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Chapter Text

PROLOGUE

Unforgiving hands seized her, pinning her on the hardwood. They encircled her wrists, others gripped onto the flesh of her hips hard enough to bruise.

It hurt worse than she could have ever imagined.

The bastards wanted her to suffer.

Everything made her want to vomit. The taste of copper from her split lips. The salt of sweat and tears. The throbbing handprint on her right cheek. The peals of male laughter. The disgusting taunts. The weight of another body on hers. The angry sound of flesh against flesh.

No.

Gwyn wouldn’t let them see the unshed tears in her eyes. She refused.

Her lips moved in a silent prayer to the Mother and the Cauldron that the children stayed quiet. If they made it out of this ordeal alive, she could endure. Someone had to survive.

She shut her eyes tight, hoping to be taken away from the way her cheek rubbed against the table. All she could picture was her sister’s pleading gaze at the hands of the Hybern soldiers.

Catrin.

Her best friend.

Her twin sister.

All Gwyn could see was Catrin’s wide eyes as the sword met her sister’s neck.

She couldn’t have her eyes closed and relive her sister’s death. Her gaze focused on the floor, to the shadows cast in the light of the flickering candles. The shadows looked alive. It was a comfort to focus on them, the way they undulated and swayed, changed with the wavering light.

The Commander took what he wanted without her giving him what he wanted—the hidden children. The girls. He gave the order to the other two soldiers to continue using her until she gave up the whereabouts. The jangle of another belt buckle sounded as loud and foreboding as thunder.

“No,” she squeaked, trying to force herself up, only to have a meaty hand pressed between her shoulder blades. She fastened her eyes shut, steeling herself for what was to come once more…

A scream snapped her eyes open.

More screams and grunts.

The clash of metal on metal.

A thud.

Gwyn took in a shuddering breath and tentatively looked over her shoulder.

Hybern’s men lay in a heap at the Illyrian warrior’s feet. Her teal eyes met his golden ones, and she took in a breath, trying to push up to cover her body. Not a second passed before the male placed his cloak over her as she sat up upright on the edge table. She held the ends together with trembling fingers.

He took a step back, his hands raised. “I will not hurt you.” He placed a hand on his chest as he addressed her in a soft voice. “The High Lord of the Night Court sent me here. We’re going to get you out of here. You’re safe now.”

Shivering, she pulled the ends of the fabric even tighter with shaking hands, realizing now what he must have seen when he walked in—

“There are children…hiding in the cellar under the rug…under this table…I tried to get as many as I could…I tried to save…I tried…”

“Shhh,” he soothed, but didn’t move any closer. “Don’t worry, we’ll get them out of here. You’re safe.”

With wild eyes, she allowed herself to survey the room. Bodies and blood covered the floor. The room was absolute carnage. It was horror.

Shadows curled over his shoulders behind his wings and drifted over to her. And just like the shadows that had swept across the floor, they brought her comfort. Her gaze met his as his shadows wrapped around her. She could get lost in those hazel eyes, the way the golds mingled with the greens and browns. There was sorrow and anger for her, for them, in his stare—and yet she couldn’t look away. Gwyn was in pain everywhere, but when she looked into his eyes, she felt…

A light, cool stroke against her cheek jolted her from sleep.

The blankets tangled around her form, wet with her sweat, a reminder that her dream had started as a veritable nightmare. It was one of many. Gwyn couldn’t remember the last time she got a full night’s sleep since the attack at Sangravah. A few hours uninterrupted was a rare occurrence now.

Her hand absently stroked her cheek, wondering what had roused her from her horror. The rising sun peeked over the ledge of her tiny window in her dorm room, reminding her of her battle ahead. Today. Today she was going to leave the library and go into the world. And she would, for Nesta and Cassian. Though it terrified her deep down, she would push through the panic. All she needed was the love and support of her friends, and she would be fine. They were her safety and her strength.

With a deep breath in and out, Gwyn sat up in her small bed.

“I am the rock against which the surf crashes.” She reminded herself that she was not that weak girl at the mercy of those men anymore. She never would be ever again. “Nothing can break me.”

Chapter Text

PART I: OVERTURE

She did it. She actually did it.

Praise the Mother.

Gwyn made it up those stairs and outside to Nesta and Cassian’s mating ceremony. It was a major accomplishment. She might even rank it on par with winning the Blood Rite, and Gwyn wanted to shout it from Velaris’s rooftops.

Rhysand, the High Lord himself, had met her at the top of the House of Wind and winnowed them to the glorious and sprawling river estate. Her heart had been in her throat, her palms gathering sweat until relief set in with a familiar friendly face as she stood in the foyer. Emerie was waiting for her in the entry hall, pulling Gwyn into a tight, bouncy hug, before she nearly dragged Gwyn to a room where Nesta was getting ready with her sisters and Amren.

Oh my.

Seeing the breathtaking females in one room was overwhelming for someone with a humble upbringing of an acolyte. All of them looked gorgeous in their dresses, each one a similar, flattering cut, but the color reflective of their style—and it made Gwyn tug at the collar of her traditional sky-blue robes. Perhaps not the best choice of attire, but it had been that or showing up to the fancy ceremony in her weathered pair of Illyrian leathers.

“Gwyn, we’re so glad you could make it,” the High Lady of the Night Court said with a smile.

Gwyn curtsied, lowering her gaze. “My Lady, I am honored—”

“No, gods, none of that. Please, call me Feyre, and the honor is mine. We have the new Blood Rite Champions with us and all are female. We are honored.” The High Lady looked stunning, draped in navy holding, the cherished future of the realm wrapped in her protective arms.

“And at last we can stop listening to the smug bastards boasting about their spectacular victory ages ago,” Amren soughed, pointing a ruby red polished finger that matched her dress at each the winner. “Congrats, girls. You kicked all those winged, egotistical males square in their balls and they’re going to be feeling it for a long time. You all should be proud.”

Gwyn’s eyes went wide and Emerie snorted a laugh. “Oh, thank you, but to be fair, it was Emerie who—”

“No, we did it together. I’m pretty sure it was both our hands on that stone,” Emerie said from across the room, and Gwyn did a double-take. Wait? Was she—yes, she was. How had she overlooked that? Emerie was wearing the same flowing gown, but the color of deep plum, her neck adorned with a gold necklace and her friendship bracelet on her wrist.

“Emerie, you look—”

“Uncomfortable?” her friend asked with a chuckle, which Gwyn answered with her own. Emerie fidgeted with the strap over her tanned shoulder.

Gwyn chuckled, placing her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Perhaps a bit, but I was going to say that you look like you could be on a romance book cover. You look absolutely beautiful, my dear friend.”

“She’s right, Emerie. You look amazing.” Standing behind the chair at the dressing table was Nesta’s sister Elain, dressed in a sweeping dusty lilac suited to her creamy complication and tawny hair. The middle Archeron offered Gwyn a warm, gentle smile that at once put her nerves at ease. She had often heard Nesta speak of the middle sister’s kindness and beauty, both of which were on full display.

Nesta rose from her dressing table. Gwyn gasped and couldn’t help but stare. Nesta was in a pewter dress that shimmered like a thousand stars and complimented her curves and strength. Classic elegance, yet intimidating. Her hair was plaited into a braided crown atop her head. Silver ribbon and diamonds were interwoven throughout.

“You came.” Nesta smiled at her friend, her eyes shimmering silver.

Gwyn politely waved her off. “Oh, it’s nothing.”

Nesta shook her head. “No, it’s not nothing, Gwyn. This is a gigantic step for you. Don’t sell yourself short. I’m so damn proud of you.”

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world. May the Mother bless you this day,” Gwyn replied, her arms out to embrace her Valkyrie sister. “Nesta, you look stunning.”

“Thank you,” Nesta said, pulling back to look at her friend. One elegant eyebrow shot up. “You wore your robes, I see?”

Gwyn peered down at herself, warmth rising to her cheeks. “Well, I—uh—”

Nesta snorted and grinned widely. “Relax, Berdara. I’m teasing. I figured it would be the case. I brought you something. Please don’t feel obligated, but I thought this day was a big occasion for us all to celebrate, so…”

Nesta walked over to the bed and held up a long teal dress that was similar to the others.

Gwyn walked over, her fingers reaching out to caress the soft turquoise fabric, the color reminding her of the Sidra on a hot Summer day through her small bedroom window. The neckline wasn’t as low cut as the High Lady’s. Thank the Cauldron. She was sure Nesta had thought of that beforehand, and for that, Gwyn was eternally grateful.

“Nesta, it’s…” she tried to say as the tears formed in her eyes. Nesta nodded and kissed her cheek. Her eyes skimmed the fabric, landing on the corded bracelet wrapped around her wrist, then back to the dress. She did the same with Emerie and again to Nesta. “You—the colors of our friendship bracelets match the dresses.”

Nesta nodded, holding out her arm to Gwyn’s. Emerie stepped forward and joined them. No one had ever bought her anything before, let alone given her a gift. Well, that wasn’t true. There was the necklace she received from Clotho during the Solstice. She still couldn’t figure out why she had received such a treasure. But this dress before her…she was beyond words, but her heart was overflowing.

“Sisters-in-arms forever,” Gwyn said happily.

“Friendship bracelets? Is that what those are?” Elain asked, stepping closer.

“Yes, we made them when we had a girls’ night at the House of Wind.” Gwyn held hers up to give her a better view, the charm sparkling in the afternoon sunlight through the window.

Odd. For a moment, Gwyn could swear there was something in Elain’s eyes as she showed her the bracelet. One moment there was keen interest and then in the next, Elain’s eyes went wide and she excused herself with a hasty exit.

The remaining Archeron sisters eyed each other.

“Sit,” Emerie said, leading Gwyn by the arm to the now-empty dressing table. “So, now you have a dress. Would you like us to do your hair and makeup?”

Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline. Hair and makeup? Now she was in truly foreign territory. They considered such things frivolous and forbidden to the priestesses, except perhaps for sacred symbols allowed on their skin during Holy Days.

“I mean, I won’t be the one doing it,” Emerie smirked, pointing to her perfectly made-up face. “Mor is the best. I’m sure she’d be happy to do the same for you.”

“Of course I would,” Mor assured with a nod. “That is, if you would like?”

With how gorgeous the blonde High Fae appeared, Gwyn had no doubts about her skills.

Gwyn stared at her plain reflection in the mirror, her auburn hair up in its braid twisted at her nape. Her freckled face was bare of makeup besides the bit of healthy bronze from the sun. A priestess’s face. But wasn’t this a big step? Wasn’t this all about stepping outside of her comfort zone? She stared at her friendship bracelet, playing with the small charm. With her Valkyrie sisters by her side, she could do anything. After those few steps, why not leap?

She twisted to look at the females behind her with an answering smile. “I would like that.”

𝄋

Azriel tried to pay attention to the speeches and offerings during his brother’s mating ceremony. He truly had. Yet, he could only focus on his troubles. There he was, Cassian and Nesta’s ceremony, and, like a dick, he was thinking about himself.

Jealousy sat bitter in his gut, slowly poisoning him from the inside. First his brother Rhys. Now Cassian. But—what about him? The mating bond was the bane of his existence. Something once thought so rare that it became a legend bestowed to both brothers. Was he so undeserving?

Shit. Azriel knew the answer to that. Of course. They beat it into him. They imprinted the reminder on his flesh. He was nothing but an unworthy bastard. With his history? With his present? With his occupation? It’s no wonder the Cauldron passed him over.

But your brothers did things in their past, too, the shadows murmured.

Gods, sometimes his shadows needed to know when to shut the fuck up.

There was another reason he was having problems paying attention. She looked like a blooming lilac, seated beside Feyre, watching their eldest sister as she held onto Nyx. Elain looked so natural, so happy with her nephew in her arms. So content. And so damn wonderful. He didn’t know shit about fashion, but that shade on her brought out the natural rouge in her cheeks and the golden strands in her hair.

She looked up, meeting his stare. Those pretty eyes were the color of bittersweet chocolate. Decadent and wary. With a tight smile and nod, she quickly averted her attention back to the child in her lap.

A pair of astute violet eyes peered at him from the side. Ever since Rhys caught Elain and Azriel in their near kiss on the Solstice, as far as Rhys knew, Azriel was on his best behavior. Rhysand may have been right on a few points, but so had he. This came down to Elain’s choice and no one else’s. If she wanted to renounce the bond, be free from Lucien, and come to Az, he’d greet her with open arms.

But why hasn’t she yet? Why has she said nothing to the son of Autumn? his shadows snickered.

Regardless of the bond, it hadn’t stopped them from stealing a few kisses and touches when they could get a spare moment alone. It usually occurred when Elain was helping someone garden in Velaris. There were a lot of hidden alleyways for a few minutes of covert enjoyment. Az was now very familiar with her lips. Her tongue. The purring sound she made as his hands made their way up the hem of her dress over soft, warm skin.

Nothing had gone any farther, and he couldn’t let it. Lucian’s visits were becoming more spontaneous. Not to mention, whenever Lucien was around, Elain pulled away. It had been many weeks since they had any clandestine meeting. Azriel knew the gravity of getting caught. Honestly, he couldn’t bear for Rhysand and himself to be in a personal war. Rhys’s Solstice warning was as a friend and High Lord, but it was not a direct order. But he knew all too well that there would certainly be a direct order if the affair did continue and was discovered.

There was no way Az could ignore the intense attraction. With each steamy kiss, every caress, he hoped and prayed that maybe the Cauldron was wrong. Maybe their bond would snap between the two of them and he could finally feel complete. Find his own little family. Something all his own. Something he could grow and nurture.

But when Azriel kissed Elain, besides the undeniable arousal coursing through his body, he felt nothing. No bond snapped. It wasn’t as if he didn’t love her, he did, but it became obvious it wasn’t the kind between lovers. As time went on, it became glaringly obvious. They were using each other as a distraction-him from his troubles, and her from dealing with the bond.

Elain was more than just a good fuck. He was more than willing to give that to her, but he wouldn’t forgive himself. She deserved all he was searching for and much more. She deserved everything. And he damn well knew from her dreamy eyes when they kissed, she was feeling more than he was. There was no way he could lead her on. It was clear Elain needed time to figure things out and sort through her feelings. When she got to that point, then maybe-maybe they could build something. Maybe they could…

Clapping and whistling interrupted his wallowing. Azriel joined in, noticing the ebony ribbon wrapped around the couple’s hands. He missed the whole thing. With a wicked grin, Cassian pulled her forward with their joined hands, tipped her back, holding her up with his free hand, and laid a kiss on Nesta that made Az glad Nyx was too young to remember. After Cassian finally let his mate breathe, Azriel approached the couple with open arms.

“Congratulations,” he said, pulling Cassian in for a side hug before doing the same for his brother’s mate. “And to you as well, Nesta. I’m thrilled for you both.”

“Thank you,” Nesta replied, as she grinned up at Cassian.

“Yeah, thanks, Az. I guess that’s two down and one to go, huh?” Cassian grunted as Nesta’s elbow hit his ribs. “What? What did I say?”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Don’t mind him. I mated an idiot.”

“What the hell was that for, Nes? What did I do?”

She looked back up at Cassian, her lips twitching. “But he’s a good-looking idiot, so I’ll take it.”

Cassian snorted and laughed, placing another kiss on her lips, as his free hand was slowly stroking over her hip. “And I’m your idiot now, Nes. All yours however and whenever you want.”

Az’s lips twitched. “I’m sure you two are leaving early to consummate the bond, right?”

“Pssh. As if those two haven’t consummated the bond enough already? I heard you’ve been keeping poor Azriel awake all hours of the night.”

Laughing, Az turned toward the voice and almost fell over. At first, he didn’t recognize the fiery copper-haired female in the flowing dress that was the color of the sea. She bounded over and pulled Nesta into a warm embrace; her giggle sounding like a melody. His shadows stretched out for her and he felt the tension melt away.

“Gwyn,” he said, as she let go and turned, her teal eyes ensnaring him. “You’re here.”

Her triumphant smile could rival Starfall in its beauty. “I am.”

Chapter Text

“I win. Cough it up,” Gwyn said, holding out her hand to Emerie, who lightly slapped her palm, telling her she’d give her the money in the morning.

“Isn’t betting very un-priestess like,” Emerie snorted. Gwyn lifted one shoulder.

As she predicted, Nesta and Cassian left barely a moment after the ribbon wrapped around their joined hands. Gwyn and Emerie had joked about that very thing at training for weeks, wondering how long the pair were going to stay before ripping off each other’s clothes. Cassian was hardly amused, and it had cost the girls more push-ups and sore muscles. It had been worth it.

After the couple took off, literally, Emerie and Gwyn sat at a small bistro table off to the side, one that was away from the crowd. On the way, they each grabbed a slice of the towering six-tiered cake that had been so generously provided by the House of Wind. And it was as delicious as it was gorgeous. The chocolate ganache in between the marble layers was utterly decadent. Not too sweet, not too bitter, and very much the cake embodiment of Nesta herself.

“Think we’ll see them next week?” Emerie asked beside her at the table, before taking another bite.

Gwyn snorted. “Maybe in two. Besides, I have a feeling they aren’t going to be able to walk after a week. Might need time to recover.” She took another bite and fought back a moan. “I guess it depends on how much training Nesta wants to miss. I’m sure Cassian wouldn’t care if they were gone for months.”

Not that she knew from experience, but Gwyn had done enough research in the library about the mating traditions. The ribbon wrapping. The food offering. And, of course, the frenzy. The frenzy could go on for weeks, where the couple could not get another of one another. The longest one had gone was with an ancient king and his consort. Three months. Three. Whole. Months. And, thanks to those books the girls had her reading, her mind went into sordid territories on the different ways the couple had possibly enjoyed their time together. By the end of her research, she had a hot flush over her body and felt the need to fan herself.

The ancient king’s mate, not exactly surprisingly, ended up pregnant by the end. Thank the Mother for contraceptives now so one could wait until one wanted a child. She knew Nesta had altered her body so that she could carry Cassian’s child, but they wanted to wait and have time with each other. But, when the time was right, if the Cauldron blessed them, they were going to make exceptional parents one day.

“So…I guess we’ll just be with Azriel for a week or so, right?”

Gwyn absently nodded, covering her lips and finishing her mouthful before she answered. “That’s what I assumed. Cassian said we can help train the new priestesses.” Since they met last, much to her delight, there had been several new recruits on the sign-up sheet in the library.

Loud male laughter caused her to jump in her seat. Her heart pounded in her chest. Emerie glanced up, putting her fork down on her plate, her brows knitted.

“Are you all right, Gwyn?”

Gwyn flinched. Gods, she hoped Emerie hadn’t noticed. She had to be all right. She was a warrior. A Valkyrie who won the Blood Rite, for Cauldron’s sake. She had to keep herself together and not let the hard things win. “Yes, I’m fine.”

Emerie’s brows lowered. Gwyn reached across the table, placing a reassuring hand on top of her friend’s, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I swear. I’m quite well. I’m just not used to all the noise, you know? The library is usually very—.”

“Quiet,” Emerie chuckled dryly, her lips tilted up at the corners.

“Ha. Well, I mean, besides me slamming down a book on a table pretending it’s on Merrill’s head, yes. I mean, we aren’t quiet all the time. We socialize and do our prayers. And sing, of course. I’m used to Cassian and Az now,” she explained, worrying her lower lip. “It’s just, sometimes, I still…I don’t know…”

“We’re surrounded by strangers. I get it, Gwyn. I’m used to it because people come into the store. But no one here means harm. Everyone is just having a good time.”

“I know,” Gwyn sighed, fidgeting with her fork. “I’m just being paranoid and silly. I hate feeling like this. Acting like this. It’s just…sometimes certain sounds or smells…”

“Trigger things?” Emerie asked with an arched brow. Gwyn nodded. “I get that, sister, I truly do. One minute you’re here, the next, it’s like you’re somewhere else and you have no control over it.” She paused, shaking her head as if to clear away her ghosts. “Anyway, enough of that. We leave that worry for another day. Come on, we’re at a party at the High Lord’s house, sitting eating delicious cake. There’s literally nowhere safer. Nothing to worry about. Well, except how I’m going to put away another slice of this before Az notices how many I’ve eaten and makes us do more laps tomorrow.” She winked and patted her flat stomach.

Gwyn chuckled and closed her eyes, tilting her head back. There was little she enjoyed more than feeling the warmth on her skin and the breeze through her hair. It had been such a rare occurrence before she started training with Nesta and, since then, she couldn’t remember what it felt like not to be in the light. Emerie was right. She should enjoy herself.

“So, Berdara, how is work in the library?”

“Oh, you know, I’m still busy being Merrill’s bitch.”

Emerie choked on her cake with laughter, and Gwyn answered with a wry grin and shrug. That’s who she really was. She wanted to be as bold as Catrin. She wanted to be present. She wasn’t the shrinking violet the acolytes were expected to become. Every day of her life, she wanted to be that girl who spilled her heart to her sisters at the base of The Breaking around others.

Gwyn told Emerie about her endless, mindless work for Merrill while she was doing her private research on the Valkyries. She was slowly compiling a list of new techniques for all of them to use at training. After a few minutes, Gwyn felt the tension ease from her shoulders, the relaxed, focused conversation helped push down any lingering panic. As long as she stayed back from the crowd and kept her distance, she could do this.

Eventually, Mor sauntered over and dragged Emerie off to the dance floor. The gorgeous blonde had invited Gwyn as well, but she’d politely refused. One step at a time. Plus, she wouldn’t miss seeing Emerie dance with her secret crush for the world.

Oh my Gods, Emerie mouthed to her over her shoulder, a deep flush in her cheeks.

Gwyn waved with a smile. “Have fun!”

She may not like being in the crowd just yet, but she didn’t mind watching them. Gwyn loved music. Singing and dancing. It had been one of the things that had knitted her soul back together after everything. She knew this tavern song well, and the reel that went with it. Catrin had taught her after sneaking out to a local pub not long before the attack at the temple. Her sister had crept back into Sangravah and told Gwyn all about the adventure in their dorm room.

“I’ll show you, sister. It’s easy to follow.”

They had held hands, Gwyn easily copying the footwork. Catrin regaled her about the booze and the dancing—and the men. She did not know what types of debauchery her twin was dabbling in, and she didn’t like it one bit.

“Catrin!” Gwyn scolded. “You have to be careful.”

“And you have to live a little, dear sister. This,” Cat had spun around, lifting the hem of her robe off the floor. “This is no life. There is so much more out there, Gwyn. We didn’t ask for this, now, did we?”

Gwyn had twirled and sighed. “No. No, I guess we didn’t.”

“You should come out with me one night. It’s fun,” her sister wagged her eyebrows. “And I can introduce you to the male I’ve been seeing…”

The memory faded as the music changed from a fast reel to a slow waltz, her heart clenched as she watched the group pair off. One day. One day, she was going to do that. She was going to let a handsome, trustworthy male lead her across the dance floor to some dreamy melody. That thought had her scanning the floor for a warm pair of hazel eyes.

Lost in the entrancing music, Gwyn rose from her seat, making her way over to where there was a refreshments table for a—

CRASH!

It all happened so fast and yet the world had slowed to a crawl—

The sound of glass breaking jolted her, reminding her of the glass swiped off the table in—

Her slippered feet slid on the dewy grass, her body reeling to find balance. There was a hard bump. A hand gripped her upper arm. Male laughter filled the air. Her heart hammered against her ribs, the bile rising to her throat. She tried pulling away, slipping once again, finding herself face down over a table. A hard male body smacked into her, pressing against her back. She was no longer in Velaris. No, she was in Sangravah, splayed at the mercy of Hybern soldiers.

No.

No.

Ringing in her ears drowned out everything but her ragged breath and the memory of clanging belt buckles.

The fingers clutched her. Arms had once held her arms overhead while he—

No. No. Not Again.

Never. Again.

She gritted her teeth, pushing off the table with one hand, and threw back her right elbow. “NO!”

The solid shot hit the attacker in the face, landing squarely on the nose with a sickening crunch. He swore and grunted, stumbling backward as she scrambled to her feet, hitting him again, this time punching him square on the jaw. His head snapped back violently on his neck with each hit she landed.

“Cauldron, female, what is fuck wrong with you?!” The High Fae male was holding a hand to his nose, the blood spreading on his sleeve.

A male at his side glared at her beneath furrowed brows. “Mother above, all he did was stumble and accidentally bump into you! He was trying to help you up! Crazy bitch!”

Eyes were on her. People were staring. So many people. So many sounds. She thought someone yelled her name. Her heart wouldn’t slow down. Her skin was tingling and damp.

“I-I need to go,” she walked backward, glancing down at her bloodied knuckles. “I need to go home.”

Pivoting, she lifted the hem of her dress off the ground and took off down the hill to the Sidra. Follow the river home. Home. She had to get to safety. This was too much. Way too much.

She wasn’t ready.

Chapter Text

Gwyn, they whispered in his ear.

Since Winter Solstice, shadows had become a tad obsessed with the young priestess. Every time she was around, they were always peering over his shoulders like excitable puppies vying for her attention. But right now, they sounded agitated and were insistent.

Gwyn.

He questioned silently, What about her?

Find Gwyn, they outright demanded.

Find Gwyn? Where else could she be? She was outside enjoying the party with everyone, and she would be fine. Though, if Azriel was being honest, part of him wanted to find her. She did it. Gwyn was here—he was so damn proud of her.

The funny thing was, he hadn’t even recognized her at first since Mor had obviously gotten her manicured hands on the priestess. Gwyn’s usual fiery straight hair fell in copper waves onto her shoulders and her face was delicately made-up. The kohl around her eyes made the teal glow like a pair of flawless tourmaline gemstones. Her pink lips looked pouty and delicate. Soft and kissable. Wait… kissable?

If he was being honest, Az had to admit he preferred Gwyn with no makeup at all. He missed the light smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. And, although that dress made her look like an ocean goddess emerging from the sea, he missed the training leathers. He knew the curves and strength hidden beneath all the flowing layers of delicate fabric.

But it had been her smile—her sunny, pretty smile had his heart clenching in his damn chest Then she had jumped him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, tugging him close. It was rare that anyone surprised him, let alone hugged him, so he stood there like an idiot until his brain got the message, finally wrapping an arm loosely around her back. There was something about the way she had held onto him…

Shaking his head, Azriel intended to go straight up to Rhysand’s office for an impromptu report on the Autumn Court, when he was intercepted.

“So today you look at me?” Her chilly voice lacked the familiar warmth and stopped him dead in his tracks. Taking a deep breath, he turned around and faced her.

Elain.

Shit. He couldn’t do this right now and sure as fuck not here.

“Come with me,” he whispered, taking her hand, hurrying her into a side room that was rarely used. Azriel turned to face her as he shut the door, scrubbing his hands down his face. “Elain—”

She lifted her chin, crossing her arms over her chest. “What, Azriel? It’s been weeks and weeks since you’ve come to me.”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. “It’s too risky and you know it.”

“Risky? For whom? From who?”

Risky for you, Singer. He shook their words from his head.

“Besides, Azriel, all we’ve done is kiss—”

Azriel took a step closer until the tips of their shoes touched. “You know damn well we’ve done a little more than just kiss.” He could remember the touch of her mouth, the taste of her tongue, the warmth of her body against his own, the smoothness of her thigh. But they had never had sex. Secret kisses and heavy petting were bad enough if Lucien or Rhys found out.

He could scent the change in her body at his words. This conversation needed to end quickly, before things got out of hand.

“Elain, I’ve got a meeting. We can’t do this right now.”

She put her hands on her hips, raising her obstinate little chin, stepping right in his path. “And why not, Azriel? Don’t you want me anymore?”

The strain against the front of his pants reminded him that want was not the issue, and he was sure she could scent him as her eyes darkened to a deep umber.

“Want or not, we can’t let whatever this is,” he gestured between the two of them, “keep going the way it is. There are too many complications.”

“Complications,” she huffed, her brown eyes narrowed. “Oh…you mean my mate. He’s not a complication, I can assure you.”

Contrary to her belief, Lucien was a giant complication, and those issues weren’t just political. As his shadows kept hounding him, she had yet to decide on the bond. It was her discretion, her timetable, but Az just knew deep down she didn’t like Lucien. So why wait?

Ask her. Why is she waiting?

Azriel’s shadows hid in Elain’s presence, scattering to the wind, only rustling to taunt him over her indecision. They had a point. Every single rendezvous with Elain had been initiated by him, not her. As Rhys implied on the infamous Solstice night fiasco, Az was trying to seduce her to make her choice an easy one. Yet, not once before today had she sought him out for anything more than friendly companionship, and that included when Lucien was away.

Why the sudden change, Shadowsinger? they pressed.

He didn’t have an answer to the dark whispers in his ear, but Azriel knew one thing; this affair was getting harder and harder to continue. The fact he even thought he could tempt Elain to pick him turned his stomach. Azriel wasn’t that male. He wouldn’t turn into his father, using females to his own end.

For fuck’s sake, for once, he wanted to be chosen. He wanted to be the one someone thought about non-stop. The one someone longed for. Trusted. Protected. Cherished. Loved. None of that should be hard.

Love shouldn’t be so damn hard.

He rubbed the nape of his neck, keeping his eyes pinned to the floor. “Elain, you know I adore you. I do. And, I don’t want to lose our friendship. You were there for me over the last couple of years, when I was dealing with some heavy stuff—”

“And you were there for me as well, Az.”

He dipped his chin. “It’s so important to me and I don’t want to lose that.”

Elain braved a step closer, placing her delicate, small hand on Azriel’s broad shoulder. His body shuddered under her touch, her lips quirking up in triumph at the reaction. “We won’t.”

Azriel took a step backward, his hands on his hips. “But I sense we are losing that. I don’t know if I’m being true to myself or you. Fuck, I don’t know what I’m thinking. Between my work and shit at home, my head’s all over the damn place. In my line of work, it’s dangerous. There’s too much at stake to be distracted right now, and I don’t want either of us to be the reason something goes wrong. That’s not fair to you…” Azriel stopped, taking in a wavering inhale.

It’s not fair to you either, they hummed against the shell of his ear.

There he was again, standing at the precipice.

If this had been Mor standing in front of him all those years ago, Az would have said fuck it and go for her. Even if it meant being with her just once, it would have been worth it. With Elain? He knew how deep her emotions went, how her big heart was, and that was something he wouldn’t risk after everything she’d survived. Not until he was sure she understood exactly what that meant. Until he understood what everything meant. Something was off with Elain’s behavior, something that made his skin feel tight. This wasn’t a game to him.

Azriel hoped he would not regret this later.

A long-suffering sigh escaped. “Look, I don’t know what happens with us in the end, how this is going to play out, but…I think we need to step back and figure some things out first, all right?”

“Azriel?” She rushed forward, placing her hands on his chest. His tanned, scarred fingers reached up and wrapped around her porcelain wrists. He hated the way they looked against her perfect skin. “Is there someone else? Is that why you’re doing this?”

“What? Why would you think that?” He tilted his head, meeting her watery stare.

Her brown eyes darkened, her brows knitted. “Is there someone else?”

“I haven’t been seeing anyone. Elain, take some time. Figure out what you truly want. I’ll support you in whatever decisions you make. I just want you to be happy. You deserve it.”

Azriel placed a light goodbye kiss on her cheek, stepped around her, and headed to Rhysand’s office.

His meeting had gone as expected, mostly relaying reports on the Beron situation and whether Eris would have the balls to take Beron out. Azriel certainly doubted it. Gods, he hated that posturing prick. But said prick was proving of some use, so Eris would live…for now. Azriel’s hands were just itching to cause some damage to that High Fae fucker.

“Eris seems to think—” Rhys paused mid-sentence, brows slamming down. “Something is going on outside.” They both jumped to their feet and headed for the front door. He followed Rhys over to where Emerie was standing beside a table next to a bleeding male.

“What happened?” Rhys snapped, watching the injured fae.

“It was nothing, High Lord. This unhinged female attacked me,” he slurred as he bowed his head, stumbling forward. Azriel recognized the fools. Both were well known at the local tavern Nesta had visited, though he couldn’t imagine Cassian would have let them onto the invite list.

“Someone better start explaining what happened in the courtyard of my home,” Rhysand questioned, his piercing violet eyes searching the crowd. “I’m not known for my patience, but especially when shit like this happens around my mate and my child.”

Emerie stepped forward, meeting Azriel’s concerned gaze. “I didn’t see the whole thing. I was dancing with Mor and I heard yelling and I saw him on top of Gwyn— “

Az’s shadows froze, and his blood ran cold. On top of her?

On top of her?

Something primal and possessive bubbled deep inside him like a hot spring. He exploded. With a snarl, he seized the bleeding male, held him up by the collar, choke slamming him nearly through the top of a nearby table. “What do you mean, on top of her?”

“I f-f-f-f-ell I s-s-s-swear,” the prick stammered and trembled in Azriel’s grasp, his hands up in surrender.

He’s intoxicated, Singer, whispered the shadows.

No shit. The male smelled like a godsdamn wine cellar, and there was no missing the glaze in his eyes.

“He slipped and was trying to help her up when she pushed off the table and clocked him in the face,” the male’s pal said beside them.

The Siphons on his hands flared. Pride flowed through him. Though Gwyn should have never been put in the position to feel terrified, she had fought. She had taken their training and defended herself, and from the amount of blood still spilling out of the male’s battered face, she’d done some actual damage.

That’s our girl. That’s our priestess.

“That bitch was crazy,” the injured male slurred. That bitch?

Az’s eyes formed into slits as his hand made its way to the male’s throat and squeezed. And squeezed. The struggling fae gasped and clawed for freedom as his face turned beet red.

Azriel, let him go. He’s nothing but an idiotic, sloppy drunk, Rhysand mentally ordered, placing a calming hand on Az’s tense arm.

Azriel shut his eyes and let go of the male’s throat in disgust.

Rhys pulled the male off the table, placing him on his feet. He took on the standard guise of the bored, irritated High Lord, picking invisible lint off his jacket lapel. “I should let my Spymaster have his way with you. Consider your ass lucky. Now, take your friend and get out. I don’t want to see either of you foolish pricks in Velaris again.” The two males scrambled away like hounds with their tails between their legs.

“We need to find her,” Emerie stammered, her eyes big with fear, darting between Azriel and the High Lord. “Gwyn. She’s gone.”

A chill ran up Azriel’s spine, and his heart stopped. He thought about the earlier insistence of his shadows to find her. Fuck.

He lightly took hold of Emerie’s upper arms, forcing her attention. “Did she run off or was she taken? Did you see which way she went?”

“I was on the dance floor and it happened so fast. I didn’t see the whole thing, but I believe it was accidental. He tripped and fell on her…pinned to the table…she hit him good, but everyone was staring. I think she panicked.”

Shit. Now it made sense.

That dumb soused asshole fell on her and reminded her of…

He shut his eyes, trying to forget that image of her seared in his brain.

“Where did she go? Which direction?” Az asked.

“She ran toward the river and in the direction of the city,” Emerie explained with wide eyes, running her hands through her ebony hair. “Mor is winnowing around the city to find her. I don’t think she knows how to get home, and that’s where I think she’s heading. We have to find her.”

Az clutched Emerie’s hand and squeezed. “We will. Don’t worry.” He turned to the High Lord. “I’ll take the skies.”

“I’ll see if I can feel her out and winnow,” Rhys replied.

With a nod, Az took off into the sky.

Chapter Text

The sun set quicker than she expected, swathing the city of Velaris in darkness. No matter. Gwyn kept going, following the least crowded streets, hoping to race against the fading daylight. It was no use. Now the only light came from sporadic orbs of fae light, illuminating the streets and shining through window panes.

Gods, why was the world so loud? So much chatter and laughter. Things clanging and banging inside bustling businesses and cozy houses. Her heart thundered against her ribs.

Gwyn’s torn heels were filling her satin slippers with blood. A fire burned through her aching muscles. Chills ran through her body as she shivered and trembled as day turned to night.

Lost. She was hopelessly lost.

For the Cauldron’s sake, how could she be lost? The House of the Wind was a landmark in the Velaris skyline, for Cauldron’s sake!

But, gods, the city was so overwhelming—

Who was she kidding? Mother above, it was clear by her cowering, nothing could have prepared her for this. The outside was too much, too soon. Yet, she would not regret being there for Nesta. She would never regret that part.

But, the weight of that male…

Gwyn stumbled forward, finding a deep alley where she could disappear into the shadows, letting the darkness wrap around her like a blanket. Leaning against the exterior stucco wall, she slid down to the damp cobblestones below, shutting her eyes as the exhaustion settled.

She needed to do some Mind-Stilling. Focus.

“I am the rock against which the surf crashes.” Her arms wrapped around her torso, fingers digging into her biceps.

Get to the library. Home. Safety. Then all Gwyn needed was a scalding bath to wash off the filth.

The touch of that table under her cheek…

Gwyn shook her head and made a fist, wincing. Correction, she also required ice for her hand.

“I am the rock against which the surf crashes.”

Over and over, she whispered to herself, stilling her mind and body. All the while Gwyn hoped and prayed that someone would find her.

“Calm down,” she muttered to herself. “What if no one rescues you? You aren’t going to give up and freeze to death in an alley because of some stupid male. You need to get it together, Berdara, and do it yourself.”

The Hybern Commander’s voice echoed in her head. No one is coming, you little bitch. You’re mine. You pretty little thing—

We belong to no one, Gwyneth. We forge our own path. Catrin had said that the night the temple was ransacked when she had tried to convince Gwyn to leave the priestesses for good.

Some nights she laid awake thinking of their last conversation. What if she had left with Catrin that night?

“Stop it.”

No more living in the past. No more chasing ghosts. That’s how you get killed in the present. Gwyn’s only focus should be the here and now. Her brain and body needed to get back on track. She had to pull herself out of this mess. There was not always going to be a handsome, hazel-eyed Illyrian around to come to her rescue.

She just needed a little more to focus.

Deep inhale, long exhale.

Breathe, little Priestess.

Deep inhale, long exhale.

She saw Catrin’s pale face hidden behind her onyx hair, a bag of robes, and their meager belongings in her webbed hands. We forge our own path, sister. We follow our own stars.

Follow our own stars.

She lifted her head, tilting her chin skyward. The moon was visible through moving clouds, but they were clearing. Wait. She would wait for the clouds to clear. Then, as the old Valkyries wrote, she would find the constellation Gerona. It was directly above the training ring at night this time of year.

Lowering her head back to her knees, she waited for the clouds to roll and the stars to shine.

𝄋

Azriel flew above, scouting the streets of Velaris below. So far, no sign of Gwyn anywhere, and he was starting to get worried. Shit. What if…

Fuck the what-ifs. The city was relatively safe, and no one with sense would go after a priestess.

But she does not look like a priestess tonight, they crooned.

No, she did not. Out of those robes, she looked like any other female out on the town. No, that wasn’t remotely true. She was absolutely beautiful. Stunning. Gods, if some dumbass male thought he could try to talk to her and pick her up—

Az took a deep breath. Gwyn was fine; she had to be. He would never be able to forgive himself if he was too late again.

Something in his chest squeezed and pulled , and he just…he just knew she was close.

Found her, Shadowsinger, his shadows whispered.

With their guidance, Azriel dropped to the street below without making a sound. Pivoting on his heel, he ran a few blocks to the west.

Turning a corner, he stopped with a shuddering exhale.

There she was.

Slumped against a cold wall, covered in grime with her arms wrapped around her trembling form. The beautiful blue dress was torn and splattered with dirt and blood. Her fingers dug in so hard they broke her flesh.

“I am the rock against which the surf crashes,” she muttered softly on repeat, her forehead resting against her bent knees.

Rhys, I found her, Azriel sent out his thoughts, relaying the location. Bring Emerie.

It took everything in him not to go to her right then and wrap her up in his arms. To tell her that she was safe.

Do it, Singer. Go to her.

But, if that idiot drunk reminded her of that day…so would he.

Still, they urged, Bring her home.

All Az could think of was covering her with the warmth of his jacket. It was too close to how he had wrapped her up in his cloak that very day. Azriel could not let the rage of that day blind him. Of the soldiers ready to take her. The emptiness in Gwyn’s blank stare. The gore and guts spread all over the room and table. The blood staining his hands. If he had more time, he would have made sure those pricks suffered so much more than the few seconds before Truth-Teller sliced their throats.

He let his shadows conceal him further into the corner of the alley, hiding him from her view. Yet he was close enough to see her and to protect her. That would have to do for now.

Damn, why hadn’t Emerie been by her side at the party? Fuck, why hadn’t he? This was such a big moment for Gwyn. It was a testament to her bravery and courage, of how far she had come since Sangravah.

She lifted her head, turning her face into the moonlight. “Come on stupid clouds… move,” she bit through clenched teeth. “I need to see Gerona.”

Need to see Gerona? The constellation? Why would she need to see stars? Of course. When you were lost, you could use the stars for navigation. The Valkyries and the Illyrians both used to find their way home.

Godsdamn. The female before him was something special. Gwyn had a will of steel and determination of a brush fire on a windy day.

Azriel glanced up, seeing the clouds were growing thicker, precisely the opposite of what Gwyn needed.

Gwyn grumbled and swore, smacking her head hard onto her knees. “Mother above, ow,” she winced, and he bit back a laugh. “I am the rock—”

Nothing can break you, little Valkyrie.

She lifted her weary face, staring straight in his direction. His heart hammered against his ribs, skipping beats. How—how in the world did she know he was there? There was no way she saw him through his shadows. Her shining teal eyes locked onto his. There was no fear. And he felt—

Her auburn brows furrowed. “Hello?”

Before he could command them, a few of his shadows answered, stretching out and wrapping around her shoulders in an embrace. At the first cool wisp on her skin, Gwyn’s eyes fluttered shut, and she shuddered as they caressed her, rubbing against her shoulders and cheeks. The tension in her body relaxed, her head falling back against the exterior wall as she took a deep, cleansing exhale.

Gwyn’s eyes snapped open, finding Az’s once again, his shadows swirling around both of them.

“I am the rock against which the surf crashes. Nothing can break me,” she said once again, but this time with words full of conviction. It was an affirmation. And when she repeated, his shadows joined her in harmony.

Emerie and Rhys appeared at the far end of the alley.

“Oh, thank the Cauldron,” Emerie’s voice broke as she ran down. “Gwyn! I was so worried.”

Gwyn’s head snapped to the right so fast, Az was worried she had hurt herself. “Emerie? Emerie?!” Her friend slid onto the ground, and the two girls wrapped their arms around one another.

“I’ll get them home,” Rhys said as he helped the girls off the ground.

The three of them started back up the alley before Gwyn suddenly paused and turned in his direction. His shadows peered over his wings as if waiting for her to speak.

“Thank you,” she said with a nod before turning back to Emerie and letting Rhysand winnow them away into the night.

Chapter Text

Training should have started fifteen minutes ago—and Gwyn was still not here. She wasn’t coming. Not that Azriel expected to find her in the ring this after yesterday, but he hoped she’d show. The idea of her sitting alone in her dorm made the acid turn in his gut. He tilted his face to the morning sun, his eyes gritty with bags of sand beneath. There was no sleeping last night, not when his thoughts focused on the female huddled on the cobblestone.

Azriel’s rubbed his temples, trying to ease the pain, the stale taste of liquor coating his mouth. He wished he’d taken that headache powder that Elain…

“Is Gwyn coming?” Roslin asked as the group continued stretching and warming their muscles on the sand of the training circle.

Emerie caught Azriel’s gaze from the ground.

He loosed a long sigh, rolling his neck. “We can’t wait any longer. Let’s begin. Pair up and work on punch combos. Emerie, you’re with me,” he instructed, sliding a pair of broken-in pads on his scarred hands.

Emerie stood and shook out her arms, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. Fixing her stance in front of him, she checked the wrappings on her hands, flexing her fingers. Az lifted the pads, setting his feet into the sand. The Illyrian female’s punches were no joke, almost equal to any male of their species. And Em was the prime example of why the bastards wanted to keep the females in line. In a few more sessions, she could hand their asses to any one of them, including that prick Devlon. Those archaic winged fuckers didn’t know what hit him when the females—his and Cassian’s trained females—had won the Blood Rite.

“That’s good, Emerie. Make sure you tuck the left wing in a little…does that feel a little better? More stable? Good. All right. Begin.”

One, two. Block. One, two. Block. One, two.

Emerie continued with the pattern, her ebony brows lowered in concentration. The grunts, the thudding of fists against leather, and the seagull caws overhead filled the rooftop. There was nothing quite like the fresh air, out in the daylight, honing your body into a weapon. A relaxing symphony for a warrior.

Relaxing? If only. The muscle in his left cheek ticked and his wings twitched.

Ask her, Shadowsinger. How is she?

How is she? The question weighed heavily on his mind. The same question he tried drowning out with whiskey, so he was too drunk to make it to the library last night. Azriel had to know the answer, even if it made him sick.

“What happened when Gwyn came home last night?” he sought, his tone steady, though his body thrummed with apprehension.

Emerie glanced up as her fist pounded into the left pad. “Gwyn went downstairs without saying a word and didn’t come back.”

Azriel nodded, keeping his face impassive, and refocused on correcting thumb placement. No reason to break a digit because of laziness. He knew that too well. And that’s why the knuckles were so damn crooked.

Not the only reason. Yeah, Azriel was not taking that trip down memory lane.

“All right,” he addressed the group. “Let’s switch up the combo to a jab, crossover—”

The heavy door to the rooftop flew open with a bang, rebounding off the exterior wall. Birds scattered. Fists lowered. Silence, as if all of Velaris held its breath.

The silhouette made his heart slam against his ribs, and his shadows appear. Watching and waiting.

Gwyn stalked across the roof, straight into the fighting ring. Outfitted in her training leathers, ginger hair plaited into a tight braid, her hands settled on the curve of her hips as she took in the scene. The female before them was ready for battle. A warrior goddess. A true Valkyrie.

“Well? Who’s my partner?” she challenged, her voice as sharp as a honed weapon. Lethal in the right hands…and breathtaking.

Beautiful, shadows purred, an imperceptible wind swirling by his ears.

The young priestess stared at him with darkened eyes, tapping a booted foot with one brow raised.

“Emerie, you go with Gwyn. Nice to see you this morning, Berdara.” She didn’t deign to acknowledge his presence. Walking right past him, Gwyn reached for boxing pads on the equipment rack, roughly tossing them to her partner. Emerie’s brows shot up as she sent Azriel a questioning look.

The little Priestess is in a mood, his shadows whispered.

That she was. Azriel took up a spot on the edge of the ring, crossing his arms over his chest. His shadows weren’t saying a word, but they were following her every move.

Emerie put on the pads and got into position while Gwyn wrapped her hands. Az noted the knuckles on her right fingers, the splits like small canyons running through her pale skin. Her wince gave her away. Dammit, she was wrapping them too tight.

She’s doing it on purpose, Shadowsinger. The Valkyrie wants to feel the pain.

Gwyn smacked each fist into each palm, taking her position before Emerie, waiting for her partner’s signal to begin.

“Ready,” Emerie relayed with a nod.

Then it was pure chaos, a flurry of fists and kicks. These were no practice moves. No, Gwyn was using every bit of strength behind each attack. Jabs. Uppercuts. Crossovers. Back kicks. No rhythm or predictability and Emerie was struggling with the pad placement to protect herself.

Despite her frantic pace, Gwyn showed no sign of slowing down. The lithe female’s nymph heritage made her the fastest in the class by far. Graceful and light on her feet. Sparing with Gwyn was a deadly dance. She could bob and weave, spin around, and take your legs out before you could blink. But the fierceness, the grueling speed, and brutal force behind the attacks today? Azriel didn’t need his shadows to know why. He recognized the anger swirling behind her blank eyes.

“Gwyn, hold on a minute,” Emerie panted, moving her hand to block a jab to the ribs.

Gwyn kept pushing. The sweat poured off her forehead in buckets from the exertion, matting stray strands of her copper to her temples. With a battle cry, Gwyn spun and kicked, her foot meeting Emerie’s chest, who stumbled backward under the force.

“Gwyn, stop!” Emerie squealed as she tried to right herself into position.

Shit.

Emerie would not be able to block the next kick, and it was heading straight for her head.

Azriel stepped in front of Gwyn, grabbing her foot and pushing back until she landed flat on her ass. Gwyn hissed and barred her teeth, slamming her fists into the sand. She stared at him from the ground with daggers in her eyes.

“Emerie, take a few minutes and grab some water. Then I want you to run through the punching drills with the other trainees. You can shadowbox and go through the motions with them,” he directed the Illyrian female who nodded in reply. Azriel glared at a pissed-off Gwyn, crossing his arms over his chest. “You.”

“What about me?” she scoffed from the ground, mimicking his pose. “Is my training over today? Are you sending me back to the library, Spymaster?”

“No. You’re with me. Get up.”

“Aren’t you going to help me up?” she mocked sweetly, muttering something that sounded like dick under her breath when he walked away. If Az wasn’t fuming, he might have found that funny.

He didn’t help her off the ground. After that nonsense with Emerie, Gwyn needed to know Azriel was pissed. Just because he understood didn’t mean he had to accept that behavior. If her kick had connected…

He shook his head, rolling his shoulders. Unacceptable. He strode over to the side of the ring, putting pads on his hands.

Gwyn followed, opening and closing her hands.

“Get in your stance,” he ordered.

She rolled her eyes but obeyed, setting up her clenched fists. Ready and waiting, her fists flexing. The little Valkyrie was an impatient little thing.

“Go.”

Mother, her punches were fucking strong. Gwyn spun and kicked so hard it pushed him back. At that moment, Azriel understood what was powering her strength. It was in her eyes, the swirling anger a vibrant blue like the center of a flame. Each move was full of her fury. Fear. Sorrow. Frustration. Those emotions were the gathered kindling and last night’s experience poured the oil and lit the match. Today’s outburst was about controlling the burn.

Azriel let her go. He let her attack until the protective barrier wore through and his hands took the brunt of each brutal hit. Until her punches glanced off his palms. Until Gwyn’s body sagged, and she could no longer raise her fists. She staggered backward, shaking her trembling hands out, panting each breath. Until he sensed the fire smoldered into embers.

It was only then when the haze cleared; she realized training had ended an hour ago.

Gwyn pushed back the unruly, sweaty strands stuck to the sides of her throat. Shaking her head, eyes wide, she gasped. “Oh my…your hands.”

Hands? He inspected his hands, opening and closing them, turning them. His palms were red and swollen, but he’d had worse. Much worse. The sad irony was, with the scar tissue, he barely felt a twinge of pain.

“W-why didn’t you—s-stop me?” Gwyn croaked while she struggled to control her breath, bending over to put her hands on her knees.

He flung the destroyed remnants of the guards to the ground. “Because you needed to work things out.”

She stared down unblinking at the discarded guards, realizing she’d punched right through them. Her cerulean eyes lifted to meet his. “So you let me use you as my living punching bag,” she gulped, her voice cracking.

He shrugged, schooling a blank expression. “Better me than Emerie.”

Her eyes darted to the floor, her head hanging low.

Az stepped forward until they were toe-to-toe. She lifted her trembling chin. Those big, pretty eyes lined with silver. “Anytime, Gwyn. Anytime you need to work shit out up here, I’m here.” He left the for you unspoken. “But don’t pull that during training, not on one of the other trainees.”

She nodded, unable to meet his gaze. “Oh, gods,” she croaked, the desperate sound like a knife to his heart. Her hand curled against her chest. “I could have hurt Emerie…”

He had every intention of walking around her and straight into the house. To be the teacher. To prove a point. That plan lasted two steps before stopping beside the shivering female.

Azriel swallowed the lump in his throat. “Gwyn…I…” I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t make it to Sangravah in time.

Shadows whirled down his arm. His hand lifted in its own accord, squeezing her shoulder. Azriel wanted to hold her. Comfort her. Tell Gwyn everything would get better. But how could he when he was the root of this pain? Instead, he withdrew his hand and hurried back to the House.

Chapter Text

The clouds were floating puffs of pink candy floss.

The sky layers of strawberry, orange, and blackberry sorbet.

When was the last time she played this game, Gwyn wondered.

It had been ages. Before her world changed, when she and Catrin would sneak out to their secret pond outside the temple walls. Flat on their backs in the dewy grass, they’d stare into the heavens and compare what was overhead to various food items. Silly really.

The sun became a juicy tangerine.

The moon a wheel of brie cheese.

Her smile slipped from her face.

Cloistered among the library stacks, in the shelter of her beloved books, she’d missed so much. The way the late afternoon sunlight warmed the apples of her cheeks. How the western wind whipped her red hair into knots. The glorious gradient of a sunset and the majesty of a million glittering stars. The simplicity and beauty of life.

Coward. She’d been a coward, unable to face… living. Not just the existing. Gwyn wouldn’t deny it any longer, ready to shake off the shackles. To leave without being held immobile by unseen hands. No longer imprisoned by memories, haunted by ghosts. Those spirits drove her out of bed this morning and onto the rooftop, fueled by rolling anger. The reason she’d lashed out at poor Emerie. Cauldron, she owed her sister a heartfelt apology and an I-am-so-sorry pastry. Azriel earned one as well.

Azriel.

Gwyn woke up sucked into a storm, the winds of her emotions blowing every which way. Her angry blood zinged with lightning. She had been primed for destruction, to take out everything in her path. And Azriel had stood strong in the middle, letting her vent with her fists and legs until the worst blew over. Never bending or yielding. He was in the eye, her calming and hopeful center. And not once did he judge her, or scold her.

Peering beyond her booted feet, Gwyn instantly regretted the impulse. What had led her to sit on the ledge again? A moment of pure insanity? Mother above, she was far above the ground. She kicked her leather-clad legs back and forth as the sun slowly sank into the horizon. After her earlier training tantrum, she’d returned to her dorm, intending on a quick bath for her aching muscles, and allowing herself a much-needed sobbing fit. Soaking her pillow, all the fight left, she had fallen asleep curled up on the small bed. For the first time in years, no nightmares plagued her dreams, her brain, and body crippled by exhaustion.

Having accidentally napped through her afternoon library shift, Gwyn’s pride compelled her up to the roof. Donning a fresh pair of training leathers, she climbed the endless stairs and got to work. She completed her actual routine for the day, repeating the correct stances and attacks against a not very enthusiastic practice dummy. It wasn’t exactly the same as having a living partner, but it worked. At least she accomplished something other than bruising her friends.

Sweaty and panting, Gwyn had made her way to the water table. Their Illyrian teachers were sticklers on water, both always going on how your body cramped and not fully hydrated. Something clinical about acids and muscles, which she intended to search for in the healing section downstairs. Cup in hand, she made her way to the balcony’s wide stone railing, hopped up, and took a seat.

So there the priestess sat alone, watching the stars wink in the gathering twilight. It took her breath away. Gods, she avoided so much because of fear.

No more, she vowed. No more hiding. No more running.

Chilled darkness swarmed her, gently tugging her back at the collar. Overprotective busybodies, she mused. Speaking of overprotective busybodies…

“You can stop lurking, Azriel. I know you’re there…and call off your spies. I have no intention of jumping,” she called over her shoulder with a smirk. The little dark beasts swirled over her arms before returning to their master. After the last few days, the spymaster no doubt thought her capable of doing something drastic. After all, Azriel’s ability to read people like a book was only surpassed by his talent as a strategic worrier.

“I didn’t think you were going to, Berdara,” Az assured, suddenly at her side, causing her to jolt. His hands shot out to steady her before she slipped off the ledge, pulling back once she was stable. Cauldron, how can he move with such stealth? “Do you make it a habit to sit alone on the edge of the tallest buildings?” He peered over the side, casting her a sideways glance.

“Do you make it a habit to slink in corners?”

He shot her a pointed look.

Gwyn snorted. “Fair enough. I guess that goes with the occupation. Perhaps you should change your official title to Skulkmaster,” she teased.

“You feeling better?” he asked, placing his hands on the wide stone railing.

“I do.” Thanks to you and some much-needed rest. “And to answer your earlier question; no, extreme ledge sitting is not habitual.” Though she often thought about hiding flat on top of the shelves someday, hoping Merrill would leave her be.

With nimbleness and grace, Azriel hopped up onto the ledge, taking a seat beside her. “So, you’re not worried about falling to your untimely death?”

“No. Besides, you’re here now. If I fall, you have those handy wings.”

Sending Gwyn one of those rare half grins. He leaned back, resting his palms on the smooth stone beneath. “So you just expect me to dive off and save you?”

She lifted and dropped a shoulder. “I guess that would be up to you.”

“What if I fall?” Az continued with his interrogation, spreading his fingers out across the smooth stone.

“Should I toss you over the edge to see what happens?” She pointed to his glorious wings. Her curious fingers itched to stroke them, but she wisely kept her hands to herself. According to Emerie, you did not touch an Illyrian’s wings without permission and she was dying to know why. “But I would wait with bated breath until I knew you were safe… maybe.”

Azriel quietly snickered. “Well, I’m happy to find you not throwing yourself off the balcony.” He paused, his expression dulled. “So, why are you up here, Gwyn?”

“I came up to do some actual training and got caught up in this,” she gestured to the landscape. “The House has the best view of the sunset.” It wasn’t a lie. High above Velaris, you could see so much beyond the city and the colors the sun cast on the mountains and sea.

“Not true,” he alleged, casting a sideways glance, running a hand through his slightly damp hair. “Have you seen it from the coastline?”

She bit her lower lip, shaking her head. “No. I-I’ve never been down to the beach…but I’d like to go…”

Someday was left unspoken and tasted bitter on her tongue. Someday was a protective shield. Safe-the temple was supposed to be safe. Catrin’s wide, pleading eyes reminded her that someday was not a guarantee.

Today. It was time to live again.

Azriel stared ahead as the sun settled into the sea in the West, his bronze skin cast in a peach hue in the dusk. The fading light shone through his wings, illuminating the membrane in mauve and gold. Those eyes were the color of melted honey and toffee. The ebony strands of his hair shimmered with hints of blue, slightly curling at the nape. Gods, even in profile, it was impossible to deny he was one beautiful male.

