ohemgeewhat

[ohemgeewhat]

I wept at this. I am done. The need for this to be my life is so overwhelming.

"Unexpected"

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: You’re his mate — and now, unexpectedly, carrying his child. Azriel never wanted this… but some surprises change everything.

Warnings: unplanned pregnancy, slight suggestiveness, angst, fluff/happy ending

W/C: 3.2k

a/n: I put my whole 🐱 into this.

"No.... No. No."

The words slipped from your lips in a trembling whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of them. Denial surged through you like a tidal wave. "That can't be right. It can't."

Your legs weakened beneath you, and you stumbled back, catching yourself against the edge of the healer's desk. The room tilted, your vision swimming with unshed tears. Through the blur, you could make out Madja's expression, gentle but solemn.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "But it's certain. You're pregnant."

The final word hit like a blow to the chest.

"No..." you breathed, shaking your head. "Are you sure?"

Madja nodded, her hands folded in front of her. "The signs are all there - the nausea, the exhaustion, the way your scent has shifted. The essence is unmistakable."

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it. "How far?"

She hesitated, her gaze steady but kind. "Based on what you told me... three, maybe four weeks. It's early, but strong."

Your mate had left for his latest mission almost 4 weeks ago.

You hadn't heard from him since, but your mind clung to the memory of the night before he left- the way he held you, kissed you, touched you like he didn't want to let go.

Of course you'd made love. You always did before a mission. It was a ritual, almost- quiet, grounding, something that reminded you both that no matter what happened, he was yours and you were his.

And the next morning, like always, you had woken to the scent of him still lingering on your skin, even though he was gone already. You had sipped your contraceptive tea like you did every time. Just like you were supposed to. Just like you always had.

How could this have happened?

Your knees buckled, and you leaned back against the wooden desk, one hand trembling over your abdomen. There was a life in there. A heartbeat. Growing inside of you.

"We were so careful," you whispered, voice cracking.

Madja stepped closer, her hand resting gently on your shoulder. Her touch was warm, grounding.

"These things happen, sweetie," she said softly, her tone laced with kindness. "The tea isn't foolproof- about ninety-five percent effective, if taken right. Sometimes... life finds a way anyway."

She gave you a small, understanding smile.

"Don't blame yourself," she said after a moment. "And don't blame Azriel."

But the blame wasn't the heaviest thing on your chest.

It was the fear.

Because Az had been clear in his wishes.

He didn't want this. He didn't want children.

And now... now there was no undoing it.

-----

"Damn it," you groaned, yanking the tray of cookies out of the oven.

A wave of smoke curled up towards your face, the smell of burnt sugar hitting your nose just as your already-queasy stomach gave another unpleasant lurch. You gagged, setting the tray down with a loud clatter and ripping the oven mitt from your hand.

The cookies were ruined- blackened and brittle. Just like the pasta had been. Just like the over-salted meat sitting untouched on the stove.

Dinner was a disaster. Dessert was incinerated. And your patience was gone.

You pressed your palms to your face, fingers digging into your scalp as you tried to breathe through the tight knot of frustration in your chest.

You were trying. Trying to stay busy. Trying to feel normal. Trying to pretend that everything wasn't unraveling.

But it was hard to focus when your body wouldn't stop turning against you. The nausea had become a constant companion, lingering just enough to remind you of the very real, very unplanned thing growing inside you.

A child.

Azriel's child.

You swallowed hard, blinking back the sudden burning behind your eyes.

He still didn't know. You hadn't had the chance to tell him since you had visited Madja last week, the secret sitting like a stone in your heart. Tonight, he was finally coming home.

The minutes stretched on, feeling like an eternity.

Then, finally, the familiar sound of wings beating softly against the air.

You rushed to the door as it opened, followed by the familiar scent of cedar as Azriel stepped inside. Dust clung to his dark leathers, his wings folded tightly behind him, and exhaustion traced the strong lines of his beautiful face.

"You're home." Your voice was barely above a whisper.

He gave you a tired smile and pulled you close, the steady beat of his heart grounding you instantly. "I am."

You breathed him in- the warmth, the calm before the storm you knew was coming. "Did everything go alright?"

He stepped away, shrugging as he ran a hand through his wind-blown hair. "As well as expected." Then, his nose twitched slightly, a flicker of confusion darkening his expression.

You froze, your mind going blank. This was it. He smells the change in you. The baby.

After a pause, a playful smile tugged on his lips. "Did you burn dinner again, love?" he teased, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "I told you that it wasn't necessary to cook for me when I come home."

You laughed weakly, glad for the distraction. But as he stepped further into the kitchen, his gaze caught on a small box sitting on the counter- the bundle of herbs and vials Madja had given you.

You cursed yourself silently. You'd meant to tuck them away, but in the chaos of trying to cook and hold yourself together, you'd forgotten.

The box sat in plain view, labeled in the healer's neat handwriting.

She'd given them to you last week- along with a strict schedule for when and how to take them. Some were for the nausea that curled in your stomach every day. Others were for energy, or to help your body adjust to the changes already taking place. And one bitter, chalky tea for prenatal care- something Madja insisted you drink daily, even if it made your stomach churn.

Azriel reached for the box, and your heart dropped to the floor.

His brow furrowed. "What's this?"

You froze, your heart pounding. Maybe you could keep it from him a little longer. "Something Madja gave me. For... nausea." Your voice was careful, tentaive.

"You've been seeing her?"

You nodded slowly, the weight of his gaze pinning you to the spot.

A long silence stretched between you before his expression softened, concern slipping onto his face. "Are you okay?" he asked, stepping closer.

That question- so gentle, so Azriel- nearly broke you. You could've lied. You coud've nodded and smiled and let him believe it was nothing. But you were tired of dealing with this alone.

Then he stepped closer, his shadows stirring. His nose twitched subtly, and that's when you saw it- the shift in his eyes.

His nostrils flared as he scented the air again, deeper this time. Slowly. Deliberately.

"You smell..." he murmured, more to himself than to you. His voice faltered.

You could see it the moment the realization settled in. His eyes widened, then narrowed- not in anger, but in something far more dangerous. Disbelief. Fear.

His gaze snapped back to the box, his eyes landing on the small glass vial labeled: For prenatal support.

"Prenatal?" he whispered, like it physically hurt to say it.

Your body went rigid. You didn't answer. You didn't have to. Your scent- the baby's scent- had said everything that needed to be said.

Azriel looked back to you, and you swore you'd never forget the way his voice cracked when he asked, "You're pregnant?"

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. Eventually, you nodded. Barely.

Azriel stepped back like he had been struck. His wings twitched. His shadows recoiled. Even his siphons flared like blue flame. He turned his face away, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped.

"I didn't-" you tried, your voice hoarse. "It wasn't planned, Azriel. I took the tea. I did everything right. I didn't think-"

"But you are." His voice was flat. Distant.

You swallowed thickly, the truth cutting deeper with every second. "Yes."

That one word was quiet- nearly silent- but it cracked something deep inside him.

Without a word, he pushed past you, his wings already outstretched by the time he made it out the door.

"Azriel!" you called, tears slipping freely down your cheeks. "Please!"

He didn't look back. He didn't stop. With a single, powerful flap of his wings, he soared into the sky, vanishing into the darkness.

-----

Azriel didn't know how long he had flown. Didn't care where he was going. The wind tore at his wings. Cold bit into his skin, and his hands were numb and aching from clenching them too tightly.

But nothing compared to the weight inside his chest. Heavy. Suffocating.

You were pregnant. His mate. His love. His everything.

He should have felt something more. Joy, maybe. Hope.

But all he felt was fear. The kind of fear that reached deep into his bones- old and buried and deep.

He landed hard on a cliff edge outside the city, stone crunching beneath his boots. He didn't bother standing. Just collapsed to his knees, breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. He felt nothing but the hollow space deep inside him, echoing with your voice.

"Yes."

You'd said it so gently, like you were bracing for him to shatter.

And he had.

He should have stayed. Should have held you. Should have said something.

But what was he supposed to say?

"I'm scared?"

"I don't know how to do this?"

"I think I'll ruin them the way I was ruined?"

He dragged in a ragged breath, chest tight.

He didn't deserve this. Didn't deserve you. Didn't deserve something as sacred as a child when all he knew how to do was fight and bleed and survive.

Love was never freely given to him- only earned. With obedience. With pain.

And a baby.... a baby couldn't be reasoned with. Couldn't be fought. Couldn't be protected from him.

He imagined small hands reaching up for him, soft cries in the night. A heartbeat he'd hear in the quiet. And with it came a sick, gut-twisting panic.

Because what if he couldn't love it the way it deserved? What if all he passed down were his shadows? His anger? His pain?

What if the baby looked at him and flinched?

He bowed his head, closing his eyes tight against the storm, and whispered the ugliest thought that had been gnawing at him since the moment you told him: "I don't know if I want this."

The words echoed into the darkness, horrible and sharp. And still- something inside him ached at the same time. Some distant thread deep in his soul that tugged toward you.

Because the truth was, even as he recoiled and wanted to vomit... he hadn't stopped thinking about the child. About your child. About the fact that half of it was you.

And maybe that was the only thing that kept him from disappearing completely- that quiet, flickering thought that if this baby was even a fraction as good as you... maybe it wasn't doomed.

And maybe he wasn't, either.

-----

The house was quiet. To quiet.

You'd stopped crying hours ago- or maybe minutes. Time had blurred the moment he left.

Now you moved numbly through the kitchen, wiping down counters, trying desperately to clean up from the disaster in the kitchen earlier. But the counters were wiped down, the pans spotless.

Still, you cleaned, keeping yourself busy while fighting for the remaining shreds of control that you had left. You had to keep moving, had to keep busy, doing anything to keep your mind off the way Az had looked at you- like the world had just tilted off its axis.

The medicine still sat on the counter, untouched. You considered putting it away, but your hands just... couldn't reach for it.

You kept telling yourself he needed space. That he always came back when he got upset like this. But part of you still wondered- what if this was the thing he couldn't come back from?

You were rinsing a bowl for the third time when the front door creaked open.

You stilled, not daring to move.

Then you heard it- the soft brush of boots on wood. The rustle of wings being folded in tight.

You turned slowly, your breath caught in your throat.

Azriel stood in the doorway. Damp from the snow. His eyes were shadowed, heavy with something unreadable. He didn't speak at first- just looked at you like he was memorizing the way you were still here.

Alive. Hurting.

Still his.

"Hi," you whispered, unsure of what else to say.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Hi."

Silence.

And then he took a step forward.

"I didn't leave because I don't love you." The words were rough. Raw. His voice was hoarse like he'd been screaming into the wind. "I left because I... didn't know if I could survive this. If you could survive this, with me."

You opened your mouth, but no words came.

So he kept going. His voice trembled just enough for you to notice. "I'm scared. Of being a father. Of doing it wrong. Of becoming someone I swore I never would."

He took another step, his eyes locked on yours.

"But what scares me more... is the thought of you doing this alone. Of me not being here. Of missing a single second of it."

Your chest cracked wide open. Tears spilled down your cheeks again, but they weren't the same kind of tears as before. These weren't from heartbreak. These were from pure joy and happiness.

Azriel crossed the space between you in three long strides. His hands hovered at your waist before he finally touched you. Tentative, like he was afraid you'd pull away.

But you didn't. You never would.

You leaned into him, head against his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding you both. "You don't have to have all the answers right now," you whispered.

"I don't have any of them," he murmured, pressing his lips into your hair.

"Then we'll figure it out together."

He nodded and pulled you tighter against him. His shadows curled around you both, hovering genlty over your belly.

-----

It wasn't perfect.

There were hard days. Tears. Doubt. Sleepless nights where neither of you knew how to talk about what came next.

But Azriel stayed. And more than that- he tried.

He read everything he could get his hands on. Dog-eared paperbacks with creased spines. Healer pamphlets from Madja. Even a book Cassian teasingly gifted him titled, "So You Knocked Up Your Mate- Now What?"

He held your hair back in the mornings and nights when the nausea was at its worst, kneeling on the bathroom floor beside you, whispering soft encouragements. Sometimes he pressed cool cloths to your neck, his hand never leaving yours.

When your ankles began to swell, he knelt before you without a word and rubbed your feet. Sometimes, he'd even trail kisses along your calves just to make you laugh- and gods, when you laughed, he looked at you like you were his sole reason for existing.

He flew to the market in Velaris at least a dozen times during cravings, whether it was honeyed peaches in the middle of the night or some spiced bread that hadn't been popular since the War.

And then there were other cravings- the ones that weren't about food.

Those nights when you'd press your body close, your growing belly against his, voice husky with need, and he'd hesitate, scared to hurt you. But he was never too scared to pull you close.

When your fingers tangled in his hair and your lips sought his, it was like relearning how to love each other, tender and slow, with more care than ever before.

Azriel talked to the bump, too. Always when he thought you were asleep. Little whispers in the dark. Stories from the past and promises for the future.

Once, you caught him murmuring, "You don't have to be afraid of me. I'm going to try... every day, I'm going to be good for you."

And when the baby first kicked- he cried, not bothering to hide it. He just held your belly in both hands, forehead resting there as tears slipped quietly down his cheeks.

You never once asked him to be perfect.

But gods, he tried.

-----

The pain came fast.

The labor had started in the quiet hours of the morning, and everything blurred after that. There was sweat, shouting, and panic. Azriel's shadows had gone wild and his hands had shook- but he never left your side.

He held your hand through every wave of pain, grounding you when your vision swam and you thought you couldn't keep going.

And then-

The moment came. A cry. Sharp, clear, real.

And in an instant, your world changed.

Madja smiled, and through the haze of exhaustion and tears, she placed your daughter in your arms.

Tiny. Red-faced. Furious. Perfect.

You barely had the strength to hold her, but Azriel was already there, arms around both of you, his shadows curled around protectively.

He looked at her like he'd been struck by lightning. Then he looked at you the same way.

"She has your nose," you whispered, voice hoarse and trembling.

Az let out a shaky breath, a quiet laugh catching in his throat as he reached out- gentle, reverent- to brush a finger along her cheek.

"She's so small," he murmured, voice thick. Then, quieter, he said, "I didn't know I could love something this much."

Your heart cracked open all over again.

You leaned into him, eyes still fixed on the little miracle between you. And in that moment- with your daughter pressed close and Azriel's arms holding everything steady- you finally felt it.

Peace.

Not perfect. Not easy. But real.

You weren't afraid anymore.

He wasn't, either.

-----

The house was still.

The kind of quiet that only came after everything had changed.

You were asleep, finally, curled beneath the soft blankets in your shared bed, exhausted but peaceful. Madja had gone, and outside, sow drifted gently down, blanketing the world in white.

And Azriel sat in the rocking chair by the window, his daughter nestled in his arms.

She was swaddled in a cream-colored blanket, her small body warm against his chest. Her tiny face was scrunched, lips parted in sleep. Her little fist had somehow found the edge of his shirt, fingers curled there like she already knew he was hers.

Azriel hadn't taken his eyes off her in over an hour.

He didn't speak. He barely breathed.

Because this- this tiny, warm weight in his arms- was something he never imagined he'd be trusted with.

Not in this life. Not in any life.

He should have been terrified. But instead, all he felt was wonder.

She made a soft noise in her sleep- nothing more than a sigh- and Azriel froze. Then carefully, he adjusted her a little bit closer, one hand cradling her head, the other resting gently on her back.

He leaned down and pressed the softest kiss to her brow.

"Hi, sweetheart," he whispered, voice low and full of reverence. "I'm your dad."

The word caught in his throat.

Dad.

It still didn't feel real.

But when her tiny fist twitched against his chest, when her breath hitched and settled again like she knew she was safe- his daughter, sleeping in his arms- Azriel closed his eyes.

And for the first time in his life, the darkness inside him was quiet.

[ohemgeewhat]

This is gorgeous and I'm obsessed and want Azriel even more now.

I'm new to your site and have only read a few of your stories so far, but I liked them all. You write really beautifully and portray the characters very well. So I just have to make a request. About Azriel (love your latest Az fic 😍) My idea is that Azriel has given up on finding someone and doesn't want to get involved with anyone anymore because he's afraid she'll eventually get a mate. But then he finally found her, his mate. and also the Inner Circle is so happy for him (they noticed how alone Azriel was sometimes) and are also totally enthusiastic about her. the request would be a good mix of angsty and fluffy. And maybe some spice in the end where she shows him her dark side and what shows the IC that they will not have peace any time soon. because they are kinky🤭

His to Lose

Pairing: Azriel x Mate f!reader

Summary: Azriel has long accepted solitude as his constant, letting shadows guide him instead of hope. A routine mission, meant to be simple, becomes anything but when an unexpected encounter challenges everything he thought he knew about control, connection, and himself. As lines blur and the bond deepens, he finds himself slipping into the role of being a mate before either of them are ready to claim it.

Warnings: nsfw, smut,  teasing, unprotected sex, slight exhibitionism, emotional vulnerability,  slow burn romance, gentle angst (focus on self-worth), jealousy, flirty flighting, touch-starved Azreil

Word count: 11,440

Author’s Note: One word: Obsessed. I spent two full days writing, rewriting, and rereading this nonstop until my brain turned to mush. I truly hope I captured your request the way you imagined, because I completely fell in love with this piece. There’s still a part of me that thinks I could’ve done it better, but here it is. I hope you enjoy it as much as I loved creating it!

Azriel had long given up on finding his mate, the one soul destined by fate to match his own. 

He had spent centuries praying to the Mother, to gods and forgotten goddesses, pleading for his other half. For a sign. For something.

He searched. He waited. He hoped.

After Morrigan, after Elain, after Gwyn, all of whom had found their paths, their peace, their purpose without him, he ceased hoping.

He couldn’t keep doing it.

Now, all he had were shame-tinted memories. A blur of encounters, mouths, hands, eyes that never looked past the surface. Fleeting touches that felt wrong. Distractions he couldn’t even pretend brought comfort.

False hope, dressed in sweat and shadow.

Still, in the quiet hours, when the world was still and the silence crept in, he wondered.

Had he done something to deserve this?

Did a sin in a lifetime ago curse him to this ache?

To stand just outside of joy, always watching and always aching.

To be the one who craves, and never the one who is loved.

He’d imagined it sometimes, what it would feel like if the moment arrived. If the bond snapped into place, sudden and sure.

If someone entered his life not like a storm, but as a quiet gift. 

Someone who didn’t flinch at the silence. 

Who didn’t try to fix the shadows, but sat within them.

Who didn’t recoil from the pain, but saw it, and stayed.

He told himself he deserved this.

The silence.

The cold bed.

The hollow gazes from lovers who only wanted his title, his power, or a story to tell.

Not him. Never him.

He accepted it, the idea that he would always be alone.

Until he met her.

A mission that should have been forgettable, just decoding ancient wards, nothing more. 

The meeting point Rhys had chosen was quiet, tucked between shadowed cliffs. Azriel felt the familiar high of anticipation as his boots hit the ground.

Then he saw her.

The moment their eyes met across the clearing, something inside him stilled, and then shattered.

The bond didn’t click neatly into place. It struck like lightning. Made his body hum. Made his chest tighten, his heart stutter, his mind blur.

Her gaze softened. Her head tilted, just slightly.

She felt it too.

He wondered if it was as overwhelming for her, if her hands trembled like his did.

She stood there in her pale blue-grey robes, fabric softly billowing with the breeze. A priestess. Tasked with helping decode ancient wards carved into old Illyrian stone. Her eyes were deep, dark brown, like still water concealing centuries beneath its surface.

“My mate,” he whispered, voice trembling. “You’re my mate.”

She said nothing at first. Just stared at him. Her dark hair twisted into intricate braids that shimmered in the shadows of the forest.

She swallowed, straightened, and said, “We have an assignment.”

Azriel didn’t respond right away.

He just stood there, heart pounding in the silence she left between them. We have an assignment.

That was it. No recognition. No panic. No joy. No acknowledgment of the world-altering truth he’d just spoken aloud.

The shadows around him shifted, restless with the weight of it. He pushed them back. Pushed himself back, because she was right, there was an assignment, and she had given him no invitation to go further.

So he followed.

They moved in silence through the jagged cliffs, scanning the worn stone for sigils and wards carved into the rock, ancient magic pulsing just beneath the surface. She moved with a quiet grace, every motion efficient, her fingers trailing over glyphs like she was reading them through touch alone.

Azriel pretended to study the cliffs, but he watched her instead.

The way she tilted her head as she translated ancient Fae words.

The way she frowned when she found something out of place.

The way her power hummed beneath her skin was controlled, focused, and sharp.

He had known her for minutes, yet he knew her. Felt her like a second heartbeat. Like a truth he had waited centuries to hear.

She felt it too; he could see it in the way her eyes drifted to him when she thought he wouldn’t notice. In the way her sentences faltered, just slightly, when their gazes caught.

Still, she kept her distance. Professional. Measured. Cool, but not unkind. Cautious.

He understood, because if she felt even a fraction of what he did, then her world had just shifted beneath her feet. Whatever walls she’d built to survive, whatever life she’d carefully crafted with steady hands had changed.

So he gave her space. Offered silence, soft glances, and nothing more.

They worked until the last light of day stretched long across the warded stones. Golden sun poured like honey over the hills, and she moved with quiet efficiency, rolling up her notes, brushing her braid over one shoulder, already turning toward the path.

Azriel watched her for a long moment, then said softly, before he could think better of it. “Will you come back with me?”

She stopped and turned.

Her eyes met his, dark, unreadable in the fading light. Like deep water, still and ancient, and hiding something beneath the surface.

“To the House of Wind,” he said, clarifying. “Just for now. For safety. For rest. I won’t ask anything of you. I just…”

He faltered. His voice roughened.

“I don’t want you walking back to the temple alone. I don’t want you to be alone.”

She didn’t answer right away.

The silence stretched long enough for shame to creep in, for fear to grip his chest, for doubt to whisper that he’d overstepped.

“They talk about you,” she murmured. “The priestesses.”

Azriel said nothing. The silence stretched between them, taut and fraying.

“They call you the Shadowsinger.” Her voice was quiet, but it cut through him like steel wrapped in silk. “Say you don’t talk much, but you always get your message across.”

“Is that what you think I am?” he asked softly. “A message?”

She didn’t answer. Just turned, suddenly, like she couldn’t bear to stay in the space they’d created.

The last of the faelight blinked along the path, but the shadows clung to her, hungry and heavy, as she stepped into the trees.

“Wait,” he said, stepping forward. “Let me fly you there. That walk will take over an hour.”

She didn’t stop, but she slowed.

Her shoulders tensed, her steps faltered, but she didn’t turn back.

“I don’t need saving,” she said, the wind almost swallowed the words.

Azriel stood there, shadows curling at his feet, restless as caged wings.

He could have let her go, but the bond inside him was drawn taut as wire, strung across something sharp, ready to snap.

“I don’t want to save you,” he said, voice barely above a breath.

She stopped.

The forest held still.

“I just wanted to make sure you get there safe. That’s all.”

She turned then, slowly, just enough to glance at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were still hard, but something else flickered behind them, small and flickering.

“Fine,” she said, voice barely above the wind. “But no talking.”

Azriel’s heart splintered a little more.

“No talking,” he promised.

He held out his hand. She stared at it, hesitating, then brushed her fingers against his palm, uncertain, like they weren’t quite sure if they belonged there.

He gathered her gently, lifting her without a word.

The change in her was immediate. Her body went stiff, breath shallow and fast, hands gripping his shoulders, not out of closeness, but control. Fear.

Not of him.

Of this. Of flying. Of trusting. Of being this high above the ground with a stranger who claimed fate had tied them together.

Azriel didn’t speak. He shifted just enough to give her space, ensuring she didn’t feel trapped. His shadows curled behind her, soft and silent, like a net she didn’t realise she could fall into.

He flew slower than usual. Smooth. Controlled. Gliding through the currents rather than slicing through them.

Still, he felt her heartbeat hammering against his chest, fast and erratic.

“I won’t drop you,” he said quietly, eyes fixed ahead. “I promise.”

She didn’t respond.

Her face remained tucked against his chest, not for closeness, but necessity. Her breath still came uneven, and when a downdraft hit and they dipped slightly, she yelped, her nails digging into his leathers.

He held her a little closer.

They landed softly a few meters from the temple gates. Still, her arms stayed wrapped around him, like she couldn’t quite let go.

“You’re safe now,” he said, lowering her until her boots touched grass.

 She didn’t relax. If anything, she pulled back like his touch burned. Her spine went stiff again as she stepped away.

“Thank you,” she said, voice thin. 

She pushed hair from her face, adjusted the braid at her shoulder, then pulled the scroll of notes from her satchel and held it out to him.

“The High Lord will be pleased with the translation,” she said briskly. “Though there’s more. The context isn’t quite right. I think whoever inscribed these misrepresented their origin, ”

She began to ramble. Not nervously, not exactly.

Just fast.

As if the words were a shield, she knew how to wield.

Azriel let her. Let her talk, point at symbols, unfold parchment, but he wasn’t listening because somewhere along the way, he stopped looking at the parchment and started watching her mouth.

She noticed.

Her voice slowed. Her brow creased.

“You’re not listening,” she said, tone flat.

Azriel blinked once. “I think it’ll be easier if you told him yourself.”

She exhaled sharply. “You just want me to let you hold me again.”

He didn’t deny it.

She rolled her eyes. “Fine, but only because I doubt you’d survive repeating the translation without butchering it.”

She stepped in close again.

Azriel lowered instinctively, his arms rising to meet her as she looped hers around his neck.

He held her more gently this time. Her breath caught at the thought of leaving the ground again, and her pulse was racing so quickly he could hear it.

One hand settled at the small of her back. The other cradled her head.

This time, he flew slower than before. Steadier. Every motion smooth, every beat of his wings deliberate.

She didn’t tremble, but he felt the tension in her bones.

The sky stretched deep and dark above them, moonlight pouring over the clouds like silver ink. Neither of them spoke.

The bond thrummed. Not demanding. Just present. Soft and pulsing between them like a new heartbeat.

At last, the House of Wind came into view. Ancient. Vast. Carved into the mountain like something sleeping and sacred.

“We’re almost there,” Azriel whispered.

She stirred, lifting her head just enough to glance over his shoulder. Azriel loosened his hold slightly, allowing her the space to shift and take in the sight of his home.

He felt it, the moment her breath caught.

The House shimmered like faelight sealed in crystal, casting soft gold across moonstone terraces and sweeping archways. Vines trailed from balcony railings, blooming even under the starlight. It was vast. Majestic. Terrifying.

She said nothing.

Azriel angled them toward the quietest landing, a small balcony off the library wing, far from the noise of the main halls. As they descended, her grip around his neck tightened. When her boots touched warm marble, she didn’t move.

Not at first.

He didn’t rush her. He simply waited, only stepping back when her arms finally dropped away.

She stood there in silence, eyes sweeping across the towering arches and spiral staircases, catching on every flicker of light and stretch of shadow like she expected something to leap out.

“This isn’t what I thought a fortress would be,” she murmured. “Cold. Brutal.”

“It is,” Azriel replied. “But it’s also my home.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned slowly, as if trying to commit every detail to memory.

Then came footsteps.

She tensed beside him.

“It’s alright,” Azriel said, his voice low, steady. “It’s just the Inner Circle.”

“The Inner Circle,” she repeated, the words unfamiliar on her tongue.

It was Azriel’s moment to prepare her, to warn her about how overwhelming his family could be, but the footsteps were already growing louder.

Rhysand appeared first, tall and composed, power wrapped in elegance. Feyre walked beside him, calm and observant. Cassian followed, his smirk already forming.

Azriel shifted subtly in front of her, not to hide her, but to buffer her from their attention.

Rhys’s violet eyes swept over him, then settled on her. Recognition sparked.

“Azriel,” Rhys said slowly. “Who’s your friend?”

She peeked out from behind Azriel’s shoulder, and for a heartbeat, Rhysand’s expression sharpened.

“Oh. You’re Y/N, the priestess from the temple. The one helping with the transcriptions. Did something happen?”

“I am,” she replied, her voice clear but tight. She stepped forward and dipped into a low, practised bow. “We completed the transcription, but Azriel thought it would be better if I delivered the findings myself. Some of it is more complex than we expected.”

Azriel didn’t miss the tremor in her fingers or how she clutched the scroll, not just for the words it held, but because it was the only thing in this room that was familiar. Nor did he miss how his shadows hovered nearby, curling softly around her shoulders as if they knew she needed it.

Rhys nodded, casting Azriel a look that clearly said: We’ll talk later.

Aloud, the High Lord just smiled, smooth and welcoming. “Then let’s speak in my office. You’ll stay the night, of course. I’ll have a room prepared.”

She bowed again, this time to both Rhys and Feyre. “Thank you, my High Lord, and High Lady.”

“Please,” Rhys said gently. “Call me Rhys. This is my mate, Feyre.” He gestured to her, then to Cassian. “And that is Cassian.”

Azriel saw it coming the moment Cassian’s gaze flicked from her to him, then back again. That grin curling on his face, charming, reckless, meant only one thing.

Cassian smirked. “Hello, beautiful.”

She looked to Azriel instantly, seeking something. Reassurance. Permission. A shield.

Azriel’s voice cut in before she could answer, low and sharp. “Cassian.”

Cassian paused, then raised his hands in mock surrender, but the grin stayed.

Only then did she move, stepping closer to Azriel as she followed them down the hall. Her grip on the scroll remained tight. Her posture was stiff, and every time Rhys glanced back, she flinched.

They reached the double doors of Rhys’s office. He opened them with a flick of power. As the shadows peeled away, she paused at the threshold and looked to Azriel.

A silent request.

Come with me.

He followed without hesitation.

Rhys, watching them closely, said nothing, but Azriel saw it, the glint of understanding in his eyes.

The doors shut with a soft thud behind them. Rhysand crossed the room and summoned chairs from the shadows with a wave.

“Please,” he said, gesturing.

Azriel didn’t sit, but she did, perched on the edge of the seat like it might vanish beneath her. She didn’t fidget, didn’t flinch, but Azriel saw it, the way she tucked her feet under her chair to anchor herself, the way her hand clutched the scroll like it was a shield.

Rhys waited patiently.

“I translated the western sigils along the cliff,” she began, voice low and even. “They’re more than wards. They tell a story. Fragmented, but intentional.”

Azriel stood beside her, hands clasped loosely behind his back. He wasn’t watching the scroll.

He was watching her.

The way her lips moved. The concentration in her eyes. How her fingers, stained with ink, traced each glyph with care and confidence.

Something about it made the bond hum low in his chest, insistent and steady, like it already knew what he wasn’t ready to admit.

With each line she spoke, her voice grew stronger. She forgot the room. Forgot who was listening. She just existed.

Brilliant. Unafraid.

She looked windswept, her braid loosening at the edges, skin kissed golden by sun and sky. Azriel’s hands twitched at the thought of touching her.

Rhysand asked a quiet question about the sigils, something about age, structure, or Court alignment.

She answered before he could finish. Eager.

“It predates the Courts,” she said, angling the scroll.“The structure is later, but the script is—Look here—”

Azriel stepped forward. Not for the scroll. For her voice.

“The symbol here,” she explained, “is mirrored in the fourth line of the southern wall’s carvings. It’s repeated, but the tense shifts. When that happens, the meaning changes, from protection… to memory.”

Azriel blinked. “Memory?”

Her head turned toward him. Caught off guard, a little breathless.

“Yes. It’s a mnemonic sigil. It only activates when remembered aloud or with intent. The magic is tied to remembrance. That’s the anchor.”

He nodded, though he barely heard the words. Her voice, measured, intelligent, full of quiet excitement, wrapped around him like a spell.

The bond tugged, a subtle pull beneath his ribs. His shadows drifted toward her. Not pressing. Just drawn.

“That’s rare magic,” Rhys said, intrigued.

“It’s forgotten magic,” she replied. “It wasn’t meant to last, but it did.”

Azriel nearly smiled, nearly reached for her.

Instead, he watched, shadows coiling low at his feet like they were fascinated, too. 

She turned back to the scroll, pointing at the glyphs, warnings of dormant power, spells that still dreamed beneath the stone. Magic that lingered like breath in the silence. Even Rhysand leaned forward, drawn in.

She was brilliant. 

So quietly brilliant that she didn’t seem to know it, and Azriel watched her like she had caught starlight in her hands and offered it to the world without hesitation. 

She was brighter than him, brighter than anyone he had ever known, and something like pride bloomed sharp in his chest, a feeling he didn’t quite know what to do with.

Her eyes flicked to him now and then, searching for something he couldn’t name. Something he feared he couldn’t give. 

Then it struck him how lovely she was. Not just in the way her hair caught the light or the way she smiled when she found something new in the scroll, but in the way she existed. Gentle. Steady. A comfort.

A comfort he didn’t deserve.

When she finally rolled the parchment closed, ink smudging her fingertips, her shoulders stiffened, as if she remembered where she was. Who was she speaking to.

She bowed again, softer. “I hope it was useful.”

Rhysand inclined his head, thoughtful. “More than. Thank you.”

She looked at Azriel then, her eyes searching his, uncertain and almost seeking approval. He stepped forward, feeling the bond stir faintly in his chest, a warmth he hadn’t deserved.

“You did perfectly,” he said, voice low.

She exhaled, just slightly.

Rhys looked between them, quiet and calculating. Azriel recognised that expression. He’d seen it on his brother’s face for centuries. It meant I know. This time, it was laced with something that made Azriel want to fade into shadow.

“There are more wards deeper in the Illyrian caves. You’ll keep working on them. Together," Rhys said calmly.

“Of course, my—” she caught herself, “Rhys.”

Azriel said nothing. He didn’t trust his voice, but he stayed close, his shadows brushing along her back, an instinct he couldn’t stop, a tether he didn’t understand.

“You’re welcome to stay here during the assignment,” Rhys said to her. “Everything you need will be made available. Azriel knows the libraries. I’ll inform your High Priestess that you’ve been reassigned, for as long as necessary.”

He turned to Azriel. “You’ll continue training the Valkyries with Cassian. Y/N, you're welcome to join if you choose.”

“My lord,” she said quietly, worry flickering behind her eyes, “there’s no need for all this…”

“I’m not demanding anything,” Rhys replied, kind but firm. “I’m offering. You’ve earned it. Think on it overnight.”

She hesitated. Her gaze shifted sideways, towards Azriel. She didn’t speak; she didn’t need to.

“I’ll walk you to your room,” he said quietly.

She exhaled slowly, tension slipping just slightly from her frame. 

“Thank you, Rhys,” she said quietly, stepping closer to Azriel without even realising it.

He opened the door and let her slip through. But before he followed, he caught Rhysand’s gaze. One glance. A look that said, “Be careful,” more than anything else.

The hallway was quiet, washed in soft golden light. Faelight drifted lazily overhead, glowing gently along the polished stone.

They walked in silence. She stayed beside him, shoulder to shoulder, her steps steady but uncertain, like someone testing the depth of still water before diving in.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t dare. His presence was all he could offer her, and even that seemed excessive. The bond softly pulsed, quiet but steady. He tried not to notice it. Not to want.

When he looked at her, he saw the exhaustion deep in her eyes, not just tiredness but years of shrinking herself, contained, as if safety was always conditional.

The House opened a door near the end of the hall.

“Your room,” he said softly. “Mine’s down the hall. If you need anything...” He cleared his throat. “Just knock. Dinner will be ready soon. I can walk you down.”

She paused in the doorway, eyes fixed on the candlelit room, then turned to him.

“Stay?” she asked, barely more than a whisper.

Azriel’s heart hammered in his chest.

“Of course,” he said.

The room was quiet and peaceful. A breeze lifted the gauzy curtains at the balcony doors. She walked slowly, her fingers brushing the wood and velvet, then sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped in her lap.

Azriel hovered near the doorway, wings folded close. His shadows were steady now, circling his ankles like guards protecting him from the fear of rejection.

“I don’t mean to keep you,” she said, her voice careful. Hesitant.

“You’re not,” Azriel replied, gentler than before. “I wouldn’t have stayed otherwise.”

She nodded, but he saw the flicker in her hands, the nervous curl of her fingers.

A pause.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

He nodded.

“You’re the spymaster. The shadowsinger.” Her brow furrowed. “I’ve heard stories, but what does that actually mean?”

He exhaled slowly, stepped into the room, and settled into the chair across from her.

“It means I hear things others don’t. I see what people try to hide. I go where I’m needed, even when no one wants to admit the need is there.”

She watched him closely.

“It sounds lonely,” she said.

Azriel looked away, jaw tightening, his heart pounding harder in his chest.

“It is,” he admitted. “But it’s the only place I’ve ever fit. Sometimes it’s easier to be the ghost in the room than the one trying to be seen. They understand that I need the shadows to feel like I belong.”

“Like Rhysand.”

Azriel nodded. “And Cassian. Feyre. Mor. They’re my family.” 

His eyes drifted back to her. The question caught in his throat, clumsy and uncertain, but he asked anyway, “You avoided looking at Rhys tonight. Was it him or his power?”

She paused.

“Both,” she whispered. “He reminded me of what I’ve tried to forget. That sort of power isn’t always kind.”

Azriel leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Rhysand is many things, but cruel isn’t one of them. Still, I understand. Power has teeth. Even when it means well.”

She nodded slowly, then was quiet for a moment, her gaze falling to the floor. 

When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible, and she seemed to be considering her words carefully before she spoke. 

“Are you angry with the Mother?”

Azriel blinked, his normally carefully neutral expression shifting, confusion, then concern softening his features.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his chest tightening with each breath.

“That I’m your mate,” she said, still watching her feet swing gently from the edge of the bed. “A stranger.”

Silence followed the end of her sentence. 

A sharp, sudden fury flared in Azriel’s chest. Not at her, but at the thought that she believed she was unworthy of him.

He let out a low, bitter laugh, a cold sound that made her lift her head, startled, meeting his eyes at last.

“I have prayed to the Mother for my mate for centuries,” he said, voice rough, almost trembling. “And now that I’ve met you, I want to fall to my knees and thank her. The Cauldron. The Mother. You.”

Her lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but no words came, just a stillness.

“You’re not a stranger,” he said, voice gentler now. “You’re mine.”

The bond shimmered between them, an invisible tether, but undeniable like a heartbeat echoing through them both.

“I don’t need time to believe that,” he added, voice barely above a whisper. “But I’ll give you as much of it as you need.”

Her eyes were wide and glassy, something fragile and unspoken flickering within them. “Thank you,” she whispered.

A soft bell chimed through the quiet room.

“Dinner’s ready,” Azriel said, reluctantly breaking the moment.

“Should I change?” she asked, glancing down at the fitted robes that clung to her like a second skin.

Azriel’s eyes followed her movement. His shadows curled tighter around him, as if they too noticed how easily she’d settled into his space. How quickly she’d become the only thing in it.

“No,” he said, eyes snapping back to hers. “You look beautiful.”

Her lips parted again, surprise, maybe, or something deeper. Then she turned, catching a glimpse of herself in the vanity’s mirror and froze.

A horrified sound escaped her throat. “You were going to let me meet the inner circle looking like this?”

Azriel blinked. “Like what?”

She spun toward the bathing chamber, hands flying to the wind-tossed braids tangled atop her head. “Like a half-blown thistle in the middle of a storm,” she muttered. “Cauldron boil me—”

He followed, lingering in the doorway as she fumbled at the intricate, now-messy braids. Her hair, a rich, silky brown, had loosened into chaotic waves that still somehow managed to look radiant, and still, she scowled at it.

“Azriel,” she said, and his name on her lips felt like a blessing. He straightened. Every nerve ending alive.

“Help me.”

It wasn’t a request; it was a command. Clear. Firm. Completely unfazed by the fact that they were barely more than strangers.

He stepped behind her as she leaned forward over the marble vanity. His hands, glowing faintly with blue siphon light, reached toward her hair.

The strands slid between his gloved fingers like silk. He tried to focus on the knots, the soft, silky feel of the strands, anything but the way her scent now surrounded him, soft, wild, and maddeningly sweet, like wildflowers after a storm.

She stilled beneath his touch. Slowly, unknowingly, she began to lean into it.

He worked with delicate precision, fingers grazing the nape of her neck as he unravelled each braid. Her breath hitched once so softly it could’ve been imagined, but then she bit her lip, as if catching a sound before it could escape.

His jaw tightened.

She didn’t step back. Didn’t flinch. Instead, she sighed softly, reluctant, as his fingers brushed through the last few strands.

He lingered.

Just a moment too long.

Then she stepped back, lifting her hood, hair now cascading in soft waves down to her waist. She studied her reflection in the mirror, satisfied.

Azriel didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She shifted slightly, catching his gaze in the mirror, and there it was again, that quiet, unspoken look, as if she’d already lived inside his bones long before they’d met.

His voice was low, reverent. “You’re… breathtaking.”

She said nothing, but her eyes softened, like maybe she would’ve said the same.

Somehow, it seemed like they’d done this a hundred times before, stood like this. Touched like this. As if the bond had always been there, waiting.

As if this moment had been written into the lines of their skin.

The walk to the dining room was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Azriel stayed close, not touching, but near enough that his presence felt like armour.

The House lit the halls in warm gold, shadows trailing them like whispers. He could feel her tension, the faint stiffness in her shoulders.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

She glanced up, wide eyes flicking to his face. There was a question on her lips, but before she could ask, they crossed the threshold into the dining room.

Voices. Laughter. The clink of silverware and glass.

Then silence.

Eight pairs of eyes turned to her.

She paled.

Azriel instinctively shifted, placing himself slightly in front of her, not shielding, but ready. A silent message: she’s not a curiosity.

Before he could speak, Mor stood and crossed the room, all warmth and velvet.

“I’m Morrigan,” she said, her voice all velvet and strength. “Call me Mor.”

“Y/N,” his mate replied. Soft. Controlled.

Azriel noted the tension in her posture, but she didn’t shy away.

Mor led her into the room gently, introducing her to the others, and Azriel watched his shadows trail after her, drawn not by command but by instinct.

Across the table, Rhys and Cassian shared grins, knowing and teasing. He ignored them and headed for the wine decanter. He poured two glasses, one for himself, one for her.

She was already seated between Mor and Amren when he came back, her hood down, face revealed. Her fingers fiddled with the stem of her robes.

She glanced up at him with a small, grateful smile. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Azriel’s fingers briefly brushed her shoulder, grounding her or maybe him. Then he took his seat opposite her, next to Feyre and Rhys, who were watching him like they didn’t recognise him.

Conversation resumed, cautiously at first. Mor and Amren flanked her like shields, sunlight and steel. To his surprise, Elain leaned forward, asking a soft question about her robes. 

She responded calmly about her role in the temple, explaining how she’d be staying to study the mountain’s wards and ancient script. Her voice remained steady, but Azriel could sense the frayed edge through the bond. She was coping, but just.

“I mentioned to Nesta,” Rhys said casually, “that you might be interested in Valkyrie training.”

Across the table, Nesta, who had barely spared a glance at her until now, perked up, eyes narrowing not with scepticism, but something closer to interest.

“Oh?” Nesta leaned forward slightly, wine glass in hand. “You’ve trained before?”

“Some,” his mate replied, lips curving just a bit. “I don’t want to intrude… but I wouldn’t mind learning more.”

Nesta’s eyes brightened, not mocking or challenging, but engaged. Azriel blinked, surprised by how warm Nesta’s tone was, how different this was from the usual ice she wore like armour.

“Well,” Nesta said, voice edged with something almost like approval, “we train every morning. You’re welcome to join us.”

Azriel lifted a brow. Cassian did too. Neither of them missed it, Nesta Archeron being friendly on a first meeting.

His mate hesitated for only a moment, then nodded. “I’d like that,” she said softly.

Nesta gave a single approving nod and turned back to her water.

Azriel leaned back, trying not to stare, but Cassian was already smirking behind his glass.

What in the Mother’s name was happening tonight?

Then she glanced toward Azriel. Just a flick of her eyes, but he saw the tension behind them, the subtle wear, the quiet strain.

He gave her what he could. Not a touch, not a word, just his shadows, curling beneath the table and brushing lightly against her fingers.

She welcomed them.

Let them twine through her fingers like silk. Her eyes dropped to them briefly, as if she could see them, feel them in some deeper way. She twirled her fingers, letting the threads of darkness dance between them.

Then, she smiled. Maybe at something Mor had said, but her gaze always found his again, as it always did.

As if it needed to.

As if he needed her to look at him that way.

Azriel leaned forward and silently refilled her glass before his own, ignoring the stares and smirks it earned him. When new dishes were passed around, he reached for them first, sliding them closer to her, gesturing with just his eyes to the ones she might want.

She responded in kind: subtle glances, small nods or shakes of her head. A private language they hadn’t learned, but already knew.

As the evening wore on and conversation turned mellow with wine-sweetened fatigue, chairs scraped softly against the stone floor. Laughter grew quieter, warmer. Slowly, the others drifted deeper into the House of Wind.

Azriel stood, glancing once at Cassian, who was smirking.

He crossed to her, where she sat beside Mor with the last sip of wine cradled in her hand. He brushed a finger over her shoulder.

Her head turned, cheeks flushed. “More wine, or...?”

“I think I need rest,” she said softly, rising.

Mor leaned in and whispered something in her ear. Azriel didn’t catch the words, but he saw the flush in her cheeks and how she didn’t look at him after.

Together, they gave their thank-yous and slipped from the room, the whispers and curious glances following behind them.

Azriel stayed close beside her. Not touching, but near enough that their hands brushed now and then.

“I think they like you,” he said.

She huffed a soft laugh. “I think I survived.”

“You did more than that. Nesta invited you to train. That’s her version of a love letter.”

Her laugh came again, softer this time, unguarded. God, that sound he’d memorise if he could.

They reached her room. The door opened quietly, candlelight flickering inside already. His shadows moved with her now, as if she called to them.

She paused in the doorway, turning slowly. Hesitation flickered in her eyes, and he could almost see the thoughts shifting behind them, quiet and uncertain.

Azriel tilted his head, voice low. “Tell me. I can feel it, you want to say something.”

Her eyes flicked to his, uncertain. “I just…” Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know how to be this. For you. A mate.” She swallowed. “I don’t know how not to mess it up.”

His heart fluttered, not out of fear, but recognition. He’d felt that way before, too, like he might mess it up before it even started.

“You’re not messing anything up,” he said, stepping closer. “There’s no version of you I was waiting for. You’re it. Already.”

She looked up, eyes wide and wary. “But you’re Azriel, The Spymaster. The Shadowsinger.” 

She paused before continuing. “I don’t know who I am without the Temple, without the priestesses. I don’t know if that’s enough for someone like you.”

He didn’t answer right away. How could he explain that most days, he still felt like he was trying to earn his place? Even now, standing here with her, he doubted himself.

“I don’t expect you to have answers,” he said gently. “I’m still learning too.”

The bond between them thrummed, soft and steady, like it was listening.

