food in front of him a few inches back,
“She’s been avoiding us. All of us. Waking up early to sneak past Soren, hiding in the infirmary and lessons to avoid Tessa. Zyra hasn’t seen her in nearly five days— she stopped studying in the library.” He sighs as he waits for me to reply.
“Why?”
Garrick shakes his head, giving me a ‘no-duh’ look, “She didn’t exactly say, but if I had to guess, it’s probably because we’re practically stalking her.”
I clenched my jaw but didn’t say anything. My best friend looked at me for a long time, his features drawn in to make a face of sympathy.
“What do you want us to do, Xaden?”
“I’ll handle it,”
The next three days, I wake up before the sun. The entire hallway is one big shadow when I find a corner that has good visibility. She pokes her head out of her dorm room before darting down the hallway to the dining hall.
I do the same after lessons and lunch, doing my best to use the shadows to go undetected. It’s the end of the day that is hard.
Each day, after dinner, I force myself to stay seated when she scurries away from the table, waiting not-so-patiently for her to disappear through the large double doors before I move. In the time between when her dark brown hair disappears down the corridor to when I find her huddled in quiet places with her nose shoved in a textbook, the only thing I feel is a deep gnawing in my stomach.
Anxiety, Sgaeyl had called it. That’s not an emotion I’m familiar with, so I take her words with a grain of salt.
I try to ignore that I can’t remember a time when someone’s absence felt this loud.
Today is different.
I wake up early and take my place in the same shadow I’d been waiting in for the better part of a week. The stone wall I’m leaned up against is cold even though my top, and the morning air is moist and still. I count the minutes without meaning to, but even after ten minutes there was no movement.
No squeak of a wooden door.
No quick footsteps.
No messy brown braid.
Nothing.
When the wave of cadets begins to trickle down the hallway, there is still no pale blue healers' uniform, just a sea of black riding leathers. Boots squeak against stone and I scan each passing body. But as the last cadet scurries down the hallway, I feel an unfamiliar coldness slides down my spine.
I have to stifle the shiver that threatens to wrack my body.
She could have slept in, I tell myself. Or she’s running late today. Maybe she skipped class.
Perhaps it’s you who is waiting in the wrong place, Sgaeyl muses. The little healer may have found another place to spend the night.
The coldness goes still and my stomach drops to my boots.
Somehow, that’s worse.
It’s as if the Gods are playing a cruel trick on me, because the rest of my day is busy. Every inch of my being screams to look for her.
To search through courtyards, training rings, stairwells.
But I can’t. After the battle brief, I’m sucked into squad leader duties all day. Every time I walk through a hallway, I’m scanning each cadet I pass.
I crane my neck to see into the infirmary as I pass, praying to the Gods to get a glimpse of a familiar dark braid, but every female cadet has their hair tied up at the top of their head.
At lunchtime, my chest constricts even more when the only ones seated at her table are Garrick and Soren.
Then dinner rolls around, the result is the same, and its as if my lungs forget how to take in oxygen. The sounds of the dining hall die down into muffled noise. I find myself stopping a few feet short of the table. My vision begins to tunnel on the empty seat next to Garrick.
You are afraid, Sygael mutters. Her words are soft, too soft for the way she usually speaks to me.
I am not afraid. I speak to her as if she can’t feel every emotion that tingles within me. As if the erratic beating of my heart doesn’t strum against the bond.
You can lie to yourself, Shadow Wielder, but not to me.
I bristle, but don’t try again. Instead, I turn on my heels. I dump my dinner into the trash bin in the middle of the room, tray and all, and push through the double doors of the dinning hall.
If something is wrong; if she is hurt, it will be because of me.
I feel sympathy pulse down the bond. It’s warm and kind. It makes me want to slam my shields down in its face.
Sgaeyl has the decency to not reply, even though her and I both know the truth.
I find myself in the courtyard. The night is crisp and wind licks at skin that isn’t covered by leathers.
It’s too cold for her to be out here.
I drag my gaze across the grass. The benches that sit under trees are empty. The tables near the path barren as well.
Then, I see a glimpse of color in the corner of my eye.
Blue in the furthest corner of the courtyard.
The wind pulls at fabric, and a small figure is perched on a stone bench. My gut clenches, the bench is positioned so close to the entrance of the parapet that a large gust of wind could knock someone over the edge.
Emotion cycles through me so fast I don’t have time to regulate. Instead, I take long strides across the grass— not even bothering to take the path.
She doesn’t feel my presence as she drops her pack onto the grass.
Fear.
Relief.
Anger.
I’m behind her in seconds. I can’t stop my muscles as I grasped small shoulders. I pulled her back, toward the edge of the parapet, spinning her around.
My eyes must look wild. Cold wind nips at my cheeks. The shriek that comes out of her mouth makes me wince, but I don’t let go.
“What the fuck do you think you’ve been doing?”
My voice is just as unhinged as my expression— raw and uncontrolled. Untapped rage drags the words from my throat. I drag my eyes up and down her slowly— making sure there is no damage on her.
Cataloging. Searching.
Her eyes are wide, lips parted and eyebrows raised to her hairline. I can feel her muscles stiffen under the grip of my hands, and her green eyes shine with fear.
It’s the fear that makes something twist in my gut.
I hate it.
Not the fear itself, but the fact that it belongs to her.
The fact that it’s me that she’s afraid of.
My hands go slack— my grip loosening instantly. I still can’t quite convince myself to let go, but the feeling of warm skin is enough for to remind me that she’s here. I take the next few beats to take in the quickness of her breaths, and the dark strands of hair that fall in front of rosy cheeks.
Just as fast as the fear had appeared it quickly washed away— replaced with anger. Y/N jerks her shoulders out of my grip, stumbling backwards so violently I try to reach my arms out to steady her. She takes a small step back,
“What the hell is wrong with you?” She’s breathless, still recovering from the initial shock, but her eyes lit up with anger.
“What’s wrong with me?” I echo. A humorless laugh leaves my throat. “You disappeared, and then I find you sitting at the only bench that is even remotely close to the parapet— in the dark.”
She sucked in a deep breath, clearly trying to form words. She was angry— remarkably so.
Too bad.
I’ll take that over the alternatives— hurt, gone.
I can do mad.
“Do you expect me to apologize? You scared the hell out of me! You are following me!” She’s nearly shouting at this point; her finger is dangerously close to jabbing the center of my chest.
“You scared the hell out of me.” I shoot back, ignoring her last comment, but not denying it. “You were just gone; you disappeared. Vanished without a word. Do you have any idea how—”
She cut me off with a scoff.
“I’m sorry, I missed the part where I agreed to be stalked.” She huffs, turning to make her way back to her bag. “And, by the way, I didn’t disappear— I was avoiding you. Just so we’re clear.”
My body stills, and I have to fight off a wince at the sharpness of her words— how they seem slice right through my rib cage.
Avoiding me.
“That’s not the point.” I snap, taking a step into her space. “No one had seen you. You stopped studying in the library. Out of the dorms before sunrise.”