He shifted, the muscles in his arms straining under his dark gray sleeves. Azriel’s body was a work of art, chiseled over centuries of training with a blade. There had only been a few times she’d seen him without his shirt on, and Gwyn held onto those images like a special gift. The way the muscles rippled under tanned skin as he wielded a sword, bunching, and flexing. There was no arguing the Illyrian had a physique meant for the cover of one of Nesta’s romance novels.

A shadow peered over the shadowsinger’s wings, swirling around his shoulders, hovering by his head. His lips twitched. Gwyn’s eyes narrowed and went wide. Oh, those little…Were they-were they telling him she was gawking? Hurling herself off the roof suddenly seemed like a grand idea. Her eyes quickly darted away, and she found herself wishing she had the power to winnow away.

After the awkwardness dissipated, they sat together in companionable silence in the lingering daylight. Such a normal thing to do with a friend, she imagined. Besides Emerie and Nesta, Gwyn spent little experience with anyone outside of the archives. She’d give herself the credit. Gwyn had come a long way by attending training sessions with males. Cassian and Azriel both respected her comfort, making her feel at ease and safe. And if there was one other male besides her best friend’s mate she could place her trust in, possibly even call a friend?

She scooted over before realizing what she was doing. For his part, Azriel didn’t move, didn’t make a fuss about her positioning herself closer. Gwyn placed her right hand back down, her pinky finger now brushing his thumb. Warmth radiated from her to his hand and heard him inhale sharply. The Siphon on his scarred left hand flared a brilliant lapis, glowing from the inside like the intense center of a flame.

What in the Cauldron?

His eyes shot to hers, dark brows drawing together. Even his shadows floated like frozen smoke. The world just stopped.

Words filled her head. Your hearts sing the same song.

Eyes round, she tried sliding her hand back, but Azriel wouldn’t let her pull away. His fingers gingerly skimmed the open fissures in her knuckles. A slight sting raced up her arm from the contact, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Didn’t dare break their connection. As if waking up from a dream, Azriel jerked his hand away. “Dammit, I’m sorry, Gwyn, I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s all right,” she swallowed, reaching out to him.

“May I?” he asked. When she nodded her answer, he lifted her trembling hand, closely inspecting her injuries. “We should clean these cuts and put on some healing balm before you get an infection,” he muttered, his breath warm on the back of her hand, the touch so tender and attentive.

“Azriel,” Gwyn gulped. “About this morning…” She gnawed her lip as he set their joined hands down between them, keeping his hold loosened. It wasn’t the first time Azriel had touched her, having to reposition her elbow often when she practiced the bow. But why now? Tears welled in her eyes with the realization. Gods. So she could pull away. He handed over total control. Did he know what that meant to her?

Her eyes fluttered shut as Az’s thumb grazed the back of her hand. “Gwyn, you don’t—”

“No. I do. I’m sorry. It’s…I was angry with…myself.”

His head snapped to his left so hard his neck cracked. ” What? Why in the hell would you be angry at yourself?”

“For yesterday,” she explained, fidgeting with a loose thread on her cuff. “When…when that male fell on me? I panicked. After all this training, I still panicked.”

Azriel’s golden eyes locked onto hers. “Don’t. Don’t do that to yourself, Berdara. Even the most seasoned warriors panic. I’ve fought in countless battles, in far too many wars. And even with all that experience, there’s this moment right before the calm breaks and everything goes to shit. Just an instant before they signal to advance when your feet are welded to the spot. Everybody struggles with fight or flight. It’s a natural response that Illyrians have to train around for decades. Centuries even. You did nothing wrong. Think of this as a learning experience. Just like after the Blood Rite, you assess, learn from your mistakes, and move on.”

“But it’s those moments that matter,” she countered. “It’s those moments where it is killed or be killed. It’s those moments that count. Gods, what if that male had been really trying to hurt me?” Gwyn whispered, shaking her head as Azriel’s hand squeezed hers.

“Gwyn, you fought.”

She twisted toward him, her lips set in a tight line. “Oh, and that’s another excellent point. That male was innocent.”

“The prick touched you without your permission, and you felt like you were in danger. There is nothing wrong with what you did.” His jaw tightened. “He was a drunk asshole. Now he’s an asshole with a hangover and a shattered nose.”

She gasped, her eyes wide as she put her hand to her mouth. “Oh Cauldron, did I break his nose?”

Azriel pressed his lips together, trying not to smile. “You did. You might have busted up his jaw too. You got that bastard good. Honestly?” He gave her hand another squeeze. “I’m fucking proud of you.”

Gwyn lowered her arm, a small chaotic giggle escaping. Holy Mother, she had broken that male’s nose. Sitting up straighter, she raised her chin. “You know what? When you put it that way, I should be fucking proud of myself.”

A surprising, side-splitting laugh erupted from Azriel. A genuine, soul-warming sound that was deep and hearty. Warm and bright. Such a perfect tone that she could imagine his singing voice must be extraordinary. Gods. The grin that accompanied it, the sparkle in his eyes…If he wasn’t holding her hand, Gwyn would have swooned right off the balcony.

“I’ve never heard you swear before,” he chuckled with a smile. “And that was a big one.”

“Nesta is rubbing off on me, I guess,” she smirked, sneaking a sideways glance before staring at her swinging legs.

“Not sure if that is exactly a good thing, but it was cute.” He knocked her lightly with his shoulder.

A flush spread over her cheeks and neck. Cute? Please don’t let him notice. She stole another peek at him. He was watching her with an intensity she couldn’t decipher.

Light. Keep it easy, Singer.

“Funny, I was going to say this is the most I’ve ever heard you talk, Azriel.”

He barked out another boisterous chuckle.

“With all your brooding, who knew you could laugh?” she teased, not bothering to cover the fact that she was looking at him.

One of his dark brows arched. “Of course I laugh.”

“You just don’t do it often?”

He lifted a shoulder, dropping it with a sigh. “There’s not much in my life to laugh about lately…especially with Cassian out of the House. My brother’s always good for a one.”

“I can’t imagine there is ever a dull moment when Nesta and Cassian at home.”

“I wish there was,” he muttered under his breath. Mother only knew the shenanigans poor Azriel had walked in on. Frankly, Gwyn didn’t want to know.

“Ever think of moving?”

“Why, Priestess? You have an extra bed for me in the dorms? I’m sure it would thrill Merrill to hear you invited-”

She threw him a dirty look. “If you finish that sentence, I am going to shove you off this ledge.”

“I’d liked to see you try, Priestess.” One side of his lips tipped up in a puckish half-grin.

“Oh, I’m sure you would, Shadowsinger,” Gwyn knocked his shoulder back. When she turned her head away to hide the heat in her cheeks, she noticed the sun had already disappeared beyond the horizon. The stars sparkled above like glitter on the midnight velvet. Glancing straight up, she groaned, wanting to give one particular constellation the middle finger. “Damn you, Gerona.”

Azriel pressed his lips tight, fighting back a snicker. Of course. Guess that solved if he was there for her slight fit over the stupid clouds sabotaging her way home, stealing her glory.

Gwyn sighed, absently twirling an errant strand of copper around her finger. “I think you might be right.”

“You? Thinking I’m right? You’re conceding to me? Is the world ending?” Azriel teased.

She rolled her eyes. “Let’s not go crazy. I meant about yesterday. Perhaps I was being too hard on myself. It was a big step for me to take…”

“Huge, and one you should be proud, Gwyn. We’re all proud of you, but all that matters is how you feel.”

She searched deep inside, finding that, yes, she felt that glow of accomplishment.

“I need to look at yesterday as a giant leap, and I may have stumbled back a bit, but I need to press on. I-I can’t go back to how it was before,” she paused, shaking her head. “I don’t want to. I don’t…no, I can’t let what that…what happened to me steal any more of my life. I want to live. I want to experience the world.”

The grip on her hand tightened. “That’s good, Gwyn. Like I told you this morning, anytime you need to work something out, I’m here.” A ghost of a smile graced his mouth. With a spin, he turned back to the roof and stood, pulling her over with their still joined hands. “Come on, Berdara. Let’s see if there’s any of that balm for your hand.”

Chapter Text

He rubbed his temples, the ache forming behind his eyes. Az’s hands were full, saddled with both instructor and spymaster duties. Ten new priestesses joined the program the past week, bringing their ranks into the twenties. With Cassian off enjoying mated bliss, Cauldron knew when Azriel played General, making the executive decisions.

He split the trainees into three groups, with the two Valkyries scheduled at dawn. Not that he worried much about Gwyn and Emerie. By the time he made it up to the roof, his girls had already finished warming up. They knew the drill.

After light sparring, the two broke off to work on individual assets and weaknesses. For Emerie, her strength was with daggers. Her weakness the bow. Despite Emerie’s limitations, the Illyrian kept pushing beyond her limits. Wearing a specially created brace for balance, which seemed to help. Unlike the other girls, Emerie had the upper body strength required to pull back on the bow. And she was getting more exact with each practice.

Gods, Az wished he had been the one to kill Emerie’s butcher of a father who clipped her wings. Sadistic bastard. On that note, he wondered why Illyrian females didn’t spirit their daughters away somewhere safe. It might be a risk, but wasn’t it worth it? If the Cauldron had ever blessed him with a daughter, she would never step foot in Illyria. Hell, if he had a son, he would never know that shithole. Fuck no. Not that he wanted children. Far too dangerous for too many reasons. Besides, he treasured being an uncle, and that was enough to fill his shadowed heart.

Gwyn’s strengths were the sword and hand-to-hand. Quick on her feet, able to pivot like a dream, she effortlessly ducked and blocked. Azriel secretly loved observing her up against Emerie and Nesta. Watching her deadly dance, shifting from frantic reels to quiet waltzes. Perfect choreography. Precise timing. The priestess had a mind for technique. Though Gwyn still had a hard time trusting her gut, which landed her on her ass a handful of times.

After their session, Azriel pulled them aside, asking for help with the new pupils. He assigned the intermediates to Emerie. Gwyn took the novices. Both girls did him proud, but particularly Gwyn. The little priestess was a natural teacher. She’d taken on the greenest and the rawest of the group, and of course, she’d done it like Gwyn approached most jobs. With calming grace and a smile that shone brighter than the sun.

It wasn’t anything how Azriel would have handled the lesson. No, not at all. But it worked. She won the timid newbies over with her innate kindness. She was attentive. Polite. Instead of jumping into details at a full gallop, Gwyn slowly led them by the reins like skittish horses. She had them sit in a circle, working on stretches, and talk. The atmosphere was cheery but focused. Letting them settle with each other and become familiar with the environment. While he’d prefer more movement, if anyone knew what those females required, it was Gwyn.

Gwyn explained to her group at the end of practice that tomorrow the actual work would begin with balance and footwork. With a friendly goodbye, Azriel assumed she’d head downstairs to the archives. But this was Gwyn, after all. And one knows what happens when one assumes.

Apparently, the House had discovered a book of sacred techniques Valkyries had once employed, proffering it to Gwyn. The tome spoke of training the mind and the body, controlling your breathing while holding poses that turned Gwyn into a pretzel. There were also maneuvers involving more advanced kicks, along with the flips and twists. Sounded intriguing—so he stayed, as she put it so bluntly days ago—to lurk.

He positioned himself off to the side, scouring over correspondences on the Autumn Court and the continent. Eris had dispatched a letter detailing that nothing was amiss. Most would say no news is good news. Azriel called bullshit. This only meant Beron was getting slicker. Azriel shook his head. Why Rhysand was putting any trust into Eris was beyond him. That Autumn prick was not to be trusted. The sooner they could be done with the heir apparent to that Cauldron-forsaken Seasonal Court, the better.

“So, I need a chaperone.”

Thumbing through letters, Azriel lifted his head at the sound of Gwyn’s voice—and inhaled sharply. His feet moved closer on their own accord.

Gwyn was currently in a perfect backbend when she’d asked her question. She stared up at him upside down, her hands and soles based on the tattered mat, her back arched into an exact curve. Her lips were parted, letting out a steady beat of inhales and exhales. And particular parts of her torso were very…noticeable. Drops of sweat trickled from beneath the collar of her leathers down her neck. Her normally pale freckled cheeks were flush with exertion. He cleared his throat, shifting from foot to foot. She was making it tough to have a full conversation.

“Hello? Did you hear me, Shadowsinger?” she repeated on a long, cleansing exhale, her arms shaking.

He blinked, his throat working on a swallow. “Huh? Yeah. Yes,” he answered, tilting his head to the side. “I’m sorry, but it’s hard to talk to you like that.”

She beamed up at him. “I’m just about thirty minutes, anyway. Hold on.”

Good fucking Cauldron, she’d been in that position for a half-hour? His mind suddenly drifted into places they shouldn’t, with words like flexible and stamina but not in the exercise sense. He shut that down immediately and hated that it even went there knowing her history. So wrong.

It’s all right. She’s a pretty female, his shadows whispered.

He rolled his eyes. They didn’t have to tell him.

“Come on Berdara, I’ll help you up,” he offered her his hand. She shook her head, perspiration dripping off onto the mat.

She kicked her left leg up, walking her body over into an upright position. “I got it, but thank you.”

Well, that was… impressive. If he tried that, Azriel would have been stuck. And, if Cassian would have attempted that move, Az and Nesta would laugh their asses off.

They walked over to the water station, and he handed her a full cup, watching her draw short sips. Taking a towel from her training pack, she dabbed the sweat off her face. He leaned against the table.

She looked up from under lowered lashes. “So?”

“So?”

“You didn’t say a word when I mentioned me needing a chaperone.” She raised an elegant eyebrow, hands set on her hips.

His lips twitched. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I’m not the best chaperone.”

“Nesta gave you a glowing recommendation.”

Oh, he was positive she did. He snorted and bit back a snicker. Yeah, what a good chaperone he was. Sure, his charges didn’t kill each other, but they had fucked everywhere, including where they ate. He tried not to recall that Nesta gave Cassian head at the dining room table. Though he had fun cockblocking his brother. Frankly, Cass deserved it after a similar incident a century before.

“Um, Gwyn, can I ask why?” He rubbed the back of his neck. And why me?

“Well,” she started, drawing the word out. “Emerie told me she is busy with her shop this week. New inventory for female leathers. Very exciting.” That it was. “Nesta is off doing—Cassian,” she paused, her nose wrinkling up. His mouth curved into a grin before he could stop it. Az was always doing that around Gwyn.

“So you require me—”

“As a chaperone, and guide, at least until one of my sisters is available.” Ah. There. She needed him as a backup. As an afterthought. “Remember what I said on the roof the other night, Azriel? I wish to go out and explore. Sooner rather than later. Before I let the nerves get to me and lose my courage.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, noticing her eyes following the movement before blinking quickly. Wait. Was she…checking him out? Was the flush on her cheeks from the exertion of exercise, or…? He shook his head. It was too hot out.

She sighed, ducking her head, bending down to toss her pack over her shoulder. “You know what, forget it. I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have asked. Or bothered you. I know you’re busy and…”

He could see it in her body. The dip of her chin. The tips of her ears turning pink.

The flight defeating the fight.

Dammit.

Az reached out, grabbing the strap of her bag. She stopped. “Wait. Hold on. Gwyn, take a breath.” He halted. “When and where do you need me?”

She nibbled on her lower lip. “Actually, I have off this evening. I know it’s somewhat last minute. I was thinking, maybe, if you could—”

He folded up the forgotten correspondences, sticking them in his jacket pocket.

“I’ve got nothing going on. What do you want to do?” All Azriel planned on doing was getting drunk and hitting up a pleasure house. Somehow, the prospect of being with Gwyn knocked that urge right out of him.

Her face brightened. “Are you serious?”

He nodded. Tonight, I’m all yours, Berdara.

𝄋

Tonight, I’m all yours.

Oh, Cauldron.

What had she gotten herself into? How had she found herself in this position?

Emerie. It was entirely her fault.

Gwyn hadn’t expected him to agree to escort her this evening. Emerie, her first choice, bailed on her last-minute and threw Gwyn to the proverbial wolves. Or other Illyrian, as it were.

She’d asked her Valkyrie sister during sparring if they were still on for her guided tour around the city. Emerie, who had been overenthusiastic about the idea days before, suddenly had other plans.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” Emerie had answered, grunting as Gwyn kicked her in the shin. “Ouch, Gwyn!”

“Oh, it was barely a heavy kick and you should have pivoted to the right and blocked it.”

A surprise snort over by the water station brought their attention. Gwyn wagered a glance in the direction, finding Az’s backside to them. Her eyes lingered, noticing the muscles moving under his training leathers.

A blow landed on Gwyn’s bicep with a thud.

Emerie whistled, drawing Gwyn’s scrutiny, eyes narrowed.

“As I was saying before you got so distracted ,” Emerie repeated, winking. Gwyn rolled her eyes. “I can’t. I’ve got a set of female training leathers coming in stock and a few pick-ups.”

Gwyn’s auburn eyebrows shot up. Her smile with it. “That’s wonderful!”

“And,” her sister dragged out the word. “One of those orders is for Morrigan.”

Ah, there it was. Emerie crushed hard on the gorgeous blonde for a while, and from what Emerie had claimed, it had only increased since they danced at Nesta’s mating ceremony.

“So, are you two…a thing?” Gwyn probed, faking a punch, ducking low to sweep her leg out. Emerie grunted as the strike contacted her ankle, but stayed upright.

“I wish,” Emerie muttered. “But, I was thinking of seeing what she was doing tonight…so I wanted—”

“Gwyn, elbow,” a male voice coached from across the practice ring.

Shit, she dropped her elbow again? That slight distraction cost her. Emerie’s fist connected with her face, the forcing knocking her backward, her teeth clanging together. Her rear hit the ground in a spray of sand.

“Mother above!” Gwyn yelped, slapping the gritty floor with her palm, working her jaw. Copper coated her mouth, and she spat red upon the pale dust. Gods, that hurt. A hand came into view, but not the one she was expecting. These weren’t the familiar long tan fingers of her friend. These were definitely male, scarred, and adorned with an elegant azure Siphon. Glancing up, she met with hazel.

“You all right, Berdara?” he inquired, easily hoisting her to her feet with little effort. Under her own power, she stood before him, his face full of concern. She searched for Emerie, who had stepped away, her brows knitted.

“Yes, I’m fine. It’s only my pride injured,” she assured. Neither Illyrian appeared convinced. How bad did it really look?

Azriel raised a hand, keeping it inches from her face. “May I?”

She took a breath and nodded. “Yes.”

Gwyn meant her words to come out with more confidence, but it was a mere whisper. A shiver worked its course through her body at the first touch of his fingertips on her jaw.

“Sorry,” he apologized, apparently thinking her response was from the injury. Oh no, that wasn’t it at all—something she was slowly realizing. And it scared her. Truly it did.

“What’s the verdict, Shadowsinger? Is my face a mess?”

His hold tilted her face to the right, his scarred fingers keeping her chin loose in his grasp. “It’s going to be swollen and bruised. You’ll need to ice it, but it’s not a mess.” He paused, his golden eyes holding hers captive. “And you need to stop dropping that damn elbow. You had the block.”

Gwyn’s eyes narrowed, the small movement causing a sharp flare of pain. “I just need to get hit in the face a few more times, and I think I’ll remember.”

“Or,” he smirked, his thumb stroking gingerly over the warmth in her cheek. “You could just be mindful of your elbow so we don’t have to ice your face after every practice.”

The loud clearing of a throat brought them back to reality, and Azriel whipped his hand away like he had touched fire.

“I’ll…go grab some ice,” he announced, running a hand through his onyx hair. “Take a few minutes. Drink some water.” Fists in his pockets, he rushed into the House.

Rubbing a palm over her aching cheekbone, Emerie appeared directly in front of Gwyn, a mischievous grin tugging at her mouth. Not good.

“What?” Gwyn asked, caution in her tone. “What is that smile for?”

“Nothing,” Emerie replied in a singsong voice. The two made their path over to grab some water from their canteens. As they drank, Emerie never once looked away, the canteen hiding an expression that meant trouble. For Gwyn.

“Really, what?” Gwyn pushed.

“I have an idea,” Emerie suggested, wiping the wet that dripped from her lips with the back of her forearm. “I have work. Nesta is off screwing Cassian’s brains out. But I agree you should go out while you have the female lopte.”

Wait… Female lopte? Lopte being Illyrian slang to describe a particularly sensitive part of the male anatomy, she went with the assertion in Emerie's words.

“Well, I don’t feel comfortable attempting this alone. The other priestesses are obviously out of the question. The rest of the Inner Circle are busy, and frankly, Amren scares me.” Emerie chuckled. “So…”

“What about Azriel?”

Gwyn spat out her water, spraying her friend in the face. Emerie yelped, jumping backward, wiping her face with both hands.

What?

Her?

Him?

Alone? Out in the world?

A stifling, uncomfortable heat ran up her neck.

Emerie snorted and smiled. “What’s the problem? You see him every day. He broods with everyone but he talks to you. What’s the issue?”

“I…” She didn’t have a reply. Because what Emerie said was true.

He was a male, but the shadowsinger was a male she trusted. He was a male she could trust with her life. She knew that to her pliable bones, down to the marrow.

Azriel was strong. Capable. As a long-time Velaris resident and Night Court spymaster, he knew the city better than anyone. But even still…

Her mind sped up at the prospect. How could Gwyn get through a night with him…

“Just ask him. Nesta spoke highly of his chaperone abilities,” Emerie winked. “What’s the worst he can say? No, I can’t. I’m busy.”

Or he could say yes —and Gwyn would make herself look like a fool. She dragged her palms down her face, neglecting the injury.

“All right,” Gwyn replied, squaring her shoulders, trying to fashion some courage. “I’ll do it. Later.”

Emerie shot her a pointed stare. “You better. It’s not like you’re asking him on a date. Like I plan on doing with Mor today.”

Gwyn let out a weary sigh, finally allowing herself a sip of that crisp water. “You’re right. And good luck tonight. I hope she says yes. You two would make a stunning couple.”

The thudding sounds of boots on the stairs drew their conversation to a close. Azriel handed Gwyn a small cloth pack of ice, instructing her to hold it on for a few minutes, while he ran through bow drills with Emerie. She sank to the floor; her back up against the ledge they had sat on days ago. And she just watched…

Azriel’s gentleness and kindness when he sought permission before he laid a hand on either of them to offer a change. His patience when correcting. His thoughtfulness when I came to Emerie’s struggle with her wings.

And it was within those moments of observation that she decided. She would take her friend’s advice. She was going to ask Azriel.

And, to her surprise, that afternoon, he’d answered yes.

No, the Shadowsinger responded he was hers for the evening. He couldn’t have meant it like that…could he?

That was how Gwyn ended up pacing the rooftop terrace, eroding a path on the floor.

What had she gotten herself into? she thought, wringing her hands.

She glanced at what she was wearing, regretting her choice. Her priestess robes. She figured they were unassuming. Flowing. Safe.

But wasn’t this evening about stepping outside her comfort zone?

With a groan, she spun for the house, grumbling at herself to show some backbone—when her body met a wall. No, not a wall. A hard male chest.

“Whoa, you all right?” Azriel demanded, his grip on her forearms steadying her.

Gwyn lifted her head and her heart slammed against her ribs. He wasn’t in training gear anymore. Wearing leather pants, his dagger strapped to his side, he had on a black shirt, his arm muscles on perfect display. His hair was slightly damp, pieces curling at the nape as if he’d recently showered. And he looked… gods.

The corner of his mouth quirked up. “All right, Berdara. Where to?”

Chapter Text

He’d plowed right fucking into her.

The shadows hid Gwyn’s presence from him. Again. The conniving little shits shuddered with wispy, dark laughter. Hell, one minute into the evening, his plans were already off the rails. That was all he could think of as he stumbled backward.

“Whoa, you all right?” His grasp on her forearms steadied her as she swayed.

Gwyn’s face raised, the light blush bringing out the flecks on her cheeks. There were seven freckles that graced the slope of her nose. When and how he was able to recall the exact amount from memory was a mystery. But he’d been able to nevertheless.

As she gained her footing, their eyes met and held. Bright blue-green irises gleamed to the color of the Siphons adorning his grips. They made him picture tranquil seas. Wading pools and secret coves. Summers along the Sidra.

Those thoughts shifted as he took notice of his hands. Fingers still wrapped around her arms. Azriel quickly loosened his grip, dropping his arms to his sides. If she’d been taken aback by his touch, Gwyn showed no reaction. Relief smoothed his worried mind. “All right, your chaperone is here.” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “So, where to?”

She turned to the railing, absently twisting a loose strand of shiny copper around her forefinger. He made note of her fidgeting. Her emotional cues. Releasing her coiled hair, Gwyn stared at the expanse below, leaning her elbows on the half wall. Az joined her, running his callused palms over the smooth masonry.

“I’m not sure. I figured I’d leave that part up to you, Shadowsinger. As I mentioned, I need a chaperone and a guide.” She braved a smile. It was too tight. Too forced.

“All right. I’ll see what I can do. What are your limitations, Berdara?”

Her delicate fingers tapped a nervous rhythm. The priestess paced in front of the barrier, peering below to the city lights twinkling. “Limitations. I’ve considered those. And, to be honest, I thought, hey, I’m gutsy, let’s go full speed, but…”

Her reluctance didn’t sit well with him. It wasn’t fair. Someone as fearless as Gwyn should never feel anything but safe. Free to do as she pleased.

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Az gave her all the time she’d need to find her words. And, thanks to his occupation, patience was one of his finer skills.

Gwyn rubbed her brow, shaking her head. “I’m not scared.” An affirmation rather than assurance. “I don’t want to be, but I need to be…comfortable.”

Comfort and safety. Two criteria he could certainly work with.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Azriel ran down a mental checklist.

Someplace not bustling at night. Relatively quiet, where she could step a toe in the water, so to speak.

Where you could be alone, his shadows supplied their unsolicited advice, which he ignored with a roll of his eyes. Not helping.

A locale that was suitable for walking. Where Gwyn could see all Velaris offered from a safe distance.

The shadows returned with, Someplace you could do something she loves.

Something she loved?

How the hell did he know anything she loved when they barely knew each other?

Not true, his shadows butted in once more. You know her more than you know.

Perhaps something involving sparring? Or reading?

Just what any girl wants to do on a night out; fight. And doesn’t our priestess do enough of reading at the library, Shadowsinger?

Fuck, Az was in real trouble when his shadows showed more common sense than he did.

Azriel stole a glance and froze. Her face tipped skyward, eyes shimmering like a handful of brilliant aquamarines in the moonlight. Those cheeks rounded above that wide, irresistible smile. No one was immune to that grin. Everyone smiled around her.

But he’d never seen Gwyn so at ease. Peaceful, even. Never so… beautiful. Yes, beautiful. There was no denying it because that’s what she was, inside and out. Gwyn was fucking beautiful.

Something deep inside of Azriel tightened and pulled. Even his wings drew tight against his back. Heart racing, his shadows visibly swirled over his wrist as he admired her. Mother above, Azriel wished he could find that same tranquility. But he knew too much, seen too much. Endured too much.

His view drifted up to discover what she saw that gave her such joy. It was nothing more than the gathering night sky. Why did it captivate her so? What made her face light up like a falling star?

Like a key turning in a lock, it clicked. And Azriel knew the perfect spot.

In his excitement, he almost reached out for her hand before catching himself. “All right, Priestess, let’s go.”

With a twist, Gwyn stepped away from the railing. “Are you going to tell me where you’re taking me, Shadowsinger?”

Before he could answer, a sharp talon smoothed against the outer wall of Azriel’s mental shield, Azriel, I need you at the River House.

Shit. Of fucking course. Can it wait, Rhys?

I’m afraid not. It won’t be long. Only a moment of your time. Are you busy? Am I interrupting anything particularly scandalous? Rhysand crooned.

Nosy prick.

Azriel sighed heavily. I’ll be there in a few.

Shit. He didn’t want to ditch his plans. Most of all, he couldn’t bear to disappoint Gwyn.

“Azriel, what is it?” Gwyn asked. Her brows knitted. “You disappeared for a minute.”

“Did I?”

Her hands tucked behind her back. She stepped closer. “Well, literally and figuratively. Your shadows were swarming you. What’s wrong?” A few disobedient shadows floated toward her, swirling up her arm.

“Rhysand needs to meet with me for a brief meeting,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair and then over his face.

“Oh,” Gwyn muttered, eyeing her slippered feet. Her shoulders slumped, head lowered. There it was. The letdown. Godsdamn, Rhysand. Godsdamn this cursed job.

“You want to go with me?” he blurted, gesturing in the door’s direction.

Her eyes darted. Hands fidgeted. Obvious physical signs of discomfort. Exactly the reactions he was trying hard to avoid.

“Look, Gwyn, it’s all right if you don’t.”

“No, no,” she squeaked, raising her hands before lowering them to rub over the tops of her thighs, a move Azriel marked. “I mean, it’s fine. The last time I was there, the drama I caused…” A flush crept up her throat.

Azriel kept that unreadable mask firmly in place, not allowing his shoulders to drop or wings to sag. To show his disappointment that the night was over before it began. At the very least, he took comfort that Emerie could accompany her another night. Yet, silly as it was, he had been looking forward to being the one to take her on a tour. To be there when she realized she was stronger and nothing could break her. When the world outside of the library walls was at her fingertips.

“I can assure you, Gwyn, it’s safe. I promise.”

A slap sounded as her hands covered her face, followed by a choked giggle. “No. It’s not that. I’m glad I hit the jerk.” She peeked through her fingers. His shadows hummed their approval. “And I know I’m safe there. That has to be the safest place other than the library. It’s just, I made such a scene.”

He pressed his lips together, holding back a laugh. Cauldron, if she only knew the commotion his brothers had caused over the centuries. Some of those stories would surely cause the young priestess to blush to the tips of her ears.

“It’s not the first nor the last scene in the High Lord and Lady’s presence. To be frank, it’s a common occurrence. Rhysand is famous for putting on quite a dramatic show. And Mor and Cassian’s drunken antics? They are legendary both in and out of the Night Court.”

Gwyn exhaled and stood taller. Her arms slapped flat on her sides like a soldier at attention, her shoulders set back. She was every bit a Valkyrie heading into battle. “You know what?” Her chest moving up and down at a rapid pace. “Screw it. Better to face my lingering embarrassment head-on…if that’s all right with you.”

Without thinking, his arms opened up to her. She didn’t move, her curious eyes bouncing from his outstretched hands to his face. What the fuck was he doing? Wincing, he dropped his limbs, hands balled into fists.

Get a godsdamn grip, he scolded himself.

“Should we take the stairs,” he asked, jerking his head to the house.

“Don’t you need to get there fast when the High Lord beckons?” she pondered, tilting her head, her smooth ginger hair cascading across her left shoulder.

“Yes, but it’s all right.” It really wasn’t. If he was late, Rhysand would don the persona of the all-powerful High Lord of the Night Court and give Az a serious tongue lashing. But, considering Rhys wasn’t prodding against his shield again, whatever the news, it mustn’t be of grave importance. She was worth the risk. “If you want to take the stairs, we take the stairs. I’m happy to walk them with you.” Even though it would take hours—but that didn’t matter.

She shook her head. Her eyes steeled, sharp and keen as a blade. “Oh, no. You are not getting in trouble because of me, Shadowsinger. You need to go, so let’s go. Are-are we flying all the way there or—”

“It involves a bit of flight,” Azriel cut in, hoping to ease her decision. “But I can winnow us there as soon as we are out of range of the House’s wards. Or we could fly. Whichever you prefer.”

She shifted on the balls of her feet, giving her options thought. “Can we walk from the River House to where we’re going?”

She’s so curious, the shadows hummed their approval. She’s trying to figure out where you’re taking her.

He smirked. “I’m not telling you where we’re off to yet, Berdara, but yes, we can walk there from the River House.”

Gwyn’s nose scrunched most adorably. “Winnow, then…please.” She approached him with decisive steps, holding out a hand.

He took two tentative strides forward, clearing his throat, and took what she offered, her palms so soft and smooth against his scarred flesh.

A sudden flicker of light drew his attention. Did his Siphons flare again?

Was he shaking? Were his shadows?

Now he really needed to get a grip, especially as he laid out what flying entailed.

“Gwyn,” he started, swallowing a lump in his throat. “To get out of the wards and fly, I’m going to need to hold you. Is that all right?”

She moved closer, not letting go of his hand until the satin of her dainty shoes touched his hardy leather boots.

He gulped. Gwyn smiled coyly up at him. “I trust you, Azriel. It’s no different from you adjusting my form during training, right?”

“I won’t lie to you. Usually, repositioning during practice doesn’t involve us being very close, and flying…”

She nodded, rolling her shoulders. “But it has. Can’t be worse than the other day at training.”

True. Azriel had gotten close behind her to show her how to twist into a strike. How to use her core to stabilize. With her permission, his hands had been on Gwyn’s pelvis. And Cauldron strike him down, he’d have to be dead to be unaware of the dips and soft curves beneath those leathers. Or how that faint lemony sage scent from her braid had lingered in his nose long after practice ended. It had plagued his mind all afternoon with images of his palms squeezing her hips, his tongue chasing after a bead of sweat that dripped over her neck into the collar of her top.

And those visions put him in a foul mood, leaving a bitter aftertaste. It was beyond repugnant. So wholly offensive, his stomach roiled with unsettled shame. He couldn’t—no, he wouldn’t—think of Gwyn that way. Not after everything she endured, the aftermath he saw firsthand.

She deserved better than being denigrated to a male’s erotic fantasy. And Mother knew an Illyrian bastard couldn’t offer her ‘better.’ A deep, rumbling voice he thought long silenced, echoed through the years.

He was naught but a bastard. A burden. A curse. There was nothing good Azriel could give Gwyn beyond friendship.

She thinks you’re worth more. She sought you out. Now you’re going out, his shadows teased. Together.

As friends, he answered their observation. His only job was to make sure Gwyn felt safe and enjoyed her time.

“Gwyn, I just need you to be sure that I have to hold you in flight. Is that all right?”

“Azriel, I appreciate what you’re saying, but I’m going to need you to stop repeatedly explaining this to me. While I value your want to make me comfortable, the over-explanation is making me more nervous,” she smirked, as his eyebrows shot up. She laid her palms lightly on his shoulders. “So, yes, you may carry me, and let’s go.”

He snorted, shaking his head. This girl was always a total surprise.

So, without further ado, he scooped her up under the knees as she squealed, wrapping her arms around her neck.

“Hold on,” he said as they shot up into the air.

Chapter Text

A shrieking laugh tore out of her lungs as they burst into the sky.

There was nothing like flying.

The wind in your hair.

The weightlessness.

Freedom.

It was terrifyingly exhilarating, the inherent danger of being so high off the ground. And yet, she felt secure in Azriel’s powerful arms. He wouldn’t let her fall, and if by the Cauldron she slipped? He’d catch her. Gwyn believed that with every fiber of her being.

He’ll always catch you, muffled voices whispered in her ear. She turned to Azriel, his mouth set in concentration. It couldn’t have been him who spoke. So who? Strange.

She was ready to inquire if they could fly all the way to the River House when shadows engulfed them, swirling and surrounding, cool and crisp against her skin. It didn’t feel like they’d moved until she felt Azriel’s knees bend and the shadows disappeared, revealing the massive front lawn of the High Lord’s estate.

Azriel placed Gwyn’s feet on the ground, using his arm still around her waist to steady her.

“You good?” he asked.

“Yes. I am.” Great actually. “Thank you for checking on me.” Gwyn couldn’t hide her grin as they started for the house. Before they made it to the door, she quickly smoothed her hands over her hair, fixing the strays. Why hadn’t she thought to braid her hair this evening? Lesson learned.

Azriel didn’t bother knocking on the front door. He strode right in, heading straight toward whatever the High Lord conducted meetings.

“The sitting room is that way,” he pointed to the right. “I shouldn’t be too long, then we’ll be off.”

“All right,” she acknowledged. “Um, Azriel?” He turned his head. “Is anyone else…here?” Well, that was a dumb question.

Azriel merely nodded. “I believe Feyre is in the sitting room with Nyx. If there’s anyone else here, I can assure you they are members of the inner circle or Feyre’s sisters. I think it’s just the three of them right now, but with this group, that can change in an instant. Mor is famous for pop-ins, especially now with the baby.” He grimaced, rolling his eyes. “Duty calls. I’ll be right back.”

He pivoted on his boot heels, heading down a hallway at a clip, disappearing beyond a threshold.

What a strange life, to be at the beck and call of the High Lord morning, noon, and night. Such is the life of a Spymaster, she supposed. Had to be better than being Merrill’s errand bitch.

After pausing, she walked to where Azriel had directed her. The portraits on the wall above the staircase captivated her. Paintings of all their friends and family. The High Lord and Lady. Oh, Nesta guarding the pass. A female she assumed was Elain surrounded by a field of flowers. Gwyn’s smile spread when she saw one of Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel, all three bloodied messes as they placed their hands on the stone atop Ramiel when they had won the Blood Rite.

“Can I help you?”

Gwyn yelped, spinning around, placing a hand on top of her racing heart.

“Hello, Gwyn, nice to see you again,” the High Lady said. Was she wearing a nightgown? Why, yes, she was. And she was adjusting a notably tired, adorable winged babe in her tattooed arms. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Oh, you didn’t.” Well, that wasn’t entirely true, but she would never admit to it. “I was heading in your direction, actually.”

“Waiting to speak to Rhys?” a voice inquired from behind Feyre. She took in the elegant figure whose face reminded her of a more complacent Nesta. Yes, the one who’d made the quick exit getting ready for the mating ceremony.

Elain, the middle Archeron sister.

“No, actually, Azriel is here speaking with Rhys. I tagged along. Then he’s taking me somewhere.”

Feyre’s face lit up with a smile while something unreadable flickered across Elain’s. That near-perfect face held a smile as well, one far too tight. Too controlled. Wrong somehow.

“Well, that’s great to hear. Where are you going?” Feyre asked, slowly swaying back and forth as Nyx’s eyes bobbed.

Gwyn smiled at the baby, muttering, “I have no idea, actually. He’s keeping it a secret.”

Elain quickly appeared at Feyre’s side, her hands out. “I’ll take Nyx to bed. Seems you have a guest.” Feyre handed off the babe with care before her sister hurried up the stairs. Gwyn’s eyes followed the middle Archeron up the steps—and she swore Elain’s eyes narrowed in her direction. But why?

Confused, Gwyn drew her eyes back to the portraits adorning the walls. “These are spectacular. I wish I could do that.”

“Thank you,” Feyre said.

Her mouth dropped open. “You?”

Feyre nodded. “If you’d like, I teach classes in Velaris.” In Velaris. The High Lady must have caught herself. “Or if you’d like, we could have private lessons here.”

“I’ll mull it over. Thank you.”

“You do that, Gwyn. Know you are always welcome here.”

Heavy footsteps approached. Azriel walked side-by-side with the High Lord, both of their brows furrowed. It was clear whatever they’d discussed hadn’t been good. Rhysand walked to Feyre, wrapping his arm around his mate’s shoulder, planting a kiss on her forehead. Azriel stopped beside Gwyn, hands in his pockets, his body thrumming with tension.

“Everything all right?” she whispered, knowing full well whatever was said didn’t involve anyone outside of the Inner Circle.

He nodded, his mouth drawn in a tight line. “You ready to go?”

“Yes,” she answered. More than ready.

With a quick goodbye, Azriel held the door open for her like a true gentlemale.

“So, now are you going to tell me where we’re going, Shadowsinger?”

“This way,” he said, heading across the lawn to the road. “We have a few minutes to walk. You good with that?”

Gwyn gulped, continuing to follow him down the winding paths. This wasn’t going to be like last time being stuck, feeling trapped. No way.

She met his steps as he led them through Velaris, avoiding the heavy evening foot traffic, taking less crowded side streets and alleyways. Sounds of the city filled the night air with chatter and laughter. Smells both savory and sweet wafted on the breeze, making her mouth water. After a short while, they veered left from a side street. Stepping onto a bridge that crossed over the Sidra, they arrived at an open field.

Large trees with swaying branches dotted the landscape, their shapes reflecting in a small pond. Lily pads and water lilies bespeckling the mirrored surface of the water, the colors visible under the soft light from the moon above. That was when she saw the small, weathered wooden dock jutting over the water’s surface. Children’s swings creaked in the breeze beyond.

“It’s a park,” she stated the obvious, turning in a slow circle.

His lips twitched. “That it is, Berdara.”

The sights and ambient noise of the city were right there. Close, but not intrusive. Gwyn was right there beside it. From this view, it wasn’t scary or overwhelming. No, quite the opposite. It filled her chest with hope, lighting something adventurous deep inside that had laid dormant since—since Catrin was alive.

It hit Gwyn like a blow to the heart. Her eyes strained and found the silhouette of the House in the dark distance. Tears filled her eyes. Holy Mother above. Gwyn was outside. It made her want to spin around and shout her victory. She wasn’t afraid. And she wanted more. One fear overcame, and dammit, she would push through the others.

She toed off her slippers, rubbing her bare feet over the soft, springy grass. A distant, wonderful sound captured her attention. Music. So much music was drifting from various restaurants and taverns. The various melodies melded into their own song. The song of the city of Velaris.

With a weary groan, Azriel sat, patting a spot beside him. Gwyn skipped over. Kneeling, she sat back on her haunches. He stretched out, leaning back on his elbows. The bottom of his shirt rode up, revealing a sliver of taut bronze skin and the black swirl of a tattoo.

Gwyn’s lips parted on a breath. Warmth spread across her low in an entirely unexpected way. And not unpleasant. No, not at all. It reminded her of something. But what?

Her eyes went round when the realization struck. Oh. Oh. Once she figured it out, that heat changed and rose across her chest and face. It reminded her of how she felt when she read some of Nesta’s books, when characters were involved in certain activities.

Cauldon boil and fry her. She quickly found something else to focus on besides Azriel, praying to the Mother he hadn’t noticed her outright gawking.

“Velaris is beautiful from here,” Gwyn admitted, her voice squeaky to her ear.

“That it is. That’s not to say that it doesn’t have its issues. It does, but not nearly as many as Illyria. This is a haven for all.” Azriel turned his face to look at her, his eyes a dusty gold in the low light. “You are safe here.”

It was his emphasis on the word here that garnered her attention. You are safe here.

Azriel never spoke of his time in Illyria with herself or Emerie. She doubted even Nesta knew the full horror of what he endured. But his brothers surely did. What Az suffered didn’t need to be spoken in words—it was written in the scars on his hands. Those powerful hands. Whatever had happened to him, be it purposeful or accidental, had been horrific.

And her heart was heavy for the Shadowsinger.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, blinking tears away.

Azriel spread his wings out, nudging her in the shoulder with one. “Have you figured out why I brought you here?”

She pointed beyond the river. “Well, you are a master tactician. So, let’s see.” She tapped a finger on her chin. “Close enough to the city to get a safe taste, yet far enough to feel at ease—”

“Yes, but that’s not the main reason.”

“What other reason, Azriel?”

He pointed up to the sky. She tilted her head back and gasped.

Oh, Cauldron. The stars.

The velvet navy sky was dotted with diamonds and…

She had never seen anything so amazing in all her life. Those stars mingled and weaved between iridescent swirls of blues, greens, and purples.

“The Aurora,” she whispered in awe.

He nodded. “It’s perfect to see from here. We’re close enough for you to enjoy the city but far enough so the fae lights don’t interfere with stargazing.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I figured you’d enjoy this.”

“Always the brilliant strategist.” She beamed. “This is,” she swallowed, her eyes taking in the wondrous scene, tears threatening to spill over. “This is absolutely lovely, Azriel. Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Az listened, captivated by every word she spoke. Lying flat on her back, hair spread out like a halo of flames, Gwyn gestured to the heavens, naming yet another constellation. The priestess knew her history. Knew every single tale. And not simply the legends of the High Fae. She was well-versed in many cultures, a veritable fountain of knowledge. Surprising for someone who grew up sheltered in a temple.

His eyes drifted shut, savoring the soothing, melodic timbre of her voice and the stories of the stars. Honestly, she could read anything and he would be delighted. Histories. The newspaper. Spy reports. A simple list.

Smut, his shadows teased. He didn’t deign that with a response.

Overall, he’d chosen the spot well, and Gwyn seemed to be enjoying herself.

She is quite content, his shadows confirmed. And warmth spread deep in his chest with the knowledge.

He leaned back, using his bicep as a pillow atop the dewy grass. His face twisted toward her, watching her arms move around, tracing a shape in the sky. His focus moved to her mouth, her lips. The way her eyes sparkled in the moonlight.

Azriel didn’t know how much he truly needed this. A distraction, and a welcome one from all the current bullshit. The news from Rhysand wasn’t as hoped. Mor revealed rumors and rumblings of an impending visit from the High Prick of Autumn himself to Vallahan. Beron Vanserra. Reports from the seasonal court via Eris had not included that tidbit of intel. So either Beron was getting paranoid and better at hiding, as Rhysand surmised. Or Eris flipped. And there wasn’t one part of him that would be surprised by the latter.

Either way, this situation was not one to ignore. A secret message had been dispatched to the Autumn Court heir. Nuala was already on her way to the rendezvous point, the border of Spring and Summer. Barring any problems, Azriel should receive word in a couple of days. If Eris was still on their side, then he’d return to meet in a week with more information. If not, Rhysand would be visiting him instead of Cassian. And Rhysand was not in the mood to play courtier.

I’ll tear the truth right out of his head, and if I find he’s been playing us? Screwing us? He’s fucking done. I don’t care if he is a better choice than Beron, Rhys had spat during their meeting at the house. The lesser of two evils, be it a necessity, in this case, is still evil. But I swear, I will rip the information from his mind and shred the rest to pieces if we discover a betrayal.

Eris—hell, every single Vanserra—are devious snakes. Nothing surprises me from any member of that court. And no matter what the others believed, Azriel would never trust Eris. Not after what he did to Mor. In his eyes, that was unforgivable—and for centuries, Truth-Teller thirsted for retribution. For blood. All Az needed was a reason. Hell, part of him prayed for one.

An upbeat song and clapping flowed from across the river, lugging him out of his deep thoughts. When Gwyn stopped talking, all he wanted to do was run over and order them to keep it down. The joy in her enchanting voice was the only music he desired. A rhythmic beat pattern drew his attention, searching until he discovered the surprising cause. Her bare feet tapped along the ground, perfectly matching the tempo of a raucous tavern song. Eyes shut, she hummed in concert to the melody, perfect pitch to a tune she probably didn’t recognize. A song Azriel was well-versed from many drunken nights with his brothers.

A gentle glow radiated from her skin, reminding him of faelight. It was faint, seeming to dim and brighten with the notes, the tone of her voice.

His eyes went wide. Were they playing tricks on him?

Azriel often wondered, after years left alone in complete blackness, if his eyesight would eventually fail. If the darkness of shadows would become permanent. Was it finally happening?

Pressing his heels of his palms into his sockets, he tried to clear his vision. And when he looked again, the ethereal radiance still surrounded her, floating over Gwyn in an incandescent mist. She shimmered in white with hints of teals and blues.

Before he pointed it out, she gasped, and the light faded away.

Her eyes shot open. “That’s it. That’s my new ribbon,” she said so softly he barely heard the words.

Confusion pulled his brows together. “What is?”

She sat up so fast he thought something was truly wrong. “The music hall. They have a big concert around Starfall, right?” He nodded in answer, having attended this Starfall festivities only a few weeks prior. Her gaze trained on Velaris like a worthy opponent.“I want to attend the concert. And who knows, maybe I’ll show up to Starfall itself next year! That’s my goal— that’s my new ribbon.”

Gwyn’s excitement was infectious, coaxing his lips into a soft smile. She was setting goals, looking beyond the library walls—beyond Sangravah. To the future. And, gods didn’t that lift some of the grief off his chest. The guilt? That was a different story. Azriel’s regret for that day had seeped into his marrow.

“But,” she added, stopping to stare at the city beyond the river. “I am going to need time. Time to explore, to be at ease around crowds and strangers…but I will.” Her eyes locked onto his, and he had no doubt that what she was about to say, she meant with every fiber of her being. “I swear it.”

After knowing Gwyn for near a year, he may not know all the things she loved. All her hobbies. Her dreams. But Azriel knew her word was her bond. And few assets were worth more in this world than trust and truth.

His shadows whispered to him, creating an unbelievable scene. Where Azriel stood proudly at Gwyn’s side, taking her arm as the music started to play and the stars began to fall.

𝄋

Time slipped by fast as she continued boring her poor chaperone.

“Legend says those two fae goddesses are the opposing constellations. That’s Hyntha.” Gwyn gestured skyward. “And Calar.” She pointed to another farther to the left. “They existed before the Courts were formed and fought over a male or female. The history is unsure on whom, but whoever they were is the constellation is in the middle.” She pointed again, wrinkling her nose in disgust. An amused snort broke from said chaperone. “We don’t know the gender, but we have a name; Gerona.”

Those stupid, stupid clouds.

“Anyway. The goddesses both wanted Gerona. It’s lost in translation on whose grand idea it was, but they eventually lived far away, all three together. If I can recall from a book I read…” One called Marsina’s Triangle borrowed from Emerie, but it was a fact she would not mention. “I believe it’s more commonly referred to now as a throuple.”

A deep, booming laugh erupted from Azriel. So loud, Gwyn was sure he drew the attention of the few venturing through the park grounds. He threw an arm over his face, pressing his lips together into a tight line.

His body shook several more times as he came back down, wiping under both eyes. “I don’t know what I should be worried about more. That you know what a throuple is or that your reading material alludes to them.”

“I can assure you, there was no alluding, and reading about throuples doesn’t bother me,” In fact, the more books she borrowed? The more she read? The more intrigued she became.

Azriel snorted. “Part of me is just shocked the word throuple flew out of your mouth with such ease.”

She arched an eyebrow. “More stunned than when I said the word fucking?”

“Not as much as you saying it right now in your priestess robes.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, she replied, “We priestesses have not taken a vow of silence, Shadowsinger.”

His lips twitched. “I’ve noticed.”

“I’m sorry, have my stories bothered you this evening?” Wait, had she? Her eyes narrowed, but inside her stomach tangled in knots. Oh Mother above, had he sat all night as she droned on?

“No. Quite the contrary. It’s amazing to me how you can call up so many of the stories off the top of your head.”

Well, when one copied and translated many over the years, they stuck. Plus, she’d always been told she had an eye for detail and excellent recall.

“You had most of the legends, including the ones foreign to Prythian. That you knew them all with accuracy from memory? Color me, impressed, Berdara.”

Gwyn’s mouth fell open. It awed the official Spymaster of the Night Court she knew the stories? Wait. It hit her then, deflating some of the pride that had expanded inside.

“So you knew? You knew everything I told you, didn’t you?” Head once again rested on that crooked, muscular arm, he nodded. “I must have bored you all night. Why didn’t you say something?”

“As I told you, priestess, it was impressive; your ability to retain knowledge. The spymaster in me admires this attribute. The other part of me enjoyed hearing someone tell me the stories again.” A wistful quality slipped through the cracks, making her wonder when the last time had been. “Although…”

“Yes?”

“Do you know Illyrians have different legends for the stars?” She shook her head before rolling onto her side, facing him, tucking her joined hands under her cheek. “They aren’t the same anywhere else. It’s probably like how you described the nymphs having their own as well, but it’s not only names that are distinct.”

Never one to pass up learning new histories, she gave the shadowsinger her undivided attention.

“In Illyria, none of the constellations are female. Only male. Because…” His face hardened, eyes narrowed.

“Most Illyrians are misogynistic assholes?” Gwyn finished.

Azriel nodded a twist of disdain on his lips. “To them, females are to be owned. They are protected because they are the only way the Illyrians survive into the future.” He hesitated, pressing his lips together. How he maintained such an unreadable expression when the rage was palpable was beyond Gwyn’s understanding. But she had heard about the barbaric practices of oppression from Emerie and Cassian. Knowing such cruelties yet existed in the world made her spirit hurt.

“So the stars are watching them,” Azriel continued. “Keeping them in fear from eyes on high. Ever under their watch. That story with the… throuple,” he paused, biting his lip to hold back a laugh, allowing his hard look to give a bit. Her keen eyes caught that little movement. “In Illyria, it’s three males. And before your inquisitive mind goes there, no, they are not in a throuple.”

She chuckled. “Wouldn’t bother me if they were. But, all right, so three males, a different story. Got it. Continue.”

“So that one,” he indicated to the one on the left. “He’s referred to as Hirlin. And that’s Cormir. They were commanders of the Illyrian forces, back when it was tribal. They were sent to capture and execute the one in the middle for crimes unknown.”

Gwyn spread a hand over her heart, which was squeezing with pity in her chest. Fact or fiction, she hated learning about the mercilessness placed upon others. Forced upon others.

“Part of our history has been lost. No one knows the reason why he was hunted. And when they did slay him, legends say a dark power unleashed and burned their silhouettes into the heavens. And the one condemned always burns brighter in the center as a reminder. As he is the one seen and remembered over the others.” Azriel tilted his face to her, his hazel eyes burning into hers.

“So if Hyntha and Calar became Hirlin and Cormir, what did Gerona become? Or is Gerona what you call him in Illyria as well?”

His eyes swept down a muscle flexing in his jaw. The mask he often wore flickered away then. If she blinked she would have missed it. His face taut but there was something young about his features until the shadows swept over, and his face was firmly back in place.

“To be continued and quite the cliffhanger. Perhaps you will tell me next time,” she whispered, giving the shadowsinger the space he’d been so kind to give her.

He shuddered. “Next time?”

“I—I would like to do this again. If you…”

“Yes,” Azriel replied, the eagerness in his tone catching Gwyn by surprise. “I-I mean if you want to…”

She smiled. “Well, I did say I wanted to so if you don’t mind being my guide again.”

“Then it’s a date.” His eyes went wide, mirroring what she felt in her own flaming cheeks, and she swore a blush crawled across his perfect face. “I didn’t mean…” His hand came up to rub the back of his neck.

“It’s all right,” she reassured. “I got what you meant.”

She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “I realize I already thanked you, but I wanted to thank you again. Thank you for coming for me. For finding me.”

He dipped his chin. “Don’t thank me. If I had been more attentive at the party, it would have never happened—” She moved to disagree when he held a finger up to stop her retort. “There is something I’ve been curious about though, Gwyn. In the alley that night, how did you know I was there?”

“I heard you,” she stated matter-of-factly.

He stopped breathing. The shadows swirling over his shoulders froze. “How is this possible?” She wondered if the question was more to his shadows and not to her. “What did you hear, Gwyn?”

“You answered me. I heard nothing can break you.”

He shook his head, his eyes darting around as if he was searching his inner mind for answers.

“It makes no sense. Could you see me?”

“No, but I felt these little guys,” she lifted her chin to the shadows on his shoulders. One crept over and nuzzled her face. It was a cool kiss against her cheek. “But I know I heard you, and then I lifted my head, and asked who was there.”

“But it’s not possible,” Azriel trailed off, tension coating his voice.

“Why not?”

“Because I said nothing, Gwyn. The shadows did—and you shouldn’t be able to hear them.”

Chapter Text

Because I said nothing, Gwyn. The shadows did—and you shouldn’t be able to hear them. Azriel’s words kept her up late the last several evenings. What did he mean he didn’t say those words? It had to be him. It sounded exactly like Azriel. Only slightly muffled?

His comment had to be a joke. But, though she’d heard of Azriel’s occasional pranks, he wasn’t a liar. And he certainly had no reason to lie about this. Besides, Gwyn saw his face, had witnessed the gears of his mind turning. He looked truly puzzled. Worried, even.

And for once it wasn’t nightmares that drove her out of bed. Instead of heading up the training ring, she wandered the stacks of the library in her white nightgown. Guided by the dull glow of fae lights and the bluish hue from her Invoking Stone, she hunted for three nights for a clue. Anything that could help unravel the mystery.

She searched for the term shadowsingers. Nope—but made a note to herself to ask Azriel his story so she could document it for posterity’s sake. Azriel’s abilities were utterly unique, vital to the histories of both Illyria and Prythian. Her fingers itched to dip a quill in dark ink to make sure the Shadowsinger could be remembered forever.

Back on track, she combed just for ‘shadows.’ Another dead end. Nothing on shadows alone, but a few hits relating to the forces of other High Lords, those who controlled elements. She also grabbed an ancient text on the daemati. Since daematis were rare, maybe there’d be some correlation.

Now armed with her choice of tomes, Gwyn turned and looked around her. Her eyes rolled. Of course. Lost in the mystery, Gwyn forgot to take a rolling cart.

Time to use these arm muscles you worked so hard for, she thought, piling the five fat volumes on top of one another on the floor.

“Cauldron,” Gwyn grunted, using her legs to push up and not hurt her back, her chin propped on the top volume. She waddled over to the table across the library, her arm muscles stretching and burning to the point she felt they were going to dislocate. Perhaps she should bring up novel-lifting as an exercise to Cassian. Doing deep squats with them would absolutely be a workout.

After what felt like an utter eternity, sweating and sore, she dumped the heap of books onto the table’s surface with a heavy thud. She shook out her arms and sat on the creaky wooden chair, opening the first volume on the High Lords and the courts. The earthy musk of the text hit her with the crinkled turn of the yellowed parchment.

She skimmed the pages, looking for keywords. Shadows. Powers. Nothing of note. The only thing similar to what she sought was the magic Rhysand inherited from his father. He could wield the power of the night, and though the High Lord of the Night Court didn’t have shadows per se, he could cause darkness.

Flip. Crinkle. Nothing.

Flip. Crinkle. Nothing.

Nothing. Nothing. Mother, the binding on this book was terrible and broken in the middle. Gwyn made a mental note to put this volume aside for repair work.