“If you need time,” he added, quieter now, “I’ll wait. If you need space, I’ll give it. But if you ever need to leave…” His voice caught. “Just tell me first.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the silence between them was thick with everything unsaid.

“I’m not going to leave,” she whispered.

His eyes didn’t waver. “I hoped you wouldn’t.”

She nodded, the corner of her mouth lifting to a near smile. 

“Goodnight, Azriel.”

He hesitated. His shadows curled tighter at his feet. 

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

She stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind her, gently, final. Still, the bond tugged at him through the wood. Faint. Present.

He lingered a moment longer, hand clenched at his side, as if letting go of her entirely might unravel something inside him. 

He turned, and there Rhysand stood at the end of the hall, cloaked in darkness. 

Azriel expected him, walked towards him, and stopped a few paces away.

“You waited,” Azriel said flatly.

Rhys crossed his arms. “Of course I did. You didn’t think I’d let that dinner end without a conversation?”

Azriel said nothing.

They walked away from her door, into the hush of the House.

Rhys glanced sideways at him, all High Lord calm and brotherly patience. “So?”

Azriel didn’t look away. “She’s my mate.”

The words rang out like a vow. As if speaking them made them real, permanent.

Rhys nodded slowly. No surprise. Only understanding in his eyes.

“I figured,” he said.

Azriel exhaled. “It snapped into place like lightning, and now it hums in my bones. Like I’ve known her forever.”

“And her?”

“She’s scared,” Azriel said. “But I think she trusts me.”

Rhys studied him for a long moment. Then a small smile curved his mouth.

“She’ll be good for you. That dinner—” he shook his head. “It’s the most alive I’ve seen you in years. I hope she stays.”

Azriel nodded, voice quiet. “I hope so, too.”

A moment went by before Rhys slapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Get some rest, brother. You’ve waited a long time for this.”

Azriel gave a tight nod and turned to leave, but he already knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight. Not with every thread of the bond still humming with her name.

The sunrise over Vallaris painted the sky in soft gold and muted lavender. He stood at his window, arms crossed, shadows curling at his feet. Sleep had evaded him for days, but with her now under this roof, he doubted it would return anytime soon.

He’d risen early, earlier than usual. Arranged for the twins to deliver breakfast to her room: fresh pastries, fruits, strong coffee, and a selection of books he thought she might like. He didn’t expect her to join them for training, not yet. He wanted her to rest. To settle in. To feel safe.

So when Nesta asked where she was, voice sharp with expectation, Azriel’s only answer had been, “She needs time.”

Cassian gave Nesta a pointed look, and the subject was dropped.

The training ring filled slowly. Gwyn arrived first, followed by Roslin, Ilana, Deirdre, and Ananke. Then Emerie, quiet and focused, took her place beside Nesta.

They greeted him politely. Soft smiles. Gwyn gave him the same warm look she always did. Once, that smile might have meant something. Now, he could barely hold it.

He hardly noticed any of them, because in his mind, she was still curled in bed, maybe reading or sleeping. He hoped she was resting. Hoped she liked the books. Hoped she knew he was thinking of her, always.

He didn’t expect the sound of footsteps behind him. Didn’t expect the soft scent of her, flowers and something warmer, carried on the wind. Then she was beside him.

Dressed in flowing midnight-blue Night Court robes, the hem brushing the training mat. Her hair was half-pinned, half-tousled from sleep. A steaming mug of coffee in her hands.

She didn’t speak right away, just sipped her coffee and looked out over the ring like she’d been there all her life.

“You didn’t wake me,” she said, eyes finally meeting his.

“I didn’t want to rush you,” he replied, voice quiet.

There was a pause. Something gentle flickered between them.

“I liked the books,” she said, a little softer.

“I hoped you would.”

She sat on the bench just beside him, her shoulder brushing his thigh for the briefest moment. Across the ring, Nesta offered a short wave. She returned it with a warm smile that looked far too familiar for someone who’d only met them the day before.

Cassian glanced at Azriel from across the mats. Said nothing, just offered him a knowing look.

Azriel didn’t return it. He couldn’t. Not when she was sitting beside him like this, as though her presence hadn’t tilted the ground he stood on.

He turned slightly, just enough that his shadows shifted between them, reaching, gently. She didn’t flinch. Instead, her hand, still wrapped around the mug, brushed against them like she welcomed them. She welcomed him.

For a moment, Azriel thought, if this was what mornings would look like with her, even just sometimes, it might undo him in a way nothing else ever had.

She didn’t move for a while. Just sat beside him, warm coffee in hand, her gaze calm as she watched the priestesses begin their stretches. There was no tension in her posture, but Azriel noticed how her eyes lingered, quietly studying Nesta’s form, the way Emerie adjusted her stance, how Gwyn corrected Deirdre’s alignment with a subtle gesture.

She was watching closely. Not idly.

After a few minutes, she leaned down and opened the small cloth bag she’d brought with her. Inside, a worn book rested between a notebook and a pen, one of the texts he’d asked the twins to bring from the library. Something on ancient wardings. She balanced it easily in her lap, thumbing the corner of a page before looking up again.

“I didn’t want to get in the way,” she said softly, sensing his attention. “But I thought I’d at least observe.”

“You’re never in the way,” Azriel replied without hesitation, barely above a whisper.

She gave him a quiet look at that. Something unreadable flickered in her eyes. Not surprise. Just something softer, and she nodded once, accepting the words like they were a promise.

Azriel turned back to the ring, but he didn’t stop noticing her, how the sunlight caught in her hair, how she absently underlined phrases in her notebook with graceful, practised strokes, how her attention flickered now and then to the footwork being demonstrated in the ring. Her lips moved silently as she mouthed the words she read. Every so often, her brow furrowed in thought, and she’d scribble something in the margin.

He couldn’t help himself.

Between giving instructions, correcting Nesta’s balance, and helping Gwyn adjust her grip, his gaze always drifted back to her. Sitting quietly, not demanding space or attention, and yet commanding it all the same.

At one point, Gwyn stumbled, distracted by something Roslin said, and Azriel stepped forward to catch her arm before she could fall. She laughed, flushed, thanking him.

From the edge of the ring, he felt it: a flicker of emotion. Subtle. So small.

His mate’s shoulders had tensed ever so slightly, and the page she’d been turning froze beneath her fingers. A blink later, she resumed reading, her expression the picture of serenity.

He knew her already. Felt her through the bond, and what he sensed now was something sharp and subtle, pressed down beneath that gentle exterior.

Jealousy.

It was faint and fleeting. Not born of possessiveness, but of uncertainty. Of not knowing yet where she stood, of watching others smile at him and wondering if they had smiled like that before.

He didn’t comment or draw attention.

Instead, as the rotation changed and the priestesses paired off, Azriel stepped out of the ring and moved toward her. She didn’t look up immediately, but he knelt in front of the bench, hands resting lightly on his thighs, careful not to crowd her.

“I can train you if you want,” he asked softly.

Her eyes lifted slowly. She studied him, not guarded, but thoughtful. “Tomorrow,” she said after a pause. “I want to watch a little more today.”

He nodded and stood to go, but just before he turned, her fingers grazed his. A light touch, brief. Intentional.

That was enough. Enough to steady him, enough to make his heart pound and for the bond to sing. 

Later, during the drills, he caught glimpses of her watching intently, brows furrowed, her gaze flicking between him and the priestesses. She absently chewed on the end of her pen, scribbling something in the margins of her book. 

Then, suddenly, she stood up. The book still in one hand, her mug left on the bench. She walked up the stairs silently.

Azriel’s heart stuttered. A sharp, unwelcome rush of panic surged through him. 

Had she misunderstood something? 

Was he already too much for her to handle, or not enough?

Was it jealousy after all? Discomfort? Regret?

The questions arrived in waves, quick and relentless. Doubts crept up from the dark corners of his mind, dragging with them that old, gnawing fear that he wasn’t what she needed. That he had never been. That he would never be enough.

Still, he moved through the motions: correcting stances, guiding rhythm, catching missteps, but a part of him remained anchored to that bench. To the place where her mug sat cooling in the morning sun. To the space she’d just left behind.

When the training finally finished, the priestesses and others stretched and chuckled, lingering in their small groups, but Azriel didn’t hang around. He quickly muttered a goodbye and headed inside without looking back.

He found one of the twins in the corridor, who smiled knowingly and pointed towards the library.

Azriel slowed as he reached the open door, his shadows curling out before him, brushing the corners of the room.

She sat curled in one of the velvet armchairs, the book open across her knees, lips moving silently as she read. Her pen hovered above the page, pausing now and then to scribble something in the margins.

Relief spilled through him like water over parched stone.

He stepped inside.

“You found something,” he said, voice quiet but steady.

She looked up, startled, before nodding. The book rested open on her lap, her finger still holding her place.

“Yes. It’s old, but fascinating.” She hesitated, then held it up slightly, more to herself than him. “Some of the texts Rhysand keeps in here reference protective rituals, symbols I’ve never seen before.”

She shook her head. “I think some were meant to shield more than just the body. The soul, maybe.”

A soft smile tugged at the edge of her mouth, dry and a little sharp. “That’s why I left. Not because of the priestesses sending you flirty smiles… though that was educational.”

His lips parted slightly, caught off guard.

“You noticed,” he said after a beat, eyes narrowing, not with anger, but with fear.

“I notice everything,” she murmured, turning another page with a gentle flick. “Especially when people look at you like they’ve done it before.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. The shadows behind him shifted slightly, unsettled, but he didn’t speak.

She didn’t meet his gaze again. Just said, “I didn’t leave because I was jealous. I left because I’m not ready to figure out what it means to sit there while people touch you like they have permission.”

Azriel stood still for a long moment, reading between her words, what she was saying and what she wasn’t. Then he moved closer, slowly, and sank into the chair across from her, his hands resting on his thighs.

“You don’t have to figure it out right away,” he said quietly. “I’m not expecting anything from you.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his, and for a heartbeat, there was nothing playful or soft in them, just wary quiet, a storm that hadn’t made landfall yet.

“I know,” she said. “But it’s still hard to watch.”

That truth sat between them, raw and unpolished. He didn’t try to smooth it over.

After a long silence, she added, “I found some of the symbols again, similar to ones etched on a stone at my temple. I don’t know how they connect yet, but there’s something here. Something old and forgotten.”

His throat worked. “You want help?”

She hesitated, then she slowly closed the book and set it beside her. “Maybe. When I know more.”

He nodded, accepting the boundary, not pushing. Not yet.

“If you want to train tomorrow,” he said, voice low, “I’ll be on the mats at dawn.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly in mock consideration. “You’ll have to wake me,” she said, voice light but edged with challenge. “And I expect the pastries and coffee again.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “Noted.”

A moment passed between them. Quiet. Comfortable. Then he nodded toward the book beside her.

“I’ll let you read,” he said, voice softer now. “Come find me if you need anything. I’ll be somewhere in the House, and if I leave, I’ll come say goodbye.”

Her gaze lifted again, catching his in that steady, unreadable way she had. She didn’t nod. Didn’t thank him. Just watched as he turned and walked away, and he felt the weight of her eyes on his back until the library doors closed behind him.

A few hours passed.

He’d spent them in the sitting room, trying, and failing, not to listen to Morrigan and Cassian go on about her.

“She’s perfect for you, Azriel,” Mor was saying, practically glowing with delight. “Truly. After everything, you deserve this. She’s strong, clever and just soft enough to make you loosen up a little.”

Cassian let out a low laugh, feet kicked up on the table as he nursed his drink. “You’ve been brooding for centuries, brother. She smiles at you once, and you hand her the moon.”

Azriel said nothing, merely sat, stone-faced, twirling his glass. It didn’t stop them; in fact, his silence seemed to encourage them.

“I mean, do you remember the way you passed her that platter last night at dinner?” Mor said, mimicking his deep, solemn voice with exaggerated dramatics. “Take this, my mate, the love of my soul—”

Cassian cut in with a laugh, clutching his chest. “You’re so beautiful. I’ve waited through centuries of pain and shadows just for this moment—”

Azriel gave them both a deadpan look. “Are you finished?”

They weren’t. Of course, they weren’t. They had been waiting for this just as long as he had.

Cassian launched into some unsolicited advice about wooing, which quickly derailed into an entirely too vivid recounting of his and Nesta’s two-week-long frenzy, complete with gesturing and far too much detail about positions Azriel never wanted associated with his brother-in-arms.

A quiet laugh, unmistakably divine, echoed from the doorway.

Azriel’s heart seized.

He turned sharply, shadows coiling at his back, and there she was. Leaning against the doorframe, books cradled in her arms, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said dryly, voice full of poorly-concealed laughter, “for those beautiful images of you and Nesta, Cassian. Truly. I can’t wait to ask her how she feels about you sharing that particular position.”

Cassian paled on the spot. Mor nearly choked on her drink.

She strode toward them slowly, unhurried, graceful despite the smirk still curling her lips. Azriel remained frozen on the couch, spine straight, hands clasped too tightly in his lap. He didn’t trust himself to speak, not when every word felt like it might come out too raw.

Then, with a quiet certainty that undid him more than any sharp remark ever could, she perched on the armrest beside him. Close enough for her scent to wrap around him like something intimate, familiar.

Her fingers brushed his shoulder. Light, tentative, almost nothing, but it was enough to make his chest ache.

Something inside him eased, slowly and warily, but it eased. Every tightly-wound nerve tensed with the contact. That strange, fragile hope, the one that had been quietly growing in the corners of his chest every hour since they met, stirred again.

She didn’t look at him directly. Her gaze stayed fixed somewhere ahead, as if she hadn’t just broken down the walls around him with nothing more than a few steps and a featherlight touch.

If anything, he leaned into it, just slightly, instinctively, drawn to her warmth without meaning to or knowing how to pull back.

He must not have been as discreet as he thought. Across the room, Mor and Cassian were both watching with matching expressions: Cassian, smug; Mor, practically glowing.

Their eyes darted to her hand, still resting lightly on his shoulder, and to the way his shoulder now pressed slightly against her hip. 

Azriel ignored them and didn’t care. 

He’d take any touch from her that he could.

The Next Morning

Azriel stood in the doorway of her room, balancing a tray in one hand. The smell of fresh coffee wafted up, mixing with the warmth of honey-glazed pastries and the faintest hint of cinnamon. He didn’t speak. Not at first.

She was still curled in bed, tangled in sheets, with her hair a soft riot around her face, as the early morning light sliced through the curtains in gold bands. He allowed himself a quick look, just a moment longer than he should have.

He cleared his throat, quiet but firm. 

“You said I’d have to wake you.” She stirred, a sleepy noise slipping from her lips. Her eyes blinked open slowly, still foggy with sleep, then focused on him and the tray in his hands.

A lazy, satisfied smile curled at her lips. “You actually brought the coffee.”

“And the pastries,” he said, crossing the room to set the tray beside her. 

She propped herself up on one elbow, accepting the mug he offered. Their fingers brushed. He tried not to dwell on it, but the bond bloomed in his chest.

“Thank you,” she murmured, blowing gently on the surface before taking a sip. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”

“I remembered.”

She arched a brow at that but said nothing more. Instead, she sipped her coffee and reached for a piece of pastry, her expression unreadable and still soft with sleep.

After a few bites, she glanced at him over the rim of her mug. “You really expect me to train before sunrise?”

“You said you wanted to,” he replied, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “But if you’ve changed your mind—”

“I didn’t say that,” she interrupted, already tossing the sheets aside and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

Azriel’s breath caught as she sat there, slowly finishing the pastry, dressed in a navy silk camisole edged with lace, with the matching shorts riding high on her thighs from sleep. He looked away before his gaze could linger, instead fixing it on the early light stretching across the window, though the image of her remained in his mind. 

When she appeared again a few minutes later, dressed in tight Illyrian leathers, boots half-laced, and hair pulled back, it nearly took his breath away. The leathers hugged her like a second skin, every line and curve clearly visible in the dim morning light. She held her mug with both hands, cradling it for warmth, her cheeks still flushed from sleep, but her eyes sharper now.

Azriel’s knees nearly buckled. His cheeks flushed with heat, and from the small, amused twist of her lips, he knew she saw it.

The bond stirred, low and steady like a distant drumbeat, always there, just under the surface.

He didn’t speak. He simply knelt in front of her, his gloved hands moving without thought as he tied her bootlaces with quiet care.

As he finished, fingers brushing the leather, something shifted.

Her hand slid into his hair, light, uncertain, instinctive.

He froze.

The touch was so gentle he might’ve imagined it, but then it lingered, her fingers threading slowly through the strands like it was second nature.

She stilled, maybe realising what she’d done.

“I—sorry,” she mumbled, hand starting to pull away.

His voice came quickly, quiet but sure. “Don’t be.”

He looked up at her, still kneeling, with the morning sun behind her like a soft halo, as if she were the goddess who answered his prayers. 

His voice dropped, steady now. “I like it. When you touch me.”

Her lips parted, a flush rising to her cheeks, and still, she didn’t step back.

“I like having my hair played with,” she admitted, almost shyly, like it was a secret she hadn’t meant to tell.

Then, more slowly this time, she reached again, fingers slipping into his hair with greater intent. She tugged gently, testing. Azriel exhaled, barely a sound, but it made her smile.

When she finally let him go, the warmth of her touch stayed like an echo on his skin. He rose slowly, not rushing the moment or looking away. She held her mug close to her chest now, but her eyes searched his, uncertain.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, as if afraid she’d gone too far.

Azriel shook his head once. “You don’t have to be. You’re here. You’re trying.”

A moment passed between them.

He met her eyes. “Ready?”

She nodded.

Together, they stepped into the quiet hallway, toward the sparring ring, the early light painting soft gold across the floor. Their shoulders brushed, just barely.

The silence between them wasn’t heavy or awkward; it was theirs.

The morning air was crisp as they stepped onto the training ring, the stone beneath their feet cool from the night. Dawn had only just broken, casting soft gold light over the courtyard. It was quiet, no Cassian, no priestesses, just the two of them and the hush that came with early hours.

Azriel watched her roll her shoulders, stretching out her limbs with ease. The leathers hugged her frame, each movement revealing toned strength beneath soft curves. His eyes traced her without permission, heat coiling low in his gut before he forced himself to look away, guilt creeping in quickly behind the desire.

She bent low into a stretch, hips rolling, body fluid, and he realised, a little too late, that looking away wasn’t helping much either.

“You’ve done this before,” he said, watching her fold into a stretch.

She glanced up, eyes wide like he’d caught her red-handed. “A little. I’m just copying what the priestesses did yesterday.”

Azriel’s brow lifted. “Right,” he said dryly, because the priestesses certainly didn’t do that hip roll.

When she stood, her eyes sparkled with something sharp. He narrowed his gaze. “Get into stance,” he said.

She did.

Immediately, his suspicion sharpened, perfect foot placement, relaxed shoulders, and a steady, precise centre of balance.

“You’ve trained in the Day Court,” he murmured, stepping toward her.

She smirked but said nothing, just watched him, steady and calm.

“I know that stance,” he continued. “I have a contact in Day who moves exactly like that. If I’m right, your next move is—”

He lunged.

She ducked low, wrapping an arm around his forearm and spinning inward. Her fist stopped just millimetres from his face, close enough for him to feel the heat of her skin.

He smirked, looking from her first at his nose to those dark eyes staring at him with a false innocence. 

“I should have known,” he said as she released him, stepping back.

“What, that I’m from Day? That I haven’t just been a priestess.” she teased, a lazy grin on her face as they started to circle each other. “Or that I could give you a good knock on the arse?"

His eyes narrowed, that smirk turning into a grin as he whispered, “both.” 

They moved instantly. Their sparring became quick, smooth, with strikes, dodges, and counters flowing like a dance, one neither had choreographed, but both instinctively knew. Each punch was faster than the last, testing, probing.

Azriel ducked a roundhouse and moved in close, gripping her wrist and twisting her arm softly behind her. But before he could pin her, she drove her elbow back into his ribs and broke free. Her laugh was low, breathless, buzzing with excitement.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” he growled, circling again.

“I was being polite,” she shot back, panting slightly now. Sweat glistened at her temples.

He moved in again, silent, steady, a predator’s grace. Close enough to feel the rush of her breath against his cheek, to smell the heat rising off her skin: sweat, salt, something sweet and wild that drove him mad.

She blocked him, forearms crossing fast, colliding with his chest in a clash of controlled force. The contact rang through them both like a strike of lightning. Their bodies met with a thud, chest to chest, heart to heart, breathing hard from the momentum.

Neither of them moved.

Her eyes locked on his. Her breath hitched. His hands were still on her arms, tight enough to feel the tension beneath her skin. The space between them thinned until it wasn’t space at all, just heat and thunder and tension strung tight enough to snap.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth.

Azriel felt the shift deep in his chest, like gravity, like inevitability.

“I thought this was sparring,” she breathed, voice gone soft and smoky, like it had been scraped raw by restraint.

“It was,” he murmured, his voice nearly hoarse.

A heartbeat passed.

Then she fisted his leather and dragged him down to her.

The kiss wasn’t a question; it was devotion.

It was molten. Desperate. Their mouths collided in a tangled mess of teeth and tongue, breath and desire. Her back pressed softly against the training ring wall, but she didn’t stop; she welcomed the force. Welcomed him.

His hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer and anchoring her there. Her hands were everywhere, slipping beneath his leathers and spreading across the heat of his bare back. Her nails dug in just enough to make him growl into her mouth.

“Azriel—” she gasped, breaking for air as his mouth found the edge of her jaw, the hollow of her throat. His breath scorched her skin, lips dragging with reverence, with hunger.

His restraint shattered. In a flash of movement, he spun her to the mat, his body following hers like gravity, like fate. One hand grabbed her wrists above her head, the other slid beneath her leathers to spread wide over her waist, possessive, claiming.

She laughed beneath him, breathless and wild, eyes full of heat. Her legs wrapped around his hips like instinct.

“You like this?” she murmured, brushing her mouth over his. “Me on my back while you pretend you’re still in control?”

He huffed a dark, amused sound against her jaw. “You’ve been in control since the moment I met you.”

Her teeth grazed his earlobe. “I knew it.”

“You’re infuriating,” he muttered, kissing her again, deeper this time, demanding. His body rocked into hers, their hips grinding in time, and she gasped into his mouth.

“You like it when I fight you,” she breathed.

“I like it when you lose,” he shot back, biting her lip until she moaned.

Her fingers had already found the buckles of his leathers, fevered and sure, undoing them with trembling hands. His own hand slipped beneath her waistband, his fingers grazing soft skin, heat gathering where they made contact. She arched into him, her mouth open and wanting.

Every sound she made was etched into him.

His name was whispered like a secret.

The gasp when he kissed just below her navel.

The whisper of “Don’t stop,” as she rolled her hips, her body pliant beneath his, every inch begging for more.

His shadows wrapped around them protectively, dark silk brushing her wrists, her thighs, making her shiver in his grasp. There was no one else in the world, only this. Her. Them.

“God, you feel like heaven,” he murmured, voice frayed and reverent, kissing down her throat, across her collarbone.

She dragged him closer with a whimper, one leg hooking around him tighter. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, pulling, anchoring.

He was lost in her, utterly, blissfully lost.

His shadows slid around her wrists again, not binding, but holding. Cradling. As if they, too, didn’t want to let go.

Azriel whispered against her lips, “Are you sure?”

She nodded, her legs tightening around his waist. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed her again, then down, down her neck, across the delicate skin beneath her jaw, the edge of her collarbone. Each touch was a vow. His hand, warm and calloused, slipped beneath her shirt again, sliding higher this time, until she arched into his palm with a gasp.

She was fire beneath him, burning, beautiful, real.

Her hands moved too, pushing his leathers down his shoulders, dragging fingertips along the planes of his chest, learning him like a map. Her touch made him shiver, his restraint unravelling thread by thread.

There was no distance now. No armour. No roles.

Only Azriel and his mate, the woman who had undone him completely.

Their breaths mingled, their limbs tangled. Clothing became an afterthought, pulled aside, pushed down, discarded in silence and gasps and hurried touches. He worshipped every inch of her skin he revealed, every sound she made etched into his soul.

When he finally pushed inside her, it was slow, careful.

They both gasped, then stilled.

Her hands gripped his shoulders, her nails biting in, and his forehead dropped to hers, eyes squeezed shut, as though even this was too much, too perfect.

“You’re okay?” he breathed.

She nodded, whispering, “Yes. Azriel…”

Her voice broke on his name.

He moved then, rhythm building in a slow, devastating tempo that left her trembling beneath him. Their bodies moved together, not frantic, but with a deep anchoring. Their eyes never strayed. Every thrust, every moan, every whispered name was soaked in meaning.

It wasn’t just pleasure. It was a surrender.

It was two souls who had spent too long alone, finally finding their match in the dark.

His shadows curled around their joined hands, a silent echo of everything they weren’t saying aloud.

When she came undone, it was quiet, her back arched, her mouth parting in a gasp that was only his. Azriel followed with a broken sound against her skin, his grip tightening like he was afraid she might vanish, but she didn’t.

When the world finally stilled, he lay there above her, inside her, his forehead resting against hers.

Their breathing slowed. Her fingers traced lazy shapes across his spine.

Then, the creak of a door.

A dramatic, drawn-out whistle.

“Well, well, well,” came Cassian’s unmistakable voice, thick with amusement. “Here I was, thinking you two would eventually get around to it, but on the training mat, Az? Really?”

Azriel froze, chest heaving, his wing immediately wrapping them in a cocoon of darkness, shielding her naked body from Cassian’s eyes.

Her head thunked back against the mat with a groan. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Azriel didn’t move, still half-draped over her, both of them very much naked.

Cassian stepped further into the ring, arms crossed, grin wicked. “You know, I always suspected you were a little filthy under all that brooding, brother. But this? This is a new level.”

Azriel exhaled a slow, murderous breath. “Cassian…”

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Cassian said cheerfully, already turning back toward the exit. “Rhys is going to die when he hears about this.”

The door shut behind him with a final click.

A beat of stunned silence.

Then her soft, stunned laughter broke the stillness.

Azriel dropped his forehead to her collarbone and groaned.

“We are never living this down,” she whispered, breath still short, cheeks flushed.

“No,” he muttered. “We are not.”

Her laughter faded, but the warmth of it lingered on her lips.

Azriel hadn’t moved; his forehead still rested on her collarbone, his breath ghosting across her skin, steadying. She could feel the war waging in him. Embarrassment. Restraint. A flicker of uncertainty.

She lifted her hand, brushing fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, slow and gentle. “It’s just Cassian,” she whispered. “He’ll forget it by breakfast.”

Azriel huffed a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a groan. “No, he won’t. He’ll tell everyone by breakfast.”

Her smile curved against his cheek. “Let him.”

He pulled back enough to see her face, and the moment he did, the heat returned, low and aching. Her eyes were still heavy with need. Her lips, still parted, kiss-bruised and soft. Her body, still curled around his, craving him.

Still wanting.

God, so did he.

Still, neither of them moved, because she was still beneath him, still burning, still wanting, and so was he.

“Where were we?” she said, lifting her hips in a not-so-subtle reminder.

Azriel growled, mouth returning to hers. “Right here.”

The rest of the world disappeared again.

[ohemgeewhat]

What a way to die

pairing; best friend's dad!jake seresin x fem!reader

summary; You hook up with Jake Seresin without knowing he's the father of the friend you're supposed to spend the whole summer with.

word count; 11.8k

warnings; SMUT!!!! this is pretty nasty: choking, dom!jake, sub!reader, AGE GAP (reader is 22 jake is 43), oral (fem and male recieving), reader is not a virgin but she is inexperienced, corruption kink??, sex in a public bathroom, thigh riding, no use of protection (don't do that), overstimulation kink!, jake has a size kink!, i think that's it

a/n; well i never thought i would write smut like this but here we are, if it sucks let it be known this is my first time i'm sorry!!! also i made the reader british??? idk why it just happened

masterlist

The cafe was warm, quiet, and smelled like citrus and espresso. You’d been there for nearly an hour now, halfheartedly sipping on an iced matcha while your phone rested on the tabletop in front of you.

Lucy had texted twenty minutes ago:

“So sorry!!! Still with Ryan. Just go to the house — or go explore if you want! The spare key is in the flowerpot by the porch.”

You’d smiled, despite yourself. Of course she was with her boyfriend. And of course she assumed you were brave enough to just go explore.

You glanced out the window at the setting sun and sighed. You were 22, freshly free for the summer, thousands of miles away from your posh London flat, and still you couldn’t shake the nerves curling in your chest.

You opened Tinder.

It had been Lucy’s idea. “San Diego’s full of hot people, babe. At least talk to someone who’s not me for once.”

You’d only swiped a few times when a match popped up.

“Blake.” 28. Works in finance. Cute smile. Tattoos.

Hey, wanna grab a drink? I know a place right around the corner. Pub-style. Casual.

You hesitated for maybe ten seconds.

Sure, you typed.

Send me the location.

The pub was low-lit and buzzing — wood-paneled walls, soccer on the TVs, a dartboard in the back. You stood awkwardly by the bar, still clutching your phone like a lifeline, eyes scanning for anyone who looked like a “Blake.”

He wasn’t there.

You ordered a drink anyway. Gin and tonic, your comfort zone.

Twenty minutes passed. Your phone stayed blank. You gave yourself another five before you'd call it quits and walk out.

But that’s when he walked in.

Tall, broad-shouldered, golden-haired — he had that kind of posture that said military even before the uniform came into view. He wore jeans and a dark Henley instead, but the aura stuck. Confident. Casual. Like he knew the room would shift when he entered, and he didn’t mind at all.

He caught your eye as he approached the bar.

And then he smiled — slow and lazy, like he wasn’t in any rush — and said, “You waiting for someone, or just looking like you are?”

You looked up from your drink, caught off guard.

The man in front of you wasn’t Blake. He was… older. Late thirties? No — early forties, probably. The fine lines around his eyes gave him away, but they only added to his appeal. Sun-kissed skin, square jaw, hair a little tousled like he’d run a hand through it before walking in. His shirt stretched just enough over his chest and arms that you knew he looked good without trying.

He was the kind of man people stared at. And, judging by the glint in his eye, he knew it.

“I was,” you said, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “But I don’t think he’s coming.”

The man hummed, low and sympathetic. “Let me guess — Tinder date?”

You blinked. “Was it that obvious?”

He grinned. “Well, you don’t look like a local, and you’ve been nursing that drink like it’s your only friend.”

You blushed instantly, your cheeks heating in a way that made you look away. “Rude.”

“Not wrong, though.”

You bit back a smile and glanced up at him again. His eyes were green, bright even in the dim lighting. There was a bit of stubble along his jaw — not messy, just enough to make him look like he didn’t care too much, which somehow made it worse.

He leaned one forearm on the bar beside you. Not too close. But close enough that your heart stuttered a little.

“Can I buy you another?” he asked. “Unless you’re waiting on a better offer.”

“I doubt there’s a better one coming,” you murmured before you could stop yourself.

That made him laugh — a real laugh, low and smooth. It did something to your chest.

“What are you drinking?”

“Gin and tonic.”

“Classic,” he said, motioning to the bartender. “You don’t look old enough for gin and tonic.”

You raised a brow. “I’m twenty-two.”

That made him blink — just for a second. It wasn’t judgmental, just mildly surprised. Then he smirked. “Dangerously young.”

“And you?” you asked, before nerves could make you chicken out. “You don’t look old enough to make me feel like I’m breaking the law.”

He chuckled again, this time slower. “I’m forty-three.”

You blinked. Forty-three. You’d never in your life been into older men — they reminded you too much of professors, or your dad’s friends. But this man? He was tall, sharp, magnetic. Confident without being gross about it. Like he knew who he was, and he’d stopped apologizing for it years ago.

“Still want that drink?” he asked, holding your gaze.

You nodded, cheeks still warm. “Yeah. Please.”

He handed you the drink himself when it arrived, letting his fingers brush yours — warm, steady, intentional.

“To your tragic Tinder date,” he said, lifting his whiskey. “May he forever regret standing you up.”

You laughed softly, clinking your glass against his. “That’s dramatic.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, smirking. “But I meant it.”

You took a sip — cold, sharp, familiar — and tried to ignore the way your heart picked up when he shifted a little closer on the barstool. His knee bumped yours. He didn’t move it.

“So,” he said, turning his body more toward you. “What brings a pretty Brit all the way to San Diego?”

Your blush came instantly — not from the compliment, but the ease with which he gave it. Like it was a fact, not something he expected a reaction to.

“I’m here visiting a friend. Her family lives here.”

He gave a low, thoughtful hum. “And how long are you in town?”

“The whole summer.”

That got his attention. His brow lifted just slightly, his smile edging toward a smirk.

“Well,” he said, “lucky us.”

You hid your face behind your glass. “You’re relentless.”

“Not my fault you’re easy to fluster.”

“I’m not,” you said quickly, even as your cheeks burned.

His grin widened. “Sure you’re not.”

There was something electric between you now — an unspoken awareness. Your thighs were still pressed together, the contact so warm you could feel it right to your core. Every time he shifted, even a little, your breath hitched. And he noticed. God, of course he noticed.

“Your accent’s gonna be a problem,” he said suddenly, almost conversationally.

You blinked. “My… what?”

He leaned in, just slightly, voice dropping.

“That accent. I’m not gonna lie — it’s sexy as hell.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but no words came out. Just a high, breathless sound that barely passed for a laugh.

“I’m sorry,” you said, covering your face with one hand. “I swear I’m usually more—more composed than this.”

“Oh, don’t be composed on my account,” he murmured. “This is much more fun.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “Do you flirt like this with everyone you meet?”

“Only the ones I want to see again.”

Your stomach flipped.

You tried to hold his gaze, but it was hard — his eyes were too direct, too calm, like he already knew what you'd say before you did.

“You still don’t even know my name,” you mumbled.

He tilted his head. “Neither do you.”

You smiled, soft and nervous. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, voice low. “Or maybe it just makes things more interesting.”

It didn’t take him too long to have you pinned against the wall of the women’s bathroom.

You weren’t sure how it happened, not exactly. One minute he was making you blush over a second drink, and the next — after a comment too smooth to be innocent, a look too heavy to be polite — he was following you down the narrow hallway at the back of the bar, hand warm and certain on the small of your back.

And now here you were.

Your spine pressed against cold tile. His palm flat against the wall beside your head. His other hand gripped your waist firmly, thumb brushing under the hem of your shirt like he had every right to be there.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice low and steady, “and I will.”

You didn’t.

Couldn’t.

He was too close. Too intentional. Every movement had weight. Every glance, a purpose.

Your breath caught as he leaned in, mouth ghosting over the shell of your ear.

“You’ve been blushing all night,” he murmured. “But you didn’t stop me.”

“I didn’t want to,” you admitted softly, barely a whisper.

His hand slid up, fingers curling gently around your jaw to tilt your face toward him.

“Good girl,” he said — low, approving, possessive — and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft.

It was heat and hunger and control, his mouth claiming yours without hesitation, his body pinning you so firmly that your knees nearly buckled. His hands roamed without rush — confident, exploratory, like he was mapping you by feel and taking mental notes of everywhere you shivered.

And you were shivering — overwhelmed and burning up all at once, one hand clutching the front of his shirt like it was the only thing holding you upright.

His thigh wedged between yours, dragging a desperate sound from your throat that he swallowed with a growl of satisfaction.

“Look at you,” he muttered against your mouth, hips rolling just enough to make you gasp. “Sweet little thing, letting a stranger have you like this.”

“I’m not usually—” you started, breathless.

“I know you’re not,” he cut in. “You don’t have to say it.”

His mouth found the side of your throat, sucking gently before dragging his teeth along your skin, just enough to make you tremble.

“Yet you don’t seem scared of me.” He whispered.

“I’m not.”

He smiled against your skin. “No. You’re not. You like it.”

Your head tipped back against the wall with a soft thud. He slid one hand down, down, skimming along the waistband of your skirt like a promise, like he’d go further if you asked. But he didn’t rush it.

“You’ve got no idea what you’re doing to me,” he said, voice rough now, one hand pressed flat against your belly. “And if we keep going like this, I’m not gonna stop.”

You bit your lip. Heart hammering. Eyes wide.

And then you said it.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

The second you said the words, his expression shifted — something darker flickered in his eyes, something possessive. His hand tightened slightly at your waist, and his thigh pressed more firmly between yours.

You gasped, not from surprise but from the sudden, delicious pressure.

“Didn’t think so,” Jake said lowly, dragging his nose along your jaw. “You’ve been soaking this in all night. Every blush, every little gasp — you’ve been begging me to take control.”

His hands were everywhere now — one sliding up the back of your thigh, fingers finding the edge of your skirt, tugging it up with slow, deliberate purpose.

You whimpered when he pressed his thigh up again between your legs, this time angled just right. His hands returned to your hips, holding you still for a moment — just long enough to make you ache — before he spoke again.

“Come on, sweetheart. Show me how much you want it.”

Your breath hitched. And then you moved — hesitant at first, rocking your hips just slightly, grinding down onto the muscle of his thigh.

The noise that left his throat was primal.

“That’s it,” he growled, voice hot against your ear. “Look at you. Fucking gorgeous like this — needy, desperate, rubbing yourself all over me.”

Your hands curled in the fabric of his shirt. You couldn’t think — you could barely breathe.

He kissed you again, rougher this time, his tongue claiming your mouth while your hips rolled helplessly against his leg. You were trembling, thighs tight around him, chasing every bit of friction you could get.

Jake broke the kiss, panting, and then his hand slid up — across your ribs, your chest, until it curled around your throat.

Not tight. Not dangerous. But firm.

Controlling.

Your eyes widened, and his gaze pinned you in place.

“You okay?” he asked, voice husky but steady.

You nodded — too fast — and whispered, “Yes.”

He smiled. Not sweet. Smug.

“You like this,” he said. “You like being handled.”

Your hips jerked against him in answer.

“You gonna come just like this?” he murmured. “Grinding on my thigh, letting a man you just met ruin you in a bar bathroom like a fucking slut?”

You moaned softly — and he didn’t even give you time to answer. His hands slid back down to your hips, guiding you with purpose now, moving you against him just right, just rough enough to pull another whimper from your lips.

“Atta girl,” he muttered, breath hot against your cheek. “You’re doing so good for me.”

You were unraveling, breath catching in short gasps, toes curling in your boots as the pressure built and built until it felt like it would snap — sharp and sudden and all-consuming.

Jake pressed his mouth to your ear, voice low and commanding.

“Come for me.”

And you did — thighs clenching, body trembling, face buried in his neck as the wave of pleasure crashed over you.

He held you through it, solid and unshakable, hands soothing now, stroking your back as you caught your breath. His hand left your throat only to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangled gently in your hair.

You were still panting when he murmured, “There she is.”

You blinked up at him, flushed and dazed.

You were still catching your breath, blinking up at him in the dim light, when Jake’s hand shifted from the back of your head to your cheek, fingers tilting your face up.

He looked calm. Too calm for what he’d just done to you — but there was fire behind his eyes. Heat he hadn’t spent yet.

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” he said simply. Like it was fact. Like there was no question.

Your mouth parted — not in protest, just disbelief at how easily those words wrecked you.

“I—” you started, voice catching.

But he was already kissing you again — deeper, rougher. Possession written in every movement. His hand slid under your skirt again, hooking your underwear down in one smooth motion, letting them fall to your ankles as he growled against your lips, “Step out.”

You did.

He barely broke contact as he undid his jeans, breath hot against your mouth.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

You hesitated only a second. Then turned, palms braced flat against the cool tile wall. You could see his reflection behind you in the streaked bathroom mirror — broad shoulders, chest rising and falling, eyes locked on you like he was starving.

He stepped in close. One hand slapped your left ass-cheek before gripping your hip while the other slid back around your throat — firmer this time, applying just enough pressure to make your thoughts blur at the edges.

“You okay?” he asked again — low, tight, still in control.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please.”

That’s all it took.

He pushed into you in one smooth thrust, stretching you open with a deep, guttural groan against your ear.

You gasped, nails scraping against the wall, and he didn’t stop — just rolled his hips again, deeper, harder, filling you until you couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Could only feel him.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he muttered, voice ragged. “Tight little body. Letting me take you like this — use you like this.”

You whimpered, head falling forward, and his hand around your throat tightened — just slightly — grounding you, controlling your rhythm with his grip on your hip.

“Look at you,” he growled. “Bent over in a bathroom, dripping down your thighs, letting a stranger fuck you dumb. That what you needed, sweetheart?”

You moaned in answer. Couldn’t have formed words if you tried.

He kept up the pace — relentless, punishing — his breath ragged now too, teeth scraping your shoulder as he slammed into you again.

“Not gonna last,” he warned, voice rough. “You’re too fucking perfect.”

Your knees were giving out again, legs shaking. The only thing holding you up was his grip — one hand at your throat, the other digging into your hip like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

“Come with me,” he growled. “Now. Want to feel you squeeze me.”

And somehow, somehow, your body listened. Your second orgasm hit harder — raw and overwhelming — as he cursed against your neck and followed you over the edge, hips jerking deep as he spilled inside you with a broken, desperate sound.

For a moment, there was only breath — his harsh and uneven, yours trembling.

Then Jake eased his hand from your throat and pulled you gently back against his chest, holding you upright.

“Still okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, dazed.

He smiled against your temple. “Fuckin’ incredible.”

You stayed like that for a few seconds — your back pressed to Jake’s chest, both of you catching your breath, skin still warm and tingling. His hand lingered low on your waist, thumb stroking lazily over your hip, like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

You weren’t either.

But your phone buzzed from somewhere in your bag — three short pulses.

You sighed and reluctantly reached for it, muscles aching.

Lucy: Come meet us!! We’re at LUME downtown. You’ll love the DJ. Drinks on meee 🎉💋

You read the text once. Then again. Then remembered — right, you were supposed to meet her tonight. You were supposed to be sipping overpriced cocktails and pretending you weren’t terminally shy.

Not letting a total stranger wreck you in a bathroom stall.

Jake caught the look on your face. “You leaving?”

You nodded, pulling your skirt back down and smoothing it over your hips with trembling fingers. “Yeah. Friend stuff.”

He stepped back to give you space, reaching for his belt. “No number?”

You glanced at him, lips twitching. “No name.”

His smile widened, slow and crooked. “That’s how you want to play it?”

You blushed. Again.

“I—It just feels like… if we say names, it makes this real.”

He stepped close again, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Sweetheart, that was real.”

You swallowed hard. “Still. Let’s leave it.”

He gave you a once-over, gaze dark and amused. “Fine. Have it your way.”

You turned to leave. Then paused at the door, glancing back.

He was standing in the middle of the bathroom, shirt half-buttoned, hair messy, watching you like he could devour you all over again.

You slipped out without another word.

The music pulsed through the floor and into your ribs, a deep bass that buzzed in your blood. Colored lights swept the dancefloor in ribbons of gold and violet. The whole place smelled like citrus and perfume and sweat — and, unfortunately, you were still wearing all the evidence of your earlier… activities.

Your hair was messy. Your lips were kiss-swollen. Your skirt had definitely seen better days.

Lucy found you within seconds.

“Oh my God,” she shouted over the music, grabbing your hand and dragging you into the glow of the bar. “There you are! Come meet everyone—wait—wait.” She stepped back and really looked at you. “What the hell happened to you?”

You flushed. “What?”

She narrowed her eyes like a predator. “You’re… flushed. And glowing. And your lipstick is halfway to your chin. And your skirt’s wrinkled to hell. What—oh my God. Did you hook up with someone?!”

You covered your face, laughing into your hands. “I—maybe.”

“Maybe? Babe, you look like you got wrecked.” Lucy grabbed both your arms, grinning so hard her cheeks hurt. “Tell me everything. Right now.”

You leaned in, voice low. “It was… intense.”

She gasped. “Bathroom hookup?”

You nodded.

“Yesss,” she hissed, practically vibrating. “How old?”

“I don’t know. Early forties?”

“WHAT.” Her mouth dropped open. “You—you fucked a DILF?”

You choked on your drink, laughing. “Don’t say that.”

“I will absolutely say that.” She grabbed your arm again. “Was he hot?”

You blinked at her. “Lucy. He was ridiculous. Like—tall, tan, probably ex-military, hands the size of dinner plates—”

“Oh my God.”

“—and he was so confident. Like he owned the fucking room. And dominant. Like—bossy bossy.”

Lucy screamed, grabbing her drink and yours. “We are celebrating this. You finally let loose. And with a hot older guy in a public bathroom? You’re officially a legend.”

You shook your head, but you were grinning, cheeks warm. “I didn’t even get his name.”

She clinked her glass against yours. “Honestly? That just makes it hotter.”

You laughed and sipped your drink, heart still fluttering somewhere in your chest — half from the memory, half from knowing you might never see him again.

Or so you thought.

You woke slowly, tangled in too-soft sheets in a room that wasn’t yours, blinking against the golden morning light pouring through the window. Your body ached in the most telling ways — thighs sore, hips tender, lips a little too sensitive.

Oh.

Right.

That happened.

You covered your face with a groan, the memory of his voice still echoing in your head. Come for me. Look at you. Good girl.

It didn’t even feel real. It felt like some fantasy — one you definitely shouldn't still be thinking about with your best friend’s dad sleeping somewhere in this house.

You stretched, rolling out of bed in the tank top and shorts you’d passed out in last night, the waistband of your cotton sleep shorts twisted and riding low on your hips. Your tank was thin — too thin, probably, but it was warm out and it was just Lucy’s dad, right?

You padded down the hallway barefoot, still half-asleep, hair a mess, expecting silence and coffee.

Instead, you heard voices.

Laughter.

Sizzling.

You stepped into the kitchen and froze.

There, standing in front of the stove in grey sweatpants and a navy t-shirt that clung to his back, was him.

Jake. The stranger. The man who had you coming undone against a bathroom wall just twelve hours ago.

And he was flipping pancakes.

Flipping. Pancakes.

“Morning, sunshine!” Lucy called, perched on the kitchen island in pajama pants and a hoodie, swinging her legs lazily. “We were just talking about waking you up.”

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

Jake turned his head — casually, over his shoulder — and froze the second he saw you.

Your eyes locked.

You were still in your tiny tank top. No bra. The cool air-conditioning was not helping the situation. His eyes flicked lower, then immediately back up, jaw tightening like he was biting back something.

Then his lips twitched. Barely. Controlled.

“Morning,” he said smoothly. Voice deeper than last night, but still just as devastating. “Sleep okay?”

You blinked.

Swallowed.

Nodded.

Lucy laughed. “We came in super late last night.” She sipped her juice.

Jake’s hand slipped on the spatula. The edge of the pancake started to burn, smoke curling up from the pan.

“Shit,” he muttered, turning quickly and adjusting the flame, jaw tight as he scraped it off. “One casualty.”

You were still frozen in the doorway, face flushed, heart in your throat. You couldn't even look at Lucy.

Jake didn’t look at you again.

Not really.