Her eyes narrow, “Like I said, I was avoiding you— all of you.”
This time I do flinch, sighing and relaxing my shoulders, “You could’ve just told me.”
“I shouldn’t have to, Xaden.” She huffs. You assign me my own personal guard rotation like I’m a prisoner— without asking me. Why would I think that you’d call off your dogs because I asked?”
Suddenly, my shoulders are tense again and my spine goes straight, “That’s not what I—”
“I’m not done, Riorson.” She takes a step closer to me and now were less than a foot away form each other. “I’m not one of your responsibilities.”
Something in my chest twists, shooting pangs of pain throughout my torso. I cross my hands over my chest to stop myself from rubbing my sternum to try to ease the discomfort,
“Maybe you should be.”
The words slip out before I think about it, and I can feel Sgaeyl’s amused chuff through the bond.
Y/N goes still, then she lets out a dry laugh, “So, did you decide that I needed supervision, or was it a joint effort? Did you hold a vote on who thinks Y/N will live or die by herself in big scary Basgiath?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what it sounds like.” She shoots back, not missing a beat. She’s more than a head smaller than me, but her head is tilted up, and green irises are filled with defiance.
“I just watched you get shoved around by five cadets in big scary Basgiath.” I snap. “Forgive me if the idea of you wandering around alone isn’t enticing.”
She leans back into her heels, narrowing her eyes and hardening the features of her face, “There it is.”
I tilt my head to the side slightly— half exasperated and half curious. “There is what?”
“I handled it.” She bites out.
“It really looked like that from where you were on the ground.” I spit out the jab before I can think about sugar coating them.
She stills; her eyes darkening and her nostrils flaring. “I had it handled. I was outnumbered and unarmed, would you have me stand up to them? To give them a reason to actually hurt me? They were just looking for a reaction, Xaden. They wanted me to fight back… they all do. I’m not stupid enough to give people what they want.”
“You don’t seem to have a problem fighting with me.” I mused.
She looks taken aback for a moment, but she recovers quickly, “you might be overbearing and audacious, but you seem perfectly capable of surviving an argument without caving my skull in.”
I shudder at the thought of anyone putting her hands on her. Then my mind spirals at the implication of trust.
Y/N sighs and repeats, “I had it handled.”
“Maybe I didn’t think you should’ve had to.”
She startles me for a fraction of a second when she throws her hands up in indignation. “And maybe I don’t think you need to act like I’m a fragile little thing. You can’t just use what happened in the hallway as an excuse to drag me into whatever savior complex you have going on! I’m not going to shatter!”
Silence falls over us, stretching across the courtyard and parapet alike. The wind blows a strand of hair across her face, and I have to resist the urge to reach out to push it back. Y/N’s chest is rising and falling heavily, green eyes blazing.
“That’s not what I’m doing.” I say quietly.
“Then what are you doing?”
She watches me for a long time, waiting for an answer.
I don’t have one.
Not a good one at least.
I open my mouth; then close it. Once again, the silence settles between us.
When she realizes that I don’t intend to answer, the fire in her reignites, “Why do you even care?”
The question makes my stomach drop, nausea threatening to crawl up my throat.
Why do I care?
Because you were worried, Sgaeyl mutters.
I grit my teeth. I was not worried.
Another amused chuff ripples through, and I itch to drop my shield down.
Of course not. That’s why you stood in a dark hallway before dawn for three days waiting for her.
There’s no reasonable response to that.
Once again, I’m without an answer. The heat that had been radiating off of her seemed to simmer a bit and her shoulders drop,
“I helped you in the infirmary.” She says softly, most of the sharpness has left her voice. “You helped me in that hallway. Fine. We’re even.”
I stiffen, shoving down the alarm that begins to bubble in my stomach.
Even.
The word feels sour in my gut; like she’s trying to tie the whole thing off and set it aside.
“That’s not—” I stop.
She’s not wrong.
Yet the thought of agreeing with her— ending this here and stepping back— makes panic crawl up my throat.
“You’re missing the point.” I finally decide on.
She crosses her arms over her chest. She doesn’t speak, just raises an eyebrow.
I drag a hand through my hair and sigh, “You have a target on your back—for helping us. I owe you.”
“No,” she shoots back. “You put a target on my back for claiming me. Gods, do you hear yourself?”
“I don’t understand why you’re fighting me on this,” I snap.
“Because you’re not listening to me and you’re not making sense!”
Frustration is vibrating inside of me; the tips of my fingers tingled with emotion. The pain in my chest just continues to grow each time she makes a logical point.
She’s right.
She’s painfully right.
I just can’t move my mind past the image of her in the hallway, the idea of something happening to her.
“I’m not trying to control you.” I sigh, running another hand through my hair. Between the wind and my ministrations, I probably look disheveled.
“Then what would you call this?” Y/N looks just about as exasperated as I feel.
I open my mouth; then close it.
I do it again.
None of the words that I can think to say will help; matter of fact, they all seem like they might make it worse. I watch as the fight drains from her body, and she exhales through her mouth, clutching the front of her uniform,
“I am grateful that you helped me, don’t think that is what this is about.” She says. “But you don’t need to keep doing this. The hovering or making me your responsibility. Whatever debt you think you owe me is paid in full.”
Grateful.
Paid in full.
“Why can’t you just let me?” I snap, louder and sharper than I meant to. She flinches back, mouth opening to speak but I don’t let her. “Why is it so bad that someone is trying to look out for you? Why can’t you just be— grateful. Why can’t you just accept the help?”
The irony curls around me, squeezing tight around my chest.
I know I’m wrong. More wrong than I have been all night — possibly ever.
Y/N pales, her shoulders still and her breathing becomes shallow. There are a few beats of silence. She doesn’t look angry, but the cold resentment shines in her eyes,
“I didn’t ask you to.”
The words hit me hard stealing the breath out of my lungs.
A strong guest of wing cuts through us, sending dead leaves over the edge of the parapet. Y/N finally pushes the wayward strand of hair behind her ear to gauge my reaction with a full line of sight.
But I’m silent. It feels like wave after wave of numb anxiety washing over me.
I want to reply, to say something that makes sense, but I realize quickly that don’t have a single thing left to say.
Fandom: ACOTAR | Prompt: Cradling Someone in Their Arms | Rhysand X Reader
Summary: Under the Mountain, kindness is a liability.
When a kitchen servant begins leaving bread and stolen tonic for Rhysand after one of Amarantha’s punishments.
He learns exactly how fatal softness can be.
Or: The moment Rhysand decided to become a monster.
🌟 Authors Note: This was originally supposed to be going in the direction of checking off the whipping prompt but then this prompt fell into my lap toward the end.
Author Notes: You can access the link to my Bad Things Happen Bingo Card, I am actively writing for The Fourth Wing and ACOTAR.