“Well, onto the next,” she mumbled, keeping herself company. It was quiet. Too silent even for a library. Usually, she enjoyed the echoes of her fellow priestesses at work. The patter of their soft satin shoes on the stone floors. The occasional light slam of a heavy cover. Squeaky metallic wheels of a cart. Merrill’s incessant bellowing for more works on the Valkyries. Gwyn rolled her eyes just thinking about the old windbag.

The second text she cracked open was more of the same, this one primarily dedicated to stroking the egos of the High Lords, past and present. Beron, Tamlin, Tarquin, Kallias. Thesan. Helion. Rhysand. Gwyn spared a minute to brush up on her benevolent High Lord’s tale. Cauldron…The High Lord sacrificed so much to protect his people. Offered sanctuary to priestesses in their hour of need. It was because of Rhysand’s intervention at Sangravah that Gwyn was alive.

She was unaware that Rhysand spent fifty years trapped Under the Mountain by the evil Amarantha. Part of her couldn’t imagine a male as powerful as the High Lord being under the shackles of anyone—besides his mate, that is. Gwyn was sure if there was anybody Rhysand would surely yield for, it was his High Lady, Feyre Archeron.

Closing the record, she stretched for another volume on the table when she heard it. It was faint, but was that…talking? Gwyn leaned an ear in the noise’s direction. Yes. Someone was speaking. But in the library at this hour?

Gwyn’s hand patted over her skirt, instinctively feeling for a weapon at her thigh. Shit. She was in her damn pajamas and hadn’t taken a moment to grab the dagger she kept under her pillow.

Turn around and head back to the dorm or to investigate, she warred with herself. Do it smart or do it fast? Do it Azriel or do it Cassian? Gwyn bit on her lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

Shit.

Leaving her Invoking Stone hidden between two texts, she rose from her seat.

Her bare feet whispered over the smooth floor as Gwyn moved as silent as a spirit through the shadowy stacks. Her only guides her memory and the touch of the leather spines of books against her fingertips. The hem of her nightgown brushed over her toes as she followed the sounds of a voice. No, not one, Gwyn quickly realized as she drew closer.

Two.

There were definitely at least two voices.

Making a quick swing to the right, she stopped, plastering her back to the edge of the shelf. Heart racing, she leaned around the corner enough so she could see. A couple of figures huddled in the agricultural section. The silhouettes of two cloaked individuals, hoods up to disguise facial features.

“…and not to be trusted,” the one on the left said in a hushed tone.

“Understood,” the one on the right replied. “How do we take care of this problem?”

The hooded figure on the left beckoned for the other with a crook of a finger. A decidedly feminine finger. The one on the right moved forward, dipping her head down. The smooth way it moved indicated Fae, possibly High Fae. The shorter female cupped a hand to her mouth and whispered something too soft for Gwyn to fully hear. Though with eyes shut tight, she tried and made out three words at the very end.

“…needs to go.”

The figure on the right stepped away. They departed in separate directions as quick as the wind.

Heart thundering and feet barely touching the ground, Gwyn headed back to her stack of books, snagging her Invoking Stone, and hurried to the dorm, only allowing herself to breathe once she was in her room. She leaned against the closed door, running a trembling hand down her face. What the hell had Gwyn walked in on? Unease curdled in her stomach. Something seemed wrong about it. The location. The cloaks. The time of day.

The click of the lock wasn’t enough. She slid her desk chair under the brass doorknob before tucking herself into bed, laying on her side, clutching the cool handle of the dagger underneath her pillow like a lifeline.

There would be no dreams tonight. Sleep would only lead to nightmares full of cloaked figures—if she was so lucky. The sanctuary, the safety of the library had been breached. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her pulse beat in her ears like a drum, reminding her of the last night in the temple. When Catrin wanted to leave. When Gwyn said no. If she’d only listened. Maybe if Gwyn had told somebody what Catrin was doing—

There would be no maybe this time. She needed to tell someone what she witnessed, and she knew just the person.

𝄋

Gwyn was dragging. Even if Azriel’s shadows hadn’t shared his worry, he could see the dark purple bags under her eyes from across the practice ring. Her punches were soft as hell, barely moving the bag. Usually, the thing swung like a pendulum under the force of her blows. There was something…off. The tight smile reminded him more of a grimace. Like she was forcing herself to appear happy.

“So, I’m free tomorrow night,” Emerie grunted, her ebony braid swinging over her shoulder as she kicked into the side of a training dummy. “You want to head into town?”

Gwyn continued to punch, staring vacantly beyond the target. Blank.

“Hello? Gwyn? Am I talking to myself over here?” Emerie said, tossing a blocking pad at her friend’s behind.

Gwyn spun around, her fists up and her legs bent for an attack. Emerie raised her palms in defeat. A flush climbed across Gwyn’s pale face.

“Sorry, Em,” Gwyn said, shaking out her arms. “I’m just a little on edge.”

Emerie snorted. “A little? I’ve been talking for a half-hour.”

“I was listening,” Gwyn said, putting her hands on her hips. Emerie mirrored her pose.

“Oh yeah, what was I talking about, priestess? ”

“Mor,” Gwyn answered with a sly grin.

“Way to pull that out of your ass,” Emerie murmured. “I forget how adept you are at bullshitting, Berdara.”

“Or I’m just that good at pretending to not listen,” Gwyn gave a mocking smile, crossing her arms over her chest, batting her long lashes. “But either way, I was right.” Emerie saluted her with the middle finger.

“Yes, I was telling you about Mor twenty minutes ago.”

He stopped fidgeting with the equipment. Mor had confided in him months before that she preferred females.

It’s not you, Azriel, Mor had said, wiping away a tear. It was never you. And perhaps I should have let you know sooner. I should have let you go. I’m so sorry.

Sweet relief swept over Azriel when he realized the truth. It wasn’t him. He hadn’t scared Mor away. The other bitter part of him wondered why the hell Mor waited so long. Az could understand not telling everyone , but Mother knows she could trust him to keep it quiet.

He shook his head. It was in the past. Regardless, Az would always be there for Morrigan. As a member of the Inner Circle. As a dear friend. And he wished her nothing but the best. And if something was starting between Mor and Emerie? The Cauldron couldn’t put together two people more deserving.

“So what about tomorrow, Gwyn?”

Gwyn stretched her arms high above her head. “I don’t know. I want to but I’m…ex-hausted,” she yawned, covering her mouth midway.

The week since the park had flown by. Azriel rarely ran into the girls outside of training, leaving them no time to chat about things other than schedules and drills. Besides the mornings on the rooftop, Azriel had been working on whatever the hell was brewing in Autumn. Nuala was a day late with her report, which kept him on edge. Problems in Spring was all she’d said.

Fucking Tamlin. The High beast of Spring would have to be dealt with eventually. Ten gold marks on Rhysand. When shit hit the fan, hands needed to get dirty with High Lords, Rhys was usually the one willing to take the shot. Self-sacrificing bastard.

But the news gleaned from Nuala’s recon was great for Eris, bad for Truth-Teller; the heir of the Autumn Court had been on the level. Eris’s new correspondence included information on his father’s impending visit to Vallahan. So that son of a bitch Beron was still trying to lure the other fae territories on the continent into an alliance. Eris couldn’t confirm if his father was working with the human queens, which matched Azriel’s intel. The human queens and Koschei had been quiet. Again, too quiet for Az’s liking. A scouting trip to the continent was in order, and he was planning to be there for Beron’s “vacation” next month.

“You sure, Gwynnie?” Emerie said as she stacked training mats one on top of the other against the stone wall.

The redhead yawned and nodded, practically falling asleep on her feet. “I have to work a little overtime tomorrow at the library and then really I just want to sleep. How about the next day?”

“Can’t,” Emerie shrugged before picking up the last mat.

Gwyn’s auburn eyebrow rose slightly. “Why not?”

“Well,” the Illyrian-Valkyrie drew out, “if you’d actually paid attention earlier, little bullshitter, you’d know I have a date .”

Azriel recoiled at Gwyn’s sudden high-pitched squeal as she flung herself at Emerie, wrapping her arms around her friend’s shoulders, both girls jumping up and down. His brows lifted to his hairline. Is this what girls did when they got excited about something?

“Oh my gods, I’m so thrilled for you! Where are you going?! What are you wearing? You are going to have to tell me all about it,” Gwyn gushed. There was that real smile.

As Emerie admitted she had no clue to any of Gwyn’s questions, Azriel noticed the way Gwyn’s legs trembled and how she was swaying. Her feet shifted from one foot to the other. How she rubbed her forearms, rolling her neck and shoulders. Clear signs she wasn’t just tired, she was spent. Why the hell wasn’t she sleeping?

Rhys dropped onto the roof as silent as a cat.

“Azriel,” he greeted, slapping his brother on the back. “Training good today?”

Az nodded as Rhysand walked over to Emerie. “Ready to go?”

Emerie bobbed her head and waved goodbye before heading off with Rhysand back to Illyria. Gods, he wished that Em would take Rhys’s offer to move to Velaris instead of staying in that shithole.

“Well, Shadow.” Yawn. “Singer. I guess I’m off to catch a nap,” Gwyn got out as she stretched out the kinks.

Ask her what’s keeping her up at night, Shadowsinger?

Gwyn rushed by, mumbling about getting out of sweaty clothes and a quick bath before falling into bed. Azriel was quick on her heels.

“Gwyn,” he called after her, and she stopped, peering over her shoulder. “What’s going on?”

She nibbled her lip. Yep. One of her tells that something was amiss. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Is something going on outside of training?” he asked, keeping his tone level. “Is something going on at work, because if—”

“It’s at the library.” He was already seeing red before she continued. “But not how you are thinking. I—it’s probably nothing, but it scared me a bit.”

Scared her? He didn’t like the sound of that one bit.

“Come on,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets as he led her over to the sofa. “Sit before you fall over.”

He knew she was wiped when Gwyn willingly plopped down with zero grace. She bent over, elbows on her knees, running her fingers through her russet hair. He took the armchair to her right, mirroring her posture.

“Tell me.”

So Gwyn did. She wouldn’t give details on why she couldn’t sleep or what drove her to the library in the middle of the night. And he wasn’t going to pry. His eyes narrowed as she described the cloaked figures wandering the collection well after midnight.

“I do not know who they were, but at least one of them was clearly female. The other was definitely Fae,” she recounted.

He leaned back, resting his scarred palms on the arms of the chair, crossing an ankle over his knee. “How did you come to those conclusions, priestess?”

She listed all the attributes she’d discerned just from her brief minutes hidden between the stacks. The feminine hand of one. The gait of the other suggesting fae. She also had their approximate heights. And, despite himself, her keen observations impressed Azriel.

Gwyn sighed. “The only words I could make out were something about ‘not to be trusted’ and then ‘needs to go’ but—dammit I wish I would have gotten closer, but I left my dagger in my room.”

She went there unarmed? The shadows shivered.

His fingers rubbed the bridge of his nose. “So, let me get this straight. You followed them—”

“And wasn’t seen,” she added, her mischievous grin appearing.

“Without a weapon—”

“Cassian says my body is my greatest weapon,” she replied smugly, lifting and dropping one shoulder, draped one shapely leg over the other. Gods, Az had to stop staring at her in those leathers. He shifted in his seat. “They didn’t see or hear me, Shadowsinger. No one knows I was there. But the whole thing just…”

“What?”

“I don’t know. It just seemed…wrong, somehow. And even though I know in my bones they didn’t catch me, I swear on the Mother I sensed eyes on me.”

Eyes on me. As if Gwyn was being pursued. Stalked like prey. Azriel’s hands tightened into fists, his knuckles cracking.

“So this is why you haven’t been sleeping, priestess?” Her shoulders drooped as she rubbed the heels of her palms into her bloodshot eyes. “When did this happen?”

“Four nights ago.”

Four days. She hadn’t slept four nights straight and yet showed up every morning for back-breaking warrior training and to her day job.

“I’ve been barricading my door and clutching the dagger under my pillow when I go to bed,” she admitted in a whisper, putting her face in her open palms. His chest ached fiercely that she’d been that frightened. “Silly, right? It’s probably nothing. I should get going.” She pushed off with her fists and made her way to stand before she weaved, tipping to the right. Azriel caught her before she hit the low table in front of the couch.

“Whoa, easy. Easy.” He guided her back to the velvety cushions. “First, I trust your gut. If you think something is up, I’m going to look into it. I’ll send the shadows to go scout and then assign Nuala and Cerridwen to check it out at night.” She offered him a brief but warm smile. “But Gwyn, you’re drained. You need rest.”

Yes. Sleep. The priestess must rest.

“But I need to work this afternoon,” Gwyn tried to stand up again until Az placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, urging her down.

Shadows flitted around them in near hysterics.

But what if she drops heavy books and breaks a foot?

What if she trips, stumbles over a railing into the heart of the House, and snaps her neck?

Is she dehydrated, Shadowsinger? Perhaps a jug of water?

Food! She will want to eat when she awakens!

Not helping, Azriel whispered back to his shadows, their anxiety reverberating through him.

“Gwyn, take a nap first. You’re safe in the House, and don’t worry about your shift. I’ll talk to Clotho.” Panic bloomed in her eyes, and he shook his head. “Sleep, and then we’ll get some food in you. But just lie down for now…please?”

She stared up at him, the green hue in her irises more vibrant against the red and pink shattering the white, and bowed her head in surrender. Gwyn closed her eyes as she lied on her side. By the time Azriel returned with water from the kitchen, she was out cold. Pale, freckled fists tucked under her chin, her toned legs curled up. Each breath leaving her parted lips became longer and deeper.

Placing the cup on the table, in case she was thirsty later, he fought the urge to brush the hair off her forehead. Instead, he reached over to grab the bulky dove-gray throw from the chair he’d sat on and draped it over her sleeping form. He couldn’t look away. There was just something about this female. An aura that surrounded Gwyn with strength and pure peace. Even his shadows, despite their now shared blatant concern on what was happening downstairs, stilled.

Stay with her, Az commanded his umbrae. Let me know if she awakens while I’m gone.

Az could almost hear Cassian telling him to stop staring and being a fucking creeper. Turning away, he headed to the library to speak to Clotho and try to discover what was really going on below.

Chapter Text

Is Gwyneth ill?

He peered up from the note on the polished, worn wood, offering the mute priestess a soft smile to ease any concern.

“She’s just a bit burnt out,” Azriel answered, keeping his tone light.

The enchanted pen scratched onto the cream parchment.

Gwyn has been working quite a few double shifts.

Azriel would not give Clotho the real reason for Gwyn’s exhaustion. That someone in this building had caused her the flee made him want to punch stone with his bare hand. Focus on the task at hand, he reminded himself. “She’s been training hard as well. I thought it best she got a break.”

Clotho’s hooded head bobbed in agreement, reflected by another message.

Perhaps that’s for the best. Please let Gwyneth know not to fret regarding her shift today and tomorrow. I’ll have someone handle her workload.

He bowed slightly. “I will.”

We appreciate her effort. She’s a devoted priestess and a hard worker.

After reading the words, he replied, “That she is.”

Clotho nodded. He paused, thinking of the best way to broach the topic.

“How are the wards Rhys installed after the last breach?” When two Hybern soldiers infiltrated the sacred space and hunted down Feyre and Nesta like dogs before the last war. “Are they still holding?”

The wards have held. No signal of anyone who may not be in the library crossing the threshold.

“Gwyn!” a shrill voice bellowed from a level higher. The thudding of heavy footsteps descending the stone steps followed. Clotho rolled her shoulders, shaking her head.

A High Fae female with snow-white hair plodded down the stairs, each step a demand. She was strangely beautiful—but so was a water wraith before they dragged you to your death. Who the hell was this female?

“Where is that wretched girl?” the priestess grumbled, stomping over and slamming her palms on Clotho’s desk so hard it shook. Clotho stopped her quill from rolling off the edge with her gnarled fist. “Where is Gwyn? I have work to do and I asked her to be here early today!”

Azriel somehow managed to stifle a growl and fought the urge to cross his arms over his chest. It had to be her. The infamous Merrill he’d overheard Gwyn and Nesta bitch about at practice. All the delightful adjectives the priestess had thrown fit this female to a tee. Lovely.

Merrill, she’s taking a couple of days off.

Merrill read Clotho’s message, and Azriel could practically see steam come out of her ears. Her tawny skin flushed with anger. She crumpled the sheet in her tight, quivering fingers.

“She can’t just take time off,” she chuckled darkly. “Who does she think she is?”

Clotho’s quill lifted, but Azriel, for once, couldn’t keep himself from reacting. “Gwyn is allowed to take a personal day.”

Merrill’s blue, unflinching eyes snapped in his direction. She stepped toward him, assessing him up and down, clicking her tongue. He could read her like a book and she was no different than a lot of the entitled and prejudiced High Fae. Noticing his wings, Merrill sneered. She got off on intimidation. Humiliation. Craved it. A bully and abuser to the nth degree.

“And who are you to judge that—oh wait, you teach her little self-defense class? The one she wastes all of our time and resources with? Are you the Shadowsinger or that other Illyrian brute?”

Clotho slammed her fist onto the desk, her hood snapping in Merrill’s direction, mutely declaring enough.

The gall of this female. Did Merrill honestly assume she could goad him into a response? A quarrel? He would not allow her the satisfaction. Now, finally meeting this miserable bitch, realizing Gwyn worked with this pathetic female daily, made him need to hit something.

“Doesn’t matter who I am to her; Gwyn will not be here today or tomorrow.”

Merrill spun to Clotho, her eyes wide, teeth bared. “Today and t omorrow? This is unacceptable! What am I going to do?”

Maybe your ass could get your own damn books once in a while, is what he wanted to say. He didn’t say a word, though holding his tongue took more effort than usual. But he didn’t need what he spoke to fall on Gwyn. Even if he felt a change in mentor was best, it was Gwyn’s choice. Not his. So instead, Azriel sent her a wicked smirk.

I gave her the days off myself.

The fountain pen nearly crashed to the floor when Clotho’s gnarled fists shoved the note across the desk to a stunned Merrill. Azriel smirked at the fuming priestess.

“She wasn’t this disobedient until she attended those training sessions.” Merrill pinned Azriel with a narrowed, accusing glare. “ Playing with weapons. Pretending to be Valkyries on the rooftop, while getting cozy with members of the Inner Circle.”

“Make no mistake,” Azriel started, his tone as balanced and sharp as a blade. “Gwyneth Berdara is a Valkyrie.”

“If you say so,” Merrill huffed dismissively, turning on her heel and stalking away.

Please excuse Merrill, Clotho apologized. She can be…

The implement stopped and tapped as if the priestess was struggling to find the perfect phrase.

Difficult. Difficult sounded like a massive understatement. But she’s a brilliant researcher.

“Brilliance doesn’t mean she has tact,” Azriel pointed out.

Very true and it’s something I need to discuss. And I intend to.

She nodded as the pen dropped.

Yes, she did. And if Clotho didn’t, Az would let Rhys know exactly how Merrill was treating others, and let him sort out if she deserved his goodwill and protection.

Back to the other subject at hand then.

“So no indication of anything odd?” he asked the chief priestess again, who answered with a shake of the head. “Nothing unusual at all?”

Is something awry, Shadowsinger?

He shrugged, keeping it casual. No need to freak her out if nothing was amiss. “Just doing reporting for the High Lord. Rhysand wished to make certain everything well.”

We are so lucky he cares. A small grin tugged on her lips beneath the cloak’s shade. The pen continued to scrawl. We discovered a book pile on a table on level three this morning. But I figured it was just one of our females working late and forgetting to return them to the shelves.

The stack Gwyn left behind when she sprinted back to her room.

Gods, maybe Gwyn was right. Perhaps she was just overreacting. A gloomy library at night could give anyone the creeps. Add in the dark heart of the House? But…she wouldn’t lie about feeling watched. She wouldn’t report it if she didn’t think something didn’t sit right. Gwyn would sleep if she realized it was nothing. Her visceral reactions had Az’s instincts convincing him to keep digging.

No wards triggered. Nothing out of place. That meant only one thing. A chill ran down his spine.

Azriel bowed his head slightly in thanks and said goodbye to Clotho.

His shadows hadn’t sought him out, meaning Gwyn was still fast asleep, curled up on the sofa. Let her rest. Nothing could harm her in the House. Plus the House adored Gwyn. Between the House and his shadows? If anyone tried to bother her, they’d wished they were dead before Az got to them.

Besides, he needed to ease his mind. Azriel could spare a few minutes. He sent out a mental appeal to Rhysand, answered by the gentle darkness and talons of his friend against his shield. Yes, Azriel?

Rhysand, I need you to tell me exactly who has permission to be in the library.

𝄋

Catrin’s eyes were wide as she scrambled to cover something on the ground, rising and spinning around to meet Gwyn. Her sister’s hands were full of bags—full of their possessions.

“Catrin? What are you doing?”

Throwing her dark hair, her twin turned back to work, tossing items hastily into a couple of large cloth sacks.

“We need to leave,” her beloved twin said.

“Need to leave?” Gwyn choked out an amused laugh. What are you talking about? We have a service in—

Catrin shoved a heavy sack into Gwyn’s chest, causing her to grunt and stumble backward. “No, Gwyn, we go now. Tonight.”

Her sister’s vibrant teal eyes, the same as her own, reflected at her lined with silver.

Gwyn snickered at her twin’s obvious joke. But the hard, unyielding lines of Catrin’s face made her own amusement slip. “You’re not joking.” Catrin’s head shook. “But we can’t simply take off! We’re priestesses! We’re obligated—”

“They placed our obligation upon us because Mother became pregnant at the Rite. Because her mom abandoned her at this doorstep after being shunned by two different courts. Where was the choice?” Her twin’s teal eyes gleamed with tears, and the fire in her blood smoldered. Mother above, Catrin wasn’t kidding. “If sneaking out, going through the world—”

“We go places. We go to the lake. We go—”

“You know what I meant, Gwyn. The actual world. Beyond the forest, beyond these walls. Learning and experiencing from other people who learn more than chants and prayers. Discovering fun and love. Love is out there. Don’t you want that? To find someone?”

“But the priestesses have taken care of us for all these years. They are our family, Catrin. We can’t just abandon them—”

“You are my family, Gwyn,” Catrin’s voice cracked. The bags dropped to the floor. Her twin reached out a hand, her webbed fingers interlacing with hers. “You and you alone share my blood. My twin. My other half. And as for the temple? They supported us, but we are not enslaved. We belong to no one, Gwyneth. We forge our own path, sister. We follow our own stars.”

Catrin’s gaze darted to the candle and the darkness out their tiny window. “Please, Gwyn. Isn’t it time we live for ourselves?”

Gwyn pulled her hand away, puffing out her chest. “Is this about that male you met?”

“That’s neither here nor there,” Catrin spat, insulted by the insinuation. “Even if it was, he is none of your concern. This is about us. Our future.”

Gwyn shook her head.

“I can’t,” she whispered, and the reality of it crushed her very soul.

She couldn’t leave behind the found family who raised her—and even if she was, she wasn’t brazen like her sister. She could never just up and disappear, letting the priestesses contemplate their fate.

Tearful eyes the color of the ocean found Gwyn’s as Catrin hefted the pack of her belongings from the floor, her webbed fingers crushing into the bottom. With a shake of her head, Gwyn’s sister made to leave. Only Gwyn had grabbed her wrist and convinced her to stay. To sleep on it.

The echoes of splintering wood and horrified wails shattered the calm night.

“Oh, no,” Catrin muttered, as they shot out of bed. “No. No. No.”

More shrieking. Thuds. The clang of metal against stone. Then steel into flesh.

Their sacred temple was being invaded. Their home.

Gwyn stumbled back a step before she whispered as the true horror took hold. “Mother above. The children.” The younglings. The little ones who had been given up to be raised and cared for. The older ones had a chance. But the toddlers? The babies? They were utterly defenseless. “Catrin? Catrin?”

Her sister’s eyes were wide in shock, a trembling hand over her open mouth. Gwyn grabbed hold of Catrin’s upper arms, shaking her, forcing her gaze.

“Listen to me, Catrin,” she ordered, her tone firm yet level. “We need to see the younglings out of here. Do you remember where we hid as kids?”

“The trapdoor in the kitchen,” Catrin answered, and Gwyn nodded. Gwyn’s eyes darted to the threshold of their shared dorm over Catrin’s shoulder.

“It leads to the catacombs. We need to take the children to safety.”

Catrin straightened. Her lips set into a tight line as her head tilted, brows creasing. Her webbed hands balled into fists. “They are all in bed in their wing. You get them. I’ll see what I can find out about what’s going on. I’m so sorry, Gwyn. I’m sorry for all of this.”

And with that, Catrin turned and darted.

“Catrin!”

But she was already gone.

She fled. She ran. Gwyn couldn’t breathe, couldn’t make her heart slow as she willed her body to move. But it trapped her. Fear left melded to the spot.

“Catrin!”

Move. Move.

Oh, gods.

The children. Catrin.

She needed to save them.

Cries then thump. More terrified screams. More bodies dropping. Then the vile amusement. The horrible male laughter was closing in, closer with every beat of her pulse, like the drumbeat of the executioner.

Priestess…

“Catrin! Wait!”

𝄋

Wake up, priestess.

A cool, tender caress against her cheek. Once. Twice.

Her lids popped open, her throat dry as she gasped air into her lungs.

A nightmare. A memory.

Only a nightmare, she reminded herself between gulped breaths. Nothing she hadn’t already dreamed and endured in the nearly three years since the raid. Though thankfully, those starring her dead twin were few as of late, usually involving the terror etched on Catrin’s face right before…

But this one was peculiar. It wasn’t just a dream, but a memory. Things Gwyn had sealed away in her and her heart. For self-preservation. So it wouldn’t hurt so bad. Her thoughts kept drifting back to Catrin kneeling when Gwyn entered, scrambling to cover—no, hide something.

From her.

A chilled sweep across her forehead dragged her out of her darker ruminations. She wiped the sweat from her brow, seeing wispy, smoky tendrils wrapping her wrist. Swirling around Gwyn like a protective cocoon.

Shadows. Azriel’s shadows? But where was he?

She stretched and twisted around, taking in her surroundings. This was not Gwyn’s dorm. Right; the House of Wind.

“Hello?” she called out.

And apparently alone in the House. Outside the tinted floor-to-ceiling windows, the sun was low on the horizon. Almost dusk. Mother above, how long had she slept? Shit. She’d missed her shift, meaning Merrill was going to tan her hide—

A dark wisp swept over her shoulder, a calming and soothing breath over her skin. And Azriel left his shadowy minions with her? Where the hell was he? And what the hell was he doing?

Library, she heard faintly.

Gwyn stood intent on finding the Shadowsinger when she cringed at the creaking. The now dried training leathers chafed uncomfortably against her skin. Gross. How she’d fallen asleep coated in sweat and grime from practice was a testament to how much she needed that nap. But now, Cauldron, she could use a…

As if in answer, the door to the guest room swung open in the hallway and she could hear the sound of water filling the tub. With a grateful smile, she thanked the House and headed down the hall finding a warm bath and a change of clothes waiting.

𝄋

The only ones allowed in the library are the priestesses and the members of the Inner Circle.

Azriel considered Rhysand’s assertion on the flight back to the House of Wind. Only the priestesses and Inner Circle. Clotho’s hooded image popped into mind. The flowing robes Gwyn described could have been another priestess or two. Did it mean there was any nefarious purpose? No, not at all. Hopefully, letting Gwyn hear what he’d turned up would bring her some comfort. And a sense of security at night, so she gets some sound sleep.

Contacting Rhys for the information via thought had been ideal—until the High Lord added to his duties. With Cassian off somewhere a full week fucking his mate, it left dealings with the Illyrians to himself and Rhysand. And, unfortunately, the Night Court had to go show solidarity for the rights of the females— again.

Lousy pricks.

There were days Az genuinely felt it was a losing battle. There was no changing the dark hearts and minds of those males. The ghost of his father’s clenched fists before his mother. How his beloved mother had cowered in fear, yet she’d bowed to him in obedience, like a trained hound. It twisted his stomach. Made his eyes burn with tears of rage and regret. That he’d been too young, too weak…too afraid to lift a hand to help her. To save her.

Fuck, he needed a drink.

The brief side trip to Illyria had gone longer than he intended, and he’d been anxious to see if Gwyn was all right. But by the time he’d arrived home, Az noticed the living room and couch were disappointingly empty.

“Gwyn?” he called out. No answer. Maybe she went back downstairs to the library. Gods, he hoped she didn’t run into that Merrill. What a shitty piece of work that female is. Or perhaps Gwyn felt more comfortable resting in her dorm. Perfectly logical assumption.

His shadows appeared, motioning for him to follow.

This way, Shadowsinger.

Is she all right? Az asked.

Nightmare, but she is fine.

Godsdammit, she had a nightmare and woke up alone? Well, wasn’t she always alone when her terrors propelled her out of sleep? Hell, wasn’t it the same for him when the past came knocking? And what good would he have been if he were there?

Guided by the shadows, Azriel hurried down the long hallway, passing the open guest room door. The fresh smell of freesia and humidity wafted as he moved toward the entrance to the balcony.

He pushed the door open and there she was. Wrapped in the gray throw from the chair, her hair damp and wavy. She slowly turned to face him, gracing him with a smile.

“Hi,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets.

“Hi, Shadowsinger,” she returned gently, gripping the edges of the blanket in front of her.

“Did you sleep well?” She nodded, fumbling with the knitted fabric. He raised an eyebrow. “Is everything all right?”

“I slept fine.” Even knowing she had a terrible dream, she appeared far more alert than earlier. She snorted and swore, struggling to cover herself. “But I’m losing my battle with this blanket right now, so that’s fun.”

“Why?” he asked as she huffed hair out of her face.

“Well, the House drew me a bath because I stunk.” Her nose scrunched up. “Someone, an Illyrian instructor who shall remain nameless, let me fall asleep in my training leathers after a rather intense workout.” She pinned him with a stare, causing him to laugh quietly. “Which I had to peel off my body. So the House generously provided clothes for me but—they aren’t very—I don’t know…”

Azriel snorted. So the little priestess thought that was bad? Try peeling off leathers and armor after hours and hours of sweat and blood drying in the sun.

But what the hell had the House given her that was making her uncomfortable?

“It can’t be that awful,” he joked. And with that, she sighed and dropped the blanket. He might have stopped breathing. It was a top and flowing pants, traditional Night Court attire, in a fuchsia that brought out her unique eyes and her copper strands. Her arms wrapped around her toned exposed midriff, one leg bare to mid-shin crossed behind the other. She bit her lip, her gaze shifting between the floor and Azriel.

“See?”

Yeah, Azriel saw all right. And Cauldron fucking boil him alive. He liked what he saw. Regardless of his self-imposed warnings, there was no way he to deny it; Azriel loved the way this female looked. Strong and beautiful. Meek and didn’t even appreciate her sensuality. Didn’t understand her power over a male. The control she wielded. And he had to stop. Right. Now .

“It shows too much,” Gwyn admitted shyly, so soft and unsure that it tore him up. And made him wish that Hybern asshole was still breathing so he could kill him again.

“For what it’s worth,” Azriel started, running a hand through his hair. “I think you look…pretty.”

Azriel felt a thump on the back of his head.

Beautiful, Shadowsinger. Pretty is an understatement.

Well, pretty was as much as he could freely admit. Pretty was safe.

Those gorgeous turquoise eyes met his, wide with surprise, her pale skin exquisitely pinked by his compliment. A flush that reminded him of other things he shouldn’t be thinking about. “Thank you, Azriel.”

The way she said his name, with such surprise. Was it because he offered the compliment, or had she never been told she was pretty? Azriel didn’t respond, afraid to even move. After a long minute, he managed to clear his throat and the tension. “So, why are you out here?”

She gestured over the city. He walked over to stand beside her, seeing what she saw. The lights of Velaris were twinkling awake one by one, the city of starlight coming alive. “Just watching. I can’t believe I was down there a week ago.”

A week ago? He couldn’t believe it either.

“I was searching for that bakery we passed on the way to the park,” Gwyn said, squinting.

Azriel pointed out its location. “It’s farther that way. See the bright lights right there?” She followed his finger. “That’s the river house, so it’s about three blocks to the northwest from there.”

“Drats.”

He arched a brow. “Why were you looking for it exactly?”

“I was hoping it was closer. It smelled so good that even just thinking about the cinnamon sugar smell had my mouth watering. Probably because I’m starving.”

Az chuckled. She had him doing that a lot recently, hadn’t she?

“So you didn’t eat yet?” he asked even before his shadows could commence with their mother-henning. She shook her head. “You know, there’s a little bistro that has really good food right next to the bakery. Do you want to go?”

“Like, right now?” she squeaked.

He shrugged. “You rested. You have the night off. By the way, you have tomorrow off too. It’s been a week since your first big trip into town. We could eat there, or take it to go. Pack it up and go to the park again or bring it back here? Your choice.” She was fidgeting with her fingers, wringing her hands, second-guessing as her eyes stared longingly over the lights of the city. There was only one thing he could think of to drag her out of her self-sabotage. “Unless,” Azriel drew out. “Unless you’re done with your little adventuring. One and done, Berdara?”

He’d pushed her, knowing that her competitive ass would not stand to pass up. An open challenge. A wry smirk. And Az knew when Gwyn’s arms crossed over her chest and she shot him that withering stare he’d won. They’d both won.

“You’re on. Give me something I can put over this ridiculous top, Shadowsinger, and let’s go.” He turned on his heel to find her a shirt before Gwyn added. “And we’re flying.”

Bossy little thing, Azriel thought, a smirk on his lips. And he liked it. A lot.

Chapter Text

“Ladies, it’s good to be back,” Cassian greeted them, striding by them as a general assessing his troops as they grunted from ground level. Right now, Gwyn wasn’t exactly sure she shared his sentiments. Her shaky arms burned like hellfire. And her core quivered as she pressed her chest off the floor for the hundredth time. Push-ups were a punishment directly from the gods themselves. And on a day like today? Between the unexpected morning heat and the previous?

Pure, unadulterated torture.

Her stomach gurgled and roiled, threatening to revolt. Oh no. No, she couldn’t do it here. Not in front of him. She stopped at the top, holding in a plank position, swallowing.

“Gwyneth!” Cassian yelled, singling her out. Because, of course, he would. “Vomit on your own time, Valkyrie. You still have fifty more.”

She scowled toward the barely audible laughing snort across the rooftop. There was Azriel, pretending to take an inventory of their practice gear, sending her an I-told-you-so with those hazel eyes. And she was two seconds from wiping that smug smirk off his handsome face.

Handsome? Dammit all to hell.

Gwyn mouthed a curse his way, and when he sent her a half-grin, she couldn’t help but smile back. Then it was back to push-ups—and trying not to throw up.

𝄋

He’d warned her last night not to eat those damn pastries. If she managed to vomit all over the roof deck, she’d pin Azriel with the blame. To be fair, he may have been the one to suggest she couldn’t devour all of them. Not like he could.

Az was known for having a hollow leg and a lead belly. Drinking and eating in excess didn’t bother him in the slightest. An iron stomach came in handy when you spied in territories where one had to drink and dine in unseemly places. Or hunt and eat what you caught, regardless of the animal.

Last night, they returned to the quaint bistro and pastry shop they had visited a week ago. The first time they’d stepped inside the restaurant, Gwyn panicked, eyeing the exits, and paced as if she expected danger at every turn.

So he’d guided her outside, letting her inhale and exhale the clean air while strolling alongside the Sidra. And once she’d collected herself, Gwyn asked to hold his hand, gripping it like a lifeline on a turbulent sea, and strode in the eatery’s doors by his side.

Yesterday, they brought their steaming containers over to the now-familiar park. Unlike last time, he’d come prepared, packing a small checkered blanket to spread over the grass. And that’s where they sat, listening to music drifting across the river while enjoying the delicious meal. Though his supper of tender braised meat was marvelous as always, it was the company that he’d savored the most.

Cauldon, the girl could eat. Never once had he considered appreciating a female’s healthy appetite—until now. Gwyn dug into her meal of sauced roasted chicken with a side and fried potatoes with vigor. No utensils either. And not a care in the world that sauce coated her lips or fingers.

Everything was proper, friendly. As he tried to ignore the fact that Gwyn was wearing his borrowed black tunic over the crop top. Despite her height, his top was long, acting more like a dress than a shirt, covered in his scent. And that alone was enough to send his mind racing into dangerous territory.

But then the tip of her tongue had darted out between those lips. Licking. Cleaning away the sauce from around her mouth. Bringing her fingers to her mouth, Gwyn sucked off the remnants of the gravy. It had to be wholly innocent in intent, but…

Holy. Fucking. Gods. And he was finding himself having to shift his position. Praying to the Mother and any gods who listened, that Gwyn didn’t scent him. Or notice the bulge pressing against the front of his pants.

After dinner, they chatted, giving themselves plenty of time to digest—and him to pull himself together…

𝄋

“I’m so sore,” Emerie whined, rolling her shoulders as the three of them surrounded the water station. With their Elite class finished, the Valkyries took a few moments to themselves before helping with the other training session. Since Nesta and Cassian’s mating ceremony, they’d nearly doubled their numbers.

“Well, I’m sore too, but not from practice,” Nesta smiled wolfishly. Gwyn spat out her water. And, of course, the two Illyrian males had noticed. Oh, gods, her stupid stomach again. “But it’s not in a bad way—at all. But, you can get sick of being with one person for too long.”

Gwyn laughed, wiping the spray from her chin. “You only mated two weeks ago. That’s enough time spent alone?”

“Trapped in a small cabin in the middle of nowhere where all there was to do was fuck, eat, and read? The first two things were…” She paused, running her tongue over her lower lip, sending her mate a pointed stare. As if by command, Cassian’s eyes skimmed Nesta’s body up and down. The General smirked and winked. The scent of their bond filled the air. “Fantastic. But I swear I will go full death goddess if he interrupts my reading one more time with a stupid question or comment.”

Gwyn and Emerie chuckled, knowing full well that one did not interrupt Nesta Archeron when she was curled up with a good book.

“And I missed my girls,” Nesta continued, putting an arm over each shoulder and pulling them into a group hug. “Who else am I going to figure out upcoming novel plots and rate the smut?”

“Oh, I’d rate smut with you, Nes,” Cassian called from across the training ring, smiling in a way that shouted ten minutes until he’d be ripping his mate’s clothes off no matter who was there or not.

Gwyn’s eyes drifted over to Azriel. Despite the warmth, he’d kept a shirt on for the comfort of the priestesses. But she could clearly make out his powerful back muscles, how they bunched and moved beneath the fabric as he laid out the mats for the next class. As he bent over to roll them out, her gaze followed, his perfectly formed leathered-covered backside on full display.

It suddenly became much hotter on the roof. Heat swept over her skin, stretching low in her body. She was burning inside in a manner she couldn’t consider. Over a…male. A real-life male, and not just one brought to life on a page. No, not just over any male; she was feeling it…for Azriel. The shock of it was as if she dunked her overheated head into ice water.

Shaking her head, she turned away, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. As Gwyn turned around, she was met with keen, steel-blue eyes.

Nesta.

𝄋

“I hope Gwyn is all right,” Cassian said, gathering blocking pads for the next group. “I hope I didn’t push her too hard.”

Azriel huffed. “You’re going soft, brother. Besides, she’s fine. She just ate too much last night.”

His shadows stirred and he winced. As soon as the words left his mouth, he instantly regretted them.

Cassian dropped the pads in his hands and raised a brow. “Last night, huh?”

Of fucking course. Leave it to Cass to give it some kind of innuendo. Trying to brush it off, Azriel moved back over to the wooden practice swords, counting out twenty.

“You know, Gwyn mentioned nothing when she came upon the roof today and I didn’t see your shadows over there so ,” Cassian crooned. Now the bastard was leaning casually against the wall of the small stone shed where they kept the equipment, arms, and legs crossed. “Care to share with the rest of the class you know what she ate last night?”

Azriel remained silent.

“Or why you’ve been ogling the priestess all morning?”

Ogling? All right, that was enough. He swore, tossing his pile of weapons onto the mat with a thud. “I’m not ogling her,” he whispered to his brother, tone stern.

Cassian chuckled darkly. “Fine. We’ll call it gawking. Or how about eyeballing? Checking out?”

“Are you fucking serious? I wasn’t doing that,” he replied, horrified that Cassian had noticed it enough to call him out on it.

“If you say so,” Cassian laughed, wagging his eyebrows.

Azriel rubbed his temples. “We grabbed something to eat last night, all right. That’s it.”

“Dinner? Like a date?” Cassian said while grinning like an idiot. Azriel kept his face blank, even though his heart was pounding. Because it wasn’t a date. Nope. Not at all.

“No, Cassian, not a date.”

“How is that not a date, Azriel?”

“Because it wasn’t.” He loosed a sigh. “We’re just friends.” And they were, or at least he hoped they were. Over a few weeks, he grew to love her company. To want to be around her. Listening to her speak passionately, discovering those things she loved while they watched the stars. So yeah, to his surprise, he considered Gwyn a friend.

𝄋

After dinner, the two of them waited until the bakery was less busy before venturing inside. A week ago, Gwyn couldn’t enter but didn’t want to wait outside by herself. So they’d left for another day. Yesterday was that day. Azriel introduced Gwyn to the owner, a lesser fae named Sabia. And although Gwyn was a little shy, she was polite and kind, taking the hand offered to her. Not that he expected anything less.

Though Az bought treats for his family occasionally, he’d done his best to avoid the bakery. It was too much. The sweet smell of sugar and the tang of cinnamon. The heavy thwack of fresh dough kneaded against a hard surface. The squeak of a well-loved rolling pin. The humming of Sabia or her young assistant baker behind the counter as they worked. Reminders, all of them. Of a time, a person he couldn’t quite recall with detail—and what he could recall were memories as bittersweet as the chocolate of the cookies she’d make him for every short visit. Every single time.

“So what do you want to try?” he’d asked Gwyn, standing beside her in front of the counter. There were about twelve pastries, varying from puffed and filled to layered and dipped. The menu and options changed daily and for the seasons. Being Springtime, there were quite a few berry tarts and honeyed layered pastries alongside the classic, popular chocolate offerings.

“I don’t know,” Gwyn had admitted, practically pressing her face to the glass display case. She giggled and his shadows shuddered against him. They liked to hear her happy, too. “I kind of want to try all of them.”

He’d glanced sidelong at her, viewing her take everything in with excitement and no fear. No fear. He’d buy the whole damn bakery to see that burden lifted.

“We’ll take one of everything.”

She spun at him, her eyes round. “I was just kidding, Shadowsinger.”

“I’m not.” He’d motioned to Sabia, letting her know he was ready to order. “One of each. To go, please…”

𝄋

“Did you take her out for dinner?” Cassian asked. Az shook himself out of his reminiscing, nodding. “Did you pay for it?” He nodded again. “How is that not a date?”

Azriel shrugged, rolling his shoulders, wishing the interrogation was over. “It just isn’t. I’ve gone out with her into Velaris a few times, as her friend, to help her get used to the city. Not a big deal.” He walked away, only to be followed by his brother’s heavy clunking gait. If Azriel didn’t stop and face the music, Cassian would just keep following. He halted, rolling his eyes.

Cassian tapped his right shoulder. Honest to gods, his brother’s official title should be what he’d been given as a child by him and Rhys; General Annoyance. Torturer might be a job better suited for Cass than himself with his strange, easy ability to agitate.

Another hard poke. “Hey, Az?”

He let out a defeated breath. “What, Cass?”

“Just wanted to point out you said you’d gone out with Gwyn a few times.”

𝄋

Let the official inquiry begin, she thought as Nesta dragged Gwyn into the House, Emerie in tow.

“So, you’re openly flirting now? With Azriel? What the hell happened in the two weeks I was gone?” Nesta asked, crossing her arms over her chest. “And what about you,” Nesta turned to Emerie. “Have you noticed her staring at him?”

“No, but I may have played a role in this,” Emerie smirked. “And I’m not mad at it.”

Gwyn followed Nesta into the living, perching on the edge of the deep couch. The same one she had fitfully napped a week ago. Where Azriel had covered her with a blanket while she slept.

“Spill,” Nesta commanded, taking a seat on the low wooden table in front of her.

With little to no chance of escaping, not when Nesta was playing interrogator, Gwyn explained everything. She started with how she asked Azriel to take her out on the town.

Emerie raised her hand, bouncing excitedly on the couch beside Gwyn. “It was kinda my idea since I dropped the ball and couldn’t go. I take full responsibility if you two get together. If you ever have a daughter, you should name it after me.”

Nesta snorted, trying to hide her amusement.

Gwyn masked her face with her hands, shaking her head. “There’s nothing to say, and it’s not like that. He’s been nice enough to take me out to see the city a few times. As a guide. Nothing more.”

Nesta’s grin turned devious. “How many times?” Nothing escaped the shrewd eldest Archeron.

No use lying. “Three.”

“And we’ve gone out once into town, too,” Emerie added. “So she’s ventured into Velaris four times now.”

Nesta’s eyes went wide, tears gathered in the corners as she looked between her two friends. Her found sisters no less important than her familial.

“You’ve gone out into the city…with Azriel,” Nesta asked, blinking, and Gwyn answered with a quick nod.

“He’s been very…kind to me,” Gwyn admitted, staring down at her hands to hide her smile. “We’ve had a good time.”

And it was very true. Well, last night was wonderful until this morning.

𝄋

“Gods, it smells divine,” she’d said, opening the box between them on the plaid blanket at the park by the Sidra. “I want to eat all of it.”

Azriel’s lips twitched. “I wouldn’t recommend it, Berdara.”

He sighed, reclining onto his side, leaning on his elbow as he reached over to pick another treat. She crisscrossed her legs and her arms.

“You don’t think I could?”

“I didn’t say that—I said I didn’t think you should. There’s a difference, Berdara.”

“And why not?”

“I can guarantee you’ll have an upset stomach,” he had replied, taking a bite of the chocolate-filled horn. Half—he’d eaten half of twelve after his meal with no effort. No complaints.

Molten chocolate squeezed out as he took a bite, smearing on the corner of his mouth and above as he chewed. She hid her smile, thinking the tiny heir to the Night Court probably had better eating habits than the over five-hundred-year-old Illyrian warrior.

But she didn’t tell him as he continued taking small bites. Intentionally leaving half for her, she realized. Her eyes kept darting to that dark chocolate smear. Gwyn could have just as easily told him he had something on his face, letting him wipe it away.

Maybe it was because she’d seen how his hazel eyes had focused on her mouth as she cleaned off her fingers from dinner. His fault, mind you. He was the one who forgot a simple thing like napkins. And this was the top male, the spymaster, in charge of tiny details. And yet, napkins.

Maybe it was because of the way she’d noticed the slightest change in his scent when she’d licked away the sauce—and that it didn’t frighten her. Perhaps it was the shock. The surprise. It intrigued her, wanting to know what she was doing exactly to make him feel that way.

As he took another bite, this time of a glossy strawberry tart, she moved.

A sudden surge of boldness forced her palm to move to his cheek as she said, “You have a little something…”

She swiped her thumb up, gathering the stray ganache onto her finger. Even though she wasn’t quite brave enough to meet his gaze, she knew he stopped chewing as she popped the finger into her mouth. He swallowed hard—and his scent shifted once more…

𝄋

Gwyn’s already bubbling stomach tightened at the memory.

There was no way she was going to admit any of that. Not even to her sisters. But, she knew Nesta was like a hound with a bone. Gwyn needed to change the subject.

“Emerie and Mor went on a date!”

Nesta’s head snapped to their Illyrian friend so fast that her neck cracked.

𝄋

It took a conscious effort on Azriel’s part to not look over Gwyn during the rest of training. It appeared she was trying to do the same thing. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? They wanted to look at each other.

He couldn’t tell what the hell happened last night. What had shifted? But clearly, something had. And he was spending way too much time this afternoon staring at her mouth. The worst part was his shadows only encouraged him. Nosy, unhelpful busybodies.

Unlike the other deeper shadows that manifested last night. The ones who thrived in the pure darkness that mocked him. That told the truth…

Focus, he thought as the training sessions wound down for the day.

And as they cleaned up the roof, putting everything back in order, his eyes again found the redhead. Gwyn stood with Emerie and Nesta, bracing herself against the water table. Shit.

𝄋

She’d eaten the rest of them. Everything he had saved for her to take home. All gone. Six whole pastries of varying types. He should have known better than to tell her she couldn’t, because Gwyneth Berdara loved a challenge.

He’d been careful to fly them home. Smooth with little jostling.

Azriel even walked her to the entrance to the library. She had turned and gave him a shy smile, a pretty pink flush on her cheeks. Probably from the flight and air, he told himself.

You know the real reason, his shadows purred.

“Thank you for tonight, Shadowsinger,” she’d said, lifting her teal gaze to his. I had fun.

He bowed his head to her. I’m sure you won’t be telling me that tomorrow.

Her eyes narrowed, and he smirked. Opening the door, she looked over her shoulder. “Goodnight, Azriel.”

“Goodnight, Berdara.”

By the time Azriel got to his room, he was as restless as his shadows. Twitchy. Confused. What the hell happened tonight?

And worse, he had been turned on. Very turned on.

He ended up at a pleasure house in the only seedy part of Velaris. He bided his time, searching for anyone that could scratch the itch. Ease his needs. And there were plenty of takers. But no redheads, or at least none that had matched…

That sent him practically screaming out of the place.

His mind was a mess as he flew to the House. Even more so when he stripped off his clothes, his wings spread as he collapsed on his bed…still turned on.

Fine, he’d take care of this need himself, he thought. Taking matters into his own hands—literally.

His hand fisted his cock, running up and down the length. Twisting by the tip, squeezing, running his hand back down again. It was all very clinical, planned. Jerk off until the pressure eased and he could fall asleep. But as his fist pumped, images of chocolate and the hint of a pink tongue darting between her lips filled his mind. Shiny teal eyes. Twisted strands of copper between his fingers, his palms running across that flat stomach she hid. He thrust into his grip over and over. That unyielding tongue of hers, licking over her finger. Sucking.

Gwyn.

He swore as release barrelled through him, spilling over his hand and stomach.

As Azriel laid there, panting for breath after the most satisfying orgasm he’d had in years, he could only think of one thing.

He was so fucked.

𝄋

Shame. Shame slapped him as he dared a peek over at her. Knowing what he had done last night, what he had pictured. His darker shadows were right. He was nothing. A bastard. A waste. Disgusting.

If that were true, would our little priestess like you so, his shadows begged the question, nuzzling his shoulders. She likes you and is not afraid of you, Shadowsinger.

No. Azriel didn’t believe that. He should just walk away—

Hunched over, a hand on her stomach. Was Gwyn in that much pain? His shadows shook in reply.

Against his better judgment, Azriel sighed and made his way into the House.

“Hello? I know you don’t like me,” he whispered into the void. “This request is not for me. It’s for Gwyn. Her stomach is upset and—”

Before he could finish, a glass of fizzing gold and a plate of crackers plunked onto the dining room table. He sniffed the beverage, hit with the bright tang of ginger.

“Thanks,” he said, walking the items back up to the roof.

Even though he knew he was interrupting, he cleared his throat, setting food and drink upon the water station table.

“For your stomach,” he said to Gwyn, taking a step back while putting his hands in his pockets.

She forced a smile, trying to hide her wince. “Thank you,” she said before taking a sip. “I was trying to hide it until I got back downstairs.”

His lips twitched as he put his hands in his pockets. “You really hate to lose a challenge that much, Berdara?”

She huffed and lifted her brows as she took another drink.

Someone cleared their throat. They both froze.

He pivoted to find Nesta, Emerie, Cassian, and Rhysand staring at them. Great. And it was obvious from the smug smiles, Rhysand was mentally speaking with Cassian, trying to get details. That Azriel was going to smack those smirks right off their damn faces if they uttered one word. One. Damn. Word.

After a knowing wink, Rhysand took off with Emerie to Illyria. Nesta and Cassian approached with a swagger.

Nesta sized Azriel up like an opponent, clicking her tongue and sending him a devious smile that would have had lesser warriors pissing themselves.

“Come on, Gwyn,” she addressed her friend, her eyes still pinning Azriel to the spot. “Why don’t I help you downstairs?”

With a shrug, Gwyn allowed Nesta to lead her by the elbow into the House. Twice, Nesta peered over her shoulder at him. A warning.

“Az?” Cassian said.

Azriel rolled his eyes. “Yes, Cassian?”

“Remember when Nesta came out of the bog with the Kelpie’s head in her hand?” His brother shifted from one boot to the other.

Cauldon, how the hell could he ever forget that? It was the stuff of legends. Of nightmares. “Yes.”

“Whatever you got starting with Gwyn, or are planning to start?” Azriel groaned at the implication. “Just remember that moment with Nesta. And this time, replace the Kelpie’s head with your balls. Because if you hurt that female, Nesta is so going to kill you.”

Chapter Text

Glacial rain and sleet poured, flowing between the exposed tips of wings like a gutter, freezing into icicles on the ends. Even Azriel’s fleece-lined, hooded cloak couldn’t protect him from the brutal winds whipping through the alley.

Unseasonable warmth brought rain to the already waterlogged city from quick snowmelt, nearly filling its sewers to the brink. Locks to the river would need to be opened. And soon to prevent flooding of the worst sort. Not that anything could worsen the stench of filth. The tang of sweat and gods knew what else from the slums. The people living on the streets or making a living from them.

Gods, Az hated this place. Everything about it reminded him too much of Illyria. The shitty weather. The ice that infiltrated your bones. The supposed proud people who still perpetuated the archaic caste system. Males of means abusing power to their own end. Making their gold marks on the backs of the lesser. Forcing females to make desperate decisions to work on their backs for a semblance of freedom.

The few working girls at home, whether due to how much money they made or for fulfillment; the ones of Velaris wanted to do it. No one in Rhysand’s city was ever forced—or they would certainly face the wrath of their High Lord.

And every single coin the Velaris girls gained through their effort in the pleasure houses went straight into their pockets. Not to a pimp or some other oppressor. And most of the females Azriel met, some who had attended to his needs over the years, were refugees from other regions. They had the stories and scars to prove why they had made the treacherous journey to the mythical City of Starlight.

But, Vallahan? Particularly this town; the southwestern coastal city of Verre? What a fucking waste of space.

Azriel wished he were anywhere but here. But he was the Spymaster for the Night Court. And he had been tasked with a mission; track Beron Vanserra by any means necessary. The High Lord on his trip to the continent should have been the only thing on his mind. After all, he had planned for a month down to minute detail. Scouting locations. Slipping coin to merchants returning from the Autumn territory. And barkeeps who may have listened to the loose lips of drunken soldiers.

Those details were the only reason he was currently tucked in the shadows between two nondescript brick buildings, with rodents scurrying around his ankles.

Despite that, he couldn’t get his priestess off his mind.

No, the priestess. Not his.

Az planned on leaving without saying a word. To make it easier. But, sneaky Gwyn had tucked into the shadows behind the door to the training room roof, completely catching him by surprise.

“So you were leaving without saying goodbye?” she said behind him as he was about the winnow away. Azriel closed his eyes, shifting to face her.

Her leathered arms were crossed, booted foot tapping, an eyebrow arched. A portrait of obstinance. From the tight braid in her hair, and the beads of sweat on her brow, she must have spent most of her time waiting by training. And his damn shadows didn’t tell him she was up on the roof—again.

“How did you know I was leaving?” he asked, taking a step closer to her, hands in the pockets of his leathers.

Gwyn smiled coyly. “I have my sources, Shadowsinger.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up. “I’m sure you do, Berdara.” He’d drawn his lower lip between his teeth, noting how her eyes caught the motion. “You sure you’re not the Spymaster here? He’d tilted his chin downward. Because I would be all right with retirement.”

She snorted. “You don’t need me upstaging you. Besides, retirement for you would be what? Sharpening Truth-Teller until it’s no more than a toothpick? A near eternity of everlasting brooding?”

A chuckle and smile escaped before he could hide them. But he rarely hid around Gwyn. Neither did his shadows, who were swirling around her, wrapping her shoulders in a phantom hug. They did not want to leave her behind. But, like Azriel, they were part of the job. A package deal.

“Azriel…” Her forehead furrowed. “Please be careful,” she’d said, pleaded, really, eyes glistening. And with those unshed tears glossing over teal, he slammed his mask back into place.

He had not been able to get a word to come out. Throat bobbling on a hard swallow, he merely nodded before flying high enough and vanishing into the night.

He took and held the image of Gwyn standing on the roof in her training leathers, her tousled burnished braid, with him across the hazy landscape.

Be careful ; Azriel could offer that much. Thank the gods she asked for something he could promise her. If she’d said safety or remaining uninjured? Well, those aspects were part of the job.

It was a week ago that he’d left Velaris. Left Gwyn on the roof. He missed their now weekly outings. For the last month, he’d escorted her once a week around the city. Sometimes more. Sometimes, whenever Azriel was bored, or when his shadows got entirely too pushy, he’d wander down into the depths of the library. Clotho always nodded and escorted him to the stacks his priestess— the priestess—was working.

And Gwyn never treated his visits as interruptions. No, she always had a wide smile, happy for the company. And the taller reach because she had him shelving anything on the top shelf. He was happy to assist. Plus, it allowed him to monitor the place. Let me get a feel for the others. And so far, the only person there giving him any bad vibes was Merrill.

Someone’s coming, his shadows whispered, pulling him from his thoughts. His shadows did their job, covering him in a shroud of darkness. Making him undetectable to the senses.

The meeting was to take place above a pub in Verre. Not in the capital, not in the elegant home of a High Fae or a diplomat. Add on top of that the place had been warded in the front doors and windows? Suspicious as fuck.

But a single door, the one that was about five paces to his left, was left unwarded. The one to the kitchen. His mouth twisted as a burly male owner opened the door. Right on time. The owner’s male companion pushed his partner up against the brick wall. And then sank to his knees. Completely oblivious, Azriel swept into the tavern before the door closed unseen.