He handed Lucy her pancake with a calm, practiced air. “Eat up.” he said, his voice smoother now — Admiral Cool.

You finally shuffled in on stiff legs, pretending you hadn’t just relived every filthy detail in your head while watching him pour syrup like nothing happened.

Jake reached for another plate.

“Hungry?” he asked, glancing at you once — just once — under lashes and with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You nodded quickly. “Starving.”

“Yeah,” he said, low, under his breath. “Bet you are.”

You nearly dropped dead on the spot.

You sat stiffly at the kitchen island, legs crossed under you, hands tight around the fork like it might anchor you to the present. The pancake on your plate was golden and fluffy, perfectly cooked — no sign of the earlier mishap — and Jake had even set a tiny pitcher of warm syrup next to it like this was some kind of cozy bed-and-breakfast and not an actual fever dream.

You weren’t blushing.

You weren’t blushing.

Except you definitely were.

“Okay, so,” Lucy said, mid-chew, “we’ve gotta do La Jolla Cove — it’s super pretty, you can swim with seals, and then maybe Coronado, because that beach is actually magical. Oh, and I have to take you to Balboa Park, there’s this little tea shop—”

You nodded quickly, stuffing a bite of pancake in your mouth to give yourself a reason not to respond. Across the island, Jake leaned back in his chair, coffee in hand, watching the two of you like this was just any normal morning.

Like he hadn’t had you trembling and breathless hours earlier.

You caught the flick of his gaze when your knees brushed together. When your hand shook slightly lifting your mug. When you bit your lip just a little too hard.

He said nothing.

But he was smirking.

“You okay?” Lucy asked, glancing over.

You blinked. “What?”

She laughed. “You look totally out of it. Hungover?”

You smiled quickly. “No, just still waking up.”

Jake hummed behind his coffee. “Had a good dream?” he asked lightly, his voice low and amused.

You kicked him under the island.

Hard.

He didn’t flinch. If anything, the corner of his mouth quirked higher.

“Anyway,” Lucy continued, oblivious, “I’ll give you the full tour of the house once we finish eating. It’s massive, but you’ll get used to it. Two floors, four bedrooms, five bathrooms. Dad turned the basement into a gym—”

Jake took another sip of coffee. “You’re welcome to use it.”

Your face burned.

“—and there’s a pool out back,” Lucy added. “And my dad’s office is upstairs at the end of the hall. Just don’t touch anything in there or he’ll have a meltdown.”

Jake gave a dramatic sigh. “One time someone moved a classified file—”

“I was ten!” Lucy argued.

You laughed, finally relaxing for half a second, and dared a glance at him.

Jake caught your eye.

And winked.

You nearly choked on your orange juice.

Lucy didn’t notice.

But he did. And he was enjoying every second of it.

“Alright,” Jake said, setting his mug in the sink. “I’ve got to head to base for a few hours. Meetings all day.”

Lucy groaned. “You’re always in meetings.”

“Comes with the title,” he said, reaching for his keys and aviators from the counter. “Don’t let her redecorate the house while I’m gone.”

You looked up just in time to catch his eyes on you — calm, unreadable, just a flicker of heat beneath the surface — before he slid on his sunglasses and turned toward the door.

“Be good,” he added over his shoulder.

“I’m a delight,” Lucy called.

But you… you stayed quiet.

Because you could still feel his fingers on your throat.

By early afternoon, the San Diego sun was blazing.

You and Lucy had changed into swimsuits — hers a sporty black bikini, yours a pale blue two-piece that suddenly felt a little too revealing after spending breakfast pretending you hadn’t been railed by her father.

The pool glistened behind the house, surrounded by stone tiles and tall hedges for privacy. A couple of lounge chairs were parked near the edge, complete with an umbrella and a tiny table that Lucy had already loaded with drinks and sunscreen.

She stretched her arms overhead with a sigh. “God, I missed this.”

You dipped your feet into the water. “You’re living in a resort.”

She grinned. “I know. But don't tell him that — he'll say he earned it or whatever.”

You smiled, settling onto the edge with your legs in the water.

“So,” she said, turning toward you, legs criss-crossed, “now that we’re alone—spill.”

You blinked. “Spill what?”

“The DILF. The mystery man. The bathroom hookup that left you looking like you'd just survived a very sexy natural disaster.”

You laughed, hiding your face. “Stop.”

“No. I need details. Was it a ‘he kissed me and it just happened’ situation or more like he told you what to do and you liked it way too much?”

You blushed instantly. “I—I mean… the second one.”

She squealed, nearly sliding off her towel. “Oh my God. So he was bossy?”

You nodded, reluctantly. “Very.”

“Tall?”

“So tall.”

She fanned herself. “This just keeps getting better.”

You sank back against your hands. “I didn’t think I was into older guys…”

“But?”

“But—he just knew what he was doing. Like, there was no second-guessing. He touched me like he owned me.”

Lucy made a choked noise. “I’m going to need you to write this down and send it to me like erotica.”

You threw a towel at her. She dodged it.

“Would you do it again?” she asked, leaning in like this was the most important question in the world. “With an older guy?”

You hesitated — and she saw it.

Her mouth dropped open. “You totally would!”

“I didn’t say that,” you muttered.

“You didn’t have to.”

You smiled to yourself, legs swishing through the cool water, heart still racing with the memory of Jake’s hand on your throat and the way he’d said good girl like it meant something.

“I mean,” you admitted softly, “if it was him? Yeah. I would.”

The sun was dipping low, casting long golden shadows across the kitchen as Jake moved around like he’d never left — sleeves pushed up, wristwatch glinting, a dish towel slung casually over one shoulder. He was making dinner.

Not grabbing takeout. Not ordering pizza.

Making it.

From scratch.

You weren’t sure why that made everything worse.

He had the sleeves of his navy button-down rolled to his forearms, exposing strong, tanned arms that should’ve been illegal. The man looked like an ad for luxury bourbon, or some dangerously flirty Williams-Sonoma campaign. He had an apron on, for God’s sake. An apron.

Lucy leaned on the counter, stealing slices of tomato off the cutting board while he chopped garlic like a professional.

“You really didn’t have to cook,” you said, sliding into one of the chairs at the island.

Jake didn’t look up. “If I left dinner up to Lucy, you’d both be eating frozen waffles and jelly beans.”

“It happened once,” Lucy argued.

“Three times.”

“I was experimenting with textures!”

You smiled as Jake shook his head, dropping pasta into a pot. He moved with effortless confidence — the same kind he’d had in the bar. The same kind he’d had with you.

And you were hyper-aware of it.

He turned slightly as he stirred the sauce, glancing at you. “So,” he said casually, “you’re from London?”

You blinked. “Um. Yes. West London, technically.”

“Fancy,” he said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You laughed softly. “Not that fancy.”

Lucy scoffed. “Her parents live in a townhouse near Kensington Palace and her mum wears actual tweed.”

Jake raised a brow. “So, very fancy.”

You flushed. “It’s not like I grew up in a castle.”

“No,” Jake said, watching you too closely, “but I’m guessing the silver spoon came standard.”

The way he said it wasn’t unkind. More amused than anything. He was teasing you — gently, but deliberately — and you could feel the tension humming just under his voice.

“I turned out alright,” you said, sitting up straighter.

He shrugged. “Didn’t say you didn’t.”

Lucy chimed in, oblivious. “Her dad’s in finance or something ridiculous. She’s the only person I know who went to a boarding school that had a wine cellar.”

“That is not true,” you protested, laughing. “It was a wine vault. It belonged to the headmaster.”

Jake chuckled, low and rough. “See, now you’re just making it worse for yourself.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting back a smile. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Just a little,” he said, stirring the sauce again. “You’re easy to fluster.”

Your cheeks went hot instantly. You looked down at your lap, trying not to picture his hand wrapped around your throat again. Trying not to remember how easily he’d pulled those same reactions from you when you weren’t fully dressed and sitting across the table from his daughter.

He was still watching you. You could feel it.

“Dinner’ll be ready in ten,” he said, finally turning back to the stove — but there was that twitch at the corner of his mouth again. The faintest smirk.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

Dinner had gone surprisingly smoothly.

Lucy did most of the talking — rattling off beach plans, introducing you to San Diego slang you absolutely would not be using, and insisting you had to try a California burrito “even if it looked like a heart attack.”

Jake mostly listened, sipping from a glass of red wine, chiming in here and there with dry commentary. You’d mostly kept your eyes on your plate — trying not to stare too long at his hands or his forearms or his mouth. Trying not to wonder if Lucy would notice you blushing again.

You felt his gaze a few times — quiet, measured, knowing — but he didn’t say anything. Not really.

He just smirked when you stumbled over your words talking about uni.

And raised a brow when you very deliberately avoided looking at him.

By the time the dishes were cleared, Lucy yawned and declared she was “crashing hard,” disappearing upstairs with a sleepy wave and a promise to wake you up for yoga “probably.”

You lingered for a moment. Jake glanced your way once, a ghost of something like amusement behind his eyes.

“Goodnight,” you said, too soft.

“Night, sweetheart,” he replied.

And there it was again — that damn voice, low and casual and dripping with something that made your knees feel unreliable.

You turned and made it halfway up the stairs before exhaling for the first time in twenty minutes.

The house was dark and still, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the creak of the floor under your bare feet. You’d tossed and turned for an hour before giving up, padding downstairs in an old oversized tee with no shorts underneath, just underwear. The shirt covered enough, you reasoned — and it was just to grab a glass of water. Everyone was asleep.

Or so you thought.

The faint clink of ice broke the silence just as you flicked on the kitchen light — and froze.

Jake stood barefoot at the counter in dark joggers and a plain black t-shirt, a glass of whiskey in his hand, eyes already on you like he’d been expecting you.

You stared at him.

He took a sip and tilted his head. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You moved toward the sink slowly. “I—yeah. Just needed some water.”

“Figured.”

You turned on the tap, filling your glass slowly. Your fingers trembled slightly, betraying you, and you could feel the heat in the air — subtle but there.

You sipped. And then, before you could stop yourself, blurted:

“Why aren’t you freaking out?”

Jake raised a brow. “Freaking out?”

“Over… over this.” You gestured vaguely between you. “Over what happened.”

He smiled — slow and lazy and devastating. “Because it’s funnier watching you freak out.”

You blinked. “You’re the worst.”

He took another drink, leaning casually against the counter. “That bad, huh?”

“No, it’s not—” You sighed. “I just… I didn’t know you were her dad. If I’d known—”

“Would you still have kissed me?” he asked, cutting you off gently. Not judging. Just… curious.

You stared at him.

And then whispered, “I don't know.”

His eyes warmed. Something flickered there. Not cockiness — something quieter.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” you added softly. “And then you were just… making pancakes like it never happened.”

He chuckled. “Well, I was hungry.”

You stared at your glass. “I’ve never done anything like that before.”

Jake stepped closer — not too close, but enough that you had to tilt your chin slightly to meet his eyes.

“I know,” he said quietly.

And somehow, that made it worse. Better. Both.

He watched you for a moment longer — and then nodded toward the stairs.

“You should get some sleep.”

You nodded, heart doing something complicated in your chest.

As you moved past him to leave, he added, “And sweetheart?”

You paused, glancing back.

“That oversized shirt’s not hiding anything.”

You flushed violently and fled.

His soft laugh followed you up the stairs.

The next several days in San Diego passed in a blur of sunshine, ocean breeze, and strategic avoidance.

You and Lucy went everywhere.

Morning yoga at Balboa Park. Beach days in La Jolla. Sunset drinks in Pacific Beach. You even pretended to like surfing for exactly forty-three minutes before bailing and claiming your British skin wasn’t built for board rash.

You were never home before dinner. And when you were home, you stuck to Lucy like glue.

All to avoid him.

Jake didn’t make it easy.

Every time you crossed paths — in the hallway, on the stairs, in the kitchen grabbing coffee — he was there. Leaning casually in a doorway, towel slung over his shoulder post-workout, t-shirt clinging to his chest like it had no right to.

And every time, he wore that same infuriating smirk. The one that said I remember every sound you made for me.

He didn’t say anything too bold — not with Lucy around — but he didn’t have to. The way his gaze lingered, the way his fingers brushed yours when handing off a plate, the way he always seemed to look like he was one second away from whispering something that would destroy you…

It was exhausting.

You were doing so well avoiding the tension. So well pretending that what happened in that bar was just a weird, impulsive blip you could bury under beach days and brunches.

Until Thursday night.

You were in your room half-dressed for bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone, when Lucy appeared in the doorway wearing a sundress and a guilty smile.

“Hey, quick question,” she said.

You looked up.

“So Ryan kind of surprised me with a weekend getaway thing. Just two nights. His parents have a beach house a few hours north.”

You raised a brow. “Romantic.”

“I know.” She grinned, then hesitated. “I was gonna say no because I didn’t want to leave you alone, but Dad said he’d be around, so…”

Your stomach dropped.

“Oh. You want me to stay?”

“Only if you’re cool with it,” she said quickly. “You can totally say no. I just didn’t want to bail on you.”

You hesitated.

Jake was already under your skin. Already in your head.

But saying no would just make it more obvious. And Lucy didn’t suspect a thing.

So you smiled. “Of course I don’t mind. Go. Have fun.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I’ll hang out here. Work on my tan. Raid your snack drawer.”

Lucy lit up and launched herself at you with a grateful hug. “You’re the best. I owe you. I’ll bring you back something slutty and overpriced.”

You laughed weakly. “Looking forward to it.”

She darted back down the hall to call Ryan, and you sat there for a moment in silence, staring at the wall.

Alone.

In a house with Jake Seresin.

For an entire weekend.

You buried your face in your hands and groaned.

This was definitely not going to end well.

You spent the first hour after Lucy left convincing yourself you could hide in your room for the entire weekend.

Blanket burrito. Door locked. Streaming rom-coms, answering the occasional “you good?” text with a cheerful yep! and pretending you weren’t slowly spiraling into madness.

That plan lasted until about 3:15 p.m.

By then, the silence was too loud. The house too big. The mental image of Jake, shirtless and sweaty post-run, way too vivid.

So, like a rational adult, you decided to take the edge off with endorphins. Maybe if your body was tired, your brain would shut up.

You dug out your workout set — tight black shorts that hugged you far more snugly than you remembered, and a matching sports bra that pushed your boobs up like they were auditioning for a role. You considered changing.

You didn’t.

Hair up. Water bottle filled. Earbuds in.

The basement gym was cooler than expected — all clean lines, polished equipment, mirrors, and one of those expensive weight racks that looked like it belonged in an Avengers training montage.

You got to work.

Music up. Heart rate climbing. Glutes burning.

You were halfway through a squat set, wiping sweat from your collarbone with the hem of your sports bra, when you felt it.

That… prickle.

Like you were being watched.

You paused. Straightened. Glanced toward the stairs.

Jake stood at the bottom step, barefoot, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised like you were the plot twist in his otherwise average Friday.

You pulled out one earbud, chest still rising and falling. “How long have you been standing there?”

He shrugged, casual. “Long enough to be impressed.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Staring isn’t very polite.”

He smiled — slow, deliberate, eyes dragging down your frame and then back up. “Neither is walking around in shorts that should come with a warning label.”

You felt your entire body flush — part from the workout, part from him.

“Well,” you said, clearing your throat, “it’s a gym, not a church.”

Jake stepped off the stairs, padding across the mat with all the quiet confidence of someone very aware of what he looked like in grey sweatpants and a black tank.

“You always work out like that?” he asked, voice lower now. “Or is this part of your plan to drive me insane?”

You swallowed hard. “It’s not a plan.”

“Shame,” he said, stopping just a little too close. “It’s working.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it again.

He smiled — not smug exactly, but knowing. “Don’t stop on my account,” he added, gesturing to the weights.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you lied.

But when you turned back toward the rack, cheeks burning, you could feel him still watching — leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world, like you were his favorite show and he wasn’t planning to change the channel anytime soon.

You picked up your dumbbells with shaking hands.

This weekend was going to kill you.

You’d been out of the shower for ten minutes — still wrapped in the towel, hair damp and skin flushed from the steam — when the knock came.

Three sharp raps against your door.

You froze.

Jake’s voice followed, easy and casual. “What do you want for dinner?”

You scrambled to answer, trying to sound normal. “I—I’m not picky. Whatever’s easiest.”

“Steak okay?”

You exhaled. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

A pause. Then: “You can come down if you want.”

Your heart kicked up. Of course he’d heard the shower. Of course he knew exactly what state you were in.

“Sure,” you called, voice higher than usual.

You dressed slowly — loose cotton shorts and a white tank, no bra. You told yourself it was just for comfort, but the thrum under your skin told a different story.

The kitchen was golden with late sun, the counters already set with ingredients.

Jake stood at the stove, barefoot again, sleeves rolled, a dish towel over his shoulder — and somehow he looked even better than before. Relaxed. In control. Like this was his space.

Like you were just another thing in it.

He glanced at you once, then looked back to the cutting board.

“Cut the peppers,” he said. “And the onion.”

You swallowed and stepped up beside him, fingers brushing his for half a second when you reached for the knife.

The tension was immediate.

His heat radiated next to you, his cologne a slow burn in your nose. You could feel him there — not touching, but near. The kind of near that makes your breath shallow.

You chopped. Silently. Carefully.

He was quiet too.

Until—

“You always this quiet when you’re turned on?”

The knife froze under your hand.

You turned to look at him, but he was still at the stove, flipping the steak like he’d asked about the weather.

“I—” You swallowed. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he said simply.

He turned to you fully then, one hand braced against the counter, watching you like he was letting you pretend you had any power here.

“You’ve been trying not to look at me all week,” he said. “You’ve been walking around in tiny shorts like that’s not a choice. You don’t have to want this.”

He stepped closer. “But you do.”

You stared at him, pulse hammering.

And then?

You kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It was messy, urgent, all tongue and teeth and hands.

Jake groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your waist, spinning you around and lifting you effortlessly onto the counter. Your thighs parted around him automatically.

He kissed your jaw, your neck, your collarbone — leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses like he was mapping you out again, tasting skin he hadn’t touched in over a week.

You tugged at his hair, breath coming in short gasps.

“Say it,” he murmured against your throat.

“Say what?” you whispered, trembling.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

“Tell me what you want.”

You flushed. “Jake, I—”

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

You licked your lips, chest rising. “I want your mouth on me.”

He smirked — all slow-burning satisfaction. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Well, beg for it.”

Your cheeks couldn't get any redder as you let out little whimpers mixed with Please, Jake, please, and I'll be so good, please.

Then he dropped to his knees.

Right there in the kitchen.

He pushed your shorts down, gripped your thighs, and buried his face between them like he’d been starving. Like he’d missed this. Missed you. Like nothing else mattered.

You gasped, fingers tangling in his hair. “Oh my God—Jake—”

He didn’t let up. Didn’t stop. Stayed locked there like he was built for it, murmuring filthy praise against your skin that made you shake. His tongue savoured every inch of you, making sure to collect all the wetness from your cunt as if he was afraid he'd miss any.

When your legs started trembling around him, he finally slowed — just enough for you to catch your breath.

You stared down at him, dazed. “That was the first time someone’s…” His eyes snapped up.

“You’re joking.”

You shook your head, still breathless. “Never.”

He didn’t speak for a beat. Just stared — and then leaned in again.

“Then you’re not done.”

You barely had time to exhale before his mouth was on you again, his hands keeping you right where he wanted you.

And all you could do was say his name.

Over. And over. And over.

Your breathing was ragged.

The countertop cool beneath your thighs, the air heavy with heat and something even more dangerous — the slow, steady realization that this wasn’t just lust anymore.

Jake rose slowly, mouth still damp, jaw tight with something like restraint. His hair was a mess from your fingers, his chest rising and falling with each breath, like even he was struggling to keep himself together.

He leaned over you, bracing one hand on the counter beside your hip, the other sliding up your thigh, firm and steady.

You were still shaking.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

You did.

Your eyes met — and this time, it wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug or playful. It was real. Raw. A flash of something deeper in the way he studied you, like he was memorizing everything: your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the stunned way you looked at him like he’d cracked something open inside you.

Jake reached for your face and brushed your hair behind your ear, his fingers surprisingly gentle.

“First time?” he said, quieter now.

You nodded, breath still catching. “Yeah.”

He held your gaze. “That’s a fucking crime.”

You let out a soft laugh, your fingers still curled around his wrist like you didn’t want him to go anywhere.

Jake leaned in, kissed the corner of your mouth — once, then again. Slow. Soft. The kind of kiss that made you forget anyone had ever kissed you before.

Then his lips moved to your jaw, your cheek, the hollow beneath your ear.

“You taste like sin,” he murmured, and you shivered.

“Jake—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I know.”

He pulled back just enough to press his forehead to yours.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now — just for you.

You nodded, dazed. “Yeah. Just…”

“Overwhelmed,” he finished for you.

You nodded again.

His hands slid around your waist, easing you down off the counter like you weighed nothing. You felt soft and unsteady, like your knees hadn’t gotten the memo that it was over.

Jake didn’t let go.

He held you there, hands firm at your waist, thumbs stroking slow circles into your sides. His eyes were still locked on yours.

“I wasn’t kidding,” he said.

“About what?”

He tilted his head slightly. “You’re gonna kill me if you keep walking around like that.”

You smiled, cheeks still pink.

He kissed your temple.

“Come here,” he murmured, stepping back just enough to slip his arms around your thighs.

Before you could answer, you were lifted clean off the ground.

You gasped, instinctively clutching his shoulders. “Jake—”

He didn’t break stride, didn’t flinch. “Let me take care of you.”

His voice was low. Steady. Like a promise.

You buried your face against his shoulder as he carried you upstairs — strong arms holding you close, slow, deliberate footsteps echoing in the quiet house. His scent wrapped around you again, warm and clean and maddening.

The door to his room creaked open.

You barely had time to glance around — dark wood, clean lines, the faint scent of cedar and something distinctly him — before he laid you gently on the bed, like you were something he wasn’t ready to let go of just yet.

You stared up at him, chest still rising and falling, heart pounding like a drum beneath your ribs.

Jake stood at the edge of the bed, eyes raking over you slowly, devouring every inch of exposed skin, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip like he was tasting you all over again.

“You drive me crazy,” he said, voice thick.

You whispered, “Then do something about it.”

His smile turned dangerous.

“Oh, I plan to.”

He climbed over you, hands planting on either side of your head as he hovered — tall, broad, body thrumming with tension he hadn’t unleashed yet.

His mouth descended on yours, not gentle this time — desperate, needy. You arched into him, fingers sliding up the hard planes of his back, pulling him down as close as he’d let you.

“Need you to beg for it,” he muttered against your lips.

“What?”

His teeth grazed your neck. “You heard me.”

You whimpered, breath catching.

“Say it,” he growled, one hand sliding under your tank, up your ribs, stopping just before your breast. “Tell me what you want.”

Your cheeks burned. “I—I want you.”

“Not enough.”

His mouth ghosted over your chest, warm breath teasing your skin. “You want me to fuck you, sweetheart? Want me to wreck you properly this time?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes. God, yes. Please.”

His groan was low and rough. “That’s better.”

He tugged your top over your head, slow and deliberate, like he was unwrapping a gift he already knew was his. Then he kissed you — hard, possessive — and moved lower.

And lower.

And lower.

You gasped when his mouth found you again, this time with no interruptions, no teasing, no distractions.

Just Jake. Starved. Locked in.

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. His mouth moved like he’d studied you, like he knew exactly how to pull you apart. His hands pinned your thighs open as your back arched off the sheets, whimpers pouring out of you like prayers.

“Say my name,” he murmured against you. Ordering.

“Jake—Jake—”

He didn’t stop. If anything, he deepened, groaning against you like he couldn’t get enough. Your hands fisted in his hair, hips bucking — and he held you there, firm and unrelenting.

When your orgasm hit, it tore through you like lightning.

But Jake didn’t stop.

Not even close.

You gasped, trembling. “Jake, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he said, voice wrecked. “I’m not done with you.”

He kissed your thigh, then your stomach, then your ribs, dragging his mouth all the way back up your body like a man possessed.

“You’re gonna come for me again,” he growled, lining himself over you now, breath rough in your ear. “And again. Until you can’t remember your own name.”

Your nails dug into his back.

And you whispered, “Then take me.”

He did.

And this time, he didn’t hold back.

You barely remembered how your tank top ended up across the room.

One second you were gasping his name, and the next, Jake was kneeling between your thighs, pulling his shirt over his head in one smooth motion.

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t just fit — he was sculpted.

Tanned skin stretched over thick muscle, every line of his torso defined like something carved from stone. Wide chest. Shoulders that could carry the weight of the world. A six-pack that looked like it had its own six-pack.

He looked like he worked out seven days a week because, clearly, he did.

Your pussy clenched around nothing. Jake caught it and smirked, voice low and obscene as he climbed back over you.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his hand trailing up your side. “So damn tiny underneath me.”

You whimpered as he leaned down, pressing you into the mattress with the weight of his chest.

“Could fold you in half if I wanted to,” he growled into your ear. “Hold your wrists in one hand. Pin you anywhere. You want that, baby?”

You nodded, already dizzy from his voice alone.

“Use your words.”

“Y-yes. I want that, please.”

He chuckled darkly, hand sliding up your throat again — not squeezing, not yet, just there, a reminder.

“So polite,” he murmured. “You gonna be good for me?”

You bit your lip. “If you let me.”

His eyes flashed.

Jake kissed you hard — tongue, teeth, everything. His hand stayed on your throat, not applying pressure, just letting you feel it. His thumb brushed slowly over your pulse, like he was reminding you who had control of your breath.

Then he kissed down your neck again. Lower. Across your chest. Your stomach. Saying things between kisses that made your spine arch and your fingers clutch the sheets.

“Can’t believe no one’s touched you like this,” he muttered, dragging his mouth along your skin. “All this time. Wasted.”

He rocked against you — and you felt him, hard and heavy between your thighs, making you cry out softly just from the friction.

You felt tiny underneath him. And he loved it.

“Feel that?” he rasped, grinding against your core with slow, maddening pressure. “You’re gonna take it, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Jake—please—”

“Tell me how badly you want it.”

“I want it so bad, I—God, I need it—”

That was all it took.

He slid his hand beneath your thigh and hitched your leg up high on his waist, lining himself up with practiced precision. When he pushed into you, it was slow, deliberate — like he wanted you to feel everything.

And you did.

Every. Inch. Of him.

He stretched you so wide, you saw stars.

Jake groaned, low and broken, one hand squeezing your hip as the other returned to your throat — more pressure this time, just enough to send your head spinning in the best possible way.

“You’re so small,” he rasped, burying himself deeper. “So tight around me. Can barely fucking move.”

You gasped, legs trembling.

He moved then — slow at first, then deeper, harder, rhythm building like a thunderstorm you couldn’t outrun. Each thrust knocked the breath out of you, every drag of his body sending fire through your limbs.

Your nails left red marks on his shoulders, his back. You moaned his name again and again, and he owned every sound you made.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Let me hear you.”

“Jake—!”

“You’re mine now, sweetheart. You know that, right?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes—yes—yes—”

He kissed you again — hard, possessive, hands roaming like he couldn’t get enough. Then he shifted just slightly, angling his hips, and the next thrust had you screaming.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t even think about it.

“You gonna come again?” he whispered against your lips. “Wanna feel you fall apart around me. Want every damn part of you ruined for anyone else.”

You shattered.

And this time, he followed — groaning low in your ear, body tensing as he came with you, both of you tangled in sheets and sweat and something dangerous.

Something that wasn’t just heat anymore.

When it finally slowed — when your body stopped trembling and your breath came back in broken gasps — Jake brushed your hair from your face, kissed your forehead, and whispered:

“Still think hiding in your room all weekend was the plan?”

You laughed, exhausted.

And he kissed you again.

The room was quiet now, save for the sound of two hearts slowing down.

Your limbs were tangled in his. The sheets were kicked low around your hips, his skin warm against your back, one arm slung heavy around your waist.

You could still feel the echo of him everywhere — the weight of his hands, the press of his mouth, the sound of your name spilling from his lips like he owned it.

Jake didn’t say much as you drifted closer to sleep, but you felt his hand smoothing up and down your side, his thumb brushing your skin like he couldn’t stop touching you.

And eventually — wrapped in his warmth, breathing in his scent — your body went still.

His followed.

You woke first.

The light was soft and golden, filtering through the half-closed blinds. Jake was flat on his back beside you, one arm flung above his head, the other resting on his chest. Hair tousled. Lips parted just slightly.

Even asleep, he looked smug.

The blanket had slipped down to his hips, and you could see the defined curve of his abdomen — those unfair lines and ridges, the way his chest rose and fell slowly, the deep grooves of his lower stomach disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers.

You bit your lip, heart pounding for a different reason now.

Carefully, slowly, you shifted beneath the sheet, leaning over him, pressing a kiss to the curve of his jaw.

He stirred — but didn’t open his eyes.

Another kiss. Lower, just beneath his collarbone.

You felt him exhale.

“Sweetheart,” he rasped, voice thick with sleep, “if you’re doing what I think you’re doing…”

You kissed down his chest.

Jake’s eyes opened — slow, lazy — and the look he gave you made your cheeks burn instantly.

“Well, good morning to me,” he murmured, folding his hands behind his head like he was watching the sunrise. “Didn’t know you were the type to repay favors so early.”

You didn’t answer. You just smiled — innocent and wicked all at once — and kept going.

Jake’s breath hitched. You saw it in the way his chest rose.

“Look at you,” he groaned, tilting his head back against the pillows. “So polite. So eager. That mouth’s gonna ruin me, isn’t it?”

You hummed, lips trailing over the sharp line of his lower abs.

Jake looked down at you, his smirk filthy.

“Take your time, sweetheart,” he said, voice hoarse and slow. “Show me what that pretty mouth can do.”

You did.

And Jake?

Jake watched the whole time — eyes heavy, lips parted, muscles twitching under your touch. His praise came low and rough, muttered between sharp breaths and bitten-off groans.

“God, you look so good down there.”

“Those hands barely fit around me, don’t they?”

"Look at you, choking around my cock."

“Fuck—keep going, just like that—don’t stop—”

You didn’t.

You let him fall apart in your hands, your mouth, your name on his tongue like it was the only thing he knew how to say.

When it was over, his chest was heaving, his hands finally pulling you back up toward him. You curled beside him, flushed and warm and grinning like you’d stolen something.

Jake looked at you, dazed.

“Well,” he said, still catching his breath, “you just made this weekend very hard to survive.”

You raised a brow. “Hard to survive, or just hard?”

He laughed — that deep, low laugh that went straight through you — and pulled you into his chest.

“I’m keeping you,” he murmured into your hair.

And you didn’t argue.

You didn’t leave the house again.

You barely left each other.

From the moment Jake pulled you back into his bed Saturday morning, nothing existed outside the walls of his home. Time blurred, clothes vanished, the rest of the world faded to white noise.

He was insatiable.

And you?

You let him ruin you, over and over.

The kitchen counter was the first casualty.

It started with a kiss, casual, teasing — until he lifted you up and spread you out like he owned the place. The marble was cool beneath your thighs, but Jake was nothing but heat: between your legs, on your tongue, in your lungs.

You lost track of how long you stayed there. All you remembered was the ache between your hips and the sound of his voice in your ear, telling you exactly how beautiful you looked falling apart.

Then it was the living room.

You made it halfway to the couch before he tackled you to the floor.

The rug left marks on your knees. Jake left them everywhere else.

He liked you there — beneath him, pinned, breathless. His size dwarfing yours, his hands braced on either side of your head, eyes locked on your face as he made you cry his name like it was your only language.

And then there was the pool.

The sun was high, the water shimmering, and you had just barely dipped your feet in when he came up behind you — all slow smirks and wet hands on your hips.

“Thought you were hiding from me again,” he murmured against your neck.

You turned, heart pounding. “Does it look like I’m hiding?”

“No,” he said, tugging the tie of your bikini bottom loose with one knuckle. “But you should.”

The water was warm. Jake’s body, slick and strong beneath the sun, was hotter. He kept you afloat with nothing but the strength of his arms, one hand guiding your hips while the other silenced every protest you tried to make.

You were gasping before you even left the shallow end.

That night, it happened on the floor of his office.

Then again in the shower.

Then again in the bed — twice.

You lost count of how many times he made you come. You lost words.

By Sunday afternoon, your thighs ached, your lips were swollen, and you couldn’t sit properly without wincing — but the way Jake looked at you every time you winced? Like he was proud of it?

That made you melt all over again.

He was still vocal. Still teasing.

He loved how small you were beneath him. How easy it was to lift you, fold you, move you. How your body reacted like it was made just for his hands.

“Look at you,” he muttered sometime Sunday evening, dragging his mouth along the inside of your thigh. “Spent. Shaking. Wrecked.”

You moaned, head thrown back.

“I should feel bad,” he whispered, breath hot against your skin. “But I really, really don’t.”

And you didn’t want him to.

Because even with the soreness, the bruises, the muscles you hadn’t felt in years now screaming — you’d never felt more alive. Never felt more wanted.

Never felt more you. You were a tangle of limbs and sheets in his bed again, your skin pressed to his chest, his fingers tracing slow, idle lines along your spine.

You were half-asleep, head on his shoulder, when he murmured, “You okay?”

You nodded, lips brushing his skin. “I can’t walk. But I’m happy.”

He chuckled — low, smug, and entirely too satisfied. “Good.”

You closed your eyes.

“I’ll make you dinner in a bit,” he added. “You’ll need the calories.”

You groaned, laughing softly. “You’re going to kill me.”

Jake kissed your hair and pulled you closer.

“Not yet,” he whispered.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, casting everything in a soft, golden haze. The sheets beneath you were warm, wrinkled, and familiar now — scented with sweat, and skin, and the traces of everything you and Jake had done that weekend.

But right now, he was different.

Slower. Gentler. Focused.

He was stretched out beside you, half-propped on one elbow, fingers tracing idle shapes against your bare stomach. His other hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip, eyes drinking you in like he was trying to memorize the way you looked in this light.

Quiet. Flushed. Wrecked.

But his.

He leaned in and kissed you — not greedy this time, not rushed. It was warm. Lingering. Like he had nowhere to be and all the time in the world to kiss you just once more.

Then again.

And again.

“You’re trouble, sweetheart,” he murmured against your lips.

You smiled, shyly, your fingers sliding along his forearm. “You started it.”

He chuckled, the sound low and fond. “And I’d do it again.”

His hand drifted lower, along your ribs, brushing the outer curve of your hip, trailing slow, reverent lines along your skin like he was learning you all over again.

You leaned into his touch, breath hitching slightly.

“I want to try something,” you whispered.

Jake stilled — not in alarm, but in the way a predator does when it hears something interesting.

He raised a brow. “Yeah?”

You nodded, heat already creeping into your cheeks. “I—I’ve never…” Your voice faded.

He watched you carefully. “Never what?”

You glanced down, words barely above a whisper. “Been on top.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

And then?

He smiled.

Not teasing. Not cocky.

Just slow-burning, stunned pleasure.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear, “you don’t know what that kind of information does to a man like me.”

You bit your lip.

“You want to try?” he asked softly. “You sure?”

You nodded, voice still small. “Only if… only if you want me to.”

He sat up a little, hands moving to your hips as he gently guided you up and over him, settling you across his lap.

“Oh, I want you to,” he said, gaze fixed on where your bodies met, his voice husky and dark. “I want to watch you take it. Watch you fall apart on top of me.”

You gasped, hands finding his chest — solid, warm, so much. He made you feel small, even from above.

He reached up, cupped your jaw again, and kissed you — deeper now, with purpose. One hand gripped your hip, the other slid along your lower back, guiding you without forcing, leading you.

“You go as slow as you need,” he murmured, lips brushing your cheek. “I’ll be right here. I’ve got you.”

You braced yourself, heart racing, nerves fluttering in your belly.

But as you sank down — slow, careful, guided by his hands and his voice and the dark heat in his eyes — Jake let out a groan so raw it nearly undid you.

“Fuck, look at that,” he muttered, head tilting back. “You’re even tighter like this. Taking me so deep, baby—Jesus.”

You moaned softly, breath shaking. His hands steadied you, thumbs brushing the soft skin of your thighs.

“You feel so good,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “So small on top of me. Look at you. Look how pretty you are like this.”

You moved — tentative at first, adjusting to the new angle, the pressure — but Jake met you with patience and quiet encouragement, his hands trailing over your waist, your breasts, your thighs, everywhere.

“Ride me, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice thick. “Nice and slow. Let me feel all of you.”

And you did.

You moved for him. Shy at first, uncertain — but the way he moaned? The way he gripped your hips, watched you with worship in his eyes?

It gave you confidence. Power.

You rocked your hips again — deeper this time — and Jake groaned, both hands flying to your waist.

“Oh, hell, that’s it,” he breathed. “You’re learning so fast. You gonna come like this for me? On top of me?”

You whimpered, nodding.

He pulled you down into a kiss, one hand sliding up to your throat again — just resting there this time, his thumb stroking your jaw like a promise.

“That’s my girl.”

The tension built slowly this time — not frantic, not greedy. Just long, drawn-out bliss. Every grind of your hips lit another spark. Every sound from his mouth made your body sing.

And when you did fall apart — right there in his lap, shaking and moaning and clinging to him like you’d never been touched before — Jake held you through it, kissed your temple, groaned your name like it tasted good.

You collapsed against his chest, panting.

He stroked your back, murmured praise, pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

“Think that’s my new favorite view,” he said against your skin, voice like warm honey. “You. On top of me. Falling apart.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “I liked it.”

“You were perfect,” he said.

He shifted, still cradling you in his lap, hands warm and wide across your back. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

You tilted your head, dazed. “No?”

Jake smiled against your neck.

“Not even close.”

[ohemgeewhat]

Nine | Fading Away | Shadow and Flame

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.1k

Warnings - Angst, premature labour, childbirth, pain and injury

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It had been a week since Eris's visit, since I had last seen the haunted look in my brother's eyes, the bruises he tried to hide, the weight he bore alone while I found sanctuary in the safety of Velaris.

The guilt hadn't faded. If anything, it had settled deep in my bones.

So I'd done what I could to ground myself, to feel normal in this impossible time. I'd gone for a walk in the garden, one hand cradling my bump, the other trailing lazily through golden blooms. 

The sun had warmed my face, the breeze carried the sweet scent of roses and wildflowers, and for a brief moment, I let myself believe we were safe. That everything would be fine.

I had just stepped through the threshold of the townhouse, barefoot and humming softly, a bouquet of wildflowers tucked against my chest—when the air shifted.

Tension rolled through the room like a wave crashing against a cliff.

Voices, low, urgent, edged with panic. I heard Rhysand first, clipped and cold. Azriel's voice followed, rough and guttural. Cassian, blunt and frustrated.

"What's going on?" I asked, my voice hesitant as I stepped into the room.

Three male heads snapped toward me.

Azriel moved before anyone else could speak, his shadows curling tighter around him like a second skin.

But it was Rhysand who answered. His eyes met mine, violet gleaming with something like dread. He opened his mouth and changed everything.

"Beron knows about the baby."

The wildflowers slipped from my fingers. They hit the floor with a muted thud, petals scattering like forgotten hopes.

"What?" I whispered, my breath catching, lungs suddenly too small to contain the sheer weight of those words. "He... how?"

Cassian swore under his breath. Azriel growled low and lethal, his whole body coiling like a blade about to strike.

But no one had the chance to answer.

Because pain, sharp, vicious, blinding, lanced through me like fire.

One second, I was standing. The next, I was hunched over, a scream clawing up my throat as my hands flew to my stomach. The ache stole the very air from my lungs.

"Oh—" I gasped, my knees buckling. My entire body seized as though my own muscles had turned against me.

Azriel was at my side in an instant. "What's happening? What's wrong?"

"It's happening—" I choked out, blinking through the sudden blur of tears. "Az—Azriel, it's happening."

His face went pale. "No. No, no, no, it's too early." His voice cracked, barely controlled panic in every syllable. "You're not due for another two months—"

"I know," I cried, clutching his hand so tightly I might've broken bone. "Oh—I know—"

Another wave of pain rolled through me, this one deeper, more primal. I screamed, falling forward into Azriel's arms. My whole body trembled as I sagged against him.

"Cassian," Azriel barked, "*Get Madja—now!"

Cassian was already moving, disappearing in a blur of red siphons and wings, a sonic boom of panic left in his wake.

Rhysand stepped closer, but the fear etched across his usually composed face told me everything. This wasn't just a complication. This wasn't normal.

"Az—Azriel," I sobbed, trying to breathe through another contraction, "What if something's wrong? What if something's wrong with the baby?"

His shadows wrapped around us both now, trying to cocoon us from the world.

"Nothing's wrong," he said, voice hoarse and shaking. "We're going to get through this. I swear to you—I swear it."

But he looked just as terrified as I felt.

He lifted me effortlessly, cradling me against his chest as if I weighed nothing, even though I could feel how my body had gone limp between contractions. 

"I've got you. I've got you," he kept repeating, over and over.

Blood roared in my ears. My vision swam. But the pain was real, rhythmic, alive and it wasn't stopping.

"It's too soon—" I whimpered again, burying my face into his shoulder.

"No," Azriel said, his voice a vow now, hardening with each step toward the stairs. "You've made it this far. You're strong. And so is our baby. You're going to hold on. Just a little longer."

"Beron—" I whispered, tears slipping down my cheeks.

"Forget Beron," he growled. "You're mine. He doesn't get to touch you ever again. And he sure as hell doesn't get to touch our child."

I didn't know where the pain ended and the fear began. The contractions were coming faster now, merciless and close.

And still, Azriel held me.

Rhysand flew ahead, likely sending a mental scream through the city. Cassian would be back with Madja any second. I prayed he would.

But deep in my heart, even through the haze of pain and panic and pressure, I felt the shift. Something raw and unstoppable had begun. And there was no going back now.

The pain didn't stop. It didn't ebb or shift or dull. It tore through me, ripping, searing, merciless. 

A thousand claws raked through my insides, and I screamed so hard my throat gave out, hoarse cries echoing through the townhouse.

The birth had begun too fast, too soon. Madja had arrived within minutes, but it was already clear she wasn't enough.

"I need Criva," I rasped through clenched teeth. My head lolled to the side, sweat pouring down my face, body trembling with effort. "Get me Criva. I want her—"

"I already sent for her," Azriel whispered, his voice rough and ragged. His leathers were streaked with my blood, his face pale as moonlight, eyes wide with a fear I'd never seen in him. "She's coming."

I could barely nod. My hands gripped the bedsheets, soaked with sweat, blood, and something else I didn't want to look at.

Azriel sat behind me, his strong arms supporting my back as I laboured, as I screamed and pushed and sobbed. He hadn't left me for a single breath. His shadows had vanished, like even they couldn't stand to witness this.

He was silent, save for the soft encouragement he whispered in my ear between contractions. "You're doing so well. Just a little more. You're almost there." But his voice shook.

Because we both knew what was happening.

My body—never meant to carry a baby with wings was breaking open from the inside. We hadn't made it past nine months. We hadn't made it to Helion. We hadn't made it to safety.

We had run out of time.

Madja's face was tense, brows furrowed, voice steady only because she had to be. But even she couldn't hide the worry.

"There's too much blood," she muttered under her breath, not realising I could still hear her. "Cauldron spare her."

I felt myself slipping, bit by bit, each contraction shearing off a part of me. The pain became something distant. Almost... detached. 

I couldn't feel my legs anymore. My arms were going numb. My vision blurred at the edges, dimming with every scream.

Azriel's arms tightened around me. "Stay with me. Stay with me—please, just a little longer—"

He was crying.

Azriel—my Azriel who never wept, who stood like stone in the face of blood and death, who had flown through hell itself without blinking was weeping openly into my hair, holding me like I was already halfway gone.

"I can't Az, I can't—" I sobbed, choking on the weight in my chest. "The wings—they're stuck, I feel it, it hurts—"

"I know, I know, I'm so sorry," he whispered, pressing kisses into my damp temple, "I should've done more, I should've found Helion sooner—I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

Madja gave a sharp order, but her voice sounded like it was underwater now. 

I couldn't keep my eyes open. Couldn't breathe. I was drowning in pain and blood and the finality of what was coming.

I turned my face toward Azriel, blinking slowly, trying to see him one last time.

Everything was blurred, his face, the light, the edges of the room smearing together like water over ink. 

But I could still feel him. His warmth, the iron grip of his hand in mine, the tremble in his body as he held me like I was already fading from his grasp.

"Az," I whispered, barely a breath . "Listen to me."

His forehead pressed against mine, a trembling tether to this life. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

"If I don't make it—"

"No." His voice was hard now, cracked and trembling but fierce when he spoke. "Don't say that. Don't you dare—"

"Azriel." My fingers curled weakly against his cheek, sticky with sweat and blood. "You have to promise me. Take care of the baby. Love them. For me."

He was crying harder now. Azriel, the warrior, the spy, the shadowsinger was breaking open right in front of me. The quiet sobs shuddered through his chest as he kissed every knuckle of my hand like they were sacred.

"You're going to do it yourself," he rasped. "You're going to hold them. You'll name them. You'll stay. I'm not doing any of this without you."

Silent tears streamed down his face as he clutched my hand.

I smiled faintly, too tired to argue. "Please. Promise me."

"I swear it," he choked. "I swear I'll protect them with everything I am. But please—don't you leave us."

I blinked slowly, the words on my tongue burning. "If... if it comes to that," I whispered, "tell them about me. Not just the good parts. Tell them I was scared, but I did it anyway. Tell them I chose them, every single day."

Azriel's throat bobbed. His eyes were red-rimmed, tears still falling freely. "I'll tell them everything."

"Let Eris meet them." The words made him flinch. "I know you don't trust him," I continued, voice rasping with each breath, "but I do. He's the reason I'm still alive. He's the reason this baby exists at all. Let him be part of their life."

His mouth pressed into a hard line. He didn't answer at first. I didn't blame him, he'd spent most of his life watching males like Eris destroy others. But he nodded, eventually.

"I'll try. For you."

"Thank you," I breathed. The pain surged again, white-hot and endless. I whimpered, arching slightly, my body convulsing as another wave crashed through me.

"Cauldron, please," Azriel begged, his arms tightening around me, helpless. "Just hold on a little longer."

"I need to see them," I whispered, looking toward the doorway.

He followed my gaze, and in a heartbeat, Rhysand and Cassian were there, already halfway in the room, their faces carved from shadow and anguish.

Cassian looked like a ghost. The whites of his eyes were too wide, his knuckles bone-pale. Rhysand stood beside him, a haunted look in his violet eyes.

"I did this," Rhysand whispered, guilt rolling off him like a tide. "I said it. I told her. That's when it started—"

"No." I looked at him, mustering what strength I had left. "Don't you dare carry this. You've all protected me in ways I'll never deserve. But you—all of you have to protect the baby now."

"Don't talk like this," Cassian said, voice thick. "Don't you dare."