This one hurt ngl 🌟
💓 CW Warnings: Character Death, Graphic Violence (Whipping), Public Execution, Emotional Manipulation, Under the Mountain Setting, Implied Torture
Please Read With Care 💓
Almost three days had passed since she had stood alongside every other Fae under the mountain, watching as Amarantha’s Attor wailed relentlessly on the High Lord of the Night Court’s back. The sound of the whip cracking as it split the air and then his flesh sent shivers down her spine. Her stomach turned as blood dripped down him from every side, pooling at his knees. Despite the fact that he hadn’t made a noise, she could see the way his muscles tensed after a blow landed—waiting for the next one.
When they it was finally over, and Rhysand was nothing more than a shell of a High Lord lying in a pool of his own blood, Amarantha had nudged him with the tip of her boot,
“Let him spend the next few days thinking about what he did— no food, no water, no help— and perhaps, Rhysand, you will learn a lesson.”
That was the first time she decides to do it.
He’s unconscious and shackled to the cold stone wall. She can’t help but think that he doesn’t look like the cruel High Lord that she’d heard about.
No, he just looked like a male.
She’s just supposed to clean up the mess. The spectators had long since scattered, and all that was left was the sound of shallow, ragged breathing. She listened to the uneven breaths as she scrubbed, her mind racing with indecisiveness.
As she washed away the last of the dried blood, Rhysand groaned and she froze. His hands were shackled together in front of him, no barrier between his ruined back and the rough stone.
This time his breath hitched, as if in his sleep he forgot to wear the mask of the evil male he’s believed to be. In this proximity, she can see the dark circles under his eyes and the bruises scattered on his skin in various stages of healing.
He doesn’t look wicked.
She moves quickly.
So quickly she doesn’t even have time to consider talking herself out of it.
A heel of bread slips out of the pocket of her apron. She had taken it for herself—shoved it in her pocket quickly as she prepared lunch. But, instead of filling her stomach with it, she places it in his hand. His hands are large enough that she’s able to close both this hands around it. His fingers flex as he begins to shift, and she jerks back.
She gathered her bucket and her rag and ran out of the room like it was on fire.
She didn’t look back.
If she had, she would have seen heavy lids lift to reveal violet irises. She would have heard the soft exhale of disbelief that left him as he finished closing his fingers around the bread.
* *
Rhys doesn’t move for a long time. He feels the rough edges of the wall digging into his back, sending shots of agony through his whole body.
He tightens his fingers around the piece of bread, he can tell what it is immediately. Just the rough-edged end of a loaf that would usually be discarded when preparing trays. The raw gnawing in his stomach of days without food begging him to just eat it.
But he continues to wait, incase this is a lesson—another trick or a servant sent to tempt him.
Seconds turn into minutes and the room remains quiet, still empty. He takes a deep breath but doesn’t get a whiff of the dark floral musk that follows around Amarantha. Instead, vanilla and the faint smell of flour—like he’d just walked past the kitchen staff.
He vaguely remembered the soft footsteps that carried the servant girl away.
The bread was small—too small to fill the hollow ache in his stomach.
Probably big enough to fill hers.
More doubt washes over him.
There is no such thing as kindness.
Despite his hesitation, his stomach clenches in protest, he slowly lifts the bread to his mouth—wincing when the chains go no further so he has to peel his back off the stone.
Violet eyes scan the throne room for any interlopers.
Then he takes a bite.
Time stops for a moment as he waits for the catch—for a guard to rip it from his hands and beat him again. Well, he’d already made it this far, he might as well make it worth it.
Rhys tries not to eat too quickly. His lips are cracked, and his throat is dry, but he continues chewing. He leans back against the stone; it feels like sandpaper against what was left of his back but at least the sharp pang of hunger had dulled.
Then he waits.
After an hour of letting silence stretch between him and the throne room. Pain and exhaustion begin to weigh down his eyelids.
In that moment, Rhys realized that no one was coming.
No laughter.
No heavy scent of florals.
No guards.
She was just being nice.
He takes a deep breath as unconsciousness begins to swallow him. He huffs out a breath of disbelief, echoing in the empty room,
“Foolish.”
But the words lack heat, and unconsciousness sucks him into darkness.
* *
The next time she comes, Rhys has been moved from the throne room to a cell of his own. Amarantha is pissed at him; that much he can tell. She hasn’t allowed him to use his Fae healing, nor will she heal him, so he has to wait for the gashes to scab over on their own. Each movement he makes tugs on sore skin, sometimes even breaking open a scab and causing more bleeding.
However, he finds himself grateful that he isn’t shackled by his wrists anymore—as they were raw and painful. He’s been upgraded to one single iron cuff that was attached by a long chain to the wall.
Less for his comfort and more that Amarantha didn’t want him dead, so she had to start feeding him eventually.
At least he could lay on his stomach.
That’s where he was – eyes closed with his cheek pressed against the cold floor— when the door squeaked open. Amarantha had graciously allowed him table scraps now and once a day a servant would drop it at the door just far enough away that reaching for it tears the fragile, healing skin of his back.
He didn’t even bother opening his eyes, he was still sore from moving the day before and he wasn’t hungry enough to make it worse.
There’s a soft padding of feet in the cell, and then they’re almost right in front of him. Then he smells it: vanilla and flour.
He stills himself, forcing his eyes closed and his breathing even, no matter how curious he was. The footsteps stopped half a foot away from him and he hears the click of the tray on the floor. Then there is a hand, cool and gentle, pulling his hand open to place a small vial in it.
“If you’re going to risk your life, at least do it properly,” He rasps, sounding more rough than he had intended.
She stifles a scream, dropping his hand and moving back until her back is pressed against the opposite wall. Big blue irises meet violet when Rhys opens his eyes.
He continues, “What was your plan once the guards came in and found this? Was I meant to swallow the whole thing—vial and all?”
She gapes at him for a long moment before replying, “I intended to come back for your tray before the guards returned.”
“And if they returned before you?” He pushed. He has to strain his neck a bit to look at her, but he doesn’t even have it in him to feel humiliated that he’s laid out on the floor. But, he has to keep pushing, even when guilt squeezes his chest at the stunned look on her face; she needed to know this was idiocy before she paid for the lesson with her life.
“I just want to help you, Rhysand.”
He huffs out a breath of irritation, shifting slowly to bring the vial she’d pressed to his hand up to his nose. He pops the lid with his thumb, breathing in the tonic. The scent hits him immediately and he gives her a long hard look,
“Ilysium and sunspear? You brought me a pain tonic?” He narrows his eyes. “Why?”
She just blinks at him, “You are in pain, are you not?”
She says it softly and with sincerity, eyes jerking from his back then back to him. Rhys takes a long look at her, her white apron is stained from a day’s work. Her hands are trembling, the fear of being caught sending tremors through her.
“Did you steal this?” He asks, jaw tight. His body itches to sit up, to look her in the eyes as he scolds her. But sharp and relentless pain stops him.
She hesitates – then nods.
She doesn’t bother to excuse or explain herself. She just stands there waiting for him to continue.
“And you know what they do to servants who steal?”
Again, she doesn’t offer words—only a brief nod of her head.
“And you still came.” It wasn’t a question, and Rhys looks at her for a long moment. “And before, it was you who brought the bread?”
She swallows, nodding.