𝄋

The room was in absolute shambles. Confetti streamers strewn over lamps and furniture. Piles and piles of smutty books. A buffet table full of sweets, topped with a decadent chocolate fountain—that the miniature pegasus was currently drinking from. Another gluttonous girl’s night in the private library courtesy of the House, Gwyn thought with a smirk as she shooed the pegasus from the treats. Snout covered in chocolate, Peggy clopped away, curling up in the corner.

Gwyn took a seat on the mountain of fluffy pillows in front of the warm hearth. A snore drowned out the roar of the crackling. Emerie was out cold on the gray velour settee. Drunk or passed out from exhaustion was the real question.

“Guess Mor is wearing her out,” Nesta joked from Gwyn’s left, reclining in her favorite indigo chair, a novel in hand. The impromptu lady’s night had been for Nesta’s sake. Rhysand called away Cassian to handle an emergency Illyrian issue. And while Nesta was too proud to admit it, having her mate elsewhere caused her anxiety. Gwyn could only imagine.

So they danced. Laughed and giggled. Discussed their favorite filthy book passages, a few so dirty, Gwyn hid her blushing face. And, though one would think Gwyn had learned her lesson from the pastry incident? They’d gorged themselves sick on dessert. Somehow, Gwyn had skirted every casually placed comment on her and Azriel. Which was a good thing; because she didn’t understand it either.

Gwyn had no expectations when she’d asked the Shadowsinger to be her chaperone. But—the more time they spent with one another? She looked forward to each little adventure, finding it hard to do her job or think when all she did was daydream. And on those nights, she paced the rooftop like a caged animal waiting for him. The anticipation made her palms sweaty. Made her stomach flutter, her heart pound. And when Azriel finally walked through those doors, ready to whisk her away?

He left her breathless.

Every outing into the city ended at their park to stargaze. Where she now listened to Azriel tell her all the Illyrian star legends. And she pretended that her pulse didn’t race every time he struggled to hide his smiles. Or the small victory with any deep laugh she coaxed from him. As she broke through his shield, little by little.

Each night she’d ask, So are you going to tell me about Gerona tonight, Shadowsinger?

And every night, Azriel would give her a shrug and a crooked grin. Silence. Insufferable male. It made Gwyn want to march right down to the library stacks to find any texts on Illyrian legends. The expression on his face when she’d surprise him and tell him what it meant—priceless.

The night Azriel sought to sneak off to gods knows where on the rooftop, Gwyn swore she heard a whisper on the wind; Gerona leads you home. Searching the sky above, she found the constellation over the training pitch right before Az appeared. And when he strode out, her chest tightened, and she had the strange urge to run to him.

Gwyn had known Azriel for over a year as her trainer. She’d grown to cherish him as a friend. But, now? Now, there were other instincts at play. Things she wasn’t sure she could handle.

“Care to share your thoughts, Gwyneth?” Nesta spoke, flipping the page of the novel in her lap. “You’re thinking so loud, you’re distracting me.”

Gwyn’s fingers absently twisted the small charm on her bracelet.

“You’re fidgeting and tapping your foot. So…?” She slammed the cover of her book.

“No, it’s my turn to ride the mini-pegasus,” Emerie mumbled in her sleep, rolling over on the settee. Nesta and Gwyn choked down their laughter, shushing each other.

Nesta gave Gwyn a once over and scooted off the chair to sit beside her. She knocked her leg into the redhead. “Come on, what’s troubling you?”

Gods, what was bothering her? Gwyn wasn’t sure she could talk about it. But what were her options? Keeping this to herself was only slowly driving her to the brink of insanity. What she needed was perspective.

“When…?” Gwyn bit her lip, her stomach twisted up in nervous knots. “Do you ever…?” Her throat clamped down on the truth trying to escape. She shook her head. “It’s nothing, Nesta. Nevermind.”

“Gwyneth Berdara, you realize you can tell me anything, right?” Gwyn returned a nod. So Nesta forged on, “What is it?”

Gwyn drew her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, resting her cheek atop her knee. She distracted herself with the roaring fire ahead. The yellow tendrils of flames reminded her of warm summer nights and rich hazel eyes. The chills that had raced over her body when his thumb swept over her palm as they’d held hands. His scent reminded her of crisp mountain air and bonfires.

“I’ve been getting these feelings —and I don’t know how to handle them.” Truthfully, Gwyn had no clue what to do with the overwhelming rush of… desire. The building want. How it frightened her enough to smother that passionate blaze with the scraps of her frayed heart.

“Feelings such as?” Nesta pushed her delicately to go on. As a mother bird would to her fledgling in a nest. A firm yet gentle coaxing.

Gwyn twisted the charm on her wrist over and over.

Nesta sat studying, dissecting Gwyn’s reaction, clearly coming to her own conclusion. “Ah. Feelings for…anyone in particular?” Gwyn’s head shot up, meeting Nesta’s clever gaze. The curiosity turning her friend’s eyes sharpened steel. “It’s fine if you do.”

Gwyn blazed with embarrassment, the flush slowly coasting down her body.

"Just so you know, your face is as red as one of my mate’s Siphons,” Nesta playfully teased. “And it’s adorable.”

Gwyn chuckled, unwinding the nerves a tad. “I-I really don’t understand what I’m feeling, Nesta. I’m just…”

Confounded? Embarrassed? Shocked? Amazed? But those words remained unsaid as the silence stretched between them. And Nesta waited for her to go ahead.

Gwyn sucked in a deep breath, releasing a long, cleansing exhale. Cleared her mind, slowing her racing thoughts from a gallop to a gait. “Sometimes, when I see…” Mother above, was she really going to admit this aloud? No, she couldn’t say his name. Ridiculous.

“Are you attracted to him?”

Gwyn stiffened.

Nesta smiled comfortingly. Such a rarity for her harsh, firm features to soften. And yet it somehow made the eldest Archeron even more breathtaking. Nesta reached over, taking Gwyn’s hand in her own.

“Gwyn, it’s all right if you are.”

“Even after?” Gwyn cringed, closing her eyes tight. Nesta’s hand squeezed, tethering her in the darkness.

“Yes, even after,” Nesta answered, her eyes focusing on the hearth. A quick pop of the embers shuddered through her friend. But unlike the year before, Nesta didn’t twist and run. Now she faced the fire, embracing the orange flame as she did her silver.

Yes, if anyone knew trauma about moving on from it, it was her best friend. Gwyn rested her head on Nesta’s shoulder. Who, in turn, leaned her cheek against red hair.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” Nesta stated. “It’s healthy. And it’s a natural reaction to someone you like—even Azriel.”

“Is it that obvious?” Gwyn sighed.

Nesta snorted. “Gwyn, you’d have to be dead to not be attracted to Azriel. Even Emerie and Mor, who prefer females, realize how pretty that male is.” A giggle burst out of her. “Hell, even I can see he’s attractive.”

Her head shot off Nesta’s shoulder. “You?”

Nesta acknowledged, a sly smile spreading across her face. “This one time, Cassian and Azriel were sparring. Before everyone trained up on the roof. In the summer. Completely shirtless. Sweat dripping. Muscles flexing. Swords clanging. And, holy gods, I had this fantasy about the two of them. Cassian in front and Az from—”

Gwyn covered her ears, shaking her head. “Thank you for that visual, but I don’t need to hear anymore!”

Nesta clicked her tongue. “Oh, don’t act like such a prude, Berdara. Nothing worse than what you’ve read in Belcorn’s Promise. And I know you’ve read that one, so don’t even try to deny it.”

Well, shit. Gwyn couldn’t refute that. She had read Belcorn’s Promise—and, yes, Gwyn found the scene with three faes to be…exciting.

“The point is, it’s normal to feel things like that,” Nesta reassured, giving Gwyn’s hand another encouraging squeeze. “There’s nothing wrong with it. And if anybody says anything different, they can go fuck themselves.”

Gwyn nibbled on her lower lip. “When I read books, sometimes I get those feelings, too.”

Nesta nodded. “Normal. Hell, occasionally I’ll read those scenes before Cassian comes home just to be ready for him. Illyrians are…well…best to be prepared. Sometimes, that involves a little self-care.”

“Self-care?” Gwyn tilted her head.

“What do you think Yari was doing in Parmin’s Quest? When Erul is away and she’s in the tent alone thinking about him?”

Oh.

Nesta glanced at her sidelong. “You’ve never tried that?”

Gwyn stared in shock and shook her head.

“If you want my advice,” Nesta said. “Whenever you’re ready. You should,” She paused, barking a laugh. “Learning what you prefer is important. Trust me, I’ve been with plenty of males who had no clue what in the hell they were doing. They needed directions. Knowing what you prefer, what makes you feel good? It’s important. It puts you in control of your body. Your pleasure. You are in charge, Gwyn.”

In charge. In control of her body. Honestly, the thought of… touching herself there.

But, Nesta had a point. It was her body. It belonged to her.

“Thank you,” Gwyn said, encircling her friend in a hug. “Thank you for the advice. Truly, I’ve been driving myself insane trying to analyze everything.”

“I’ve noticed. You’re my very best friend, Gwyn. And my sister.” Sister. Gwyn’s throat constricted as Nesta continued. “That’s what sisters are for. You can talk to me about anything. Always. And you know that I’m only going to give you the truth.”

The blunt truth, Gwyn knew that for a fact.

“And as for our resident broody bat?” Nesta said, pulling back to look at her friend. “I’ll tell you this. I felt like the world was against me until I met you and Emerie. Only Cassian and Azriel had my back. I’m sure Azriel had his opinions, but he kept them to himself. In his aloof way, he was supportive. He helped me train. Helped the priestesses. Hell, before that he helped Feyre learn to fly…even though he had pushed her ass off a cliff to do it.”

Gwyn’s eyes went wide. Wait, Azriel pushed the High Lady off a cliff?

“My point is, Azriel is a wonderful male, Gwyn. Blessed with an absurd level of patience he had to develop growing up with Cassian and Rhysand. So, even if nothing happens between you two beyond the friendship you have right now, enjoy it. He’s a good friend—and I trust him.” Nesta pulled Gwyn in for an embrace, kissing her temple. “But,” she whispered against Gwyn’s hair. “If he ever does anything to hurt you, you know I’ll kill him, right?”

𝄋

They had to come downstairs sometime soon. His shadows had already returned to him with their report. Beron wasn’t meeting with officials. Oh no, it was much worse. The High Lord of Autumn was meeting with fucking mercenaries. Three to be exact. Most of the information had, unfortunately, been relayed by written and coded instructions.

So he patiently waited, tucked into a dark corner table of the tavern, his back well-protected. A view of the entire noisy tavern. Closest to the stairs, pretending to nurse a tincture of ale. The warmth and crackle of the hearth, although unnecessary, was more than welcome to push back the chill every time a patron opened the door.

Tonight would have been his evening escorting Gwyn around town. Maybe he would take her somewhere new when he returned home. Soon. He hoped.

The most mind-boggling thing? Not that he wanted to spend time with the precocious female. No, it was that he was making time to spend with her. Adjusting his schedule whenever he could, when things weren’t urgent, so he wouldn’t miss their scheduled evenings together. Or secret extra bouts of training on the roof. Or her lunch shift. And he’d never done that for…well, anyone. Well, except for his brothers and their annual Solstice snowball fight.

No doubt she misses you too, his shadows assured, as if trying to comfort him.

Boots thumped down the stairs. Az kept his head lowered, his face shielded by the hood of his cloak.

It’s one of them, Singer.

And Azriel’s target was sneaking out the backdoor. Perfect.

Keeping a safe distance, Az dropped more coins than needed on the table and weaved through the tables until he reached the kitchen. His shadows concealed him as he caught up to the male, who was several inches taller than himself. Similar build to Cassian. And of course, his mark decided it was the perfect time to take a piss on the alley wall. Too fucking easy.

The mercenary didn’t know what hit him as Azriel pushed him facefirst against the hard brick, Truth-Teller pressed to the male’s throat. It happened so fast, the male didn’t even have time to button his pants. On command, his shadows swarmed, masking both of them from sight and sound.

“What the fuck?” the male tried to yell as Az pushed the blade to his throat just enough to draw a slight trickle of blood.

“Shhh,” Az crooned. “Why were you meeting with Beron Van—”

“I wasn’t meeting—” his words cut off by the press of the dagger.

“I’m asking the questions,” the spymaster hissed. “Now, why were you meeting?”

There are no papers on him, his shadows confirmed after shifting around the male. Of course not. He probably memorized the information. The letters burned. That’s what he would have done if Az was in Beron’s precarious position.

The male fae didn’t answer, merely tried to shake loose. Azriel pressed the target’s face into the brick enough to leave indentations.

“Well,” Azriel started, a wicked twist of a smile on his lips, “looks like we’re going to have to do this the hard way.”

He let the darkness close in, covering him like a burial pall, as he winnowed them away to carve out the answers.

Chapter Text

Gwyn’s heart was overflowing. She’d somehow convinced Nesta and Emerie to waste their entire afternoon making friendship bracelets. Gifts for the new Valkyrie recruits, symbolizing that none of them were alone. Not anymore. Proof they were now all part of an ever-growing sisterhood, bonded through tears, sweat, and blood. All of which Gwyn would gladly spill for her friends, especially for her two sisters at her side.

“Nes, how in the actual fuck am I supposed to do this,” Cassian muttered to his mate. Curiosity, it seemed, had gotten the best of the mighty Illyrian General, who ended up at their table—crafting. The things that a bold male would do for his mate.

Gwyn dared a peek from the wristband she was braiding. Her eyes went wide. What the? She tilted her head, her hair sliding over her right shoulder. How—how was it even possible?

How the General bound his middle and index finger together with the black strings went beyond her comprehension. She shrugged, biting her lip to squelch her laughter.

“Stop pulling, you Illyrian baby!” Nesta sighed in frustration, her fingers working at the knot. “You’re making the damn thing tighter!”

Cassian pulled. Nesta’s eyes narrowed, shooting him a withering stare that would have shaken the knees of a death god. “You are worse than a child, Cassian.”

The large Illyrian male pushed out his lower lip in a pout. Clasping her mate’s cheeks between her palms, Nesta leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. Her teeth caught his protruding lip as she pulled away. Cassian’s large body shuddered. A deep groan rumbled from him that made the tips of Gwyn’s ears turn pink.

“Get a room,” Emerie muttered, smirking, as she pretended her project was the most important thing in the room.

Nesta snorted. “It’s my House. I get every room.”

“Damn straight,” Cassian muttered, kissing his mate again.

“You are ridiculous.” Nes smiled against his mouth. Another soft peck. “And don’t feel bad. Honest to gods, I don’t know how to make these damn things either. Gwyn must wield magic because hers always turns out too perfect,” Nesta huffed, swatting her mate’s now free digits. “I mean, look at this mess.”

Nesta reached over, unveiling her bracelet of indigo, eggplant, and magenta intended for Roslin. It arced into an S-curve instead of a straight line. And several sections were wider than others. But it still made Gwyn smile widely. A little piece of Catrin survived in that bracelet, woven into this tradition.

Gwyn needed to see this. Especially today.

Violet over rose. Rose over marigold. Marigold over violet. The strings crisscrossing over the other. It was for Lortcia, a priestess who originally hailed from the Spring Court. Until the war with Hybern.

Hybern. That man. Those soldiers.

Gwyn’s hand trembled.

She’d worked so hard—so damn hard to leave those memories entombed in the temple brick. But on this specific date, this damn day, the memory of him …

Them.

Her.

Fear took her, seized her, coiling around her ribs like a serpent.

I am the rock…

You are here, and she is not…

“Gwyn?”

I am the rock against which…

“Gwyn, honey?”

You should have left. All you did was stand there…

I am the rock against which the surf…

“Berdara!”

Gwyn blinked, pulled from her spiraling.

“Are you all right?” Nesta asked, her forehead creased.

Nesta knew what today meant to Gwyn. But did the rest of them? Is that why Cassian joined?

She leaned forward, a curtain of copper hair covering her flushed cheeks. Gods, would it kill them to stop staring?

“I’m fine,” she answered with a tight smile, her fingers absently twirling the threads in her lap.

I’m fine. Her mantra during those lost months after the attack. After she pushed herself out of bed. Forced herself to eat. Found her voice. When everything she lost weighed Gwyn down like rocks in her pockets as she waded into a river. Where each I’m fine was a potent lie of stone. Each hollow word added one more rock, dragging to the bottom. Drowning her in grief.

It wasn’t until Gwyn mustered the courage to add her name to the sign-up sheet and started training that things slowly changed. Through routine and effort, gaining control of her breath and body. Then one day, those heavy stones became pebbles. Then, one by one, she removed a rock. Now, most days, her head was thankfully above water.

But today? She bore the extra weight. As a reminder. As penance.

While the others chatted, she tied off the end of Lortcia’s gift. Done. Gwyn grabbed three more colors to begin anew. A cobalt blue. A slate gray. And a black as dark as midnight.

She loosed a long sigh. Gods. She missed the Shadowsinger.

It had been two long weeks since Azriel took off to parts unknown. Not that she’d been counting. Gwyn missed him. Their outings. His help at training. How Azriel challenged her, and she pushed right back, smirking at her triumph.

She missed him. His hazel eyes. His intensity. The way he tried to hide his smiled and laughs from her—and failed.

The corner of her mouth quirked up.

Cauldon, that beautiful mouth of his. Mother, help her, Gwyn wanted to kiss Azriel. And when the realization sank in, it was like observing a red sky at sunset. Knowing clear skies were in the future. There was hope for a safe journey on calm seas. Hope.

The doors to the various roof decks were open, allowing the sweet floral breeze to sweep through the room. Her gaze locked with the wide doorway to the training deck, as if she could wish him to appear. What she wouldn’t give for him to be here, especially today—

Her heart kicked up swiftly.

As if summoned, Azriel strode into the House. The smile on her face slipped as quickly as it had spread. Something was…off with him. Body as taut as a bowstring, hands shoved deep in his pockets, he marched by where their group sat at the dining table.

“Az,” Cassian greeted. “Good to see you back.” No response. Az kept walking, jaw set tight enough to break teeth. “Well, then.”

Gwyn didn’t think. Jumping up from the table, her feet moved under their own power, drawn to him until her hand rested upon his back. And just like that—he stopped, his breathing ragged under her palm.

“It’s good to see you back, Shadowsinger,” she said, voice soft, nervously rolling the shades of blue, gray, and black in her free hand. “Why don’t you sit and join us?”

Azriel’s shoulders slumped.

“Uh, Gwyn, maybe we should let Az get to where he needs to go,” Cassian started before she forged on, not caring if they had an audience.

No. This was more than his usual mask. Her hand rubbed circles over his shoulder blade, his back muscles tensing as he stared straight toward his bedroom.

“Azriel, what’s wrong?” she whispered, loud enough for only his ears. “Please tell me.”

Not one word. Not even a glance over her shoulder. Her stomach dropped.

Cassian studied his brother, brows drawing together. She heard rustling as he moved to stand.

Gwyn came around, walking until she stood directly in front of Azriel. If she could only see his face, then she could… Gloss glazed over the muted gold. Pain. That was raw pain in his stare.

Her eyes darted over him, taking in what she could see. Was he hurt? Injured? No visible cuts from what she could see, thank the Mother. But, if anyone knew that wounds didn’t just fester on the body, it was her.

His hands opened and closed in his pockets.

An idea sparked in her mind like a ball of fae light at dusk. Maybe he needed what she needed today. A happy distraction. Family and friends.

“Come on, Shadowsinger, I’ll teach you how to make these.” Gwyn offered a smile, holding up the bracelet she was working on. Only then did Azriel acknowledge her presence, regarding what dangled from her fingers.

His head turned, eyes skimming over the chaos strewn across the table, the rainbow of colored thread covering the surface. Of his friends and family gathered. When he turned back to Gwyn, he watched her work the strings in her hands, crossing the colored cords with her deft fingertips.

His head dropped, the dark onyx hair brushing against his forehead as he shook his head.

“I’m tired, priestess,” he sighed, long and deep.

“It won’t take long. It’s easy,” she said, her voice soft as if to soothe a frightened animal. “I already started this one for you. Maybe you can make one for me.” She smiled. “I’ll show you.”

“Not today, Berdara,” he answered, his voice rough, eyes sealed shut. He moved to go around her, his pace quick as he stepped down the hall. But Gwyn was quicker. She ran after him, gently grasping his upper arm.

“It’s simple. You’re a trained warrior. I’m sure you can make a simple bracelet,” she tried to tease.

After what felt like an eternity, Azriel pivoted around. His eyes snagged hers, flashing ochre. “I said no .”

“Gwyn, maybe we should leave Az—” Cassian interjected, his voice closer now.

No, she told herself. Azriel needed her. He shouldn’t be alone right now. And…Gwyn needed to help him like he’d come to her aid that day…

“It’s just a little fun, Azriel. Come sit with me.”

His entire body jolted, hands balling into fists. Shaking, he ripped his arm from her hold.

Azriel erupted. “I said no, Gwyn! No!” He backed away, tugging his hair with both hands. “What fucking part of NO don’t you get? Leave. Me. Alone.”

Gwyn’s lips parted on a shuddering inhale, hand splayed over her heart. She jerked back as if he’d struck her with a physical blow. It may as well have been because it knocked the wind out of her. Everyone had to have heard the devastating cracking in her chest.

Azriel swore and grunted, turning away.

Tears blurred her vision. No. No, she would not fall apart in front of him. Let him see how he’d hit home.

She gulped, tears burning the backs of her eyes. “All right,” she uttered, her voice faint and breaking. Azriel closed his eyes. “I-I have to get ready for the evening service, anyway.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll—see you all tomorrow.”

“Gwyn,” Nesta called after her. But Gwyn was already on the move. Beyond the door, down the first flight of stairs to the library below. The walls of the stairwell rattled, echoing as a door slammed somewhere above. “Gwyn, stop!”

She didn’t stop. Not as her friends pleaded. Not when their footsteps echoed her own. Not when her tears finally slipped free. Not until she was curled in her bed behind a locked door, still clutching the unfinished strands of blue, black, and gray.

𝄋

What the fuck had he done?

The weapons mounted on his bedroom wall swayed from the slam of the door.

Godsdammit, he should have listened to his gut and gone to his apartment across the city.

Azriel paced across his room, haunted by her crushed expression. The sorrow in those amazing teal eyes of hers. Fuck. He’d done that. To the female he’d missed dearly. Looked forward to seeing her every damn day he was away. Wanted to run home to—which was so ridiculous, it made him laugh.

But he should have fucking known better. He always required space. Space to decompress. To get drunk. To forget.

The darkness of the Hewn City oozed into his veins like poison. The brutality of the kill lingered long after, the screams often stalking Azriel in his sleep. Usually, he’d head over to his secret apartment in Velaris—alone to collect himself. To come back to life. Because tasks Azriel was charged within the bowels of the Court of Nightmares? They even caused his shadows to disappear.

Gods-fucking-dammit, Azriel should not have gone to the House first. He dragged his hands through his hair, kicking the trunk at the foot of his bed, denting the side as the metal scraped across the floor.

Ariel sank onto the mattress edge, elbows resting on his knees. He’d been so exhausted. Too drained to winnow after checking in with Rhysand at the River Estate. Running into Elain certainly didn’t help the situation. And the Elain issue would need to be rectified. And fast. So after briefing his High Lord, he got the hell out of there.

It was better this way, Azriel thought. Gwyn finally saw him for who he was. The cruelty. The rage.

It was better this way. She was better off without…

He shook his head, swallowing hard.

The place where Azriel’s heart should be was hollow. A gaping hole beneath his ribs. But he’d driven that knife into his own chest. And he was the one who twisted. And kept twisting. Until there was nothing left.

Az stared at his open palms, transfixed by the uneven terrain of his skin. Turning his hands over and over. His lips curled in disgust. And Gwyn wanted him to create something of beauty—when he still had blood under his fingernails?

The blood of someone he had tortured. Slaughtered and disposed of a little less than a day ago.

Azriel had to give the prick credit. The bastard lasted longer than most—four grueling days. In the end, the outcome was the same. Azriel got what he needed. And the male begged for the suffering to end. Death was one gift the Spymaster could return.

The darkened line of dried sanguine mocked him, reminding him of how incredibly unworthy he was to even think of the priestess, let alone touch Gwyn…

Stroke her cheek. Brush her copper hair off her face. Hold hers…

When they had sliced. Stabbed. Taunted. Strangled. Carved. Gutted. Killed…

Bile rose, burning the back of his throat.

Unclean. He needed to wash again. He stumbled over to the sink in the bathing chamber. Grabbing the soap, he worked at the line of crimson and scrubbed. And scrubbed. Scoured until the surrounding flesh was raw and the stains were removed from his body—but there was clean the death from his soul. That brand would always stay. They all did. Every single one.

“Fuck!”

His palms slammed on the porcelain sink, his fingers curling around the edge until his knuckles were white. Leaning forward, Az rested his forehead against the mirror, his panting breath fogging the glass.

He’d yelled at Gwyn. No, he’d fucking screamed at her. Taken his anger, his frustrations, and turned it on her. And his choice of words? Gods. No wonder she fucking ran out of there like someone yelled fire.

Azriel found his reflection, hating who he saw. Hated that he’d even been capable of snapping at her. Hated that something as stupid as insignificant pieces of string pushed him over the edge. But seeing them, the simple task that he could never do? Never share with her? It flipped a switch.

You. Ruined. Everything, his stepmother had hissed in his ear before throwing him to the cold darkness.

His father and stepmother were right. He was a waste of breath. A burden. Worthless.

His fist shattered glass. Blood rushed over his knuckles as his chest rose and fell unsteadily.

“Well, brother, I came here to beat the shit out of you, but it looks like you’ve got it covered.”

𝄋

The pounding on Gwyn’s door had been relentless for the last half-hour.

“Please let us in, Gwyn!” Emerie begged from the other side.

“Gwyn, open this damn door!” Nesta ordered.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice only somewhat wavering.

The banging started again, heavy and strong from Nesta’s insistent fists.

“I swear to all the death gods, I will break down this damn door with my bare hands, Gwyneth Berdara! Open it now.” A pregnant pause. “You shouldn’t be alone today,” Nesta said, her voice breaking. Gwyn’s chest constricted. “Please, let us be with you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Gwyn—”

“I’m fine.”

After an hour, the knocking finally ceased. Gwyn embraced the silence, letting it wrap around her like a quilt.

“All right, we’ll leave you be.” For now , left unsaid. “I’ll see you at the service.”

A tear slipped over her heated cheek.

“I’m fine,” she whispered as sleep swept her into sweet oblivion. Where Catrin survived. Where Azriel’s words hadn’t cut her so deep. Because Gwyn knew the meaning of the word no. And on this day, three years ago, she’d learned that word hadn’t mattered.

No.

Not at all.

𝄋

Cassian crossed the threshold to the bathing chamber, eyes hard as flint meeting his in the spider-webbed mirror.

“I was expecting Nesta to be the one to threaten me,” Azriel hissed, his hand throbbing. Still, he let it bleed.

His brother watched as drops splattered onto the marbled tile, arching a brow. “Well, Nesta’s going to be even more pissed if you stain the grout. But she’s got other things to deal with. She went after Gwyn.”

Azriel slammed his eyes shut at the name.

“You know,” Cassian continued, swearing as he grabbed a towel from the linen closet, tossing it over to Azriel. Az caught it, wrapping it around his fist. “The redheaded priestess you yelled at in the dining room like a fucking lunatic.”

Fuck.

“The female who has been taking the time to get to know you,” Cassian went on, a muscle twitching in his hard jaw. “To know the real you. Who saw what I saw when you walked in the door. Recognized your tells and tried to help in her own way.”

Azriel huffed, wincing as he squeezed the towel around his fist, blood quickly soaking through the terrycloth. “Well, if you know me so well, you know exactly what set me off.”

Cassian crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I do. But, since you never talk about it, they don’t. So just you seemed like a bigger prick than usual.”

Azriel’s chest started to cave in on itself.

A waste of breath. A burden. Worthless…

Cassian ran his hands through his long black hair, clasping the back of his neck. “I should have fucking warned her how you need… distance afterward…” He swore.

Azriel stared brazenly into his brother’s eyes. “After I ripped that asshole apart for information before I executed him? Yeah, I’m sure a priestess whose job is to heal people would understand that,” he spat, sarcasm flowing through each word.

“I don’t think you give her enough credit, Az. At all.”

A dark, sardonic laugh slithered from his hollow center. “No, Cass, I give her all the credit. Which is why this probably worked out for the best. Because I shouldn’t have anything to do with her.” His chest cracked with every truthful word. But every word was accurate, loaded with five hundred years of reality.

A waste of breath. A burden. Worthless…

Cassian stepped forward, leaning his shoulder against the wall. “Do you like her?” Silence. “You know, I’ve noticed how you’ve been with her. How you’ve been carving out time for Gwyn. You have never done that for…well, anyone. But you have been for her, Az.”

Silence. He clenched his fists. A muscle worked in his jaw.

“It doesn’t matter, Cassian.” He waved his good hand through the air. “I’m done chasing after things I don’t deserve. I’m just…done.”

“Then you are a damn fool,” Cassian snapped, taking a breath to rein in his temper. “You know, I really wanted to punch you. But now? I think you’re doing a good enough job of kicking yourself in the nuts.”

Azriel was about to toss his brother’s ass out when Cassian said, “Do you remember that day Nesta told you that at training? That you were Gwyn’s new ribbon?”

Cauldon, how could he forget? Az had adorably pissed Gwyn off, insinuating the girls weren’t going to get through the Blood Rite qualifying obstacle course. Deep down, he knew she would. Gwyneth Berdara was a spitfire. Never giving up. Never submitting—no matter what.

“Yeah,” Az answered, throat bobbing. “And did you forget what she did with the first ribbon? She sliced it right in half.”

Shit. He didn’t mean for that to slip out. That it wasn’t just his fear of dishonoring her just by being with her—but of it hurting him. And, gods, he probably deserved it, but he couldn’t deal with one more blow. He just couldn’t.

Recognition dawned on Cassian’s face, softening the General’s features. “She did. But, better to be the ribbon that was sliced, Az. The one remembered. The ribbon that meant something. The one she kept. Don’t be the ribbon left alone blowing in the wind. Untouched and forgotten.”

Azriel’s shadows smoothed over his shoulders as he slid the mask over his features, though he couldn’t stop his hands from trembling. Or the burn behind his eyes.

“Nesta wasn’t easy. Still isn’t. Hell, I’m no picnic either,” Cassian chuckled, though his eyes were lined with silver. “She kicked and screamed, clawed every fucking step of the way. But it didn’t change how I felt about her, not for one damn minute. Never will. Every cut and mark was worth it if it led us to where we’re at now. I wear every scar as a badge of honor. And I would do it all over again, Azriel. ”

Azriel’s throat worked on a swallow. “That’s because you have a big heart, brother.”

“So do you under that crunchy shell,” Cassian’s mouth turned up at the edges in genuine amusement. “If you’d only let others see it.”

Someone cleared their throat. Nesta stood in the doorway, wearing a simple long navy dress, tears rolling down her face. “I was all ready to come in here and kick his ass,” she pointed to Azriel. “But I didn’t want to interrupt. That was…” She swallowed hard, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. “That was beautiful, Cassian.”

Cassian strode over to his mate, cupping her face, tilted her head back. “I meant every word, Nes. You will always be worth it.”

Dropping a soft kiss on his mate’s mouth, Cassian winked and left the room, leaving Azriel alone with the eldest Archeron, who looked inclined to declare war. She remained in the doorway, hands braced on either side of the threshold, effectively blocking his escape. A slippered foot propped to prevent him from shutting her out.

“You fucked up.” He couldn’t deny that. “I know something is going on with you, but what you said to Gwyn was uncalled for.”

His jaw set.

“So here’s what’s going to happen, Azriel. First, you idiot, you’re going to bandage your damn hand. Then, you’re going to get dressed and join me.”

“Do I even want to know where we’re going? Already have a place to dispose of my body, Nesta?”

She snorted, her gray-blue eyes narrowed into slits. “Don’t even tempt me, Shadowsinger.”

Chapter Text

Gwyn’s nose scrunched as something stroked it. Once. Twice. She batted it away with a swipe.

Wake up.

A tickle over her bunched forehead and down over her cheek.

Wake up, priestess.

Gwyn’s eyelids cracked open, vision blurred with sleep. Every muscle in her body ached, her face puffy from the tears she had cried. Moving her arms above her head, she stretched and stretched until her muscles loosened and her joints popped.

Her bleary gaze landed on her poor excuse for a window, her singly thin sliver into the outside world for so long. Heart pounding, Gwyn shot up in bed when she noticed the sun was no longer streaming in bright shades of yellow. No, it tinted the diffused light cascading across her floor in orange and rose. Sunset.

Cauldron, how long had she slept?

“Mother-fucking-above-shit,” she hissed nonsense between clenched teeth, beating her fists into the thin mattress as she pushed up. Like a nocked arrow, she flew out of bed, quickly smoothing out her now crinkled robes and combing the rat’s nest of her hair with her fingers.

Gods, a rumpled mess she may be, but there was no chance to fuss over appearances. She had made a promise, one that she intended to keep.

Practically yanking the wooden door off its hinges, she ran as hard as she could as she darted down the hall as a hare would with a wolf on her tail.

“I’m sorry….I’m sorry…Pardon me,” she apologized before nearly running over three priestesses who didn’t recognize the common courtesy of staying to one side.

Gwyn’s legs blazed with a fiery passion by the time she skidded to a stop at the rear entrance of the temple. As she crossed beneath the hallowed stone archway, touching a single drop of sacred water to her forehead, an ominous semi-circle of hooded figures greeted her.

One stepped forward, raising two steady hands to remove her hood. “You’re late… again,” Merrill hissed, her view sweeping up and down with a dismissive curl to her mouth. “Not that I’m surprised.”

Could this day get any worse?

𝄋

Azriel followed Nesta down the stairs in silence, the echo of their heels scuffing coarse stone underfoot the only sound. Further and further, they descended the winding staircase until a large pebbled door appeared ahead. And when he knew where they were headed, Azriel halted.

“No,” Nesta said, looping an arm through his, hauling him with her. “We’re going.”

He exhaled loudly. “I-I don’t think I can—”

“You don’t need to say anything to her.” Yet hung in open. Because he would have to say something to Gwyn, eventually. An apology for being a royal dick. An explanation for his behavior. Perhaps even groveling on his hands and knees.

The first thing he noticed in the library was the absolute stillness—the nothingness. None of the noises of the working priestesses sounded as they passed by Clotho’s empty desk.

“They aren’t here and before you ask, I spoke with Clotho after I checked on Gwyn.” Nesta’s face hardened.” Clotho permitted me to bring you.”

Azriel nodded, too wearied to fight Nesta as she dragged him between rows of tables toward the rear stacks where he’d rarely tread. In front of them stood two massive solid doors of granite so perfectly balanced, Nesta could push one open with a touch of a single finger. They swung wide with silent ease before she drew him inside.

A coyly woodsy scent of spice hit him first. Used to darkness, Az’s eyes quickly adjusted to the hazy light, a light mist of incense dimming the glow of hundreds of flickering candles of various colored wax. The peaceful, tinkling noise of flowing water pervaded the air as much as the smoke. Delicate chimes clanged, a mysterious prayerful rhythm resounding off the rounded rock walls.

Holy Mother—literally. This…was the temple. The inner sanctum for the priestesses. How in the Cauldron had Nesta gotten permission for him to be there?

Nesta paused before a long row of votive candles, many ablaze, while others just a bare wick. She dipped her forefinger in the bubbling fountain to her right, anointing her forehead. Taking the tapered torch, she found three unlit votive candles and set each alight one by one, before setting the tall candle in its sacred bronze holder.

She bowed before leading Azriel to the last row of pews, shoving him until they were tucked into the back corner. Thankfully, the pews were like backless benches and could accommodate his wings comfortably.

“Was it necessary to corner me?” Azriel questioned, shifting to adjust his wings, drawing them in tight.

Nesta shrugged. “I didn’t want you to try to leave.”

“You know I can winnow, right?”

She glanced at him sidelong with a smirk, clicking her tongue. “And you remember the wards that prevent winnowing are not just into the House, but here in the temple as well, correct?” Well…shit. She patted his arm. “So you’re stuck with me.”

They sat in companionable silence as Azriel fidgeted worse than a toddler. Typically, his ability to remain still was unparalleled, but right now? He’d rather deal with a group of enemy soldiers than sit through a religious service.

“Normally I prefer a better seat,” Nesta muttered softly, pointing. “Right up front. But Clotho said you had to stay in the last benches. But she understood why I wanted you to come with me.”

“Wait? Why me? Why didn’t you drag Cassian to this?” He jerked his chin toward the front.

“Because you need to see this.” Nesta halted as the bells started anew. She leaned closer, her mouth close enough to the shell of his ear that Azriel could sense her breath. “Do you realize what today is?”

Was today special? It wasn’t anyone’s anniversary or birthday so…Azriel shrugged, shaking his head for a no.

The bells pealed louder. A solemn line of priestesses entered from behind the dais in single file, like a parade of spirits. Silent and divine. “It’s been three years since Sangravah, Azriel.”

Azriel stopped breathing. An icy shiver skated down his spine, and his eyes went round. Holy fuck, how had he…

“Shit,” he whispered, kicking himself for both forgetting and swearing in the place of worship. “I…”

“Forgot,” Nesta finished for him, holding his stare with purpose. “That’s why we’re here.”

The priestesses who came in found seats facing them in a semi-circle surrounding the dais, sitting as one. Hands folded across their laps, hoods pulled up. They were the epitome of unnerving grace. The ethereal cerulean radiance from their Invoking Stones shone on their nose and cheeks.

Suddenly, the patter of tiny feet emerging rushed from the behind altar. Children. There were young girls here donning pastel robes. Though he couldn’t figure their ages with any accuracy.

Two priestesses organized the chaos, corralling them like cattle to before the dais, arranging the female children in two rows. Merrill strode forward to the shrine, offering a prayer to the Mother, and those they had lost three years ago, before returning to her spot.

The two overseeing priestesses tiptoed to the side, nodding at the youths. The younglings stood straighter and opened their mouths. And a song arose in harmony. Well, as much as a gaggle of kids could be in concert.

One tawny-headed girl in the bottom row, no older than five, held silent. Pale blue eyes were large with fear, clutching a ragged stuffed bear to her chest. A priestess approached the girl, kneeling on her robes, now eye level with the frightened, mousy-haired child. The priestess swept back her hood—and Azriel gasped. He’d recognize that head of rich copper anywhere.

Gwyn knelt before the youth, taking her small hand, and sang along with the choir. And Gwyn’s voice was captivating, luring him in with its timbre and truth, leaving him spellbound.

When the slight girl still wouldn’t cooperate, Gwyn paused briefly to do a silly face. Her tongue stuck out to the side, her eyes crossing. The girl burst into giggles, shoulders relaxing. Gwyn nodded to her and opened to sing again. And this time, the girl sang along.

“I didn’t realize there were so many children here,” Az admitted in a whisper.

“This is what I wanted you to understand. All of those kids, Azriel,” Nesta stated as one kid hit an off note, making Nesta’s lip twitch. “Every single one of them is from Sangravah.”

He inhaled, biting his lower lip.

“Those children right there, grinning and singing? They are alive because of you and Gwyneth.”

He stared at their faces, not recognizing any. But it had been three years and kids grew so fast. And these little ones had grown up. But he took no credit. If it hadn’t been for Gwyn and her quick thinking, they would have all been slaughtered—or worse.

The little lady holding Gwyn’s hand swung the joined palms between them as they progressed in a hopeful ballad of loss and peace, love and living on in the afterlife. A joyful hymn of prayer for the fallen. Gwyn spun the girl, who cackled as Merrill shot them with blazing disapproval. The slight one’s voice and Gwyn’s grew louder, and they sounded…

Gods, it was just…

That shy one must have been no older than two at Sangravah. A babe.

He swallowed, keeping back the tears building.

“Gwyn—” Azriel cleared his throat. “Gwyn is great with children.”

“She is. The children live at another temple, but come and visit often. Gwyn told me she sneaks them treats and has sleepovers. The girls adore her.” He could understand why. Her penchant for fun. Her unwavering patience, the affection reflected in her blue-green eyes. All qualities you’d need to be a—

“I suppose one day,” Nesta continued, “if she wanted, she’d be a wonderful mother.”

Up ahead, Gwyn’s eyes shut as she fell into the melody. A light emanated from her chest, pale and bright. It was then he realized she was the only priestess with their hood lowered and not wearing a blue crystal on her brow.

“Why doesn’t she wear the Invoking Stone?” Azriel asked, his head tilted.

Nesta shrugged, her hands wringing in her lap. “Gwyn told me she hasn’t worn it since Sangravah. The why? You’d have to ask her.”

Azriel pondered that as the song crescendoed, Gwyn’s voice soared as if on wings, higher and higher. And he…he couldn’t tear himself away. She had ensnared him, no longer able to avert his gaze from the glorious creature, the perfect mix of gentleness and strength. Of spirited flames and calming waters.

And then the music faded as the verse ended. Gwyn remained smiling and giving the children well-deserved praise that had them all beaming with pride. The little girl with the teddy bear threw herself at Gwyn, wrapping her short arms around Gwyn’s neck as Gwyn wrapped the girl up in a hug, murmuring into the girl’s ear. Pulling back, Gwyn smoothed over the girl’s hair and grinned before standing and stepping to the dais.

Azriel watched as Merrill intercepted Gwyn on the way to her seat, hissing something in Gwyn’s ear that had Gwyn’s eyebrows raising and mouth dropping open. Biting her lip, she bowed and disappeared out the rear entrance.

Nesta stood to leave, muttering, “That Merrill is such a wretched bitch.” Azriel snorted, drawing the attention of several priestesses. Roslin waved at him.

As they left, Azriel paused at the candles. Sighing, he grabbed the tall taper and lit three votives. Nesta scrutinized and smiled softly.

“I think I’ll go check on Gwyn,” Nesta said. “If you want to join—”

Dark talons scraped Azriel’s mental shield, followed by Rhysand’s, Azriel. Please come to the River House. We need to speak regarding what happened this afternoon.

Azriel heaved a sigh. “I can’t. Rhys needs me…but, please…”

Nesta crossed her arms over her chest. “I will not apologize for you.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Just make sure she’s all right.”

With that, Azriel left to explain himself to his High Lord. Could this day get any worse?

𝄋

Staying in her room lasted only five minutes before Gwyn stripped off her robes and shrugged on her training leathers. She had asked—no Merrill ordered —for her to return to her dorm immediately after the children’s choir finished. According to Merrill, Gwyn’s behavior with Tulia was "enabling" and "distracting." And, in Merrill’s opinion, "making faces was un-priestess-like." And Gwyn "set a poor example."

All Gwyn sought to do was to make the nervous young one feel comfortable—and she did. Tulia sang with a joyful smile on her cute face. And that was all that mattered. If Merrill thought kindness and empathy were poor traits? Then Merrill could take her opinion and shove it.

As Gwyn reached under her pillow for her dagger, her eyes snagged on the Invoking Stone on her nightstand. The bluestone watched her, mocked her as if refusing to adorn her brow once more. And Gwyn agreed. She would never wear that stone or wield its power again.

With a shake of her head, Gwyn tucked the dagger into her thigh holster. Snagging a piece of ribbon, she hastily plaited the pin-straight hair into a tight braid.

Turning away, her feet carried her up and up, each stair underfoot feeling like freedom. Each step away from her dorm held the truth, one she had ignored for too long. Why stay, each footfall begged. The love of her work. Her research, cataloging, and preserving histories. And the children, who she cared for with all her heart, felt a kinship because of her similar upbringing. But, priestesshood was no longer Gwyn’s true calling. Not anymore. If she was honest with herself, she’d questioned it the very moment Catrin had begged her to leave.

And now? Only covered in leather with the pommel of a sword in her grip did she truly feel the truth. Clothed and armed in her own power, stronger than any Invoking Stone.

In her heart.

Her soul.

Gwyn was a Valkyrie.

𝄋

Azriel landed on the roof with a thud, not caring if he woke Nesta or Cassian. Or interrupted any of their annoyingly loud marathon bouts of sex that drove Azriel to want to hurl himself out the nearest window. He just didn’t fucking care. Didn’t need it, couldn’t deal with any more bullshit today.

Az had realized it was bad once Rhys told him to close the door when he entered the office. Rhysand, who would normally lounge in his armchair, was sitting up ramrod straight, donning the full High Lord persona. It was obvious whatever this was; it wasn’t good.

“So, are you going to explain to me why I was summoned, Rhys?”

Deep violet-blue eyes fixed him on the spot, darkness slipping from behind Rhys’s powerful shield. “I thought I made it clear when I warned you to stay away from Elain. So,” he clicked his tongue. “What did I see in the hallway this afternoon, Azriel?”

Azriel had rested against the wall. Leaning back, he crossed his legs at his ankles and dragged a hand through his hair. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? You had her fucking pinned, her hands above her head. It appeared quite,” Rhysand paused. “Intimate. And tell me if I was wrong, Azriel. I believe we had this conversation last Solstice.”

Azriel met his haughty stare, eyes narrowed into slits. “You did. This afternoon wasn’t what it looked like.”

Rhysand huffed, his palms smoothing over the arms of the chair. “What’s the saying? That’s what they all say.” The High Lord’s fingers tapped on the leather of his armrest. “I spoke with Elain earlier. Azriel had stiffened. She said you approached her.”

Azriel’s brows shot up in disbelief. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?” Rhys hadn’t stirred, keeping his gaze pinned on the Shadowsinger. “I won’t lie to you. We did…things…since Solstice…but it’s been over since before Nesta and Cassian’s mating ceremony.” He chuckled darkly. “But you already knew that, didn’t you? That look you gave me that day?” Rhysand had not deigned a reply. “Did you even bother to peer into her mind? Or is it merely easier to assume me to be the bastard?”

The High Lord nodded. “I did, Az, and I saw you trying to kiss her—and then pressing her to the wall.”

Azriel’s mouth had slackened, his eyes widened. “That’s bullshit, he’d spat as he pushed off. That’s not even fucking possible because that’s not what went on!”

“That’s what I saw, Az.”

He’d walked over to Rhysand’s desk, bending forward, his splayed palms flat on the surface hard enough to shake the furniture. “Then you reach into my mind, Rhysand. Right. Fucking. Now.”

So Rhysand had and learned exactly what took place. Had seen Azriel on his way to Rhysand’s office, being intercepted by Elain. Clad in a sheer nightgown which left little to the imagination, Elain had pushed Azriel up against the wall, pulling his face to her in a searing kiss. Had witnessed Az pull away while Elain’s mouth trailed his throat, her hands skimming down his sides until they slid to his front, cupping him through his trousers.

“I missed you,” she’d purred, releasing a button. Then another. And another, until Azriel caught her hands, spinning them so Elain was against the wall, his fists capturing her roving wrists above her head.

“That’s enough,” Azriel had gritted out, chest heaving against hers. Saw Elain arched into him, her supple chest brushing against his.

Of course, Rhysand had appeared in the hallway at the same moment as Azriel dropped his hold of Elain’s arms. And as she slid them to her sides, a ghost of a smile on her lips, she turned and walked away.

Rhysand had withdrawn from Azriel’s mind, his mouth set in a firm line, rubbing his chin. “That’s not what I saw from her,” he’d relayed, his eyes darting, searching for an explanation. “But I hadn’t detected deception from either of you. How—how can that be?”

“I don’t know, Rhys. But you know me.” Azriel had paused. :Something is going on with Elain. I don’t know what but…”

Rhysand had given him a curt nod before offering, “I’m sorry. I needed to make sure. You know, Lucien has been telling me we need to get Elain out of the Night Court. I am for it, but Feyre doesn’t want her to leave.”

“Maybe Lucien can sense something that we can’t through the bond.”

“It’s possible. Just stay away from Elain, Az.”

And with that, the High Lord had dismissed the Shadowsinger.

Since he left, Azriel had been tightly wound. Ready for war. To take out his hostility and guilt with swords, daggers, and punches. Anything to keep Gwyn—and Elain—out of his head.

Fuck, he needed to stab something.

The sounds of metal meeting wood and breathy huffs of exertion met him as he moved across the ring.

Gwyn was there in the pit, hair pulled back, the color of burnished bronze in the moonlight. Wearing her Illyrian fighting leathers that hugged her body, lining every glorious curve and dip of the muscle.

She stood before a row of mats, holding an Illyrian dagger, twirling it in her grip. Which, of course, was completely against the rules at training. Smirking, Gwyn ran, quickly tucking and rolling over the mats and popping up to her feet with the grace of a dancer. The dagger flew out of her hand; her aim true, hitting a training dummy in the head. Quicker than the wind, Gwyn spun, throwing another dagger precisely where the heart would be.

She paused, stumbling a step, as she noticed him watching. Her eyes narrowed, and she spun to the left, throwing the dagger and hitting its target. In the dummy’s groin. Daggers was not one of Gwyn’s strong skills, but… damn.

“Great form,” Azriel said. “Working out some aggression, I see?”

She nodded, striding over to the dummy, back straight and hips swaying. She yanked out the one buried to the hilt in the faux skull.

“I call this one Merrill,” she grunted as she pulled it free, moving on to the one in the groin area. “Hybern. And this one,” she paused at the one by the heart, panting. She shook her head, yanking it out.

Azriel knew that dagger was meant for him. What his words had done to her. He had seen it in her eyes.

He watched Gwyn set her blades over at the weapons rack and go to the water station. Wow, she really was sweaty. How long had she been practicing?

“I’m sorry,” Azriel whispered, no longer able to hold back the guilt weighing on him.

Gwyn turned to him, her cheeks flushed with exertion, stray strands of hair plastered to her sweaty brow. She raised an eyebrow, took a drink, and leaned back against the table. Waiting.

“I shouldn’t have spoken to you in that manner,” he said, moving tentatively closer.

Her teal eyes bored into his, with no response, verbal or otherwise. He couldn’t read her, and that was…odd. Gwyn wore her heart on her sleeve and right now, in front of him?

Nothing.

His shadows appeared, swirling to Gwyn over her shoulders as if to shake her. Azriel dared another step. Then another. Shaky and cautious until he was an arm’s length away.

His throat bobbed in a swallow. “I’m so sorry, Gwyn. There’s so much…so much going on right now and…” He exhaled, closing his eyes, not daring to see her reaction. “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Gwyn replied, taking another sip, wearing a guise suitable for the Court of Nightmares.

“Tell me how to make this better. Do you want me on my knees? You want me to beg? I will—”

Gwyn cut him off. “I don’t need you to beg,” she replied, her mask slipping a fraction, softening her resolve. Her gaze took him in, roving up and down the length of his toned frame. The body of a warrior. “I want you to spar with me.”

His eyes went round with shock. “What?”

She nodded, stepping closer. “Yes. You demand it as much as I do.” She pushed off the table. “We go hand-to-hand,” Gwyn said, tossing him the tape to wrap his fists. “And while you do,” she continued, wrapping her own hands. “You tell me what’s been going on in your life that provoked you to snap at me. I need both things. You rescued me from the brink of death three years ago this night, Azriel. Let me help on this one. Deal?”

He paused, seeming to contemplate her ask. The Shadowsinger knew if he left now? If Azriel didn’t accept her request, there may be a bond broken in their friendship beyond repair. But after the pain he caused her? Gwyn deserved to know.

“All right,” was his soft reply.

“Good,” she smirked. “Now, Shadowsinger. Get in your stance.”

He rolled his shoulders and got into position. “Bring it on, Priestess.”

𝄋

“So,” Gwyn huffed, blocking his jab with her forearm with a swipe. “You moved from one very long female crush that held no interest to another that has a mate?” She pivoted on her foot, feinted to the left before delivering a blow to his right side. He puffed as he pushed her backward. “So what you’re saying is you’re a glutton for punishment?”

“That about sums it up,” he grunted out a snort as she kicked him in the ribs. Az grasped her ankle, flipping her onto her back. She struck the mats with a loud thud.

“Ouch,” she snorted.

Azriel couldn’t help but grin down at her. “Here, let me help you—”

Gwyn vaulted up and flipped to his back, wrapping her legs around his waist, putting his head in a headlock.

“I got it,” she whispered into his ear. “You give up?” She applied more pressure to his throat.

He smirked. His shadows wrapped around her arms and up to her neck, tickling her. She giggled and, unable to stop wiggling, let go.

“Not fair,” she complains amidst the giggles. “You cheated!”

Azriel pulled her until her back was against his chest, folding his arms under hers, his palms behind her head in a stress position. She tried to twist, unsuccessfully. The more she struggled, the more he tightened.

“Do you surrender, Berdara?”

“Not a chance.”

She brought her legs up and dropped, tossing the full weight of her body forward, throwing Azriel over. Now spread out on his back, Gwyn standing over him, legs spread, hands on her hips. The portrait of triumph. But victory was a fleeting thing. He simpered, grabbing a hold of her leg, and down she went as a felled tree would in the forest. Laughing and groaning as she rubbed a shoulder, she rolled from her side onto her rear beside him.

Her wonderful laugh. It hit him in the heart like a punch every damn time. It was musical, soothing. Even his shadows veered over to her, wanting to be near. She turned to him, her smile lighting up his world.

“That was stupid of me.” She grimaced.

“We all do stupid things occasionally. They’re called learning experiences. You all right?”

“I landed on my shoulder odd, but I’m all right,” Gwyn said, her features turning wistful. Longing and yearning filled her stare.

“What?” Azriel asked, fighting the urge to reach out and stroke her cheek. Too late, for his shadow did it for him.

“Why do you torture yourself?”

Ice filled his veins. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gwyn. I have to—” He made to sit up but was stilled with a light touch of her hand along his bicep.

“Azriel.” Her voice was like a command to his soul. He laid back down and angled toward her again. “Why?”

He remained silent. A weight had lifted off one shoulder with each truthful admittance, even though Azriel avoided giving the names of the people involved. This was too close. Way too deep. Too real.

“Why?” she pressed. “Why do you tolerate suffering from a lover you can never have?”

A muscle ticked in his hard jaw. “There was a chance she might not choose her mate, there’s still a chance. But it’s…over now.”

If he was being honest with himself? It was over the instant Gwyn walked onto the rooftop.

Gwyn huffed a laugh. “Sounds like whoever the distraction female is, she’s a piece of work if she hasn’t decided yet. It’s almost—cruel.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Childish, even.”

Az opened his eyes, his features stark. Gwyn merely shrugged.

“Sorry, that’s just how I feel. Do you know what I think? I think you want that affection so bad, that you will allow anyone who gives you a moment’s attention to win it.”

Well, she hit the nail on the head, wasn’t she? And that was one thing Azriel loved about Gwyn. The ever-emerging boldness while she discovered her place in the world.

“Maybe with the first,” Az admitted. “But not with this second female, it’s not—”

“Isn’t it? Sounds like she was a diversion from the first. And then became something else. Or am I wrong?”

Fuck.

She grabbed a hold of his right hand. A shudder rolled through him. Her fingers stroked his palm. Over his scars. And, for once, he didn’t pull his hand away to hide the ugliness.

“I try to live by the Valkyrie mantra; I am the rock against which the surf crashes. Your thoughts and experiences are the surf.” A pause and a ragged exhale. “And, I realized, the surf may not eradicate the rock outright, but it still can take its toll, wearing it down over time. Bit by bit, little by little, altering the rock, reshaping and reforming until, eventually—the rock is changed…or gone.”

He ran his callused thumb along the back of her delicate hand, eliciting a shiver out of her. Those teal eyes met and ensnared him.

“Azriel. Don’t let this wear you down. You deserve happiness,” Gwyn said, as he turned his head away. Her warm palm cupped his cheek, forcing him to face her again as she kept a hand entangled with his. “A love that is freely given.”

Lies. All lies. He shook his head in protest and heaved out a shuddering exhale.

“I mean it. You deserve someone who will give their whole heart,” Gwyn smiled sadly. He reached up, touching the soft hand on his cheek. “You are brave. Kind. Fearless. Selfless. You are worthy of love, Azriel. Don’t let the surf destroy that.”

As if to prove his worth and her words, Gwyn leaned forward. And she kissed him. Azriel’s eyes drifted shut at the brushing of soft lips over his. Barely a kiss by his standards. He pulled his hands away, letting them open and close at his sides, not trusting himself. Her mouth moved over his, inexperienced in tentative, exploratory sweeps. And it was everything .

Willed his heart to settle in his chest, his hands to stay where they were, even though his fingers longed to weave through her silky hair. Take control of the kiss. But she made the first move. Gwyn kissed him and he’d be damned to force anything she wasn’t ready for. This was all about her choice. And she chose this.

All too soon, she pulled away, surprise and something else in her large eyes.

“I’m sorry. I-I have to go,” Gwyn stuttered, stumbling and scrambling to get to her feet like a colt taking its first step. She rose and hurried for the open doorway leading to the stairs without a backward glance. Her cheeks were a bright crimson.

Was she blushing from their shared kiss or embarrassment? Because Gwyn had nothing to be embarrassed about. Nothing at all.

𝄋

Get down those stairs and back to the library dorms, Gwyn thought, heart pounding in her chest in an erratic drum beat. Cauldon, if only she could winnow. Had she really done what she did?

“Gwyn, wait!” Azriel hollered from where she left him sprawled on the mats.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Shadowsinger! Thanks for the exercise!” She winced as soon as the words flew out of her mouth.

As soon as her feet hit the stairs that led to the House, she sprinted.

“Is everything all right, Gwyn?” Nesta called after her from the dining room.

“Fine! Just fine!” Gwyn answered in a rush, avoiding her friend’s sleuth-like gaze.

Oh Mother, save her, what had she done?

She kissed Azriel.

Gwyn had leaned over and pressed his lips to his, his taste still lingering on her own. After that complete admission, he made about being attracted to another female? What in the Cauldron was wrong with her?

But, gods. Her fingertips touched her lips in wonder. They still tingled as something sparked in her chest.

Her first kiss.