"Cass..." I managed a half-laugh, pained and broken. "You're going to teach them to fly, right? You're going to be the wild uncle that gives them sugar before bed and lets them sneak off training."

He blinked hard, stepping closer, his throat working around words. "Of course I will. But you'll be there too. You'll watch. You'll yell at me for giving them too much cake."

"I'll try," I said softly. "But if I can't... if I don't... tell them I wanted them. Tell them they were born of love. Of choice. And that their mother was free when they came into the world."

Rhysand knelt beside the bed now, quiet for once. No smirks, no masks. Just a male grieving the possibility of another loss. "I will guard them," he swore. "Like they were my own."

"Thank you," I whispered.

Another scream ripped through me, this one shredding my throat. Blood soaked the sheets, too much, far too much, and the world around me tilted violently.

"Where's Criva?" Azriel shouted, raw panic now breaking fully through his control. "Where is she?!"

A flash of wind and shadow, Criva winnowed into the room, silver hair wind-whipped, eyes blazing, already shedding her cloak.

"Oh darling," she whispered, taking one look at the bed.

Madja gave her a quick nod and stepped aside. Azriel didn't even pretend to move.

"I'm staying right here," he announced through clenched teeth, blood on his hands, his chest, his face. "I'm not leaving her."

Criva nodded once, grim. "Then hold her. Keep her awake. If we lose her now..."

Azriel's arms were already locked around me like a lifeline, as if sheer will alone could anchor me to this life.

"I love you," I whispered, voice broken, blood in my mouth.

Azriel's lips pressed to my forehead, to my temple, to my hand. "Stay. Please... just stay."

The pain surged again, blazing, blinding. A fire brighter than flame. Darker than death.

Then, nothing but blood. Endless, crimson blood. And after that—

Darkness.

A/n - So... that happened.

I really hate goodbyes. Like, seriously hate them, so this one was super sad to write :( Of course, I had to drag Rhys and Cass into it too because what's a heartbreak without a little extra pain?

Thanks for reading and feeling all the messy emotions with me, it means a lot <33

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[ohemgeewhat]

where flowers go to die | azriel x reader

Summary: Years ago, Azriel was dying on the battlefield, his shadows fading with his heartbeat. She was the Inner Circle’s quiet healer—steady hands, warm laugh, and fiercely in love with the spymaster who didn’t yet know he was hers. In desperation, she made a bargain with Koshei: Azriel’s life for her gift.

She survived the war, but everything she touched afterward began to rot. Her hands, once known for healing, now spread decay. Ashamed and cursed, she vanished into the wilds, letting the world believe she’d died in the chaos of war.

Now, strange withering magic has begun creeping across the Night Court’s border. Azriel is sent to investigate. When he finds the source…it’s her.

Content Warning: descriptions of injury, angst

The wilds did not treat her kindly. But then again, they were never known to be kind. They were thick with dread and rot, Koshei’s reign seeping through every root. Once, she had walked through forests that bloomed at her touch. Now, they recoiled, green turning black beneath her every step.

Even though Koshei had been dead for a century now, his death magic still lingered in her veins—in the tattoo that now marred her skin like a scar, in the way the trees seemed to whisper warnings as she passed. 

She tried to stick to old paths, ones that had already turned barren beneath her, but they still did not welcome her. Stones shifted beneath her boots. Branches sagged, gray-limbed and brittle, as if bowing under the weight of her presence. Under the weight of what she had done.

Each step she took left ruin in her wake. Petals curled. Grass withered. A trail of blackened soil marked where her feet had passed, and still she walked—slowly, steadily—toward the crumbling shrine she’d found years ago. The only place the rot didn’t spread quite as fast. As though the stone, ancient and solemn, held a memory of who she used to be.

She was wrapped in layers of thick green wool, gloves pulled high over her wrists despite the early summer heat. The hood cast shadows over her face, not that anyone ever saw her now. Not that anyone ever should.

She’d buried her name long ago. Left it somewhere in the snow outside Velaris, the night she made the bargain.

But she still remembered his.

Azriel.

His name lived in her like marrow. She tried to forget it. The way his blood had soaked her hands. The way his shadows had curled around her ankles, gentle as breath, even as his eyes fluttered shut and she felt the bond lock into place—quiet and devastating.

He hadn’t known. He never had the chance to.

That was the point.

She had bargained with a god of decay, gave up everything she was so the male she loved could live. She never thought she’d survive it. Never thought she’d walk out of that battlefield, her gift twisted into something monstrous, her hands cursed.

Now, everything she touched died.

And still, she kept breathing.

Still, she dreamed of him.

Still, she walked through a forest that hated her, carrying the unbearable ache of a bond that only went one way.

Until today.

Because today, the forest paused. It’s whispers ceased, as though it was holding its breath. She felt it first through the soles of her boots, the low hush that fell over the trees. Then her own heartbeat, rising. Then something more—an itch between her shoulder blades. A pull in her chest, like a string finally going taut.

Her breath caught.

The shadows moved.

And she knew he had found her.

Her eyes widened just a fraction, her hand reaching for her chest. She couldn’t let him see her like this.

So she hid, just as she always did—within the fading trees, behind gnarled, rotted trunks—and she watched. 

She saw his shadows before she saw him. They furled in like clouds of dark mist, low to the ground. He walked within them, silent as the night, his own eyes searching. Azriel eyed the rot that seemed embedded into the land, inhaled the death that wafted in the air. But he didn’t stop to analyze. 

His gaze was set on the shrine and the sigils that glowed cobalt blue upon it. His gloved fingers traced the etchings, breath hitching in his throat. He recognized the curling loop of her name hidden within them, and it made his blood run cold.

A name that hadn’t been spoken in a century. A name that had become a scar on his heart.

He hadn’t said it aloud since the day they lost her. Not even to himself.

Azriel pulled his hand back slowly. His shadows were already crawling outward—low to the forest floor, quiet, curious. They moved like they did when they sensed something almost familiar. Not danger. Not an enemy. Rather, something his shadows knew was missing.

He turned, scanning the trees. There was no breeze, no birdsong. Just the stillness of a forest that held its breath.

And then—a hitch.

The smallest sound. A breath drawn too sharply, a heartbeat out of rhythm with the woods.

His shadows paused. One tendril curled around the edge of a rotted trunk, brushing against the hem of a dark green cloak.

He said nothing at first. Just… looked.

Even hidden in shadow—even after all these years—he knew.

He knew the shape of her. The way she stood like she was always bracing herself. The way her magic, once golden and warm, now sank into the earth like poison.

Azriel’s voice came softly. Like a blade being drawn.

“I thought you were dead. We all did.”

He didn’t move—didn’t dare. He just stood there, staring at the hollow between the trees where he could see the slightest glimpse of a boot.

She stayed silent even as her heart pounded in her chest, her eyes welling with tears.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he admitted. “I was following the rot. The way it spreads like—” He stopped himself. The words felt cruel now.

His voice softened. “But I didn’t expect it to feel like you.”

That made her flinch.

She pressed her back to the tree, clutching the edge of her cloak like a shield. She had imagined this moment a thousand times. In dreams, in nightmares. She’d imagined him furious. Grieving. Confused.

But she hadn’t imagined this.

Azriel sounded… lonely.

She shut her eyes. Her breath trembled in her chest. The bond, ever present, pulsed weakly under her ribs like an old wound that never healed.

He didn’t know.

Of course he didn’t. And he could never.

Because if he knew—if he felt it now—it would destroy her. Because it wouldn’t be real. He’d think it was some cruel twist of the Cauldron, some pity-thread tugged too late.

So she stayed quiet.

Azriel sighed through his nose, and something in it was so heartbreakingly tired.

“I just wanted to know,” he said, “if you were still breathing.”

A pause.

Then he turned—slowly, deliberately—and walked back to the shrine.

He didn’t see the way her hands shook. Didn’t hear the ragged breath she bit down. Didn’t feel the bond quiver with every step he took away.

But she watched. She saw the way his wings drooped; the effort it took for him to keep them from dragging on the forest floor. The shadows still searching around him, not with suspicion—but with something softer. Familiar.

He didn’t leave. Of course he didn’t.

Azriel wasn’t the kind of male who walked away from ghosts.

He stayed near the shrine, tracing the sigils with a gloved hand. His presence was like a balm to her soul. Yet, even as the bond tugged her closer, begging her to run into his arms, she couldn’t move. She refused to.

She didn’t save him just for him to die by her own wretched hands.

Her throat tightened. Her gloved hands curled into fists.

She heard him speak again—quiet, like he was willing the wind to carry his words to her.

“I know you’re there.”

She swallowed thickly. A shadow brushed her ankle, curling around it. She took a shuddering breath. She could keep hiding. Let him think it was just grief. Just memory.

But he deserved more than that. He’d always deserved more than what she gave him.

So she stepped out.

It was only one step. Her hood still drawn, her hands still hidden. But it was enough. Azriel’s breath caught audibly.

He turned, and for the first time in ten years, his eyes met hers. He didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t move. Didn’t run. Just… looked.

Like he was afraid to blink.

Her voice came thin and brittle. “You weren’t supposed to find me.”

Azriel shook his head slowly. “Then you should’ve hidden better.”

She let out a broken sound—a laugh, or maybe a sob. She didn’t know.

“I’m not who I was,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

He took one step closer. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal.

“I don’t care.”

She blinked.

Azriel’s voice didn’t tremble when he said, “You’re alive. That’s all I care about right now.”

The bond pulsed beneath her skin. But still—he didn’t feel it. And she said nothing. She couldn’t risk losing this moment, not even for the truth she so desperately ached to speak into existence.

She didn’t mean to lead him to her.

She meant to keep her distance. To stand in the shadows, let him see her just long enough to prove she was breathing, and disappear again before the rot remembered it could devour everything she loved.

But then Azriel moved—just a few steps, never closer than she could tolerate. His shadows followed her, not him. They brushed her wrist, the hem of her cloak, the edge of her gloves. They didn’t recoil.

She said nothing as she turned toward the shrine. He fell into step behind her.

The earth beneath her blackened, dead things curling inward as she passed. But when she reached the ancient stone and laid a hand upon its mossy edge, the rot didn’t spread.

Azriel said nothing, though she could feel his gaze fixed on her back.

“This is the only place it doesn’t follow me,” she murmured.

His voice was gentle. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it remembers who I was. Maybe the magic here is stronger than mine. Or maybe… maybe this is where the gods go to forgive things.”

She didn’t know why she said that. Maybe she just wanted someone else to say it was possible.

Behind her, Azriel exhaled like he was steadying himself. “I remember these sigils. You used to draw them in the sand outside the House of Wind. I never knew what they meant.”

She nodded, one hand still on the stone.

“They’re meant for old magic,” she said. “The kind that bargains. The kind that takes more than it gives.”

Azriel was quiet for a long time.

Then, softly: “Is that what happened to you?”

She flinched.

When she turned, her hood slipped just enough that the edge of her face was visible in the dying light. He stepped closer without thinking—half a foot between them, his eyes searching hers.

“I can’t be near people,” she whispered. “I destroy things. I can’t control it. I—”

Her voice broke.

“I tried to save you.”

The words were out before she could stop them. Her heart lurched. Not the whole truth. Not the bond. Just the first crack in the dam.

Azriel’s expression didn’t change—but something in the air did.

A pull. Sharp. Low in her ribs. For one heartbeat, she thought—No. No, not now.

But it faded just as quickly. A flicker. A whisper.

Azriel blinked once, brows pulling slightly together. He looked at her like he felt something, too—but didn’t know what it meant.

She stepped back instinctively. “Don’t.”

He followed.

“I don’t care about the rot,” he said. “I don’t care what bargain you made. I care that you’re here. That you came back.”

“I didn’t come back,” she said, almost choking. “I was never meant to be found.”

He reached out—not to touch her, but to be closer. His shadows swept between them like a tide.

“Too bad,” he said gently.

She froze.

“I already found you.”

The words lingered like mist between them. She hated how warm they made her feel.

Azriel stood a foot away now, close enough that the edge of his shadows brushed her boots like a question. The silence stretched. His gaze searched her face, trying to understand something she hadn’t spoken aloud in over a century.

“What happened to you?” He asked, quieter this time.

Her stomach twisted.

“I told you,” she said, voice flat. “I made a bargain.”

“You said you tried to save me,” Azriel murmured, hazel eyes gazing into hers with a kindness she hadn’t seen in years. 

She looked away as she felt that familiar knot rise up in her throat. Her eyes squeezed shut as a shaky breath left her lips.

“Please don’t make me say it.”

Azriel’s voice softened further. “Why not?”

Her hands trembled. Her gloves were old, worn thin in the fingers. Her magic pulsed underneath, black and ruinous.

“Because if I say it out loud,” she whispered, “I’ll never come back from it.”

Azriel didn’t move. But she felt something shift in the air—again. That pull. That ache in her chest, like a violin string plucked once and left to ring.

The bond.

Cauldron, not now.

She turned her head away. “You should go.”

“No,” he said, firm but not unkind. “I won’t. You don’t have to tell me everything. But I won’t leave you here. Not again.”

Not again.

The words undid something in her.

“I was the only healer left,” she said suddenly. The confession slipped out like blood from a wound. “We were losing. I was trying to save too many at once. And then… and then you went down.”

Azriel stiffened.

She didn’t stop, even as tears blurred her vision. She had to look away—she couldn’t see his face.

“Your chest was open. Your wings were shredded. There was too much blood. Too much. I knew I wouldn’t reach you in time. And the bond—” she swallowed hard—“it snapped.”

He blinked.

“What?”

“I felt it,” she whispered, voice quivering. “And I knew—I knew you never would. You were dying. I couldn’t let you go.”

Azriel stared at her.

She shook her head violently, stepping back. “Don’t say anything. Just—don’t.”

But his shadows surged suddenly—not menacing, not cold. Just startled. His breath hitched.

The air thickened.

A hum between them. Low. Old. Alive.

His hand lifted slightly, like his body was reacting before his mind could.

And the bond flickered again. Harder—like a heartbeat. Like a second heart awakening under the first.

She gasped softly, turning away with a hand clutched to her chest.

“I traded my magic,” she said hoarsely. “To Koshei. To keep you alive.”

A sad laugh bubbled from her throat. “I thought I wouldn’t survive—I wasn’t supposed to. But now look at me. I’m a walking plague. Everything withers away at my touch.”

She swiftly wiped her cheeks, destroying the evidence of her sorrow. He stepped closer.

“Not everything.” 

She glanced up just as a shadow curled around her arm. It was content to be there, unburned, unafraid. 

“I’ll hurt you,” she murmured, her voice so small—so certain.

Her gaze was wary as she watched him step closer, the toes of his boots tapping against hers. It made the blood freeze in her veins.

“I don’t think you will.”

And then his hand lifted, cupping her cheek—she expected the rough leather of his gloves, but all she felt was the warmth of his palm, scarred and steady.

Her eyes widened. She flinched, ready to bolt, but he wouldn’t let her.

“Am I withering?” He whispered, voice barely a whisper. “Am I rotting?”

Azriel’s lips brushed hers like the sweetest lullaby. 

The bond pulled taut in her chest. She leaned into his touch, breath catching, eyes fluttering shut. His thumb swept against her bottom lip in a gentle caress.

“Open your eyes, my mate.”

She did. And beneath her boots, the earth bloomed. Soft green shoots curled from the blackened soil. Tiny buds unfurled like hope from ashes. Flowers—violets and blues—burst into being where decay once reigned. A laugh fell from her lips and he swallowed it with his own.

His hand slid around her neck, pulling her into him as though anchoring himself to the world again. She clutched his tunic like he might vanish if she were to let go.

The bond glowed around them like a thousand fireflies at dusk. The sigils on the shrine flickered once, then faded to rest.

And in the place where flowers came to die, life began again.

[ohemgeewhat]

Ashes

Eris x f!Reader Oneshot ~4.5k

"The ground shifted beneath you and within you. Power rushed over the land in a sweep of blistering heat that had all creatures magical and mundane, powerless and powerful, shuddering in awe. It was the kind of power that only came to Prythian when a new High Lord had come into his own."

Warnings: canon typical descriptions of violence/gore, light smut at the end

Author's note: This has been sitting in my WIPs for a while, but I finally got around to finishing it! Also, I feel like the logistics of being with a High Lord aren't explored enough and Eris Vanserra deserves more love

You froze in the doorway, smelling the blood before Lucien even came into view. A pale, bloody body sagged against Lucien’s side, limbs hanging like leaves in the breeze. Mud and dirt matted the stranger’s hair and colored his beard a deep brown, illuminating the paleness of his sharp, scarred cheeks. Watercolor bruises — purple, blue, and yellow — swam across his temples and over his bent nose. 

“Help him,” were the only words that escaped Lucien’s lips. “Please.” He groaned beneath the weight of his brother’s battered body. Tight muscles stretched until they nearly snapped and Eris was dropped, rather unceremoniously, on your doorstep. Lucien fell to his knees, sinking against the stoop with a wet cough that shook his bones. He pressed his forehead against the warm stone that had been baking in the spring heat. 

“Lucien…what have you done?” You breathed in disbelief. Someone had nearly beaten the both of them to death. Lucien cringed at the accusation in your voice. 

“He’s still my brother,” he whispered, eyes drifting down to Eris. “And I didn’t know where else to go.” Lucien knew he’d doomed you. No one was meant to know you existed… no one. And now he’d dropped the most infamous heir of Autumn on your doorstep with a pack of bloodhounds and his father’s wrath on their heels. 

“Please,” Lucien said again. He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. He was begging now. Tears streamed down his cheeks, cutting rivers through the filth that coated his skin. He didn’t open them again until you gripped his chin with a gentle, but firm, touch. 

“Get inside,” you ordered not unkindly. “I’ll take care of him.” 

Eris Vanserra stirred, urged to consciousness by the warmth that spilled out of your home. He could taste the fires burning in your hearth, feel the warmth in your voice that promised salvation as you bent low to touch his brow. 

You heard his slow heartbeat, felt the sluggish press of blood through arteries and veins. The rattle of air in his punctured lungs concerned you, as did the blood pooling in the spaces between poisoned, sickly organs, but you had practice in pulling people back from the brink of death — and Eris Vanserra was not dead yet. 

Moisture stuck your hair to your forehead and the slippery slide of sweat down your back was enough to make you squirm with discomfort, but you drew closer to the fire, dragging Eris Vanserra into your lap. You threw a handful of cardamom pods and ground wyndworm teeth into the fireplace, speaking ancient words that slithered around your tongue like medicine. The flames spit and roared, growing ten-fold and slamming against the grate so hard even Lucien recoiled from the burst of heat. 

Eris’s hand twitched on the floor, subconsciously reaching for the power that was already beginning to spill color back into his skin. The fire seemed to reach for him too. Cinders popped angrily and smoldered on the rug, burning into tiny balls of light that wrapped around Eris’s fingers and curled around his throat like smoke. His lips, normally pulled back in a sneer, parted with labored breaths, tinged blue from bloodlessness. Lucien and him had trekked through Winter together and the cold had stolen much from them — power, safety, and blood — until he could still feel the tendrils of ice on his hands like the touch of death. 

You reached out, gently caressing his chest and feeling your powers fan out from you with a sigh. You mapped out his body, letting your powers seep and expand into his skin until there wasn’t a heartbeat, sharp intake of breath, or rush of blood out of a punctured vessel unknown to you. Wordlessly you urged his body to heal. You imagined the wounds in his organs, laid out by a violent hand, stitching shut and sealing over. You imagined his blood sliding out of his lungs and back into veins, arteries, and capillaries until his chest didn’t rattle. You imagined broken bones fusing together and bruises disappearing like a stone beneath water. 

You heard Lucien gasp, eyes blown wide with wonder as every broken piece of his brother reset itself and healed with barely a scar. You forgot that for all Lucien knew about you, he’d never actually seen you heal someone. 

“Will he be alright? We were in Winter so long, I—” 

You hissed for him to be quiet, “I’m concentrating.” He shut his mouth immediately. 

There were hundreds of smaller aches and pains littering his body — wounds old and new and scars that not even your power could reverse — but when Eris finally opened his copper coin eyes, you knew you’d done enough. For now… 

“Eris!” Lucien lunged forward, nearly knocking away the hand you had laid on his chest. 

You frowned, nose twitching against the stink that weeks spent in the wilderness had imparted on Lucien’s body, and would have moved away had Eris not decided then and there to grab hold of your hand. 

You blinked in surprise, gaze dropping down to the Autumn Lord laid out in your lap. Dull eyes, sluggish and slow, moved up the path of your arm, catching ever so briefly on the flash of exposed collarbone from where your robe had slipped off your shoulders, before landing on your face. His lips parted, a sound of shock rushing out in a relieved sigh. 

“It’s you.” He whispered. He dragged your hand languidly up to his cheek, turning his face into your palm and kissing your wrist. 

You gasped at the hot touch of his lips and something in your ribs twisted and snapped into place. Heat flooded your chest, blazing and powerful — a shot of whiskey in the dark. 

The moisture evaporated from your skin with a burst of heat and the fireplace that had seemed so scorching only moments ago now felt like nothing more than a blanket — comforting and familiar — as Eris’s own power flooded into your chest. 

You knew your mouth was agape and you feared that moving would make this moment crack like ice over water. But then Lucien shifted and the crust of mud on his jacket crinkled and fell to the carpet in little pieces. 

You and Eris both snapped at him. 

“Just go take a bath you—” 

“Leave us,” Eris growled. His free hand flung out to your waist, flattening against the small of your back to draw you closer to his chest and further away from his brother. 

Lucien blinked in surprise, feeling the radiating power of the bond like a wave of heat. Already your powers were beginning to meld together, strengthened by the recent act of healing. Eris gritted his teeth and forced himself into a sitting position, looping his arm protectively around your waist and curling into the hollow of your throat. There was a feral glint in his eye, strengthened by hunger after two weeks in the wild and the sweet scent of his mate under his nose, the warmth of your skin as you rubbed circles against the inside of his wrist. You were still healing him, urging the aches and pains to subside. To melt like centuries of loneliness. 

“I’ve got him, Luc.” You toyed with the sharp curve of Eris’s ear, sending a shiver down his body as you looked at him. “You know where the bath is. Feel free to use whatever you need.” 

Lucien glanced once more at the pair before silently disappearing down the hall to scrub himself clean of his ordeals. 

Eris sank into your arms, too exhausted to put up the front of the Heir of Autumn. He let you brush the worst of the mud from his hair, leaving whispers of magic that closed every scratch that lingered on his skin. It was Dawn Court healing. He could taste it in the air, feel it radiating off your skin in a shimmer that set you aglow. You cradled him close to the flames, coaxing them to grow stronger and feed his magic with every handful of herbs you tossed onto the simmering coals.

He took the time to examine you. The lush color of your eyes and the way the firelight tangled in the dark of your pupils and reflected in the whites. The slope of your ears and nose and the bend of your neck as you attended to him. Every ridge of your palms and fingertips as your hands wandered over him. 

“Are you this handsy with all of your patients?” He dared to joke. 

“Only the handsome, problematic ones who have the audacity to be dropped on my doorstep.” 

“So you find me handsome?” 

A smile toyed with the corner of your lips, matching the foxy grin that found its way onto Eris’s face. “I find you problematic.”

He clicked his tongue in distaste, then fell sober. “What is your name?” He whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckle brushed against the curve of your cheek, sliding down to your jaw and resting there.

“Y/n L/n,” you breathed, captivated by the strong, yet graceful fingers that strayed so close to your lips. 

Eris’s brows furrowed. The surname was familiar to him — a royal surname belonging to the family that had once ruled Dawn Court long before Thesan’s time, before ultimately being absorbed into the clan of faeries that would come to lead the court. You waited for him to parse apart your lineage, taking in the host of freckles that darkened the skin across his nose. Through the cut of his shirt you could count dozens, perhaps hundreds more, scattered across his chest like stars across the sky. 

“You’re Thesan’s family, but I’ve never heard of you before. Never seen you before. I would have remembered if I had.” 

You smiled warmly. With a flick of your fingers a bowl of warm water appeared at your side along with a soft cloth you used to slowly clean the grime clinging to his beard and neck. “Thesan likes to keep as many of us hidden as he can. It’s safer this way.” 

Thesan’s sole preference for males — namely his lover, Herades — was a terribly kept secret across Prythian, and the question of his lineage had always been cause for concern. The answer for Thesan had been to protect the quietest, most powerful members of his family. To cast them across Prythian to hide in plain sight so that should he and Herades ever fall, there would be a host of potential members for the power of the land to choose as his successor. You happened to be one of them. 

Eris fell quiet, puzzling over the implications of your existence and the brilliance in Thesan’s choice. It was a choice he suddenly wished he’d been offered — to go into hiding, to disappear from court life and the vultures that hovered wherever they believed power lay. But that would have required his family to be fundamentally different from what they were.  

His eyes flickered up to yours. “I’m Eris Vanserra.”

You snorted. “I know very well who you are.” 

Eris smiled, as vicious and loyal as a wolf. “I figured, but I was raised to be a gentleman.” 

“Somehow I doubt that.” 

His smile flickered in and out of sincerity, hiding hosts of knowledge and experience you couldn’t quite understand. But you already knew more of him than most, could feel the elements of his soul as intrinsically as your own. It’s how you knew he was safe, even if he attracted danger. 

Lucien emerged from the bath, hair still soaking wet so that the spare set of clothes he’d last left in your cottage were already translucent with water, sticking to his chest and back. 

You quietly nudged Eris’s side, dipping your lips to his ear to ask, “Can you stand?” He nodded and though he grunted in pain, leaning against your side as he arose, it wasn’t because of his injuries but the bone-deep exhaustion of being on the run for his life. 

“I’ll keep the fire going,” Lucien said. 

“There’s food in the pantry. Pies, breads, jams, meats. Help yourself.” You glanced down at the Heir of Autumn currently glaring at his brother. “And please prepare a plate for Eris as well.” 

Disappointment curled in Eris’s stomach as you led him to the bath and waited for the enchanted tub to fill. It was an intentional move to have Lucien prepare his meal and the message was clear — you would not be accepting the bond tonight.

You forced Eris to sit on the edge of the tub and after a moment’s hesitation, began unbuttoning his shirt. It clung to him, fused to his skin with grime and blood as you peeled it off of him. 

“I am very capable of taking off my own clothes, Y/n.” Eris dipped his head down to yours, staring unabashedly at your lips. Your hands ghosted over his ribs, tracing the faint scars from where he’d met arrows and blades and whips. There was one mark on his chest that made you pause. A handprint burned into the space over his right ribs, like someone had grabbed him as he turned to flee. 

“I won’t be accepting the bond tonight,” you declared. A flash of sadness came and went across Eris’s honey-brown eyes before being replaced by a practical acceptance. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to,” you added, hands drifting to the waistband of his trousers. You undid the buckles quickly, forcing the blush away from your cheeks as you stripped him of his clothes. And surprisingly, Eris let you. 

“I promise, I am usually better kept than this.” He scratched at the stubble that had trickled down his neck, hiding the sharpest edges of his face. “If that is what gives you pause.”

“What gives me pause is less your stint in the woods and more the danger your father presents.” You helped him into the bath, seeing the water boil as his hot skin made contact. He sank beneath the floral waters with a groan of contentment and a flash of pleasure pooled in your stomach. “I imagine that he’s the reason Lucien dragged you to my door. There have been whispers that you plan to overthrow him. Take the crown for yourself.” 

Eris grimaced, teeth set on edge as he sat up in the tub. His hands tightened around the porcelain edge, drawing him up and close to your face. “It’s not the crown I want. I just want — no, I need — him dead. The only peace I’ll find in this life is knowing he’s buried somewhere no one can ever find him again.” His eyes studied you. “Perhaps not the only peace,” he amended, daring to hope. 

You helped him bathe, scrubbing at his scalp with handfuls of soap that had sinful sounds escaping his lips. You positioned yourself at his back, leaning forward to wrap your arms around his chest, soapy water be damned. “I won’t be much use to you in a fight, Eris. I’ve never been built for it.” 

“I wouldn’t ask that of you,” he hissed, as if the very thought of you in harm’s way was akin to drinking poison. “I wouldn’t want that of you.” 

Now that he was clean you were shocked at the paleness of his skin, the sheer amount of freckles that left no corner of skin uncovered and the scars that were almost as numerous. His hair and beard were as bright as fire and his body frighteningly hot to the touch, as if he’d been born from coals. “Then I will wait for you, either in the healer’s tents off the battlefield or here. Whichever will cause you less concern. I will wait for the day you bring me your father’s head.” 

Eris stared and stared and stared, teasing apart the lies from the truth on your lips. Then his voice caught, some strangled sound of hope and disbelief slipping out as he realized you were completely serious. Whatever his past, the poison that seemed to run from his father into him, you cared not. You wanted him. You wanted your mate. 

With renewed confidence and strength he pulled you to the side of the tub where you could face him fully and he surged forward, capturing your lips and drenching the front of your dress. You cared not and allowed yourself to be held flush against his bare chest. It was like falling into fire without the pain, just the warmth and the pressure of strong arms around your sides, the taste of smoke and cinnamon on your tongue. 

“I’ll bring you his head,” he promised. “Then you will be mine and I will be yours.” 

“It’s a deal,” you murmured against his lips. 

Both Lucien and Eris knew the longer they lingered the greater chance Beron would find you, but they also couldn’t deny they were in no condition to travel. Not yet. 

They risked one night, and when you led Eris into your bedroom, leaving Lucien to his own devices on the couch, no one made any noise of disapproval. 

It should have been uncomfortable having Eris squeeze into your bed, to have his long, wiry body press you into the mattress with his arms locked protectively around your waist, but all you felt was comfort and safety. Even in sleep he wouldn’t leave you vulnerable and exposed, burying his freshly shaved face into the soft hollow of your throat where his breath could fan over your pulse and lull you to sleep. 

For the first time that day you felt fear run through your body like a match set on fire — a sudden burst followed by a low, ever present simmer. Here you were, drinking in the feel of your mate not knowing if tomorrow he’d be hunted and killed. You didn’t want to lose this warmth — this heat. Maybe you could protect him. Maybe—

Eris sighed, shoulders rising and falling like a great mountain. His lips tickled your ear as he whispered. “I have so little that belongs to me, Y/n, so don’t entertain any ideas of putting yourself in harm’s way. I won’t stand for it and I won’t be the one to lose you. Sleep now and know that I will do whatever it takes to come back to you.” You swallowed thickly and nodded. This battle was one you could concede. 

It had been nearly a year. A year of silence. A year of practical waiting and unbearable longing with only a promise keeping you grounded to your home. Eris had sworn to come back and so long as you felt the bond humming in your chest, you knew there was a chance that he would. 

You were cooking dinner, eyes trained on the hound that guarded the garden in front as he stalked the edges of the woods. His sleek, steel-grey body twisted in and out of trees like smoke, black eyes so deep they seemed endless. It was the only thing Eris had dared bring you in the dead of night when Prythian was on the brink of tipping into war. 

“Soon.” He’d promised. “Soon we’ll be together.” 

You clung to that promise. To that hope. 

The ground shifted beneath you and within you. Power rushed over the land in a sweep of blistering heat that had all creatures magical and mundane, powerless and powerful, shuddering in awe. It was the kind of power that only came to Prythian when a new High Lord had come into his own.  

You blinked, hand flying up to your chest where the tight coil of the bond coiled even tighter until it was a hot coal lodged just beneath your heart. You waited for hours, food untouched on the table and your stomach in your throat until finally you heard the faint barking of the hound. Excited. Joyous. 

You flung open the door to a gruesome, welcome sight. 

Eris. 

Bloody, but whole and standing. He smiled so wide it split the gore on his face in two, bronze armor half-melted off his form to expose luminescent skin that glowed with new found power. He was frightening, feral and drunk off power, and desperate. But you didn’t shy away from it. There was a metal box clutched between his hands and you already knew what was in it. 

A prize. 

A prize for his mate and proof of a promise fulfilled. 

You ran towards him and he tossed the box aside carelessly, flinging wide his arms as you came sailing into them. He was nearly knocked over by your power and his breath was stolen as you slammed your lips into his, nearly bruising in their strength. 

Together you stumbled into the house, tripping over furniture and leaving scorch marks on the wood floors as you went. It mattered not. None of it mattered anymore. Not really. 

He took one bite of the meal you’d left on the table — just enough to dispense with the ceremony of accepting a mating bond — and then he descended upon you. Hungry. Starving. Ravenous. 

That was what he was — ravenous. He swallowed the noises slipping past your lips like they were honey. Touched you. Licked you like you were food. At some point in the chaos you became aware of his newfound power. Flames peppered his skin, twisting around you with warmth and vitality. Never burning. Only warm against your flesh as you twisted with him in the sheets, leaving scorched handprints on the walls and on the bedframe. 

“I imagine—” You began before his lips found the hollow of your throat and sucked. You stuttered. “I-I expect you to replace all of this when this is over.” Eris chuckled, teeth grazing against your collarbone. His tongue was hot and wet against you and it made you smile. 

“My darling,” he whispered, voice low and rumbling, “I will give you anything you could possibly want.” The bond sang in your chest, pleased at the attention. But even you could tell that Eris was holding back. There was fire in him stronger than anything he’d shown yet. You felt it burning beneath every muscle and sinew like a hot coal smothered beneath ash. 

“Anything?” You ventured to ask. There was a corkscrew curl that split down his forehead and you languidly twisted it around your finger, giving it an experimental tug. Eris groaned into your mouth, hips stuttering against yours. 

“Anything.” 

You hummed. “I moved everything of importance to me into the woods.” Eris froze, lifting his head from where he’d buried it into your neck. His eyes were alight with curiosity and lust. You leaned into him, nose brushing against his cheekbone as you whispered against his lips, “I couldn’t give a damn if this house is reduced to ash.” His lips curled back, wicked as sin. His teeth glinted, sharpened into fangs. “So don’t hold back.” 

Eris erupted in flame, nails digging into your hips as he rolled against you, chasing a high that you’d both indulged in for hours but still felt new with every inward press. You were glowing. Happy. Feral. A shining sun to rival the heat of his flames. 

You had the vague awareness of the mattress catching fire, the smoke billowing out the windows after they’d exploded into the yard, but you couldn’t care. Your focus had narrowed into two pinpricks of light in the vast universe — your pleasure, and Eris’s. 

The roof fell the next time you and Eris came together, a mix of light and fire rendering it into ash — dark and clean and soft as snow as it settled around you. You trembled around Eris, twitching as you felt every tense muscle loosen one by one. The power that had erupted from you, twisting and writhing its way into the open air, cooled and fell like a blanket. Eris was a blanket too, a welcome heaviness over your frame as you slowly caught your breath. 

Maybe you should have both eaten more before the kitchen went up in flames. Fulfilling the desires of a new mating bond was hard work on the body. You smiled to yourself, reveling in the pleasant soreness that touched every muscle, every crevice. The ash was warm beneath you, shifting to cradle your body in malleable hands. When your eyes finally flitted shut, carrying you off into a dreamless slumber, you saw the faint glow of stars still mapped on the inside of your eyelids. 

“Gods.” Lucien sat amazed atop his horse. The creature he rode pawed nervously at the ground, feeling the heat waver above scorched earth. Where the house had once stood — your house — there was nothing but a smoking pile of ash. Even the clearing surrounding it, once teaming with life and carefully manicured rows of herbs, was blackened and smoking. The trees swayed in the air, nursing their broken branches and singed leaves like bones. “Eris? Y/n?”

The ash shifted, slow and lazy. An arm appeared first, pale as moonlight. Then a flaming head of hair. A figure curled protectively around another body, still languid with pleasure. 

You instinctively pressed yourself into the ground, letting Eris hover over you protective and fox-like — a beast stalking the mouth of its cave; a dragon protecting its hoard. 

Lucien smirked at the sight of his brother and friend tangled in the ash, then whistled low and cheeky. “I leave you alone for three days and this is what you get up to?” No one else had wanted to investigate the fire roaring between Dawn and Winter, and Lucien was suddenly grateful he’d been assigned the task by a very amused Thesan. Eris might have killed anyone else who stumbled upon your… activities. 

“Go.” The voice that left Eris’s lips was powerful. Old. Ancient. And pissed. 

Lucien tipped his head in a sketch of a bow. It took little convincing for the horse to back away from the clearing. Lucien dropped a bag on the forest floor, safe and away from the ring of fire that had already begun to erupt around the clearing. “For when you’re finished!” He shouted over his shoulder. “Save us all the sight of your pale, naked self!” 

There came a disgruntled roar followed by a high, female laugh and Lucien couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. It would seem he’d chosen the right place to bring his brother after all.

[ohemgeewhat]

The Phoenix

pairing: Tamlin x Reader

Summary: In the aftermath of war, a gifted healer and emissary from the Dawn Court, now aligned with the Night Court, is sent by Rhysand to the Spring Court on a delicate diplomatic mission. Her task: to rebuild fragile ties with Tamlin, the High Lord many consider a pariah after his catastrophic fallout with Feyre and the collapse of his once-beautiful court.

What begins as a formal assignment quickly deepens when she sees the man Tamlin has become…worn, haunted, yet still achingly beautiful beneath the ruin.

Despite the whispers of betrayal and the warnings from her own court, she finds herself drawn to him in ways she cannot ignore. His pain, his honesty, and the rare glimpses of the male he used to be stir something in her that goes beyond duty…something tender, intimate, and dangerous.

And despite the warnings, she is determined to help him rise from the ashes.

___________________________________

content warnings: angst

word count: 2.7k

Permanent taglist: @motheroffae @tele86 @demon-master-zero @thegoddessofnothingness @rosecobollway @sillyfreakfanparty @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @plants-w0rld @frietiemeloen @the-hidey-hole @dnfhascorruptedme @lreadsstuff @jesskidding3 @beyondblissxoxo @vanserrasimp @bravo-delta-eccho @sophieliz @masbt1218 @ohemgeewhat @thefatesofspring @flawlessrosee-blog

Story taglist: @impossibelle

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Image owned by Velocity Visual Media.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

*****

Chapter 12

The moment your feet touched the stone floor of your old room in the House of Wind, the silence hit you like a wave.

Everything was the same, too much the same. The bed was still perfectly made, the windows spotless, the scent of the mountains drifting in through the open pane.

But it all felt wrong.

Foreign.

Lifeless.

Because it didn’t smell like him.

You dropped your bag onto the floor, your limbs suddenly too heavy to lift.

You collapsed onto the bed, curling into yourself as the door clicked shut behind you with quiet finality.

The scent of the Spring Court still clung to your skin…rosewood and moss and the lingering sweetness of garden blooms.

But beneath it, always, was him.

Tamlin.

His warmth, his strength, the way he smelled like sunlight and green things and something uniquely his.

The scent you’d come to associate with safety.

With love.

Tears burned hot behind your eyes before you could stop them.

And then they came.

Silent at first, and then sobs that wracked your chest and soaked the pillow beneath you. You curled tighter, as if trying to keep his memory locked within your body, as if clinging to the remnants of his touch might hold you together.

You could still feel him.

The ghost of his lips on yours, the press of his body over yours in the moonlit garden, the way he had whispered your name like a vow. You could still feel his hands, reverent and trembling, as he held you like you were everything good in the world.

And now… gone.

Your fingers curled into the sheets, desperate and white-knuckled.

You didn’t know what to do.

How to get back to him.

Rhysand hadn’t imprisoned you in name, but you knew the truth.

You wouldn’t be able to winnow past the boundaries of the House.

He wouldn’t take the risk.

And the worst part?

You hadn’t even been able to say goodbye properly.

What if Tamlin thought you had changed your mind?

That you had decided not to come back?

A fresh wave of grief surged through you at the thought.

That he might be sitting in the garden right now, waiting.

That he might be hurting, doubting, thinking he’d imagined it all.

No. You had to let him know.

You closed your eyes, clutching your chest, and reached for the bond.

It was faint…flickering and distant like a single star in an endless night.

But you tugged gently, pouring every ounce of your love, your longing, your pain into that thread.

Please, you thought. Please feel me.

And then a tug.

Not weak.

Not soft.

Strong.

Fierce.

Immediate.

Love surged through you like fire.

Desire, aching and endless.

Longing that mirrored your own.

It flooded your heart and made your tears fall faster.

He had felt you.

He missed you.

He was waiting.

You sent it all back.

Your love, your devotion, your promise.

I’m still yours.

You wanted to tell him everything.

About Rhys, about what had happened.

That you were being kept here against your will, that you hadn’t broken your promise.

But something in you held back.

If Tamlin knew… if he thought you were a prisoner…

He would burn the skies to get to you.

He would destroy everything in his path.

And you couldn’t be the spark that lit that fire between courts.

Not yet.

Not when things were finally healing.

So you lay there, in the silence of your room, the bond pulsing softly between your ribs like a heartbeat.

A quiet, steady reminder that he was out there.

That he still loved you.

And that you had to find a way back to him.

No matter what.

*****

His room still smelled like her.

Tamlin lay on his back across the bed, one arm draped over his eyes, trying not to breathe too deeply, but failing every time.

Her scent clung to the pillows, the sheets.

That faint trace of spring blossoms and warmth.

Of her skin against his, her breath in his ear, her laughter echoing through these now quiet halls.

She had only been gone a few hours, but the manor already felt colder.

Emptier.

As if the moment she’d winnowed away, she’d taken all the light with her.

He hadn’t moved much since then.

Not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t want to.

If he shifted too much, the scent would fade faster, her imprint on his bed, and his life, would start to dissolve into memory.

And gods, he wasn’t ready for that.

Not yet.

His golden hair was a tousled mess over the pillow she had slept on, his chest bare, the blankets tangled around his legs from tossing and turning. His hand curled slightly, instinctively, remembering the feel of her body beneath his, the way she had looked at him…eyes filled with love, trust, and something deeper.

Something eternal.

But now… that feeling in his chest.

That weight.

He’d felt it the moment she left.

It wasn’t sadness exactly.

That had a name.

He could handle that.

No, this was something else.

Ominous.

A wrongness settling in the pit of his stomach like a slow-growing storm.

Like the air was too still before the crack of thunder.

He’d tried to shake it off.

Told himself it was nothing.

That he was just missing her.

That being apart from a mate after finding her, claiming her, loving her… would leave anyone unbalanced.

But still… he didn’t trust it.

He didn’t trust him.

Rhysand.

Tamlin’s jaw clenched hard at the thought of the High Lord of Night. His chest rose and fell slowly, controlled, because if he let himself think too long on it, rage would stir.

And he’d promised her.

Promised he would be better.

That he was better.

But Tamlin knew Rhys.

Knew the way he operated.

Charming and calculating.

A master manipulator who smiled with venom in his teeth.

So why hadn’t she come back yet?

And why hadn’t she sent a message?

Did something go wrong?

Did she change her mind?

The bond twitched.

He sat up immediately, chest tight, blinking against the fading light of the room.

Another tug…soft, hesitant.

Longing.

Tamlin’s breath hitched.

He pressed a hand to his chest and felt her.

Need.

Ache.

Desperation laced with love.

She missed him.

She still wanted him.

And gods, if that didn’t crack him wide open.

He reached for the bond with his heart wide open, pouring himself into it without hesitation, love and desire flooding the thread between them like warm light breaking through storm clouds.

He sent her everything he felt.

His yearning.

His pride.

His promise.

I’m here. I’m waiting. I love you.

And when it came back, her answer, equally raw and overwhelming, he smiled.

That smile was faint, quiet. Like the first green bud pushing through winter frost.

She still loved him.

She would come back.

He turned his head to the pillow she had slept on and breathed her in, the ache of missing her sharp in his ribs, but steadied now.

Because he had felt her.

And now all he had to do was wait.

But still… the unease never fully left.

Something wasn’t right.

He could feel it deep in his bones.

Something just wasn’t right.

And Tamlin knew when it came to the Night Court and the male who ruled it, he couldn’t afford to ignore his instincts.

Not when it came to her.

Not when it came to the female who now held his heart.

*****

The days dragged.

Each one like a heavy stone dropped into Tamlin’s chest, stacking one atop the other, pressing down until even drawing breath felt weighted.

She hadn’t come back.

Not after the first night.

Not after the second.

Or the third.

And now seven days had passed.

The manor gleamed with life, the flowers blooming brighter than they had in years, the sounds of villagers laughing and working drifting in on spring-sweet breezes.

Everything around him whispered of new beginnings, of hope returning to the Spring Court like the first golden light of dawn.

But it was meaningless without her.

Tamlin stood on the balcony of his bedroom, arms braced on the stone rail, eyes fixed on the horizon.

The breeze teased through his long, golden hair.

He didn’t feel the wind.

Not really.

Because all he could feel was her.

Every night, she reached for him through the bond.

Softly.

Like fingertips brushing across his chest, leaving heat and longing in their wake.

Sometimes it came with her scent, the memory of her skin pressed to his, her laugh, her kiss.

Sometimes it was just her presence. That pulse of connection that told him she was still there. That she hadn’t forgotten him.

And gods, he held onto that like a lifeline.

He returned it each time with everything in him…

I miss you. I love you. Come home.

But the days stretched.

And she didn’t.

The first few days, he told himself she was tying up loose ends.

Saying goodbye to friends.

Packing her things.

Making arrangements.

He’d even tried to convince himself it was a good sign…that she wanted her departure to be clean, respectful.

That it meant she cared about the life she was leaving behind just as much as the one she was stepping into with him.

But the longer she stayed away, the harder it became to believe that.

Something gnawed at his instincts.

At the animal inside him.

It whispered that something was wrong.

That she wasn’t staying by choice.

That someone…Rhysand, was holding her there.

Tamlin paced the balcony like a caged beast, running a hand through his hair as his jaw clenched tighter.

He had no proof.

No words from her confirming the fear building like a storm behind his ribs.

But the absence of answers was answer enough.

Because the female who had touched his soul, who had breathed life back into his court, his heart, his very self, would not stay away this long unless something was stopping her.

*****

The eighth night fell like a stone into your chest.

You lay curled in your bed at the House of Wind, the walls too quiet, the pillows too cold, the scent of Tamlin on your skin faded but never truly gone. Your fingers twisted the sheets beneath you as silent tears soaked the pillow beneath your cheek.

You had tried to winnow.

Again.

And again.

But no matter how hard you focused, no matter how much magic you summoned, nothing happened.

A shimmering wall met you each time, quiet and invisible, but unbreakable.

Wards.

You had no doubt now.

Rhysand had locked you in.

And you were breaking.

Tonight, you didn’t even try to send love through the bond.

You couldn’t fake it.

Not anymore.

So instead, you let the truth spill through that tether.

Despair.

It flowed like a storm.

Grief that knotted in your throat, the crushing weight of helplessness sitting on your chest.

You sent desperation, the kind that made your hands shake and your ribs feel too tight to breathe.

Sorrow so deep it felt like a scream you couldn’t voice aloud.

You whispered his name through the bond. Not with hope, but with need.