“Why?” He wishes he was stronger, not useless lying on the floor. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and tell her to put it back; to never come back.
“I just didn’t want you to hurt alone.” She says quietly.
He doesn’t even know what to say. He can’t string together words fast enough to follow his thoughts. So, he decides on,
“You are very foolish.”
But there is no heat behind his words—no accusation.
The corners of her mouth twitch up slightly, “I know.”
The silence fills the space between them, and she glances to the door quickly before dropping to her knees next to him. She pulls a small metal container out of her pocket, putting it up to his nose quickly,
“Thyme, wormwood, goldenseal.” She says. “I didn’t steal this one, I made it. It’s topical.”
He studies her. The flour on her cheek. The shaking of her hands. The look of devastation every time her eyes fall to his back before jerking away.
Rhys sighs, “Foolish.”
She takes that as her cue to continue, dipping her fingers into the balm and then pausing. His muscles are tense, expecting the initial pain of the application.
“Is it okay if I…?” She asks softly.
Rhysand’s breath hitches in his throat and his jaw tightens.
No one has asked him that in a very long time.
“… Yes.”
Her hands are cool, soothing the hot swollen skin under them. Despite himself, he lets a hiss slip out from between his teeth.
“I’m sorry… I’m trying to be gentle.”
She slows her ministrations, her touch becoming as feather light as possible.
He imagines this is what gentle feels like.
No one has shown him that in a long time either.
Before he can stop himself, the words slip from his mouth,
“What is your name?”
Gentle hands pause, almost as if she doesn’t know, before she catches up with herself.
She whispers her name like a secret, as if it was something that she wasn’t allowed to share.
Rhys repeats it once before the pain tonic takes over and he drifts.
---
It was like clockwork; she brought his dinner every other night, stayed for a few extra minutes and then snuck out quietly.
This night was no different.
She slips clean bandages into her apron and her balm, knowing that stealing another tonic would be too obvious.
Rhys is sitting up when she enters, in contrast to the horizontal position he had been in every other time. She puts the tray down close to him, so that he doesn’t have to reach far. Then she reaches in her pocket to pull out her supplies.
“You can’t keep coming here.” He says immediately.
“It’s my job to come here.” She replies, not pausing to look at him as she crouches down next to him to look at his wounds.
“You know what I mean.” His voice is serious, violet eyes hard. “You need to stop.”
“I’m careful.” She looks at him with a reassuring smile. “Promise.”
Rhys gave her an exasperated look, “That is not enough.”
Almost as if on cue, the cell door groans as its pushed open. The sound of the hinges straining to move the heavy wood.
Her smile disappears and she turns—Bandages and balm still in her hands as she faces the door. A guard stands at the threshold; his eyes shift slowly between her, the bandages, and Rhys.
She is frozen in her spot. There is a long beat of silence.
Rhys stands slowly, ignoring the way that his skin screams at him to stop, and he shifts his body between her and the guard.
“She is just doing as I instructed.” He wipes any surprise or fear off of his face immediately, trying to force a casual tone.
But the guard doesn’t even look his way—he just continues to look between her and the bandages.
Rhys shifts slightly—trying to work on a lie, a way to fix this.
But she doesn’t lie. She just turns to look at him, worry etched on her face.
No fear.
Just worry for him.
“I’m sorry, Rhysand.” She whispers.
* *
Rhys squints as he is escorted into the throne room. The crowd has gathered. All the courts watch; some in awe, some in horror. Two guards flank him all the way up the stairs until they reach the onyx throne. Unlike before, he’s fully dressed now—the scabbed skin on his back rubbing painfully against his shirt. Despite the nerves shooting off across his spine, he squares his chest—holding his chin up. He quickly slides on his High Lord onto his features, pushing his lips to a straight line and his eyebrows relaxed. He forced his gaze to not shift to her—his futile attempt to protect her from what was to come.
She stands in front of the throne; her wrists are cuffed together with thick irons that swallow her small arms. Her blue eyes are facing the ground in front of her, rather than the crowed that watched.
“Rhysand, be a dear, come here?” Amarantha coos—not a question, an order. Rhys tries his best not to stumble, white hot pain threatening the edge of his vision. He takes two steps to steady himself, then two more steps to stand next to her. He picks at a nonexistent piece of lint on his jacket. She looks at him for a long moment, faux concern has her brows knit together,
“Oh dear… You look… unwell. Let’s get a look.”
Once again, not a question. Rhys has to use every ounce of will power he has to stop his hands from shaking as he unbuttons his shirt slowly. Then, he drops the fabric to the floor behind him, standing for all the court to see the mangled skin of his back.
The courts that surround them begin to buzz, the noise ringing like white noise in his ears. Gasps around the room as if they hadn’t all watched silently when he received the blows.
Amarantha didn’t even bother to stand up—no. She waved her hand nonchalantly, and before Rhys could even wrap his head around what she was doing her power slams into him. He drops down to one knee with a gasp as her magic flows through him. He can feel torn skin and muscles knitting themselves back together.
Then, he can breathe again.
The ache is gone.
The relief is instant.
“There,” Amarantha shoots him a sick smile. “That feels better, doesn’t it?”
Rhys doesn’t reply, nor does he look up. He stays where he is, propped up on one knee.
And everything she had done—tried to do.
For nothing.
He heard a long exhale and risked a glance up. She looked at him with the same soft blue irises.
She should be furious.
But she’s not, she lets out a small breath of relief as her eyes scan the healed skin. Tan and smooth as if it had never been ruined at all.
She smiles at him and his chest is so tight, he almost can’t breathe.
“All your efforts were for nothing.” Amarantha drags out her words, finally pushing herself off of the throne. The she towers over the female’s much smaller frame. “You are loyal. That is a quality that I can appreciate. But I just want everyone to know how important it is to make sure that loyalty isn’t misplaced.”
Amarantha clicks her fingers, and the world seems to tilt on its axis for Rhys.
A sharp crack.
Her eyes don’t widen.
She doesn’t scream.
She just drops.
Rhys is on his feet before even he knows it. He catches her before she hits the ground. She’s limp, boneless in his arms.
“No,” He breathes. His voice is hoarse with emotion. “No. I’m sorry.”
The murmuring of the court ceases as they watch the scene in front of them.
He gathers her lifeless body, cradling her close to him—as if he could will her back.
“Please, I’m sorry.” He whispers. “Please, no.”
He’s on his knees, begging the Gods.
Nothing.
The angle her neck allows her head to drop to his chest makes him sick to his stomach. Amarantha’s voice floats lazily from where she had returned to the throne,
“Now that, is a lesson learned, Rhysand.” She smiles at him. “You are dismissed,”
Silence stretches across the throne room, no Fae dares to speak.
Rhys looks at her for a moment, before looking down to the blue unseeing eyes in front of him. Then he looks at the crowd gathered in the throne room. Devastation poured off him in waves.
Violet irises are murderous.
Rhys has been playing nonchalant for the better part of thirty years, but the raw, untapped rage. He looks at each of the other High Lords, disgust and anger in his gaze, they seem to shift from foot to foot, looking down to avoid catching his eye.