Chapter Text

Gwyn stared at the ceiling all night, her fingers tugging on her lower lip as she watched the stone until the pebbled canopy morphed into the endless velvet of a navy sky. Cool dew chilled the heated skin on her back, having seeped straight through her robe. Her palms fell to her sides, the feel springy blades of meadow under her fingertips.

Wait…grass? Where was she?

Gwyn tilted her chin up, scanning around only to feel her hair brushing against soft hair the hue of raven wings. A female lay head-to-head beside her, her webbed fingers weaving as a delicate spider spindled a web. Only interwoven in those hands, the beginnings of an elegant headdress of…wildflowers.

A great gust cut across the wide field, sending the ambrosial scent of blossoms and warm sunshine. Leaves and high grasses rustled in a refrain she’d always remember. A southern breeze caressed over her skin like a tender touch, filling her head with reminders. Treasured recollections she locked away inside her chest.

Her forehead creased as she tried to recall the melody her mother hummed as she waded into the water of the cool lake, calling out for her daughters to join. She always swam farther than where their toes touched the muddy bottom.

This place. It was a place stitched into her heart like a quilt, each square piecing together in a grand tapestry of her fondest memories.

Webbed fingers and wildflowers. Clapped rhymes and giggles. The sweet essence of waterlilies and morning dew floating in the air. Gwyn knew who spread out beside her as easily as she knew herself. Her other half.

Her heart clenched.

“Cat-Catrin?” she asked, clearing the slumber from her swollen eyes, finding the back of her freckled hand damp.

“Hello, Gwyn,” Catrin said, her voice reminding Gwyn of windchimes. Musical and light.

It was Catrin sitting beside her, whole and unmarred. No hint of the horrible gash across her throat. She looked… perfect.

Two years to the day, her sister appeared before Gwyn in a dream, pledging the gift of two nights of the year. On the day they came into the world together, one soul in two bodies. And the day one had departed, their souls cleaved apart by Hybern’s blade.

Gwyn sealed her eyes shut tight enough to see a white flash behind her lids. How had she forgotten all about Catrin tonight?

Disturbingly intense hazel eyes promising violence came to mind, haunting her like a ghost, showing her the answer.

“Gwyneth.” Her sister loosed a subdued sigh. She shifted a palm under Gwyn’s head, nestling it snugly in the cushion of the gathered robes in Catrin’s lap. Gwyn blinked as Catrin’s webbed hand loosened the stuck copper strands from her face before cupping Gwyn’s cheek. “I’m so proud of you, sister.”

Gwyn’s eyes flew wide open. “How can you even say that?”

Her twin shook her head, her onyx waves skimming over her shoulders. Catrin leaned over, planting a soft kiss on Gwyn’s forehead.

“You got out. You’re safe—you’re moving on, Gwynnie. You’re strong and resilient. And I know…” She paused, her dark brows knitting. “I know what arose earlier.”

Gwyn’s throat bobbed on a hard swallow. “Oh. Yes…Today was tough. Harder than expected,” Gwyn confided, her lower lip quivering. Her eyes fluttered shut as her twin’s hand eased over her hair and her burdens in slow caresses.

Catrin snorted and grumbled, “Males are fools.”

A giggle burst out of Gwyn. “Cat!”

“What?” Cat’s fingers stilled in Gwyn’s reddish-bronze locks. “ He yelled at you.” She raised and dropped a shoulder. “As your sister, I’m allowed to offer an opinion. But that’s not what I was referring to.” A mischievous smile inched across her twin’s face. “You kissed him.”

Gwyn could feel the suffocating heat rush over her from head to toe as she slapped her palms over her face so hard Catrin laughed.

“Don’t remind me, Cat. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Cat chuckled. “ Yes, you do. You knew exactly what you were doing and thinking. And it’s all right, Gwynnie. More than all right.”

“Well, to be honest, I may have been pushing…he’s a fine male—wait, how did you know?”

Gwyn peered up under dark lashes, finding eyes the tint of glittering seas mirroring her own. So bright they gleamed as if lit behind. Familiar yet ethereal.

“I know things.” Her eyes flashed. Catrin smiled so radiantly, she shone from within. “Sisters watch each other’s backs. Even after death.”

Catrin twisted her body, her arm reappearing with something held in her fist. A single blush-colored flower of five petals twirled, the individual petals whirling in a blur of pink.

Her sister arched a black eyebrow, glaring at the bloom in her fingertips as if under a spell. Those blue-green eyes…they changed. No longer bright, but the murky color of churning seawater before a storm. The hair on the back of Gwyn’s neck rose as a dreadful chill crawled down the length of her spine.

“You know? It’s strange, Gwyn,” a voice spoke. A voice familiar and ultimately not. As if Catrin was singing three-part harmony by herself.

Those mysterious opaque eyes snared Gwyn’s like prey in talons. “It’s hard to tell one flower apart from another,” the voice continued. “How can one be lovely and pure, while others lure you in with their fragrance and can slay you with a drop of their poison?”

A hesitation, angling her head, the cascade of her onyx hair spilling to one side.

“It’s often hard to know them apart until it’s too late.” Holding her stare with those unnatural eyes, she handed Gwyn the blossom before going back to sweep over Gwyn’s head.

“Oh look, there’s Gerona,” Catrin said, her hand stilling in Gwyn’s strands. That was Cat’s voice. The sister she recognized. Finding her gaze, Gwyn saw only bold teal gazing back at her.

What—what just happened?

"You know Gerona will always lead you home, don’t you, Gwyn?”

𝄋

Pale streaks of sunlight crept across the ceiling as the bird calls sailed in the breeze of his open window, harbingers of dawn’s return.

Azriel rubbed the heels of his palms in his eyes. The grittiness of another sleepless night, a familiar friend. The dragging weariness a fellow traveler.

Sleep, his shadows often pleaded. Yet instead, he replayed what took place on the rooftop on repeat to confirm it was true. Until darkness bowed to a new day.

His wings twitched and spasmed, aching under the pressure of his back as he twisted onto his side, stretching as he went.

Last night was a puzzle missing too many essential pieces. How? How in the mother-fucking Cauldron had the evening progressed from apology to sparring to ending in a kiss? And, gods, the kiss …

Az deciphered the art of touch long ago, serving him well. The body turned into a fluent second dialect to translate. How pinpointing the exact spot, the specific pressure, brought you what you wanted. How a gentle, sensual pet and lingering gaze could arouse interest. Or how a simple, passionate caress could unleash a heart-racing torrent of desire. A fleeting glance or a fidget could distinguish friend from foe. Lover from a rival.

But what to make of Gwyn’s flushed face as she tore away? Those tender, shy brushes of her exquisite, full mouth against his? They tormented him with phantom touches, making him crazy with need. For clarity. For more.

Gods above, he wanted her. To keep her unwavering friendship like the most precious gift. Bask in each bright smile as his sun. Needed his lips to be the sole ones she kissed, her hands exploring every part of his body. And he was dying to know every damn inch of her. Unwrap every damn thing that made Gwyn Gwyn.

Az’s whole life was guarded by icy darkness—his shield. But her kiss broke the shield, warping and irradiating this place within. The dark yielded to the light like lightning, opening his eyes to what had to be done.

His hands trembled at his sides, fisting the onyx sheets at the thought. Dammit.

Chilled air swept against his exposed arm as a cat brushed against its owner. His shadows had always been there for him. Answered his desperate wails when no one else had. Comforted him in the misery. And they grasped deep inside, there lived that boy rejected by everybody.

And damn, Gwyn’s words nailed him with the truth, forcing him to take stock of what the hell was going on in his soul. His heart.

Why do you torture yourself? Because he earned it. He ruined everything.

You deserve someone who will give their whole heart. You are brave. Kind. Fearless. Selfless. You are worthy of love, Azriel. He was a waste of breath. A burden. Worthless.

She cares about you, Shadowsinger, words brushed the shell of his ear. Tell her how you feel. Let her be the judge.

Dread settled like iron in the pit of his stomach, twisting up his insides at the what-ifs.

What if she merely kissed me out of pity? he asked his dark friends. What if she won’t forgive me for how I spoke to her? What if she realizes…

I’m a monster, he thought to himself.

We are with you, Shadowsinger. Do not fear. Your hearts sing the same song.

Easy for them to say. Azriel only hoped the Mother and the Cauldon and whoever else was listening, were on his side. Because next time he saw Gwyn? He was going to dive in headfirst. Take the risk. His shadows swirled around him like a cyclone, as if saying yes. She is worth the risk.

Once. Only once before had he said the words. Not to Mor. Not to Elain. But to a female with deep violet eyes and hair the color of starless midnights. Young. They’d been so damn young and he so foolish and careless with his heart. When she died, a part of him she had brought back to life perished with her. But now? Several hundred years later, a girl with the beauty of a sunset and eyes like a mountain stream found that piece he thought lost.

So, yes. She was worth every risk, even if it destroyed him.

𝄋

The dream churned in her head as Gwyn drew on her leathers, Catrin’s words breadcrumbs leading her to…Wildflowers? Godsdamn Gerona again? Her eyebrows drew together. Taking a deep cleansing breath in through her nose, she slipped her arm into the snug sleeve. The exhale released as Gwyn strapped the dagger to her right thigh.

Later. She would dwell on it later.

Staring into the small mirror as she plaited her copper hair, Gwyn barely recognized the female standing before her. The one armed, outfitted in dangerous leather with a sturdy figure of muscle. A girl no longer scared of the vast, wicked city. A bold female who kissed…

Her braid snaked over her back, a shake of her head as Gwyn made her way to the dorm door.

Gwyn’s hand rattled the cool, metallic doorknob, heart leaping into her throat. She could do this. All she needed to do was twist and pull.

She couldn’t do this. No way could she face Azriel after what transpired last night. Because she did it to him. Not with him. He hadn’t moved an inch…

Get your head in the game, Berdara. You have training today.

Rolling her shoulders, Gwyn started down the lengthy, dimly lit hallway toward the ancient winding stairwell. Up and up she moved, one foot in front of the other, her footfalls echoing off the curved walls. Unease followed her with each step like a shadow, making the hair under her collar lift.

Her breath came out in short pants as she neared the top. Four more floors. Four more until she discovered if Azriel hated the kiss. Liked it. Or if he was merely going to avoid her. And Gwyn didn’t know which was worse, and it made her chest clench so hard she stumbled. She stopped, incapable of moving a step further.

“You can do this,” she gave herself a pep talk, pushing herself to continue. “It’s not a big deal, right?”

Right. All you did was kiss Azriel without permission. Mauled his mouth and scurried off like a startled hare. Gods, she defined the word pathetic. How could Gwyn even look him in the eye today? Or explain why did what she did? That something drew her to him like a flower to the sun.

Gwyn’s eyes squeezed shut, her hands balled into fists. “You’re being ridiculous,” she muttered to herself. “Move. ”

“Get your ass up here, Berdara!” Nesta yelled from high above, her tone brokering no humor. “If you’re late, Cassian is going to make us run laps! I’m blaming you if that happens!”

Well, shit.

“I’m coming!” she shouted back as she pressed on, skipping two stairs at a time, her booted soles squeaking on the rock. Meeting her two sisters already waiting for her at the top, their arms crossed over their chests, Gwyn pushed through them and headed to the door leading to training. Better to get the impending, horrifying awkwardness over with.

“Late night?” Nesta started, her footsteps close behind.

Gwyn cut her off, knowing exactly where Nesta’s interrogation was heading. “No, Nesta. I simply slept in.”

“So it has nothing to do with you running like a mad female and a particular Illyrian— “

“No,” Gwyn snapped, her pulse pounding with every stride toward the door.

With a shove forward, Gwyn was on the rooftop. Roslin and Thea waved at them as they approached. The newest recruits to cut the ribbon and earn their way to Valkyrie rank.

Cassian stood before them, arms crossed, a shrewd eyebrow raised at his girl’s tardiness. But someone else was noticeably absent.

“He’s not here,” Nesta whispered in Gwyn’s ear, setting a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Gwyn’s heart sank. “Oh.”

The gentle grip on her squeezed as Emerie patted the other as she stepped around the pair. Even Cassian’s eyes showed sympathy. Cauldron, who else knew what happened?

Embarrassment heated her cheeks. She wanted to hide. To race downstairs and toss herself into bed with the blankets over her head. Scream and yank her damn hair out for thinking about kissing the Shadowsinger. Didn’t want to regret the kiss because…she loved it.

“All right, Ladies,” Cassian bellowed. “Let’s get to it.”

Groaning, Gwyn ground her boots into the coarse sand, the grains grating underfoot. With a swing of her arms, she set into her fighting stance and waited for commands. And so began the longest training session of her life.

𝄋

The orange hues of dusk painting the horizon line were in stark opposition to the gray rolling in from the south. His wings shuddered as thunder rumbled in the distance, heralding a springtime storm, the heavy scent of mist saturating the air. The rain would arrive shortly.

Azriel was glad to find the training ring empty for once. He’d often find an ambitious redhead sneaking extra exercise. The last thing she should be doing in a thunderstorm was brandishing a metal sword, waving it around as a makeshift lightning rod.

The House was hushed, deserted when he entered. A note from Cassian stated he and his mate had gone to the River House for supper if he cared to join. With Elain there? Possibly Lucien? No fucking thank you. He’d sooner drink straight faebane than endure that torture.

But a vacant house was a blessing. The exhaustion finally seized him, his eyelids heavy. His sore feet lead in his boots. Fuck, he needed to sit and relax. The day had been long with winnowing and flying to the edge of the Spring Court, awaiting word from Eris.

One of Az’s most trusted spies failed to check in after nearing the border of Autumn from Winter. When Azriel informed Eris, the heir to Autumn held onto his arrogant mask. But for a split second, the Spymaster noticed a twinge of apprehension flash in his golden eyes. Eris vowed he’d follow up and left in a blazing conflagration.

Sleep, his shadows spoke. Go to bed, Shadowsinger.

For once, he agreed with his meddlesome friends.

His shuffling gait made quick work of the dim hall leading to his bedroom. He couldn’t wait to strip off his leathers. Scrub off the grime in a nice bath. Sink into his comfy bed, cool sheets against his bare skin—

Out of the corner of his eye, Azriel noticed lights on in the library. He backtracked two steps and stared.

Gwyn sat in the indigo chair, her legs tucked under, her elbow propped on the armrest. A novel lay in her lap, unopened. She wasn’t reading. Her chin rested on her fist, eyes focused on the brewing storm out the window, deep in thought.

He cleared his throat. She turned to the sound, blinking rapidly. Her back stiffened as soon as their eyes met, a look which she quickly averted, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

“Good evening, Berdara.” Thunder crashed at the same instant, and she jolted in her seat.

“Good evening,” she replied in a small voice, placing the book on the low table beside her. “Nesta and Cassian are at…”

Azriel strode over the threshold and onto the elegant rug in front of the unlit hearth. “I saw the note.” His eyes fixated on the book. Another romance judging from the two half-naked characters on the front. “Doing a little reading?”

“I came up to train some more.” Obvious since she was in her leathers. “But it looked like it was going to storm, so I came inside.” The rain started coming down in sheets, lashing against the window. “Looks like you came home just in time.” She rose, glancing at her booted feet. “I actually should head back to the library.”

He should let her go, let the conversation rest for another time.“Gwyn, wait.” He paused, trying to talk himself out of this as his shadows shivered in silent anticipation. “We need to talk.”

She halted, keeping her back to him. “About?”

“About last night,” he said while rubbing a hand on the back of his neck.

The nape of hers crimsoned. Fuck it all. Azriel was right; she felt embarrassed. As she spun around, his heart nearly split in two when he looked upon her, eyes lined with silver.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice wavering. “I didn’t know what I was doing, and I just did it without thinking or asking and I’m sure it was terrible…”

“Wait. Stop,” he cut short her spiraling, his heart hammering. “Gwyn, you think I didn’t like it? The kiss?”

Her watery gaze searched his. “You didn’t even move or kiss back, so…yeah. You just kind of laid there like a dead fish on a bank.” A dead fish? He bit back a laugh as she tilted her head in question. “What did you want me to think?”

Well, she had a point. He stepped forward until they were close enough to share breath. “I didn’t move for two reasons. First, you caught me off guard. I wasn’t expecting any of that. Especially the kiss. And two? I didn’t want to scare you. Because I really want to kiss you back, and I wasn’t sure if you were ready.”

Surprise widened her eyes as her fingers rubbed her lower lip. “You did?”

He bobbed his head, gently tugging her hand away from her mouth. “I do. I want to kiss you.” Azriel paused. He reached up, palm hovering above Gwyn’s cheek, but not daring to touch her skin. Not yet. “May I kiss you, Gwyneth?”

Her shocked inhale was audible, but she nodded all the same, whispering a faint, “Yes.” Gwyn leaned her soft cheek into his open hand, her skin so delicate, so pure under his mangled flesh.

He tilted her head back, her eyes already drifting shut. Leaning down, Azriel pressed his lips to her cheek, then her jaw, and halted over her mouth, feeling her breath puff over his.

And then Azriel kissed her. He kept it lazy and sweet, his thumb making soothing strokes over her jawline. Taking his time memorizing those lips, searing the moment into his memory. Because Az would never forget this. His hands were shaky, his heart hammering against his ribs. Mother above, it was like he was fifteen again.

He trembled when her hands drifted over his chest and looped around his neck, careful of his wings, hauling him closer until there was a mere inch between them. So near Azriel could feel the heat of Gwyn through their layers of garments, scent the shift in her body. Gods knew there was no hiding the change in him. And if Gwyn scooted any closer, she would feel exactly how much she affected him.

The wind howled outside the library window; the storm ramping up as he pressed harder, licking tenderly across the seam of her lips…and stayed. Azriel was a master of how far to take things, gauging reactions to know when things went too far or not far enough. They shared gasps as he waited for Gwyn to decide. Stop there or…Gwyn opened up for him. He couldn’t hold the groan that escaped as he happily accepted the invitation.

The kiss deepened, and Az smiled as he playfully nipped her lower lip. She trembled, and he captured her surprised moan. It didn’t take Gwyn long to glide her tongue over his purposefully, learning. Stroking. Teasing.

Azriel could happily die right there. Or happily live off the sweet, exquisite taste of her. Either way was just fucking fine.

His blood was a flame in his veins, and he burned for more. So much more. To take it further, to savor everything. But he wouldn’t push her or scare her. Gwyn asked for a kiss. And godsdamn, that was what he would give her, and nothing more.

Slowing it down, Az drew back, pressing softly against her damp lips. He rested his forehead against hers, their noses grazing.

“As you can see.” A gentle kiss on her cheek. “I liked your kiss.” A reverent one upon her other cheek. “I like you, Gwyneth Berdara.”

And there it was. Azriel’s petrified words rolled out as quickly as the roaring of the distant thunder. His hand wandered to her nape, running a thumb over the top of her spine. Male pride flowed through him when she shivered against his palm.

“You do?” she asked, her voice breathy and soft.

He nodded before answering, “I do.” The words were out and there was nothing left to do but wait until the shit hit the…

She smiled widely, brushing her nose against the bridge of his. Her arms tightened around his collar as she held him and whispered against his mouth, “Well, that’s a good thing because I like you too, Azriel.” His legs nearly went out from underneath him as relief coursed through him with those words. Her nose scrunched, brows drawn together as she gaped up at him. “So, what do we do now?”

“Whatever you wish, Gwyn. Everything or nothing. Anything in between.” He shrugged. “It’s your call, priestess.”

“I don’t know how to do any of this,” she giggled.

Azriel snorted with an exhale. “Me neither.”

Gwyn’s eyes widened, and a single auburn eyebrow raised in confusion. “But last night, you said…I thought?”

He shook his head. “I was never with either of those girls. A relationship?” Gods, even the word felt foreign on his tongue. “I’ve never done this with anyone. But I’d like to try with you.”

“I’d like to try, too.” She nibbled her lip. “So what are we, then?”

“Whatever you want us to be.”

She tapped a finger to her chin, a smirk spreading across her beautiful freckled face. “Funny you should ask. I am in need a full-time guide for my many upcoming adventures. So what do you say, Shadowsinger?”

He grinned, placing a quick peck on her brow. His mouth moved to the shell of her ear. “It’s my honor.”

“Azriel.” The way Gwyn spoke his name like a plea struck him in the chest. “Would you kiss me again? And not like the kiss I gave you yesterday.” She wrinkled her nose. Gods, she was fucking adorable. “Like—like the one you just gave me.” Gwyn’s desire came out in a breathless rush, her eyes darting between his eyes to his mouth.

Azriel smirked, drawing her close. She wrapped her arms around his wide shoulders. He cupped her face and kissed her then, just as she requested. And for one godsdamn moment in Azriel’s life, everything was perf—

“Well, well, well.” A male voice rumbled from the doorway. Fuck. “Looks like someone is going to need a chaperone.”

Azriel and Gwyn froze, their faces hot, blush coloring their cheeks as they pulled apart and gazed toward the entry.

Cassian stood propped against the threshold, eyebrows wagging with an arm around Nesta, who was grinning fondly at her friend.

Gwyn shrieked and hid her face in the crook of Azriel’s neck, which was just fine with him.

“Come on, Cassian. Give them space,” Nesta ordered, tugging on her mate’s massive bicep.

“Aww, come on, Nes! Turnabout is fair— oof!” The large Illyrian grunted as his mate elbowed him in the ribs. “Just remember the dining table incident, Az. Payback is a sweet royal bitch.”

“Dining table incident?” Gwyn asked as Cassian’s boisterous howl ended on another grunt, courtesy of Nesta’s pointed elbow again.

Azriel narrowed his eyes and threw his brother the middle finger. Cassian bellowed, returning the lewd gesture before stalking after his female, holding his side.

Gwyn loosed a happy sigh, her breath heating Az’s skin. Azriel wrapped an arm around her shoulders, resting his chin atop her head.

“You all right?” he inquired, needing to check on her.

She nodded reassuredly, pulling back, staring up at him with those large, hopeful blue-green eyes. “Can we finish that kiss now?”

A surprised laugh burst from Azriel as he dipped his mouth back to Gwyn’s, gladly finishing what he started as his shadows swirled around them in celebration.

Chapter Text

“Dead,” Eris groused quietly as the barmaid sauntered off, hips swaying. No doubt both of them would have a chance with her if they’d want. Hell, possibly at the same time. But that door was shut for Azriel in the best way possible. Besides, he suspected her interest would waver if she knew who sat across the table.

A dingy olive-green cloak obscured Eris Vanserra’s pointed features, and by the look on the preening prick’s face, he couldn’t wait to scorch the damn rag to cinders.

A muscle flexed in the Spymaster’s jaw. “How?”

Eris snorted, drawing a great swig of ale, grimacing. “What the hell is this? Horse piss?”

“How ?” Azriel repeated with more force. The scrape of several chairs over wood and raised voices had him smoothing his fingertips over the hilt of Truth-Teller at his side. Only a card game dispute. Azriel loosened his grip—but kept it close.

Wall-to-wall suspicious fuckers crammed this seedy ass bar in Sund, the capital of Rask. The only location Eris deemed safe for him to visit since his father was no longer doing business with the fae continent territories. They were all done dealing with Beron Vanserra. Praise the motherfucking Cauldron.

“Burns, of course. And more.” He huffed a dark laugh. “My father’s guard’s signature trifecta. Stabbing. Whipping. Then roasted by the benevolent High Lord himself.” Eris’s amber eyes focused ahead, unseeing in the distance. Azriel wondered if he could yet see the charred remains.

Godsdammit. Taryn was one of the finest. Cunning. Unassuming. A dreamer to her core.

“How was she caught?” he pressed their rival High Lord’s heir-apparent, who became a most unexpected ally. Although Azriel questioned whether either side was in it for the right reasons. Still, he had to give the lordling credit for having the balls to meet with him in person.

“Sneaking around the forest on the border. One of my father’s cabals. Not mine.” Eris commanded his own men? Good to know. “She confessed nothing. She lasted…” A pregnant pause that answered enough before he continued, “A long while.”

A long time was an understatement. It had been a month since Taryn reported last. A week since the body was spotted, discarded like refuse in the snow of the Winter. “I incinerated the body. It would have been too dubious to bring her…”

Azriel nodded in agreement as Eris trailed off. The one saving grace was there would be no meeting with a distraught family. Taryn had ironically left Rask after soldiers slaughtered her people, settling into a job at the pleasure houses in Velaris. Seeing how well she monitored the customers, Az trained her, and she smuggled information on specific patrons.

This task was her first outside of the city limits…

Azriel cleared his throat, rapping his knuckles on the counter, and made to stand.

“But,” Eris drawled, stopping Azriel. “I didn’t come here empty-handed. I come with a peace offering. My father’s man. Jeral.” His mouth twisted up into a semblance of a smile, flames flaring in his eyes. “He’s currently tied up in my room. And he is all yours, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel’s shadows retreated as he felt familiar blackness roiling deep inside, begging for release, as his fingers gleefully stroked Truth-Teller at his thigh. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll take him off your hands for you.”

𝄋

Azriel, please be careful. Her last words to him since he left five days ago. Five days since their last kiss. Every goodbye, whether it was a peck at the door of the library. Or a poignant, deep kiss before departing on a mission from which he may never come back. Each ended with a sweet brush of their lips and a pledge.

I promise, Berdara.

And then her Shadowsinger was off to parts unknown, facing unknown adversaries. Gwyn understood Azriel couldn’t share details. It was highly classified. Any knowledge brought danger. Something Azriel declared he would never tolerate.

“I can handle myself, you know,” she’d nudged.

He merely sighed deep and slow before responding, “You carrying any information is a risk. The people we’re dealing with?” He shook his head, his darkened hazel pinning her in place. His throat bobbed once. Twice. “They’d do things for information that…I can’t even stomach thinking about happening to you.”

She frowned, brushing black hair off his forehead, setting a peck on his furrowed brow. Seeing his reaction only made her worry more.

But she dropped it. She’d figured enough out on her own, accidentally walking in on conversations between the Shadowsinger and the General before they’d quiet at her presence.

The Autumn Court, famed for its archaic customs and misogyny, was almost as extreme as the Illyrians. She’d heard both males relate members of the Court to pricks and assholes. So, whatever was transpiring, there surely wasn’t courtier business. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t safe.

Gods, Gwyn wished she had a way to contact him.

Az had scraped off Cassian’s not-so-subtle idea that perhaps Feyre or Rhysand could deliver word to Azriel in the field. Of course, the Spymaster glowered, saying, “Only for emergencies, Cass. You know better.” Before he twisted toward Gwyn, restating, “Emergencies, Berdara.”

“And what constitutes an emergency, Shadowsinger? If I‘m injured at training?”

“Yes.”

“What if I became ill?”

He pinched the bridge of his straight nose, drawing out a long sigh. “Yes.”

“What if I needed to send you an exceptionally urgent, dirty letter?” Gwyn asked, a devious smile curling her lips as Az’s cheeks bloomed red.

Cassian lost it.

Doubling over with hilarity, pinning his wings underneath his colossal body as he toppled backward onto the sofa. The impressive laughing fit eventually led to a fairly impressive bout of hiccups from the large adult male. Azriel merely carried a sheepish expression, working to block the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Pride rose in her. She’d caught him off guard again.

Gwyn fucking loved surprising Azriel. Making him blush. Pushing herself. Challenging him.

Of course, her triumph didn’t last long. Leading her into a more secluded office, Azriel made her blush when he whispered only loud enough for Gwyn to hear, his breath against her ear, “Why send me a note when you can tell me the filthy stuff in person when I get back?” He’d left her slack-jawed and stammering with a kiss on her cheek.

Points scored for both that day in the game they played.

Flirtations were new to Gwyn. Unfortunately—or fortunately—for Azriel, all Gwyn had to glean from was smutty book references. And Nesta and Cassian’s endless stream of lewd innuendos. But Azriel didn’t seem to mind when she sought to tease him. Quite the opposite, actually.

Even as she floundered through kisses, not quite seeing where or how to move her body, Azriel always took a moment to ease her with a wide grin or an encouraging, That was perfect, Berdara. Even if it wasn’t; smoothing over her insecurities with his kind words.

A full month had sped by since they’d kissed in the private library. It had been two since he first accompanied her into the city. Since then, Azriel made good on his title of full-time guide, escorting Gwyn all over Velaris both day and night. And, when they weren’t working, they spent as much time as possible together. The late-night sparring was still Gwyn’s favorite, especially when she’d lay Azriel out on his ass. Though she had the sneaking suspicion he was losing on purpose.

The entire Inner Circle was still remarkably oblivious of their new couple status.

Damn miracle, Azriel had said. Cassian can’t hold a godsdamn secret to save his life. An excellent reason Cassian was not the Spymaster then, Gwyn joked, causing Az to snicker.

Nesta must have placed the fear of gods in her mate since he hadn’t said a word. Not even Emerie knew. Because if she did? Mor would find out. Nesta warned if Mor knew and had any booze in her; all of Prythian would hear.

Of course, none of that had stopped gentle ribbing from Nesta and Cassian on date nights, followed by the latter’s spot-on impersonation of a cracking whip. Followed by Nesta swiftly whacking him upside the head.

“I think it’s sweet, you Illyrian brute.”

Cassian stood before her, a smirk plastered on his face. “So you want to go on corny ass date nights now, Nes?”

“Mated less than four months and the romance is lost already, Cass?” Nesta arched an elegant brow in challenge. He simply smiled at his mate, promising to take her dancing next week, mouthing a scowling thanks a lot, asshole , to Azriel over his mate’s shoulder.

Gwyn didn’t want to wake up from such a beautiful, extraordinary dream. She relished each moment. Every shared laugh. Each tender embrace. Every kiss that left her breathless, and caused her toes to curl.

It was perfect. Yet…

Gwyn began to wonder if she was ready for more.

𝄋

The screams bounced around the chamber. But they weren’t fleeing anytime soon. And neither was this fucker.

“Please! Please!” the prick begged. Two days of pleading left the Spymaster unmoved.

He’d lugged the male back to the Hewn City, deep into the bottoms of the Court of Nightmares. Blood dripped from behind his knees, already pushing the beasts below into a frenzy. Good.

Truth-Teller slid over the waste of flesh lashed to the stone chair, leaving a slice in its aftermath over the bicep. It wouldn’t feel great, but it wouldn’t kill the asshole. So far, none of the lacerations would. Not the deep gouges through the tips of the fingers. The wide cleaves behind each knee. Nor the fractured shins that were swelled and marred a mottled purple. Or the joints he’d cracked, crumpling the nerves underneath to the degree the male trembled.

The blade shook in his fist, painting an abstract of crimson upon the floor, dripping through the grates. The monsters roared and howled.

The Spymaster refused to call him by his name. No. This place of horrors couldn’t exist with names. Hell, even he could barely recall his own.

No. Here, besieged by the coppery scent of blood, the reek of piss and shit, and everything else, fear spewed from the body—he was the Spymaster of the Night Court. The Shadowsinger. Bringer of death. Here the blackest parts of his soul, his violence, flourished. Thrived. Possessed.

And in front of him…the piece of shit wasn’t just the male who assassinated his spy.

He was the soldier who had violated the priestess.

He was the weary disdain of his father.

The stepmother who thrust a defenseless child into the bowels of a black, icy cell, like trash.

The step-brothers who destroyed his hands, setting them ablaze to learn how’d quickly they’d mend.

Now they were all bound at his mercy. Abused. Disgusted. Helpless. Crippled. Awaiting retribution.

Get. Him. To. Talk, his inner darkness snarled. With every cut, he let his rage bubble and roil. And now? He was fucking ready to light the match.

Another slash to the back of the knees, this one meeting bone. The blood streamed in a downpour now, joining the puddle of urine at his feet.

“Did you stop when she begged?” The Spymaster growled, baring his teeth.

He dragged the back of the dagger over the male’s throat. Eyes large with horror, his prisoner shouted, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’ll tell you everything you want!”

The ominous shadows moaned and hissed their pleasure at the fear. The Spymaster took his time, caressing his knife, letting the panic marinate before he deigned a response. Before he answered, “Oh, I know you will.”

Darkness exploded from within him, devouring the chamber as the Shadowsinger let his rage free.

𝄋

“Come on, Berdara,” Nesta said, dropping her open book pages down on the couch between them. “Please rescue me from this nightmare.”

Gwyn snorted, plucking up the novel, gawking at the blonde mortal female scandalously sandwiched between two dark fae males adorning the front. She cringed. “That bad?”

“If I have to read anymore godsdamn purple prose likening the female’s vagina to flowers? Or the hero’s sheathing into her with his sword? I’m going to toss—” Nesta bit her lip, snatching up the book. Gwyn blinked quickly as the novel shook in her face. “No, I’m setting it on fire first, then going to chuck it off the fucking roof.” The hardback spine landed with a thud somewhere behind the sofa, over Nesta’s shoulder. “So, sounds like you’re my entertainment tonight, Gwyneth. Let’s chat.”

Gwyn stiffened. She knew the grand Archeron inquisition was coming. For a month, by the grace of the Mother, she’d avoided such an interrogation. But tonight? Off from work with no evening service? And Cassian over at the River House for an official session with the High Lord and Lady?

It seemed excuses had run out.

A pillow knocked Gwyn upside the head from the other end of the sofa. A pillow which the priestess promptly hurled back to her sister.

“So very mature of you, Nes,” Gwyn teased, sticking out her tongue.

Nesta merely smirked, bearing the cushion as if to send it flying again. Gwyn didn’t even flinch. “ Talk , Gwyneth.”

“Or what? Are you going to arm wrestle it out of me?” Gwyn smiled, arching a brow. “Lest we forget, Archeron, one of us is better at hand-to-hand than the other.”

Nesta grunted, her mouth twisting up into a shrewd grin. “If I have to, Berdara. Desperate times call for desperate measures. My mate is away for the night. I’m antsy. I can’t drink anymore. All I have to keep my mind occupied is that godsforsaken book and your love life.”

Love life. Gods, why did it sound so… strange.

She tucked her feet up under her, the periwinkle blue cotton pajama pants riding up her shin. Gwyn lifted and dropped her shoulder. “Not much to report, Nesta.”

“Well, we saw your first kiss.”

And thank all the gods that listened, there had been no more wandering in on any embraces. Serving as protective miniature watchdogs, the shadows alerted Azriel when they were about to have company. Even if there was no disguising their swollen lips and rosy cheeks.

With intimacy, Azriel had no shades of gray. When he wanted to kiss her? He’d lean in until they shared breath, his mouth lingering over hers, staying. She had no doubt he’d wait forever. If she accepted, she leaned in. He even chided his shadows for touching her without permission, though Gwyn had told him a thousand times she didn’t mind. But the fact that consent was a priority for Azriel? It brought tears to her eyes and warmed her soul.

And for the first time since Sangravah, she felt whole. Enjoying all the experiences females her age had. Loving being with Azriel. Although…

Something had been hounding Gwyn, raising the hackles of unease. And she wasn’t exactly sure how to bring up the subject. At least not without her cheeks glowing like a thousand stars.

Even before they established a relationship and that kiss, Gwyn had feelings of yearning for the Shadowsinger. Nesta was well informed of that from a conversion they had months ago.

Knowing what you prefer, what makes you feel good? It’s important. It puts you in control of your body. Your pleasure. You are in charge, Gwyn.

One night not long after that, Gwyn had been indulging in an especially filthy part in a book Emerie had loaned her. It was about an Illyrian male with a fae female. So on the nose, it was silly.

Gwyn had rubbed her thighs together as she read the heated scene. Her skin warmed, tingled. Seemed a perfect time as any to explore Nesta’s self-care adage. Setting the book aside, she laid back and got comfortable…and stared at the ceiling.

Confusion set in as much like everything else in Gwyn’s life, she over-thought. How do you even start? What do you…touch?

Taking a deep breath, Gwyn had let her hands fall to the fabric of her shirt resting over her stomach. And then she had closed her eyes and let the scene play in her head. She guided her hands over her thighs, spreading them as the heroines had. Her fingers drifted down. Down until Gwyn had touched where she never dared unless it was an absolute necessity. But never like this. Never so hot, near combusting.

Hands dipping low, she’d found herself warm and wet. A moan escaped as she’d dragged along her seam. She’d explored. Gliding. Pressing. Rubbing. Until she’d felt good. More than good. Until her hips had pushed against her palm, her breath came out in quick gasps. Her pulse had raced in her veins.

It hadn’t been the hero’s head dipped down between her thighs, pleasuring her with his mouth. Oh, no. Strands of the deepest onyx replaced his brown hair. His hands adorned with blue Siphons chilled against her heated thighs. It had been his tongue on her, doing what he did to her mouth, but…

Faster and faster. Harder and harder. She had pictured Azriel licking and laving over her scorched flesh. Until she couldn’t take much more. The pressure coiled in her belly. Too much and yet not enough. She had kept going and going until—

Her mouth had opened in a soundless cry, the Shadowsinger’s name on her lips, as it overwhelmed her body with unexplainable sensations. Staring at the ceiling in amazement, her pulse had pounded and tears pricked her eyes…

Her mind returned to the present.

“Nesta.” Her voice sounded frail in her ears as she played with the hem of her pastel blue top. “Is it wrong for me to…too soon for me to…want to…?”

Nesta angled her body toward Gwyn, a scowl written on her face. “Did someone say something to you?”

“No. No! It’s just something on my mind.” She exhaled. “It’s only been three years since and…”

Nesta scooted closer to Gwyn, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Look at me, Berdara.” So Gwyn looked, meeting her friend’s gaze, full of love and understanding. “Did I ever tell you I was almost assaulted?” Gwyn sucked in a sharp breath, slowly shaking her head no. “I was. And between that and the Cauldron, it fucked me up.”

Nesta detailed the deep, somber hole she’d sunk into before she’d met Gwyn. The nights and days of excessive drinking. The dangerous, reckless sex. Before Nesta discovered solace and purpose.

“I did a lot of things during that time I’m not particularly proud of, but I can’t take them back. And some I won’t apologize for. But when it came to what happened to me and that human asshole? I took charge of my body, Gwyn. Did what I wanted with who I wanted when I wanted. It doesn’t matter how much time has passed.

She locked eyes with Gwyn in a way that brokered no argument. “There is no timeline for recovery, Gwyn. So if you think you’re ready for something else? Talk to him. Lay everything out like a list. Your worries. Things you think might trigger you.” She paused. “And that might involve telling him what happened exactly.”

“But.” She exhaled. “He was there…he saw.”

“Not everything,” Nesta murmured, rubbing a thumb over Gwyn’s shoulder. “And I know it’s scary as hell, and it will be hard. One of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life is lay everything out for Cassian. Admit why I hated fires and why they affected me. But afterward? It was like a thousand pounds lifted off my chest and I could breathe again for the first time in years.” Nesta pulled Gwyn in for a hug, her voice in her ear. “Just talk to Azriel, Berdara. I promise you, it will be worth it.”

Nesta pulled back just as her mate walked in, sending him a wide smile. “Hey, handsome.”

Gwyn twisted in her seat, giving him a little wave.

“Hey,” Cassian greeted, sounding tired. His hazel eyes met Gwyn’s. “Az is back.” She sat up in her chair, waiting, her heart thumping against her ribs. “He’s all right.”

“Where is he?”

“He had some work to do in the Hewn City,” Cassian said, sending Nesta a pointed look before turning back to Gwyn. “We all need time to shrug off the darkness of that place, Berdara.”

A knot rose in her throat as she thought back to the day they made the bracelets. When he yelled at her. “Had he been there that one day…?”

“The day he yelled?” Cassian finished. She nodded. “Yeah.” He grabbed the nape of his neck, squeezing his eyes shut. “That wasn’t the only reason, but yeah. He’ll probably be gone for the night.”

She couldn’t help as worry settled in her chest. And she couldn’t bear the thought of him facing anything alone.

“I get he needs space, but do you think I could get him a mess—” A piece of paper and pen appeared on the low table in front of the couch.

Cassian smiled as he bent over the back of the sofa to kiss the crown of his mate’s head. “I think you got your answer. And I think we’re going to have to say goodnight. Right, mate?” Their bonded scent crowded the air and Gwyn made herself scarce, taking the parchment with her.

She made it as far as the private library before she couldn’t fight the urge anymore, writing,

Are you really all right?

The paper and pen disappeared in a puff. She couldn’t help but count the minutes that went by without a response. Just as she lost hope, rising to leave from the desk chair, the paper reappeared.

One word. Yes.

Her throat constricted.

All right. I guess I’ll see you soon?

The paper poofed out. Her fingers tapped on the mahogany desk.

It popped back into existence almost immediately:

Tomorrow.

She wrote a short, straightforward,

Very well.

Then she paused, resting her forehead on her palm as she tapped the end pen on the desk. Her torrent of fears scrawled across the page as she worked through what she wanted to say. She crossed each out, the words magically disappearing from the page before settling on, Goodnight, Shadowsinger.

The paper disappeared in a twist of deafening silence. And did not return.

𝄋

His skin was raw and pink from the hour of relentless scouring and the intensity from the near scalding spray. After rubbing his skin damn near torn off his body, he had some veneer of clean.

Azriel tumbled out of the bathroom nude, making his way over to the bar to grab the bottle of scotch. The shitty stuff. He didn’t deserve the good stuff. Tossing his bare ass on one of the few items of furniture in his apartment; a black leather couch. He may not be there regularly, but it had the essentials; a couch, a bed large enough for his wings, and many, many bottles of liquor.

His thoughts swirled as quickly as the amber liquid left the bottle. By the time the glass decanter was near dry, his head was floating in delightful oblivion. Until his shadows reemerged, reminding him who he was.

You are Azriel, his shadows reminded.

He was Azriel.

“I am Azriel.”

You live in Velaris. You have friends. Family. For once, a female waiting for you.

“I am Azriel.” He gulped hard, his throat hurting.

Did Jeral have a family? A wife? Perhaps maybe a husband? Children?

Was Jeral only doing what he had to do for Beron? Like Az did for his High Lord?

A long swig drained the liquid to the last drop, the fire burning just as intensely as before. Then he rose from his seat, snatching up a new bottle of what appeared to be bourbon.

After that one was dry too, he let the intoxication take him, lulling him into oblivion. Where all of this was a hallucination. Where he wasn’t capable of such savagery. Where his palms could touch the priestess with him mentally recoiling.

Alcohol was suffocating him gently. Until Gwyn’s note arrived out of thin air, floating onto his chest.

For a minute, he hoped he was seeing things. But he’d know that elegant scrawl anywhere.

Are you really all right?

Fucking Cassian. Az had sent a mental message to Rhys when he returned, relaying Taryn’s fate and that of Jeral. It seemed the Autumn Court, from what the jerk had disclosed before he met his end down to the pit of beasts, was interested in an artifact. What and where Jeral didn’t say. Thus, Jeral had outworn his welcome.

But Az hadn’t known Cassian was around when Rhysand received the report. Fuck them both. Gwyn didn’t need this. To fret about him.

Wouldn’t you be worried if the positions were reversed with the priestess? His shadows twitched.

He was going to let it be. Leave it alone. But as his stomach flipped with guilt, he sat up, reaching. He clasped the pen in his hand, composing a simple,

Yes.

The pen dropped from his grip as he tossed himself back on the couch, his wings aching beneath. Though it wasn’t long until he received:

All right. I guess I’ll see you soon?

How in the fucking Cauldron had he gotten so lucky?

His eyes welled up as he replied with a quick,

Tomorrow.

The paper vanished. In true Gwyneth fashion, she didn’t let that be the last word.

All right. Goodnight, Shadowsinger.

Gods. She still wished him goodnight. A chuckled darkly, slapping his bottle off the floor. If she really saw him, she’d be running far in the opposite direction.

After drinking until he went into a coma, Az let tears stream from his eyes as he sank into the darkness.

Chapter Text

A note floating down as smooth as a feather caught by a gentle breeze, settling with a crinkle at her booted feet. Eyebrow lifting, Gwen bent over. Her leather pants squeaked as she straightened.

She stared unblinking at the two words. Short and to the point. Very Azriel: Sevenda’s tonight?

Cassian’s words lingered with her throughout the night. Had her tossing and twisting beneath scratchy sheets until she unceremoniously knocked them to the floor. The combined seasonal heat and her restlessness made the evening downright suffocating.

Concern gnawed away her slumber. Gwyn overheard whispers of the Court of Nightmares. Even picked up rumors of their deadly Spymaster. But she’d never put together the dreaded, most feared Spymaster and Azriel were the same.

No. The male she knew? He’d cut down anyone who would harm his High Lord or Lady. Wronged his family. Gwyn had witnessed him firsthand. When Azriel had swept in on wings of death, rescuing her from a cruel fate. But torture?

Gwyn cracked her neck with a twist.

Though sleep evaded her last night, she didn’t have the heart to work out any midnight training. Not without Azriel. Not when something was awry. Powerless to help.

She scanned the note she still held, viewing the page as if the message would magically change any second.

“Sevenda’s tonight?”

She closed her eyes, sighing out through her nose before she tipped her head up. Cassian stood towering and solid behind her, studying the writing over her left shoulder. His chin jutted to the parchment she carried. “From Az?”

Gwyn nodded, acknowledging, “Yes. Delivered as I shuffled in.”

“Date night?” He teased, even though no playfulness glinted in his gaze. “You going, Berdara?”

As if summoned forth by a higher force, a fountain pen dropped to the dining room table. Biting her lower lip, she stepped over. She viewed the pen as one would a coiled viper, fixed to strike at any sudden movement. Slowly, she took the implement off the dark wooden surface.

“I’m surprised,” Cassian said, leaning his backside against the edge of the dinner table. He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “He normally brushes everyone off for days.”

Gwyn’s brows shot up as she peered back to him. “I thought you said he’d be all right by today?”

“I just pulled that out of my hopeful ass. Usually, Rhys gives Az days off to…” A hesitation, his eyes drifting, hunting for the appropriate words. “Adjust. I counted on him being different with you. For you.” His view slid to the paper clenched in her grasp. “That right there? Proof he’s different with you. Hell, some days he’d be back in Velaris and we’d never know until he was ready. Could be a full week later. But this?” A soft smile. “He cares enough to not upset you. He cares for you, Gwyn. And no one is happier for my prick of a brother than me.”

Her cheeks heated. She wrote a bold Yes . adding, Can’t wait before the note faded into the ether. “I care about him too,” she admitted, her smile slipping a bit. She tugged at the neckline of her leathers. Then checked to make sure her dagger was still on her thigh. “Is it true?”

Cassian’s black eyebrows went up as he straightened to his full, imposing height. “Is what true, Berdara?”

“What he does as…the Spymaster?”

Cassian’s eyes hardened as he ran his fingers through his long hair. She noted many knicks on his muscular forearms. Numerous pale slashes sketched into the darkened membrane of his wings. “We’ve all done things that stay with us. For the people of our Court. For Prythian. For our family.” He shook his head. Flashes of memories shadowed his features. “That’s all I’ll say. Not my rank to comment on his duty.”

Alarm rose in her like noxious smoke, making her eyes water. “Oh, I didn’t mean to bring up his work like I was trying to pull information from you and undermine—” A gentle squeeze on her shoulder halted her rambling.

“Gwynnie,” Cassian said. “Your heart is in the right place. I know why you asked.” He shrugged. “Don’t sweat it. But speaking of sweat? Ready to get training?”

Cassian’s grin curved and turned downright roguish. Gods, they were in for it today. He guided Gwyn to the door with his large hand on her shoulder. As they reached the exit, the wet heat assaulted them under the harsh sunlight.

“Mother’s tits,” Cassian grumbled, blocking the rays with his wing. “If I wanted fucking Summer Court weather, I’d live there.”

𝄋

Azriel wasn’t with her. Not literally. The male was a shell seated beside her. A very broody, disheveled shell. More shadows coated those eyes than swirled around him, the latter sneaking beneath the clothed-covered bistro table to caress the back of her hand. His own gaze transfixed more by the amber liquid before him than his company. His thumb rubbed over the bevels lining the short tumbler. Up and down. Over and over.

Silverware clanged on her plate as Gwyn slapped down with ample force to shake the tabletop. His hazel eyes flew to hers, his fingertips freezing on the rim of the glass. Still, he said nothing.

“Azriel?” Gwyn took in a considerable, calm breath before she forged ahead. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Yet another clipped, one-word reply. All Gwyn received since the instant he appeared to whisk her away on the rooftop. Then Azriel saw her wearing the borrowed navy sundress and called her beautiful, the sound sending her heart skipping beats.

Gwyn expected the night to be easy. Azriel was the one who reached out. She foresaw a casual dinner out. A natural step in what they were building together, but she had clearly misjudged. The tension between them was harder to cut than the deliciously seasoned, superbly cooked filet. One that she had no intention of finishing. She’d lost her appetite.

She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood. “Bullshit.” His dark brows shot up his lined forehead. At least Gwyn caught his attention. Got a rise out of him. Fantastic. “It’s like I’ve been having supper with your ghost all night.”

Azriel’s hazel eyes bore into hers. But behind them? There was…nothing.

“So you won’t tell me what’s troubling you, Shadowsing—”

“I can’t tell you, Berdara,” he answered, a muscle tightened in his jaw. Was he annoyed? With her? With himself?

Gwyn’s eyes thinned into slits, her fingers clenching the chair beneath. The Valkyrie would not back down.

“I’m not asking you what you did; I’m asking what’s bothering you . Not your duty. Not your tasks. What is going on with you , Azriel?”

Silence returned. A glacial dead air in summer’s steam, the soft music drifting from the kitchen, and the fresh scent of lemon and basil warped compared to the frostiness between them.

Her heart clenched. The scrape of the chair legs against the terrace, her battle cry. She stood to leave, quietly hoping Azriel followed.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Gwyn strode out, head held high. Her low heels smacked on the pavement as she glared skyward, identifying the constellation Gerona, her companion to the northeast. And praise the gods above. She remembered enough storefronts and sections in the city now to guide her.

“Berdara!”

She continued walking, not deigning a response. Why should she? His shadows appeared before her, slanting low as if they were imploring her to stop. To wait.

“Berdara!”

A hand snagged her upper arm. Her training kicked in and Gwyn swiveled around, her arms shifting until the back of her forearm and hand her flush with his palm, and she shoved. Azriel lurched back, eyes large. A glimpse of shock and one of…pride on his face.

“Nice move, but you need more forward momentum if you meant to fracture my arm.”

Hands on her hips, Gwyn strode forward until they were toe-to-toe. “I wasn’t trying to break your arm, you… you idiot! ” Azriel pressed his lips together. “But I don’t appreciate being snatched from behind at night in the middle of the city. But as you can see,” she smirked. “I can take care of myself.”

She whirled around on her heel, planning to stomp off with dignity. Shadows swarmed her, and suddenly Azriel was barring her passage.

“Where are you going?” he demanded, eyebrows lowered.

“Home.”

“By yourself?”

Her laugh dripped scorn. “Because I haven’t been alone the entire night?” She sighed, scrubbing a hand down her face, most likely ruining the daubs of makeup Nesta had applied. “I’ll see you at practice.” Gwyn took two strides around him.

“Fine. Whatever.”

Gwyn stopped so quickly she stumbled, her hands balling into fists at her sides. The way he uttered the words, the outright surrender in his tone? The concession, as if he was predicting this all along? As if he expected she’d inevitably run?

Right then, she had a decision to make. Go home and eat her feelings or…

She whirled around, facing him. Azriel stared at her, hands in the pockets of his black trousers, his eyes void—empty. Gwyn sauntered up to him and jabbed him in the chest so hard he withdrew a step. “I cannot believe you!” More steps. “You drive me mad!”

Another poke. Another step backward.

She pushed and forced until his back struck a brick wall with an oomph!

“Do you understand why I’m standing here? Why I’m choosing to do this instead of leaving? That face you gave me. Like you expected the other shoe to drop all along. Well, I’m not that female you pined after that didn’t give you the time of day. Or distraction girl.”

Azriel snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Distraction girl?”

Gwyn rolled her eyes. “Whoever they are, I’m not them. Are we together, Azriel?” His expression dimmed. “Well, are we? Because it doesn’t feel like it right now.” Her voice broke.

He blanched, shuddering in a breath. “I said I’d try to. I’m—”

“Is this you trying?” Gwyn snapped at him, stunned at the tenacity and truth in her words. “Are you honestly trying, Azriel?” She held Azriel’s gaze, not backing down. “I thought trying meant we’re together.” Inhale. Exhale. “I don’t want to hear what you did.”

The Shadowsinger flinched, shutting his eyes. Gwyn cupped his cheeks, compelling him to open his eyes and meet her.

“I just…I realize I’m new to all of this and this is new to us. But…I need you to know that I’m here for you. You can talk to me. I can’t stand seeing you so…” Her lower lip trembled. “You know…doesn’t matter. This obviously means more to me than to you.” His chest heaved as Gwyn stepped back. With tears in her eyes, she turned and started walking away.

𝄋

If she walks away Shadowsinger, she may not come back, his shadows begged, flitting around in panic.

Before she managed another step, Azriel had her back pressed against a stone outer wall. He stood before her, his arms caging Gwyn in.

“If you don’t think I’m trying, you’re fucking wrong ,” he said, his breathing ragged. Gwyn’s face glared up at him, her eyes blazing like two bright turquoise. “I can’t tell you everything. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. It can’t reach you.”

One hand dropped to stroke her cheek, flushed with outrage. Angry as she was, Gwyn leaned into his touch, his callused finger skimming over her freckles.

Gwyn swallowed thickly. “Then tell me something. I can’t stand seeing you like this.” Her eyes were glossy. “I know you shield yourself. Keep a wall up. But don’t hide around me, Azriel. Please.”

Panic surged through him. Tell her about what he’d done to that male? Gods, he didn’t deserve to be in the same vicinity as her as he relived the cuts. The blood. All of which tarnished his soul.

That quick, she flipped their positions, enclosing him as much as Gwyn’s arms allowed. Those blue-green eyes were downright feral. “I’m not made of glass, Azriel. But that doesn’t mean that I won’t break or shatter. What happens when I do?”

Azriel’s answer was immediate. “I’ll be there to put you back together.”

Gwyn nodded, her fingers grasping his chin. “Same, Shadowsinger. Trying means you help pick up the pieces. You let the other one help bear the weight.” She exhaled, her warm gasp caressing his lips. “Let me help you. I don’t care if you need space sometimes. I can wait and be there for you when you’re ready.”

She shoved off the building. Azriel seized her waist, swapping them again. Dragging his nose across her cheek, he said, “When I sent that note this morning? I was still drunk from last night. I lost someone in the field. A good spy and a great female. I sent her out on a mission. She got caught and killed.” His fingers dug into her hips. Gwyn’s palms slid up his arms to his biceps, hauling him closer by the fabric of his black dress shirt.

“I’m sorry,” Gwyn whispered, slanting her head to the side to give him better access. He trailed downward, nuzzling the hollow of her throat. “Did you find who killed her?”

“Yes.”

“Did you kill them?

He swallowed thickly, setting his lips where her pulse beat wildly. “Yes.”

“Good,” Gwyn loosed a sigh, as he placed another peck, then another. Lower and lower until his mouth skimmed her collarbone. She shuddered as his hands tightened on the curve of her waist. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, Azriel. Losing someone is never easy. And I’m sorry for being presumptuous.”

“I’m sorry if you thought I was pushing you away.” His tongue flicked against the line of Gwyn’s collar, following the spattering of captivating freckles. Her body arched into his. “I need space from people after—” He shook his head, his day’s worth of stubble scratching against her perfect, pale skin, leaving his mark behind. “Sometimes I need time.”

Gwyn nodded solemnly. “I get that. And I can give you that. But, when you’re ready, I’m here. You’re not alone, Shadowsinger. I can take what you give me.” Her fingers sank into his shoulders as she pulled him until her breasts flattened against him. Her peaked nipples rubbed his chest through the fabric of her dress, their hips lining up perfectly.

The reaction was immediate, their shifting scents undeniable. His body was strung as tight as an Illyrian bow. Gods above, she smelled amazing. Her skin tasted decadent and sweet. Every piece of Gwyn was something he wanted to savor.

Azriel drew back to view her, her cheeks glowing, eyes glittering.

“And thank you for telling me,” Gwyn said in a husky purr, reminding him of soft moans and silk sheets.

“Gwyn,” he murmured, gulping, his heart ready to jump out of his chest. He shifted to step away before they went too far. But Gwyn only brought his face closer, her fingertips delving into his hair. His eyes rolled back in his head.

“I’m not glass, Azriel.”

Gwyn surged forward and kissed him. There was nothing tentative or sweet about the way her lips moved. No, this was a possessive, wild tangle of tongues and clashing teeth. This was Gwyn, proving she could handle everything Azriel gave her. And…godsdammit, he was going to give it to her.

Without a care in the world, Az sank straight into the kiss, plastered up against a wall in the heart of Velaris. He didn’t give a damn about any passersby gawking at their public display. As if in answer, his shadows gathered, concealing them from view. Sometimes those damn busybodies were useful for something.

Azriel pressed Gwyn into the wall, slipping a hand into her auburn silk strands, angling her head to take the kiss even deeper. Her moan the richest sound as he rolled his hips into her. There was no hiding how she affected him—and she wasn’t pulling away. Instead, her hands drifted down his back and gripped his behind, tugging him so tightly he was certain she could feel his cock throb. He groaned, long and low, grinding against her, his teeth dragging over her lower lip.

His name slipped from her lips like a gasping plea, “Azriel.”

He froze, chest rising and falling at a rapid pace. Shit, what in the Mother was he doing pawing all over her? Practically dry humping the poor female out in the open.

“Gods, Gwyn, I’m sorry.” He began to move aside, but Gwyn was having none of that. Her fingers dug into his behind, holding Azriel firmly against her body.

Gwyn’s teal eyes were brimmed with wonder when she looked at him. “Don’t pull away from me again, Shadowsinger.” She kissed him tenderly, licking his lower lip as she drew back. His godsdamn knees wobbled. “I like this.” She pressed her mouth to his and pinched his ass. Hard. “Gods, you have a perfect butt.”