You begged with your soul.

 Please feel this. Please understand.

Across the tether, you felt the bond snap taut.

Then a tug.

Powerful.

Feral.

Lightning.

And gods, it almost shattered you.

Because in that one pull, he poured it all into you.

His panic.

His rising dread.

The way his breath must have caught.

The way his chest must’ve clenched.

The sudden fire of protectiveness and fury and pain.

Where are you?

The tug seemed to scream.

What’s happening?

But you didn’t answer…not with words.

You couldn’t.

You just sent more of that aching sorrow, layered with the quiet, aching pulse of one truth.

I want to come home. But I can’t.

And on the other end, the bond throbbed like a heart.

Tamlin’s heart.

Beating harder, louder.

And then, for a brief second, you felt something else.

Resolve.

And gods help anyone who stood in his way.

*****

The night was quiet.

Too quiet.

The manor had long since settled into stillness, but Tamlin remained awake, lying atop the rumpled sheets that still smelled of her.

Of you.

His fingers were curled around the bond, like he could somehow summon you closer if he just held on tightly enough.

It had been eight days.

Eight excruciating days.

He’d tried to keep busy…overseeing the fields, walking through the gardens now in full bloom, meeting with villagers.

They all asked after you.

Smiling, hopeful.

When would the High Lady return?

He gave the same answer every time.

Soon.

But he didn’t believe it anymore.

The unease had grown with every sunrise, becoming a low, gnawing fear that wouldn't release him.

His instincts whispered it first.

Then they screamed.

Something was wrong.

He was just about to reach for the bond again…he always did around this time, like a ritual, like a prayer when he felt it.

It didn’t come like before.

No warmth.

No laughter.

It was like the air left his lungs.

A wave of despair crashed into him, sharp and aching.

His entire body went rigid as the sorrow poured through the bond…your sorrow.

Not just longing, but helplessness.

Not just distance, but grief.

And then desperation, raw and jagged, hit him like a spear to the gut. So fierce it drove him to his knees beside the bed, hand clutched over his chest like he could physically keep his heart from cracking.

"Gods," he whispered, voice barely a breath.

You were in pain.

You were trapped.

He knew it now.

The way the sorrow laced through the tether, wordless, but speaking volumes.

The way your magic throbbed with yearning and powerlessness.

You weren’t staying away because you changed your mind.

You couldn’t come back.

Rhysand.

It had to be him.

Tamlin’s hands curled into fists on the floor, claws extending instinctively as a low growl rumbled deep in his throat.

That male had taken everything from him once before.

His court, his love, his dignity.

And now he was keeping you.

He breathed through his fury, forcing it down so it wouldn’t drown out what mattered most.

You.

He sent it back immediately…through the bond, his magic wrapping around yours like a vow.

Like a lifeline.

I feel you. I hear you. I will come for you.

His own emotions surged down the bond like a storm.

Love, desire, protectiveness.

And beneath it all, a quiet, relentless resolve.

He would find a way.

He would tear down every ward, defy every threat, burn down every barrier to bring you back where you belonged.

With him.

And he didn’t care if it started a war.

[ohemgeewhat]

Oh my gosh this is too cute! I love the idea of Nyx being an absolute terror baby with all his potential powers! Kind of reminds me of Jack Jack from the incredibles 😂

𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞!

Azriel x Historiographer!reader Summary: Azriel and his mate tried to tell his family about their mating bond. Unfortunately, arsonist nephews, tired (and frankly, scared) generals with a single eyebrow, and stressed out parents made the task seemingly impossible. Warnings: Inner Circle is obtuse, Nyx is vengeful, Rhys is kinda an asshole A/N: Reader’s job has little to nothing to do with the story, I just hate using “y/n” so I come up with loopholes to address the reader without using it. 

It had been 3 months since the Spy Master of the Night Court and Velaris’ Head Historiographer had stopped dancing around their feelings, 2 months since the mating bond had snapped between the two, and approximately 1 hour since they decided to tell their family. 

“They will be excited for us, my love.” She cooed, trying to fix the perpetual frown that adorned her mate’s face. “They will be annoying of course, they always are,” she grumbled, “but they will be happy. And they will finally stop worrying about whether or not you are going to die alone.” She teased, combing through Azriel’s hair as she tried to push it back, a style he hated but she absolutely loved. 

“I don’t see why we have to make it a thing.” Azriel replied, fixing his hair the second her hands left his head.

“A thing? You mean our mating bond? The one you prayed for every single day of your 500 year long life? You don’t want to make telling the most important people in your life into a thing?” 

“I just thought… maybe a surprise mating ceremony would be better.”

“Azriel, how do you think that will play out? ‘Surprise, we are mates and this is our mating ceremony! But don’t make it a big deal, we don’t want it turning into a thing!’” 

“Well, at the end of the ceremony we will disappear and go on vacation before they can say anything. That way they have time to cool down and we get to have a nice relaxing time together without their antics.” Azrel justified, or at least tried to.

The small smile that adored his lips while thinking about said vacation instantly dropped when she started laughing at him. 

“And what do you think will happen when we get back? If they don’t manage to crash our honeymoon just to get answers, then there will certainly be hell to pay when we come home. And I promise, it will end up being a much bigger thing than if we just told them tonight at dinner.” 

Azriel grumbled in response. She was right, of course, but it didn’t mean he looked forward to telling their family. He wasn’t ashamed of her, nor of the bond between them, how could he be? But Azriel never liked attention, it’s why his work was so perfect for him. But his family… they were nosy. They would make it a big deal and while, quite frankly, it was a big deal, Azriel wasn’t looking forward to the show. 

Fortunately for him, the Inner Circle was also far too obtuse at times, though this time it wasn’t really their fault.

Feyre and Rhysand had recently discovered that Nyx could Winnow. This happened about a month prior when Feyre went to wake her son up from his nap and found his cradle to be empty. After 45 minutes of panicked searching alongside Rhys, Mor, Elain, Lucien, Cassian, Nesta, Azriel, and a few of the priestesses, Feyre found her son in the arms of Amren, who had discovered him in front of her apartment door an hour prior. 

Baby Nyx loved his aunt Amren more than anyone else, much to the chagrin of his parents and the rest of their family. 

In the past month, various wards had been implemented to stop the High Lord and Lady’s child from disappearing again, but they have also had to deal with the various other abilities that seemingly manifested since. 

When Azriel and his mate finally made it to dinner, Cassian had one eyebrow and an already healing burn, Mor was missing a couple inches of hair that had seemingly been singed off, both Feyre and Rhys had eyebags like never before, and a very content Nyx was sat on the lap of a gloating Amren. 

“I hope we didn’t miss all the fun!” the historiographer joked, hoping to lighten the tense mood in the dining room. 

“Oh, you missed the show, but I’d be more than happy to recount the details for you.” Nesta spoke up, cackling when she looked at her one-eyebrowed mate who hadn’t stopped pouting since the incident. 

As the two late comers sat down and started to eat, the tension in the room didn’t cease. In fact, it seemed to get worse every time Nesta broke out into giggles when looking at Mor and Cassian. 

After far too many seconds of painful silence, Azriel received a kick on the leg from his mate. Looking at her, she hissed what he assumed to be a few “encouraging” words about him growing a pair. 

After taking a deep breath, Azriel cleared his throat, gaining the attention of the entire table. 

“We have been meaning to talk to you all about something. Now, I know things around here have been… rather tense. But hopefully this good news will-”

“One second-” The High Lord interrupted as a note appeared before him. Upon reading the missive, he groaned before passing it to Feyre, the letter eliciting the same reaction from her as well. “Madja got us in touch with a healer who specializes in High Fae child development. He says that this thing with Nyx is normal at this stage, especially with powerful parents, and that the powers displayed might not even stay. It's like the Mother is testing which abilities Nyx will have, and we haven’t even gotten to the worst of it yet.” Rhysand grumbled, his hand going through his uncharacteristically unruly hair. 

“Well when the two most powerful fae in Prythian love each other very much…” Mor started. 

“They curse the rest of their family by creating the most vengeful baby the world has ever seen.” Cassian hissed. After a kick on the shin from Feyre, and a smack on the chest from Nesta, he quickly added, “Not that we don’t love you Nyx. You are the light of all our lives and blah blah blah.” After an additional glare from Rhys, Cassian yelled: “He can’t even understand me! It's not like he knows what I am-” the general abruptly stopped talking when his salad caught on fire, causing the baby on Amren’s lap to start laughing. 

After the Shadows made quick work out of putting out the fire, Azriel spoke up once more, “As I said, I know you all have a lot going on right now-”

“No kidding.” Nesta interrupted. “I keep having to fight the camp lords to allow my Valkyrie to compete in the Blood Rite and I swear every time I bring it up they find new ways to make our life harder.” 

“I am sorry to hear that Nesta, but like Azriel said I think this news will-”

“The Illyrians are a backwards group that won’t respond to being asked to change their ways. I keep telling Rhysand he needs to be harder on them.” Azriel interrupted his mate. She would have been more upset had she not known how sore of a subject Illyrians and their beliefs were for her mate. 

“Azriel, we have discussed this before. You are letting your hatred of them get in the way of logical thinking. They won’t respond to abrupt changes either, you need to let me do my job.” Rhysand argued. 

Before Azriel could argue back, he felt a supportive squeeze on his hand from the female beside him, gently guiding him back on track. “Look, I am not here to discuss Illyria. If you all could just stay silent for a moment then-” 

Fire seized Cassian’s shoulder, most likely in response to the lighthearted glares he had been sending his nephew. While the leathers protected his skin from the heat, a chunk of his long brown locks had not been as fortunate. 

“Alright, clearly this isn’t working out for Nyx. It’s past his bedtime anyway, maybe we should call it quits.” Feyre spoke up, sending an apologetic look to Cassian. 

“If you all would give me just a moment-” Azriel started.

“Look, it's been stressful around here for us, Az. I promise I will listen to whatever shit you need to complain or argue about another day.” Rhysand interrupted. While the silence that followed would have given Az the opportunity to correct his brother’s, rather rude, assumption, his mate stopped him before he could speak up. 

“You know what, you’re right, tonight isn’t the night for any family discussions. We wouldn’t want to bother you all with our lives. Have a good night.” In the many years Rhysand had known the Head Historiographer of his court, and the many years since they had become friends- almost family, he had never heard her speak in such a tone. But before anyone else could get a word in, her and Azriel had disappeared into the shadows. 

Back at her apartment, Azriel watched as his mate, seething in anger, paced in front of the fireplace. 

“I cannot believe he really insinuated all you were trying to do was argue or complain when you specifically said it was good news! What a childish, egotistical, brat!” 

“My love, he is going through a lot with Nyx right now-”

“That does NOT give him the right to talk to you like that! If he were to speak to Cassian that way, Nesta would have bitten his head off. I mean how many times had he lost it when Nesta and Feyre fought? Gods, I should have really laid it on him. It is totally unacceptable that he-” Her impassioned rant was suddenly cut off by an equally as passionate kiss. 

Suddenly, she couldn’t have cared less about what the High Lord had to say. All that existed in that moment was her and her mate. 

When the two separated, all negative emotions had been depleted, the only care being the golden string that attached one soul to the other.  

“How about this,” Azriel spoke, still breathless from the kiss the two had shared, “We can make a game out of it. We tried telling them, how about now we just make it as obvious as possible without explicitly stating anything, and see how long it takes them to figure it out.” He suggested.

“And if they are truly too obtuse to catch on?” She asked.

“We can give them the time it takes to plan a proper mating ceremony. If by then they still haven’t figured it out, then we can go with my original plan. That way they can’t be upset because it would be their fault for not catching on, and we get to have fun.” 

“A part of me kind of hopes they don’t catch on now.” She giggled. 

“Oh, trust me, unless we spell it out for them, they won’t know a thing.” Azriel replied. 

A/N: I have ideas for part two, but I also have 1,000 other ideas and projects half written, so let me know if you would like a sequel!

[ohemgeewhat]

If you want an amazing Tamlin fic series, this is it my friends. 🩷

The Phoenix

pairing: Tamlin x Reader

Summary: In the aftermath of war, a gifted healer and emissary from the Dawn Court, now aligned with the Night Court, is sent by Rhysand to the Spring Court on a delicate diplomatic mission. Her task: to rebuild fragile ties with Tamlin, the High Lord many consider a pariah after his catastrophic fallout with Feyre and the collapse of his once-beautiful court.

What begins as a formal assignment quickly deepens when she sees the man Tamlin has become…worn, haunted, yet still achingly beautiful beneath the ruin.

Despite the whispers of betrayal and the warnings from her own court, she finds herself drawn to him in ways she cannot ignore. His pain, his honesty, and the rare glimpses of the male he used to be stir something in her that goes beyond duty…something tender, intimate, and dangerous.

And despite the warnings, she is determined to help him rise from the ashes.

___________________________________

content warnings: very light angst, fluff

word count: 3.2k

Permanent taglist: @motheroffae @tele86 @demon-master-zero @thegoddessofnothingness @rosecobollway @sillyfreakfanparty @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @plants-w0rld @frietiemeloen @the-hidey-hole @dnfhascorruptedme @lreadsstuff @jesskidding3 @beyondblissxoxo @vanserrasimp @bravo-delta-eccho @sophieliz @masbt1218 @ohemgeewhat @thefatesofspring @flawlessrosee-blog

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Image owned by Velocity Visual Media.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

*****

Chapter 7

The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the dining room, painting the old walls with soft golden light. The scent of freshly baked bread and warm honey lingered in the air, mingling with wildflowers and morning dew. The table had been set again, simple, but elegant, and for the first time in a long while, it looked like the estate was beginning to remember its old rhythm.

Tamlin sat at the head of the table, dressed in a deep forest-green tunic, freshly brushed and tailored to his broad frame, gold embroidery catching in the sunlight like dew on pine needles. His long hair had been pulled back loosely, half-tied to keep it from his face, and though he sat with a straight spine and a calm expression, his fingers tapped restlessly on the arm of his chair.

Then he heard you.

Your footsteps.

The whisper of skirts.

And then you stepped into the room.

And he forgot how to breathe.

The gown hugged every inch of you in a way that made his heart stutter.

Moss green velvet, fitted like a second skin over your bodice, hugging the swell of your breasts, tapering tightly at your waist before flowing like silk over your hips and down to brush the floor. Tiny, embroidered roses in shades of red and blush bloomed across the bodice and dipped down into the skirt, delicate vines curling like they’d grown there naturally. Your hair had been gathered into a loose braid crown, adorned with scattered blossoms the color of spring petals, the rest of your long hair tumbling in soft, wild curls down your back.

You didn’t walk into that room.

You claimed it.

And in that moment, Tamlin swore he’d never seen anything, or anyone, so stunning in all his life.

You looked exactly like you belonged in the Spring Court.

His throat bobbed, and he couldn’t stop staring.

“Good morning,” you said softly, smiling as you moved toward the table.

“Good -” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, trying again. “Good morning.”

You took the seat to his right once more, folding your gown beneath you as you settled in, and he tracked every movement, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

You glanced at him and arched a brow. “Are you going to eat? Or just keep staring at me?”

He huffed a low laugh, shaking his head. “Forgive me. I wasn’t aware the Spring Court’s High Lady had arrived this morning.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you looked away, hiding your smile. “Flatterer.”

“Not flattery,” he murmured. “Just truth.”

You cleared your throat and reached for a cup of tea, needing the warmth of it to ground you, to distract yourself from the way his gaze was making your skin burn.

“So,” you said, determined to shift focus, “after breakfast, we’ll visit the first village near the southern woods. I’d like you to walk with me, speak to the people, let them see their High Lord again. I’ll ask about their needs, what the court can provide now, and what will be arriving this afternoon.”

He nodded, already slipping back into the leader he once was. “And you want me to make a statement.”

“I do. Just something brief. Reassure them. Let them know help is coming, that new trade routes and alliances are in progress. That Spring Court is awakening again.”

He leaned back slightly, his eyes still warm with amusement. “You’ve got this all planned out, don’t you?”

“I always have a plan,” you said with a small grin.

He tilted his head. “I like that.”

You sipped your tea to hide the blush threatening to rise again.

And then he leaned in a fraction, voice lower now, more curious than anything.

“So…” he drawled. “How did you sleep last night?”

You froze, nearly choking on your tea.

His lips twitched in delight.

You forced a polite smile. “Just fine, thank you.”

His golden-green eyes gleamed. “That’s good to hear. I was outside for a while. The moonlight was strong last night. Thought I heard my name.”

Your breath caught and this time, your blush exploded across your cheeks.

Tamlin was smirking now, full and slow and devastating.

“Strange, isn’t it?” he added, his voice impossibly smooth. “Echoes in the garden. Can’t always be sure what’s real.”

You set your cup down carefully, very pointedly not meeting his gaze. “So, the village…do you remember how many families are there currently?”

He chuckled, soft and low, and you felt it down to your toes. “Changing the subject?”

“It’s a very important subject,” you said primly, though your voice betrayed the heat still burning in your cheeks.

He said nothing else, but you could feel him watching you, all his restraint barely holding.

The air between you had turned heavy again, charged, filled with something unspoken but felt.

You wanted him.

And gods, he wanted you.

But neither of you said it.

Not yet.

The sun was just cresting the treetops, gilding the wild greenery of Spring Court in a soft golden light as you and Tamlin stepped out of the manor side by side. The path down to the village was overgrown but not impassable, the scent of damp earth and budding blossoms thick in the morning air. A light breeze tugged at the hem of your gown, carrying with it the heady scent of blooming roses and honeysuckle, and Tamlin’s scent too, subtle and grounding beside you.

He glanced at you occasionally as you walked, saying nothing, but you could feel it…his tension, the way his shoulders held too tight, how his hand hovered just slightly behind your back, like he was always ready to steady you if you stumbled.

As the first buildings of the village came into view, you both slowed.

The villagers were already out, tending gardens, mending fences, gathering water in worn wooden pails.

Their eyes lifted the moment they caught sight of Tamlin.

A hush rippled through the street like wind through tall grass.

Tools stilled.

Conversations halted.

And slowly, wariness crept into their expressions.

You could feel the unease.

Years of fear, uncertainty, disappointment.

Tamlin tensed beside you.

But then they saw you.

And something changed.

Their eyes flicked to your dress…green as the hills, embroidered in roses, your hair braided and flowered, a vision that looked as if the court itself had stitched you from its wildest dreams. You walked beside their High Lord with your chin high, your presence calm, open, welcoming.

And the whispers began.

“Who is she?”

“She’s with him.”

“She looks like Spring, doesn’t she?”

“Is she here to help?”

Hope began to crack through the tension, like light through a broken shutter.

You leaned close to Tamlin and whispered, “They’re watching you.”

“I know,” he muttered, voice low.

“Good,” you said, nudging his arm gently with your elbow. “Let them.”

His lips curved slightly, not quite a smile, but close.

When you reached the village square, the people began to gather in earnest.

Curious.

Cautious.

But hopeful.

Mothers holding children.

Elders leaning on canes.

Young farmers with dirt-streaked hands.

They surrounded the central platform, murmuring amongst themselves as Tamlin stepped up to face them, his broad frame bathed in sunlight.

He took a long moment to look at his people.

The wind tugged gently at his hair.

The village held its breath.

You stayed at the bottom of the steps, just to his right, watching him as he took in the crowd, his people.

He looked at them like he was seeing them for the first time in years.

Then, at last, he spoke.

“I know I’ve been gone.”

The words settled over the square, quiet and heavy.

“Not in body,” he continued, voice low and rough-edged, “but in all the ways that matter. I’ve walked these lands, I’ve sat in my halls, but I wasn’t truly here. I was lost.”

A few murmurs stirred in the crowd, heads tilting, brows furrowing.

“I let pain consume me,” Tamlin said. “After losing Feyre, after losing myself…I turned away. From my duties. From my court. From all of you. I let the wild take over. I let the silence grow. I let fear rule in my place.”

The villagers were quiet now, listening.

He breathed in slowly, grounding himself. “And I was wrong.”

Gasps whispered through the crowd, not shocked, but startled.

This was not the male they remembered.

Not the one who had vanished behind anger and pride.

“I failed you,” Tamlin said, louder now, firmer. “I let the gardens die. I let the walls crumble. I let your needs go unanswered. And I will carry that guilt for a long time. But no longer will I let it stop me.”

Now they were truly listening.

“I want to make this right,” he said. “Starting today. With you.”

A pause.

Then he turned slightly, gesturing toward you.

“This is the emissary who reminded me of what I had forgotten. She challenged me. Guided me. Showed me what Spring could be again. What I could be again.”

You felt a flush rise in your cheeks, but you didn’t look away from him.

His voice didn’t waver.

His eyes didn’t leave his people.

“Because of her, we’ve begun forging new alliances. Supplies are coming today. Builders. Carpenters. Gardeners. Healers. From beyond our borders. We will repair the manor. Rebuild your homes. Replant the fields. We will bloom again. And we’ll do it together.”

The crowd stirred, shoulders straightening, arms uncrossing. Even the older villagers, long weighed down with grief, leaned forward now, eyes glinting with cautious hope.

“I am here now,” Tamlin said softly, but with steel beneath it. “And I am not going anywhere.”

Silence. Still.

Then one voice. A woman near the front, her gray hair pulled back in a braid, stepped forward.

“High Lord,” she said, voice trembling, “does this mean… you’re staying?”

Tamlin’s eyes locked with hers. “It means I’m fighting. For this court. For all of you.”

And then the cheer broke, like a dam giving way.

Hands clapped.

Voices lifted.

Laughter mingled with cheers and relieved cries.

Children ran forward.

People reached for one another.

You saw faces brighten with something you hadn’t seen since stepping foot in Spring.

Joy.

One man approached the platform and placed a hand over his heart, bowing deeply. Others followed suit, bowing, nodding, some with tears in their eyes. And still others just stood, staring at Tamlin like they’d found something precious they thought they’d lost.

You looked up at him and saw it.

Light.

He was glowing.

Not just from power, but from being seen again.

From owning his place again.

From finally stepping out of the ruins of grief.

And you… your heart twisted with a different kind of ache.

Because you had helped him rise from the ashes.

He turned toward you, eyes full of quiet awe.

You stepped forward, speaking clearly for all to hear, “We’ll begin meeting with you today. One at a time. You’ll tell us what you need. And by tonight, it will be delivered.”

They nodded, eager now, with hands lifting, voices rising.

Tamlin leaned close, lips brushing your ear as he murmured, “You did this.”

His voice was low, meant only for you, and that single touch was enough to send a shiver up your spine.

The air between you buzzed again, that quiet, trembling pull that had only deepened since last night.

You turned your face slightly, meeting his gaze.

“No,” you whispered back. “We did this.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth for just a heartbeat, his breath catching, then he looked away, stepping into the crowd with you as the people surged forward.

Villagers approached, shy at first, but soon eager to speak, to share what they needed, what had been missing, what they dreamed of. You listened attentively, writing notes, asking questions. Tamlin stood beside you the entire time, sometimes silent, sometimes offering gentle reassurances, but always watching you.

There was a moment when a small girl ran up to you, her dress ragged, her fingers wrapped tightly around a wilting daisy and placed the flower in your palm. You crouched to thank her, tucking it into your braid, and when you stood, Tamlin was staring at you with such open reverence, it nearly stole your breath.

You smiled at him, heart thudding.

And he smiled back, the light behind it so real, so tender, it was nearly a vow.

You were helping him reclaim his court.

But even more than that…

You were helping him reclaim himself.

*****

The sun arced high and golden over the lands of Spring Court as you and Tamlin moved from one village to the next, side by side…two figures stitched together by quiet purpose and something deeper neither of you dared name yet.

At each stop, the people gathered slowly at first, cautious, worn by years of fear and silence.

But then Tamlin would step forward, voice steady, open.

You would follow, your words gentle, curious, listening with that healer’s touch that turned suspicion into trust.

By midday, you no longer had to coax them forward.

They came on their own, elders, mothers, farmers, small children clinging to skirts and watching you with wide, hopeful eyes. They brought lists, questions, confessions whispered low…our fences are broken, we need seed for barley, the healer’s hut collapsed in the winter rains.

And you wrote it all down, your hands aching, ink staining your fingers as you kept pace beside Tamlin, who never once faltered.

He was changing before your eyes, no longer the ghost of a High Lord, but their High Lord.

And when he looked at you, there was gratitude there… and something deeper.

Something that set your blood humming.

By the time you returned to the manor, the sun had dipped low, streaking the sky in soft lavender and peach.

You had barely stepped through the wrought-iron gate when you heard it…

The sound of life.

Voices.

Wagons.

Laughter.

You and Tamlin stepped around the garden path, and the breath caught in your throat.

They had come.

All of them.

A great caravan of fae and tools and supplies stretched like a river across the grounds. Banners of crimson and gold, the colors of Autumn Court, fluttered in the breeze.

Dozens of skilled workers disembarked from enchanted wagons, unloading crates of tools, bundles of lumber, fresh linen, livestock in pens.

Carpenters, stonemasons, gardeners, seamstresses, engineers…all pouring from the line like an army sent not to destroy, but to revive.

At the front of them stood a tall, flame-haired female, long red curls hanging down her back in a sleek russet coat. Autumn’s new High Lady’s and the love of Eris’s life.

You smiled at her warmly. She offered a nod of respect in return before disappearing to oversee the dispersal.

Tamlin turned to you slowly, disbelief and wonder etched across his face. “You really did this,” he murmured.

You turned, meeting his gaze fully. “We did.”

Without missing a beat, you began organizing, flipping through your leather-bound book of requests.

You stood together, dividing workers and supplies by village, dispatching messengers, sending carpenters and stonemasons to the south, healers to the east. Livestock was paired with families in need. Seeds and tools sent toward the farmlands.

Tamlin moved like he’d been born to do this again, commanding without force, guiding without ego. At one point, he turned to a group of workers and gestured toward the manor.

“The west wing…begin clearing out the debris. We’ll start reconstruction tomorrow. I want this place open again. Lived in.”

You smiled, pride swelling in your chest.

“Now,” you said with a smirk, brushing dirt from your dress as you turned toward him, “you’re going to the tailor. I’ll oversee the manor myself if I have to, but you are getting measured.”

Tamlin laughed, low and warm and real. “Bossy, aren’t you?”

“Efficient,” you countered, brushing a stray curl from your face. “Go.”

He gave you a long, lingering look.

One that made your breath catch just slightly.

Then he turned to obey.

You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself.

And that’s when you felt the bond with Rhysand. A thin, sharp pull in your mind like a cold wind threading through warmth. The one he made sure to have with anyone of his court working for him.

I haven’t heard anything from you. When are you returning?

The words were clipped.

Tense.

You paused, hesitating.

I… I don’t know, you replied. Things have changed here.

Changed? How?

I’m helping them rebuild. Organizing supplies. Speaking with the villages. The people - you hesitated - they need this.

Silence.

Then...

That is not what this mission was for.

You flinched. I know. But this is what it’s become.

You were sent to assess trade potential, not become Spring Court’s savior.

Your jaw clenched. I’m not acting on the Night Court’s behalf, Rhys. This is me. Tamlin knows that.

It doesn’t matter. You’ve entangled yourself in something dangerous. You’re forgetting who he is.

Your breath caught in your throat. No, you whispered back. You’re forgetting who he was. And who he could be again.

Another beat of silence.

Colder this time.

You need to decide where your loyalty lies. Before you return.

The bond snapped shut like a slammed door.

You stood frozen, your breath caught somewhere between fury and heartbreak.

Your hands trembled slightly as you turned back to the manor.

Anger pulsed hot in your chest.

How could Rhys still carry that hatred?

After everything.

After Rhysand helped restore the Cauldron and died in the process and how Tamlin helped save him.

You had thought, hoped, that healing extended to all sides.

But it hadn’t.

You pressed your palms flat against the table beside you, staring down at your notes…dozens of requests from people who had nothing.

Tamlin wasn’t perfect.

He had made terrible mistakes.

But he was trying now.

With open hands, open eyes, a broken heart he was finally piecing back together.

And so were you.

You chose to help here.

Not as emissary.

Not as healer.

Not as Night Court.

Just you.

And maybe that was the beginning of something real.

Even if it meant walking a line Rhysand would never forgive you for crossing.

[ohemgeewhat]

Eeeek! Thank you thank you thank you!!!!! 🤩😍

Oooh for the Bingo can I request 'Don't go' with Eris or Azriel!!! Maybe where he knows they're mates but reader doesn't???? Love your writing!!! 😊🥰

Thanks! Sorry this took so long to write.

Don't Go Eris x Female Reader

Warnings: Little bit of angst

Word Count 1.6K

You sat across from Eris in the quiet coffee shop just down from your bookstore. A warm apple cider with cinnamon was nestled in your hands, more to keep them busy than anything else. Your nerves were getting the better of you. You'd been friends with Eris for years, standing with him when no one else would. You had always been there for him which made this the hardest thing to tell him. “You'd better hurry up and tell me before you implode with anxiety.” He says. He knew you well enough to know you had something to say to him. “I'm leaving Autumn.” You decide it best to rip the metaphorical bandage off. “Where are you vacationing this time?” He asks, not understanding what you meant.

“Not a vacation, Eris. I'm moving.” You state, bracing yourself for his reaction. His back straightens as he sits his mug down. “What do you mean you're moving? Where? When? What about your bookstore?” Eris says, remaining composed on the outside but internally his world is falling apart. “Helion has welcomed me to the day court. I won't be moving until after I sell my bookstore though.” You answer nervously. Eris sits there stunned as his mind spirals with your words. “I know it seems crazy and sudden but it's been on my mind for a while. I'll still come back and visit.” You continue as you watch Eris sit in silence, awkwardly. “Eris? Please, at least tell me you're happy for me.” You say nervously, pulling him out of his head. 

“Of course I'm happy for you. I'm just at a loss for words.” He says giving you a smile that he knows doesn't reach his eyes. “I can't believe THE Eris Vanserra is at a loss for words.” You tease, trying to lighten the awkwardness. “Only you can leave me speechless,” he says, “I should really be getting back. I have some meetings I need to prepare for.” “Of course, busy life for the new high lord.” You say with a smile. “Hopefully it won't always be this busy.” He says in response. You part ways outside the cafe. He can't help but watch as you walk back towards your shop. The knot in his stomach grew tighter with each step. He takes his time walking back home, no meetings to prepare for. A white lie to get away and regain some control of himself. 

He walked into his office locking the door behind him. His fingers running through his hair as he allowed himself to process the idea of you leaving. He picks up the nearest breakable item and throws it against the wall. He watches it shatter as pieces fall to the floor. “Someone's in a mood for having just spent time with their favorite person.” Lucien states as he walks in. “Go away.” Eris grits through his teeth, not in the mood for Lucien's taunts. “What's wrong, did they mess up your order?” He teases. “Y/n is moving to the day court.” Eris answers, figuring Lucien will find out soon enough anyway. “What?” Lucien asks, sounding surprised. “She’s moving to day court after she sells the bookstore,” Eris replies. “Now get out.” He sits in his chair and waits for the sound of his brother leaving. 

~*~*~*~*~

“Someone bought it!” You say excitedly to Eris as he walks into your shop. “That’s great!” He says with faux excitement. “You’ve been acting weird since I told you I was moving. What’s going on?” You ask tired of the distance you’ve been feeling between the two of you. “Nothing, I’m happy for you.” he states. “Eris, I’ve known you most of my life. It’s insulting when you imply I don’t know you. There are days I feel like I know you better than I know myself.” You say. He can’t keep his eyes from rolling. You don’t fail to notice it but choose to disregard it because it’s a normal response from him. “I’m starting to think you don’t know me at all.” He says as his jaw tightens. “Seriously, what has gotten into you? This is something I want to do and I expected you to be at least a little supportive. Instead you just push me aside like everything between us doesn’t matter.” You say. “Fine. You want to know what it is, I’ll tell you. I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay here with me and keep your bookstore. I’m begging you, please don’t go.” 

“Seriously?! I’ve already sold the bookstore and have packed up most of my apartment! I’m going, Eris. This court holds nothing for me anymore.” You say. He stands there in disbelief. “You should leave.” You say quietly before walking towards the back. A few minutes later you hear the bell over the door jingle, signalling he left. You can’t help the tears that line your eyes. In a matter of moments you’ve lost seemingly everything that mattered to you. You refuse to wallow in self-pity as you sign the papers that the real estate agent had dropped off for you. At first you were curious who the private buyer was but now you just want out. You don’t care what happens to your bookstore anymore. You drop the papers off at the office on your way home. You reach out to Helion telling him you’ve sold and will hopefully be ready to move in the next few days. 

~*~*~*~*~

It felt weird being back in Autumn after spending 3 months in Helion’s court. You casually strolled through the streets, taking in the minor changes in shops but overall everything felt the same. You were back at Lucien’s request, he had invited you for dinner and to catch up. You hadn’t spoken or heard from Eris since the day at the bookstore. Absent-mindedly your feet carried you towards your old store. Your heart sank when you saw the windows covered and it looked empty. You couldn’t see in but you know the owner hadn’t done anything with it, since your sign was still up. You wondered if they had changed the locks, they’d be foolish not to. You pulled your keys from your bag and found your shop key. You nervously held your breath as you slid it into the lock. To your surprise it still worked. You debated locking it back up, not wanting to trespass. 

You anxiously stepped inside and saw nothing had been touched since you left, aside from the curtains covering the windows. The bookshelves were still there and stocked. The decor was still on the walls and your nook was still in the corner. “Looking for something?” A voice asked from somewhere left of you. “I’m sorry-” you start to apologize when you see Eris standing there. “What are you doing here?” You ask surprised. “Since I own it, I should ask you what you're doing here.” He smiles at the look of confusion on your face. “You own it?” “Yes, I bought it for my mate. I wanted to make her happy, even at the expense of my own happiness.” Eris says. “Mate? YOU BOUGHT MY BOOKSTORE TO GIVE TO ANOTHER FEMALE?!?!” 

Eris can’t help but laugh at your outburst. “This isn’t funny, Eris! You know how hard I worked for this place and then you just buy it for someone else?!” “You’re right. This isn’t funny. It’s embarrassing. The fact that you suddenly care so much about this place after telling me that this court holds nothing for you anymore. I was in front of you the whole time. I was what this court held for you and you never saw it. You’re my mate. I bought this place for you. I begged you not to leave because I knew if you left the bond would never snap. I thought I was man enough to let you go and be happy even if it was in a different court. That’s why I bought this. I gave you your freedom but also kept this incase you decided to come back.” Eris says.

Your head spins at his words. The tightening in your chest before you feel it. You’ve spent most of your life in love with him. Why wouldn’t the bond snap for you when it had for him? Your mind was full of more questions than answers as Eris stared at you. “You’re my mate?” You say quietly. “Yes.” He says, uncertainty clouding his features as he waits for your reaction. “How long have you known?” You ask. “A couple of years. I wanted it to snap naturally for you.” He says. Looking back there were enough signs you thought you'd just imagined. The way he always had your favorite snacks on hand, how he'd been able to read you effortlessly and the way he became a buffer between you and others, both physically and socially. 

“I wanted us to be your decision. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to feel forced or trapped.” He admits, keeping his distance for your comfort. “Eris, I should've realized it sooner. You'd made it obvious in your own subtle way and I thought it was all in my head.” You tell him. You move closer to him, hesitantly, “what do you want?” You ask. “You. I've always wanted you.” He barely answers before you kiss him. “Then I'm yours.” You manage to tell him before he's kissing you again. “Hope you know what you're getting yourself into.” He teases. “A lifetime of happiness with my favorite high lord.” You answer with a grin. “Guess we should Lucien, he's on his own for dinner.” Eris says with a smirk.

[ohemgeewhat]

I am currently bleeding and crying, where can I sign up to get my own Azriel???

an azriel and his best friend drabble - period comfort

this is a drabble in the azriel and his best friend universe, but it can be read as a standalone!!! in the timeline this happens at some point before the events of the series :)

series masterlist

word count: 1.8k

azriel x reader drabble

warnings: descriptions of period pain

a/n: sooo backstory: i had a really bad period last week and it brought me back to when i used to have really bad periods in high school. like passing out and all that so: this fic is the result of that! as always feedback is appreciated, let me know what you think!!!!

She groaned into her pillow as pain pierced through her stomach. She curled tighter into a ball as she fought the tears brimming in her eyes.

She couldn’t take this, she really couldn’t. She hadn’t even known her cycle was coming, with how unregular it was, but this morning she woke to red-stained sheets and a sharp pain shooting through her stomach. And by the time she managed to get the bed, and herself, cleaned up, she was utterly exhausted.

Azriel was at training, so he wasn’t there to help her, which he usually insisted on doing. After first coming to Velaris it was utterly strange for her to have anyone, especially a male help her with her cycle, considering how her entire life she’d been taught it was something to hide, to be …ashamed of. That it was a liability that should be hidden from a lady’s husband, and well she didn’t know why exactly she correlated that with Azriel, but- Anyway. It was standard for her to manage the pain on her own her entire life, although that usually consisted entirely of whining and whimpering in bed alone.

After getting close to Azriel everything changed, and he insisted on taking care of her, which at first was mainly just her trying not to burrow herself into the ground from embarrassment. After a while, however, after first experiencing Azriel’s gentle care and the love he conveyed in it, that quiet compassion and his lack of judgement, she started to let him help her. Although she had to admit, that the mortification she was thought to feel at showing her pain to a male of all people so undeniably, never really went away. Maybe it never would, but Azriel didn’t seem to mind reminding her how there was nothing wrong with being taken care of.

She squirmed again, a big part of her wishing he was here, unable to find a position that would ease the pain even the slightest bit. Sweat beaded at her brow and she whimpered as she lowered herself from her bed, and onto the floor.

It was cool against her skin, making her feel at least a bit less faint. Right? That’s what she thought would happen, but now her breathing shallowed and darkness swam in the edges of her vision.

Gods, the pain- Whimpering, she leaned her head back against the edge of the mattress and suddenly everything around her was blurring and-

Well, that definitely didn’t work in making her feel less faint.

-

Someone was shaking her shoulders.

“Sweetheart-” a familiar voice urged somewhere above her “Wake up, please, come on”

She groaned as she felt pain stab through her again. She was slowly coming about and slowly the realization that she knew that voice washed over her. Gods, what had happened?

“Az?”

“Thank the Mother,” the male crouched above her exhaled in relief “Can you open your eyes for me, love?” he asked in such a soft voice, that she couldn’t not try to.

She cracked her eyes open and looked at Azriel through squinted lids, vision still swimming. But he was already grabbing her forearms and helping her sit up. His touch was so, so gentle as he fussed over her that it had tears brimming in her eyes all over again. Suddenly her best friend’s eyes widened and snapped to hers.

“You’re bleeding. Did you hit your head? What happened, where are you hurt?” The questions were coming at her one after the other, though it was obvious by the pinch of his expression and the furrow of his brow that Azriel was trying extremely hard not to sound too scared. The unconcealable worry in his eyes gave him away.

Had she passed out from the pain? The answer was obvious in her mind and her stomach sank a bit as a pang of embarrassment consumed her. She tried to keep her eyes glued to Azriel as she stayed quiet for longer than needed. Oh, cauldron.

“It's my cycle, Az” she sighed out finally, eyes glancing around the room. Her vision was suddenly drowned in the golden, intense sunlight streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Was it midday already? How long had she been out?

“Why didn’t you call for me?” Azriel coaxed her head in his direction by placing a gentle hand on the side of her face. His thumb was stroking gently along her cheekbone as his shadows, who seemed to have noticed her earlier discomfort, shot out to close the curtains, keeping most of the overwhelming light from the room.

“You were at training, I didn’t want to…-” her voice trailed off.

“You should have called for me, you know one of my shadows is always somewhere close” his voice was almost scolding as he studied her with such deep concern in his golden-brown eyes, it almost took her breath away.

“I’m sorry”

“You know that’s not what this is about,” he told her in a soft voice “You always call for me when you’re in pain, alright?”

She narrowed her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder in exhaustion before replying. “And that goes the same for you, right?”

A beat of silence ensued before Azriel chuckled, his hand coming to rest on the nape of her neck, fingers brushing through her hair. “It does”

“Alright, then”

Before any of them could say something more, a wave of pain so intense hit her, that she doubled over, gasping.

“Fuck, sweetheart, where do you have your pain tonics? How long ago have you taken one?”

“I haven’t- Ah-,” she gasped as she tried to get the words out “I haven’t taken any” she managed to rasp out, finally.

“What do you mean you haven’t taken any?” she could practically feel the way he froze in front of her, the shadows that had been twirling around her frame going in tow with their master.

“They don’t help anyway” she mumbled through a whimper.

“They don’t help? Love- You passed out on the floor from the pain, for Mother’s sake you can’t-” Azriel said seriously somewhere above her “You need to take care of yourself, we’ve talked about this” he added a bit sternly.

Was he mad at her? As she whimpered from the pain again, an ugly, albeit well known feeling swam through her body. But he wouldn’t think that of her, right? “I’m- I’m sorry” she tried wetly, a bit helplessly, maybe.

He exhaled shakily somewhere next to her “No- No don’t be sorry,” she sniffled at that “Hey, you’re alright. I’m right here. I didn’t mean to- I’m not mad at you, alright?” he said as he gathered her shaking form into his arms. She was a mess, breathing heavily, almost sobbing from the pain.

“It hurts, Az” she felt a stream of salt rivulet down the side of her face.

“I know, I know” he mumbled as he placed her gently on the bed “I just need to get you a tonic, okay sweetheart?”

“No, don’t leave-”

“I know, but I’ll just be a second,” his voice was strained and unsure about leaving her out of his sight in this state. Even for just a moment, but the sight alone of her state cemented the decision for him. She needed medicine. “I’ll be right back”

She groaned as she curled into a ball, breathing heavily through her sobs. There was a muffled conversation in the hallway somewhere but she couldn’t focus at all. Her door closed and opened and a weight appeared on the bed next to her.

Someone was whispering something to her, stroking her back and head gently. But the world around her wasn’t making sense at that moment and it was only after a while that she realized who it was, based solely on the smell of night-chilled mist and cedar that hit her. But the pain was all consuming and in her state of torment she couldn’t even make out his words. A vague, unspecified amount of time passed as she lay there and at some point Azriel must have been gone again, and she heard voices outside her room. And then he was back, coaxing her to turn on her back and sit up.

She squirmed in his arms, eyes closed and face pinched as he tried to adjust her. “Just one second, sweetheart, here,” he said softly as he coaxed a bitter liquid past her lips “There you go, you’ll be better soon”

“I can’t- I can’t do this” she whimpered.

“It’ll be over soon, angel, I promise” there was urgency in his voice, as though he was trying to convince her on something but she couldn’t focus and then-. She was turning over again, intuitively pressing herself into his side. Then there was something hot being pressed against her stomach, and a pair of arms circling around her. Azriel was whispering something to her, trying to comfort her but the words were incomprehensible in her state. Suddenly everything was blurring.

-

Azriel pressed a shaky his on his best friend’s forehead as he held her trembling form in his eyes. It was torture to have to see her like this and he was already berating himself for not keeping up when her cycle would come.

Poor girl.

Thankfully, he bumped into Mor right after going to get a tonic for her, and she happened to have an abundance of the stronger dose that she got from Madja sometime earlier. And so, he could already feel his girl’s form slumping against him, succumbing to sleep.

The plan for the next week was laying itself out in his mind as he held her. He had already sent his shadows to get her favorite foods and snacks from the Rainbow, and Mor promised to ask Madja for more tonics today. So that was covered. The House would supply them with hot water bottles, so he checked that from his list. He would have to check if she was in need of more linens.

There was one thing left to worry about, however. The convincing that it will take him to get her to actually stay in bed, because he was already sure she’d be trying to get up and to work the second she woke up. But it was alright for Azriel to ease his best friend’s mind and make sure she was well taken care of.

That’s what he was there for, and it was a job he’d cherish. Until the end of his days.

taglist: @greenmandm @thoughtfulcoffeeflower @dark-night-sky-99 @ly--canthrope @azrielssgirl @topaz125 @azrielsmate3 @i-am-infinite @stressed-reader @blonde-bansheee @k-homosapien @azysmate @brekkershadowsinger to join let me know under this post

[ohemgeewhat]

Am I sobbing? Yes, yes I am.

Flightless Bird

Pairing: Azriel x Human!Reader

Summary: Azriel was not supposed to be in the mortal lands. Azriel was not supposed to love a mortal. He couldn't find it in him to care.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Mentions of injury and death, a little bit wistful I suppose

a/n: I am struggling to write!! So I'm sorry if this is all jumbled and weird 😭 Please enjoy me trying to get my act together I love you allll <3

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

Azriel was not where he was supposed to be. He knew that—knew his High Lord would be disappointed at his whereabouts—and he went anyway. 

It was often hard to blend into the mortal lands, but he was not unused to the discomfort that came with slinking around alley corners and plastering his wings to his back. If a human saw him, he would be in greater trouble than a simple tongue-lashing from Rhysand. 

He hadn’t been caught yet. 

“Azriel.” 

Well—he hadn’t been caught by anyone he wouldn't want to be caught by. 

Azriel turned on his heel, his back pressed against the biting cold of the cobblestone alley. You stood before him with a basket on your arm and an accusatory gleam pointed up with your gaze. The collar of your dress was slightly askew and if he looked hard enough, he could see bits of basil on your sleeve hem. 

He fought the smile that edged onto his face, not wanting to mock your exasperation. “Y/n,” he cordially greeted. 

You huffed. “Don’t say that so casually.” 

“Your name?” 

“Your death sentence, more like. You know you shouldn’t be here.” 

Ah, yes—Azriel could not forget that multiple people did not want him meandering about the mortal lands. Rhysand didn’t want him here because of the trouble it could cause. You didn’t want him here because you thought the humans would kill him. A small misconception that he found endearing.

“Why not?” Azriel questioned, tilting his head to the side as you stepped forward. You peered over his shoulder past the mouth of the alley in hurried agitation. 

“How long have you been here?” you asked, brushing off his question. “Has anyone seen you? Here, quickly—most people are at the market event so we can make it to my house.” 

And Azriel had gotten exactly what he wanted the second you wrapped your hand around his forearm. He let you tug him around more corners and watched as you anxiously bit into your lip and fretted for his imagined safety. At one point, he had whisked the herb basket from your arm and held it loosely at his fingertips. You only glanced back at him for a moment, too concerned with shoving him into the too-small front door of your home. 

Azriel set the basket down on the quaint table by the fire and felt his bones settle in the soft glow of your home. While you busied yourself by locking the door and slamming the windows shut, he casually looked around the space and breathed in the spices and rich wood that calmed him. He had difficulty describing this feeling to others, so he coveted it instead. 

The slick of your curtains shutting seemed to end your tirade, and you then turned to him with an exasperated hand on your hip. “I’ve told you to send word if you’re coming. I can ensure you’re not seen, but only if I know you’re here.” 