Then, as he finally reaches the end of the room, he turns his gaze down to her.
“I’m sorry,” He murmurs. “I’m so sorry, Darling.”
Rhys stands—her body still clutched to his chest. Then, he turns to look at the door—not sparing a second glance to any of them.
The throne room parts.
No one dares to stop him.
* *
Rhys weaves through corridors until he reaches an unfinished part of the mountain. Then, he carries her through the dark cavern until a dim light could be seen. He has to bend down to enter, and they’re illuminated. Bright blue is scattered across the ceiling.
He lays her down carefully, pushing a wayward strand of hair from her face.
“Arachnocampa luminosa,” He whispers. “They look like the stars at my home.”
Rhys reaches down to rub his thumb across her cheek bone, letting out a shaky breath.
“I’m sorry that I called you foolish.,. You are so, so brave.”
Just this once.
Only once, would he allow himself to break.
His throat tightens. He doesn’t make a sound, as he lets silent tears escape.
One breath.
Two.
Then he takes a deep breath, composing himself before he bends to kiss her lightly on the forehead.
He mutters her name into the silence.
Then he rises.
* *
Years later, when they call him cruel—a monster.
He remembers gentle hands and a soft voice,
I just didn’t want you to hurt alone.
And he just smiles.
He will be the most convincing monster they have ever seen.
No one will ever again mistake him for being something worth saving.
Fandom: ACOTAR | Prompt: Backhand Slap | Azriel X Reader
Summary: Azriel has been strung up for the better part of a week when his captors send in a servant healer with strict orders: keep him alive— nothing else. She walked into his cell with nothing and no one, but she never imagined that she would find someone who was everything.
🌟 Author Notes: You can access the link to my Bad Things Happen Bingo Card, I am actively writing for The Fourth Wing and ACOTAR. 🌟
💓 Content Warning: captivity, torture, physical abuse, blood, emotional distress, violence
Please read with care 💓
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The air in the cell was thick with moisture. Azriel’s chin rested against his bare chest, heavy eyelids half closed as he listened to the steady drip of condensation falling from the ceiling.
It had been almost a week.
A week of being strung up like a piece of meat; three ash arrows imbedded deep into the meat of his thigh, wings clamped and spread wide, and all his muscles quivering as they held up his body. He was clad in only a dark pair of bottoms, with bruises that littered almost every inch of his visible skin.
He was exhausted.
The shadows that usually danced around him were equally tired, pooling lifelessly around his ankles.
A long squeak echoes against the stone wall as the door is pushed open. Azriel’s muscles tense unconsciously, but he doesn’t lift his gaze.
“Just make sure he doesn’t die.”
It’s quickly obvious that his captor isn’t addressing him. The door slams closed and soft footsteps move across the room, stopping in front of him. His ears catch the small gasp of a female, and he’s barely able to stifle the flinch that threatens to wrack his body when he feels hands on his chest. The hands seem to sense the tension in his muscles, because they quickly disappear.
“I… I’m not going to hurt you.”
Azriel almost gasps in surprise at the warmth of the voice. His body tingles as the sound of it and the shadows at his feet begin to stir.
The voice is beautiful. Perhaps he’s dead. Maybe this is heaven.
He says nothing, but when the hands reach back out to his chest he doesn’t tense. He lets his gaze fall to the small hands in front of him as they prod at the broken skin across his torso. The female hums quietly as she begins to wipe blood gently from his chest with a damp rag. He holds his breath each time cool skin brushes against the hot, swollen flesh of his torso.
When there is only a twinge of red across his chest, the female lays her hands flat against his pecs— so carefully that they almost don’t touch— and a warm ember light flared from beneath her palms. It was faint, more of a glow than a light, but in the dim lighting of the cell it looked like a star on solstice.
Azriel sucked in a sharp breath as the light sank into him, threading torn muscle and flesh back together, knitting him together slowly. The light slowly dissipated and the shadows surged up, dancing around him to check on their master.
Then, her hands froze, slowly moving backward from his body.
Azriel nearly weeped at the loss.
“Oh… I—“
Her voice trembled and his chest striated painfully, despite just being healed, at the sound. The fear was evident in her words. She began to pull her hands back more, as if a fast movement would startle the shadows.
“They won’t—” His tongue shot out to wet dry lips. “They won’t hurt you. They know you’re helping.”
It took a lot of effort, but Azriel lifted his chin from his chest in an attempt to meet her eyes. He winced at the way his voice cracked, throat raw and dry from a week of holding back cries of pain. She didn’t meet his gaze, just sucked in an audible breath before moving down to the arrows that protruded from his thigh.
“I’m going to have to pull it out.” She says softly. “That’s why you aren’t healing.”
Before she does, she finally looks up at him. Hazel eyes meet deep pools of brown. Her eyes are wide, gaping at him through dark eyelashes as if she’d never seen a male before.
He takes a beat to drink in the sight of her.
Chestnut brown hair is tucked behind her ear, and each curve of her face is soft. Her lips are a healthy pink and eyes are kind; gentle in a way that made her stick out like a sore thumb in the dingy cell.
She blinked once.
Then there was a sharp pull deep within his chest. It was not gentle or soft, no, it was violent and definite.
Azriel groaned as the string deep in his chest continued to pull painfully until it finally snapped into place. His chin dropped back against his chest heavily, world spinning and leaving him gasping.
Mate.
The pain of the beatings, the chains, and the ash arrows were suddenly dull, replaced by the throbbing his his chest.
“No,” She breathed, backing away as if he had struck her. Each step she took backward ached in his chest, he pushed forward despite being bound— his body begging her to stop retreating. “No, no, no, no, no.”
The cell door slammed back open.
“What’s taking so long?”
Azriel watched as she flinched and the cloth in her hand fell to the floor, protectiveness swelled in his chest at the fear that glazed over her features. He could feel the terror shooting down the bond, so strong that it made him flex his wrists against the chains.
She met his eyes again, apology and shame swirling through the dark brown irises.
“If you can’t finish it, I’ll string you up next to him.” A male barked.
“I’m sorry.” She whispered, so soft that even Azriel’s fae ears almost didn’t catch it.
The backhand came out of nowhere. It cracked across his face, his head snapping to the side. It hurt, but despite the noise that bounced off the walls, there was no intention behind the blow.
The the agony that ripped through the bond was what made him groan.
Guilt.
Self-loathing.
Guilt.
“You’re lucky I’m even touching you. You’re filth.” She spit, reaching forward to grasp his chin in her hands. Her expression was fierce, but her grip on his skin didn’t match the fire in her eyes. “Stop moving, Illyrian.”
The male barked out a laugh, “Degraded to getting your next beating from a female. Fitting.”
The door slammed shut and they were left in the silence of the cell.
As soon as the wood of the door hit the stone wall, she released him like he was on fire. She didn’t speak as she reached down to his thigh, pulling out the three arrows in quick succession before quickly pressing her palm to the aggravated skin— wincing when he grunted in pain.
He watched as one single tear slipped down her cheek.