Azriel choked, lifting an eyebrow. “Not like you should be surprised. You spend enough time at training hiding the fact that you’re staring.”

“Lies and slander,” Gwyn smirked, the tip of her nose brushing against his.

The back of his hands skidded over coarse brick until he grasped the curve of her ass, all her softness writhing into his aching hardness. He leaned his head forward, his breath whispering over the shell of her ear. “Not as nice as this one,” giving a little squeeze for emphasis. She whimpered, arching against him as he nibbled the skin behind her ear, soothing the sting with his tongue. “And I know my asses, Berdara. Mostly, I’m known for being one.”

She huffed a laugh, her arms climbing back up to his shoulders, enfolding him in a hug. Both of them left panting, trying to catch a breath.

Gwyn sighed into the side of his neck. “So, was this our first fight?” Her hands caressed his shoulders in soothing circles.

“I guess so?” He snickered, kissing her temple. “I’m not sure.”

“You were angry, though. Well, so was I to be honest.”

“I wasn’t angry with you, Gwyn.” He paused. “I was angry more with myself. The shit that happened. Not you. And if you were being as detached as I was tonight? I would have been pestering you too.”

Gwyn grinned against his throat, sweeping her mouth over his heated skin. “Is this what making up is like?” A pause. Another peck to where his neck met his shoulder. “Because if it is? We’re in trouble. I like the making up part. Very much.”

Az chuckled, tugging her from the stucco facade, still bound in his arms. “Not going to lie, Gwyn. I’ve never apologized like this before.”

“Shocking.” Gwyn smirked. She stepped out of his embrace, holding out a hand for him, wiggling her fingers. “Come on, Shadowsinger, let’s go home and make up some more.”

Azriel took a deep breath. There were more than five digits and a palm in the hand extended. It was a peace offering. An open invitation. A crossroads.

For once in his godsforsaken life, Azriel gladly reached out for the hand offered. Without the worry of what Gwyn would find behind his mask. With no shame in his heart. And he realized the moment his fingers interlaced with hers, things would change—even if the darker places in his mind pounded against his happiness, taunting him to enjoy it while it lasted.

Chapter Text

“I can not believe you didn’t tell me, Berdara! I had to find out from Mor.” Emerie spun on Nesta and Cassian. “And I know you two saw, so don’t even pretend you didn’t!”

Cassian stepped back, his hands raised in rare submission, while his mate crossed her arms over her chest.

“They only did because they walked in on us,” Gwyn said, rubbing her tender arm. Gods, the Illyrian female really did not pull punches.

Emerie’s jaw went slack. “Walked in on what? I need to know!”

Nesta curled her lips, not bothering to hide her amusement. “Relax, they simply kissed, Emerie.”

“A kiss!” Emerie squeaked, reeling in the center of their group, her black braid slithering over her back like an obsidian serpent with every twist of her neck. “Wait, when? Where? What the hell guys!” She threw her hands up in exasperation.

Gwyn inclined her face to the sunlit sky, pushing a finger to the middle of her forehead. “Gods above, I will do anything to finish this discussion right now.”

“Anything? How about we open with fifty push-ups, females!” Cassian barked, effectively closing the door on the conversation with a wink Gwyn’s way. Praise the Mother—and thank the nosy Illyrian general. Though Emerie assured her the conversation was far from over and she expected details. Mother, save her.

Her braid clung to her drenched nape by the time Cassian split their groups up for hand-to-hand sparring. Ten of them now in the Elite group with more cutting the ribbon every day. More adding to their rank and sisterhood. Soon enough, the Valkyries would be a force not even the Illyrians could dismiss.

Toeing off their boots, Nesta and Gwyn squared off in the ring.

“Ready, Archeron?” Gwyn smirked at her partner, rolling her shoulders.

“Bring it, Berdara.”

Nesta made the first move, feinting to the left when she went right. Typical. Gwyn easily blocked.

They met blow for blow. Block after block. A fierce dance of fists and feet. And Gwyn had a sneaking suspicion Cassian enjoyed watching their violent contest.

Nesta was definitely about to tap out of Gwyn’s unmerciful headlock when Azriel landed on the rooftop. Despite Nesta’s struggling, Gwyn’s gaze connected with his flecked hazel, and she smiled—at the worst possible time. Nesta shifted her heels, changing her angle, and landed a brutal punch to Gwyn’s right side.

Agony seized her lungs in a hideous cracking blow. Sharp, fiery pain radiated down her torso to her toes.

Oh, Gods, she couldn’t breathe.

Gwyn’s legs buckled as she collapsed to the sand, rolling out of Nesta’s kicking range. She had to get to her feet. Gwyn grunted, first kneeling then standing, her breasts heaving as she went back in her stance. Holding out her palms, she wavered.

“That’s for making fun of me for being distracted by Cassian, Berdara. Not so fun when the shoe is on the other foot, is it?” Nesta’s smirk slowly slipped as realization set in.

Gwyn cringed and forced a smile, her hand moving to rest by her injury as a reflex. A horde of shadows swiftly engulfed her, whirring to the side Nesta had struck. Oh no. With her hands, Gwyn swatted at the beasts, struggling to scatter them to the winds.

“Go,” she beseeched, her mouth dropping open when they heeded her word. Yet too late. Azriel and Cassian were already by her side, concern shading their features.

“I want to see where you got hit,” Azriel demanded hurriedly, lifting the hem of the linen tunic she favored in the summer heat. Though the lack of the scaled leather armor might have been a mistake. Lesson learned.

In their master’s presence, Azriel’s shadows discreetly pointed out her injury. Cursed little traitors.

Gwyn scoffed and tugged away from the shadowsinger’s grip. “You could have simply asked if you wanted me to take my shirt off.” As Cassian and the girls laughed, Azriel’s cheeks blushed. Cassian whacked his brother playfully on the shoulder. Points for her.

Slowly, she raised her shirt’s hem to reveal her wound. As a distraction, Gwyn paid attention to the state of Azriel’s onyx hair; windblown into rumpled waves, reminding her of messing it up with her fingers. She rolled her eyes when the fussy Shadowsinger cursed.

“The injury is not that bad, Azriel.”

A pair of sharp hazel glared at her, refusing to be questioned. “Berdara, the area is already bruised and swollen.”

Nesta practically shoved Azriel to see, saying, “Shit, I’m sorry, Gwyn.” The elder Archeron swore once more. “Godsdammit, I didn’t mean to jab you so hard.”

“I’m…fine, everyone. Truly, I am.” Gwyn drew the tunic in place, doing her finest to suppress her wince when the soft fabric scraped over her inflamed skin.

Azriel’s expression closed as he held steadfast in front of her. Oh, no. “Take a deep breath.”

She drew a meager breath in and out. “I’m fine, Shadowsinger.” She did her best to glower at him.

“Take. A. Deep. Breath,” Azriel sighed, gripping his nose bridge. “Please.” In response to Cassian’s repeated whip snaps, Azriel groaned as if he were the one in misery.

With no way to back out, Gwyn obliged. Her slight inhale crippled her with unbearable, blinding pain, as though she had been stabbed—repeatedly. Even with clenched teeth, she was unable to hide the grimace or gasp that slipped. The rooftop erupted in a cacophony of profanity. With a gentleness that would have brought tears to her eyes if she wasn’t so annoyed, Azriel scooped her up.

“What are you doing?” She wheezed as he arranged her in his arms.

“We are going to the estate to see Madja. She’s already at the river house for Nyx’s checkup. Even though I don’t want to move you, this way will be faster than her coming here.”

“I don’t need a doc- AHHH! ”

Azriel’s penetrating eyes were grim, his jaw straight enough to cut glass. “I’m sorry, what did you say before pain cut off your speech?” She rolled her eyes once more. “Roll them again, Gwyneth, and one day they will roll right out.”

Her arm wound around his collar as she rolled them again, this time deliberately. “Well, maybe I can roll them next time for something good.”

“I think that I can make that happen.” He smiled crookedly at her, with a dark brow arched in a challenge. The heat rose in her cheeks and spread at his wicked implication. Azriel just took Gwyn’s one point.

“Even though this foreplay is entertaining as hell to watch,” Cassian chuckled. Nesta cleared her throat, scowling beside him. “I do agree. Bring her to Madja. Sounds like she may have broken a rib. If that’s the case, you are out for a while, Valkyrie.”

Gwyn murmured, “You insufferable males.”

He flared his wings and launched into the sky.

𝄋

“You’re confident she didn’t fracture a rib or collapse a lung?” Azriel asked for the thousandth time.

He couldn’t help it. The entire short flight to the river house, he thought he might vomit, his mind unable to handle Gwyn’s suffering. Even though she was too damn stubborn to admit any discomfort. But, the way Gwyn trembled in his hold, by the shallow inhales and breaths against his chest; she was hurting and that pained him.

Gwyn perched on the bed, sending him the evil eye over the healer’s bowed head.

“A probable hairline fissure in one,” Madja said, and he had to convince himself a surface crack wasn’t significant. Still, she was …he shook his head. “She’s lucky. Nesta could have broken three.” Madja stopped her examination, gazing up at her patient. “You’re fortunate your body is so flexible, Gwyn.”

“Nymph heritage for the win,” Gwyn sighed, cringing. Azriel moved to her side at once.

Madja glanced up at Azriel before shifting her complete attention back to the priestess. “Nymph’s bones are pliable, allowing for more flex. So, you didn’t snap the ribs as anybody else might have sustained from—”

“See? I’m great,” Gwyn interjected as Az gingerly plopped next to her left side on the guest bed.

“But.” Madja gave a half-grin. “You have extensive contusions. Bone bruises on your right flank. You’ll require rest and abstain from training until it’s entirely healed. I’d recommend at least a couple of days.”

As Azriel saw Gwyn’s strategic mind lock onto the term recommendation, he said, “As her trainer, I’ll make certain she won’t be sparring for a few days. ”

“She said a couple,” Gwyn muttered under a sigh, causing Madja to chortle as she combed through a large medical kit of supplies on the dark wood floor.

“A few, Berdara. Flexible limbs or not, you’re going to relax for at least three days.” He turned his concern back to the healer. “I’ll also speak to Clotho about work duties that won’t involve shelving or heavy lifting for the time being.” Gwyn narrowed her icy, teal eyes on him. She was beautiful in general, but when she was hot with anger? Fuck him. “That is, if you think those types of movements might be an issue, Madja?”

Taking a moment of consideration, Madja nodded in agreement. “I think that’s a safe plan, Azriel. I’ll supply a note for Clotho. We don’t want you reaching up or performing tasks that may involve a fall, Gwyn. I’ll send you off with tonic pain control as well.”

“Would you be giving these tonics and care for my injury if I were male?” Gwyn hissed. Gods, the female was tough as nails. Stubborn to a fault, but no denying her fortitude.

“On the front line, it would depend on the timing. But the males here that I care for? They need to remain in peak shape for Court duties, so yes.” Azriel had to stop his smile as Gwyn scowled at him sidelong and pouted. Madja rose with bandages, clearing her throat. “Now, Gwyn, I’m going to need to wrap your ribs, so you’re going to need to remove your—”

Azriel squeezed Gwyn’s hand, pushing up from the bed as if it was on fire. “I’ll show myself out. I’ll be hanging just outside, all right?”

Her head angled at him in question, but nodded in answer.

Azriel stepped out of the corridor, pulling the door shut behind him with care. He shut his eyes and leaned back against the wall, bumping the back of his head as he willed his dumb heart to quiet the fuck down. He couldn’t help what swelled inside. The warring relief and lust at the mental image of the beautiful redhead—unharmed and topless on the other side of that wall. Cauldron, there had to be something wrong with him.

Stay with her, he charged the shadows as they wriggled into space under the doorjamb.

“Is she going to be all right?” Surprise sparked at Rhysand’s tone, the mildest Azriel had heard since before the last Solstice.

“Severe rib contusion and a surface fracture to one. She’s going to be sore, but she’ll live,” Azriel explained, rubbing a palm down his face, letting Rhys in on the strategy to keep Gwyn out of training until further notice.

Rhysand agreed wholeheartedly with the limitations. “I would do the same for Feyre. So that begs the question—how pissed off is our favorite little priestess?”

He snorted. “How pissed off would Feyre be?” Azriel tried to hide his amusement

“Feyre darling would be furious.” Rhysand scanned the hallway as if indeed checking for a furious mate. “So…”

Azriel cracked an eye open, finding Rhysand smirking at him with interest, his fists shoved in the pockets of his black trousers. He faced the High Lord’s stare head-on.

“Out with it, Rhys.”

“You and Gwyn?”

Azriel groaned, thudding his skull again. “I’m pretty confident my shield should have blocked that intel, High Lord. ”

Rhysand placed a mocking hand over his heart. “I’m insulted you’d think I’d do that. I didn’t go poking around. The interest is visible, brother.” A hand clamped on Azriel’s shoulder, rocking him. He raised his gaze, finding illuminating, shining violet peering back at him. “And it’s not an awful thing, Az. Not at all.” Azriel put a scarred hand on Rhysand’s navy dress shirt and nodded. “You and Gwyn should stay for family dinner. And stay the night. We have adequate accommodations for everyone alone.” The High Lord clicked his tongue. “Or together.”

“I don’t know.” Azriel exhaled sharply through his nose, returning his gaze to the closed door. His shadows hadn’t materialized with any news.

“Madja won’t be far.” Rhysand’s grin was full of certainty, knowing Az wouldn’t be able to turn down nearby medical aid for the female. Shit. Scheming prick.

His heavy sigh was a concession. “All right, I’ll ask her if she wishes to stay.”

Rhysand slapped Azriel on the shoulder. “Fair warning though, Az. I’m not the only one who knows.” He cleared his throat, his lips twitching in amusement that he knew something the Spymaster did not. “All of Velaris knows—and you know how our group is at dinners? Expect them to be in rare form tonight. Warn your female before she enters the lion’s den.”

𝄋

“So, it appears.” Mor drew out the words like a sword as the exquisite blonde rubbed a crimson red fingernail around the rim of her wineglass. “You two are the talk of the city.” Mor’s red lips curved into a smile as Gwyn’s face heated, as the shadows settled into her lap like comforting house cats. “The fearsome Shadowsinger and a darling Priestess are all the Court chatter.”

Azriel reached for her hand under the table, running his callused thumb over the back in soothing, tender strokes. He’d been extra gentle with her since she staggered out of the guest room, which was apparently her bedroom for the evening.

Gwyn really shouldn’t be surprised by Mor’s bluntness. Azriel had given her ample warning before she’d agreed to join.

The Shadowsinger will take you home if you want to leave, Priestess. Shadows nuzzled her arm.

Gwyn firmly believed that from the bottom of her heart, the only reason she stayed. Frankly, she was sore. Groggy and too tired to even let Az fly them home. So she’d agreed to dinner and to settle in for the night. Watching Azriel fumble through, clarifying the sleeping arrangements, was awfully charming and might have been worth the trauma that brought them to the house. Gwyn might have to thank Nesta later when she didn’t feel like she was run over by Bryaxis.

Cassian snickered as Azriel sighed. “Yeah, Az,” Cassian teased, his eyebrows waggling. “Everyone was talking about your fight and make out—I mean make up—session.”

“That’s enough, Cassian,” Nesta and Azriel chided at the same time, the first sending her mate a sidelong, annoyed glare, which had his mouth clamping shut on command.

“Well, it would be the first time the recent town gossip was about our dear Azriel—and not you two’s foolish drunken antics,” Rhysand pointed out, winking at Gwyn. The handsome High Lord only drove her blush to deepen.

Despite meeting them all before, Gwyn was still astonished at how accepting everyone was. She marveled at the easygoing, welcoming ambiance of the official Court residence. The High Lord and Lady truly created a cozy home for their child and their Inner Circle. Their family.

Conversation flowed as smoothly and readily as the wine went around the table. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Compared to how Nesta described her younger sister as warm and inviting, Elain was frigid and aloof, barely even acknowledging her and Azriel’s existence. From the little Gwyn knew about the middle Archeron, it seemed odd. Completely out of character. Elain, however, didn’t linger long.

During the delicious fig and bacon appetizers, as Gwyn answered questions between chews, Elain stood up, excusing herself before the main course, asserting, “My stomach is a bit unsettled. I’ll be in my room.” She retreated up the staircase without another word, and Gwyn could swear Azriel tensed beside her as his shadows swirled around his ears.

Sudden pain lanced her head on her battered side as if some beast dug fierce claws into her scalp. Azriel glanced at her, worry chilling those warm eyes of his, as he crushed her hand. She squeezed back in return, declaring to him she was fine in the gesture.

Feyre raised her glass with a smile on her lovely face. “Well, we are all thrilled for you two. And it’s not like any of us can say we hadn’t had a public display of affection—or two.”

“True. And when you two fuck,” Amren mused, pointing between the High Lord and Lady. “Your orgasms sway buildings in the godsdamn city like we’re built upon a fault line.” Cassian roared so hard he almost toppled over in his chair. “You should be the last to laugh, Cassian. I can hear you coming practically to Adriata.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Amren.”

The small, black-haired female snorted. “You would, boy.”

Gwyn’s eyebrows shot up her forehead as Azriel gripped her palm tighter. Was that true? Was it true for all Illyrians to be so… loud when they? She peeked at the winged male at her side. Az’s shoulders shook as he tried to hold back his amusement.

Well, he’d warned her about vulgar, fun family dinners and she hadn’t believed him. Another lesson learned. Gwyn’s mouth curved into a wide smile.

“Still, I can’t believe I had to find out from Sevenda , describing to me how you two put on quite a show on the side of the building,” Mor squealed, tossing back her wine in a swig. “Well, before your shadows obviously drew the curtain. But I’m surprised by you, Az. Keeping this charming female from us and all to yourself. If I were dating her, I’d be showing her off.”

“Funny coming from you, Mor. So when are you bringing Emerie to the family dinner?”

Azriel casually took a sip of his wine while Mor swore, releasing the bottle she was pouring all over the table. Azriel kept his face dull, having successfully shifted the discussion to another couple. Thank the Mother.

“Always the brilliant strategist,” Gwyn leaned over and whispered. He winked.

Chapter Text

“So you don’t desire males anymore? At all?” Amren swirled her drink in her grip, settling back in the chair, short legs casually crossed while fingers fidgeted with a ruby necklace at her collar.

Mor popped a plump strawberry between her ruby lips, wiping her hands with a shrug. “While the thought of one may thrill me now and then, I’ve simply found over the years that being with a female means more. A connection on a more intimate level, I suppose. Particularly with one female now than anyone else I’ve been with. Plus, with the right lover, there are things you do not miss. Trust me.”

Azriel glanced sidelong at the redhead on his left. This type of chatter wasn’t unusual for their circle of friends, especially since Mor had divulged her preference for females weeks ago. Only Amren had been away for the revelation.

Those large, teal eyes focused on Mor as Gwyn chomped on a bite of biscuit. He wondered if any of Gwyn’s books touched on females with females or males with males. Surely, there had to be a night when their Valkyrie book club discussed some of those scenes. Oh, to be a daemati and peek inside her adorably curious mind.

“And.” Mor stopped to imbibe her bubbly champagne, having another nibble of berry. “It’s nice to not have to draw a map and have someone know precisely where to touch—”

“Hey! I’m offended by that remark!” Cassian raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t complaining when we fu—” He paused, glancing quickly at Gwyn quickly before continuing. “When we…you know.” Nesta snickered, shaking her head.

Gwyn choked. Azriel leaned over, patting and rubbing her back as she hacked and coughed. Rhysand cleared his throat, about to suggest a change in conversation, no doubt.

“Wait. Mor and Cassian had sex?” Gwyn squeaked out before she stopped herself. Hand slapped over her mouth, her face went from pale and freckled to pink all over. “Oh, gods, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t sweat it, Gwynnie, it’s not a secret. Everyone here knows,” Cassian said with a casual shrug, no smugness behind his tone.

Ah yes, when Morrigan had wrangled Cassian to take her virginity to spite Keir’s arranged marriage proposal with Eris. The second moment in Azriel’s story when he’d experienced true heartbreak, adhering to his stone heart like moss for five hundred years.

“I had no criticisms because I had nobody to compare our time to.” Mor teased with a wink.

Nesta couldn’t stave her chuckling at that one, as Cassian was about to deliver something lewd in response.

“But,” Mor started, tipping her glass flute to the Illyrian general. “Despite everything that happened after, I will always be grateful, Cass.”

Cassian’s features softened some, and he nodded. Azriel was on the brink of tuning out, but noticed something different. Normally, exchanges such as this caused the very center of his chest to collapse, but tonight?

Nothing. No bitterness. No regret.

There was solely one thing he was pining for: the person whose lithe, slightly callused hand was in his own.

Mor took a slurp of her drink, smacking her lips together. “There’s something about a female having all the same parts as you. They know their way around a—”

A baby appeared on Gwyn’s lap the exact moment the suggestive word left Mor’s mouth, a curious expression on his cherubic face. One of wonder and delight, coupled with healthy fear in those starry indigo eyes, tucking his tiny wings tight to the back of his light blue footed sleeper.

“Oh, sweet Mother!” Feyre yelped, banging her foot as she scrambled out of her chair.

“Guess Nyx has figured out how to winnow.” Rhysand stretched. “And I predict that means we’re not sleeping tonight. Again.”

Az watched Gwyn hold on to the baby’s waist, mindful of the tiny wings, smiling down at the boy. “Well hello, little one. Nyx, is it?” Gwyn’s questioning gaze lifted to Feyre, who nodded a yes, slowing her stride. Gwyn turned back to the babe in her hands. “We’re all right, right, Nyx?” He burbled out some spit bubbles. “Well, that is fascinating,” Gwyn pretended to understand him.

Wide-eyed, Feyre made her way back to her seat. “I’m sorry he just popped up like that. Rhysand secured his nursery with wards in case he decides to attempt flying without us but—”

“I forgot winnowing,” the High Lord rubbed his temples with a free hand, clenching a full tumbler of amber liquid in the other. “Which is to say, I didn’t overlook. Nyx shouldn’t be capable of winnowing yet but—this suggests we have a mighty future High Lord to raise.” Worried night swirled around him and dispersed with a simple, gentle caress from his mate.

Gwyn shook her head, her unbraided hair tumbling in loose waves to her shoulders. Nyx made cooing noises, grabbing for her curtain of copper. “It’s truly fine,” she reiterated, puffing out her cheeks at the child, who popped them between his puny fists with a squeal. Both Gwyn and the baby were all giggles and cute in a way that made Azriel’s chest swell with the sentiment. Made him hope she could have a happy future surrounded by love. Children, if she wished.

“He likes you,” Azriel whispered, discreetly kissing her cheek, dropping another to the Nyx’s downy head, before standing.

Nyx hoisted his arms to Az, the universal signal for up. The uncle obeyed the command, never able to turn down ordered hugs from his nephew. That child was going to be trouble one day. Any of the Inner Circle would drag down the moon in the sky for their boy. No one was able to say no to Nyx.

Azriel lifted the youth high into the air, his shadows immediately swirling around them. Nyx batted at them with his chubby fists, his tiny wings flapping excitedly, as he tried catching the wisps in his pudgy fingers. One of the little games they played. Part of Az still couldn’t believe he was an uncle, getting watch Nyx to grow. To support his nephew along the way. Help the boy learn to fly. Teach him chess. Go with him to pick out his first dagger. Have him join in their annual Solstice snowball fight and kick Rhysand’s ass.

Gwyn made to push up, grimacing, until Nesta started a commotion about assisting her. “I’m fine, Nesta, but thank you.” The priestess stood beside Azriel, propping her chin on his shoulder, watching Nyx go after each shadow with a burbly battle roar. “Well, this is so adorable, my heart might burst, Shadowsinger.” The truth was his might, too.

“At least it’s not your ovaries, girl,” Amren said wryly. Both Gwyn and Azriel tensed. Nyx must have sensed as his gaze flitted between the two of them, burbling like he was demanding what was wrong.

“Azriel, could I borrow you for a minute?” Feyre requested from behind.

“Yeah, just let me—” Gwyn made to grab Nyx, but Rhys snuck in just in time, saving Azriel from scolding her because of her injury again.

“Come on, Nyx, let’s go play with Gwyn in the family room,” the High Lord said, tucking his son to his side as he gently led Gwyn with the other, keeping her close. Rhysand nodded over his shoulder to Az, as if to declare he had her. Gwyn scowled in Az’s directing, mouthing what he thought was fussy bastard.

Yes, you are being fussy, Shadowsinger, but we need to protect our girl from her obstinacy. For once, he and his shadows were one hundred percent on the same page.

Knowing Gwyn was in safe hands, Az turned his attention to his High Lady, who grinned, petitioning him to help set out desserts. “I’m uncertain what Gwyn likes, so I figured I’d ask you.”

Azriel reflected back to the night Gwyn devoured all the pastries and became sick. “She loves anything with sugar.” Then his mind went to her, removing the ganache from his face, licking the dark chocolate off her finger. His lips twitched and his blood heated with the memory. “But Gwyn loves chocolate.”

“My kind of girl.” The High Lady gathered up mismatched ceramic mugs for tea and coffee, setting up the buffet table. She paused, a quiet, dreamy smile crossing her face as her son squealed in delight. Azriel craned his neck toward the excitement, a plate of assorted pastries in hand.

The High Lord sat on the cream carpet, his child between his legs leaning forward on his arms for balance. Nyx banged his palms to the ground in a tempo all his own, babbling as Gwyn smacked her palms on the floor in front of him, answering him as if she knew the cadence by heart. Cassian was huddled up with Nesta on the couch, following the performance. Even Amren seemed to regard the interaction with fondness from her perch on the gray recliner.

“So, after we get this little one back to bed, since you’re staying the night, care for a game of chess?” Rhysand asked the priestess.

“I never understood chess sadly, but my sister showed me how to play cards.”

Cassian snorted. “For real, Gwynnie? Huh, not what I was expecting from a priestess.”

“Priestesses possess a number of skills you might not expect. Plus, I didn’t say I was a skilled card player, only that I learned how to play.”

Azriel snapped his mouth shut as he noted the way Gwyn lazily twirled red strands around her finger. Cauldron, she had that virtuous act down. From the little she’d spoken of her sister Catrin, if her twin had been the one to teach her how to play cards? Gods save them. Those males were folding with empty pockets tonight, and Az couldn’t wait to bear witness.

“She fits in here with all of us,” Feyre said, angling back to Azriel. Well, not all of them, Az’s eyes drifting upwards to the second story, where Elain cloistered herself for the entire evening. Elain’s abrupt retreat weighed him with guilt. Feyre nudged him with an elbow. “Think Gwyn would be up for babysitting?”

Azriel snorted, shaking his head.

“Babysitting, I don’t know,” Mor said while reaching around Azriel, pilfering a berry tart. “But Feyre is correct; she fits right in with our people, Azriel.” When Mor looked over at her, he found her pecan eyes lustrous. They shared a smile, and some sort of healing passed between them. Happiness for one another, both having met someone that cared for them.

“We only started seeing each other a few months ago,” Azriel stated, expecting Mor to encourage.

Mor casually picked up and sank her elegant, bare shoulder. “So? You’ve known her for what, years?”

But isn’t that what terrified him? After how many years of waiting and actively searching? His darker shadows hissed in the background, warning him of his losses.

You told one female once, and she turned you away. Found you unworthy. A burden. Useless.

Azriel, Feyre’s voice startled him in his mind, jarring him from his inner turmoil. Her blue crystal eyes glowing, a slant of amusement to her mouth. Sometimes the most unlikely person can alter the course of history. She winked at him before calling everyone over for dessert.

Nephelle’s Philosophy.

Azriel turned back to gaze at the priestess, her smile brighter than sunlight glinting on the Sidra. More splendid than any Starfall. And for a moment, he dared to dream. Feyre was right. Gwyn fit right in with the Inner Circle. With their found family. In spite of his hardened heart, he could not help but believe Gwyn was where she was supposed to be.

𝄋

“You sure you don’t need anything else?” Nesta asked from the threshold. “Are the pajamas comfortable enough?”

Comfortable enough? Holy Mother, the borrowed lilac shorts and top were the comfiest pajamas ever to grace her body. Who was she kidding? Unlike the library or temple, the bed, the sheets, the furniture, and even the people, all of it was warmer and more pleasant.

“Yes, thank you for letting me borrow these.”

“Borrow? Hell, they’re yours now.” Nesta smugly chuckled. “Those males owe you the shirts off their backs after you slaughtered them in those poker games. I’ve never seen Cassian lose so spectacularly, so praise you for that.”

Cassian actually had the worst luck of the evening. Rhysand held his own. Azriel was the one who had caused her the most trouble. He identified her tells, her bluffs. Even still, she’d nearly cleaned out his coffers.

Nesta chuckled to herself, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorjamb, inspecting her nails. “The only thing I wish is that we’d opted for strip poker.”

Gwyn laughed, wincing a little from the motion on her side. True. She would have kept all her clothes on, but the males…

She smirked at the notion.

“Thank you for helping me dress, Nesta.” Something Gwyn struggled to do on her own and bemoaned the instant she raised her arm to slide into the sleeve. And she’d been too bashful to seek Azriel’s help.

“Cassian is too drunk to fly,” Nesta grumbled. “We’ll be just upstairs. Azriel’s chamber is at the top on your right. But I think he’s staying on the couch down the hall in the living room. I suspect he doesn’t want to be too far away with you injured.” Her face was serene as she murmured, “Goodnight, Berdara.”

“Goodnight, Archeron. Sweet dreams.”

“Same.” She closed the door a tad and added, “Oh. And don’t give Az any trouble tonight when he dotes on you and brings your medication. Take your tonic like a good girl.”

“Yes, Mother.” Gwyn stuck out her tongue as Nesta grunted and sent her a vulgar gesture before she walked off.

With an amber vial and spoon in one hand, Azriel nudged the door open with his hip. Gwyn was unable to stop her eye roll.

“Seriously, Shadowsinger? I can take the medicine myself.”

“Oh yeah? When’s the last time? How long between doses?” Umm. Well, he had her there, and from that lazy grin, he knew it. Azriel sat on the edge of the bed, his hip pressing against hers, as he caressed her jawline. “Let me take care of you. All right?”

The way he asked with such frankness had her heart tripping over itself. How could she say no?

“All right.” She swallowed hard, pulling the covers over her exposed legs. Azriel still wore what he’d changed into after their visit with Madja when he’d changed out of his leathers for something more comfortable; a simple black cotton shirt and black pants. But of course, the shirt defined his muscles, and more of his intricate Illyrian tattoos peeked at the collar and under the edge of each sleeve.

He splashed the shiny maroon tonic onto the utensil, draining some back into the container to get the correct amount. Azriel was very fastidious. While twisting toward her with the spoon, he set the bottle on the end table beside the bed.

Her nose scrunched. “You’re going to spoon-feed me?”

“If you behave and don’t give me any trouble, I have something for you.”

Curiosity beat out her willfulness as Gwyn opened her mouth. The spoon slipped inside, slanting so the liquid ran down her throat. She drank, scowling at the vile taste.

“It can’t be that bad.” Azriel chuckled at the distorted faces she was making.

Gwyn whooped in a choking fit, holding her palm against her chest. “I beg.” Hack. “To differ.” Cough.

“Well, you did well, and I mentioned I have something for you.”

He leaned over and pressed his lips to hers. Once. Twice. A bolt of lust shot as he licked the seam of her lips, coaxing them to open. She yielded, her toes curling as his tongue swept over hers, tasting of rich liquor. He snickered, pulling back, resting his forehead against her furrowed one.

“What?” She gulped. “Why did you stop?” Her demand ended in a breathless sigh.

“You’re right,” he snickered, kissing the tip of her nose. “That tonic tastes awful.”

Laughing, Gwyn playfully hit his arm when her torso seized in pain. Carefully giving the shadowsinger a soft, chaste kiss. Grateful to have him at her side, she said, “You might have been an overbearing mother hen many times today, but thank you for taking care of me, Azriel.”

𝄋

Screaming. Someone was screaming in the house.

The Priestess! The Priestess! His shadows were recoiling in a roar of alarm over his bed.

His gut tightened as fear settled in. Azriel drew Truth-Teller from under the couch cushion and sprinted the short distance to her bedchamber.

“Please! Please!” Gwyn wailed over and over as she writhed and twisted in the sheets. Every time her back bowed, her body contorted, she yelped in anguish. Each cry pierced him in the chest.

“No! Please stop!”

When Azriel found no intruder in the space, he flew to her side, lightly smoothing back her hair stuck to clammy skin as tears rolled down. As her hands grappled with some mysterious force. Living through some kind of hell. Or reliving.

“Gwyn? Gwyn. Wake up. Wake up, priestess,” he pleaded, trying to jostle her out of her terror. “Gwyn!”

On a scream, Gwyn’s eyes popped open, and she launched straight up into a sit. Her eyes darted around the room, hunting for her assailant.

Azriel placed his dagger on the nightstand and cupped her cheeks, enticing her wide, unwavering gaze. “Gwyn. Gwyn.” She finally saw him. “Hey.” He swallowed down the cluster of rising concern. Azriel had never seen Gwyn so disheveled, so unsure. Not since the night…

“It was a nightmare.” He wiped away the beaded sweat from her brow. “Just a nightmare.”

She trembled on an inhale. His hand drifted to the side of her neck, her pulse beat wildly against his palm.

“It seemed so real.” Her voice splintered. Gwyn slipped her hand over his. “You’re here.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re all right?” She was battling back tears.

He lifted a curious eyebrow. “Yes.” She nodded, her cerulean eyes still troubled by whatever hunted Gwyn in her sleep. “Do you want to talk about it?” She shook her head. “Can you go back to bed?”

“Normally, I would head to the roof to practice.” Gwyn glanced at her bandages. “But that’s not happening. So, I guess I’ll try to go back to sleep.”

With a contrived smile, Azriel made to leave, but Gwyn seized his wrist like he was a lifeline. Her eyes were perfectly round when he stared down at her. “Can you stay with me, Azriel? Please?”

He was paralyzed by her words.

“I just don’t want to be alone,” she confessed in a thin voice.

And he didn’t want to leave her.

Inhaling deeply, Az assured her, “I’ll stay, but I’d like to rest in the chair if it’s all right with you.”

Gwyn agreed. “That’s probably for the best…for now. With my injury and…everything.”

He nodded, dragging the recliner over closer to the side of the bed. What he wouldn’t give for any other scenario where she wasn’t hurt. Where there wasn’t a horrible nightmare.

He carefully eased Gwyn back down, kissing her damp forehead. “Goodnight, Berdara. Only pleasant dreams.”

Her face was turned away as she muttered softly. “Goodnight.”

𝄋

Gwyn waited until his breathing turned deep and even before she shifted back to him. Azriel was a striking, intense male when he was awake. But asleep? Gods, he was utterly beautiful. So softened and exposed. A rare glimpse of the youthful male he had been. Before harrowing centuries kept him constantly on guard.

At some point, the shadowsinger must have tired of sacrificing his poor wings, leaning forward onto the bed, using his brawny arms as a pillow. His breaths puffed out on her forearm, challenging her self-control not to touch him. Brush the tumbled hair off his forehead. Stroke those hands that rescued her.

Gods, that nightmare.

A dark rainy night in Sangravah before all hell broke loose. The Commander’s spiteful words and twisted smirk. Catrin’s fright.

But Catrin never spoke before the fateful blow. Catrin never communicated at all except for those two nights a year she pledged to visit. But tonight?

“Gwyn, this is your fault. All. Your. Fault.” Catrin hissed, her face distorted in fury.

Hands coiled around Gwyn’s throat before the soldier pinned her to a stone wall. So she could watch.

“This is all your fault.”

Cruel fingers bore into Gwyn’s flesh, winding off her airway.

“You’re going to kill him, you know.”

Gwyn wanted to ask who, but the words were trapped in her chest. No air. The world around became foggy. Muddled.

Catrin’s milky teal eyes met hers. Her voice warped. “You’re going to get him killed.”

Gwyn’s head swiveled toward the sound of metallic weapons and boots on rock, to discover two Hybern soldiers dragging in an unconscious winged male with hair the hue of iridescent raven wings.

The rancor in Catrin’s tone trickled with every word as she repeated, “You’re going to kill him.”

One soldier snatched the male by the hair, hoisting his head up, and Gwyn’s heart plummeted.

No. No!

“Azriel!”

As those brilliant greenish-gold eyes found hers, they begged.

“You’re going to get him killed,” Catrin snarled right before the commander separated her head from her body.

“Please! Please!”

Gwyn looked on in horror as they turned that bloody blade to Azriel. She resisted, wriggling and battling against the grip, but there was no use. Fear choked her like a noose around her collar, tightening and squeezing. This can’t be happening.

“No! Please stop!”

“You’re going to kill him,” Catrin’s head still mouthed on the floor beside the soldier’s feet.

Azriel stared at her in accusation before the sword arced behind him.

“No!”

Thankfully, Gwyn woke before the death strike, and Azriel and his shadows prepared to comfort her. To piece her back together. But she’d lied to him. She wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. Not when she could still picture him kneeling before her staring at her with cold, dead eyes. And not when she could still feel each phantom finger pressed into her throat like a vice.

So she’d watch Azriel. His chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm, the breath puffing out between his parted lips. Reaching over, her fingers brushed his, simply to remind her that he was beside her. This was real. He was safe and healthy. He still breathed. Even as the dream haunted her, the repetitive phrase continued to echo in her mind. A message she wasn’t willing to accept.

You’re going to get him killed.

Chapter Text

“Nightmare?” Azriel asked, enclosing her in his powerful arms, grounding her to reality before planting a peck on the crown of her head. She needed this, his body strong against her own after reliving the horror hounding her subconscious since the night at the river house. To realize that he was alive for herself. To see the warmth in his eyes, not a damning gaze condemning her, striking her guilty of doing only the Mother knew. Before Azriel inevitably…

“You too?” Gwyn finally gained the determination to ask, and he admitted to her in an answering nod.

“Yes. Although I don’t sleep much. Never have.” Insomnia; yet something else they had in common. Weren’t they a pair? The difference was her lack of slumber had not begun until Hybern’s commander started making his return in her nightmares. Before Sangravah, when it was her and Catrin? They slept like babes in their mother’s womb. Sound and secure. Since then? All noise in the dark of night made her shiver, compelling her to breathe deeply and use those Mind-Stilling techniques.

But Azriel? How long had he been continuing with no proper rest? Months? Years? Decades? Centuries? She wasn’t sure. He had not been forthright with his past either, besides disclosing the stories of the five-centuries-pining and Distraction Girl.

Other than that? Nothing.

Despite this, Gwyn remained patient. She would not push, even though she wished to peel it off layer by layer, hoping it might be cathartic for him.

Gwyn sighed, brushing her nose against his chest, the cotton of his black shirt soft against her skin. “You ready to get your ass kicked, Shadowsinger,” she mumbled over his heart, Azriel’s chuckle rumbling through him.

“Bring it, Berdara.”

More often than not, their bouts of dueling blades or fists lasted nearly till dawn—when both of them fled to creep in a few minutes of rest in their exhaustion, only to meet again at training shortly thereafter.

Yesterday, or rather very early this daybreak, Azriel had dropped the news while he dried sweat off his brow with his forearm.

“We canceled training today.”

Gwyn’s head cocked in question. “You did?”

He nodded, his mouth curling up on one side. “Today’s the Summer Solstice, Berdara. A holiday, remember?” Azriel strode up to her, sweeping back the hair that fell forward out of her braid, sticking to her sweat-damp skin. “And we have a date.”

“We do?” Her tone sounded squeaky in her own ears. “Are we spending the day with the Inner Circle or—“

“Just us,” Azriel replied, his lips moving against her forehead. “Us all day.”

“Indoors? Outdoors? Where are we going? Please tell me,” Gwyn prodded, hopping up and down on her toes.

“Outdoors. I know you have service first, so I’ll meet you up here this afternoon, all right? I would prefer to come and hear you sing. But I have dispatches to go over before we leave.” He said, pressing his lips to hers. “Today, I’m all yours, Berdara.” Gwyn felt his grin against her throat, echoing those same words before he’d agreed to their initial excursion into Velaris. “It’s going to be hot, so keep the leather at home.” Az playfully smacked her leather-clad bottom, kissing her jawline. Gwyn angled her head as his mouth kept skimming over her sticky skin, down her neck. A giggle crept out as his lips blazed a scorching trail.

“Shadowsinger, you need to—” Gwyn squealed as Azriel nipped the side of her neck. “We need to go.” She shrieked as he wrapped his arms around her, spinning her around, his lips never leaving her collar.

“Sorry,” Az chuckled, setting her back on her own two feet. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

Gwyn left dizzy and flustered, eager for the surprises ahead.

𝄋

“Shadowsinger, get out here!”

Azriel raised his head to the shout, and what he found nearly knocked him over. Gwyn stood out in the waves, ankle-deep, where he noticed the water should be deeper. Apparently, the crafty priestess had discovered the wide sandbar. The fabric of her saffron Night Court attire clung to her shape in a manner that made him wonder if she noticed. If she even cared anymore. And each time Az bore witness to her so loose, shining from within, he felt a fraction of that burden, the regret, burned away in her light.

Ever so slowly, the priestess had been coming out of her shell. Overcoming insecurities. And with every full laugh and smile, he declared a victory and relished in the reward.

Azriel’s lips twitched as he spread out the checkered blanket, double-checking he’d actually remembered everything. He reached into the pocket of shadows. Sandwiches and fruit salad from Sevenda’s for lunch. Pastries from Sabra’s, but not the same ones Gwyn had inhaled on their first night on the town. Sabra had also pitched in chocolate-dipped strawberries after he’d explained why the stunning redhead wasn’t with him this time. White wine chilled to perfection, his shadows making certain all was perfect.

He needed everything to be perfect. Unbeknownst to most, granted the excuse, Azriel could be rather romantic. Those opportunities an anomaly until now. And the very least he could do before leaving on another mission tomorrow.

His shadows were the ones that advised him as he headed out the door. Utensils! Napkins, for which he was eternally thankful. Though, the thought of Gwyn having to lick those fingers clean again…

“Why did you bring me to the beach if you will not join me?” she yelled, stomping her foot with a splash.

Az choked back a laugh as the priestess put her hands on her hips, her auburn eyebrow going up.

“So I’m spending the day swimming by myself, Azriel?”

“I’m not the one who’s part water nymph, Berdara! Illyrian wings and saltwater don’t mix!” Plus, Azriel didn’t mind watching. He’d found them a secluded spot where he could do just that; keep an eye on Gwyn without having to potentially murder any other males on the beach. His reputation helped, preceding him as the dreaded Shadowsinger and Spymaster of the Court.

And Azriel truly couldn’t criticize anyone for gawking.

He turned back to set up lunch when singsong words ensnared him. “Az-ri-el…”

His head lifted, his gaze drawn toward where Gwyn stood in the surf. “Az-ri-el,” she repeated, his name sounding like the sweetest, enchanting melody. An undertow sweeping him out to sea. No breaking the pull, the impulse.

She called to him, and he abandoned the task at hand. Her song. As his feet stirred the water, he found himself knee-deep, the bottoms of his wings swishing across the warm surface before the spell broke when she called, “Az, your wings!”

After blinking to make sense of the pulsing tide, he found himself soaked to the thigh in its waves. Azriel lifted his wings high, shaking them, before flying into the sky and landing near Gwyn on the sandbar.

“What was that all about?” she asked, smoothing a hand down the side of his face. “You were staring straight through me.”

Azriel waved off the concern, the unease. “Nothing, Gwyn. You…” He stooped to roll up the hem of his dark linen pants, his eyes taking in the broad scope of her body. The way the sodden fabric adhered to her like a second skin. The crop top gave away a tantalizing sliver of skin above her belly button. Az rose, folding an arm around her midriff, tugging so they were chest to chest. Heart to heart. A cool chill spread across him as the moisture of her clothes penetrated his. “You look radiant.”

Gwyn offered a tight smile but dropped her eyes. He tipped her chin up, his other hand delving into her hair, gleaming copper ribbons in the sun wrapped around his restless fingers.

“One day you’ll see, Gwyn.”

“I don’t see that ever happening, but you make me feel beautiful, Azriel.”

“You should because you are,” he started, lowering his head to hers as her hands closed around his collar, playing with the shorter hair at his neck. His mouth a hairsbreadth from hers, he said, “You should without me having to say a word. But I will continue repeating as often as I can until you accept it yourself.”

Gwyn swept her lips to his in a soft caress, making his chest spark. “Coming from such a gorgeous male, I should believe.” The priestess tapped his nose playfully as she dragged her teeth over his lower lip.

A growl rumbled in his rib cage as Azriel pulled her tight until nothing was between them but the barely there wet fabric barrier. He was rougher than he meant to be, but that mischievous bite unlocked a part of him. To his wonder, Gwyn answered back with the greedy drags of her mouth, the enthusiastic tugs on his hair. With every new day, their intimacy shaped, shifted in the most pleasurable ways. Gods, if only—

“Get a room!” A thwack sounded from above. “Ow, Mother above!”

They tore apart as they were marionettes on opposite strings, hoisting their gazes toward the cloudless sky.

Cassian flew above, cradling Nesta in his burly arms. They must have been on the way to the river house and taken a detour. Azriel sighed.

“So you demanded to take the scenic route to pester them? You’re an ass,” Nesta scolded her mate, even as she squinted down at them. Gwyn offered her friend a wave, a pretty flush on her neck. Nesta waved back, whispering something to Cassian, who nodded.

“Sorry! Not every day you see an Illyrian out in a sandbar making out with an attractive redhead,” Cassian yelled back with a wink. Gwyn buried her face in Azriel’s neck, an arm draping over her shoulder. He was going to kill Cassian.

“Well, today’s your lucky day, Cassian,” Gwyn muttered, surprising Azriel with a kiss against his throat. Eyes wide, he watched as Gwyn pounced on him, pushing her lips to his with zeal in the presence of their friends. One arm around his neck while the other delivered a crude gesture toward the sky.

Cassian and Nesta exploded in laughter.

“Well, played, Berdara!” Cassian shouted. “You’ve got your hands full, Azriel!”

Didn’t he know it. His hands wandering down her dips and swells, resting on her lower back just before the alluring swell of her ass. His female was an endlessly delightful surprise.

𝄋

Waves peaked and washed over the shore, bubbles joining the cry of the gulls soaring in the sky. The crackling of a smokey bonfire wafting downwind. A symphony of the pinnacle of summer. Rough soil rubbed against her soles as she dug them in, the change from burning to cool a shock against her bare feet.

Azriel’s chin propped on her shoulder as he leaned forward. Squeezing his legs closer to her, his coarse hair grazing against her exposed skin. They’d both rolled their pants up above their knees before they’d taken a seat in the sand. And though her Night Court fashioned tank top was sleeveless, and thankfully longer; she was still sweltering.

“What are you doing?” Azriel asked, watching Gwyn bury her feet. With a devilish grin, she grabbed sand and started covering his own.

“Nothing. Are you going to get sand all over your wings now?”

“I’ll take a bath later.”

Cauldon, the picture of Az in a bath? Naked from head to toe? Her mouth dried. She wiggled, and his arms tightened around her.

Gods, Gwyn adored being held by him. Cherished every kiss. That night of making up had led to touching. More exploring. And it didn’t shock her anymore. Actually, Gwyn was finding it harder and harder to resist him.

She wanted to feel him. Wanted him to touch her. To kiss. To lick. To enjoy every inch of the male. Her male.

Her male?

She’d made it quite apparent when three fae females on the beach had been ogling Azriel, who had disposed of his shirt because of the hot weather. Which, for Gwyn, made her so much warmer. She’d growled a warning at the females and they scuttled away like hermit crabs. As they should. Azriel merely blinked, his lips twitching as he gripped her close and reminding Gwyn that he wasn’t tempted by anyone but her.

Since then, they’d been quietly witnessing the sunset over the cresting waves.

“Remember when I told you the shore was the best place to view the sunset?” Gwyn nodded. “So I thought, why not enjoy the best day of the year to watch it,” he’d said with a half-grin that caused her heart to stutter.

A lot of Gwyn’s heart had been involved lately. And there was a conversation she’d been meaning to have, one that she’d set aside because it was bound to ruin any moments they had tonight. Her body stiffened.

“Gwyn, what’s wrong?” Azriel whispered in her ear, kissing her cheek.

She swiveled in his hold. His eyes showed like topaz in the radiance of the setting sun, his hair speckled with shades of blue highlighted in the deepest black.

The waves tumbled in time to her thrumming pulse.

“I need to tell you something…” The wind kicked up, sending a wave of sand over them. She spat, wiping her face. Azriel snorted as he tousled the grit out of her hair and then his own.

“You were saying?” he smirked, shuddering his wings, sending grains flying.

A gust blew again, and Azriel quickly set her in his lap, encircling them beneath his wings, shielding them from the pelting sand.

“Thank you,” Gwyn laughed, her cheek resting on his bare chest, his breathing ragged against her. Azriel swallowed hard, his chin bumping the top of her head in a nod. She lifted on her knees, placing them on either side of Azriel’s hips, settling down—straddling him. Her lips parted on a gasp as the feel of him under her sent wanton heat rolling through her. This wasn’t the first time he’d made her feel this way, but something was different about this, about them. Since she’d gotten hurt, since that nightmare. An edge of desperation behind each kiss. A boldness in her and him, similar to the notorious night outside of Sevenda’s.

Azriel was leaning back on his hands, his exposed chest heaving up and down as he stared at her, the gold-green of his eyes a slice. Gwyn let her fingertips trace the intricate swirls of the tattoos covering the shadowsinger’s torso. The dips and curves of his toned muscles. His shoulders. His biceps. His body shivered with each featherlight pass of her fingertips.

She leaned forward as her fingers slipped over his collar and down his rib cage and lower, her fingers skimming the planes of his taut abs.

She felt him gulp. “Gwyn.” His voice trembled as much as his arms were behind him. He was struggling to hold himself back. He wouldn’t move until she told him, and part of her really, really liked it.

“Az,” she sighed against his mouth. He groaned as her lips found his, lingering. Though she had yet to memorize them, Gwyn remained determined. Her fingers stilled below his navel, brushing the line of dark hair that led to places she’d merely read. Only fantasized about his body. When those hot kisses hadn’t left her satisfied, pursued her down into the temple and her bed. Moved her own hands to take care of the ache herself, leading to a release that ultimately left her wholly unsatisfied. And wondering if Azriel was doing the same floors above. Thinking of her while he stroked himself.

And all that wondering led to more questions and soul-searching. Driven her to speak with the priestess, who supported her after her abuse, offering guidance. Made her revisit her chats with Nesta about her emotions.

Azriel’s body quivered under her, his hardness pushing up into her until she gasped against his mouth. But she didn’t dare move her hand on his stomach. Fear. Fear held her from exploring down to where she wished to touch. Where she desired to touch Azriel. To experience him. For him to experience her. But fear was always in the background.

And for some reason, encased in his wings, just the two of them, the time was now to start facing the ones hounding her. Even if it meant tossing a bucket of cold water on all their heat.

She drew back, his heart beating as rapidly as her own.

“Azriel.” She gulped, closing her eyes to focus. Push down the enduring worry.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his head tilting. Azriel was always watchful of how much he pushed her. Cauldon above, she really was a lucky female.

“I need to tell you something.” That quick, she felt him go rigid under her palms. Perhaps those weren’t the choicest words. “What I meant to say is there’s been something on my mind and I need to talk to…with you…”

From the creases in his forehead, none of her words alleviating his apprehension.

She could do this. She could do this.

“Look, Gwyn,” Azriel exhaled, lifting one hand to drive through his hair. “If something’s wrong or you don’t want to do this anymore—“

“What? No! No! Not at all. Quite the contrary, actually.” His hand froze in his hair, surprise hidden in his features. Had he been so ready for her to abandon him?

Gwyn drew a deep breath, shaking her head. “I don’t know what you think I’m doing with you, Azriel. But I care about you, deeply. I like you a lot and…and the more we’re together, the more I want to be with you. Really with you…if you get what I mean.” She bit her lip, finding the shadowsinger staring at her in amazement.

All right. Now the hard part.

I am the rock against which the surf breaks.

She’d been so engrossed in her mantra, the stroke of Azriel’s fingers over the rise of her cheekbone was a shock. She jolted a little, and he ripped away, falling back onto her haunches, their knees touching.

“Sorry,” he whispered, so much regret in that one word.

“Nothing to worry about. Right now, I’m just kind of lost in my head. I need to tell you something. Get some things out and…it’s not all pleasant for me to do, but it’s important.” She paused, recalling the words she’d repeated in front of her mirror the last few weeks when she’d waited for the courage to bring them out in the open. “Things I need to be clear on for you. For us. Because there is an us , Az. And I like us.” Gwyn brought his hand to her lips, placing a brief kiss in the center before setting them in her lap.

Azriel sat up straighter, his eyes fixating on her as if she was the sole being in the world. And in the cocoon of his glorious wings, tinging their space in deep peach in the gleam of the dimming sunlight, she’d never felt safer. More cherished.

“Go on,” he said.

She nodded. “I trust you, Azriel. With my life. With my heart.” Gwyn fought back tears, blowing out a breath. His hand skimmed up her arm slowly, coming to rest at the nape of her neck in a tender hold. A gentle squeeze.

Just like you practiced.

Her gaze met his, his piercing into her with focused intent. “I know what you saw when you rescued me from Sangravah. We skirt around and it’s never been addressed before. And I don’t want it to be a ghost or like one of your shadows lurking in the corner, ready to ambush. I need to be honest with you. Honest with myself.

“I’m scared. Anxious. Nervous. I need you to respond with kindness and empathy. This is really hard for me, so if for now, you could listen—and then we can talk.” She fortified herself the way she did in front of her mirror enough times until her throat didn’t close up at the thought of the words. The way she had let desperation steel her during the Blood Rite when she’d told the girls.

“I was raped.”

𝄋

Azriel didn’t take his eyes off her as Gwyn exposed her soul. His beautiful, courageous female. He imagined this was how she appeared at the base of Ramiel. Powerful, hesitant of the climb yet unwilling to give in. To surrender. To let the challenge break her. Define her. Inside, her chest beat the pure heart of a warrior.

But godsdammit it felt like remnants of fragmented glass digging in his flesh to hear her say the words so detached. So matter-of-factly, as if she’d rehearsed the words. He considered if she indeed had. How her eyes dulled. How she warred against her shoulders slumping, against the urge to cave in on herself. Guilt clawed up from the depths, reminding Az how close he had been to save her from the attack.

“I’m sharing this with you because—” Gwyn paused, her eyes dropping, peering down to his maimed hand palm up in her lap, which she took in her own. “This is a real gamble for me to tell you. After all, we were just kissing and touching minutes ago, and…gods, it was nice. I figured you guessed what happened without me telling you…but there’s a constant fear in the back of my mind, waiting for my breakdown with every kiss. What if I can’t go further even if I want to? What if I’m…” She loosed an unsteady sigh that wrenched at his insides, the shards burrowing further into him. “What if I’m broken?”

When Gwyn wavered, Azriel instinctively wanted to assure her with words. But he’d vowed to listen, so instead, he settled to caress the back of her neck and hand.

“You see, I needed to be clear with what transpired. I don’t know what my assault will do when it comes to doing intimate things, Az. I don’t know my ‘triggers,’ as the priestess calls them, because I’ve never done anything except with you. Well, it’s not true about the triggers.” She took in a deep breath, letting it out low and slow. Mind-Stilling. She hesitated, and he rubbed circles with his thumb into her nape.

Calming and soothing. Strong. That’s what he had to be for her, even though every part of him demanded to fly straight to Hybern and massacre every single soldier. “I was facedown on the table for a while. I can’t recall everything, but I remember that.” Gwyn bit her lip, puffing a sigh. “The night of Nesta’s mating ceremony? The male landed on me and when my cheek struck the table, I lost it. It was like it sucked me right back..”

And she had beat the shit out of the male who dared put his hands on her. The shadowsinger had never been prouder of his priestess.

Gwyn’s copper strands swayed as she shook her head. “I’m not confident of any others. I don’t know if I could ever do it…that way.” She shrugged. “I really don’t know. But.” She met his eyes, and the sea depths captured him. “All I know for sure is I like you, Azriel. I want to do things with you I never wanted to do with anyone. The things I’ve read in those books. Fantasized. If we try things, I’m afraid something is going to trigger me, and I’m going to crumble. I’m nervous about everything, but I’m also excited to be with you. And now you know.”

She blew out a strong breath, her eyes never veering from his. The prolonged silence between them, full of pleading hope and something inherently warmer.

“May I say a few words?” She nodded. Leaning forward to kiss her forehead, he pulled back when he realized he hadn’t asked.

Her eyes watered. “Please don’t go back to asking for permission every time, Azriel. I like when you kiss me and hold me. And while I appreciated you asking before, I’m all right with your embraces and kisses now.” His lips returned above her brow in a soft press, idling.

“Gwyneth Berdara, you are the bravest person I have ever met in my life. And I am so sorry that happened to you.” She was going to interrupt. “You are. I heard you say you’re nervous and scared in terms of moving forward. And I want to, gods, as bad as you do. But we do it at your pace, on your terms, all right?” Gwyn smiled tightly and bobbed her head in answer. Azriel smoothed his thumb on the nub of her spine, at the base of her tense neck. “About the triggers. The specific one you noticed? If you’re ever ready to get to the point of doing…” He cleared his throat. “ Things, we can avoid that. I can remember that.”

“It’s not an if , Shadowsinger.” A ghost of a smile on her lips. “It’s a when. I don’t know when. But I know I want to.”

“And if something ever triggered you, and you shatter, I will be there to pick up the pieces, Berdara.”

Always, Priestess, his hidden shadows whispered in a solemn drift under his wing.

She beamed a genuine smile. “Turning my words back on me, Shadowsinger?”