Azriel was almost positive you didn’t understand he was a spy. He had explained his job to you many times, but you never seemed to take it into account when you were concerned over his stealth in the human lands. 

“I can get around fine. I wanted to find you,” he calmly replied. 

“Why don’t you wait at my house then? Rather than roaming about the streets? You know I’ll end up here eventually.” 

How was Azriel supposed to say that he liked to watch you? That he found joy in seeing you in the woods picking herbs or at the market selling your remedies. No, he figured that would be an odd thing to say to a human, so instead he offered a shrug and you replied with another tortured sigh. 

You pinched the bridge of your nose and murmured his name. 

“I don’t mean to burden you,” Azriel apologized. “I only wanted to see you. It’s been… a while.” 

When you looked back up, all vexation slid from your expression, replaced instead by soft reproach. “Burden me—Azriel, you don’t burden me. I worry for you, but it’s not a burden. Any time you need to use my home for work it’s available to you.”

You never understood. Azriel said he wanted to see you, not use your home. He had offered many of these admittances in the past and you never found their meaning. He had asked Feyre about that in a night of desperation a few months ago. She had sworn not to tell anyone and made Azriel privy to the inferiority humans felt when compared to fae. 

“She probably isn’t even considering that, Az,” Feyre had softly replied, unvoiced confusion twisting her brow. “How did you meet her again?” 

“I don’t need to use your home. Not this time,” Azriel revealed. 

“A short mission then?” 

“I’m not here for a mission.” 

Confusion pinched your expression. “I don’t understand.” 

Azriel took a step forward, shadows splaying out under his boot. The wood creaked. “I told you—I wanted to see you.” 

You uncrossed your arms, allowing Azriel to see your chest rise and fall unsteadily. You looked down to his feet, tracking the small movements he was making towards you, and then caught his eye once more. 

“Is this about Harrison? He hasn’t bothered me since.” 

Azriel’s eyes slipped closed for a moment. Harrison. The good-for-nothing human man who wouldn’t leave you alone for months. Azriel had made up multiple stories for being in the mortal lands around that time—to both you and Rhys. In the end, Harrison moved on and you hadn’t had an explanation for it. 

Azriel had a very clear explanation. 

“It’s not about that, though I am glad he’s leaving you alone.” 

You hummed, the sound perfectly matching your reproachful nod. “Right. So I’m safe. And you don’t have a mission. Why would you need to see me?” 

Feyre had clearly been right; you hadn’t even considered the possibility that Azriel was taken by you. And that made sense. Azriel couldn’t really understand it himself. You were a human—destined for a short life and vulnerable to so many things. 

Azriel would live twenty lifetimes and you would only live one. 

But he couldn’t get you out of his head. 

From that first day he saw you in these dreary lands he had been dreaming of you, unable to have a thought without connecting it back to the softness of your hair or the way your skin seemed to glow under the sun. He had approached you a couple of days after that first look. It hadn’t gone well, obviously, and Azriel had to admit that being punched by a human hurt more than he expected. 

You were nothing if not logical, however, and after getting a few unreciprocated punches in, you stopped and listened to him. He had truly needed help at that time, unrest with a few rogue members of Hewn City sending him your way, and in the best interest of your village, you gave him a place to hide. 

It had been awkward—for him. 

You had been comfortable with him from the start and he was the one shifting in his seat each time you passed. He hadn’t been around many humans, and although the Archeron sisters had given him some experience, they were nothing like you. You yanked him around alleyways and shoved herbs in his mouth that wouldn’t actually heal him. You were stubborn and didn’t take no for an answer and you went headfirst into everything. Azriel could remember a time a couple of months after meeting you that he was sure his heart stopped, your foot slipping on a ladder as you helped him search for human information. 

He was constantly reminded how fragile you were. The bruise he spotted on your wrist now was practically mocking him. 

He knew how fragile you were, and he still came back. He couldn’t help it. 

“Can I not just wish to see you?” Azriel asked, his words now reaching your skin with his proximity. 

Your lashes fluttered. You let out a small breath. “Fancy court life get boring? Needed a reminder of the desolation of the human lands?” 

Azriel had been foolish to think your bite would disappear with a short bout of flustering. “I don’t think they’re desolate. Not with you here.” 

“What are you doing?” you whispered. Azriel watched you fiddle with your sleeve, the darkened skin of your bruise stealing his breath once more. 

His eyes tracked back up to your face. “Do you really not know?” 

The space between you was sparse; any other human would be cowering in fear. 

“Azriel—” 

“Tell me to stop and I will. I’ll leave if you wish for me to.” 

“I don’t want that.” 

“Then tell me what you want.” 

You dropped your hands to your sides, a war waging in your eyes. Azriel was having a difficult time parsing out the opposing sides—if you were scared of him or if you thought about him as much as he did you.

“I’m human. I’m nothing.” 

Azriel abandoned his wonder, reaching his hand up to cup your face. He hesitated, allowing you time to move away from his touch. You didn’t. He took the liberty of holding you between both of his hands rather than one. 

“I’ve never thought that. Don’t say that,” he pressed. 

You looked pained, vulnerability seeping into your usually strong expression. You always had to be strong here. “It’s true. You don’t think I’ve—Azriel, I’ve… felt things for you that I shouldn’t. Wanted things I shouldn’t. But I’m mortal. I’m just a human. And you could have so much more than—” 

Azriel was already shaking his head. He didn’t understand any of this. You were right—in a way. This wasn’t natural. 

Azriel still spoke as if it were. “I don’t care about any of that. I don’t want anything else. The year I’ve known you I have thought of little else.”

“But that’s just it, Azriel,” you began, an incredulous laugh punctuating your words. “A year. A year that I have aged and been changed. A year that feels long and hard for a human and it was nothing but a drop in the bucket for you. You will have centuries of them. You won’t die from sickness or injury or famine. You—we couldn't… I am human.” 

“And I don’t care,” Azriel repeated. His tongue darted out to wet his lips and he readjusted his grip on you. “I don’t understand why, but I don’t, y/n. I know this isn’t sensible and I don’t care. I don’t care if it’s short. I love you.” 

Your eyes widened, words caught in your throat. And Azriel didn’t care if you said it back. He didn’t care if he had made a fool of himself. For the first time in centuries, he loved and he did it without secrecy and fear. 

Maybe it was the brevity of it all. Maybe it was because you belonged to only him, his family unaware of your existence. Azriel didn’t care about the origin. He only cared about you. 

“This can’t work,” you whispered. Logical. Always so logical. 

“It doesn’t have to work. It just has to be.” 

You gripped his wrists, desperation in your eyes. “What does that even mean?” 

Azriel hesitated, and then he kissed you. He pressed his lips to yours and he felt the way your heart beat in the pulsing heat of your skin. You were warm—always warm—and your body moved without the fluidity of fae and Azriel wanted nothing more. He removed one of his hands from your face only to wrap it around your back, pressing you closer, listening to the racing pattern of your heart. 

He kissed you harder and you kissed him back. 

Nothing else mattered—not the logic or the timelines or the aging. 

Azriel’s shadows always tamed themselves around you, seeming to fear any hesitance you may hold, but right now they were rampant in your home, sliding up the windows and humming low songs in his ears. 

And in the depths of Azriel’s chest, hidden so deep he thought it his own beating heart, something tugged.

[ohemgeewhat]

I've read pretty much everything on this gods forsaken website about Eris fucking Vanserra, and this might just be my absolute favourite.

The Fox and the Flame

pairing: Eris x Reader

Summary: In the heart of the Autumn Court, where power and politics weave an intricate dance, you are no noblewoman—just the daughter of a prominent village family with dreams far greater than the life laid out before you. When you deliver a message to Eris Vanserra, the new High Lord of the Autumn Court, it is meant to be nothing more than an invitation…an opportunity for your father to discuss trade, expansion, and prosperity for your people.

But from the moment Eris looks at you, his world shifts.

Mate.

The bond snaps into place, raw and undeniable. You, the woman who should have been beneath his notice, are suddenly everything. But fate is never kind, and the nobility of the Autumn Court will not stand idly by while their future High Lord sets his sights on someone of no title, no wealth, no power.

As court intrigue stirs and whispers turn to threats, you find yourself caught in the dangerous game of politics and bloodlines, where love alone is never enough.

Will Eris fight for you, chase you through the fire and the thorns? And will you risk everything for a bond that the world seeks to tear apart?

Some foxes are meant to be hunted.

But this time, the fox may just outsmart the hunter.

__________________________________________________________

content warnings: smut (18+)

word count: 9.7k

Permanent taglist: @motheroffae @tele86 @demon-master-zero @thegoddessofnothingness @rosecobollway @sillyfreakfanparty @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @plants-w0rld @frietiemeloen @the-hidey-hole @dnfhascorruptedme @lreadsstuff

Eris permanent taglist: @kathren1sky-blog @phoenix666stuff

Story taglist: @rcarbo1@selena-24 @lamimamiii

If you would like to be added to a permanent taglist, permanent character taglist or story taglist, please leave me a comment and let me know which taglist you want to be on!

Image owned by Velocity Visual Media.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

*****

Chapter 6

The next morning arrived far too soon, and yet, not soon enough.

You had barely slept.

Every time you closed your eyes, you felt him…Eris’s hands on your waist, his lips at your throat, the way his voice had turned ragged when he told you to meet him today. His golden eyes had burned into you, devoured you, leaving you standing in the cold night air, wanting more.

And now, as the sun began to rise, you were a mess.

Your hands shook slightly as you smoothed them over the fabric of your dress, one of the nicest ones you owned. Deep forest green with delicate embroidery along the sleeves, fitted at the bodice but flowing at the waist—simple, but beautiful. The kind of dress you might wear to a formal gathering at court, or…

Or to meet a High Lord in the woods, alone.

You swallowed hard, turning to the small mirror in your room to assess yourself.

Your long fiery curls had been tamed, or at least, as much as they could be, falling down your back in soft spirals, gleaming in the morning light. Your skin looked flushed, your lips still slightly swollen from the way Eris had kissed you last night, again and again.

You exhaled sharply, pressing your fingers to them, remembering.

I don’t want you to go.

Tomorrow. Meet me at the hunting cabin.

Sleep well, little fox.

You turned away from the mirror, suddenly unable to look at yourself any longer.

Because what were you doing?

You had never done something like this before.

Never sought out a man, never gone somewhere to meet one alone, to let yourself be so vulnerable.

And the truth, the part that made your chest ache and your hands tremble, was that you wanted him.

So badly.

But you couldn’t.

Not yet.

Not when you didn’t know if this was real, if this was anything beyond the sheer fire between you.

Eris was a High Lord.

A powerful, cunning, dangerously charming man who could have anyone he wanted.

He could have any noblewoman at court, anyone of status who would elevate his position, someone who made sense for him.

And you…

You were just, well… you.

A village girl who had stepped into the world of politics by accident.

If this was just passion to him, just a one-time indulgence before he moved on, you knew you wouldn’t recover. You couldn’t sleep with him and then pretend it hadn’t meant something, pretend that you weren’t already falling, falling fast.

You needed to know that this wasn’t just about one morning of pleasure.

That this wasn’t just another conquest for him.

You inhaled deeply, steadying yourself, smoothing your hands over your dress once more before slipping out of your home and making your way toward the cabin.

The walk through the woods was quiet, the autumn air crisp as the golden leaves crunched beneath your boots.

Every step closer sent a thrill through you…of excitement, of anticipation, of nervousness.

Would he be waiting for you?

Would he look at you the same way he had last night?

What would he expect from today?

You weren’t sure what you were walking into.

And fuck, if that didn’t make your heart pound even harder.

*****

Eris had never been good at waiting.

He was a man who took what he wanted, who had spent his life learning to control every situation, bending people to his will with carefully placed words and sharp, cutting smirks.

But you?

You were different.

Because you weren’t someone he could charm and move on from, weren’t just a beautiful, tempting distraction.

You weren’t a woman who would bat your lashes and fall at his feet because of his title, his power.

You were fire and sharp edges.

The bond in his chest was screaming at him, clawing to be acknowledged, to claim you, to take you to his bed and ruin you until you couldn’t think of anything but him.

But that wasn’t enough.

Because as much as he wanted your body, wanted to kiss you breathless, wanted to press you against every available surface and make you cry out his name…

He wanted more.

And fuck, that terrified him.

Because he had never wanted more before.

But you had slipped under his skin, had wrapped yourself into the deepest parts of him without even trying. Had challenged him, had made him feel alive in a way that no one ever had.

And he had to be careful.

Because if he rushed this, if he scared you, if he let his hunger consume him before you believed him, before you trusted that he meant every damn word…

You would run.

And he couldn’t lose you.

Not now.

Not when he had finally found you.

So when he woke that morning, he forced himself to think.

To plan.

Because today had to be perfect.

Today, he had you all to himself.

A rare, precious moment where there would be no council members, no watchful eyes, no expectations, just you and him, alone, where he could show you exactly what he meant.

Exactly how much he wanted you.

Not just for a night.

Not just for a single moment of passion.

But for everything.

By the time he dressed, shrugging into his deep red cloak, he could feel the energy coiled in his muscles, his body thrumming with anticipation.

And as he stepped out of the estate, a rare, genuine smile tugged at his lips.

Because for the first time in a long time, he felt light.

For the first time, he had something, someone, to look forward to.

*****

The cabin was nestled deep in the woods, the crisp autumn air filled with the scent of fallen leaves and pine. Your heart was pounding so damn hard as you climbed the steps to the door, nerves and anticipation tangling together in a way that made your breath come too fast.

You were here.

And he was on the other side of that door.

You raised a hand and knocked, exhaling sharply, forcing yourself to steady your pulse. But before you could so much as take another breath the door swung open.

And there he was.

Eris filled the doorway, broad and ridiculously handsome, wearing a deep red tunic that contrasted so unfairly against his golden eyes. Those eyes, sharp, burning, unrelenting, swept over you, from the curls tumbling down your back to the dress you had so carefully chosen.

And the way he looked at you…gods…

Like he owned you already.

Like he was one breath away from devouring you whole.

His lips curled into that infuriating, smug smirk as he stepped aside, holding the door open for you.

“Come in, little fox.”

Your throat was too dry to respond, so you merely stepped past him, the warmth of the cabin enveloping you as the door shut behind you.

And then everything happened at once.

The moment the latch clicked, Eris moved.

His hands were on you before you could process, before you could so much as turn, one possessively gripping your waist, the other tangling in your hair as he pinned you against the door.

His lips crashed into yours, fierce and demanding, swallowing the gasp that escaped you as he pressed into you, crowding you, consuming you.

His kiss was wild, his tongue stroking against yours, caressing, claiming, conquering.

His body was hard and hot against yours, his grip firm as if he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.

A moan slipped from your throat before you could stop it.

And that broke him.

Eris growled, deep and animalistic, his grip tightening as he kissed you again and again, like he couldn’t get enough, like he was starving, and you were the only thing that could satisfy him.

His fingers slid from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer, pressing you flush against him, leaving no doubt in your mind of just how much he wanted you.

The heat between you was unbearable, overwhelming, your body aching as his lips moved against yours, as his tongue tangled with yours in slow, deliberate strokes that sent fire licking down your spine.

When you finally broke apart, you were wrecked, your chest rising and falling too fast, your fingers still fisted in his tunic like you needed to hold on or else you might fall.

Eris tilted your chin up with two fingers, his eyes blazing as he studied you, taking in the way your lips were swollen, the way your skin flushed under his touch.

His smirk was devastatingly slow, his voice husky as he murmured.

“I’ve been waiting hours to kiss you again.”

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, eyes flicking down to it before dragging back to yours.

“The taste of your lips is driving me insane.”

Your breath was still uneven, your body still thrumming with heat from the way he had just devoured you, from the way his hands gripped your waist like he had no intention of letting you go.

Eris watched you, golden eyes dark and dangerous, fingers still tracing along your jaw, his thumb brushing lazily over your bottom lip as if he were memorizing the feel of it.

Your hands were still fisted in his tunic, knuckles white from how tightly you were gripping him, like you needed to hold on to something before you lost yourself completely.

You swallowed hard, trying to remember why you had come here, trying to remember that you needed clarity.

So you forced the words out, your voice quiet but steady.

“What are we doing here, Eris?”

Something flickered in his gaze, something deep, something serious, but his smirk remained as he tilted his head slightly, his fingers still idly tracing over your skin.

“I wanted to see you,” he said simply.

You arched a brow, still breathless, trying desperately not to let your eyes drop to his lips. “You could have seen me at the estate.”

His smirk deepened. “Could I?”

You scowled. “Yes.”

He let out a low, amused chuckle, his grip on your waist tightening just slightly. “Not like this.”

Your breath hitched.

And fuck, you knew what he meant.

No curious stares.

No council meetings.

No watchful nobles.

Just you and him.

No distractions.

His golden eyes flicked over your face again, slower this time, his voice dipping to something softer, something honest in a way that made your stomach twist.

“I needed to see you alone,” he murmured.

You exhaled sharply, willing your racing heart to calm. “And why is that?”

Eris was quiet for a moment, his fingers still tracing over your hip, fingertips burning into your dress, as if he were holding himself back.

“I didn’t bring you here to bed you,” he said, and fuck, the way he said it, so unapologetic, so blunt, had your cheeks heating.

Your lips parted slightly, but before you could respond, his fingers tightened in your hair again, tilting your head back as he studied you, golden eyes blazing.

“Although,” he continued, voice rough, low, “I want you like I’ve never wanted anyone before.”

A shiver ran through you, but you refused to let it show, refused to let him win so easily.

You held his gaze, your fingers still gripping his tunic, your breathing uneven.

“But that’s not why I asked you to come here,” he finished, his thumb dragging slowly along your bottom lip again. “I had to see you.”

You exhaled sharply, struggling to find your words, struggling to keep yourself grounded when all you wanted to do was pull him back in.

“Why?” you whispered.

Eris’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smirk, but something in his gaze softened, something real and raw glowing in those molten gold eyes.

“Because, little fox,” he murmured, leaning in just slightly, his voice smooth as silk and sin, “you are driving me fucking insane.”

The second those words left his mouth…

You are driving me fucking insane.

Something inside you snapped.

You didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t think.

You grabbed the front of his tunic and yanked him back toward you, your lips crashing onto his with all the fire and fury that had been building inside you for weeks.

Eris groaned deeply against your mouth, shocked, and then he melted into it, into you, his hands instantly searing against your body, fingers digging into your waist as he pulled you closer.

“Fuck, little fox,” he murmured against your lips, his smirk curling even as he kissed you, his voice breathless but still infuriatingly smug. “Finally losing control, are we?”

You bit his bottom lip in response, just hard enough to make him groan again, his hands tightening at your hips.

“I don’t hear you complaining,” you murmured back, your voice husky as you pulled away just slightly, your breaths mingling between you.

His golden eyes blazed, locked onto your lips like he was starving for them. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then he was on you again, his mouth possessing yours, his tongue sweeping in, stroking against yours in slow, lazy circles, teasing, taunting, until you whimpered into the kiss.

And fuck that sound.

That sound wrecked him.

A growl tore from his throat as his hands roamed up your body, sliding along your sides, memorizing every curve.

One of his hands trailed higher, and higher.

And then his palm cupped your breast through the fabric of your dress.

You gasped, your back arching instinctively at the sensation, at the sheer heat of his touch.

Eris felt it, felt the way you responded to him, felt your nipple pebble beneath his thumb as he rolled it slowly through the fabric.

A deep, guttural groan ripped from his chest.

“Fuck,” he rasped against your lips. “You’re so sensitive.”

You tried to smirk, but his other hand was already sliding up to your other breast, mirroring the first, teasing, learning, exploring.

Your legs wobbled.

And he noticed.

Eris chuckled darkly, so full of himself, so cocky, as his lips left yours, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, down your throat, savoring the way your body reacted to him.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmured against your racing pulse, his tongue flicking just over the sensitive skin before he nipped at it lightly.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, your chest heaving as you tilted your head back, giving him more.

“Eris—”

“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice nothing but pure seduction, as his thumbs circled over your nipples, making you shudder.

You could barely think, barely breathe, but you managed to rasp, “You know I do.”

He smirked against your skin.

“I like hearing it, little fox.”

Then he dragged his teeth over your collarbone, his hands still kneading your breasts, rolling your hardened peaks just enough to make your knees weaken.

Heat coiled in your stomach, liquid fire racing through your veins.

You could feel the dampness pooling between your thighs, could feel how much your body craved him, how much you needed him.

Eris inhaled sharply, his body tensing as he caught your arousal, his grip on you tightening.

“Gods,” he groaned, pressing his forehead against your shoulder, gritting his teeth. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

You smirked, breathless, your fingers still tangled in his hair, tugging lightly.

“Good.”

His golden eyes snapped back to yours, flaming.

The air between you was thick, charged with something raw, something undeniable. Eris’s lips were red from kissing you, his golden eyes dark, practically burning as they raked over you…your lips swollen, your chest rising and falling too fast, your dress slightly askew from his hands roaming over you.

He groaned, his hands tightening at your waist as he pressed himself against you, his lips hovering over yours, his breath uneven.

“I have to taste you.”

His voice was wrecked, filled with pure, desperate hunger.

Your breath hitched. “Eris—”

His grip on you tightened, his forehead resting against yours as he exhaled sharply, trying but failing, to hold himself together.

“I’ve been thinking about it every fucking night since I kissed you in that tavern,” he growled. “And if I don’t have you on my tongue right now, if I don’t taste you, I’m going to go fucking crazy.”

His words sent a shiver racing through your body, your knees weakening as his fingers gripped your hips harder, as if he was grounding himself just as much as you were.

He dropped to his knees.

His hands slid down the length of your thighs, slow, reverent, his gaze never leaving yours, golden eyes blazing with something primal, something possessive.

Your breath hitched, your fingers threading into his hair instinctively, your body trembling as he lifted the fabric of your dress, exposing you to the cool air, to him.

Eris’s golden eyes darkened, his jaw clenching, his breath coming ragged as he took you in.

“Fuck.”

It wasn’t just a word.

It was raw worship.

Because fuck, the sight of you…bare, wanting, dripping for him…

Ruined him.

His hands slid up, gripping your thighs as his lips parted, his tongue running over his bottom lip as if he were starving, as if you were the only thing that could ever satisfy him.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he murmured, his fingers flexing at your skin.

You could barely breathe, your body shaking as you gazed down at him through half-lidded, lust-filled eyes.

And gods, the way you looked at him -

Your kiss-swollen lips, your flushed cheeks, the way your nails tightened in his hair…

It was the sexiest fucking thing he had ever seen.

He let out a deep, rumbling growl, his fingers spreading along your thighs as he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder.

And then he leaned in.

His tongue flattened as he dragged it up your core in one slow, deliberate stroke.

You gasped, your body arching, your grip in his hair tightening as heat exploded inside you.

Eris moaned, deep and shuddering, his nails digging into your thighs as he licked you again.

And again.

He was ruined.

Absolutely, completely ruined for anything but this.

For you.

The way you breathed his name, the way your hips tilted, seeking more, urging him on.

And if he wasn’t already addicted, he was quickly becoming so.

His tongue teased, stroked, tasted, his hands holding you still as he feasted on you, as if he had been starving for this his entire life.

His name left your lips again and again, your body trembling, pleasure coiling so tightly inside you that you thought you might break apart completely.

And then he paused, his tongue flicking once before he smirked against your skin.

His voice was low, smug, pure sin as he murmured, “Tell me, little fox…”

His tongue teased again, slow, taunting, before he continued, “Did any of those village boys ever love you like this?”

You shuddered, shaking your head, your breathless words spilling out before you could stop them. “No.”

His grip tightened.

“Did any of them ever worship you like this?”

“No.”

Eris growled, a deep, possessive sound that sent another wave of heat straight through you.

His golden eyes flicked up to yours, his gaze dark and wild as he rasped, “Has anyone ever touched you like this?”

Your breath hitched.

And you knew what he was asking.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, your lips parting slightly as you whispered, “No.”

Eris went still.

His chest rose and fell with heavy, ragged breaths as your words settled over him, as realization sank in.

You had never been with anyone.

Never let anyone touch you like this.

Never let anyone have you.

And fuck - he was the first.

The only one.

A feral groan left his throat, his grip on you almost bruising as his lips brushed against your skin, his breath scalding as he murmured, “That’s right, little fox.”

His lips pressed against your thigh, his teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper.

“I’m the only one who’s ever tasted you.”

His tongue flicked over your most sensitive spot, and your body jerked, pleasure crashing through you.

Eris chuckled darkly, smug and pleased, his grip firm as he devoured you again, his voice a husky growl against your skin.

“And if I have anything to say about it…”

His tongue dragged through your wetness, savoring every drop.

“I’ll be the only one to ever make you fall apart with my mouth.”

And then Eris felt it.

Felt you tremble, felt your thighs quiver around him, felt the way your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling, tugging, urging him on.

Your breathing hitched, the gasps spilling from your lips turning into whimpers, your back arching as he held you steady, anchored you to him. His tongue worked you over and over, the slow, deliberate strokes intentional, coaxing you higher, pushing you toward the inevitable.

And when you shattered, when your release tore through you, he held you through every single second of it.

He groaned into you, lapping up everything you gave him, his hands gripping your thighs, pressing you against his mouth as if he would never let you go.

Mine, his instincts roared.

His own groan vibrated against your core as he kept going, his tongue dragging through your wetness, tasting, taking, claiming.

He loved the way you reacted to him, loved the way your thighs clenched, the way your body convulsed as pleasure wrecked you.

But he wasn’t done.

Not yet.

Even as your body began to relax, even as your tremors slowed, he kept licking you, his tongue lazily stroking through the aftermath, refusing to let you down from your high just yet.

A soft, broken moan left your lips, your head falling back against the wall as your chest heaved, your skin flushed, your body still buzzing.

Eris smirked against you, his tongue flicking one last taunting stroke over your most sensitive spot, making you jolt.

You let out a breathless, wrecked sound, your fingers sliding from his hair to grip his shoulders, your body still trying to recover.

And then it snapped.

Something deep inside you pulled, like a golden thread tightening, a connection clicking into place.

Your breath stilled.

Your fingers froze against him.

Your eyes flew open.

Wide, stunned, unbelieving.

Eris felt it too.

He sensed the shift, knew the exact moment it hit you, the exact moment you felt what he had already known since the first time he saw you.

His body stiffened, his golden eyes snapping up to yours, watching, waiting.

Finally.

Fucking finally.

You gazed down at him, still breathless, still wrecked, but your expression -

It was one of pure shock.

Eris let out a slow, steadying breath, his smirk softening, his hands gently sliding down your thighs as he lowered your leg from his shoulder, making sure you were steady before rising to his feet.

And fuck, you were still looking at him like that.

Still looking at him like he was something impossible, something unreal.

Like you couldn’t believe what was happening.

Eris reached up, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, his smirk returning as he took in the wrecked look on your face, your lips still kiss-swollen, your body still trembling slightly in the aftermath of him.

And then you moved.

Without hesitation, without doubt, you grabbed him by the collar of his tunic and pulled him into a kiss.

Eris groaned, low and deep, his arms immediately wrapping around you, hauling you against him as his lips slanted over yours.

And fuck - this kiss?

This was different.

This was a claim.

Your claim on him.

Your lips moved against his, hungry, desperate, like you had been waiting for this just as much as he had.

Like you knew now.

Like you finally understood.

When you pulled back, your hands still gripping his tunic, your lips hovering so close to his, you gave him a soft, dazed smile.

And gods, it melted him.

Then, breathless, voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re my mate?”

His golden eyes burned into yours, his smirk fading into something deeper, something real.

“Yes.”

Your fingers tightened in his tunic, your breath shuddering slightly.

“When did you know?” you whispered, searching his face, needing the answer.

Eris exhaled, shaking his head slightly, his fingers brushing over your jaw before curling into your hair.

“The moment I first saw you,” he admitted, voice low, raw, honest. “When you delivered that message from your father.”

Your breath caught.

His golden eyes flickered as he tilted his head slightly, his smirk returning - just barely, just soft enough to let you know it wasn’t arrogance this time, but fondness.

“You touched me,” he murmured, “and a jolt of fire shot up my arm. And then you looked at me with that damn little smile…”

His fingers tightened in your hair, his forehead resting against yours.

“And it snapped.”

You exhaled sharply, overwhelmed, relieved, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling him, grounding yourself in this, in him.

Eris let you.

Let you take a moment, let you breathe, let you process.

And then his smirk curled wickedly, his golden eyes gleaming with mischief.

“So,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours, his voice low, teasing, taunting. “Are you going to say it back, or do I have to wait another godsdamned week?”

You laughed, a breathless, wrecked sound, shaking your head as you pulled him back in for another kiss.

And the moment the words left your mouth…

I’m your mate.

Eris moved.

He didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t give you time to second-guess or take it back.

His mouth crashed onto yours, claiming, possessive, desperate. His hands tangled in your hair, tilting your head back as his tongue stroked into your mouth, deep and hungry.

And gods, if you weren’t just as desperate for him.

You kissed him back, matching him stroke for stroke, your arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space between you, until his body was pressed to yours, heat searing between you.

Eris groaned, a deep, feral sound that vibrated against your lips, his hands sliding down your waist, gripping, possessive, as if he couldn’t stand not touching you.

And you didn’t want him to stop.

You pushed him back from the door as your lips never left his, your fingers already working the buttons of his tunic, ripping them open in your impatience.

Eris let out a low chuckle, breathless but still smirking against your lips.

“Impatient, little fox?”

“Shut up and take it off,” you snapped, shoving the fabric from his shoulders.

He laughed, but obeyed, shrugging out of his tunic and tossing it aside. His hands immediately moved to you, tugging at the laces of your dress, making quick work of them until the fabric pooled to the floor, leaving you bare beneath his burning gaze.

Eris inhaled sharply, his golden eyes darkening as he took in the sight of you, standing before him.

His mate.

His.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his hands dragging down your sides, his fingers splaying over your hips. “You are so fucking perfect.”

You smirked, reaching for the clasp of his belt. “I could say the same about you, High Lord.”

He growled at the title, low and deadly, as he kicked off the last of his clothes, finally, finally bare before you.

The heat between you was unbearable, the tension thick, but you couldn’t stop yourself from teasing, from keeping him on his toes, because he had tormented you long enough.

So you tilted your head, brushing your lips just against his as you murmured, “What are you waiting for, my Lord? Make me yours.”

Eris’s golden eyes flashed, and then he was grinning, that arrogant, wicked smirk curling across his lips.

“Patience, little fox.” His voice was low, taunting. “You’re playing with fire.”

You arched a brow. “You’ve been playing with me for weeks, Eris. If I’m playing with fire, it’s only because you started the damn game.”

His smirk widened. “Fair point.”

Then his hands gripped your waist, and suddenly, you were airborne.

A startled gasp left your lips as he picked you up, his hands firm as he carried you the few steps to the bed, laying you down against the soft sheets, his body immediately covering yours.

And fuck, the weight of him, the heat of him, had you squirming, had you aching for him.

Eris chuckled, leaning down to nip at your throat. “Easy now, little fox.”

“Eris—”

“You’ve heard about us Autumn males, right?” he murmured, his lips trailing along your collarbone, lower and lower, licking, sucking, spreading fire through your veins with every touch. “Autumn males have fire in their blood.”

His tongue flicked over a sensitive spot, and your back arched, your breath catching.

“And when we claim someone…” His voice was a dark promise as he kissed his way lower, lower, his hands sliding up your thighs, teasing, taunting.

“We fuck like it too.”

Your breath shuddered, your fingers tangling in his hair, your body burning as his lips dragged down, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, lower, spreading fire everywhere he touched.

You whimpered, your hips shifting against the sheets, already aching for him.

“Eris, please—”

He hummed, trailing his tongue along your hip bone, his smirk practically dripping with satisfaction.

“Oh, little fox,” he purred. “I like hearing you beg.”

His lips dragged back up, his body covering yours again, his mouth devouring your skin as he kissed his way up, up, until he was hovering just above you, golden eyes flicking down.

His smirk deepened, his eyes burning as he took in the sight of you.

“Damn, little fox,” he murmured, his fingers trailing between your thighs, brushing exactly where you needed him.

“You’re fucking soaked for me.”

You let out a choked, needy sound as his fingers slid deeper, as they pressed inside you, slow and teasing, stretching you just enough to make you gasp.

His golden eyes flicked up to yours, watching your expression with a dark, predatory hunger.

“So tight, so wet,” he murmured, his voice rough as his fingers moved, curling just right. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

Your breath hitched, your hips moving with him, your body clenching around his fingers as he worked you open, winding you tighter and tighter, his lips brushing against your throat as he whispered, “This is what you do to me. This is what happens when you drive me insane for weeks.”

His fingers curled, dragging a sound from your throat that was shameless, your back arching off the bed.

Eris groaned, pressing harder against you, his voice a low rasp against your ear.

“And I haven’t even begun to ruin you yet.”

Eris’s fingers stroked inside you, slow and deliberate, teasing every inch of you as if he had all the time in the world.

And fuck, if it wasn’t the most infuriatingly delicious torture you’d ever experienced.

Your breath came out in sharp, ragged gasps, your body writhing beneath him, your hands tangling into the sheets as he pressed a kiss to your throat, his lips curling into a smirk against your flushed skin.

“You’re so damn tight, little fox,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp, his fingers curling just right inside of you. “So wet for me. So perfect.”

You whimpered, shifting against the sheets, your fingers gripping his hair as your body clenched around him.

His golden eyes darkened as he felt it, his smirk widening.

“Gods, I can feel you squeezing around me,” he purred, amused, as if he wasn’t currently ruining you. “Are you always this needy, little fox?”

You let out a breathless, frustrated groan, arching against him. “Maybe I wouldn’t be if you weren’t such a smug, teasing bastard about it.”

Eris laughed, low and wicked, enjoying every second of your torment.

“You should be grateful,” he murmured, dragging his lips along your collarbone, nipping at your skin as his fingers twisted, pressing deeper, making you gasp. “Not every female is lucky enough to be claimed by an Autumn male.”

You scowled, but your body betrayed you, arching into his touch. “Lucky? You mean tortured?”

Eris chuckled darkly, pleased with himself. “Oh, little fox,” he purred, his lips ghosting against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “You love it.”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer, but Eris only smirked wider.

His fingers stilled inside you, leaving you aching, burning, your body desperate for more.

Your eyes snapped open, your lips parting to protest.

“I asked you a question,” he murmured, his golden eyes gleaming with pure arrogance. “Do you love it, little fox?”

Your breath hitched, your body shaking with how much you needed him to keep going.

Eris leaned in, his lips brushing yours as he murmured, “Be a good girl and say it.”

You glared at him, defiant, but your voice betrayed you, coming out in a breathless whisper.

“Yes.”

Eris’s smirk turned absolutely devastating.

“There’s my good girl,” he purred, and his fingers moved again, stroking inside you with purpose, making your eyes roll back, making you cry out as pleasure ripped through you.

“Gods,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. “I hate you.”

Eris laughed, his breath a low, smug rumble against your skin. “No, you don’t.”

You tried to scowl, but he dragged his tongue over your throat, sucking at a sensitive spot, his fingers twisting just right…

And you shattered.

A whimper escaped your lips, and fuck, if that wasn’t the most satisfying sound he had ever heard.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his lips trailing down your chest. “Come apart for me, little fox.”

Your thighs trembled, your body clenching around his fingers as your pleasure built, winding you tighter and tighter.

Eris felt every inch of it, felt the way your body responded to him, and knowing that he was the first, the only male to have ever touched you like this, to have ever ruined you like this -

It made him feral.

“You belong to me,” he murmured, growling the words against your skin. “No other male will ever touch you like this. No one will ever make you come like this.”

You whimpered, your body shaking, pleasure building so intensely it was almost painful.

“Say it,” he demanded, his lips teasing at the swell of your breast. “Tell me you’re mine.”

Your head fell back against the pillow, your fingers tightening in his hair. “I—”

He curled his fingers again, precise, and your words dissolved into a moan.

Eris chuckled, his voice pure, arrogant satisfaction.

“That’s what I thought.”

The fire between you was unbearable.

Every kiss, every touch, every stroke of his hands over your body had built you up to this moment - to the edge of something undeniable, something unstoppable.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, your lips swollen from his kisses, your breath ragged as you whispered, pleaded.

“I want you, Eris. I need you inside me. Now.”

His golden eyes blazed, his jaw tightening as if he were physically restraining himself from giving in immediately.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice rough, almost pained with how much he wanted you. “I’ll try to be gentle since it’s your first time, but—”

His forehead dropped against yours, his breath ragged, his fingers digging into your hips.

“I’ve wanted you for weeks, little fox,” he rasped. “It’s going to be hard to hold back.”

You reached up, tracing his jaw with your fingertips, forcing him to look at you.

You didn’t want him to hold back.

Didn’t want him to be gentle.

Didn’t want to be treated like you were something fragile.

You were his mate.

His equal.

And you needed him to claim you like it.

Your nails scraped lightly against his scalp, your lips brushing his as you whispered, “I don’t want gentle, Eris.”

His breath hitched.

Your fingers slid down his back, your voice daring, demanding, as you murmured, “Claim me.”

A growl ripped from his throat.

His hands tightened at your waist, his entire body trembling with restraint.

“You’re playing with fire,” he warned, his voice little more than a rasp.

You smirked, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. “Then burn me.”

A feral sound tore from his lips, and before you could say another word, he thrust into you.

Hard.

Deep.

Claiming.

A gasp wrenched from your throat as he filled you, stretching you in a way that was shocking.

A sharp, burning ache that stole your breath.

Eris froze, his jaw clenching, his fingers gripping your hips tightly, his golden eyes locked onto yours as if he were barely holding himself together.

Fuck.

He had imagined this, fantasized about it…but this?

This was so much better.

Better than he ever could have fucking dreamed.

Your body was tight around him

Hot.

Wet.

Perfect.

And you were his.

He was wrecked.

Completely and utterly wrecked.

His forehead dropped against yours, his breath shaking as he forced himself to hold still, to let you adjust.

“Gods,” he groaned, his voice wrecked, his fingers trembling as he traced them along your jaw. “You feel fucking amazing.”

You swallowed hard, dizzy from the sensation of being so completely full, from the way he looked at you—, ike you were something sacred, something he would die to protect.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your legs tightening around his waist. “Move, Eris,” you whispered.

His golden eyes darkened.

“You sure, little fox?” he murmured, his smirk returning, though his voice was strained, like he was barely hanging on to his control. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop once I start.”

You smirked right back, your fingers sliding down his back, gripping tight.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

Eris’s entire body tensed.

And then he moved.

Slow at first, agonizingly slow, pulling back before thrusting in deep again, stretching you in a way that sent fire shooting through your veins.

The sting of his first thrust began to melt, replaced by something else…something hotter, something all-consuming, something that made your toes curl, your back arch, a moan spilling from your lips before you could stop it.

Eris felt it, the way your body relaxed, the way you opened for him.

His control snapped.

A growl rumbled in his chest as he thrust again, harder, deeper, his fingers digging into your hips as he fucked into you, his golden eyes locked onto yours, watching you come undone for him.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his lips dragging along your throat, his teeth nipping at your skin. “Take me, little fox. Take all of me.”

Your body responded, your nails raking down his back, your thighs squeezing his waist as your breath came out in sharp, desperate gasps.

“Eris,” you whimpered, wrecked already.

His smirk deepened, his voice mocking, teasing.

“What’s wrong, little fox?” he murmured, his pace quickening, each thrust making your entire body burn for him. “Not so fiery now, are we?”

You glared up at him, breathless but defiant, and tightened your legs around him, forcing him deeper.

He groaned, his golden eyes blazing with something wild.

“Oh, you like it rough, don’t you?” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours, his thrusts becoming harder, sharper, more desperate. “You like being fucking ruined by me.”

You were too far gone to argue, your body clenching around him, the pleasure building so intensely you thought you might snap apart completely.

Eris felt it.

Felt you tightening, felt your walls squeezing around him, dragging him deeper, making his head drop back, a feral groan tearing from his throat.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight,” he rasped, his voice wrecked. “You feel so fucking perfect around me.”

You moaned his name again, your fingers yanking his hair as you arched into him.

He grinned, his golden eyes locked onto yours, dripping with satisfaction.

“Oh, you’re so fucking mine,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours before he kissed you deeply, claiming you in every way.

Eris’s thrusts were relentless, his golden eyes blazing as he drove into you, hard and deep, like he was staking his claim in every possible way. His grip was possessive, his fingers digging into your hips as if he could anchor you to him, as if he was afraid you might disappear from beneath him.

You met him, thrust for thrust, your body rising to meet his, refusing to let him overwhelm you, to let him have all the control.

And you wanted him to know it.

His lips curled into a wicked smirk as he felt you rising to meet him, as he realized you wouldn’t just lie there and take it, you were fighting for dominance even now, matching him, challenging him.

“Look at you,” he rasped, his breath hot against your lips as he drove into you, his body pressing firmly against yours. “Still trying to fight me even now.”

A breathless laugh left your lips, your nails raking down his back, leaving marks on his skin as you smirked up at him.

“Can’t make it too easy for you, High Lord,” you teased, rolling your hips into his. “That wouldn’t be any fun.”

Eris groaned, his eyes flashing with pure hunger, his grip tightening at your hips.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re going to be the death of me, little fox.”

You grinned, tilting your chin up in challenge. “Then die trying.”

His growl was feral, and then he was moving, his rhythm shifting, thrusting harder, deeper, hitting every spot inside of you that sent fire licking down your spine.

Each roll of his hips dragged you higher and higher, the tension coiling in your stomach, winding tighter and tighter, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

And fuck, he knew.

He felt it.

Felt the way you were falling apart beneath him, felt the way your body was clenching around him, pulling him deeper, dragging him closer to the edge.

Eris leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice low and taunting as he murmured,

“You’re so fucking perfect wrapped around me.”

You whimpered, your hands fisting into his hair, pulling him closer.

He chuckled, his tongue flicking teasingly over your pulse before his teeth scraped against it. “And so fucking responsive, too. Like your body knows exactly who it belongs to.”

Your breath hitched, your back arching as his words sent another wave of heat through you.

Eris felt it.

And gods, he loved it.

“You like that?” he purred, his lips trailing down your throat, sucking a mark into your skin. “Like knowing that you’re mine?”

You moaned, unable to answer, too wrecked, too lost in the pleasure he was pulling from you.

But Eris wasn’t satisfied with silence.

His golden eyes flashed, his grip on your hip tightening as he snapped his hips harder, his next words nothing but pure, cocky arrogance.

“Tell me who you belong to, little fox.”

Your fingers tightened in his hair, your body trembling, pleasure coiling so tight it was almost painful.

Eris smirked.

“Oh, you want to say it, don’t you?” he murmured, licking over the mark he’d just left on your neck. “I can feel it.”

You clenched your jaw, still fighting, still refusing to let him win so easily.

But then he angled his hips just right, his next thrust sending you spiraling, pleasure exploding through you so fiercely you thought you might break apart completely.

“Come for me, little fox,” he commanded, his voice raw, hungry. “Scream my fucking name so all these little village boys know who you belong to.”

And you did.

ERIS!

You screamed his name as your body shattered, your vision going white, your nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure crashed over you in waves, leaving you breathless, wrecked, ruined.

And Eris…

His thrusts turned erratic, his rhythm breaking as he felt you clench around him, dragging him down with you, pulling him into the fire.

A feral groan left his throat as he drove into you one last time, his head dropping against your shoulder as fire roared through his veins, his body tensing as he spilled himself deep inside you.

For a moment, neither of you could move, neither of you could breathe, the world around you disappearing as you both came down from the high, your bodies still tangled together, still connected.

Eris was the first to move, his lips pressing against your damp skin, slow and reverent, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your hip.

And then that damn smirk returned.

“Well,” he murmured, his breath still ragged, but his voice full of pure arrogance. “You, little fox, were definitely worth the wait.”

You huffed a laugh, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”

Eris chuckled, his golden eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he kissed the corner of your mouth.

“And yet,” he murmured, grinning, “you just screamed my name loud enough for the entire village to hear.”

Your face flushed, and Eris laughed, delighted.

“Oh, little fox,” he purred, rolling you beneath him again, his lips ghosting along your jaw. “You better rest up.”

His teeth nipped at your throat, and his smirk turned absolutely wicked.

“Because I’m not done claiming you yet.”

His body was still pressed against yours, his skin warm and solid, his breath hot against your cheek as he lay on top of you, his arms framing your face, caging you beneath him like he never wanted to let you go.

His golden eyes were softer now, the sharpness in them tempered by something deeper, something more vulnerable as he slowly pushed a stray curl from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

His fingers lingered, tracing the edge of your cheek, his thumb brushing the swollen curve of your bottom lip.

His voice came, quiet but firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

“Say it.”

Your brows furrowed slightly, lips parting as you tried to decipher the seriousness in his gaze, the way his jaw tensed, the way his golden eyes burned like this moment, this confirmation, was something he needed.

“Say what?” you murmured, your fingers lightly tracing the curve of his spine.

Eris’s lips pressed into a thin line, but his eyes, gods, his eyes, were filled with desperation as they pinned you to the bed.

“That you’re mine,” he murmured, his voice gravelly, raw. “I need to hear you say it.”

Your heart clenched.

Because this wasn’t Eris Vanserra, cocky High Lord, arrogant prince of Autumn.

This was him.

Your mate.

The male who had waited for you, who had ached for you, who had fought against his own instincts just to give you the space to figure it out for yourself.

You swallowed hard, your fingers sliding up his back, over the hard muscles of his shoulders, until they reached his face, cradling his jaw.

And you meant it when you said -

“I’m yours, Eris.”

The breath he released was shaky, his entire body melting at your words, his forehead dropping to yours like a weight had just been lifted from his soul.

His arms tightened around you, his chest pressing into yours, possessive, overwhelming, like he needed you close.

And when he spoke again, his voice was hoarse, dark, edged with something fierce.

“I’ll be the first and last male who ever has you like this.”

A shiver ran down your spine at the finality in his words, at the way his fingers tightened on your hips, securing you against him.

His lips brushed against yours, a whisper of a kiss before he sighed, like he had never been this at peace before, like his entire world had shifted into place the moment you said those words.

And then he kissed you.

Not rushed or desperate, not full of the heat that had devoured you moments before.

But gentle.

Like he was learning you all over again, like this moment meant something to him beyond just the pleasure, beyond just the bond.

Like he was savoring you.

When he finally pulled away, he exhaled sharply before rolling onto his back, one strong arm immediately pulling you into his side, tucking you against him like you belonged there.

His fingers started tracing lazy circles along your hip, soothing, his breath still ragged, his heart still pounding against your cheek where you rested against his chest.

A long silence stretched between you before his voice came, softer now, smug but genuine.

“Are you in any pain?” he asked, his fingers skimming lightly along your waist.