“You had to,” she muttered. “If they find out, the will hurt him worse. You didn’t have a choice.”
The agony in his leg began to dissipate and he lifted his chin, “You had to.”
Her hands stilled before she pulled them back, shaking her head and wiping the tear from her cheek, “I do not deserve your comfort, Azriel.”
His chest clenched at the sound of his name on her lips. She looked up at him again, her eyes glassy and her bottom lip wobbled. She reached a hand up slowly, pressing palm to the hot skin of his cheek and let the warm light of her powers soothe the skin that she had damaged.
Azriel couldn’t stop himself from leaning into her touch and when the light faded, she left her hand there for an extra moment to rub her thumb across his cheekbone.
Then, she sucked in a deep breath and took a step back, turning on her heels and making her way to the door to knock on it twice. It swung open and the Hybern soldier on the other side pushed through.
“Took you long enough.”
She moved to scurry around him to leave but he grabbed her by the bicep. Azriel gritted his teeth at the sight of the male’s fingers wrapped around her small arm.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
He didn’t wait for a reply, just shoved her roughly into the corner of the cell before waving in a few more soldiers.
The sound of her body hitting the stone echoed in Azriel’s ears.
His vision went red.
Cold fear crashed down the bond. His shadows were frantic, circling around him— waiting for a command from their master.
“The general will be not be pleased if you break his healer.” One of the soldiers chuckled.
“There are more healers in this court,” the other sneered. To make his point, he pushed forward, gripping her by dark hair to pull her up then shove her back down.
The pang of pain shot down the bond and his chest twisted.
“Stop.” He rasped. The words were raspy and raw, but the soldiers still heard him.
“Did you say something, filth?”
Azriel flexed his arms until the chains groaned as a response, “Weak males put their hands on females to feel strong.”
The metal squeaked and his shadows continued to bounce around until they came to rest next to her feet. Big brown eyes darted between the shadows that licked her heels and their master.
“I wasn’t able to heal him all the way. He’s delirious. Maybe if I try again—”
The backhand she received cracked against soft skin, and she didn’t hold back a small cry of pain— hand coming up to her cheek to ease the sting.
Azriel roared.
A feral noise ripped from his throat before he could stop it. The shadows that laid at her feet exploded toward the soldier, wrapping around his ankles and yanking his legs out from under him. The iron that bound Azriel’s wrists cracked where it connected to the ceiling and small pieces of stone rained down around him.
Her eyes flew to his.
“Stop!” She cried. “Don’t!”
He felt it again, the tugging at his chest— the fear. But this time, the fear was directed at him. Not at him— for him.
The soldier recovered from his spot on the ground quickly. He drew the blade from his side and in two strides he was next to her, one hand twisted in her hair and the other with the blade pressing against the soft skin of her throat.
“I’ll open her from ear to ear, Spymaster.” He said calmly.
Every angry muscle in Azriel’s body slowed to a stop— even the shadows that had been darting around froze. Hazel eyes still shinned with rage, and the chest that was now littered with fresh pink scars heaved.
When he meets her gaze, she isn’t looking at the soldier or the blade; she looked at him. Her eyes pleading with him.
Don’t.
The word sliced at his chest through the bond. Azriel sucked in a deep breath, forcing himself to go slack in his bonds and pulling his shadows back into himself.
The soldier withdrew the sharp metal from her throat, “See? Much better.”
He released his grip on her hair, shoving her down once again. He chuckled when her knees smacked against the stone.
Azriel’s shoulder muscles contracted slightly, but he quickly forced the tension out.
“You keep him alive— that’s it. I won’t hesitate to put you in his place.”
She nodded quickly, averting her eyes down.
The soldier turned on his heel to face Azriel, a sinister smile on his lips. The blade that had been pressed against her throat moments ago hung loosely in his hand still. He shifted it up, pointing the tip of it at the base of Azriel’s neck, where throat met collar bones.
“You have far too much fight left in you for my liking.”
Then, he pulled his hand back and drove the blade into Azriels side. He didn’t make a sound as the cool metal slipped into his skin. Despite the burning pain, he couldn’t help but be grateful that the weapon was no longer pressed to the female.
“You healed him too much last time— just enough to keep him alive this time. Do you understand?”
She swallowed hard, not making eye contact with the shadow slinger.
“Yes,” she breathed. “I understand.”
“Good, clean him up when we’re done.”
They don’t waste another moment.
One soldier drives a fist into Azriel’s ribs, only a few inches above where the blade had jut beaten. White-hot pain stole the air from his lungs, and he sucked in a slow breath. Another strike followed, this time on the other side of his torso. The raining of blows seemed to be never ending— fists, the hilts of daggers, boots all cracking against flesh that had just been healed.
He refused to scream.
This time, as they beat him, he didn’t let his chin drop to his chest. Instead, he kept it raised with his gaze on her.
Her body was crumbled in the same corner, knuckles white as they clenched at the fabric of her skirt. With each blow that landed, the emotion that pulled on the bond hurt more than the abuse to his body— he felt her horror, her helplessness, her anger.
Look away, he sent down the bond— once, twice, three times.
But she didn’t.
Blood from his mouth and nose dripped over his chin, spilling onto the stone floor. His wings twitched, throbbing as they pulled against their bonds. Blood streaked down his forearms where iron bit into the skin.
“Pathetic,” One soldier sneered at him, taking in his beaten body.
The soldier in charge laughed, reaching forward to grab his jaw. Azriel still didn’t look at him, his eyes locked on the female in front of him.
“I’m going to relish in your death,” He spat. “But for now, I must keep you breathing.”
They stepped back, looks of boredom on their face— despite the cruelty they just dished out.
The soldier turned to her, but similar to Azriel, her gaze didn’t even bother to meet him.
“If he dies, you die.” He said as he turned to head for the door, filing through with the other soldiers and slamming it shut behind him.
The cell was swallowed by silence once again.
She stayed on the ground for a a long moment, knees pressed up to her chest and her head bowed in shame. Azriel could see the way she trembled, the bond humming low in his chest— aching to reach out to her.
Finally, she lifted her chin and rose to her feet. Her legs were as shaky as her breathing as she crossed the cell, stopping in front of him.
Her hand reached up to touch the side of his face, soft fingers brushing along damaged skin. A low whine threatened to pull itself from his throat, but he pushed it down.
“I’m okay,” he rasped, feeling the way guilt radiated off of her. She looked at him for a long moment; head tilted to the side slightly. “It’s alright.”
“You comfort me when it’s you who is hurting.” It wasn’t a question, rather an observation whispered absentmindedly.
Her hands didn’t hesitate as they settled against his chest, the pressure was firm but still gentle. Purposeful. Warm glowing light bloomed beneath her palms; the light was bright— brighter than the dim shine that she had used earlier.
Power poured into him.
Azriel gasped as torn skin burned, mending itself back together. The relief was sharp and overwhelming as much as it was reliving. The bond flared with satisfaction as she felt his pain slowly easing.
It was when his wings shuttered, the ache of days being forced spread apart dissipating and feeling coming back into the sensitive membranes, that he realized that she was doing more than the bare minimum of keeping him alive.