His lips twitched. “They’re good words. And when you said them, it was a promise, right? So I’m promising you. Anything you want, Priestess. I’ll give it to you. So if you want to go on this journey, if you fall apart at any point, I’ve got you.”

Gwyn exhaled, resting her forehead against his. “You don’t know how much easier it is to breathe.”

“Can I ask you a question?” Her nose bumped into his when she moved her head in a nod. “You mentioned a priestess you talked to?”

“We have one priestess who helps deal with trauma. I saw her initially afterward but…I went back recently after I had a chat with Nesta about stuff I was going through.” Wait. Nesta? “I don’t have a lot of friends to talk to that have been through anything like this, but Nesta is my sister. I can talk to her about anything. She suggested I talk with the priestess again to help me find my words to talk to you. How did I do?”

Azriel squeezed her small hand. “I am honored that you told me. I am amazed at your resilience. Your strength. And I will wait for however long you need.”

“That’s not fair to you,” Gwyn said. “You’re not used to celibacy and I’ve only had that, so I can imagine it being hard the other way around.”

Truth be told, there’d been almost a century while he pined away for Mor where he’d abstained before proceeding to binge in the flesh. Sometimes two or three females at a turn. But they meant nothing to him. Not like this.

“I will wait however long, Gwyneth.”

She leaned into him and Az smirked, knowing she adored it when he used her full given name.

With another great breath, Gwyn proceeded until she reached the part where he’d saved her.

“So that’s it. That’s…everything.” She loosed a slow exhale, as if the weight of Prythian lifted off her shoulders.

“Gwyn…I…”

She didn’t let him finish as she crushed her lips to his. A small kiss, but so rich with emotion, his chest ached. To think she’d been so close to dying? That she survived that cruel ordeal…

Gwyn snatched his hands, squeezing them. “Thank you for listening to me.”

She twisted around and settled back against him, her head against his bare chest once more. Her soft red hair splayed like a halo of fire around her gorgeous features. Azriel kissed the top of her head as he leaned back on one hand, folding an arm around her waist. As the sun sank below the horizon, the blaze of more bonfires and the refrain of a tune started further down the coast. The sea breeze chilled the air, and he wrapped his wings around them.

“Did I ruin tonight?” Her words astonished him.

“No,” Azriel said, clutching her, kissing her cheek for emphasis. Even though it was rough to hear, a piece clicked inside.

Since even before Mor, his heart was blackened and a wall reminiscent of the one that once divided Prythian from the Mortal realm stood in everyone’s way. Somehow, Mor made it to the wall through the dark, but neither allowed it any further. Not after the pain the first time. Elain had loosened the mortar with her compassion. But Gwyn? The priestess was forcibly taking it down stone by stone with her tenacity and truth.

Amazing. The female in his embrace was fucking amazing. And what the hell did he have to offer her? Peering down at the way her fingertips traced over his scars on the back of his hand, sketching them with such care. He needed to tell her his story, offer her part of his soul.

But not tonight. Tonight was Gwyn’s. Allowing her truth space and time to absorb. The hurt had been reopened, raw and bleeding, and Azriel would be damned if he was going to pour salt in her wounds with his sob story.

Soon he would reveal those scars. His childhood. The Illyrian camp. And one thing he’d never confessed to another soul in his life. Not Rhysand. Not Cassian. No one. If there was one thing he could show her, it was his truth.

Chapter Text

The hair lifted on the back of her neck.

Someone was watching her again. Her strides were light as Gwyn hurried between the stacks, keeping her eyes on the bundle in her grasp. She had to get to the center of the library. A place where people were present.

A hand struck her shoulder.

Gwyn dropped the texts and grabbed the arm of the aggressor, wrenching it while turning to confront the person who touched her, ready to knock them to the ground.

In surrender, Shelah raised her hands, her chest heaving with rapid, soundless gasps.

“Shit,” Gwyn said, withdrawing and giving the priestess space. Swearing to herself, Gwyn bent over, gathering the fallen books. “Oh, Shelah, I’m sorry, I thought—”

Shelah shook her head, pointing to the stack in Gwyn’s hand. They were all requested by Merill, who was being especially frustrating this past week, causing Gwyn’s mood to deteriorate all the more while Azriel was away.

The requested texts were Mysteries Creatures of the Waters and Seas and A Record of Prythian before the Great War . She wasn’t positive about what Merrill was up to, considering Gwyn was supposed to do additional research concerning the Valkyries.

Shelah tapped the spine of the dark navy hardcover with the pewter script at the bottom. Gwyn slid the volume out, turning the cover over. Legends of The Night Court . Wait, she didn’t pull that one. Did the House mistakenly add the title to her load?

“Oh, did you need this one?” Gwyn offered an apologetic smile when Shelah nodded, her deep chestnut waves moving against her hood. Gwyn handed the text to the mute priestess with a timid grin. “Sorry, I must have plucked it by accident. Here you—”

The stone rumbled beneath her feet before a horrendous crash sounded beyond them. Gwyn’s eyes grew wide as she lifted her head toward the roar. She dumped the books, seizing Shelah by the arm.

“Run,” Gwyn ordered as she watched stack after heavy wooden stack topple to the center of the corridor as dominos would fall, a tidal wave of thousands of books crashing to the floor. “Run!”

Gwyn pulled the silent priestess along as she could hear one bookshelf after another crash, the creaking groan and splinter of timber breaking closer and closer.

She faltered as Shelah tripped, having caught her heel on the skirt of her robe.

“Shit,” Gwyn swore, hauling the priestess to her feet.

“What’s going—?”

“Run, Thea!”

Thea’s brown eyes went wide as she beheld the chaos behind them. Close. So close now. The avalanche of fallen tomes struck the back of their legs. Thea sprinted ahead, her robes flapping behind her like a white flag. They had to reach the open rotunda of the library, just before the balcony blocking the chasm of gloom.

Her heart was in her throat, stomach at her feet as Gwyn propelled herself beyond the limit.

Everything happened so fast. Shelah stumbled again and Gwyn twisted to snag her, only to be knocked over by Thea, shoving her out of the way. An entire wall of books and shelves smashed on top of them in a maddening, tumbling rush.

Gwyn covered her head, shielding her skull from falling debris as the shelves and weighty tomes plummeted to the ground, burying them.

The creaking and shatter of wood ceased as one more book thudded to the floor. And again another. As Thea dug her way out, her loose honey-blonde hair affixed to a wide cut to her temple, her mouth and cheeks swollen and bleeding. She carried her arm at an odd angle.

The blonde Valkyrie winced, holding a palm to the side of her head. “Are you all right, Gwyn?”

Gwyn wasn’t sure. She felt numb, her heart beating too fast. The veritable mountain of novels pinned only a single leg when Gwyn took stock of her body. Slowly, she and Thea extricated themselves from the rubble of parchment and lumber, noticing their injuries as they worked through the wreckage. Thea was worse off than Gwyn, the former absconded by Clotho the instant the other priestesses entered the scene.

Roslin assisted Gwyn off the stone floor. When finally on her feet again, Gwyn hissed as her left foot came down. Shit. She tried until able to bear weight. Even so, the leg ached like true hell. A sprain or a twist, presenting herself a health assessment. Nothing serious enough to signal for a healer or even for a priestess to use the powers of their Invoking Stone. Besides Thea and…

“Where’s Shelah?” Gwyn asked, whirling to the mass of debris behind her.

“I didn’t see her,” Roslin said, fear rising in her voice. “Was she with you?”

Gwyn hopped over to the paper hill, struggling to drag the large ten-shelf tall bookcase off her. Nine Valkyrie training priestesses were needed. They cleaned and tossed books until they spotted a hand sticking straight out between them.

A limp hand. Cold. Lifeless.

“No. No. No.” Gwyn repeated, burrowing further to get to her, beseeching the Mother. But the further Gwyn uncovered, more books slid, replacing the old.

Roslin pulled Gwyn back, supporting her walk over to a table. “You need to rest that leg. Clotho called on the High Lord and he’s sending Madja.”

And if Rhysand knew? So did Cassian. And Nesta. And Azriel.

The cavalry was on its way.

Merrill stepped back from the sight, her face unreadable until her bitter eyes of ice blue locked on her own. “Why is it that death follows you like a shadow, Gwyneth?”

The hair on Gwyn’s nape rose again.

Merrill leaned in forward and Gwyn stiffened at the way her eyes bored into her, yet she refused to back down. “First your mother. Then Catrin. Now poor Shelah.” She hissed, baring her teeth. “Who’s next?”

𝄋

Azriel’s feet barely touched the treads as he dashed down to the library.

The words Rhysand had delivered at the river house, interrupting his and Cassian’s reports, reverberated in his brain like over-rung bell clangs.

There’s been an accident at the library involving the priestesses. One fatality.

Azriel’s heart plunged as he winnowed before the shouts of his brothers could catch up to him. And as he landed from the sky onto the red balcony below, he issued his shadows ahead.

Find her and report back to me, the shadowsinger charged, praying to every god that ever prevailed for Gwyn to be all right. She had to be fine. She had to be.

He rushed right past a shouting Nesta as he tore to the stairwell, taking them three or four at a time until that wasn’t fast enough. Until Azriel vaulted over the railing and plummeted down, opening his wings enough to glide to the level of the library, clutching the fence with his hands and dragging himself over the threshold.

He hesitated outside the door, picking up the cacophony of cries and weeping from within.

Fuck, Az knew something was wrong. Hell, it was why he’d headed back home from his mission days early. His skin was itchy, his shadows restless, and he couldn’t wave off the tight pang in his chest. Something was calling him home.

And now…

“Please,” Azriel prayed softly, hoping his words carried to anything with authority and purpose. Because if Gwyn…

If she was…

He felt a firm hand squeezing his shoulder.

Cassian shook him lightly. “We got this, Az. No matter what, we always do.”

A breathless Nesta appeared behind them with the High Lord on her trail, his face set and resolved to uncover the cause.

Azriel’s hand made for the immense door ahead, his cerulean Siphons flaring with his violence and fear.

Gods help everyone if something happened to her.

He forged ahead, taking in the entire scope of the horrific scene across the expanse.

“Mother above,” Cassian muttered, making his way to the right with Nesta, who worked to whisk by him only for her mate to clutch her by the hand. Rhysand took the left, ordering them to secure the library. Azriel hurried alongside.

“Azriel, we need to secure the area and discover how this occurred. Understand?”

He nodded, expecting his shadows could obtain some answers. But honestly? Gwyn was his top priority. Her safety. Her well-being. As long as the risk was gone, if any legitimate threat remained? Everything and everyone else be damned.

His shadows gathered over to him, reciting, This way. This way.

Azriel squeezed by Rhysand, pursuing his shadows straight into the commotion, beyond a group of praying and sobbing priestesses. His eyes fixated on the tumult in front, the imposing pyramid of texts and cracked wood as great as a hillside. Some of the rubble was shoved aside as if they had to extricate…

His footsteps quickened, and he swallowed thickly.

Azriel passed a library table with a…body concealed by a sheet acting as a makeshift shroud. His feet faltered as he took in the still form. No. No…

His shadows pushed from behind before tugging on the gauntlets adorning his scarred hands.

This way. This way, they implored. The priestess lives.

The priestess lives.

Azriel rushed after them until he beheld the most magnificent, infuriatingly beautiful sound he’d ever heard; his priestess arguing against medical care.

“I’m fine,” Gwyn said, crossing her arms over her chest as she perched at the edge of a table. “Tend to Thea. She requires more attention.”

Madja rose from the floor. Her depthless eyes thinned. “Then I want you to rest that foot, priestess. Rest the ankle. Ice the ankle. Compression with a wrap. Elevate on a cushion. Three days. Understand?”

“Don’t worry, Madja, she will,” Azriel answered as he stalked over to Gwyn’s side. Her eyes widened as he approached and even more so when he wrapped her in his arms, in front of the entire delegation of priestesses.

Madja chuckled. “I’m not worried. Your steadfastness overcomes her stubbornness, Shadowsinger. Take care of her.”

Gwyn huffed against his sternum, mumbling, “I’m not stubborn.”

Only she would be stubborn about being stubborn, and didn’t that bring fucking tears to his eyes, that she was still able to assert something as cute as that?

Azriel drew back, securing his hands on her shoulders. Except for bruising and a wrap on her foot, everything was in place. Again, he took her into his arms and kissed the top of her hard head.

“Azriel,” Gwyn sighed, finally encircling her arms around his lower back. “I’m fine.”

“Thank the Cauldron and the Mother,” he said, his hand grasping the back of her head, meticulously feeling for knots and bumps.

She pulled her head back, peering up at him with eyes the color of clear ocean depths. “I’m truly fine.”

“How did this happen?” Rhysand asked from behind them.

“I-I don’t know,” Gwyn started, before Nesta practically stumbled over, hugging her friend on the opposite side. Gwyn leaned into Azriel’s side as he rubbed soothing circles on her back. “I just had this sense of someone watching me. And,” she gulped hard, her eyes flooding. “Shelah came up behind me and asked for a book and suddenly…everything started falling down row by row. Shelah tripped, and I reached to help her up and Thea pushed me out of the way.” Her body shivered on an exhale. “Madja told me that Thea is wounded and will require care, but Shelah didn’t…”

Azriel met Rhysand’s hard stare. He’d told Rhys about the first time Gwyn had those sensations when she witnessed two hooded figures meeting in the middle of the night. And now? Now someone was dead.

But those shelves were considerable, practically bound to the rock. Whoever the fuck shifted them out of position wasn’t natural. No. They must have had help, power, or both. And with both these instances, there had been one related piece.

Gwyn.

No fucking way was anything going to happen to her. Not if he could circumvent trouble. Protect her. Azriel scooped her up in his arms, marching past the flurry of bystanders, ignoring Gwyn’s protests as he headed with her up the stairs.

“I want you to move into the House.”

𝄋

There’s no way she heard the shadowsinger right. Did Azriel really ask her to move into the House of Wind?

“I’m sorry, what?” She folded her arms across herself as Az plunked her down in an armchair in the living room.

“I want you in this house.” A muscle ticked in his jaw.

“Funny, it’s not even your house, Az!”

“No, it’s mine,” Nesta interrupted from the open passageway leading to the stairs. “And I agree with Azriel, Gwyn. This isn’t the first time you’ve brought up this feeling before.”

Azriel turned to Nesta, his fists balled, knuckles stark white against his tanned skin. “She’s only informed me of the one time.”

Nesta shook her head. “Multiple times, Az.” Turncoat.

His eyes were chips of solid amber when they found hers. Fury brimming beneath that solid mask he donned.

“It’s not a big deal,” Gwyn said, cringing as she patted her twisted ankle.

“You got hurt,” Azriel sputtered in a sudden growl that even had Nesta jolting and Cassian appearing by her side as he sauntered up from the library. “Thea, more so, but that could have been you. And Shelah…Fuck!” Az prowled the length of the room, tearing his hands through his tousled onyx hair. “Whoever planned this probably meant it for you if this has been going on so long!”

Gwyn stood, trying and failing to strike an imposing figure balanced on a single foot. “Even if it was, I’m not moving up here.”

“Why the hell not?” Nesta asked, her elegant brows as pinched as her scowl.

“No.” Gwyn took a deep breath, turning to her friends at the door, avoiding the way Azriel was drilling daggers into her with his glare. “They will not run me out of the library. I refuse to let someone.” Or something. “Intimidate me. Force me to reside here.”

“Are we so bad to live with?” Nesta asked. Her friend’s steel-blue eyes flushed with unshed tears. Gwyn offered her sister a taut smile.

“Not the point, Nesta. I refuse—

“Yes, you’ve refused a lot today,” Azriel interrupted. “Refused to get that ankle tended by Madja—“

Gwyn narrowed her gaze. “Madja needed to tend to Thea, and I have pl—”

“Pliable bones, yes, we know. We all heard you fucking repeat it thoroughly when you were expounding to everyone how you are ‘fine’ as you hobbled around. Even though,” he paused, gesturing broadly to her legs. “You cannot bear weight on it.”

“You know what? I’m finished with this conversation, Azriel,” Gwyn huffed out, shouldering him as she strode by without stumbling.

Back straight and tall, ignoring the fact that Cassian was telling Azriel to allow her space. Ignoring Nesta yelling at both of them to turn up a reason, an excuse, to keep Gwyn from returning to the library dorms.

“Both of you shut up for a minute,” Cassian shouted until the room was hushed enough to hear a butterfly’s wings. Gwyn’s hand vibrated on the latch to the guest room when the general went on, “Can you just think for one fucking minute? She watched someone, a fellow priestess, die today. Both of you know what she’s been through and we have all experienced our share of death. But Gwyn? She hasn’t; and the last time she had?”

Gwyn didn’t need to listen anymore. Entering, she shut the door behind her and slumped down against the wood until her bottom hit the floor. Shelah was dead.

She had been right there, if only Gwyn…

First your mother. Then Catrin. Now poor Shelah. Who’s next?

You’re going to get him killed.

Her fist pounded against her thigh as the dam of emotion completely burst, and the tears flowed.

𝄋

Gwyn skipped supper, choosing instead to barricade herself in the guest room, preventing even Nesta from entering. The House sealed the door to keep all unwanted visitors out.

A few times, his shadow managed to slip in to check on her. The priestess is curled up on the floor on the other side of the door. Fast asleep.

Godsdammit. It pained him that Gwyn denied herself comfort. Denied Azriel his need to hold her. To soothe her, causing the buried place inside to ache as much as any physical wound.

Aren’t you guilty of the same when you are upset, Shadowsinger?

True or not, Az’s unhealthy coping mechanisms were not the point. This was about her.

He’d listened to her soft, steady sobs the last time he’d made a scheduled silent pass in the hallway. Gods, hearing those pitiful whimpers was like being stabbed by a dull, rusty knife.

A few shadowy sentries settled at Gwyn’s side on guard. His shadows adored the priestess as much as he did.

Cassian had talked him off a ledge earlier when she’d shuffled off down the hall. His brother saw Az was ready to tear down the damn door and grill the poor girl until she conceded to stay.

“You can’t manipulate her into sticking around. Either of you,” Cassian told both him and Nesta, standing in front of them like a father scolding misbehaved children. “Gwyn needs to comply on her own, and yes , I realize it would be best if she agreed. But, give it some time. She’s.” Cassian paused, searching for the words. “Fragile right now.” His brother turned to Azriel, pointing an accusatory finger. “And don’t knock down her damn door, Az, because I know you’re thinking about it. Some things you have no control over.”

That was hours ago, and Azriel had avoided the door-breaking urge, but not the monitoring. Many hours later, well into the time most reasonable individuals would be asleep in their beds. Even if his thoughts weren’t all over the place, he’d still be awake. He briefly played with the idea of heading up to the rooftop to burn off some outrage. Or head back down to the library to investigate some more.

After Gwyn secured herself in the guest room, he’d descended the stairs again to the sullen library and he had been right—no way those shelves overturned on their own. Or fell by someone pushing them. No. Either someone had tampered with them or something, some other influence, working even within the enhanced wards surrounding the mountain.

Sparring or sleep? Well, his version of sleep; staring at the ceiling and resting his physical body.

Exhaustion won out over exercise, and he stood to undress, shucking his leather tunic and yanking off his boots and socks. As he stretched his shirt off over his head, he heard the unmistakable click behind him. Azriel rolled his eyes, knowing that both Cassian and Nesta had no boundaries in the House.

He tossed his shirt to the rug. “I told you both to fucking knock…”

Azriel peered over his shoulder, and what awaited stunned the rage right out of him. Gwyn stood barefoot in an oversize shirt skimming just below mid-thigh, her back plastered against the locked door.

“I-I’m sorry, I’ll just—” She turned to retreat.

“No. it’s… you’re fine, Priestess.” He sent her a coy grin, smoothing the back of his neck. “It was more for the two other assholes in this house who don’t get the concept of knocking.” The corners of Gwyn’s red, puffy eyes wrinkled up a little as she tipped up her lips. “Can I help you with something?” Please?

Gwyn peeked at him, her eyes watery. “Shelah died,” she said hoarsely, and he swallowed around the knot rising in his throat. “I went to help her up. I almost had her before Thea pushed.”

And Thea was unconscious at Madja’s with a major head laceration. If Gwyn would have made it to Shelah? Gods, he didn’t finish the thought.

“Why?” Gwyn cried, her lower lip quivering.

The moment he opened his arms to her, Gwyn ran over and threw herself at him, crying as he consoled her. As he had wished to do all day.

“Shhh… I know,” he repeated, pressing soft kisses into her hair, his palm smoothing down her spine. “Death is never easy to witness.”

Once again, he was reminded that his tardiness had led to many deaths at Sangravah.

“Why?” She peered up at him, her misty eyes bleak. “Why did this happen?”

He exhaled, answering honestly, “I don’t know. But you were spared and I…”

We are all so very grateful.

“Before you go on,” Gwyn started, setting her hand on the center of his chest. “I want to make myself clear. I’m not moving up here.” Gwyn’s quiet, firm admittance rattled him. His brows pulled down as he held her at arm’s length. “Don’t give me that look, Shadowsinger. I told you I won’t be frightened away.”

Azrie’s jaw clenched so hard he could hear his teeth grinding. “But it’s not safe. And I don’t want you there.”

A step away increased the distance. “I know. But, someone needs to protect the others, and figure out what happened. Training to be a Valkyrie isn’t an entertaining hobby, Azriel. I can defend them.”

“Cassian and I can do rotations during the night—”

“This attack happened midday and you know the priestesses will not appreciate males milling about, especially if they’re already scared,” Gwyn tossed up her arms, letting them slap against her sides as they dropped. “Not to mention you have Court responsibilities—”

“Your safety is one of those duties now, Priestess.”

She mocked. “Is it?” Irritation charged through him. Was she fucking serious? “If so, then yours is mine, too. You can’t concentrate on your tasks if you are fretting about me.”

“Exactly! That’s why I need you up here with Nesta and Cassian. I need to know you’re safe!”

She pointed downward. “And I need to protect them! I couldn’t do anything in Sangravah. Anything!” Her entire body trembled like a volcano about to erupt from the force of her anger. With each deep breath she took, Gwyn’s features softened. Her tone was calm and direct when she spoke again. “We have over twenty training recruits now, eight to ten in elite, fully trained; I’ll organize patrols with Nesta.”

He scrubbed his hand down his face. “Gwyn—”

“No, Azriel.” Gwyn cut him off, her expression like a hardened warrior before the eve of battle. “If that means I don my leathers and walk the halls armed with my dagger, so be it.” She turned back to the door. “I’ll see you in the morning, I suppose.”

Azriel didn’t let her go. He wrapped her in his arms, hauling her back against his chest, lowering his head until his lips hit where her shoulder met her elegant neck. The gentle presses of his mouth touched a few freckles on her slender throat, which led him to the sensitive area behind her ear.

“When I heard someone had been killed, my heart fucking stopped. And when I got to the library?” His head shook. “I thought that was you under that shroud,” Azriel’s whisper brushed her skin, his voice wavering. “I thought you were dead.”

“Azriel,” she sighed, her fingers digging into the hair while she held his head. Rather than pulling away from him, she pushed him in closer.

Taking that as an invitation, he placed more open kisses on the column of her throat, his tongue flicking over her heated skin.

“I thought you left me,” Azriel snarled, cursing himself at the unintentional show of one of his greatest fears. His arm pinned her tight against him, her firm ass nestling in the cradle of his hips as if made for one other.

He paused, nuzzling her velvety cheek, waiting for a response.

A haze of lust obscured the teal in Gwyn’s eyes as she growled and ripped away, pressing her back against the door. “But I’m not dead. I should be.” Her voice cracked. “But I’m not. But someone is because of me. And I…” Her hands opened and closed at her side as she looked to the floor, opening and closing her mouth once. Twice. “All right. Roof or bed, Shadowsinger?”

He blinked once. Twice. “What?”

“Roof or bed? Fight me or fuck me? Because I need to do something. I need to feel anything other than this suffocating weight. I need to live right now. So what will it be, Azriel?”

Chapter Text

Holy Mother above. Had the actual words fight or fuck really left her? Gwyn suddenly felt lightheaded. The shadows swirled around her, settling her with bursts of cool air against her cheeks.

Yes. Clear as day, those words had flown out her mouth. Over the hows and the whys, the words breaking through her endless tears. For Thea. For Shelah. Snuck by her contemplation of why she was alive . But, godsdammit, she was. Today. It was time to live again. Enjoy something good. Something all theirs. All hers.

“Which is it, Azriel?” She drew a deep breath as she gazed at the powerful bare-chested and barefooted Illyrian in his splendor, standing before her, all long and lean. Chiseled jaw and full-lipped. And as if a single feather would tap him on his ass.

His throat bobbed. “Gwyn…”

She reached behind, fingers wrapping one at a time around the cool bronze in question. Stay or go? Every emotion flickered across Azriel’s handsome, tired face as he stared at her fist as if she held a lethal weapon instead of a doorknob.

With deliberate slowness, he moved for her, pulling the hand away from the door, interlacing their fingers. Breathing became difficult as she took in their united palms. Cauldron, was she really doing this?

Gwyn pushed off the wood, limping backward toward the largest bed she’d ever encountered in her life, tugging him with her. Eyes of burnished gold with specks of jade skimmed over her frame like a caress. Intense, devouring every part of her. So much so that she’d completely forgotten she was actually inside Azriel’s room. Swords and daggers acted as artistry. The sole flourishes upon dark navy walls except for one portrait of three teenage Illyrian males playing in snowdrifts in a cozy winter scene complete with a cabin.

The air permeated with something dark and rich. Decadent. His scent, she realized. The instant she turned from the painting and met his passionate stare, she saw he was on board.

“Wait.” Azriel steadied her as the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed. His grip remained on her forearm. He cleared his throat as they straightened. “We need to discuss this, Gwyn.”

“Discuss what?” Her pulse hammered as she ran a hand along his muscular bicep, grinning smugly at his shiver. A shiver she caused.

Azriel’s eyes drifted shut, his lips parting as her fingertips smoothed over the solid planes of his chest and stomach. “What are we doing?” He opened his eyes and in them was sheer desire. A fierce urge he was valiantly resisting. “We need to talk about this.”

“Fine. Then let’s talk.” Gwyn smirked as her fingernails lightly trailed his tangled black-blue whorls from his neck to his navel. Her eyes dropped below his waistline. To the bulge growing beneath the seam of leather.

“Let’s take a minute to set ground rules,” he said, his words ending on a grunt as her finger played with the top of his pants.

Her mischievous smile slipped as she reflected on his words. Words mirroring what the priestess she solicited for counsel delivered on navigating future intimacy. “Take three minutes to establish boundaries with a partner. Rules. Wants. Needs.” Gods, Gwyn didn’t know if she could wait three more minutes. Yet Azriel had dutifully pulled back on the reins, giving her a chance to leap off.

Cauldon, she had asked him to fuck her. Not make love. Not have sex. Fuck, as in… But, was she truly ready for… Everything?

Gwyn gulped, her hand moving back up to his chest, coming to rest above his pounding heart. He put his hand over hers, his thumb stroking the side in soothing sweeps.

Three minutes.

She exhaled deeply, gathering her thoughts and courage. And she praised the gods Azriel had paused. “I’m not ready for intercourse.”

He nodded. “What are you ready for?”

“I want you to touch me.”

“Where?”

“Can we play it by ear?”

He snorted in amusement. “Of course. Clothes?” He arched an eyebrow, glancing at the nightgown that now felt entirely too short, and much too thin over her bare chest. And to Gwyn’s utter dismay, said I 💓 Pegasi on the front with a silhouette of a winged horse. How tempting. She was going to kill the stupid House.

She stretched the hem of the long shirt. “I’d like to keep my underwear on,” Gwyn admitted in a cringe, thinking of how silly that sounded. Taking her chin, his fingers lifted her face as he gently kissed the tip of her nose.

“I’ll keep mine on too, then.”

“I’d like to undress myself.”

“Gwyn, if we do this—if we are doing this—I need you to promise me something.” His eyes drew her attention as she replied with a bob of her head. “I need you to talk to me. Tell me if you want to stop. Keep going. If you like something. Don’t like something. Can you promise me, Priestess?”

“Yes,” she answered at once, keeping those words close to her heart. “I just want to be with you, Azriel.”

His breath shuddered out, his enormous wings quivering behind him as he gathered her close and lowered his mouth to hers. Sweet and lazy. A thorough perusal of her lips. Over and over. Until there was nobody else but him and her. Until the tension eased from her and she leaned into him, her arms sliding around his shoulders. Azriel’s hand strayed down the fabric of her shirt, his fingertips caressing the exposed skin of her upper thigh.

“As I’m sure you’ve learned from your books, communication is important,” Azriel whispered against her mouth, nudging her head back. His lips coasted to her jawline. “So very important, Berdara. And I’m curious.”

Her breath hitched as his fingers tugged the bottom of her shirt in a silent challenge.

“Yeah? What do you want to know, Az,” Gwyn got out before she inhaled sharply at the scrape of his teeth on her earlobe, nibbling as he made his move to kiss that spot below her ear. She both cursed and rejoiced the day he discovered it.

“Everything, Gwyn. What turns you on. What you look like when you come unraveled. But, right now?” His tongue traced the shell of her ear and she pressed her lips together to halt the loud moan from escaping. “I’m wondering if I can follow those delightful freckles with my tongue lower than your collar.” She could not bite back the moan any longer, tossing her head back as Azriel’s kisses traveled down her exposed throat. “I wonder if that rosy blush on your cheeks spreads all the way between those glorious breasts of yours.”

She cackled. “Glorious? You haven’t even seen them yet.”

He grinned against her collar, nipping the crook of her neck. “No, I haven’t. But from what I’ve seen so far, when you’re wearing those tight-ass training leathers, you’ve blown away every expectation. Glorious is the starting point.”

She smirked, taking a step back. His words, his laud, emboldened her. Gwyn reached for the end of her shirt. She stopped, glancing down at his leather pants and back up, arching a questioning eyebrow.

Azriel’s hands accepted the challenge, working at his laces and stays as she lifted the nightshirt over her head, tossing it to the side, crossing an arm across her chest.

It struck her then. She was standing fully exposed in front of a male. Practically naked, wearing nothing besides a pair of unattractive white underwear. Azriel left only in a pair of tight black shorts, leaving nothing to the imagination. There was no hiding the way she affected him, his erection stretching the fabric. Her mouth went dry. Good Gods. The only word that kept repeating as she gawked? Wingspan. The day Nesta and Emerie had defined the concept after a few glasses of wine was one she regretted.

“My eyes are up here, Berdara,” Azriel teased. Her cheeks scorched with the heat of the midday sun, her breathing ragged. To her comfort, he blushed and breathed just as deeply.

When her knees touched the mattress again, Gwyn plopped down and scooted back until she hit the pillows with her head. A sea of silky black sheets swallowed her up, small and vulnerable.

Azriel remained at the foot of his bed, waiting for an invitation.

She patted the space beside her, keeping the arm over her chest as he slowly prowled over the bed until he stretched out on his side.

He bent forward, sweeping his lips on her bare shoulder before kissing the back of the hand covering her chest from view. He considered her body as one might examine a piece of art in a museum. Unadulterated awe and appreciation in his gaze.

He leaned in, his lips on hers, the kisses delicate and luscious. Coaxing and allaying any lingering doubt, each careful stroke holding a portion of her heart.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, gently lifting her hand, kissing each knuckle until her arm fell to her side. “So goddsdamn beautiful.” His eyes flashed. “Remember what I said about communication?” She nodded, and he raised a brow. “Words, Gwyneth. I need to hear your words.”

She rolled her eyes, and his lips twitched. “Funny coming from you, mister silent and sullen.” Azriel nipped at her skin and she tossed her head back in a laugh and kept nipping playfully until she responded. “Yes , I remember.”

“Do you trust me?”

With everything in her. With her life. “Yes.”

“Good. Now, I wonder,” he opened, dragging his knuckles up her arm. Across her collarbone, until she quivered. “Do you touch yourself?” Her eyes went wide and his lips twitched. “I’m curious. Do you touch yourself…” He leaned forward, putting his mouth to her ear. “And think of me?”

She swallowed hard, unable to answer.

“Do you touch yourself, Berdara?”

“Is this an interr—” she choked as his palm flattened just above the swells of her chest. “Interrogation?”

Azriel chuckled darkly against her skin. “It’s my job to get answers. And I’m dying to know. Because I’m not afraid to tell you that it’s only been you on my mind for months and months. Only your beautiful face when I come. ”

Her eyes shut and her back arched at the mental picture created. Azriel naked in his bed, stroking himself with her name on his lips. She pressed her thighs together as desire pooled in her core.

“Yes,” she replied, not recognizing her own voice.

“Yes, what, Berdara?”

“Yes.” She opened her eyes, matching his fervent stare through her lashes. “I touch myself… and think of you.”

Azriel’s groan rumbled against her arm as he kissed her jawline, nuzzling softly. “Show me.”

“That’s not a question.” Her chuckle ended in a pant as his palm on her chest moved lower until it settled right between her breasts. There was no doubt he could feel how hard her heart was trouncing against her ribs. “And I’m not one to give in to demands, Shadowsinger. You know better than that.”

“I’m not demanding, Berdara. I’m begging. Will you show me how you touch yourself? Please?”

Well, since he asked so nicely… Gods, could she really do this? Be so vulnerable?

Safe. Protected. Loved. He will always catch you.

Gwyn kept her eyes on him as she glided a jittery hand over her breast, down until her fingers smoothed the stitching of her cotton bottoms.

He asked against her lips, “And? What next?”

Her hand slid underneath the fabric and toward the part now throbbing from his words. Aching for him. A moan left Gwyn at the first stroke of her fingers onto the tense bundle of nerves, her back bowing. As her eyes fluttered closed. Azriel took the opportunity to lick up the side of her neck.

Her fingertips dragged up through her wetness and back to her pulsing clit. Her lips parted on a gasp as she rubbed herself in slow, small circles until her hips followed the movement.

“Gods, Gwyn,” Azriel moaned.

She peeked to find him following every motion of her hand, the pulling and tugging under the white fabric.

“What about your breasts, Gwyneth? What do you do with them?”

Gwyn slowed her hand, considering. “Not much,” she admitted sheepishly. “I just do this I guess.” She took her other hand, smacking over her breast, and grasped.

His lips twitched. “Does that honestly do it for you?”

She snickered. “I don’t know. Everything I’ve learned about sex has been from filthy books. And most of them have the females play with themselves that way but… Maybe I’m just not sensitive there?” Heat burned her cheeks. “Does it look like I know what I’m doing?”

“Actually…” Azriel shifted so his stomach pressed into the bed. Her brows drew together and then shot up. Heady tension warmed her body as he deliberately moved his hips. Undulating and grinding into the mattress. His groan turned the tips of her ears pink. “From what I’m seeing, you’re doing it all quite perfectly.”

Her lips parted on a sharp inhale as she rubbed herself harder and faster as she watched Azriel watching her, rolling in time to her hand. She trembled. Her core went molten, soaking through the minimal fabric covering her.

“Show me,” Gwyn panted out. “Show me what to do.”

Azriel propped up on an elbow and leaned over. “You sure?”

“Yes,” she squeaked, her fingers pressing down on the throbbing point between her thighs.

“Can I use my hands?” She nodded vigorously. “My mouth?” She nodded so hard that her head almost broke off. He hummed his approval, his soft black hair feathering over her chest as he moved closer. “Keep rubbing yourself.”

The shadowsinger swore as he cupped her breast. “These are more than glorious, Gwyneth,” he crooned. A finger circled, spiraling until he arrived at the sensitive peak. His thumb flicked over her nipple, hardening under his expertise into an aching point. “And these are as pretty and pink as in my wildest dreams.”

She almost laughed. Could nipples be pretty?

“And more importantly, I was right that I could follow some freckles with my tongue. Though right now…” He squeezed and rolled the tip of her breast between two fingers and her ass lifted clear off the bed. “I think my tongue needs to attend to something else.” He lowered his mouth, and she was lost. Each tug of his teeth and lave and flick of his expert tongue shot straight to her core.

“Azriel,” she whined, gliding her thumb against her swollen clit. Her eyes slammed shut. “Gods!”

As he drew out pleasure she’d never experienced before, he drew out her bravery. Gwyn slipped a finger down to her drenched entrance.

Her back arced as she pushed a finger inside herself for the first time. Azriel’s moan rumbled through her breast as he teased and sucked. Oh, gods, did he know what she just did? She carefully slid her finger out and then back in. Out and in. Over and over, her hips rolling, hunting the delicious building pressure.

“Are you riding your hand, Gwyneth?”

“Trying to,” she laughed. “I’ve never actually fingered myself before…” Stupid. She sounded so stupidly inexperienced. Why did she even say—

He rose to claim her mouth, and Gwyn opened to him forthwith, her tongue stroking his as his thumb and forefinger continued to lightly pinch and roll.

And with her eyes sealed, there was only passion. The bed creaking as they moved. The playful nips of his teeth. The savor of dark liquor on his tongue. The tantalizing scent of arousal going straight to her head. The ridges of his scarred palms all over her. His smooth hair between her fingers as she held him to her, pleading for more.

Her brain couldn’t concentrate on what she was doing. Chasing. Seeking. Close, so close, but every time her hand slid away from…

“Put your palm over your clit and add another finger.” Gwyn did as directed. “Now, press your palm down as you thrust.”

“Oh.” Instantly, it felt extraordinary. Sharper. Fuller. Wetter. And every stroke against her sensitive bundle… “Oh… Gods.” She angled her head back against the pillow as she unabashedly writhed against her own hand.

“Good girl,” Azriel praised, his voice guttural as he urged her to keep going, moving his face over to her left breast as he worked himself against the bed. He lifted his mouth from her long enough to say, “Now curl your fingers inside, like you ‘re beckoning someone near.”

Odd, but she did as told. He lowered his head again, tenderly biting on the turgid peak at the same time she shifted her palm hard… and then inside she…

Gwyn cried out, perhaps saying his name, noting in the back of her mind how the embarrassing sound was more akin to a yowling alley cat than anything remotely sexy. But she couldn’t contain the piercing yelps or whimpers. No concentrating beyond the pleasure emanating from her center, shaking every inch of her body. No feelings beyond the hot rush pulsing around her fingers.

She panted through release, trembling as Azriel shifted beside her faster and rougher until he growled, his body shuddering as he groaned against her chest, the roll of his hips slowing until they too stilled, the only sound their heavy, stuttered breathing and pounding hearts.

𝄋

Nothing. Nothing could equal seeing Gwyn when she let go. Yet even with her closed eyes, Az hadn’t averted his gaze. Not for a damn second. No. He paid attention to how her body surged like the tide. How she chased after what she wanted. The parting of her lips and the elegant blush that flowed over her milky skin as she climaxed. He would take those images happily to his grave.

He peered up, meeting a slice of teal peeking through heavy lashes and a sweet, sated smile gracing her rosy lips. His cheek was using Gwyn’s soft breast as a pillow, her heart pounding in his ear. He made to move higher to kiss her but felt the wet spot on the front of his shorts.

Gwyn placed a still shaky palm against his cheek. He turned his face, putting a kiss in the center. Tears swam in her turquoise gaze. He scooted up, kissing her sweetly on the lips. His eyes searched hers, his throat working around a lump.

“Gwyn, I…” A quiet hum reverberated in his chest.

Say it, Shadowsinger, his shadows chorused.

Azriel shook his head, his dark shadows taking hold, dousing the light. Smothering the hum. Setting a peck on her dewy, glowing cheek, his other hand swept back the strands of hair plastered to her forehead.

With one last kiss on her cheek, he made his way to his bathing chamber to take care of himself.

Standing by the sink in new shorts, drying his hands, Gwyn appeared behind him in the mirror, legs crossed, leaning against the doorjamb. Unfortunately, she covered her delectable body in her adorable pegasus shirt. All tousled mane and long legs, his shadows whispering around her like smoke—and he wanted no one else to witness her that undone. Or twirling the dagger he kept under his pillow in her hand, eyebrow raised.

“Seems we have the same idea for overnight protection, Shadowsinger. I do the same thing,” she admitted. “Still might be good to move the next time we do things.”

He grunted, tossing the towel in the hamper. As he shifted toward her, he noticed her furrow. His stomach sank.

“Gwyn, is something wrong?”

She tucked a few copper strands behind an ear. “Well… what we did was… amazing and wonderful, but…” Her eyes wandered from her hand to her shuffling feet. “What about you?”

Azriel leaned back against the vanity, watching her fidget with the blade.

“Come here,” he said, jerking his chin. She silently stepped forward until she stood in front of him. He cupped her face, caressing her cheek. “I will never expect you to do anything to me, Gwyn. But.” Hell, he’d be happily blessed to simply worship those breasts for hours on end. Though after being that close to her scent, he was dying to taste her. He kissed her other cheek, pulling back to drown in those pretty eyes of hers. “You did.”

Her head tilted, curious. “Oh?” She glanced down at his changed shorts, and then over her shoulder to the hamper. “Oh.” Her eyes grew wide in realization. “Oh!”

“Yes, that about sums it up, Priestess.”

“Was it… good for you?”

Another peck on her cheek. “I haven’t done that since I was a teenager.” Another to soften the lines of her forehead. “But you’re that irresistible.” He placed a reverent kiss on her mouth. “And amazing.” Another. “And beautiful.”

Perfect. Our Priestess is perfect, Shadowsinger.

The words rushed out before his darkest shadows could seize them. Words he’d never delivered to any other female before her. “Will you stay the night?”

Fuck. He’d never invited a female to spend the night. Ever. Why the hell had he asked that? She angled her head.

“We don’t have to do anything else,” he promised her, powerless to keep the revelation of his fear. “I just… I need to make sure you’re safe tonight.”

Feel her spirit. Hear her heart thumping. Remember she was still alive.

Gwyn lifted on her toes slightly, brushing her lips to his cheekbone. “Yes, I’ll stay.”

Shoving off the vanity, she squeaked as he hoisted her up in his arms and brought her over to the bed.

“I can walk, you know,” Gwyn giggled as Az crushed her against him. Yes, she could, but he didn’t want her to. He wanted her as close as possible.

“Rest. Healer’s orders.”

The side of his lips curled up in a soft smile at her narrowed eyes and crossed arms. She bounced lightly as she plunked on the bed. With a smirk, she crammed the dagger back under the pillow before moving to the center. Azriel muttered as he lifted the covers before sliding in, “Weapons check before sex. Got it. Now, scoot over, Berdara.”

With a huff, she grumbled something about how she shouldn’t have to move in such an enormous bed, and scooted to the left. When he bound his arms around her, Gwyn squealed. She flipped around to face him, folding her hand in his between them. The tiny charm of her bracelet slid across his wrist.

“Goodnight, Shadowsinger,” Gwyn said with a gentle smile.

“Goodnight, Priestess.”

He watched Gwyn as her eyes fluttered shut. The grasp on his hand slackened. As her breathing slowed into even puffs of breath, stirring her fallen strands of red. A goddess in tranquil repose. A thing of secret, lovely beauty.

Chapter Text

Warmth greeted Gwyn as she roused from the deepest sleep she’d ever experienced. So warm. The dull radiance of peach-tinted haze greeted her as her eyes cracked open. Faint puffs of air on her collar. A band of steel around her middle.

An…arm.

Her body braced, trembling like a leaf in a vicious storm. Someone was behind her. A male, she discerned in dread, as something hard and long pressed into her backside.

Gwyn’s eyes slammed shut. Her hands curled into fists to her chest. Only then did she realize she clutched a hand in a death hold. Her shaking fingers blindly traced what she held. The callused hills and valleys of the palms. The mottled whorls of the fingers. The wrinkled tautness of the dorsal side. The pleats and raised planes of the wrist.

Azriel.

Not any male—Azriel.

Priestess. As a mother would soothe a child, a cool air caressed her forehead.

Azriel. Her savior.

Azriel. Her…

Shhh, Priestess, whispers stroked fondly over her skin.

“Azriel.”

“Hmm? Gwyn? Gwyn…?” he murmured, voice full of gravel and sleep. “Shit.” He tensed from behind, cursing again before he removed his front from her back. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

Her whole body folded around his arm, pressing his hand to her mouth. A solid outcropping in a turbulent sea.

“Priestess,” the shadowsinger said, his voice cracking. Her heart twinged. “It’s me, Priestess. It’s me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I am the rock against which the surf crashes. I am the rock against which the surf crashes…”

Nothing can break you, Priestess.

She repeated her mantra over and over until her mind cleared, until her body loosened. And Azriel could liberate his arm from her vise.

Rolling onto her back, she wiped tears from her face. Azriel was there to greet her, half-sitting upright, facing her, full of regard.

“It’s me,” he whispered, apologizing again. The thumb on the hand she’d clung to so fiercely stroked down her cheek.

“I know.” Now. “It’s all right,” she assured with a tight smile. The best she could rally to allay both their worries. “I’m not sure what happened. I’m—“

He cut her off, his eyes piercing into sharp slits. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. Please, don’t.” It’s my fault left unsaid, sprawling in the space now dividing them in the bed.

Gwyn reached for him again, bringing his hand to her cheek. “I woke up and didn’t realize where I was. Or who was… behind me.” Azriel’s beautiful face twisted in pain, and he tried to tear his hand away. But she wouldn’t let him. “Then I felt your hand. Your hand. This…” She halted to brush a light kiss on his scarred fingertips. “Is how I recognized for sure… I wasn’t scared of you, Azriel.”

She glanced around as she held onto him, belatedly noticing why the world was a coral hue when she’d first opened her eyes. Wings covered them like a tent. The sunlight filtering in highlighted the mauves and grays she never perceived among the black. The strong bones and a web of veins. A story of battle and valor etched into each pale streak knick.

Her fingers yearned to reach out. To stroke them. But she knew her manners when regarding Illyrian wings. Look, but do not touch unless granted privilege. They could be sensitive, per Emerie.

Nesta once said, "Berdara, the right touch on their wings? Straight to their cock.” Her smile curled into pure wickedness as she had taken a sip of water.

Gwyn had spit out her wine and Emerie had amended, "Cauldon, why are all the talks of wingplay always focused around the males? Like they’re so godsdamn special. Our wings, even when clipped, can be sensitive too. Maybe not as much, but good gods…”

Ah, another interesting drunken conversation with her sisters that left her cheeks redder than the wine she and Emerie consumed.

“Your wings are magnificent,” she whispered against the knuckles pressed to her lips. She could sense his eyes searching her face as she spoke. “These as well,” kissing his hand again.

He trembled, drawing his hand away to dry a tear from under her eye. “No one…” His breath shuddered on an inhale as he shook his head, sending messy black waves across his furrowed brow. “No one has ever…”

“Well, they are.” She sat up, her hands smoothing the black sheets over her lap. “Did you have your wing around us all night?”

Those wings shivered, varying the tint around them like the multicolored, sunlit glass in a temple window. “The House opened a window last night overnight.” The winds wailed, and a chill blew the dark curtains covering the floor-to-ceiling windows. A sign summer would soon yield to the early bite of autumn. “You were cold so I…”

“Not that I mind, but you could have asked the House to close the window, Shadowsinger.”

“The House doesn’t listen to me, Berdara.” Good gods, what had he done to aggravate the House so? “In truth? I was quite comfortable and did not want to move from your side.”

“I hope it didn’t bother your wing having to stretch out all night.”

Dark hair fell over his forehead as he dipped his head, trying to hide his coy smile. “Actually, it felt nice to stretch. And even nicer to use as a shelter for someone.”

Her heart pulsed, a ball of warmth pulsed inside the center. Gwyn sat up, reaching for him, pulling him close for a soft kiss.

“Are…” He exhaled. “Are you…” A pause.

“Use your words, Shadowsinger.”

His lips tipped upwards at the reference before clamping back down. “Are you all right?” Gwyn nodded, and Azriel sighed deeply, dragging a hand through his already mussed onyx hair. Hair that she wished to mess up even more. “And I’m not just talking about this morning.” He slowly pushed strands of hair behind her ear and slowly placed a hand on her lower back, rubbing in soothing circles. “Yesterday was a lot. And I’m not just speaking about last night.”

Last night. What they shared. And yes, they had shared . He’d relished in her pleasure, which somehow led to his own even without her touch. She’d have to consult some of her books for more information on that technique later.

The reality of what occurred early yesterday slammed into her with sudden clarity. Unexpected death had paid yet another visit and she…

“I’m sad,” she admitted in a whisper, focusing on the comforting swipes over her spine. “Shelah.” She swallowed down the swell of rising grief. “Her death should not have happened.”

“No,” he lamented, brushing his lips across her temple. He loosed a drawn-out sigh, drawing her attention.

“What is it, Azriel?”

He scrubbed a palm down his face. “We need to talk.”

𝄋

The last thing Azriel wanted to do was talk about this, especially after he’d stupidly slept on the bed with Gwyn instead of the settee. Fuck. Not after he’d woken up plastered against her body with a raging morning hard-on, panicking the absolute shit out of her, sending her into a fear spiral, shredding his heart to see her so afraid.

But this was a discussion he had to deal with. The sooner, the better, before he changed his damn mind.

Gwyn shifted, the silk sheets following her bare legs as angled her torso toward him, worry bunching her forehead.

“All right,” she said, her hands wringing the covers.

“This relates to yesterday. Cass and I were meeting with Rhysand before everything… happened. Rhys suggested I need to develop more spies.”

The priestess tilted her head, the fall of red spilling over one shoulder. “Well, that’s good, right?”

“It is, and it isn’t,” Azriel admitted. He wanted to pull his damn hair out at the prospect of training someone new. He was specific about who he instructed. Time was too precious to squander on someone who was not going to work out. Or get themselves idiotically killed.

But he’d spent much of his night pondering. Watching Gwyn dream. All the little things she did in her sleep. How her nose twitched every so often. How occasionally, she let out a soft snore. Peaceful slumber. Nothing like the night a nightmare jolted her out of bed at the river house, shaking her to her very core. And had him vigilant by her bedside with a blade, as if he could attack the dream nemesis hounding her.

Every time Gwyn’s arm slid above the sheets, he noted the newly honed strength in her biceps and forearm. The building calluses on her palms from wielding a sword with the skill of any trained soldier. Hell, she’d battled through injury and blood to reach beyond The Breaking. A true Carynthian warrior who’d claimed Ramiel’s crest. A fierce competitor.

They will not run me out of the library. I refuse to let someone intimidate me.

The way Gwyn outwitted the cowardly armed Illyrians with the beast during the Blood Rite struck him. How she’d known official Court dealings without being told. Her ability to scrutinize. To preserve and recall knowledge. The quickness of her nimble feet in the training ring. Her whispering steps on the library stones.

And I need to protect them! I couldn’t do anything in Sangravah. Anything!

His wings quivered in unease. Gods, he loathed this with every fiber in his being. But he couldn’t argue that it made sense. Gwyn would not stand down to his will with moving in. The next best thing?

Az twisted to face her, sliding the mask of Spymaster into place. One she would have to accept if she agreed to his proposal. “Even though I am not remotely happy about this, if you are going to stay in the library, you need to be careful.” A pregnant pause had her reaching for his hand. “And if you want to be of use? I’d like you to be my spy down there. Because you’re right; the priestesses will be too nervous with me around. You’re already a priestess. You have a presence there. It makes sense.”

Her eyes went large and her mouth fell open in shock, before transforming into a radiant smile. “Truly, Az? You want me to help spy in the library?”

He breathed deeply. “Against my better judgment, yes. Not saying you aren’t equipped to handle this mission of finding out how this happened and what or who is behind it, but…” The mere thought of placing her in the path of danger made his skin crawl.

We worry about you, Priestess, his shadows finished his thought.

His rumination ended with a grunt. Knocked backward, Azriel practically tumbled off the bed as Gwyn launched herself, flinging her arms around his shoulders. He shivered at the accidental scratch of her fingernails over the edge of his wings.

“Thank you for not holding me back,” she said, crying and giggling at the same time. He wrapped his arms around her. “Thank you. I know you worry about me. And how hard this is for you to let me do this.”

“I understand how much this means to you. I respect you want to help. And I know you can do anything you put your mind to.” Azriel rested his forehead against hers. The training will be brief, but you already possess some useful skills. And don’t think I’m going to go easy on you just because we’re together.”

The priestess snorted a laugh with no embarrassment. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of you taking training easy on me.” She kissed him lightly, dragging her teeth over his bottom lip as she drew back. He growled at the slight tug. “Spymaster.”

His lips twitched. “We’re going to have to get started…”

“Today?” Gwyn asked, her teal eyes glimmering like light on water.

“Well, since you’re out of training commission for three days, we can work on strategy while seated.”

Her eyes tightened into slits. “Seriously? No training.”

“You were the one who made the decision not to be treated. Three days.” Azriel tapped her nose, and she crossed her arms over her chest. Gods, she was fucking adorable when she sulked. Unable to stop himself, he lowered his mouth to hers and what meant to be something sweet turned into something else entirely as she clambered into his lap.

Shadowsinger, his shadows tried to gain his attention.

The bottom of her nightshirt rode up over her creamy thighs. His hands wandered up to her bare legs, over her hips, until they landed on her rear. The ass that haunted his daydreams and became one of his greatest fantasies.

Shadowsinger! Someone’s coming!

He drank her moans as he tugged her to him, kneading and clutching her behind as they kissed and kissed. His eyes rolled in the back of his godsdamn head when her hips rolled into him in instinct. They’d done this before, with her grinding over of his clothes many times since the Summer Solstice. Exploratory and innocent rubbing accompanied their kisses. But this morning, there was a sense of urgency behind her movements, giving him pause. His concern for where her mind battled with how wonderful she felt against him, his hard length pinned between her heat and his stomach. Conflicted with how he urged her to move on him, take what she wanted.

Cauldron, she was fucking perfect.

Shadowsinger!

Knock. Knock.

They froze, her full lower lip caught between his teeth as they shared panting gasps.

We tried to warn you.The shadowsinger sighed.

“Az? You home?” Cassian. Of fucking course.

Gwyn’s eyes went round, her auburn eyebrows practically to her hairline. Shit. Shit. She scurried off his lap looking guiltily adorable and thoroughly loved, dodging for the side of the bed like one would avoid a volley of arrows.

“Az, are you drunk or hungover? Or dead? Do I need to tell the House to let me in?”

Conceal her. Scent and sound included, he ordered, his shadows sketching a bow, and flew to the priestess’s side.

“Az!” The knob jiggled hard.

Apathy was all Azriel put on before he nearly ripped the door off the hinges. Cassian was on the other side, wearing his training leathers and gauntlets, his forehead sweaty. The General peered around the room before focusing on his brother again, and said, “Your room smells like sex.”

𝄋

Gwyn was quite sure she would die right on the far side of the bed on Azriel’s wooden floor. Lying face down with a blush and cringe permanently engraved on her face. Her marker reading:

Here Lies Gwyneth Berdara. Cause of death at age twenty-eight: mortification. Found wearing only underwear and a pegasus shirt in a room apparently smelling of sex.

The shadows at once flocked to attention around her. Stay down, priestess.

Instead, Gwyn crawled on her belly across the floor until she could see boots and bare feet by the entrance.

Stop moving. We can hide you if you don’t move.

“Hard to tell when the entire house reeks of sex, thanks to you and your mate,” Azriel retorted, his tone bored.

Cassion chuckled. “True, but I’ve been at training with the Elites all morning and here you are; shirtless in a room scented with fun times. Your bed’s a mess. You always make your bed.”

She stayed as still as a marble statue, holding her breath until her lungs hurt.

“I just got up.”

“You don’t sleep, Az.”

“I actually did, for once.”

Cassian huffed. “Where’s Gwyn?” Her head jerked up, and the shadows scrambled. Oh, no. “I knocked on her door and no one answered.”

“She took pain tonic. She’s probably out cold. Resting .” He emphasized the last word for her sake, knowing she was listening. Unbearable, fussy, caring male, tugging at her heart.

“Fair enough. I guess she’s out of training for a couple of days.”

“Three,” Azriel reiterated as she rolled her eyes, wanting to jump out and strangle him.

“Well, Nesta had the House send breakfast to her room, so I’m sure she’s fine. But I need you to help with the other recruits. Emerie can’t make it today to help with training. Issues with her shop or some shit. I don’t know. I tuned Nesta out when it started with it not being an emergency.”

“Fine,” his tone clipped. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll meet you up there.” Gwyn saw Cassian’s boots pivot on his heels to leave. She finally let out a breath. They skidded to a halt with a screech. Shit. “Az, man.” A pause. “You and Gwyn are still together, right? ”

She heard Azriel’s heavy, weary sigh echo through his space. And although she couldn’t see his face, Gwyn pictured the shadowsinger rubbing his worried temples.

“Yes.”

“But your room…the scent. Have you and Gwyn?” No response. “Wait. Shit, you’re not cheating on her, are you?” Cassian’s voice lowered. “Look, it’s not like we haven’t fucked females in the same room before.” Gwyn almost choked on her spit. “And I get you have certain—” Whatever words Cassian spoke next were too muffled to discern from her position.

Azriel’s sardonic chuckle rumbled like a quake, lifting the fine hairs on her body. “You don’t know shit , brother.”

“Fair enough. But I swear to gods, if you are getting some on the side— ”

The shadows pulsed, the mist spreading and intensifying at the nerve, bracing to leave her and be at Azriel’s side to defend his honor.

“No, I’m not,” Azriel snapped, a sharp and bitter tone slipping, peeking through his well-crafted mask. A mode of the Spymaster, she mused. “Doesn’t require more than one person to make a room smell like sex, Cassian. Either way? None of your fucking business.”

Gwyn smacked her forehead on the wooden floor, hoping the shadows could truly conceal her laughter. Azriel just admitted to…

Cassian guffawed and slapped him on the shoulder. “No, I guess not. Well. I’m glad you’re not stepping out on Gwynnie. You know, she’s like a little sister to me now. I’d hate to go older brother on you and kick your ass.”

“You won’t have to.”

“She’s a good girl, Az.”