You snorted, shifting against him, stretching slightly. “I’m fine, Eris. I’m not breakable.”

He huffed, his lips curling into a smirk as he tilted your chin up, his golden eyes gleaming with something wicked.

“Oh, I know that, little fox,” he purred. “But after the way I just fucked you into this mattress, I figured I should at least pretend to be a gentleman.”

Heat flooded your face, and you swatted his chest, but he just laughed, catching your wrist in his hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“But it’s good to hear you’re fine,” he mused, his smirk deepening as he rolled onto his side, his arm draping possessively over your waist.

“Because you’re not leaving this cabin today.”

You arched a brow, your lips curling into a mocking smirk. “Oh? And why’s that?”

Eris grinned, leaning down to nip at your earlobe, his breath hot against your skin.

“Because I plan to spend all day reminding you exactly who you belong to.”

Your stomach flipped, a shiver running down your spine, but you refused to let him win that easily.

You tilted your chin, your fingers skimming along his chest as you murmured, “Who says I belong to anyone?”

Eris froze.

A deep, feral growl rumbled from his throat as he flipped you beneath him, pinning your wrists above your head, his golden eyes blazing.

“Oh, little fox,” he purred, his smirk dangerous, his grip on your wrists tight.

“You’re about to find out.”

*****

Eris kept his promise.

He worshipped you that day, made love to you again and again, like he was memorizing every inch of your body, every sound you made, every way you responded to him.

And gods, you matched him.

Met him thrust for thrust, kiss for kiss, never once holding back, never once letting him completely dominate you.

And he loved it.

Every time he thought he had wrung the last bit of pleasure from you, you surprised him, pulling him back in, flipping him beneath you, teasing, challenging him in a way that had him growling, had him flipping you back over, his lips on your skin, his body demanding more.

And you gave it to him.

Again and again.

Until the sun had dipped low, until the golden light of autumn faded into deep orange and crimson outside the window of the cabin.

It wasn’t until darkness settled over the woods that you let out a long, sated sigh, stretching beside him, your limbs boneless, your body still humming with pleasure.

Eris lay beside you, his arm draped possessively over your waist, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin. His golden hair was a mess, his lips red and swollen from where you had kissed him senseless.

He looked wrecked.

You smirked. “I think I broke you.”

Eris let out a low, lazy chuckle, his golden eyes flicking open, amusement dancing in their depths.

“You tried,” he murmured, tilting his head to press a slow, lingering kiss to your shoulder. “But, little fox, I think I’m the one who completely ruined you.”

You huffed, shoving at his shoulder. “Cocky bastard.”

He grinned, but his fingers only tightened on your waist, keeping you pinned to him. “And you love it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smirk was unmistakable.

Then reality crept back in.

Your father.

Your family.

You had to go home.

You let out a slow sigh, sitting up, your body still aching from how he had taken you, how he had claimed you in every possible way.

Eris watched you, his golden eyes flicking over your naked form as you slid to the edge of the bed, reaching for your clothes.

“You don’t have to leave,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, but there was something genuine behind it.

You smiled softly, pulling your dress over your head. “As much as I’d love to stay here and let you have your way with me all night…” You sighed. “I have to get home. My father will be worried.”

Eris huffed a breath, running a hand through his wild hair before leaning back on his elbows. “Fair point. But it’s damn unfortunate that you’re still a good daughter.”

You laughed, throwing a pillow at him. “What a tragedy.”

Eris smirked, catching the pillow with ridiculous ease, his golden eyes still glinting with mischief.

But then, as you slid your boots on, fastening them, you hesitated.

And you asked the question you had been avoiding all day.

“Where do we go from here?”

Eris’s smirk didn’t fade.

Didn’t waver.

If anything, it deepened.

And when he sat up, when he slid behind you, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to the nape of your neck, his fingers trailing up your spine, you knew he had been waiting for you to ask.

He exhaled, his lips hovering over your skin as he murmured, “You’re mine.”

A shiver raced down your spine, but you tilted your head slightly. “You’ve already established that.”

He chuckled, the sound low and knowing. “Then I suppose my answer is simple.”

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against his bare chest, his lips brushing your ear.

“You come to the estate,” he murmured, his voice dripping with wicked intent, “and you stay with me.”

Your breath hitched, but before you could speak, before you could protest, he tilted your chin toward him, forcing you to look at him.

“I want you by my side, little fox,” he said, and for once, there was no teasing in his tone.

No cocky arrogance.

Just truth.

“You will be my Emissary of Trade. You will sit in council meetings with me, you will travel with me when needed. But more than that…” His thumb brushed slowly over your bottom lip, his golden eyes dark.

“You will be mine. Every day, every night, every morning.” He leaned in, his lips almost brushing yours. “And if the council has a problem with it, they can burn for all I care.”

Your heart pounded.

How was it that Eris Vanserra could say something so infuriatingly arrogant and yet make your entire body melt in the same breath?

You swallowed, tilting your chin. “And what if I say no?”

Eris grinned, his golden eyes flashing. “Then I’ll just have to convince you.”

And then he kissed you again.

Deep, slow, like he had all the time in the world to change your mind.

Like he already knew he had.

As he pulled back, his fingers still tangled in your hair, his expression shifted. The usual smugness softened just slightly, just enough for you to feel the depth of what he was about to say.

“And should you decide to fully accept this bond,” he murmured, his golden eyes locking onto yours, “you won’t just be my mate.”

Your breath caught, your fingers tightening in his tunic.

“You’ll be my High Lady.”

The weight of those words settled between you, a promise, a vow, something that had never been offered to any female of the Autumn Court before.

You searched his face, searching for any doubt, any hesitation.

But Eris Vanserra was nothing if not certain.

Your lips parted, but before you could say anything, his smirk returned, sharp and dangerous, as he leaned in, his voice a low, teasing purr.

“So tell me, little fox…”

His fingers traced slowly down your spine, his lips brushing against your jaw.

“Do I need to convince you of that too?”

[ohemgeewhat]

It's heavy, but it's probably the best thing I've ever read on this app. Beautifully written.

bound by fear

a/n: this was a request! (sorry I've been mia)

pairing: Azriel x Reader

content warnings: physical and emotional abuse by a parental figure (alluded to and described), anxiety, violence, misogyny, language

note this fic is a bit heavier than my usual. please take care of yourselves if this could be triggering for you - this is not meant to romanticize trauma, but I think sometimes fics that include these topics can be a comfort for some <3

word count: 9.2k

synopsis: You spent three decades suffering under the cruel thumb of your father. When you finally escaped, finally started to build your own life, the last thing you ever wanted was to find a mate.

my masterlist

~ ~ ~

You never wanted a mate. A mate was the last thing you ever wanted for yourself, after escaping from your wretched father. You never wanted another male in your life, controlling every decision, every thought, every breath that you made. You couldn’t have a mate.

Mates were rare, you had told yourself. It was unlikely that you would ever come across yours. It was an irrational fear, really. Especially once you fled from your camp—once you found an isolated cottage hidden deep in the Illyrian Steppes, miles away from any Illyrian camp. 

It was a dilapidated thing when you stumbled across it, but it protected you from the unforgiving cold of Illyria and the wet snow that seeped through your clothes. It was the first place you felt safe, once the adrenaline had ebbed away and the oxygen returned to your lungs.

You made the place your own. Months passed, and the previous owner never showed. Eventually, you worked up the nerve to venture into the closest camp, and in a rare bout of luck, you befriended a female who owned a shop on the outskirts of the territory. She gave you any supplies and food you needed in exchange for tailoring. It was the only skill you had to your name.

Two years passed with the same, monotonous routine. It was admittedly a lonely life. Sometimes you longed for friends, for companionship, for family—then you remembered what family could look like, and decided you much preferred your solitary existence. Perhaps one day you could leave this mountain, seek refuge in a new court, and build an entirely new life for yourself. For now, though, you would stay put in your cottage, in your forest, and relish in the peaceful life you had found after nearly three decades of torture.

That was your plan.

Then you met him.

~ ~ ~

Two Months Ago

You thanked the Mother every day for bestowing the gift of nature to this world. The trees, the snow, the skittering and chirping animals that hid amongst the brush and tree canopies—they all provided you with a comfort that you were certain you would have gone insane without. Every day, you walked through the surrounding forest, absorbing the sounds and smells and the kiss of fresh air on your skin. All little joys you never had before.

It took months before you had the courage to amble around so freely. Months where you barely left your little cottage, a shell of a female that was terrified of discovery. You eventually ran out of food, though, the non-perishables left behind by the previous occupant long gone. You had not escaped your father just to die at the hands of starvation, so you bundled yourself in whatever clothes and scraps of fabric you could find in old drawers to make yourself appear larger, then trekked to the nearest camp. You befriended a local shopkeeper who knew all too well the cruelty of Illyrian males, and she swore to do whatever she could to help you stay hidden.

You never asked her name, and you never offered yours. It felt too dangerous—too personal. You were grateful for her help, but you couldn’t risk attachment. She couldn’t risk catching the wrath of an arrogant male. 

She is the one that suggested that you take walks. To explore nature in a way you never could before. To take another slice of newfound freedom.

Your daily walks became a ritual. They were yours, and this forest was your home, and no one was around for miles to threaten you or scream at you. No one was around to hurt you. You felt safe in a way you never knew was possible, even if the fear that your father would one day find you still lingered.

The cold was biting today, and you almost skipped your walk all together, but decided against it. You had weathered far worse than some cold air, and your Illyrian skin was acclimated to the bitter weather. There was no reason to skip it.

Something was nagging at you though, the entire time you were out. There was an ache in the center of your chest, a dull anxiety, or anticipation, thrumming up and down your core. You rubbed at your chest as you took a step up to your cottage, the weight of your foot making the old wooden staircase creak. 

An unfamiliar scent hit you, and you froze. There was cedar, which wouldn’t be all that unusual in the middle of the forest, but it was so potent, and it was mixed with salt. How you imagined the sea must smell. 

Someone was here. Someone was in your home.

The door flew open, and towering in the doorframe was an Illyrian male, with blue siphons adorning his body. His eyes were wide as they met yours, and the breath was knocked from your lungs when that achy tension inside your chest snapped. The male stumbled slightly, his hand coming up to clutch his chest, and you knew he felt it too.

The mating bond.

It was unmistakable. The bond had snapped, and this male in front of you was your mate. This Illyrian male, that had invaded your home.

You took off running. You didn’t know where you were going, but you weren’t going anywhere with him. Your father must have sent him, and the Mother had a cruel and twisted sense of humor for binding you to him. The snow crunched beneath your feet, a likely beacon for the male to follow if he was determined, but you couldn’t care.

You couldn’t stop moving. Even as branches and twigs slapped at your skin, as snow fell into your hair, clinging to your eyelashes and mixing with your hot and silent tears. This couldn’t be happening to you. You were finally free. You were finally settling down.

You would rather die than succumb to the fate of an Illyrian male’s mate.

Something—someone—grabbed your arm, yanking you to an abrupt halt. You twisted to face your attacker, your heart pounding as you locked eyes with the male. Your mate.

His grip was firm, and it only tightened when you tried to break away. 

“What is your name?” he asked. His voice was quiet. Soft. It made you falter.

You still tugged at his grip, trying to break free, but it was no use. “Like you don’t know,” you spat.

You waited for the inevitable blow, for the retaliation, but it never came. He simply stared at you, his brow slightly furrowed and his lips pressed into a hard line. “Is someone following you?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you huffed, tugging at your arm again. “You.”

His eyes narrowed. They were hazel, you realized. Nearly honey in the sunlight. You swallowed hard, averting your gaze as the little confidence you had wavered.

“How long have you been living in my safe house?”

Your eyes snapped back to him, your mouth going dry. “Yours?” you croaked.

He nodded slowly. “I’m particularly interested in how you broke through the wards.”

You shook your head. “I—I didn’t,” you stuttered. “I swear. I didn’t. I just found it, and it seemed abandoned. I’m sorry. Please—”

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his face inexplicably softening, and your words died in your throat.

“Let me go,” you demanded, but the words fell flat as your voice wavered.

His grip loosened, but not enough that you could run off. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he swore quietly.

You were trembling. Your entire body was shaking as you stared at him in disbelief. He was lying. He had to be. He was trying to coax you into a false-sense of security, to convince you to let your guard fall, and then he would sink his fingers into you. He would drag you back to that camp, to your father, perhaps. Maybe he would drag you back to his home, and make you answer to his every whim.

“What is your name?” he asked again. His voice was so gentle it made you shiver. 

You still didn’t answer. He surely knew your name already, but in case he didn’t, you weren’t going to be the one to tell him.

“My name is Azriel,” he continued, unphased by your silence. The name made you falter, as if you recognized it somewhere deep in the recesses of your mind. “I work for the High Lord.”

You blinked at him, brain turning fuzzy. “The Shadowsinger?” you croaked, an entirely new chill of fear running up your spine.

“Yes.”

“Where are your shadows, then?”

“Away.”

You stared at him, the very axis of your world tilting beneath you as you stood before your mate. Your mate, that worked for the High Lord of Night. The Shadowsinger, who was feared across Prythian, and hated amongst Illyrians. You didn’t know what to make of any of it.

“What are you going to do with me?”

Azriel let you go, and the anger that flooded his eyes as he dropped your wrist made your stomach lurch. He stood and watched you tremble before him, the snow seeping into your boots as fresh flakes stuck to your lashes. Fear sunk its claws deeper into your core with every second that passed and he left your desperate question unanswered. 

Then he just vanished. His body was swallowed whole by a swarm of dark shadows that came and went as easily as the breeze. The knowledge that he could winnow, that he could appear anywhere at any time he wanted made your stomach churn.

You stood there in a daze as the snow fell around you and branches creaked in the wind. The sun was creeping below the horizon, and your legs started carrying you toward your cottage before you could even begin to fully process the situation you were in.

You tripped on one of the old wooden steps as you climbed to the porch, the snow biting at the bare skin of your hands you used to catch yourself. A single sob fell from your lips as you pushed yourself back up, forcing yourself to move inside and out of the bitter cold. You frantically started packing your belongings, parceling out what you would take, what you would have to leave behind, all while a chasm grew in your chest. The entire time you felt like someone was watching you. A sixth sense screaming at you that you were not alone. 

It had been years since you felt such panic, a bone-deep fear that would haunt you for months. It was such a sick and icy feeling that left you pain-stakingly numb, so numb that as the adrenaline wore off, you found yourself slumping to the floor in front of the crackling fire you couldn’t remember feeding. Silent tears fell down your cheeks as you sat there motionlessly, letting the minutes tick by and the odds of him coming back for you grow.

You had a mate. An Illyrian was your mate. One of the most powerful males in Prythian was your mate. There would be no escaping him. You could try to run and hide in another court, but you had no doubt that he would find you before you crossed the border. Probably before you even left Illyria.

Defeat and exhaustion weighed you down, your body sagging as the last of your fight faded out. Somehow, sleep managed to claim you, and you laid there on the floor until morning, when a soft and persistent knocking dragged you back to consciousness.

The fire still burned before you, the flames flickering as the wood crackled and popped. Your head snapped toward the door as the knocking continued. Dread swam in your stomach as you realized who must be on the other side of the door. In all your time living here, you had never had a visitor.

You debated making a run for it. Jumping through a side window with nothing but the clothes on your back. You weren’t sure your useless wings could fit through the frame though, and you would likely freeze to death if you somehow managed to escape him.

You slowly walked toward the door on shaky legs, your hand trembling as you let it hover over the lock. The knocking stopped. You couldn’t understand what sort of game he was playing. He had made it clear last night that he could just waltz into your home at his leisure. Your home, that was never really yours.

“I know you’re there,” his soft voice startled you. His voice was muffled through the door, but it still made your heart race. “Please,” he begged as you stared at the wooden door. “Please, can I talk to you?”

He sounded almost desperate. Your mind spun as you processed his request—his request, not a demand. Not a threat. You stumbled as heat pulsed in the center of your chest. It was unsettling, feeling the physical pull the mating bond had on you, practically screaming at you to go to this male.

You shakily unlatched the lock, feeling sick as you unexplainably opened the door for this male. His hazel eyes snapped to yours, his breath seeming to catch in his throat as he stared at you. Your grip tightened on the door.

He was dressed in plain clothes. Black boots, black pants, and a navy sweater. You could still make out the matching glows of the two siphons on his wrist, but the other five were gone. His wings tucked in tighter as you took him in, and your face burned as you forced yourself to meet his eyes.

“Hello,” he said quietly. His voice was uncharacteristically gentle. You couldn’t imagine it as the natural cadence of this Illyrian warrior, the Spymaster of  Night Court. 

You swallowed hard, fighting to keep your face impassive as your resolve wavered. “What do you want?”

Azriel’s face was calm and unflinching. “What is your name?” he asked, again.

As much as you wanted to slam the door in his face and pretend none of this ever happened, you knew that was not an option. Your soul was tied to this male on your porch, you had been living on his property for years—there was no escaping from this. “Y/N.”

He repeated your name softly, and you hated the tug you felt in your chest as the syllables fell from his lips. You hated that warmth that flooded your skin as his eyes glanced over you briefly before meeting your gaze again. “You have blood on your sleeve,” he observed quietly.

Your gaze fell to the fabric around your wrist, splotches of blood staining the dirty fabric. You could only imagine how disheveled you truly looked. The thought did nothing to quell your nerves. He likely didn’t want a mate that looked so poorly, whose hair was unbrushed and clothes were muddied. You didn’t care what he thought of you—but the thought of already angering the male you might be shackled to for eternity made you faint. You were certain you had done enough damage last night.

Mother above, this was really happening. You really had a mate. You were a fool to think your newfound freedom would last. 

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice making you flinch. You stared at him in disbelief as his eyes assessed you with seemingly genuine concern.

“What?” you rasped.

“Are you hurt?” he repeated, his eyes slightly wider as they met yours. “Do you need a healer?”

You let go of the door to cover your blood stained wrist, your heart pounding against your ribcage. A healer. He would take you to a healer? You had never been allowed to visit one. Even if you had…your camp’s healer was a male. You would have rather died than to try to seek the help of another wretched Illyrian male.

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t seem convinced, but he didn’t push it further. Instead, he said, “My name is Azriel.”

You blinked. “I know.”

His throat bobbed, and he glanced away. “Last night was…” He shook his head. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“And what do you want?” you asked quietly.

His face was soft, and his shoulders fell slightly as answered, “I just want to know you.”

~ ~ ~

Present

You didn’t believe Azriel when he told you all he wanted was the chance to know you. All he wanted was to have a conversation. Once a week. Nothing more. It was ludicrous. Insane. 

At first, he wanted you to come to Velaris—but as soon as he uttered the words, you panicked and started begging him to leave you be, to not take you away, and he let it go. He swore up and down that he would never take you anywhere or make you do anything you didn’t want.

His promises fell on deaf ears. You were no fool. You had seen too much, endured too much, to ever believe such frilly promises from a male.

Except, two months had passed, and his promises remained unbroken. He let you stay in the cottage, and he showed you how to activate certain wards and enchantments that had apparently been at your disposal this entire time. For two years you had been chopping wood in the snowy forest when the damned cottage could apparently feed the fire itself.

Azriel came by every week like clockwork. The same day and time, and for only an hour. He never entered without your permission, even if it was technically his cottage that you had staked a claim to. The first couple of weeks were wrought with stiff and awkward silence, but Azriel didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he filled your pantry and medicine cabinets, cleaned the fireplace, swept the floor—all things that you were perfectly capable of doing yourself—but he did them anyway. 

The third week your resolve snapped. Your anxiety ignited into a fiery rage that had you snapping at the male who had decided to make you soup, of all things.

“When will you grow tired of these games?” you snapped.

Azriel briefly tensed, his wings twitching slightly before folding in tight behind his back. He glanced at you over his shoulder, his face sincere as he said softly. “I'm not playing any games.”

You scoffed. “Then when will your patience grow thin? How many more weeks before you just take what you want? Before you drag me to that city of yours so I can play the part of the pretty mate to the High Lord’s Spymaster?”

Azriel slowly sat the spoon down on the counter, letting the soup simmer on the stove as he turned to face you. His eyes were hard as they looked at you, his jaw clenched tight. The look made your stomach fall, your heart pounding as you took a timid step back, cursing yourself for such a foolish outburst.

His eyes immediately softened when you moved away, and he didn’t make any effort to go near you. “I will never force you—”

You grit your teeth. “So you’ve said.”

“And I will say it again, and again, and again. However many times you need to hear it.”

He always said the right thing. It was infuriating. Although, even now, weeks after the bond had snapped and thrusted him into your life, you still didn’t believe him—and yet, you had started to anticipate his visits, rather than dread them. You had started to see them as a nuisance, instead of a threat. 

He was due for a visit today, and he was late. The sun had moved past its apex in the sky, and the light was starting to filter in through the west windows. You ignored the unease you felt in your stomach with every minute that passed and he didn’t show. You told yourself you would be glad if he spared you of this week’s visit. Perhaps, he had given up on you entirely.

You couldn’t ignore the tightness in your chest, though, and you couldn’t shake the anxiety that was bubbling deep in your core. 

You jumped when three knocks sounded on your door, and you instinctively moved to answer it. The band wrapped around your lungs loosened when you saw Azriel standing on your porch, looking a little disheveled.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he greeted breathlessly. You moved to the side to let him in, and you shut the door behind him as he toed off his boots that were unusually caked in mud. His leathers had matching streaks painted across them, and there were dried flakes of it caked to the dark strands of his hair. 

“Are you okay?”

Azriel appeared as startled by your question as you were. You didn’t know what compelled you to ask him that, why you would even care, but for some reason, you did.

He blinked slowly, his lips parting slightly before finally answering softly, “Yes, I am.”

You swallowed hard, looking away toward the fire.

“My nephew started flying today,” he explained. “Unexpectedly, and he had an accident.”

“Is he okay?” you asked, voice quiet.

“Yes,” he said, voice still soft. “He is.”

You nodded slightly, dragging your eyes back to meet his. His eyes were already glued to you, and you forgot how to breathe for a second as you stood there under his gaze. The air felt charged and heavy as you stood there before each other, as if lightning was about to strike and shake you to your core. It was alluring. Intoxicating. Then something squeezed inside your chest and it felt like someone curled a finger around your rib, coaxing you toward the male in front of you, and a new wave of terror doused whatever delusion you had danced with momentarily.

You took a step back, and Azriel’s face fell slightly before he caught it. “Can I clean up?” he asked, breaking the tense silence as he pointed behind him to the tiny bathroom.

You nodded, avoiding his eyes. He quickly disappeared inside the tiny room, and you didn’t breathe until you heard the door click shut.

You slumped onto the wooden dining chair beside you, your hands rubbing at your temples as your stomach churned with anxiety. You hated this. You hated that the Mother was so cruel. How could you have a mate? Had you not suffered enough? Were the last two years the only taste of freedom you would ever get?

You knew your time left in this cottage was ticking. The minutes you had left to cling to your last dredges of independence were slipping through your fingers. Every time you looked at Azriel, every week he showed up on your doorstep, you were reminded that this was temporary. The life you had started to build for yourself was no longer yours.

And every time that damned bond linking the two of you together for eternity tugged at your chest, it made you want to scream. You had briefly thought about rejecting the bond. About severing the “gift” bestowed upon you by the Mother in two. Every time you did, though, it felt like an axe to your chest. You couldn’t stomach being bonded to an Illyrian male, but you weren’t sure you could survive cleaving the bond either.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Azriel stepped out with damp hair and a clean face, but his leathers were still muddied. He seemed to hesitate in the doorway, and it was unlike every other time he had been here, when he moved around your home with purpose and confidence—fixing things and stocking your pantry and needlessly stoking your fire. He looked almost…boyish.

He took a small step forward. “I need to ask you something,” he started. You folded your hands in your lap, your palms turning clammy. He glanced at the chair next to yours—the only other chair at the table—then back at you. You thought it might be a silent question, but you weren’t sure.

He tentatively moved for the chair, his eyes watching you, and when you made no move to stop him, he pulled it out from the table. He sat a bit awkwardly, his frame far too large for the wooden seat, and his wings bumped into the table as they unfurled and then snapped shut while he shifted around. The sight of his wings moving so gracefully made your heart hurt. It had been a very long time since you appreciated the beauty of Illyrian wings, since you witnessed their elegant strength without fearing it. 

Without fear. The thought made your heart tumble, and you stared at the male beside you in disbelief and reluctant awe. This was the closest he had been to you since that night in the forest. If you could still stretch your wings, they would no doubt bump into his.

“How much do you know about mating bonds?”

His words were like ice water over your head. Your breathing turned labored and shaky as you met his eyes hesitantly. “Why?”

He ran a hand through his damp hair. You hated that a small part of you liked seeing him like this—so normal, even if he still wore his leathers and siphons. “Humor me, please.”

You suddenly felt foolish and naive. What was there to know about a mating bond? “I—” your mouth was dry as you searched for the right words “—I don’t know. I guess it’s eternal? Chosen by the Mother and honored above all other bonds.”

His face was unflinching as his eyes roved over you, your skin tingling in the wake of his gaze. “What else?” he asked.

You blinked. There was more? You shifted nervously in your chair, tucking your hands between your thighs as you thought of what else he wanted you to say.  “I suppose it means I belong to you,” you added quietly, avoiding his gaze as the acidic words dripped off your tongue. You might as well have set the last scraps of your freedom on fire.

“That’s not—” Azriel started hurriedly, and you looked up to see his wide and slightly panicked eyes, “—That’s not what I meant.”

His shoulders slumped forward a bit as he looked at you, and you couldn’t help but notice how his leathers were stretched tight over his thighs as he rubbed his scarred palms over them. It of course was not the first time you had noticed the scars lining his flesh, but something inside you ached at the sight of them this time. You found yourself wanting to know who did that to him—then, a more terrifying thought creeped in, and you wondered what he might have done to provoke them.

How much blood was on his hands? How old was he? How long had he been fighting and killing for this court? How long had he served as fodder for faeries’ nightmares and horror stories?

“Y/N,” Azriel’s soft voice snapped you out of your spiral, and your heart started racing as you met his eyes. He almost looked like he was in pain.

Gods, what had he been saying? You should have been paying attention. How long had your thoughts been wandering?

His eyes were sad as he told you, “I need to leave.”

You blinked, the daze you had faded into clearing from your vision. “Why?” you asked, voice unexpectedly gravelly.

His eyes flitted over your face, searching for something. “Rhys needs me to do something for him,” was his vague response.

You swallowed, nodding once as your eyes stayed glued to him. The setting sun illuminated his tan skin beautifully—it was nearly glowing. His eyes were bright and honeyed, if not a little glossy. His hair was slowly drying in soft waves, the strands falling slightly over his forehead. And his lips. Mother, his lips were soft and pink and—

“Y/N,” Azriel said again, and your face heated as you were once again yanked from your thoughts. Panic clutched you again, and your chair screeched against the floor as you stood up quickly. You scrambled away from him, leaning against the kitchen counter as you folded your arms across your chest.

Azriel’s lips were parted as he stared at you, and you wished he would stop. You wished he would leave, and never come back. You wished these confusing and conflicting thoughts would stop plaguing you. You wished you didn’t find yourself attracted to this male who was your mate. This Illyrian male that terrified you to your core, no matter how pretty he was or how softly he spoke to you. 

You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You wanted to melt alongside the snow outside your cabin, and never face this new fate that had been bestowed upon you—because despite all of the fear and anger you had toward this male, toward the mating bond that wound your soul to his—you didn’t actually want Azriel to disappear. You didn’t want him to abandon you. You didn’t want him to hate you, despite your desperate and icy attempts to push him away. It was all so fucking confusing.

“The mating bond,” you rasped, and the words seemed to rattle around inside you. It was the first you had ever spoken of it, ever outwardly acknowledged its existence. “You said you needed to tell me something.”

Azriel stood slowly from his chair, but he made no move closer to you. His face was solemn as he said, “Yes, I—” He swallowed, then rubbed a hand over his face. “I do. I will—but I have to leave now. I’m sorry.”

You weren’t sure what to make of the wave of rejection you felt at his words. Two months ago, two weeks ago, you would have rejoiced he was leaving early. Now, it left you feeling cold and untethered. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again. He lingered beside the table for another moment, as if he was hesitating. Then his shadows swarmed around him, and they swallowed him whole, leaving you alone in your cottage, and for the first time you resented the solitude that you once cherished.

~ ~ ~

The sun had set and the moon had long ago taken its place since Azriel had inexplicably rattled you and then left you in a whirlwind of shadows. You had replayed your conversation over and over in your head, and every time it left you even more anxious and confused. 

The heat from the fire warmed your skin as you watched the flames flicker in front of you. You weren’t sure how long you had sat there on the couch, your feet tucked beneath you as you sat alone—your thoughts and the orange flames your only company. You should have gone to bed. It was late, and you were exhausted, but there was a part of you that wanted to wait—that wanted to see if Azriel would return, however unlikely it was.

A knock on the door made your head snap toward it. For a brief moment you felt relief—relief that Azriel had come back. Then ice slowly spread through your veins, and your breath caught in your throat as you stared at the door. That was not Azriel on the other side.

You didn’t know how you could possibly know it wasn’t him. You just knew in your core it wasn’t. Azriel made you nervous. You were always on edge around him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. You were always waiting for him to snap and treat you how every other Illyrian male you had encountered did.

This feeling was different. There was some primal part of you screaming “Danger!” and “Fucking run!” but you were frozen to your couch. You had never felt that when Azriel visited. You had not felt true and imminent danger in two years. It was not your mate standing on your doorstep.

The next knock made you flinch, and it was louder, more impatient. Panic was taking over, and your legs felt numb as you finally rose from the couch, but you just stood there and stared at the door. You had nowhere to go. There was nowhere to run, no way out except through the front door where your past sat waiting to tear you apart and drag your pieces back with them.

The wards. Azriel said this place was protected by wards. They should keep whoever it was out, right? The next round of pounding shook the door on its hinges, though, and your momentary confidence suddenly dwindled. 

The heavy pounding didn’t stop. It only grew more and more persistent, more violent, until the force made the entire cabin tremble. “Open this fucking door!”

That voice flooded your veins with acid. You knew that voice. You heard that voice in your nightmares. It haunted you everywhere you went.

Maybe you were dreaming. Maybe you fell asleep waiting for Azriel, and this was just a terrible, vivid nightmare. Your stomach flipped inside out when he banged on the door so hard the windows rattled.

This was real. Your father on the other side of your door was real, and you were still fucking frozen in place as he screamed and pounded. You shakily reached for the dagger that had rested on your mantel since you first found the cottage. The black metal was warm from the fire, its weight heavy and unfamiliar in your palm. You didn’t know how to use it—how to properly defend yourself—but it was more than you ever had before.

“I will burn this place to the damn ground!” He screamed, his voice rough and feral. “Don’t think I won’t watch you burn with it! Open the door you worthless bitch!” He started kicking the door, and your heart stopped when you heard the wood splinter. 

You had no doubt he would burn you alive in this place. Maybe the wards would protect you. Maybe they would fend off any flames he lit. Maybe they would keep him out when he inevitably broke the door down. Maybe they wouldn’t.

You should have asked Azriel more questions. You should have asked him just how safe you were here. You should have asked him how to wield the damned blade that must have been his that you now clutched uselessly at your side. You should have asked him—

“You knew it was only a matter of time before someone made you my fucking problem again,” he spat. “A fucking embarrassment. Maybe I should just burn you to ash.”

Your breath was stuck in your throat, and your lungs were paralyzed. Azriel. Did Azriel—did he tell you father where you were? You couldn’t fucking breathe. You never told him where you came from, who you were hiding from, but it wouldn’t be hard for the Spymaster to figure out. He had cut your visit short today. He had given you some vague excuse for why he had to leave—was this why?

Your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sob that escaped your lips. The skin of your cheeks was damp with silent tears, and you looked at the window to the right of you. There was no other option. You couldn’t stay here.

Your body’s movements were driven by pure adrenaline as you swung the window open, pulling it roughly to break it from its hinges, leaving the frame fully open for you to climb through. The glass shattered on the ground as it fell from your grasp and you shimmied through the too small frame. Your wings snagged on the wood of the cabin, and you yanked them free with a stifled yelp of pain as they were pinched and scraped against the worn wood.

You knew your father had to have heard you. You knew he would likely catch you, but you didn’t have to make it easy for him. You took off running toward the forest, your feet quickly going numb from the snow that seeped through the thin fabric covering them. 

There was a sick sense of deja vu that washed over you as you ran between pine trees and shrubs, branches smacking and scratching at your skin. The Mother really did have a sick and twisted sense of humor.

Pain ricocheted up your nose and bloomed under your eyes. You were no longer running. You weren’t standing. Your cheek was pressed against hard stone and your palms were outstretched in front of you, caked in dirt and blood. A heavy weight lifted from your back, only for a more intense pressure to replace it at the center of your back. You let out a wheeze as the air was forced from your lungs.

A disgustingly familiar hand yanked your head up by your hair, and another gripped either side of your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. His eyes were as cold and vile as you remembered. He was the epitome of evil. You thanked the Cauldron you took after your mother, and your own face didn’t remind you of the monster leering at you now.

He tugged at your hair, snapping your neck back even farther as his boot still pressed into your spine. You thought he might snap you in two right there. 

Your eyes caught on the blade scattered beside you, too far away to even think about grabbing it. 

“Do you know what you’ve done?” he seethed, spit pelting your face. “Do you know what you cost me?” he screamed.

“First your mother embarrassed me when she was too weak to survive birth. Her only purpose, and she couldn’t even fulfill it. Then she left me with a pathetic and disrespectful runt of a daughter. No son to make me proud.” The punch shocked you, and you felt your mouth fill with an all too familiar metallic taste. Your cheek throbbed as he yanked on your hair again. “Then she runs away. Abandons her camp and responsibilities. Fucking pathetic. I couldn’t even pretend you were dead, because you were so lousy at covering your tracks, Illyrians across camps said they had seen you.”

A tiny, microscopic ounce of pride nestled in your chest. You had only ever been to one camp. The shopkeeper and you had planted seeds of doubtful but not implausible rumors of your whereabouts to specific patrons of hers—you wanted to be everywhere and nowhere—and it had worked.

“Do you think this is funny?” he sneered, and he kicked you in the ribs, rolling you onto your back and into the frozen earth. The next blow resounded with a sickening crack that left you gasping and wheezing through your tears. You hoped he killed you. If this was your fate, you would rather die now than face an eternity in his hands. In his hands, that your mate had dropped you into.

You squeezed your eyes shut as he straddled your hips, his weight a crushing force on top of your injuries. You hated him. You despised him for taking everything from you. He reached for the blade behind your head, and you held your breath as you waited for the blow. You expected him to go for your heart. Instead, he dragged the blade down the delicate membrane of your wing, leaving the skin in tatters as he repeated the motion.

The scream that left you was blood-curdling. You had never felt such pain. You had never experienced such all-consuming agony. You thought you might die from it—from the agonizing violation.

Then he was gone. One moment his weight was searing against your skin, and the next he was gone. A guttural grunt of pain had you weakly turning your head, and you could barely make out the sight of two figures fighting in the snow. Your vision swam as you watched them, as you watched one male land blow after blow to the one lying in the snow. Then they vanished into the shadows, and you thought you might join them.

~ ~ ~

Fingers on your jaw had you jerking from your daze, your vision clearing slightly to focus on the male hovering over you. You twisted away from him, screaming in both terror and pain as everything hurt. The touch fell away, and you squeezed your eyes shut again, tears falling as you sobbed and shook in the blood-stained snow.

“Y/N—”

“Please,” you sobbed. “Please—don’t. Leave me. Leave me alone. Please!” you begged, eyes snapping open again when he touched your hip. “Please!” you screamed. “I can’t take anymore!”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the male said, his voice sounding strangled. Your eyes snagged on his scarred hands hovering tentatively over your body. Azriel.

You sobbed harder. “I’m sorry,” you weeped. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you are stuck with me, I’m sorry—but please—please don’t take me back there.” You gasped through your tears and pain. “Please don’t leave me with him,” you cried, your entire body shaking. “I will do anything—”

“He will never touch you again,” Azriel growled, and you swore a tear ran down his cheek. You might have been hallucinating. “I promise.”

You stared at him—stared and stared as you shook and cried before him, desperate for a reprieve from this pain. His arms slid under your legs and back, and you screamed as your ribs shifted and your wings dragged against the ground. “Stop!” you cried. “Please, don’t—Azriel, please, I’m begging you. I will do anything, I swear—”

“Sweetheart,” the word was strangled as it fell from his lips, but his grip didn’t loosen. He stood slowly with you thrashing and crying in his arms. “You’re safe, I promise. I promise, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Then please,” you whimpered, “Leave me be.”

“I can’t,” he rasped. “I can’t leave you here. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but it isn’t safe, and you need a healer.”

“No,” you gasped. “No healers.” You couldn’t handle another male touching you, leering at you, prodding at you while you laid broken and vulnerable.

“She won’t hurt you,” he soothed. “I swear it.”

She. A female healer?

“Close your eyes,” he murmured gently, and a warmth slowly seeped into your frozen core as you stared into his eyes.

You don’t know why you listened to him. You don’t know why all of the fight in your body had suddenly dissipated as he held you in his arms, or why you let your head loll against his chest as exhaustion took over your senses, and your eyes fluttered shut. Featherlight whisps brushed against your cheeks and arms, gentle phantom-like touches tracing up and down the gashes in your wings.

You slowly opened your eyes when warmth washed over your skin and you felt Azriel walking. You were in someone’s home. A home—unlike anything you had ever seen. There were paintings adorning the walls and carpets lining the wooden floors. A fire crackled in the room Azriel carried you past, and he slowly maneuvered the two of you up a smooth wooden staircase.

“Where are you taking me?” Your voice was so embarrassingly weak. You were weak, and fragile, and an embarrassment. What was the Mother thinking, giving the Spymaster, the Shadowsinger, you as his mate. You were still trembling and frozen to your core, yet your entire body was ablaze with pain. You were helpless in Azriel’s arms, and as his fingers dug a little tighter into your skin, you realized you were truly at this male’s mercy. It was terrifying.

His grip immediately loosened. “Don’t be scared,” he whispered—begged—as he climbed the final step. “You never need to be scared with me.” He moved down the hallway as he said, “You’re in Velaris. My home. You’re safe here.”

Don’t be scared. You’re safe. I won’t hurt you.

His words swam around and around in your head as he carried you through an open doorway, and sat you gently on the bed. You wanted to believe him. Everything inside of you wanted to accept Azriel as your mate, to relish in his touch and presence, but everything you had endured at the hands of other Illyrian males—of your father—had you ready to leap out of another window to make a run for it.

You flinched as you watched the blood and mud on your clothes and skin seep into the clean bedspread beneath you. “The bed—”

“I don’t care about the damned bed,” Azriel nearly growled.

You nodded, your throat feeling like sandpaper as you tried to swallow the anxiety and fear still bubbling in your core. The room was spinning a bit, and you faintly recognized the brush of something cool against your cheek as a dark tendril of shadow flitted from you to Azriel. 

Azriel had one hand gripping yours while the other was wrapped firmly around your forearm, his strength alone keeping you upright. It was probably for the best. You weren’t sure you would ever get back up if you lied down right now. You couldn’t fathom the pain you would be in if you put pressure on your ribs or your wing.

“Madja will be here soon,” he said softly, and you absently squeezed his hand. He squeezed it back gently. A beat of tense silence passed, and you stared blankly at the wall in front of you, replaying the night on a loop in your head. “Y/N,” Azriel started, “who was he?”

Azriel’s tone told you he already knew the answer to his question—he just needed you to confirm it. There was no point hiding it anymore, and you were fairly certain he was the one who led him straight to you anyway. “My father,” you rasped. “How did he find me?” You forced yourself to meet his eyes, to watch them for any flicker of a tell, of emotion, that gave away what he had done.

His throat bobbed. “I don’t know.” His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, and you relished in the gentle touch before recoiling, pulling you hand away. His hand fell to his side, but the one keeping you upright stayed on your arm. You supposed it would make sense for a spymaster to be a flawless liar.

“Then how did you know he was there?” you asked, and you braced yourself for the inevitable anger—braced yourself for the blow he would deliver for such an insolent accusation after he had saved you—even if he was the reason you needed saving. 

Azriel stiffened, and you glanced at his face that had gone pale. “I felt your panic,” he said quietly. “Your terror—” You sucked in a sharp breath when his hand fell away and his shadows replaced him, the inky black tendrils holding you up.

“They won’t hurt you,” he promised gently, his eyes glossy in the moonlight that seeped in through the window. “They would never hurt you—I would never hurt you. I swear to you, I don’t know how your father found you. I don’t know how he got through the damned wards.”

Your face flushed at that, shame dragging sharp claws down your back. “I ran.”

Azriel shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. He should never have been able to even see the cottage, let alone step a foot on the porch.” His eyes snapped to you, the hazel of his irises warming slightly. “This was not your fault. You did the right thing by running.”

Another wave of excruciating pain washed over you, and the shadows surrounding you somehow`` held you up as your body tried to fold over. A whimper escaped your lips, and new tears started to fall as your body started to wake up. The adrenaline was fading, and you were quickly reacquainted with an entirely new awareness of the pain your body was in. 

Azriel’s face twisted as if he felt your pain alongside you, and even in your delirium, in your mind-numbing agony, your mind snagged on something he said. “My terror,” you gasped. “What do you mean you felt it?”

Azriel seemed to be using all his restraint not to touch you. “I felt it through the bond,” he murmured, albeit reluctantly. As if now was too inconvenient for him to be having this conversation, but he kept speaking, perhaps to distract you. “I’ve never felt such undiluted terror, Y/N.” His words were whisper-soft, and his eyes still shined with pain. “I’ve always felt your fear around me—it’s not uncommon—but this? This was terrifying. It made my heart stop dead. And your pain,” His voice cracked. “As soon as I felt your pain, as soon as I realized something was wrong, I left. I left in the middle of a meeting with Rhys and tens of Illyrian camp lords because all I could feel was my mate hurt, possibly dying—and I couldn’t let that happen.”

His hand finally reached for you again, his knuckles barely grazing the bruised and bloody skin of your cheek. Your head was spinning, from both pain and confusion as you struggled to make sense of his words—make sense of him feeling you through this, this bond—you didn’t know what to say.

His touch fell away as quickly as it came. “You never have to be mine. If you never want that, it’s okay. It’s your choice. Always.” That made your heart clench, and you didn’t know why. You couldn’t think of much else besides the pain radiating across every part of your body. “But I’m yours.” Tears fell down both of your cheeks, and you absently wondered if you had ever seen a male cry. If you had ever witnessed a male show such vulnerability and tenderness. “I will always be yours. I am devoted to you—and I will always protect you, I swear it.”

The door swung open then, and another Illyrian male appeared in the doorway, moving briskly toward your bed. His eyes met yours, and your entire body tensed, your muscles screaming in agony as your panicked mind grasped for some way to defend yourself. Azriel’s wings flared out and he stepped forward, effectively blocking the male from your sight, and you from his. “Cassian,” he growled.

“Feyre is getting Madja,” the male said hurriedly. “They should be here any minute.” There was a pause, then the male asked Azriel softly, “What can I do?”

Azriel’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, and he turned to look at you over his shoulder. You could only imagine how pathetic you looked. You were in tatters and bloodied and shaking like a leaf and you couldn’t move. You couldn’t move. If this male lunged for you, it would be over. There would be no defending yourself.

Azriel turned back toward the male. “You need to leave,” he gritted out. “And get Nesta—please.”

The door clicked shut softly behind the male, and Azriel’s wings folded back in as he turned to face you. You stared at him wide-eyed and shaking. You had so many questions, so many fears, but you couldn’t find the words—the strength—to speak them.

“That was Cassian,” Azriel murmured. “My brother. He would never hurt you. No one here will hurt you.”

He kept making the same promises, kept saying the same words, and you wanted to believe him. Mother, you wanted it more than anything. His eyes drifted away from you, focusing on the wing splayed out beside you. The injured wing, that was starting to shake more than the rest of you. A new fear leached into your brain. Would you lose your wings? They were useless but they were still yours. They were still a part of you. You couldn’t—the thought of having a permanent reminder of your father’s cruelty made your stomach twist.

“Not long ago,” Azriel said softly, his voice slicing through your panic, “Cassian’s wings were in tatters. Ribbons. I thought he might never fly again—but Madja healed him. You would never know now that the fate of his wings was in peril, besides some faint scarring. She’ll heal you, too.”

As if his words summoned her, an elderly female came rushing into the room, the door flying open on its hinges. She pushed Azriel to the side fearlessly, and you stared at her dumbly as she dropped an armful of supplies next to you on the bed. She completely ignored the swarm of shadows around you, pushing you to lay back on the bed. You screamed as your ribs shifted and your wing throbbed, and a low growl came from beside you.

Azriel had Madja’s wrist in his hand, his eyes glowing with something feral, but there was no fear or pain on the healer’s face. “Shadowsinger,” she said calmly, her voice even and steady. “Let me do my job.”

Regret flooded his face, and he immediately dropped her wrist. Madja started ruffling through her belongings, and you grit your teeth as nausea clutched at your throat. You would not throw up. You weren’t sure you could survive the pain that would accompany it.

Your head snapped up as Madja took scissors to the hem of your dress, cutting a quick and uneven line up the center. Panic took over you, and this time you were the one to grab her wrist. “What are you doing?” you asked frantically.

“I can’t heal you if I can’t see you.”

“No,” you rushed out. Not with him here. You couldn’t. He couldn’t see you like that. You would have rather laid on hot coals than laid there naked and injured in front of a male—in front of Azriel.

Madja followed your involuntary glance to Azriel, and something like morose understanding softened her wrinkled face. Her head turned to Azriel, who was watching the two of you with wide eyes. “You need to leave,” she told him.

Azriel’s hackles instantly raised. “Excuse me?”

“Leave,” Madja repeated, her voice holding no room for argument.

“I am not leaving my mate—”

“Az,” another feminine voice said from the doorway, snagging Azriel’s attention. Her voice was cool and steady, not unlike her eyes or stature as she moved toward the three of you. “Go wait in the hall.”

He glanced at you again, but you couldn’t meet his gaze. “I’ll be right outside,” he swore quietly, and you knew he was looking at you, knew he was promising you that he wasn’t leaving. The unusual but familiar warmth that inexplicably soothed a tiny piece of your battered soul reaffirmed his words. You didn’t understand how he did that. You didn’t understand a lot.

“Go,” the female said again as Madja resumed cutting at your dress. The door shut softly behind him, and you listened for his footsteps, listened for his breathing and his heartbeat, and a tear fell down your cheek as you heard them, unwavering outside the door.

You never wanted a mate. It terrified you, being bound to another male for eternity. You feared him. You couldn’t even stand him being in the same room as you while a healer tended to your wounds—and yet, the thought of him leaving terrified you more.