“Stop,” he demanded, his voice still hoarse. “Stop it.”
She shook her head, jaw clenched with determination as the light under her palm pulsed brighter.
“Please, stop,” he repeated. “They will know.”
Her eyebrows knit together in concentration, “I don’t care.”
“You have to,” He grunted, trying to pull himself from her grasp to no avail. “They will see. If they see they will—”
“They will either way,” She snapped.
“They will hurt me either way. Let me do this for you. Let me help you, Azriel… Please.”
His jaw snapped closed, and he relaxed against her warm hands. The color began to return to his skin, the dark circles under his eyes disappearing and the torn skin of his side sealing cleanly.
He felt strength begin to follow, as if the poison of the arrows that had been stunting his healing was being drained from his body. She watched him carefully as the hollowness of his cheeks began to fill themselves back in, and the bond sang with relief.
Not his own, but hers.
She was smaller than him, significantly so, and when she pressed herself forward her forehead came to rest on the center of his chest. She breathed in slowly, taking in the scent of him.
Night-chilled mist. Cedar.
She allowed herself another moment to listen to the strong thrumming of his heart, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath her own before she stepped back.
Azriel could have sobbed— begged her for a few more moments of closeness.
But she wasted no time moving her hands up towards his wings, stretching as far as she could to reach the iron clasps that bit into them with cruelty. He groaned when her fingers slid against the sensitive membrane, resting there for a beat before heat radiated from them again. There was a loud crack as magic flooded into iron and the clasps fell apart, smacking loudly against stone as the dropped to the wall.
“What are you—”
She didn’t give him time to finish, shifting her hands to his wrists— determination and effort taking over her features. Her teeth gritted as she forced more power into the shackles.
“Don’t.”
A drop of blood made its was from her nose, dripping over her top lip. Her tongue darted out to swipe away the metallic liquid. She grunted with frustration, swaying on her feet as the chains refused to break. The iron creaked with effort as they weakened.
He sucked in a breath, “You’re risking everything.”
The chains finally popped, dramatically falling to the walls like the clasps on his wings had. His arms dropped to his sides, and they stood there for a beat— chest to chest. She swayed again, and this time he reached out to steady her gently. His grip on her was firm, as if he could steady her enough to stop the exhaustion sending tremors through her. She looked at him, finally truly meeting his gaze. Dark brown eyes bore deep into him,
“I have nothing. They’ve taken everything,” She whispered. “They won’t take you from me.”
She looked at him for a long moment, trying to etch the sight of him into her mind. He grimaced, a grunt finding its way out of his mouth, as he folded his wings in and she reached out a hand to ease the ache, but he caught her wrist before she could.
“Don’t.” He breathed. “They are just sore; I’m not in pain.”
“Go.”
The words were whispered, as if she was trying to convince herself to send him away.
Azriel didn’t move other than a small grimace at her words. Rejection twisted in his stomach, and she must have felt it, because she reached a hand up to cup his cheek,
“I want you to be safe. I need you to be okay.”
He looked at her for a long moment. She looked smaller than before. Her skin was pale and her chest rose and fell quickly with effort. She didn’t repeat herself; she just grasped his hand in hers and pulled him toward the door. She pulled it open slowly, peaking her head out briefly then opened it wider and dragged him through the threshold to the end of the hall until they reached a window.
“Go, Azriel.” She said again.
The bond pulsed, taught with tension, as he met her gaze. She brought a hand to his still bare chest, not to heal him this time but to remind herself of the rise and fall— to remind herself he was alive.
“If you don’t leave now,” she said quietly. “I don’t know that I have it in me to ask you to go again.”
His chest tightened painfully and he murmured, “You’re still shaking.”
She breathed out a laugh, her palm still spread out over tight muscle, “You were strung up for a week and beaten, and you’re worried about me being tired?”
He didn’t reply, just looked at her for a long minute. The bond screamed at her to melt into him, to allow him to take her from this wretched place— she knew he would, that his eyes were practically begging her to let him. But with a deep breath, she took a step back.
“You don’t get to choose me over leaving—” she said. “Over living.”
“And what, you get to decide that you’re disposable?” His voice was low, but she could feel the pain in his words. It made her shudder harder, almost breaking her resolve.
Almost.
“Don’t make this about me.”
He stepped into her space, craning his neck down to force her to meet his eyes again, “Why break the iron for me if you intended to stay?”
“Because I couldn’t bare to watch anymore.” She whispered. “And that’s what it would have been, until your court found you.”
“Let me take you,” He murmured. “They won’t catch us.”
“They will,” She clenched her jaw with finality. “They will and they will string you back up and they will beat you worse.”
He opened his mouth to protest, to deny it— to tell her that he would take a million beatings for just a chance to not have to leave her here.
“…and next time they won’t let me help you.” Her voice cracked.
And for some reason, the tug of the bond— the pain and the fear— hit harder than any blow or blade.
His jaw tightened.
She took a large, deliberate step back, prying herself from the warm comfort of his space.
“You’re asking me to leave you in this place.”
“I’m telling you to live.” She shot back.
The bond flared with violent disagreement, the raw refusal threatening to take the breath from her lungs. She reached out a soft hand to grip his hand, squeezing gently in an attempt to provide some comfort.
On the far side of the hallway, boots echoed against stone and her heart stuttered with anxiety. She reached into the pocket of her skirt, pulling out a small roll. It looked like it may have been there for a day, slightly flattened. It was nothing. Plain. A servant’s portion.
She held it out for him. His gaze dropped to it and then up to her.
Understanding flickered and the bond tightened.
“For your travels, Azriel…” She whispered.
She lifted her chin, even as her hand trembled, she reached out to grasp his.
She placed the roll gently into his palm, pressing his hand closed around it.
An offering.
Her throat worked once but she didn’t break his gaze. It wasn’t a request. It was acceptance. The bond flared, the tug of it pulling at both of their rib cages as the string between them settled.
Certain.
“You understand what this means,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
The sound of boots was now joined with barks of laughter and loud voices.
He grasped his other hand around her wrist, pulling her forward and resting his forehead against hers as his wings engulfed them— granting them privacy in this moment.
“You’re choosing this?”
“I’m choosing you.”
His fingers closed around the bread as if it were something precious— not as if, it was.
“Promise you’ll wait for me,” he breathed. “Promise you’ll live for me.”
“I will.”
He shifted slightly, moving to press cool lips to the warm skin of her forehead. She closed her eyes, sighing as she tried to drink in every second of comfort.
Then he stepped back, his shoulders were squared and his face determined, but his eyes soft.
Pleading.
As if he might beg her to go with him again. She hoped to Gods that he didn’t because she didn’t know if she had it in her to deny him.
“I am Y/N.” She breathed, filling the silence that stretched between them before he could.
He repeated her name, tasting the way it felt on his lips. The bond pulsed again, pulling her to melt into him again.
But she clenched her fists instead, giving him a soft smile.
He didn’t speak again, stepping back toward the window and disappearing into a swirl of darkness as the shadows seemed to swallow him whole.