You were frightened by having a mate—but you couldn’t deny that in the two months you had known him, Azriel had never made you feel the way your father did, not even the first night you met him. You thought you might even feel safe, knowing he was outside, that he would come if you called. 

That is what truly frightened you, you thought, more than anything.

~ ~ ~

a/n: might do a part 2 with reader's healing?

[ohemgeewhat]

I AM DEAD OH MY GOD THIS WAS AN EMOTIONAL ROLLERCOASTER.

Bird in a Cage (Extended Version)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Grief turned Y/N into a ghost of herself, drowning in the unbearable silence of a bond that should have shattered—unaware that her mate still breathed, just beyond her reach.

───────────────────────────────

The City of Starlight was quieter without him.

Not the kind of quiet that soothed, but the kind that suffocated.

Velaris had always been a sanctuary—a beacon of warmth carved from darkness. The place Azriel had loved most in the world, the place where they had built a life together, where his laughter—so rare, so precious—had once melted into the hum of the city.

Now, it was a tomb.

Y/N barely recognized herself anymore.

The mirror reflected a ghost.

Her skin, once kissed by the sun, had paled into something colorless, something brittle. Her lips—Azriel had always traced them with his fingers, with his mouth, worshipped them like they were made of stardust—were chapped, cracked from the relentless winter air she no longer cared to shield herself from.

But her eyes—her eyes were the worst.

They had once been filled with fire. They had burned when she was angry, glowed when she laughed, softened when Azriel looked at her like she was his entire world.

Now, they were empty.

Hollowed.

Dulled by grief.

The bond—it was the cruelest thing of all.

It should have broken.

The moment he died, it should have shattered inside her like glass, the way everyone said it would.

But it hadn’t.

Instead, it had gone quiet.

Not severed. Not gone. Just… silent.

She should have felt it snap, should have felt something inside her tear apart at the moment his heart stopped beating. But she hadn’t.

And she hated that she hadn’t.

Because it left her with questions.

With doubt.

With a tiny, traitorous whisper in the back of her mind that refused to believe he was truly gone.

A whisper that tormented her in the darkest hours of the night.

When she woke, gasping, chest heaving, reaching out for something—someone—who wasn’t there.

When she swore she could feel the ghost of his presence lingering in the room, the faintest whisper of his scent curling through the air.

When her soul still ached, as if something tethered it to a mate that no longer existed.

But that was just grief, wasn’t it?

The way it twisted things. The way it made you believe in impossibilities.

Her mate.

Her husband.

Her best friend.

Gone.

She curled further into the window seat, a thick blanket draped over her shoulders, though it did nothing to warm her. She didn’t feel warmth anymore.

Beyond the glass, Velaris glittered under the night sky, so full of life.

The Sidra River shimmered beneath the glow of the city’s lights. Laughter echoed through the streets, the faint melody of a string quartet drifting from a café near the water. Couples strolled hand in hand, shadows twining together beneath the lanterns.

It was all the same.

As if the world had not ended.

As if Azriel had not died.

As if everything had not been ripped apart at the seams.

It was unbearable.

───────────────────────────────

“Y/N.”

The voice was soft. Careful.

Rhysand.

She didn’t turn to look at him.

She knew how he saw her.

Knew what he was thinking.

That she was slipping away.

That she had already slipped too far.

“I brought you dinner.”

She swallowed.

Her gaze flickered to the plate he placed on the small table beside her.

Her favorite meal.

She had no appetite.

She hadn’t for weeks.

“Eat,” Rhys pressed, lowering himself into the armchair across from her.

She didn’t.

His sigh was barely more than a breath.

“Feyre is worried about you,” he said carefully. “We all are.”

Her jaw tightened.

Her jaw tightened, the tendons in her neck pulled taut as if they might snap under the weight of the silence between them.

Rhysand didn’t look away.

“Y/N…” His voice was quiet. Careful.

Like he was afraid she might break.

She clenched her fists beneath the blanket, nails digging into her palms so hard she half-expected to draw blood. Maybe she wanted to. Maybe she wanted to feel something that wasn’t this hollow, gnawing ache in her chest.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said, her voice flat, lifeless.

Another beat of silence. A pause thick with things unsaid.

Then, carefully—too carefully—

“The bond hasn’t broken.”

The words landed like a knife between her ribs.

Her breath hitched.

She went utterly still.

For a moment, the sounds of Velaris—the distant hum of laughter, the faint notes of music drifting from a tavern, the rustling of the wind against the glass—faded into nothing.

She hadn’t told him that.

Hadn’t told anyone.

Because it was impossible.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

The bond should have shattered the second Azriel took his last breath. Should have ripped itself from her, leaving only a gaping, unbearable emptiness in its wake. That was what happened when one mate lost the other. That was what she had expected—the pain, the tearing, the finality of it.

But there had been no breaking.

No shattering.

Only silence.

A cruel, hollow silence that left her questioning everything.

“I don’t know why,” she admitted after a long moment, her voice hoarse, frayed at the edges. “I should have—felt it. When he—”

The word stuck in her throat like poison.

She couldn’t say it.

Couldn’t force it past the raw, aching knot in her chest.

Rhys didn’t press her.

Didn’t finish the sentence for her.

But he didn’t look surprised, either.

The realization sent a chill down her spine.

She turned her head slowly, her eyes locking onto his for the first time in days.

Violet met Y/E/C.

Something flickered there.

Something off.

Something withholding.

A flicker of hesitation. A fleeting flash of guilt.

“… What?” she rasped.

Rhysand shook his head. Too quickly. “Nothing.”

It was a lie.

She could see it in the way his throat bobbed, in the way his fingers twitched before stilling, in the way his power coiled subtly around him as if bracing for something.

Rhysand was many things.

A High Lord. A brother. A friend.

But above all, he was a master of deception.

She had seen him weave lies with silken ease, had watched him manipulate and maneuver people like a game of chess—always three steps ahead, always knowing exactly what pieces to move and when.

And now, he was lying to her.

She should have pressed him. Should have torn the truth from his lips, demanded to know why.

But she didn’t.

Because if he was lying—if he was hiding something—she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Because the truth, whatever it was, could be worse than the lie she had been living in.

So she let it go.

She had no more energy to fight.

And that night, when she closed her eyes, the dream came again.

Azriel.

Standing just beyond the veil of shadows, his hazel eyes locked onto hers.

He never spoke.

Never moved.

Just watched.

And she—she always ran toward him.

Always reached for him.

But the moment her fingers brushed his—

He disappeared.

Vanishing into smoke.

The loss of him—again—ripped through her like a blade.

She woke with a start, gasping, her body shaking, drenched in sweat.

Her hands fisted in the sheets, her breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts.

And the bond—

It was there.

Faint. Muted.

Like something was blocking it.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, a frantic, erratic rhythm.

No.

No, she was imagining it.

This was what grief did.

It twisted things.

Warped reality.

Made you believe in impossibilities.

Azriel was dead.

The bond hadn’t broken.

And she would never know why.

───────────────────────────────

Cassian slammed his fists against Rhysand’s desk so hard the wood cracked.

“You have to tell her.”

Rhys barely flinched. He remained seated, fingers steepled, his expression unreadable. The picture of calm. But Cassian knew better.

There was a storm brewing beneath that composed mask.

“I will tell her when the time is right,” Rhys said evenly.

Cassian barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “The time was weeks ago. Do you even see her, Rhys? Do you see what she’s become?”

Rhys’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

So Cassian pressed forward, his wings flaring, barely able to keep his rage in check. “She’s withering. She doesn’t eat. She doesn’t sleep. She stares out that fucking window like she’s waiting for death to come collect her.” His voice dropped, turned guttural, desperate. “She is not surviving this. And you are letting it happen.”

Rhys’s violet eyes flashed.

“I am protecting her.”

Cassian slammed his hands down again. “From what? From knowing her mate is alive? From knowing the truth?”

Rhys stood, slow and measured, his power pressing against the room, dark and furious. “From false hope.”

Cassian scoffed. “False—” He let out a sharp breath, dragging his hands through his hair. “She feels the bond, Rhys. She knows something isn’t right. You think you’re protecting her, but all you’re doing is destroying her.”

Rhys’s fingers curled into fists.

“She deserves the truth,” Mor said quietly from the doorway.

Cassian turned, startled to see her standing there, her golden eyes lined with pain.

Mor never took his side over Rhys’s.

And yet—

“She’s drowning,” Mor continued, stepping forward, folding her arms tightly over her chest. “And you’re letting her.”

Something flickered across Rhys’s face—guilt, maybe. Regret.

He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling through his nose.

Then—

“I will tell her.”

Cassian didn’t release the breath he was holding. Not yet.

“When?” he demanded.

Rhys hesitated.

Cassian’s blood boiled. “Not when it’s convenient for you, Rhys. Now.”

Rhys opened his mouth—

And then, the sound of footsteps echoed through the River House.

The three of them turned.

Y/N stood at the threshold, her face pale, her eyes dull but watchful.

Cassian’s stomach dropped.

How much had she heard?

He didn’t have to wonder for long.

“You’re hiding something,” she said.

Not a question.

Rhys went still.

Cassian swallowed hard, his throat thick.

“Y/N—”

She turned her gaze on Rhys, cutting off whatever weak excuse Cassian knew was about to leave his mouth.

“Why do I still feel the bond?” she whispered.

Rhys hesitated.

And that was his mistake.

Y/N sucked in a breath, her lips parting slightly.

Cassian saw it happen—the exact moment she knew.

“… No.”

Rhys took a step toward her. “It’s not what you think—”

“He’s alive?”

Her voice broke on the last word.

The walls closed in.

Cassian felt his own knees nearly buckle at the sheer devastation in her voice.

Y/N stumbled back a step, her breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts.

And then—

She turned and ran.

Cassian moved to follow, but Rhys stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Let her go,” Rhys murmured, his voice tight.

Cassian shoved his hand away. “Are you fucking serious?”

Rhys didn’t respond.

Cassian didn’t care.

Because Y/N had just learned the most important truth of her life—

And she had learned it alone.

And none of them knew if she would ever forgive them for it.

───────────────────────────────

By the time Cassian stormed back into the study, the walls trembled with the weight of Rhysand’s magic. A silent rage cloaked the room, dark and suffocating, shadows stretching unnaturally as if his power itself recoiled from what had just happened.

Mor stood by the fireplace, her arms wrapped around herself, eyes fixed on the floor. Guilt weighed heavy in her golden gaze.

“You don’t get to walk away from this,” Cassian growled, slamming the door behind him.

Rhys didn’t move from where he stood near his desk, his jaw tight, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles had gone white.

“She deserved the truth,” Mor said softly, her voice raw.

“She deserved better than this,” Cassian snapped.

Rhys’s power pulsed, the chandeliers rattling above them. “You think I don’t know that?” His voice was low, shaking with restrained fury.

“Then why?” Cassian demanded. “Why did you let her suffer? Why did you break her?”

Rhys turned to them then, violet eyes dark with something unreadable. Something haunted.

“Because I had no choice.”

Cassian’s wings flared, his body thrumming with unspent rage. “Bullshit.”

Rhys exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “If she had known—if she had felt the bond the way she was supposed to—she would have gone after him.”

Cassian stilled. “What?”

Mor frowned. “But the bond was—”

“Blocked,” Rhys finished. “Because I had to block it.”

The air shifted, the weight of those words settling like a stone in Cassian’s chest.

“You blocked their bond?” Mor whispered, disbelief painting every syllable.

Rhys lifted his chin, unapologetic. “I had to. Azriel is on a mission that cannot be compromised.”

A sick feeling curled in Cassian’s gut. “What mission?”

Rhys hesitated. Just for a moment.

Then—

“We found out that Koschei has allies—ones we didn’t account for,” Rhys said, his voice tight. “They captured Azriel. They tortured him. Nearly broke him.” His throat bobbed. “But he got out. And when he did, he realized something.”

Cassian and Mor exchanged a wary glance.

“What?” Cassian asked.

Rhys’s eyes gleamed with something dark. Something dangerous.

“That he could end them.”

A slow, cold dread crept up Cassian’s spine.

Rhys went on. “He knew he couldn’t come back. Knew that if he did, they would find him, find us. So he let us believe he was dead. We barely got to him in time, barely found out before it was too late. He’s been playing a long game, infiltrating their ranks, feeding us information from within.”

Mor’s breath hitched. “For how long?”

“Since the night he went missing,” Rhys murmured. “Since the night he died to us.”

Cassian swallowed hard. “And the bond?”

Rhys’s gaze darkened. “It had to be silenced. If she had felt him, if he had felt her, she would have known he was alive. And she would have gone after him. And if she had—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “They would have killed them both.”

Mor’s hands trembled where she held herself.

Cassian clenched his jaw, but there was no denying the truth of Rhys’s words.

If Y/N had known—if she had even suspected—she would have torn apart the world to find Azriel.

And she would have died trying.

“So why now?” Cassian rasped. “Why tell her now?”

Rhys’s throat bobbed.

“Because he’s coming home,” he whispered.

A beat of silence.

Then—

Cassian swore under his breath.

Mor closed her eyes.

Rhys turned toward the window, gazing out at the city below.

“He’s not the same,” Rhys admitted, so quietly it was nearly lost in the hush of the room. “I don’t know who he’ll be when he returns.” A pause. “I don’t know if she’ll even recognize him.”

Cassian ran a hand over his face. “And you didn’t think she deserved to prepare for that?”

Rhys’s eyes gleamed as he looked at them.

“No,” he said. “Because she deserves to see him. To feel the bond the way she was meant to. Not as a whisper, not as an absence—but as a promise.”

Cassian’s throat tightened.

Because if Azriel was coming home—

It meant the game was ending.

And none of them knew what pieces would be left standing.

───────────────────────────────

The world had ended once before.

The day Azriel died.

Or at least—the day she thought he had.

The grief had come like a tidal wave, unrelenting and merciless. It had drowned her, pulled her under until she forgot what it felt like to breathe. She had mourned him, had shattered beneath the weight of a love ripped away too soon, had tried to understand why the bond—the thing that should have severed the moment his heart stopped beating—had remained.

She had screamed at it. Had begged it to break, to free her from the unbearable agony of existing without him.

But it hadn’t.

And she had hated herself for what that meant.

For the sliver of hope that had curled in her chest despite the impossibility of it.

But she had silenced it. Forced herself to accept that it was simply another cruelty of fate, a mistake, a malfunction of whatever magic tied them together.

Azriel was gone.

And she—

She had become nothing.

Now, standing on the landing, her hands shaking violently as the night stretched before her, she wasn’t sure how to exist in a world where that was no longer true.

Where he was alive.

Her heart was a wild, frantic thing in her chest, slamming against her ribs as if trying to escape. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out the sounds of the city behind her, the voices inside the River House, the gentle rustling of leaves in the wind.

She could feel him.

Not a faint whisper, not a distant echo of something she had convinced herself was grief—him.

Close.

Real.

And then—

The steady, haunting sound of wings.

Her breath caught.

Her body froze.

The world seemed to still.

A shadow swept across the sky, darkening the stars, and she felt it the moment he arrived. Felt it in her bones, in the sharp pull of the bond that slammed into her with the force of a tidal wave, so overwhelming it sent her staggering back.

She choked on a breath, her vision blurring, her chest aching with the sudden, uncontrollable flood of emotion.

It had never been like this.

Even before, even when the bond had first clicked into place, it had never been this—wild.

This raw. This desperate.

Like it had been waiting.

Like it had been starving.

Like it had known what she hadn’t.

Azriel landed.

The impact sent a gust of wind swirling around her, whipping strands of hair across her face, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Because he was there.

Not a dream.

Not a ghost.

Not a cruel trick of her mind, taunting her with something she could never have again.

Her mate.

Her mate was alive.

He was thinner.

The sharp angles of his face were more pronounced, his golden-brown skin tinged with exhaustion. His leathers clung to his frame, battle-worn and stiff, and his hazel eyes—

Gods, his eyes.

They locked onto hers, widening as if he, too, could barely believe what he was seeing.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, his hands clenching at his sides as his body visibly shook.

Her throat closed.

She couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t move.

Because if she did, she might wake up.

She might wake up again to a cold, empty bed, to a bond that still existed but didn’t feel.

She might wake up and realize that this was just another dream—another nightmare.

And she couldn’t survive that.

Not again.

A broken sound tore from her throat, her knees buckling, and that was all it took.

Azriel moved.

One step. Then another. And then—

She was in his arms.

A sob ripped from her lips as she collapsed into him, her fingers clutching at his leathers, at his shoulders, his back—anywhere she could hold, anywhere that would prove that this wasn’t a lie.

Azriel exhaled sharply against her hair, his arms locking around her so tight it was almost painful, as if he thought she might slip away if he didn’t hold her close enough.

The bond snapped.

A jolt of pure, unfiltered connection crashed through her, so powerful that she gasped, her body trembling violently as the walls that had dulled it for weeks shattered in an instant.

It was like breathing again after drowning.

Like sunlight after an eternity in the dark.

She felt everything.

His heartbeat—wild, erratic, matching the frantic rhythm of her own.

The way his chest heaved, the way his hands fisted in the back of her sweater like she might disappear.

The way his entire body shook against hers, like he, too, was barely holding himself together.

His scent wrapped around her, heady and overwhelming—home.

She let out another strangled sob, burying her face in his shoulder, breathing him in, needing to memorize the way he felt, the way he smelled, the way their bond sang so loudly it was nearly unbearable.

“I thought I lost you,” she choked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Azriel inhaled sharply.

His fingers traced over her back, shaking as he pulled away just enough to cup her face, to tilt her chin up until their eyes met.

He looked wrecked.

His throat bobbed. His hazel eyes were damp.

And his voice—

His voice was hoarse when he whispered, “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Something inside her shattered.

Her hands flew to his face, tracing the sharp planes of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones, the rougher skin where a new scar cut across his temple.

Azriel’s eyes fluttered shut at the touch, his breath catching, his grip tightening on her waist.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

He swallowed.

“I know.”

Her lip trembled. “I grieved you.”

His hands trembled as they slid into her hair, as he pressed his forehead to hers.

“I know,” he rasped, pain cracking through his voice.

She sucked in a breath, squeezing her eyes shut.

───────────────────────────────

Pt. II? 😏

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Taglist: onebadassunicorn, k-godling, masbt1218, suggesteddoubletake, vanserrasimp, meritxellao

Want to join my tag list? Drop a comment or check out this link to submit a specific series you would like tagged in! (Or if you just don't want to comment, that's okay too)

[ohemgeewhat]

Yes, he's a bit over the top, but I'd sit there happily if it meant I was mated to Tamlin and I'd make Lucien sit there too💚

Tamlin: I would commit the greatest atrocities known to fae if it meant you would be safely by my side, unburdened and whole, until the day our hearts no longer beat as one.

You: . . . I only poked my finger on a thorn????

[Tamlin then proceeded to go on a long, dramatic — damn near Shakespearean — rant about how his heart aches every time he sees even as much as a drop of your blood while you and Lucien just. . . Sit there.]

[ohemgeewhat]

Obsessed.

ghost in the wind — part three

summary: as feelings progress and truths unfold, you're left with a decision that could end your entire existence as you know it. the mother has a path for every soul, perhaps this was where yours was supposed to end.

warnings: swearing, mentions and brief descriptions of sexual abuse, consensual sexual themes, mentions of death and suicide.

word count: 5.8k

series masterlist

Feyre Archeron could never begin to imagine the pain and horror her older cousin had faced in the mortal lands. Rhysand hadn’t shared that image, hadn’t shared the memories he’d witnessed when he took some of that pain away from you. 

She didn’t need her mate to share those visuals. Not when she felt every ounce of anguish through their bond. And every day since then, she had not been able to forget it. 

Another two weeks had passed since your arrival, three in total of your being in the Night Court, and you were finally beginning to work through your trauma. 

The offer had been there to find your own place of residence, to have that independence if you so wished. But after speaking with Feyre and Rhysand, after learning it was in fact Nesta who had imposed the leave Y/N be rule… you realised just how much you loved living in the House with your family. 

Your friends. 

So when you’d finally accepted Mor’s desperate pleas to take you shopping and fill your empty wardrobe…

“You’re going to need another dresser.” 

You blinked, taking in the mess around you. Your entire closet was stuffed to the brim with dresses, blouses, sweaters, coats…

And the pile on your bed…there was no chance of those articles of clothing fitting in the closet too. Nesta was right, you definitely needed another dresser. 

“Rhys is going to lose his shit when he finds out how much we spent.” 

Your eyes widened at Nesta’s words, not quite picking up the teasing tone she spoke in. Mor shot her a look and threw a sweater at her face. 

“She’s kidding,” Mor reassured. “My dear cousin has more money than sense. This won’t have even made a dent in his wealth.” 

A relief, but that guilt began to creep its way into the pit of your stomach nonetheless. You were ashamed to admit that while you had fun shopping with Mor and your cousin, you hadn’t even taken a moment to realise how much everything had cost. 

Nesta threw herself onto your bed, right on top of the throng of clothes you needed to find a place for. “I’m thinking we raid Rhys’ wine cellar tonight…”

A gleaming smile radiated off Mor’s face in agreeance and they both turned to you with upraised brows, expectant. 

You pursed your lips, an apologetic smile on your face. “I told Rhys and Feyre that I’d babysit Nyx tonight.” 

Nesta huffed and threw herself back on the mattress again, clothes bouncing and crinkling as she did so. Mor raised another brow, as if that wasn’t a good enough excuse. 

“So? I’ve gotten drunk while watching Nyx loads of times.” 

Nesta seethed at her. “One, that’s my nephew and I never want to hear you doing that again. And two, Y/N’s tolerance to alcohol won’t be as strong as ours. Two glasses and she’d be borderline incapacitated.”

Despite the slight insult, a laugh bubbled up your throat at just how right she was. Because you’d never even drank a sip of wine in your life, and Nesta knew that. 

“I’m surprised you don’t have plans with Azriel…” 

Mor was prying, you knew that. But you had no control over the heat that made its way across your neck and face. 

“We’re just friends.” It wasn’t a lie. You’d spent a lot of time together the past couple of weeks, and he was one of the only people you felt truly comfortable around. 

Mor gave you a knowing look. “Mhm, tell that to his shadows.” 

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

Nesta scoffed, sitting up again. “Az’s shadows are basically an extension of himself.”

Mor hummed. “They don’t do anything unless Azriel commands it. Or sometimes, they’ll do something based on his emotions or thoughts. They’re so friendly with you because Azriel likes you.” 

Your cheeks burned. You hadn’t realised his shadows touching you was a product of Azriel’s emotions. And the more you thought about it, there hadn’t been a time since you met him that they hadn’t touched you in some way. 

You didn’t say that, though. No. Azriel clearly had no qualms about other people noticing, but that did not mean you were willing to gossip about it. 

You did not need to allow silly fantasies to root their way in your mind. Azriel was your friend. And you were okay with him only wanting you as such. 

Within an hour, Mor had disappeared to tend to her own duties and just as Nesta was about to leave for hers, she grabbed your wrist and motioned for you to look at her. 

“I’m proud of you, you know.”

She didn’t need to say anything more. Those words were enough—more than enough. She saw you, she recognised everything you had been through and everything you did every day to overcome it. 

I’m proud of you. 

The last and only person to have ever told you that was your mother. 

And because you saw her too, because you remembered fhe young mortal woman she was before her own struggles of turning Fae and adjusting to her new lifestyle, you found yourself saying, “I’m proud of you, too, Ness.”

Nyx had been wonderful to look after that night. 

You’d gotten all the cuddles and boyish giggles, the beautiful little smiles and a few stinky diapers to go with it. You loved every moment with the little babe, and when Rhys and Feyre returned from their night off early in the morning, you offered to sit with him again whenever they needed it. 

But despite how fulfilling and wonderful it had been, it had also hurt. You wondered if you’d ever be blessed with the opportunity to carry and birth your own child. Wondered if you’d ever even find someone to want you in that way. 

Especially within Prythian. 

It was another late night for you, though your reading sessions had taken you from the lounge to the library. And you no longer spent them alone. 

Azriel sat on the couch opposite you, his nose deep in a book as you watched him. In the past week, you’d spent a lot of time together. It ranged from walks into the city to sitting and reading in the library until early hours of the morning. 

You’d grown accustomed to his presence, his scent often able to calm any anxiety or qualms you felt. He had noticed, of course, he wasn’t a Spymaster for nothing. But Azriel did not mention the change in you whenever he was around. 

He basked in it, in the way you appeared so much more comfortable with him. You weren’t afraid to speak up, to ask questions or acknowledge whatever was on your mind. 

You were coming out of your shell and it warmed Azriel’s heart to know that he was somewhat of the cause for it. 

“What does salacious mean?”

Azriel blinked repeatedly as your voice broke him from his thoughts. Salacious? His throat tightened. You’d often ask for definitions of things you were unsure on, sometimes even asking how to pronounce words you had never come across. 

But salacious? 

“Are you reading Nesta’s romance novels?” He quirked a brow. 

Your lips involuntarily pouted at him, your own brows furrowing just slightly as you rested the open book back into your blanket-covered lap. “Yes. Why?”

Anxiety creeped its way into your stomach, rooting deep into your flesh from the inside out. Reminders of how this used to go flashed through your mind and suddenly, it felt like you were back in the village, back in the mortal lands and living with Rafe. 

A tendril of darkness peaked at the corner of your vision and you focussed on it, watching it slowly dance across your knuckles and weave between your fingers in a calming manner. 

Shadows. Azriel. Library. Velaris. Safe. 

And just like that, the anxiety un-clawed its roots and crept away. 

Azriel nodded ever so slightly to the book, knowing exactly what had just happened with you but acting as if he didn’t. “Salacious means…having inappropriate interest in sexual matters.”

There was no hiding the heat on your cheeks—the way it burned your soft skin. You tore your gaze from his as quickly as you could, unable to contain your slight shame and embarrassment. 

But Azriel did not mind one bit. 

Azriel had secrets. He supposed that being the Night Court’s Spymaster, it was to be expected. But these secrets were different from the others, something he kept locked tight in his mind for the past month. 

And it wasn’t the secrets that had him moving closer and spending all of his time in the lower level of the House. No. That was very much you and your presence and whatever it was in your soul that called out to his. 

He couldn’t stay away—though, it wasn’t like he even tried—for that pull was far too strong for even his willpower. 

He had suspicions. Suspicions of a golden thread that started in his chest and ended in yours. He knew it was far fetched, knew he was only hurting himself by entertaining the complete insanity of the idea. 

You were human. Mortal. And mortals didn’t have mates. He told himself so every day, and right after, like clockwork, he countered his own sound advice with the one thing that had been troubling him the most.

Because what mortal could plant and bloom a patch of tulips with nothing more than a thought and a touch. What mortal could speak so clearly to the earth and create life right before another’s eyes. 

Despite the possible threat that could pose for his court and his family, Azriel had kept that tidbit of information to himself. Just for now. Just until he could make sense of it. Then, and only then, would he bring that information to light. 

Because Azriel did not feel any ounce of danger or ill intent from you. He did not feel anything but warmth and intrigue and that godforsaken sensation when you grew excitable over something. 

He couldn’t take that from you. Not when you were finally coming out of your shell, finally talking and laughing and going as far as joining him and Cassian for training twice a week. 

“If sex makes you uncomfortable, there are other romance novels without that.”

Heat warmed your skin again. Shadows dared to intertwine with your fingers. 

“No, it’s not that.” You played with his shadows, allowing them to caress your skin. “Sex doesn’t make me uncomfortable. I’ve just never had a good enough experience to understand much.”

He didn’t push, didn’t ask further questions. You wouldn’t be embarrassed for this, for something that was not your fault. You wouldn’t cower anymore, hide what you felt or thought. No longer would there be repercussions for speaking your mind. 

So you spoke again. 

“Rafe was the only person I’d ever…it’s just different to read it, to have it described as something enjoyable.”

Azriel’s knuckles turned white. Something enjoyable. He’d never experienced it to be anything but. His soul almost cleaved in two at the thought of what you’d endured. 

Azriel dared to glance at you again. “Sex with the right person can be very enjoyable. It should be nothing but beautiful.”

He stiffened then, blood thumping in his ears. His shadows stilled, noticing the shift in your scent just as their master had. Sweet, all consuming arousal, and Azriel did not miss the way your thighs pressed together in impulse. 

He swallowed thickly. 

You broke his gaze, your own heart thumping sporadically as you stared at the pages on your lap. You couldn’t help your mind wandering to thoughts of him, of experiencing that with him. You knew it was wrong. So, so wrong. 

“The thought of being intimate like that with someone new…” You couldn’t find the words to express the fear and anxiety that came with that thought.

Azriel listened intently, breathing deeply. 

“I want to experience life the way it should be experienced. Not the way others have pushed it upon me.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his book on his knee. “You control your life now, nobody else. If you want something, despite how wrong that desire may feel at first, take it.”

You wondered then if he could see into your mind as Rhysand could. If he could feel that shift in the air. If he could smell it on you. That want and desire. You would not apologise for it. Not anymore. 

“But if it feels wrong, is that not my guts way of warning me?” You countered. 

Azriel smiled, just barely. His knuckles still white. “It’s your guts way of protecting you. Because you’ve never experienced anything beyond what others bestowed upon you.”

Gods above. 

An ache fluttered in your chest, just above your breast and you absentmindedly rubbed at it, disrupting the neckline of your shirt. Azriel’s eyes squinted at the exposed skin, at the mark that adored your flesh. 

“Are you hurt?” His tone was primal, protective. 

You paused your movements, following his gaze. “Oh, no.” You pulled your shirt a little lower. “Just a birthmark.”

He needed to compose himself, needed to stop allowing his mind to wander about other areas of your concealed skin. He felt like nothing more than a big brute. 

Your soft, airy giggle woke him from his daze and he looked over to find tendrils of darkness caressing any inch of your skin that they could. Gods, if he didn’t have a leash on his emotions around you, how could he control his damned shadows. 

“It’s like they have a mind of their own.”

They didn’t. But he couldn’t correct you. Not without exposing the fact that they only fed off their masters emotions and desires. Not without exposing the fact that Azriel wished he was the one touching your skin and not his shadows. 

He swallowed again, throat dry. 

“Nesta told me that they’re an extension of yourself. That they only act if you will it.” You didn’t know why you said it, why you thought you had the right to speak that truth. 

But you would not apologise, even as Azriel remained silent for a few moments. Partly out of shock, partly in awe. But that was another thing he would not speak aloud. 

“Sometimes they can act on behalf of my emotions. My desires and wants.”

You dared to meet his honey eyes. “And that’s what you want?” You were breathless, a feeling in your stomach that you’d never once experienced before. “You want to touch me?” 

Neither of you knew where this confidence had come from, but Azriel did not question it and you did not apologise. 

He shouldn’t say it, shouldn’t repeat the words that echoed in his mind and soul and body. But, Gods…he could not seem to regain any semblance of control when he stared into your eyes. He could not lie to you, could not hide what he felt. 

“I want to do a lot of things.” The admittance was barely audible, nothing more than a breath he’d been holding but you heard it all the same. As though you’d demanded the words out of him. 

You couldn’t look away, even if you tried. Your entire being was encapsulated by him. Your chest heaved, legs ached. The shadows slowly left your shoulders and neck, returning to their previous position at your fingers. 

“But above all, I want you to be comfortable. Happy.” 

Something compelled you to stand, the shadows seemingly guiding you to their master as your book toppled to the couch. He watched with a hungry gaze, one full of faltering self-control. 

If you want something, despite how wrong that desire may feel at first, take it.

Take it. 

Take it. 

“I’m comfortable with you.” 

The shadows moved like a breeze between you both, tugging you closer and closer. Nothing else mattered, not in that moment. Not when your soul felt like it was singing, like it was exactly where it longed to be. 

Azriel stood slowly, towering above you once at his full height. You strained your neck to meet his gaze and he bent his to come closer. You could feel his breath dance with yours, could feel his hard chest press upon your soft one. 

No part of you felt nervous, no part of you felt unworthy. 

But Azriel…he didn’t know what to do. For weeks he’d been dreaming of this moment, dreaming of the taste of your lips, the touch of your skin. He slowly raised a scarred hand to caress your warm cheek, and you didn’t cower or shy away from his touch. 

A test, perhaps. To see if you really could handle the intimacy of another male so soon after what you’d endured. You didn’t falter, didn’t break his gaze. He wanted you, more than he ever wanted anything else before. 

“What you went through…”

“I don’t want to talk about what I went through,” you cut him off. “That was then, this is now. I don’t want to live in the past.”

Take it.

Take it. 

Your lips…so close to touching his. 

The shadows swirled in delight, excitement.

Azriel knew this wouldn’t be just a kiss. This wouldn’t be meaningless. He felt it, in every part of him, he felt the way your entire being sang to his. He wanted to lay his soul bare before you. 

He itched to brush your hair behind your ear, to hold you and taste you. But Rhysand’s voice echoed through his mind, beckoning him for his assistance. He closed his eyes, huffed out a breath.

“Rhys is calling for me.” 

Azriel stepped away, removed his palm from your skin. You swallowed, stepping back and letting your eyes fixate on the rug beneath your feet. He cleared his throat, struggling to reign in those shadows of his. 

“I’ll come to you tonight…we can talk then.”

But had Azriel waited just a few moments longer, had he given into the urge to brush your hair from your face, he would’ve noticed the slight point that had formed at the top of your ears. 

Azriel didn’t meet you in your chambers that night. And you didn’t see him the next morning. Or the day after that. 

Cassian had mentioned that Rhys sent him on a mission. That he would be back in a few days. 

But something was wrong, you could feel it in every inch of your body. An ache that only got worse with every passing moment. You tried to ignore it, tried to relax in a hot bath with soothing lavender oils. Nothing relieved the pain. Nothing soothed the ache.

And when you left your bathroom and found your once round ears now pointed, and a trail of tulips following in your wake, your legs carried you toward the kitchen before you had a moment to consider it. Cassian and Nesta sat at the table, giggling over their breakfast when you stumbled toward them. 

“What’s happening?” Your panicked tone caught their attention, eyes wide as they stood and took in what lay before them. 

From the stone ground, moss and grass and flowers bloomed as though you stood in the middle of a field. Daisies and buttercups sprouted in your hair, roots of trees tangling around your limbs. 

Everything was so loud yet muffled. Like every word was screamed in your ear but somehow underwater as Cassian called out frantically to Rhysand. Neither of them went near you, even when Rhys flew through the open balcony doors, Feyre in tow. 

They looked at you with nothing less than concern and fear. 

“What in the Gods is happening to me?!” You demanded. 

Rhysand held Feyre back as she attempted to near you, his gaze locked on you as he assessed the situation. But it wasn’t the flowers or grass or roots that he watched. It was you, and the way your crescent-moon birthmark glowed something violet. 

Rhys had known, had suspected something lay dormant within you. From that moment he entered your mind, when he gazed upon that luscious field that seemed to call to you with promises of something new. 

He’d never witnessed such before. Not in the most powerful of Fae had he ever stumbled across that. 

With a very careful step forward, his gaze demanded yours. Feyre had told him of your mother, of her death and your marriage to Rafe. And his voice was soft when he finally asked the question that had been on his mind ever since. 

“What happened the night your mother died?” 

The world went still, cold. Feyre whirled to him in protest. 

“Rhys—“

“—it was a house fire.” 

All eyes turned to you, to the patches of bloom that haltered their growth. 

Rhysand took another step closer. “Where were you?” 

“I—“

A heat unlike any other licked at your skin, waking you from your peaceful slumber. A heat so unwelcomed that you bolted upright in a sheen of your own sweat. 

You could hear the wood of your cottage crackling under a burning flame, and smoke quickly infiltrated your room. You coughed, attempting to swat it away as you squinted in the darkness. 

“Mama!?” You called out, panic stricken in your voice and body. 

Fear began to cripple you, began to take away any sense of self preservation. You couldn’t leave your bed. Your door now engulfed in flames, you screamed. 

“Help! Someone, please help!”

No one was coming. This was the end. You couldn’t move, couldn’t get to your beloved mother. A shrill cry, unlike anything you’d ever heard before, split your heart in two. 

A scream of pure agony and fear tore through your throat, your eyes clenched shut as you gave your body over to the fire. 

Only the next breath you breathed was clean and cold. And your sheets were no longer beneath you, no. Now you laid on the rich soil outside of your home, your fingers rooting themselves into the dirt. 

You screamed and sobbed, unable to do anything but watch as the fire claimed your home and your mother. 

You were sobbing, collapsed to the ground as you struggled to breathe at the memory. 

Rhysand dared another step closer, kneeling before you now and his eyes held such sorrow, such remorse. 

“Y/N…” he spoke softly. “Was your mother ever accused of being a witch?” 

Nesta seethed, threatening. “Rhysand, that’s—“

“How do you know that?” Everything felt very, very still. No one should have known that. No one of these lands should have known that. 

Rhys didn’t answer your question. And despite the sound of large wings breezing through the sky, you did not look away from the High Lord. Not even as Azriel rushed into the House and his heart sunk at what he bore. 

“The day I entered your mind and took some of your pain away, I felt something. Something within you that I have never, in my 500 years of life, felt before.”

Azriel took a step closer. He should have said something when he first noticed the flowers. Because now, whatever power you had…it was consuming you. 

“I’d like to try something,” Rhysand proposed. 

You struggled to keep your breathing even. “What is it?” 

Another step closer, a warm hand on yours. 

“I’d like to enter your mind as far back as it will allow me. Just to see if I can find something.”

Violet eyes watched yours. “Find what?”

He squeezed your hand in reassurance. “Something to make sense of this.”

A moment of pause, to take in your surroundings. The flowers and soil had sprouted to cover the entire expanse of the lounge floor, your friends and cousins standing just beyond the brush of it. 

Eyes flickered to something hazel. Azriel. He stood in the soil, flora coating his ankles and he struggled to keep a tight leash on the shadows that fought to reach you. 

You looked back at Rhysand. 

“Will it hurt?” 

He shook his head. “No, not if you don’t resist.” 

That suddenly sounded an awful lot like your past. Memories of Rafe pinning you to the bed—scolding, reprimanding, promising no pain if you didn’t resist. 

This wasn’t like that, you had to remind yourself. You were safe. They only wanted to help. To understand. 

Azriel stepped closer, ignoring the silent warning that Rhysand whispered into his mind. A scarred hand out held, you took it. And Rhysand took that moment of distraction to enter your mind. 

The first memory he saw was one from just days before. You and Azriel reading in the library, the shadows that swirled your fingers and arms, the near-kiss that escalated into nothing. 

He dug deeper. The next, of you and Azriel again, exploring the city where you left a trail of green and brown tulips in your wake on the embankment of the river. 

Deeper and deeper, until the memories showed you living in the mortal lands. A blow to the face, to your stomach and your head. Rafe seething above you as he shouted and belittled you. 

Deeper, to a memory of your husband pinning you to the mattress, of his body crushing yours as he stole everything you never offered. 

Every memory Rhysand met, you re-lived them. 

A little deeper and he was watching you at the Archeron household, helping Elain plant seeds, watching Feyre paint, reading with Nesta. 

Deeper and deeper he went, passing the memories of the fire, of your mother, until he found exactly what he was looking for. 

“She is my child too, Selenthia. You cannot keep her from me.” A voice you did not recognise. A memory you did not recall. 

“For her protection, I will do what I must.” Selenthia seethed, coddling you closer to her chest. “No one can know what she is, or she’ll be hunted for the rest of her life.”

The unknown male huffed. He was beautiful. Tall and lean, strong and commanding. But there was something about him. Something not quite right. 

“So you plan to lock her away for the rest of her life?”

Selenthia bared her teeth. “I would never lock my child away. She will live her life as a mortal. I won’t subject her to a life like mine or yours.”

A moment of silence. “You cannot hide her from what she is.” He spoke softer now, edging close to peer at you, his daughter. 

“What do you plan to do when she first bleeds? When her ears point and her power grows—“

“That won’t happen.” There was no room for discussion in Selenthia’s voice. She placed a finger over your heart, a familiar violet glow permitting from her skin to yours. 

“What are you doing?” That male���s voice, cold once more. 

“I’m burying her power. So long as this wyrd remains on her skin, she’ll be safe.”

Selenthia pulled away, just enough to take a look at the mark that marred your skin. A mark two shades darker than the rest of your flesh, the shape of a crescent moon and no larger than a fingernail. 

“There. Nothing more than a birthmark.”

Rhysand retreaded from your mind, panting and shaking. Tears streamed down his flushed face, your own skin staining with silver, too. 

“What is it?” Nesta demanded, daring a step closer. 

But those tulips and daisies and buttercups…the soil and grass and roots, they all began to sink into the ground until nothing but the florals in your hair remained. 

“My mother…she…she was a witch. A healing earth witch. And my father—he…”

“Your father was Fae.” Azriel breathed, his eyes focused on the point of your ears that peeked through your hair and flowers.

“He was of the Night Court. A High Fae male.” Rhysand added gravely. 

Azriel’s hold on the shadows loosened and he allowed them to caress you, comfort you. Your hand never left his. 

You pulled away from Rhysand, clutching at your chest—at that crescent moon you always thought was a birthmark. Your mothers protection all along. 

“When you crossed the wall into the Fae lands, your power tried to break through. It was your mothers mark that had been keeping it buried with you all these years.” 

You dared a look at your cousins. But they looked at you with nothing but sorrow and anguish. No fear. They did not fear you, they did not pity you. In their eyes all you could see was longing. A longing for you to no longer live in such agony and hardships. 

“Our mothers were sisters. Does that mean—“

“I don’t think so,” Rhysand cut you off. “If they held the magic you do, I believe their power would have shown by now. They were Made. So it’s possible the Cauldron could’ve interfered with it if that were the case.” 

It was too much. All of it. Reliving those memories again, seeing your father… You couldn’t do this. Couldn’t have magic and powers. You could not be half Fae, half witch. 

It would be easy to give up. It would be so easy to ignore it until it killed you. So easy to just let go of everything. But a pounding in your soul begged you not to. Begged you to fight with everything you had. Begged you to live. 

“Burn the mark.” 

All attention snapped to you, flickering from your face to the mark on your chest that finally stopped glowing. 

“Are you insane?” Nesta seethed. 

You looked at her. “I don’t think I’d be far off to guess that if I don’t burn this mark, this…power will consume me entirely. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be so lost because I have no idea who I am. This is who I am, whether I like it or not. I won’t run anymore.”

Feyre stepped closer, crouching to your level and taking your spare hand in hers. Azriel still held tight to the other. “If you wish to burn it, it will unleash whatever power you have at full force. You don’t have any training, any control over it.” 

You felt sick to your stomach. “I don’t want to die, Fey.” 

And that was enough to enrage Feyre in a way she’d never once felt before. “You are not going to die. Do you understand me?”

Azriel squeezed your hand, begging for you to look at him. You couldn’t. You couldn’t stomach the thought of him looking at you any different than he had three days ago. 

“Rhys, fetch Madja. We will burn the mark in a controlled environment. Where any fallout can be contained.”

You shook your head, not willing to risk a single soul because of your selfish decision to live. 

“No,” you said. “Drop me to the mountains and I’ll burn it myself.”

Nesta scoffed. “Oh, you are insane.”

You seethed at her. The first ounce of anger you’d truly shown. The first time you’d ever directed it at anyone but yourself. 

“This isn’t your decision. I will not risk anyone. Azriel can take me to the mountains and you can all keep your distance. At least until it’s safe.”

Until it’s safe. As if you knew for certain you’d survive it. You truly weren’t sure you would. There was nothing more to discuss, your tone made that clear enough. 

“Fly me, winnow me…whatever. Just do it now before I change my mind.”

Within a blink, your body was shivering and you were no longer in the House of Wind. Shadows encased your entire body, darkness swarming every inch of you. You said nothing as Azriel held you, nothing at all as he flew you across Velaris and toward the highest mountain just outside of the city. 

Only when he landed, when he refused to remove his hold from you, did the darkness dissipate and hazel eyes gazed into yours. 

“I’m staying with you.” 

“No, you’re not. I won’t risk your life, Azriel.” 

He set you to your feet, holding your hands now to keep you close. A plea of desperation swam in his eyes, his entire body yearning to take you and find another way to fix this. 

“There is no other option. If I don’t burn this mark, I don’t know what my power might do. It might kill me, it might destroy this city. I cannot risk anyone’s life for mine.”

Azriel parted his lips to speak but you shook your head, squeezing his hands. 

“If I don’t survive this—“

“Don’t.”

“Please, listen to me.” Silver lined your eyes, blurring your vision. “If I don’t survive this, I want you to know how special your friendship has been to me. How much I care for you, for your family.” A sob tore through your throat. “And I am so incredibly sorry for burdening you all in this way.” 

You reached on the tips of your toes and pressed your lips to his. Warmth and love and the most raw emotion could be felt between you both. An apology for not having longer, a prayer that there would still be time. 

A fuse lit within the pit of your stomach, in the pit of Azriel’s. Tears stained your lips, stained his. In that moment, you were one. Whole, as though you always should have been. 

You pulled away first, forcing your hands from his hold. You took several steps back, blinking through the distorted vision and swiping away and evidence of the fear that crippled you. 

A puff of violet darkness misted beside Azriel as Rhysand winnowed to the mountains. Pain flicked through his eyes, regret and the same sorrow you saw in your cousins. 

You did not meet his gaze. 

“Summon a fire.”

He did as you asked. And handed you a blade. 

You did not grant them another look, did not give into the pleading in your mind to watch them leave. Or else you would’ve seen Rhysand drag Azriel off that mountain. You would’ve seen the anguish on the Shadowsingers face. 

Alone. As you had been your whole life. Though the weeks spent in Velaris had given you a taste of what could’ve been. You’d treasure those memories in the Hereafter. Those and the precious ones of your late mother. 

For they were all you had left. 

You did not allow another tear to fall. Not as you hovered the blade over the flame, not as you tugged your shirt down and took a deep breath. 

For if all you were ever meant to be was a ghost in the wind, you were content to know you’d reunite with your mother soon. Where you would no longer feel such pain. 

You didn’t want to die. But if this was all the time you were fated to have, then so be it. Better you than someone else. 

“Keep them safe.” A whisper to the winds, if they deigned to listen. 

With a final breath, you pressed the scorching blade against the mark on your skin and the entirety of your captive power unleashed upon the mountain as your body allowed it to consume you. Until you saw and heard and felt nothing at all. 

From below, the city shook, a thundering boom and a gust of aftershock and pelting mountain debris that blew the Inner Circle back. 

Then there was silence. 

And Azriel’s soul bellowed. 

a/n: so a LOT happened in this chapter and there is still a lot more to happen, i'm hoping i can fit it into two parts but it may be stretched into three, we'll have to see!! i'm so grateful for all the love you guys have been giving this series and i am so excited for you to find out how it all ends!!

if you enjoyed it, please consider giving it a like and reblog, your feedback is always appreciated <3

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