By the time the soldiers rounded the corner, she was alone at the end of the hall. She didn’t even register it as they glanced between the open door of the cell, their missing prisoner, and her.
Standing calmly with her hands folded in front of her, trying to bask in the feeling of him. She didn’t flinch as they rushed toward her, rough hands on her arms and loud voices demanding answers.
The bond just burned steady in her chest.
i think villains in general provide better, more epic romances because they're allowed to go to extremes. they're allowed to put their love over the greater good. they're allowed to be selfish. the best a hero can offer you is number two, because their duty comes first. villains, though. villains will burn down the world for a last kiss goodbye.
Yea, sure. Until YOU or people you love are among the victims for someone else’s love and the villains won’t care. Would also like to point out that some villians(Kuvira, for example) have been willing to sacrifice/throw away love interests for their own goals.
idk about you but existing in the real world gives me and my loved ones immunity from the actions of fictional villains. hope you manage to get your family out of star wars.
Summary: After Rider Survival Course floods the infirmary with injured cadets, the Marked Ones are left on your floor with orders to ignore them. You refuse, stitching Xaden Riorson and his wing back together while exhaustion slowly catches up with you. As fever dreams drag him through memories he can’t escape, your voice becomes the only thing grounding him in reality. When he finally wakes, he realizes you never left—even when everyone else did.
MASTERLIST
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PART NINE
POV Y/N
It doesn’t take long for me to realize that this newfound protection was not going to be temporary. At first, it feels nice— reassuring. Like a blanket of safety in the form of scary looking cadets who practically followed me around Basgiath every day.
It became a routine.
In the morning when I left my dorm for the dining hall, the tall and dark-haired marked cadet who’s broken leg I had tended to the previous week — Soren— would be conveniently perched in the hallway that led to the courtyard. Some days he would be chatting with other cadets, and others he would just be leaning casually against the stone wall.
At mealtimes, Garrick and Xaden would make an appearance. Whether together, or separately, one of the men were always seated at my table. Garrick was always friendly—and always hungry— starting casual conversation and cracking jokes. Xaden was… more stoic— never outwardly unfriendly— but his eyebrows were usually pointing downward, and he didn’t have much to say other than a quiet hello when he sat and goodbye when he left.
And the rest of the day was the same. Tessa would be stationed at the exit of the infirmary during midday rotations and Zyra would be in the library— where I studied everyday before curfew.
It was never obvious protection. They were always a few steps behind me in the hallways, and mealtimes were always casual. It didn’t feel like hovering, just… visibility.
Like a statement that told the other cadets that anything they planned to say to me would not be private.
At first, it was comfortable. It felt comforting to know that even though I never escaped the stares or the whispers, no one seemed to ever look too long, and the whispers never got too loud.
Watched, not threatened.
But safety wasn’t free. I should have known that.
Every week, half of our time was spent on lessons and the other half on clinicals. I had never really had many friends, so nothing seemed amiss when I found myself sitting in lectures alone or the last to be picked for a lab partner.
It was when I was paired up with Gwen, a third-year cadet, that I realized the consequences of feeling safe.
I held the long piece of thread in one hand, needle in the other. I was so caught up in studying the wound in front of me that I didn’t notice that Gwen had been staring at me.
“… Y/N?” Her voice was almost a whisper.
Gwen had big brown eyes and yellow-blonde hair, she was taller than I was as well so when I turned to look at her, I had to tilt my chin slightly. Her eyes were wide, and she looked like anxiety was eating away at her. She had her bottom lip pulled between her teeth and I noticed that she was picking at her fingernails.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
Gwen nodded quickly. I could see the wheels turning in her head as she contemplated her next words,
“Can I be transparent?”
I stilled, halfway through threading the needle. I nodded at her, not making eye contact as I worked to control my breathing.
Never a positive sign at the beginning of a conversation.
“Um… So, me and some of the other healers have been talking. And, we are worried about you, Y/N,” she shoots her gaze down to her lap, waiting for me to reply.
“I— Why are you worried?”
“We’ve just noticed that you seem to always have a… marked cadet around you recently.” She takes a pregnant pause, biting her lip even harder. “Y/N, I’ve always felt like you’re a sweet girl with a good heart. We know that you’re in this quadrant for the right reasons. What you did a few weeks ago, helping Riorson and his cohort, we understand why you did it. You swore an oath, to help everyone. That is honorable of you. But… From what it seems like to the other cadets, you didn’t just help them… You joined them.”
The air around us went cold for a moment as I digested her words. She seemed to sense that I was trying to wrap my head around what she had said.
“What you did was very brave, Y/N. But don’t underestimate the hatred that some of the people at Basgiath have for the Marked One’s. To them, the only thing worse than a traitor's child, is a traitor.”
From then on, the protection slowly began to feel suffocating. Instead of feeling relief that the hallway would part when I walked through it, it felt isolating. And from there, it began to fester, like a wound that had been bandaged but never cleaned out. I began to notice everything.
Conversations that stopped mid-sentence when I was within ear shot.
Whispers that tapered off as I walked through the dining hall.
The stricken look of fear when cadets were grouped with me during lessons.
I no longer felt protected. I felt alone.
No one asked me what I wanted. No one is asking me what I want now.
I never asked to be protected.
Soon, I began craving space more than protection. It started off small. I began to wake up earlier than usual, rushing to the dining hall before Soren was able to get to his post. Picking up my tray quickly, sending Garrick an apologetic smile when he gaped at me. Tessa and Zyra were a bit harder to avoid. I had to stay late in the infirmary, under the presence of organizing supplies or cleaning, to avoid the female cadet. I watched from the farthest side of the infirmary as irritation plastered itself on her face when I didn’t exit with the other wave of cadets. I stopped going to study at the library, opting to switch between a quiet spot in the courtyard and the storage room in the infirmary.
Xaden was the hardest to avoid. As I got better at avoiding the other four cadets, it seemed that Xaden began to appear more often.
In the early hours of the morning, when I snuck out of my dorm, he would be leaning against the archway in the hallway— arms crossed over his chest and eyes narrowed at me. No matter what time I went to any mealtime, he would be waiting at the table for me with his fork clenched in his hand and his eyebrows pulled together in a frown.
I had been able to avoid him thus far in the evenings.
At least I was able to until I got caught.
I made my way into the courtyard, looking over my shoulder briefly before beelining for the quiet bench closest to the entrance to the parapet. Just as I dropped my bag onto the grass, I felt hands grasp my shoulders.
I couldn’t stifle the shires of surprise as the hands dragged me back a few feet, to the entrance of the parapet. The cold bit of the wind instantly stung my cheeks.
I’m going to get thrown off the edge.
But, instead of shoving me forward into the darkness, I was spun around roughly. As I came to the end of the one-eighty rotation, I was met with onyx eyes— hot with rage.
“Xaden… What are you—”
He didn’t even let me finish. His hands grasped my shoulders, not enough to hurt but enough to mirror the emotion on his face. Xaden’s eyes bore into me, wild and furious.