“I know.”

“Don’t forget Nesta’s threat. And let’s face it, her threat is one you can count on more than mine.”

Something thudded against a solid surface. Once. Twice. “Can you fucking go now?”

A few hushed words were spoken before Azriel slammed the door. His sigh filled with many sentiments. The shadows sailed on the breeze to their master, settling behind his wings as he whispered to them. They flowed out under the door.

Gwyn stood, flattening out her shirt as Azriel paced like a caged creature, his hands tugging at the nape of his neck.

“Guess we’ll just consider that the first spy lesson, Berdara.”

“Oh,” she started, following as he locked the door. “How did I do?”

He murmured, rifling through a wardrobe full of somber black. He peered over his shoulder. “Honest?”

She awaited her grade from the Spymaster. “Terrible.”

Her face fell.

“You picked a dangerous position. If Cassian walked the room, he would have seen you.”

As she opened her mouth to retort, Azriel bent over to hunt for something on the floor of the bureau. Whatever Gwyn was going to say was lost as she stared at his behind in those tight shorts he had on last night. Well, not the exact ones, she smirked, proud of herself.

“The shadows can wrap me completely, but you won’t have that protection at the library. I know you can be discreet, but you must do better.” She acknowledged as his turn to the side delineated those thigh muscles. He picked out a pair of familiar leather. “And I heard you. Thumping your head off the floor?” He groaned, lifting a shirt over his head, stretching it down with care over his wings. And, gods, everything bunched and tightened and Gwyn’s mind went poof.

The Spymaster continued on and on as he dressed with speed. Something about absolute stillness. She nodded. Something about concrete information. She nodded. He said something about staring at his ass. She nodded.

Oh, damn.

Az strode forward, now fully decked out in his scalloped Illyrian leathers that she’d become accustomed to. She struggled to cover her grin with her hand as her eyes flitted up to find intense hazel.

“Sorry,” she said.

He inhaled and exhaled through his nose, long and hard. “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.”

She shook her head with urgency. “No. No. I swear I’ll do better. You just distracted me, Shadowsinger.” Gwyn pushed her shoulders back, straightening. “It won’t happen again.”

The corner of his lips twitched.

“What did Cassian say after he mentioned you…well…is it true you both…in the same room…you know what, none of my business.” She put her hands up and shuffled around him. “But after that, before he accused you of cheating; what did he say?”

“Nothing,” Azriel replied so quickly it raised an alarm. The shadowsinger never answered that fast.

“Oh. Well,” she hesitated, twisting a piece of hair around her forefinger. “All right then.” Taking careful steps backward, limping to the door as she had last night, her palm settled on the bronze knob. “Az…why didn’t you just tell him that…never mind. I guess I’ll be in the guest chamber and await your presence for more spy training later?”

“Tomorrow,” he replied, rolling his tense shoulders, stepping toward the door. “We’ll continue tomorrow.”

Oh.

Moments. That fast his disposition had turned from sweltering summer heat to frigid winter chill.

Her stomach curdled with dread as she spun the handle.

“Wait.”

𝄋

He needed to stop her before she left the room. Shit. None of this, his changing mood, was her fault. The morning had been stacking up since Gwyn woke up, quaking in fear. Which somehow led to her in his lap.

“I want to walk you across the hall in the shadows. We’ll be discreet.”

“Oh, all right. Whatever you think is best.” The priestess nodded, keeping her eyes from meeting his.

She thinks you don’t want to be seen with her coming out of your bedroom, the shadows practically screamed at him. She thinks you’re ashamed!

“It’s not because I don’t want to be caught with you, Gwyn. It’s just I don’t want Cassian to—“

Gwyn offered him a tight-lipped smile. “It’s fine. I understand.”

Did she?

Clear the air, Shadowsinger! Our Priestess is feeling awkward! He swore a few of them flicked his ear.

“Priestess, are you all right about this morning?” He had to be sure. “I know you woke up…startled and then we…” He gestured with his chin toward the bed.

She stared at her feet. “Yes.” Her face lifted and his fingers yearned to push back that wayward swath of hair going opposite of her middle part. “But I knew what I was doing on the bed, Azriel. Though, I probably should have asked you. I was just so happy about the spying thing and…well…” She curled her bare toes over the wooden floor.

He shook his head. “It’s fine, Gwyn.” His lips twitched because it had been better than fine. “I was merely concerned about you.” Not able to stop himself anymore, Azriel reached for her hand, giving it a squeeze.

He gripped her chin, tilting her head up. “Before you leave, I want to make one thing very, very clear, Gwyn. I am not ashamed of what we did, nor am I embarrassed to be with you. Or seen with you. Or have others see we’re together. The only reason I didn’t say anything to Cassian and played it off was because of how you hopped off me and hid. I didn’t know if you wanted him to see. Nesta to learn you spent the night. And I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. Because I am honored to share this with you. And if you want me to, I’ll fly over Velaris and shout it. But I’m sorry for how I acted and I’m a jackass.”

“Well,” she clutched his chin between two fingers, angling his face downward. “You were so big on communication last night, so let’s keep it that way for everything. And yes, you sounded like quite the jackass, Shadowsinger.”

“Well, since we’re being so candid. What you did on the bed? Crawling into my lap?” Az dragged his teeth over his lower lip. “It was hot.”

Gwyn snorted and laughed for real, her cheeks round, glowing. He breathed a sigh of relief.

There she is, his shadows hummed. There’s our girl.

Fuck, didn’t it make him feel like he was walking on clouds to know that he’d put that smile on Gwyn’s face.

They walked to her room together, his shadows covering them from everyone’s view. And as soon as he’d left her with a kiss at her temple, and an order to stay off her foot, his mood shifted again.

“And I get you have certain—shit you’re into. I don’t want to get in your business, between that and what Rhys told me about what was going on with Elain before…”

Godsdamn, Cassian. Fucking, Rhysand. Why the hell couldn’t they leave well enough alone? Even if he knew why Rhysand had told Cassian about his brief entanglement with Elain. And why Cassian suspected something else, jumping to the worst conclusion.

Because neither thought he could handle a healthy relationship.

Because neither wanted to see Gwyn hurt.

The secret shadows wicked merriment rose inside, smothering, whispering truth. His stepmother was right; Azriel was bound to ruin everything.

After all, he was a waste of breath. A burden. Worthless.

Chapter Text

PART II: DUET

Gwyn and the Spymaster had been training for many weeks now, analyzing strategies. How to trail your mark without detection.

“You have the upper hand in the library,” Azriel stated, pacing in front of the desk in the personal library of the House she sat with a blueprint of the institution dating many centuries. She noted various stack locations on a copy, but little else had changed. “You are familiar with every corner, which brings me to dead drops.”

“Dead drops don’t sound like a good thing. Am I expected to assassinate someone and dispose of the body?”

Azriel sputtered and laughed, shaking his head. Clearing his throat, he answered, “Although quite enjoyable to imagine you stuffing a body somewhere in the library, that's not what I was getting at. A place to hide documents or to exchange messages.”

She tapped her chin with the quill for a moment. “Like inside a book? What if you wrote something and stuck it in an exact book on a specific page? That's precisely what I'd do in a library. Should I also include some type of code if the message is highly confidential?”

He gaped at her, confounded.

"Despite what you may think, Shadowsinger, many of the novels I read do not contain smut. I also enjoy adventure and spy dramas.”

His eyes flared like chips of amber as he wore a roguish grin. In an instant, Azriel had reached the desk where Gwyn sat. She swiveled her chair to face him. His scalloped leathers and chiseled face suggested a warrior as he prepared to leave with Cassian to quell yet another rebellion in Illyria. Unrest and uprisings were becoming too frequent.

Azriel placed his hands on the arms of her chair, caging her in. As his warm breath brushed against her ear, Gwyn shivered as she leaned forward. “Oh, I’m betting those spy stories were indecent, Berdara.” Her mouth was dry as she gulped hard. “Were you thinking about fucking the spy?”

Sweet Mother above. Her face grew hot at the boldness and accuracy of his words. She saw what game the Spymaster was playing right now. Cloak-and-dagger intelligence often involved using high emotions to one’s advantage. He admitted to her several times, explaining that sometimes he must use whatever means necessary to get information. His body included in the past. A lust-addled brain was as loose as a drunken one.

Even as her thighs pressed together under her robes, Gwyn told herself to focus.

“Well, Berdara? Have you?”

Her expressionless smile told nothing as Gwyn looked him in the eye. “Can’t say I have.” Leaning away from him, she sat back. “Because the spy could try to get me to reveal something I don’t want to… Spymaster. ”

Azriel shook with amusement, holding back his laughter. “Fair enough,” he said, tapping her playfully on the nose, which had her batting his hand away. “But if you ever come across a book with a sexy priestess, you let me know. It might intrigue me enough to read your genre.”

“The smutty priestess genre is woefully underdeveloped,” she replied with a half-grin.

“Well, maybe you should compose one. I bet your mind has a good deal of dirty ideas you need to put down on paper.”

“You wish, Azriel.” Gwyn shook her head, turning back to focus on the proper task of mapping out the library.

Over the last few weeks since Shelah's death, the library had once again been deceptively calm. After the consecration service and honoring of Shelah’s Invoking Stone in the temple’s inner sanctum, there’d once again been nothing . The same as after the dark shrouded figures had appeared. She persisted, paying more attention to the surrounding sounds. Of the names addressed. This posed a challenge since not everyone in the building spoke. Gwyn worked around it, however.

She often seemed like a ghost moving around the various areas of the library, her robes streaming behind her. But that's exactly what Azriel told her to do. He instructed her not to even carry paper on her, clarifying, Paper crinkles. This seems inconsequential, but depending on the location, handkerchiefs are a better form to inscribe on or send intel. And easier to offer someone as well. Less suspicious to hand someone a handkerchief if they sneeze than a fragment of paper. For as many years as I've been doing this, I've memorized locations now. But a map sketched on silk? Better than paper.

So true and so…simple. No wonder he had the top job.

Her robes helped her maneuver the library freely, acting as she normally would, but as he pointed out, you need to blend into the shadows at a moment’s notice. Upon hearing the word shadows, they ran smooth caresses over her shoulder, causing her to giggle.

“I didn’t mean…” Azriel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can you leave her alone, please? She doesn’t need support right now.”

Gwyn chuckled when they set on her intentionally, as if thumbing their transparent noses at their master. “I told you I don’t mind, Azriel. The few you spare with me to the library do as they’re told.”

“They send themselves.” His eyes fixed on the shadowy wisps. “And right now, they’re distracting you.”

Sweetly batting her eyelashes, Gwyn smiled up at him. “So is a particular broody spymaster who keeps pacing, as I’m trying to finish this map on silk for you. If you'd be so kind as to sit down…" Her pen pointed to a well-loved navy armchair in the corner. "Not on the edge of the desk like you’re thinking. Over there until I finish.”

Azriel twitched his lips as he made his way over, and she watched him walk all the way. Her antics were evident from the darkening of his eyes as he sat. Damn him. Under Azriel's heavy stare, she centered on her task, trying to remain calm and focused.

𝄋

He couldn’t save himself. Watching her as she worked, nibbling on her lower lip every so often, her forehead bunched in concentration as she finished up the map before moving to work on forgery.

When he saw her at the desk, his mind strayed into dangerous territory. He realized they shouldn't be roaming. He was supposed to be her teacher right now; the Spymaster teaching the pupil. But she ordered him to sit on the chair until she told him to. A part of him that was long-neglected sparked within him.

What would she think if she learned? Did any of her books touch on these topics? If Gwyn realized he’d fantasized about this before; her telling him what to do. Wearing those Valkyrie leathers, with him on his knees in utter surrender. At her mercy.

He adjusted in his seat as his cock pushed painfully against his leathers. The wood of the armrest creaked under his solid grip. His Siphons flared in his gauntlets.

“You all right over there?” A bright mischievous voice asked over the table. When those teal eyes peeked under half-lidded lashes, he bit back his groan.

“You almost done with those copies so I can review and you can be…" Azriel paused, tapping his fingers on the wood. “Finished?”

“Not quite,” she replied, her tone breathy, as if she knew what she was doing to him.

Azriel sat back, watching every single motion with patience. There. She made a modest shift, as if she were moving her legs. Was she enjoying this as much as he was? Was desire pounding through her as heavy as his own?

The scene playing in his mind involved her, him, and that wooden desk after he swiped everything off the godsdamn thing. She seated on one corner, directing him to kneel until she pushed up her robes, baring herself to him. Ready and glistening. And he’d wait, his hands at his sides until she gave him a command. Until Gwyn told him to bring his mouth to her sex and pleasure her. Gods, he was fucking dying to savor every part of her.

But was she ready for something more?

For several weeks now, Gwyn had become more relaxed in his chamber. Around him. Intimacy hadn’t evolved beyond what they’d already done. Semi-clothed, her pleasuring herself while he worshipped her with his hands and mouth. Whether he orgasmed wasn’t the point. Worshipping Gwyn like a goddess under their mutual caresses, watching her topple over that pinnacle repeatedly, was worth every raging hard-on and ice-cold bath.

Yet he dreamed, wondered on rare occasions, what it might be like one day. To be inside her, to feel with every part of him. He’d experience many before but, with Gwyn?

“Shadowsinger.” He cleared his vision, finding her with her chin propped up on a fist, grinning fiendishly.

“Yes?”

“Are you over there fantasizing about me?”

He swallowed hard and shifted. His shadows left the room, lingering just outside the private library door.

She clicked her tongue. “Well?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. How does it feel?”

He wet his lips. “How does what feel, Priestess?”

“To be teased mercilessly until you ache? Just like you were taunting me earlier.” Her eyes narrowed, and he followed suit.

“So, this is some kind of game for you?”

“You started it. Seems I can use my feminine wiles to get answers, Spymaster.” Lifting a shoulder, Gwyn rose from the chair, striding over to him, forcing a piece of paper in front of his face. “Here you go.”

Swiping the sheet out of her grasp, he scrutinized her work. Holy fuck. Her forgeries were…outstanding. Absolute perfection. If he hadn’t done the first draft, he would have assumed these were the originals.

“The library has provided me with useful talents,” Gwyn said. “Merrill’s had me replicate master copies that are strictly for the stacks, while we put the original texts in a vault for safekeeping. So what say you?” She tipped her chin up, her fists on her hips.

“They’re fine, Priestess.” She tsked and rolled her eyes. “So, are you done now? The map?” The parchment rippled as Azriel waved it in the air. “These?”

“Yes, I’m done .”

He moved for her, dragging her into his lap until her knees landed on either side of his hips.

“What?” she gasped as he tugged on the collar of the white vestment. “What are you doing?”

“I’m doing what you said, Gwyn. I’m sitting here until you finish .”

“Oh,” she moaned as his lips moved from her collar up to her jaw. Her swallow was audible, her pulse rapid under his touch.

“Gwyn,” Azriel murmured, stopping his mouth at her cheek. “You say no right now, and we don’t do anything.”

She peered at him, her eyes glazed and pupils blown. “I know you would. What do you want to do?”

Azriel ran a hand up and down her spine. “Are you ready for more?”

He could see she was considering until she sighed. “No. I mean, I like all the stuff we’ve done but…touching certain places…I don’t think I’m ready yet. I’m sorry.”

“Never apologize. Anything is good with you, Gwyn.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “So, down to underwear, is all right?”

“Yes,” she whispered as she gradually pushed her robes up her thighs. He continued with the soothing passes on her back. “I like when you kiss and touch my breasts.”

He chuckled darkly, brushing his lips on her jawline. “Good, because I like to. Other than that, I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

“Oh, but I do like when you grab my ass, too,” she squealed with excitement, and he snickered, leaning his forehead against her chest. “That was probably way too loud.” The way her back stiffened had him lifting his head. “We’re in the library,” she murmured.

“It’s a private one, Priestess.”

“But not from Nesta or Cassian! What if—” The door mechanism snicked , the lock sliding into place.

“What can I say, Priestess? The House loves you. And my shadows are standing watch right outside the door. But we can stop if you—" He couldn’t get the rest of the words out as her mouth settled on his. Gwyn’s hands sunk into his hair, tugging with gentle pulls until he groaned into her mouth. His palms still roved, tracing the alluring curve of her back until his hands landed on her ass and gave a solid squeeze.

She broke the kiss, leaning her head backward, her copper hair tickling his forearms as it fell. He peppered her jawline with kisses, following the length of her neck down to her exposed collarbone, tugging on the ties of her garment with his teeth.

Gwyn brought her fingers to her knots, gently undoing them. Seeing her work at them. Fucking hell. Knowing she wanted this? Not only that, but she was trusting him in this room?

Azriel kept his eyes on hers, watching, as he removed a hand from her rear to his pants, being mindful to work the fasteners. He rose just enough to lower his pants to his knees, hoisting her giggling form as he struggled.

He didn’t look away when she slipped the sleeves off her shoulders until she uncovered from the waist up, while he was almost fully dressed in his leathers.

“So what’s the strategy, Shadowsinger?”

“Remember what you were doing on the bed that day? The one when Cassian showed up in the morning?”

“Yes,” she replied, glancing at the bulge behind the black fabric. “When I was in your lap.” She swallowed thickly. “Moving on you.”

Az nodded eagerly, placing a hand at the nape while the other drew her down until he could sense the heat of her core through their thin layers of the fabric, against his throbbing cock.

“Yes.” He kissed her lips hard, taking her lower lip between his teeth as he drew back. “Do it again.”

He moved his hand on her lower back, slowly coasting to her tight ass again, helping press against him. She rolled against his hardness. But she needed more motivation.

He pulled her head closer, his mouth against her ear. “Would you like to know what I was thinking?” He swept a thumb along her neck. “When you were at the desk?”

She whimpered, “Yes.”

"I thought of how much I wanted to be in your favor, on my knees in front of you.”

Despite her hips slowing, there was more force behind each movement. His dick twitched, pinned between them.

“You don’t know how much I crave that, Gwyneth. On my knees, you wide and wet before me, ready for my mouth. But not until you tell me. Always. Not until you drag my head between your thighs. Does that sound good?’

Her breathing hitched, and she tossed her head back, her hands settling on his shoulders as a flush crept up her body.

“Yes, it does,” she admitted. “I’ve thought about that, actually.”

A shocked moan came out of him as he pressed himself into her, pulling her closer until he could nearly distinguish the seam of flesh beneath the soaked fabric.

“Tell me,” he urged.

“I’ve read about that,” Gwyn admitted in a whimper as he flicked over her chest. “I’ve thought about telling you to please me. And I’ve thought about the other way, but only with you.”

He halted, reflecting on her words. That she trusted him, only him with that? Fuck him. He took her nipple into his mouth, licking and sucking as she rode him.

He leaned away, blowing over her skin until he had an aching peak at his mercy. Glancing up, he asked, “Did you get these ideas from your novels, Priestess?”

She chuckled, the sound huskier and earthier than normal. “Books have given me an unusually vivid imagination, Shadowsinger. And many, many ideas.”

Well, didn’t he like the sound of ideas?

She continued surging into him as he matched her movements. Sweat sheened on her skin, but by the furrow between her brows and the twist in her lips, something was off. And fuck, it did not help that he could not touch her where he knew she needed.

Gwyn could certainly use her hands on herself, but Azriel’s eyes rolled back with each tug at his hair. He was rock hard and there was a great chance he was going to come this go around. And he wanted to—with her.

A notion struck the shadowsinger when he glimpsed at her hips, matching his.

“Gwyn, press the fabric in between your folds,” he murmured over her beating heart as she moved.

“W-why?”

“Trust me.”

With his eyes sealed as he planted open mouth kisses on her breasts, one hand leaving the nape of his neck, slinking between them. He groaned as the back of her hand brushed against him. As the hand settled back to hair, Gwyn said, “It’s somewhat…" Her genuine laugh made his heart sing. “Peculiar.”

His lips twitched. “Oh, you won’t be saying that in a second. Move on me again.”

She did and moaned loudly as he hit her clit perfectly, the fabric’s friction a bonus.

He closed his eyes, fixating on how wonderful she felt, and readjusted her hips so she hit…

“Oh, Gods,” she soughed, tossing her head back, gripping his shoulders now as she openly drove against him with vigor. He sensed the build in both of them, the tension right before everything unraveled so tight they could barely handle it.

“Come for me, Gwyneth. Please.” Since it would ever be her who climaxed first. Always.

“Az,” she panted his name in their shared breath before shuddering against him, crying out. With a firm kiss, he drew out Gwyn’s pleasure as she ground against him and he against her until release rushed down his spine and he joined her over the edge.

And for those few precious fleeting moments, there was nothing to think of besides the female in his arms and he scorned all else. The crisis in Prythian and Illyria. The turmoil in his head. While her heart thudded with him, Azriel could believe he was worthy.

𝄋

Gwyn's mind was a slurry, but she’d blocked him out permanently.

“Well done,” Rhysand said, sketching a bow. “You’ve blocked a daemati from entering your thoughts.”

She bowed back, gasping, “Thank you, High—” He clicked his tongue. “I mean, Rhysand.”

The edge of his lips tipped in a small grin. “My pleasure, Gwyn. A rare event when one charges me to enter a mind with permission. I hope I helped with your training.”

And he had. After a few weeks of meeting after morning training, both were now confident the priestess could reinforce a stable mental shield in any intense situation.

The High Lord’s eyes flitted to the clock on the mantle, an amiable smile gracing his striking features. “I’m meeting my mate and son in the gardens for lunch.”

“Oh, how nice. From the way Azriel describes them, the gardens are lovely.”

“Would you like to see them? Azriel won’t be back for a little while to pick you up, though I could send for him or fly you there myself.”

“Yes, I’d like that,” Gwyn responded with a wide smile. He led her out his office and out the house, across the extensive rolling grassy hillside. The shimmering Sidra reflected the Autumn sun, the waves breaking against the riverbank. The Mother mercifully granted them a warm seasonal transition this year. So, though trees were changing, summer still lingered in the breeze. For now. Soon, the Steppes' winds would whistle in, heralding the end.

An ivy-covered archway greeted them as they entered the gardens. Blooms and foliage of every size and color dotted the scenery like a painting. In a way, it was as if the High Lady had envisioned the scene herself and magic had brought it into being.

“This is beautiful. It’s like a dream in here,” Gwyn said, her eyes unable to focus on one singular flower. There was too much to look at. Gorgeous organized disorder.

“The nurseries are all Elain. She conceived them and brought her vision to life,” the High Lord answered, his violet eyes twinkling as they reached hers. “She has many pet beautification projects around Velaris, but this garden is her masterpiece. The last few months she’s taken on making sure there are flowers for every season.”

Gwyn’s eyes went round in awe. “Even Winter?”

Rhysand nodded, revealing how Elain traveled to the library to gather information months before on winter blossoms. And he had dispatched his courier to the Winter Court for seeds. When Gwyn inquired what genus of vegetation grows in the cold, Rhys merely suggested, “You should ask Elain.”

Gwyn rolled her shoulders. “I don’t think she likes me very much for me to ask.”

Rhysand stopped at once. With his hands in the pockets of his dark trousers, his angled gaze in question, he asked, “Why would you say that?”

How did she know that? Even though she hadn't seen Elain more than a few times, she couldn't dispute that every chance they had been together, Elain had left in a hurry. As if the middle Archeron could not stand to be in the same room as the young priestess. And every single time their eyes met, something seemed wrong.

She brushed off the High Lord’s question, claiming it was nothing. But was it?

“How goes it in the library, spy?” he winked as he began walking again. “Which, by the way, Azriel is quite proud of your progress.”

Shock zipped through her body. “He is,” she said, her robes swaying as she turned towards the High Lord, who was nodding.

Rhysand answered with a devious grin. “He practically sings your praises.”

Now she was sure she was as bright as Cassian’s Siphons. Azriel, the same Spymaster who’d been aloof and nonchalant in their training, was regaling the High Lord with her accomplishments? Oh, the shadowsinger was so getting a kiss when he picked her up this afternoon.

“The library is quiet.” For now. “The priestesses seem in good spirits except—” She gnawed her lower lip. Was this something to bring up? “Except some are worried about the Great Rite this spring.”

“How so? That the ceremony won’t happen because of Tamlin or…?”

She sighed. Normally, this was held only to those in the priestesshood, but with corruption from within, from the likes of Ianthe to what was occurring in the library, someone had to speak.

“Well, that is a concern, though there’s no doubt someone would step into the role.” They had to. Calanmai occurred on the Spring Equinox. If there was any court that needed to be bathed in the vital magic, it was Spring. She’d heard Lucien Vanserra had taken on responsibility once before, but who would next spring? “The concern is," she sighed, “do you know how the priestesses who attend are chosen?”

Rhysand froze like one of the marble statues bordering the walls of the garden sanctuary. His hands balled in his pockets. “Chosen?”

She nodded, staring at the grass beneath her slippers. “The Mother’s choice, that those elected should be celebrated to accept the magic and the male who takes them.” And other consequences, such as herself and Catrin’s conception. “But the ones you have given sanctuary to in the library are scared.” She raised her gaze to his then, and she could see the unfettered rage darkening his eyes.

“I can assure them they have nothing to fear.”

“But the summons comes from the High Temple—”

“ Nothing to fear. I will subject no one in that building to taking part in the Rite. We should pick no one at all. This is a conversation the High Lords will have before approaching the High Temple.”

She nodded, feeling as if for once she and her sisters had been blessed, for here was the High Lord, willing to go against the High Temple for them.

“Thank you,” she said, worry leaving her.

He nodded. “Come. Have lunch with me, Feyre and Nyx.” And before she could argue, he added, “Nyx loves you and besides, I have many, many stories of Azriel while we were growing up I’m sure you are dying to hear.”

Chapter Text

An oppressive weight hung in the air in the library that had not been present since Bryaxis. A beast who once inhabited the dark heart of the catacombs, a creature still very much at large. The stillness upon the priestesses was smothering, as if the shroud that once covered Shelah draped them all. Even Azriel’s shadows, those misbehaving entities who followed her during her shift, seemed to notice, sticking close, the invisible shades whipping around her back.

Deep in her bones, Gwyn expected something was going to happen, and she’d felt this way before, she realized. Before the gathering of dark-cloaked figures. Before the library came crashing on their feet.

She had to be alert.

One arm encircled the bundle of books; volumes Merrill insisted she pull. More tales of sea and water creatures, akin to the texts she carried when they were attacked. The other hand, her dagger hand, she kept close to her thigh, her blade well concealed under the robe in a thigh sheath. Just in case.

Head cast downward, eyes lowered, Gwyn walked hushed steps to the office she dreaded to approach daily. As far as Gwyn was concerned, Merrill wasn’t merely upset with her, per se, but with everyone and everything. The young priestess could not help but take Merrill’s criticism harshly, even if the verbal dressing-down may have only been a mere case of kicking the proverbial dog. There must be an unfortunate reason Merrill sought refuge in this library with the High Lord’s blessing; something awful must have happened.

While a few priestesses were milling about, Gwyn crept past them undetected, ascending several flights before she arrived at her destination.

Merrill’s office often made her want to visit The Prison just to determine if the fabled rock was as intimidating as Merrill’s domain. Nesta often joked she’d sooner stick herself back in the Cauldron than deal with Merrill, “the insipid cunt,” at least once every practice. Which, of course, made Gwyn snort with laughter.

This office was the final to be searched. Though, in her gut, Gwyn believed the office should have been her first check. Delivering the books was a valid excuse to enter. Merrill had just departed for a meeting in the temple, selecting music for the Autumn Solstice ceremony. The young priestess knew the House would unlock the entry if she asked. So that’s exactly what she did.

The door sealed behind her in a hushed breeze, the lock virtually inaudible. Gwyn let out the gasp she’d been holding for three floors. Doing as Azriel instructed, she applied her Mind-Stilling techniques, regulating her breathing, keeping her heart rate under control. Calm. Collected. Clear. Focused. Be the rock.

She set the books on the deep burgundy leather armchair by the small woodstove. Only a ray of afternoon sunlight illuminated the somber granite suite as Gwyn studied the heaps of papers and notebooks, making note of their precise positions.

Transparent shadows curled around her as Gwyn thumbed through the documents and ledgers on Merrill’s desk, finding only tally sheets and notes. Hurriedly she scanned for keywords, finding page after page of nothing but random numbers and dates, until near the bottom of the stack.

Valkyrie.

When she read the number below the title, her eyes narrowed—36 total. Which so happened to be exactly their present numbers. But how the hell would Merrill know their total? The cadets didn’t chat about their practices when in the library area and Merrill never set foot outside the archives beyond the dorm rooms. How did she even have their figures? And, more importantly, why?

Gwyn flipped to the next page, her eyes finding a single title at the very top: Illyrian.

More amounts accompanied familial surnames and specified Illyrian settlements. Immediately, Gwyn withdrew a piece of scrap cotton and felt-tip pen from her robe pocket, flattening the fabric against the desk as she quickly copied the page.

She combed through strewn tomes spread out on the desk, hunting for bookmarked sections. Passages marked included ones on the Prison. The history of the Night Court. Sirens. The Cauldron. Nymphs. The Dead Trove. The High King. The Great War.

The priestess found Merrill's research, contrary to her nature, to be highly disorganized. Gwyn advanced toward the glass-front bookcase on the left of the wooden desk. Carefully opening the cabinet, she pulled a book she’d never seen before.

The Walking Dead?

Opening the text, Gwyn discovered pages of ancient markings she not only could not translate but had never seen . All things considered, it was surprising, with all the languages she’d happened across over her years as Merrill’s apprentice.

But it was the following text that had her mouth slowly falling open and her eyes doing a double-take.

The Book of Breathings.

No way. Impossible. The Book of Breathings could not conceivably be in the library.

According to Azriel, the High Lady and Amren had propelled the book into the Cauldron during the war with Hybern, the book ending up wherever the Cauldron sent items—to parts unknown. The book was notorious; one side demure, the other cruel. Legend said to encounter the cover would drive you delirious with power. Like called to like. So why did Merrill possess such a book? Unless…

Heart thumping beneath her rib cage, Gwyn stroked the leathery spine with a single finger. Squeezing her eyes shut, Gwyn held her breath and waited.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing occurred. She blew out a breath. Praise the Mother.

Unless the myths were untrue—or the one sitting on the shelf was a replicate. An unknown copy of The Book of Breathings in Merrill’s hands? Gwyn didn’t like this one bit.

Priestess, she overheard in the barest whisper.

Gwyn lifted her head at the sound of voices outside the door. Her eyes went wide.

Shit. Shit.

Instantly, she turned her head, seeking a place to hide. Under the desk wasn’t an option. Gwyn spun in a circle, searching until her eyes fell upon a medium-sized trunk in the far corner. Praying to all the gods above the chest was empty, she hurried over. Only a few soft, squishy items of clothing lay at the bottom. The door handle jiggled, but stopped as the voices persisted.

As she slipped inside the trunk, she realized she’d forgotten the books on the chair.

Shit.

Gwyn hopped out, hastily swiping the stack. Clutching them to her chest, she slid fully into the trunk. Again thankful for her pliant bones as she pinched and crowded into the compact space. Before the lid was secured, Gwyn felt the shadows propping the top just enough to prevent it from latching.

Merrill entered the space, dismissing whoever she was originally speaking to in her typical blunt fashion. A cloyingly sweet fragrance permeated the room, floral. No doubt the essence of burning incense from the temple sanctum.

“I don't understand these females,” the elder priestess muttered to herself. “Caught up in trivial notions such as song choice. Ridiculous.” A thump echoed over the surge of blood in her ears. As if she’d leaped off a lofty cliff into the sea, Gwyn held her breath. “Ah, yes, come in.”

Gwyn barely detected steps as someone joined the chamber, the antique door making no noise.

“As you know, things haven’t progressed according to design,” Merrill said, her tone low yet strong.

No answer.

Gwyn craned her neck to peek out of the narrow rift, providing light and air into the furniture. When they shuffled forward, the edges of a navy cloak brushed over top a pair of delicate satin slippers. All Gwyn could see before Az’s shadows overpowered her. She recalled then; stay still and the shadows could help keep her hidden.

“So, what is the next step?”

The distinct swish of fabric and creasing parchment. Then a slide of something across wood. More crinkling paper.

“So, this is the new information? And the next step?” No reaction once again. As if someone moved, fabric scraped together. “If I’m being honest, I’m not sure this is the best—” Energy crackled, charging the air, causing tiny hard bumps to rise on Gwyn’s flesh. “All right. All right!” A pause and heavy breathing. “I’ll do it. I will say, if you needed a push, this would certainly do just that.”

Nothing more except near soundless footfalls followed by the heavy plod of Merrill before the clicking and thump of a solid door. Then the jangling of keys and click of the bolt. Still, Gwyn remained as silent as death inside the small trunk, her limbs cramping. Cauldron, how did Azriel sit and remain in one position for a long span, she thought, cricking her neck.

All clear, she overheard in a low trill sent in a gust. With stealth, she emerged from the trunk with a whine from the rusted hinge.

Go. Get out of the office. Her eyes spotted the bronze clock resting on the shallow windowsill behind the desk. Three o’clock. Merrill would meet with Clotho before evening services to go over more research projects. Or to bemoan Gwyn. Or both. With Merrill, one could never be sure.

Gwyn secured the texts in her arms and started toward the exit, glancing behind one more time, just to be sure. Immediately, her attention snagged on two papers that had never been on the desk before. She rushed over, investigating. The gold one she recognized but had yet to examine since it had been at the bottom of the pile. A title and a list of names—five, to be exact. The cream paper was an apparent addendum to the gold.

One name. Gwyn’s blood ran cold, and she was shuddering so hard the bundle nearly tumbled from her grip.

She had to go. Had to speak to Azriel. To Rhysand.

Calm down. Crisp air caressed her cheeks, her neck. You are the rock on with the surf crashes, Priestess.

Nothing could break her. Though what she just read?

Unnerved, Gwyn fixed the books in one arm, making for the door, pressing her ear against it to listen for any sounds of movement. A cursory glance at the clock showed it was ten minutes after three. Merrill had to be at that meeting. After unlocking the door, she pushed it open with care. When all was clear, she walked out, casual in her movements, closing the door gingerly behind her.

Glancing up to the ceiling, to the House, Gwyn mouthed, “Please.”

The locking mechanism snicked as she strolled to the stairs leading to where Merrill should be present. No. That route was too obvious. Gwyn needed to arrive from another way. A floor above, Gwyn circled the rotunda, coming to another ramp leading from a section about water folk, helping to support the illusion she was doing her research.

Roslin sat at a table she passed and they nodded to one another in hello. Good. Gwyn had a witness if they ever called her location into question. Before long, Clotho’s desk was in view, as was the domineering priestess whose office she’d just invaded.

Gwyn willed her heart and feet to slow as she approached. Calm. She had to be relaxed; she reminded herself with every nervous step forward. Every step towards the hideously gorgeous Merrill a burial procession.

“Good afternoon,” Gwyn said, smooth and concise. As cheerful as ever, even though her stomach was roiling. “Clotho.” She sketched a bow, daubing a fake smile on her face. “Merrill.”

“Gwyneth,” Merrill replied, piercing blue eyes focused on the books in Gwyn’s possession. “I’m assuming those are the records I requested?”

Gwyn stayed her fist from shaking and bobbed her head in answer. “Yes, I wanted to get these to you before I took my leave for the day.”

Merrill stood, snatching the books from her as Gwyn turned to flee. “Not staying for evening service, Gwyneth?”

Gwyn glanced over her shoulder. “No, I have a previous engagement.”

The elder priestess sneered. “Ah, yes. You have it in with the Inner Circle of the Night Court, is it?” Gwyn spun fully to her, finding Clotho’s eyes wide, darting between them. “Guess that’s what happens when you become the shadowsinger’s whore?”

The words struck her like a slap.

Whore?

She was no whore . And Merrill knew Gwyn’s history. Her story. Yet, still, Merrill used that term as a weapon?

Gwyn dug down deep, dragging out her inner Nesta, and stalked forward until they were face-to-face.

“I don’t know what happened to you, Merrill. But, whatever it is, I’m sorry. I’m sorry it turned you into such a wretched bitch.” She paused, jutting out her chin. “And an insipid cunt.”

Gwyn left with a smirk, sauntering off while Merrill stood with her jaw on the ground and Clotho hid her face in her hands. Even though deep within, she knew her words were going to come back to haunt her.

𝄋

He’d just gotten home from a week away on the periphery of Winter and Autumn. Rhysand had gained Kallias's approval for impromptu surveillance at their border. Azriel just had a hunch, an itch, under his skin. A constant twitch in his wings. Beron was still plotting something. He felt it in his bones—even if he couldn’t fucking prove his theory. And wasn’t that a blow to his spymaster pride?

Seated at the desk in the private library, still in his Illyrian leathers, his eyes found the navy velvet in the corner as he sipped a whiskey. One side of his lips kicked up. Had it only been one week since Gwyn was writhing against him in that same chair? Gods, he missed her. His priestess was the only thing Azriel thought about the entire time he holed up in the darkness.

But Cauldron, he couldn’t wait for Gwyn to be relieved from her shift. She didn’t know he was coming home tonight. If he wasn’t so exhausted, he would take her to dinner and lavish her with pastries. But he’d settle for her embraces. Her kisses. Having her in his bed. Despite their more intimate relationship, Gwyn hadn’t stayed overnight since the morning she woke up panicked.

But tonight? He’d ask. He wanted her to.

Pain shot up his fingers, radiating from his knuckles followed by numbness which almost had him dropping the glass. Trying to recover sensation in his right hand, he rubbed the side against his left, opened and closed his fist, even if the unfeelingness was just brief freedom from the pain. Pain that was only getting worse as he got older.

His thoughts meandered to the guitar he used to love to play as a teenager up until a few years ago. Gwyn mentioned the instrument the last time she had been curled up reading on his settee in his room, noticing one hanging on his wall as decoration.

“A guitar,” she said, running her fingers along the neck and fretboard. “I didn’t realize you played.”

“Do you play?” he wondered aloud.

“No, but Catrin did. Even with webbed fingers, she was amazing.” With a giggle, she added, “You know, this is basically every female’s fantasy. So many of those romance novels star musicians.”

He’d grinned, running a hand through his hair as he sat in his chair, forearms braced on his thighs. “I don’t play anymore.”

“And why not?” She asked as she shifted to him. “I bet you sang when you played, didn’t you?” His half-grin told her all she required. She rolled her eyes. “And I bet if I asked you to play, you’d tell me no?”

“Let’s put it this way; you have a greater chance of me telling you what Gerona means in Illyrian than you do me playing guitar.”

Fists propped on her hips, she sighed. “All right, so are you going to tell me what Gerona means in Illyria?”

“No,” he chuckled as she threw a throw pillow off another chair at his head. Dodging another soft projectile, he said. “Priestess, I promise to tell you one day.”

“And sing?”

“Only if you sing with me.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Azriel.”

A spasm in his hand yanked him out of his thoughts. Opening and closing his fingers repeatedly, he turned when the entrance to the stairwell opened and shut.

It’s the priestess, his shadows told him.

His heart skipped. Drink and discomfort forgotten, he rushed to meet Gwyn in the corridor, anticipating she’d be as ecstatic by him being home safe as he was being here. Instead, she stopped in the hallway, the portrait of a warrior even in her robes, hands balled at her sides. Those striking features flickering between unreadable and falling apart. He swallowed thickly as she kept a fair distance when he had expected her to run into his arms.

A few rogue shadows whipped from around her, getting back into line with his other brood.

What’s wrong? He asked his shadows.

They didn’t answer. He frowned.

Gwyn cleared her throat, straightening her shoulders. “I have a report, Spymaster.”

He blinked several times, angling his head in concern. “All right. Do you want to give me the information or—”

“Both you and the High Lord need to be present for my statement.”

He took three tentative steps towards her, watching her chest rise and drop. His own chest ached as he watched her struggling not to shatter.

“All right, Gwyn. Here or—”

“The River House. I don’t want to tear Rhysand from his son and mate. If you’d be so kind as to bring me?”

A tense smile crossed his lips. “Of course. Fly or—”

“Winnow, please.”

Now he knew something was awry. She hadn’t chosen to winnow over flying since that first trip into Velaris. Since then, she adored the wind on her face and her hair blowing in the breeze. And he loved her in her arms, the trust to let him carry her.

He nodded, following as she made her way to the training ring. Thank the Cauldron Cassian and his mate were nowhere in sight or earshot. Once on the roof, it was a quick shot into the sky before they dissolved into his shadows, reforming on the massive front lawn.

Gwyn shrugged out of his grasp and started for the house without turning back to him.

What is going on with her? he asked his shadows again.

She had a rather horrible day, Shadowsinger, was all they said.

Well, fuck.

Rhys answered the door looking every bit the relaxed High Lord in a dark suit and unbuttoned white shirt, ushering them to the office. Lounging back in his chair, he gestured for them to sit. Azriel took a chair, but Gwyn—

“I’d rather stand if you don’t mind.”

Rhysand cut Azriel a questioning gaze, undoubtedly sensing the heavy tension.

“So, what do you have to tell us, Gwyn?”

She recounted her day at the library and infiltrating Merrill’s. Pride raced through him at Gwyn’s sharp thinking to evade detection. Did she really shove herself in a storage trunk? Dangerous if you’re unable to winnow, but even still— damn. And his mind reeled as she described the paperwork on Merrill’s desk.

“She has updated Valkyrie trainee numbers. Updated as of today . No one talks about training in the library. But she likewise had Illyrian numbers,” Gwyn said, handing Azriel a scrap of cotton with figures and what looked to be villages. Shit. These villages corresponded to the noted towns with rebellions.

Azriel passed the fabric on to Rhysand.

“I have more to show you, so you can see what I saw…” she spoke directly to Rhys. “If you want to see into my mind.”

Azriel twisted toward her as Rhysand asked, “May I show Azriel what I find as well?”

Gwyn’s throat bobbed and she nodded. Familiar talons coated in darkness grazed the walls of his mind and he dropped them, Rhysand projecting what he was viewing Gwyn’s memory.

A chill rushed down his spine as he saw the vision and the names of the texts. How in the actual fuck had Merrill gotten a hand on a copy of the godsdamn Book of Breathings? A complete copy, not just a half. The Walking Dead? What the hell was that? He saw all the pages Gwyn had browsed over on the desk, saw her stuffing herself into the chest. And Merrill… meeting with someone. A female.

Suddenly, the vision ceased.

“Gwyn, you closed your shield,” Rhysand said, arcing a midnight brow.

“If it's all right with you, I’d only like this part to be shown to you first, Rhysand.”

Azriel thought he’d die right there as his temper roiled beneath his quiet surface. There was something she didn’t want him to see but didn’t mind Rhysand viewing? His fingers clutched the armrest. Rhysand nodded to her and threw his brother a strained, reassuring grin.

Gwyn drew a shuddering breath, closing her eyes, and he could see it written on Rhysand’s face. Outrage and grief fueled the swirling night around them, and Azriel knew at once that, whatever it was? It wasn’t fucking good.

As Gwyn’s eyes cleared and she blinked, they were glossy. Azriel moved for her, and she stepped away.

“I’ll send for Cassian to pick you up,” Rhysand said, and Azriel whirled around to argue. What the hell was Rhys doing? “You need to remain here, Az. We have things to discuss.” The High Lord returned his attention to the priestess. “Is it all right if I tell him or show him, Gwyn? Azriel needs to see what you found out. I can understand why you didn’t want to while he was present..."

She agreed. “I’ll watch for Cassian in the front. And,” she loosed a lengthy sigh. “I’m going to sleep in the guest room tonight, Shadowsinger.”

Gwyn marched out the office door, her garments a pale blue banner fluttering behind her. The shadowsinger lurched forward, met with a swath of speckled darkness, shutting the wooden door in his face.

Az whirled around on his brother. “What the actual fuck, Rhys? I have to get to her.”

Rhysand picked an unseen piece of lint from the lapel of his white dress shirt. “Is she your spy today or your love interest, Az? And trust me, I get how complicated that separation can be.” Rhys sighed. “She needs space, and you have work to do.”

Azriel paced, wanting to pull his damn hair out, all hope for a fantastic reunion with Gwyn out the window, literally, as he watched Cassian take off with his girl.

“What the fuck is so urgent besides getting those books from her office?”

Rhysand’s fingers drummed a death march on the wooden surface in front of him. “Find Merrill…and bring her to The Court of Nightmares.”

“Why?” Azriel asked, muscles rigid with unleashed violence.

“We need answers about how she’s getting this information. And—”

Familiar talons scraped against his shield again. But when Azriel lowered them and learned what was on the last two pages, Gwyn read before her escape? He didn’t give a flying fuck if Merrill made it to the Court of Nightmares or not.

To him, she was a dead female walking.

𝄋

Not bothering to change out of her robes. Gwyn rested on her side in the cozy bed, her fists tucked under her chin, trying and failing to erase the day. Her first successful spy infiltration. Proud of her triumph, she should have been singing of her success at the top of her lungs.

This evening, the priestess should have been celebrating with her shadowsinger. A fancy dinner. Perhaps to the seashore to hear to the surf, watch the swells gleam under the moonlight. Or maybe to their park, listen in to the harmony of the music halls. Hell, even to a music hall itself. And gorging on favorite pastries, of course.

Instead? She was contemplating running, and not merely to the rooftop to work off nervous energy. Running as in disappearing; hiding, though Gwyn knew there were no viable means of escape. They’d find her. They tied her to that Invoking Stone since birth. No way to…

“I am the rock against which the surf crashes.”

Gwyn wouldn’t let this break her. She wouldn’t surrender her found family.

She couldn’t leave Azriel— wouldn’t leave him.

And Gwyn realized, with wonder, that even if she fled, her heart would remain with Azriel here in Velaris. Even if she never came back.

We forge our own path, sister. We follow our own stars.

Catrin was right. Gwyn had to forge on. And with her Valkyrie sisters by her side, and her hand in Azriel’s, nothing could break her.

𝄋

Rage roared in time with his pulse, his shadows spreading, surrounding him.

There was no doubt in his mind. Azriel was getting that information from Merrill. Discover her contacts. Fetter out the informer.

After that? Then she was dead—and he was going to so fucking enjoy every extended second.

Because Merrill knew.

She fucking knew .

Azriel marched right by a startled Clotho, winnowing up as a reticent assassin to Merrill’s office.

She isn’t in the dorm or the temple, his shadows reported.

What about the rest of the library?

Nowhere.

The shadowsinger could have winnowed right in, but…

His lips drew up into a snarl as he threw all his weight behind his shoulder like a battering ram. The door snapped off the hinges, banging to the ground as he entered the room. Merrill was not there. Where the fuck was she?

Stepping over the debris, he tasked his shadow soldiers to locate the books while he ran over to the desk. The now bare desk. There were no papers. No ledgers. No books of any kind. Azriel moved to the bookshelf as his shadows scanned the spines.

The books are not here, Singer.

And neither was Merrill.

“Fuck!”

He winnowed out of the office and straight to a wide-eyed Clotho.

“Where is she?”

Gwyn? The enchanted pen wrote the name.

“Merrill,” he snapped, pressing his lips in a tight line, fighting to curb his anger. “Where is she?”

Merrill said she was off on a research-finding mission for the High Lord to another temple.

Absolute fucking bullshit.

The pen scratched out, She should return in a few days. Why?

“The second she returns,” Azriel said, tapping a finger on Clotho’s desk. “You call on Rhysand. As soon as she walks through those doors. Understood?”

Clotho’s head nodded frantically beneath her pale blue hood as Azriel took the long way—the stairs instead of winnowing. He needed to do something. To send Nuala or Cerridwen each to a few temples to search for the bitch. Fuck, he was going to head directly to Rhysand to inform him of Merrill up and leaving right after Gwyn searched the office.

Not only was Merrill gone, but she took the books with her. None of this was normal.

Azriel made it about halfway up the steps before he decided he had to beat the shit out of something. Feel his fists slam into something solid. He threw back his arm and swung, pounding a fist into the granite wall of the staircase, welcoming the way his knuckles cracked and wept, his wings twitching in shock with every hit. Nevertheless, he kept going with the vision in his head.

One piece of paper with five names of priestesses he’d never met from other temples on official High Temple parchment; participants for the forthcoming Calanmai at the very top. How long had they all thought it was a priestesses' choice to attend? To take part? To sleep with the males?

But it wasn’t the godsdamn note that had him wanting to break down. To hole up in his apartment and drink until he couldn’t think. Had his stomach roiling to the point of vomiting. No, it was the one addition on a smaller cream-colored sheet. A notation in handwriting he did not recognize to add another attendee to the list.

Gwyneth Berdara.

Chapter Text

“Oh no, you are not going to spar with your mate,” Mor said, pointing a slender finger like a bayonet at Cassian across the training ring. “Besides the question of fairness, that situation is only leading to you both eye-fucking the enter time. Then dirty talk. Then your mating scent wafts and pollutes the fresh air to the extent I’ll need to vomit.”

Emerie raised her hand to agree, skipping forward to place an arm around Mor’s scalloped leather shoulder. Mor lowered her face and kissed the back of her girl’s hand. Finally, seeing Mor so free to love? Despite everything, Azriel was happy for her, truly.

Nesta snorted. “Oh, like you two won’t be eye-fucking the entire time, either?” Cassian stood tall next to his mate, powerful arms crisscrossed over his exposed chest.

“Yeah, what she said,” Cassian added, shrugging when Nesta rose an elegant eyebrow at him.

Azriel glanced sidelong at Gwyn, who appeared caught between amusement and confusion. He shuffled a few strides toward her, dipping his head to whisper.

“Are you all right?” he asked. Azriel had inquired frequently about Gwyn’s well-being for the several weeks since the incident with Merrill. The same fucking bitch still lost in the wind. After scouring across Prythian, the Continent, and Hybern, his spies had come up empty-handed. And the unaccounted-for elder priestess only added to his irritation. Particularly given the role Gwyn had played in Merrill’s scheme. “Gwyn?”

“Hmm?” She blinked, rolling her shoulders. “Nothing, it’s just,” Gwyn crooked her finger at him and he leaned his head closer until her breath warmed, tickled the shell of his ear. “Do we look like that? When we look at each other?”

Azriel followed her darting eyes to Cassian and Nesta, who were exchanging glances, ensuring plenty of vigorous activity after the extra practice. Mor and Emerie were less obvious, their subtle, playful grins hiding secrets from all else except each other, but there was no way to cover the affection.

Gwyn tilted her head, her gleaming copper hair sweeping his cheek in a feather-soft caress, and he fought the impulse to kiss the top of her head. Since Gwyn discovered the note in Merrill’s office, things had taken a few steps back. They often filled the nights with the sound of clashing blades and of fists meeting the training dummies. And Az was more than content to be her partner.

Her nightmares were back in full force, causing her to stumble up the stairs to the House in the dead of night. His shadows wrapped around her in encouragement. Even the most potent sleeping drafts concocted by the healers seemingly did nothing. What killed him was she didn’t want comfort, even as she shivered like a leaf. Gwyn didn’t want him to touch her. And that? Well…

“Shadowsinger?” Gwyn’s question made him refocus on the pair of lovers across the circle ahead of them.

He presented the young priestess a lazy half-smile. Azriel was keeping it loose, cheerful, not wanting to darken her morning with his anguished, maddening thoughts. To not be intimidating. Yet another mask, he recognized, one he wore only for her. “The better question is how do you feel, priestess, when I look at you?”

A flirtation hid within playful banter. Perfection, Shadowsinger.

Her brows shot up. “In the bedroom or…?”

He casually lifted and dropped his shoulder. “Anytime.”

Gwyn’s eyes focused on her boots, her nose wrinkling as she thought. Cauldron, it shouldn’t be that hard to answer...should it? Had he kept his false face on so tight that even the girl he adored didn’t understand what he was trying to say without words?

The Priestess is wondering if she missed something, Singer.

“You have looked at me like that before,” she whispered. “The times in the bedroom and the library…" She laughed a little, her bright, wide smile easing the tension in his chest. “But it’s like our precious secret. I think I like it that way. Knowing that view is mine alone.”

And every private one was entirely hers. Every lingering glance her way, where his heart skittered along with his shadows. The glimpses where she shared a teasing challenge, where he’d wanted her to pummel him at sparring, if only to let her pin him up against the wall. But he’d stopped himself from sending any coy intentions her way since the event in the library. Because of the renewed nightmares and the tie to Calanmai—a situation Rhsyand was working on dismantling—they had put their intimate relationship on hold.

“Fine. No, mate-on-mate or couple-on-couple sparring,” Cassian grumbled, smacking his mate’s ass with a resounding, solid whack over the leather. “Nesta, babe, you’re with Emerie.” The eldest Archeron turned to warn her sister with an impish smile that even had Azriel’s smiles slithering behind his wings for comfort. “Mor, you’re with Gwyn.”

Nesta angled back to her mate. “And we’re supposed to get anything accomplished with you and Azriel sparring together? Because I can tell you if it’s the two of you sparring shirtless? That won’t happen.”

All the girls nodded in accord, even if the shyest one, Gwyn’s, was a bit more reserved.

Cassian put his hand on his waistline and lifted his face to the thankfully warm autumn sunlight. “Fine. Azriel and I will just help correct your techniques. Good?”

With all the girls satisfied with the General’s answer, they got into their stances.

Cassian strode to Azriel’s side. “Wanna make a bet? I bet Emerie wins.”

“Isn’t that against some sort of mystical law to wager against your own mate?” Azriel humphed as he crammed his hands in the pockets of his leathers. “Not counting the fact that you have the inside knowledge, or you think you have inside knowledge, of how tired your mate is. Which for the other person in the House, and with how piercing her screaming was last night and how loud you were telling her to keep fucking you until the early hours of the morning? She’s tired.”

Cassian chuckled darkly. “Yeah, well…" And he ended that conversation with a shrug, turning their attention to the sparring ahead. Hand-to-hand combat. Nesta versus Emerie. In theory, Emerie had the advantage because of various...reasons. And Nesta’s expertise was swordplay. But still...

“I’ll take Nesta,” Azriel whispered, his competitiveness giving in to his brother’s ridiculousness.

Grinning wickedly, his brother jutted his chin to where Mor had made her first move. Gwyn had waited, another technique she’d picked up from himself during their late-night training. Mor always left her left side vulnerable, no matter the combat. Something about almost five hundred years of training hadn’t been extinguished.

“I’ll take Gwyn.”

“I’m sure you would.” Cassian nudged Azriel with his elbow, rocking him.

Mor went in with a jab to the right, which Gwyn expected. Ducking low, the priestess delivered a hook to the left ribs. Mor stumbled back, swearing while the young priestess stood frozen as the Sidra in winter. Waiting. Stalking.

“She moves like you now, Az.”

Gwyn lunged into another attack, feinting high and going to kick low, only for Mor to read her. Sand puffed up as Gwyn’s back slammed down hard enough to feel it under Azriel’s boots.

Cassian snorted. “She’s not nearly as patient, though.”

𝄋

Gwyn whisked the sand off her rear, which truthfully stung as much as her pride. Mor brushed back some strands that looked like liquid gold that had escaped her tight braid. Her red lips twisted in a smirk. Yes, even sparring, she was wearing lipstick.

The Morrigan. The only other who was fully aware of what had transpired at Sangravah. Who had winnowed Gwyn, clad only in the shadowsinger’s cloak, to safety. The one who had taken her to the healer to be examined. Mor, who had stood by Gwyn’s side, offered her support as the priestess gagged down the bitter contraceptive tea as...a precaution.

The opponents struck, crashing into each other in the middle. Mor swept low with a kick, which Gwyn anticipated, jumping over the leg to deliver a high kick to Mor’s shoulder. Off-balance, Mor stumbled back and Gwyn jabbed into her right bicep, her lead punching arm. Then another to her right ribs and another until Mor retreated, her hands up.

“Gods, I am really…out of…practice,” the gorgeous blonde gasped out as she took a seat on the sand.

“Well, it’s a good thing you are practicing with us, then,” Gwyn said, offering her a hand. Yanking her to her feet, Gwyn gave a soft smile of apology.

Mor laughed in a husky and warm tone, reminding Gwyn of honey. “You’re fast.” Gwyn smiled, nodding a little. “And,” she leaned in closer, grabbing Gwyn by the shoulders and putting her in a headlock from behind. “I’m thrilled for you and Azriel.”

What a weird thing to say right now, Gwyn mused as she gripped Mor’s forearms, doing her best to pull them off and relieve the pressure on her throat.

“Honestly, no one is happier to see Azriel acting so…open.” This was the Shadowsinger’s version of open, Gwyn asked herself, searching for him, his brows drawn down as his lips twitched at something ridiculous Cassian said. “You make him laugh. You push him beyond his comfort zone, Gwyn. I honestly haven’t seen Az this content in…Cauldron, I don’t know how long it’s been.”

“That so?” Gwyn grunted and flung her upper body forward, tossing Mor over her until the blonde was sprawled on the ground in front of her. “How long?”

Gwyn stood, fists ready, as Mor laughed, rolling onto her back. The priestess stared at her, perplexed.

“I haven’t seen him smile this often since around the time I was seventeen.”

Something inside Gwyn’s chest jolted, compelling her hand to rest over her beating heart. “You—you haven’t seen him smile in over four hundred years?”

Mor groaned as she pushed off the sand, forcing herself to her feet. Brushing the grime from her leathers, she revealed, “It’s a rarity. A laugh or a grin from Azriel? It’s a gift. But you?” She smirked at her, and there was something wistful in her gilded eyes. “You bring that out of him. And it makes me very happy that you two found each other. Especially after what I did to him—”

Did to him? Gwyn was going to inquire until she noticed Mor’s radiant eyes go wholly void. Peering over her shoulder, Gwyn found Cassian and Azriel entranced in the same distant stare.

“Incoming!” Cassian shouted.

“Who?” Emerie asked, wiping at a cut under her eye as she and Nesta approached. Nesta remained blood-free.

“Rhys,” Mor answered, as the two Illyrians joined the group. “He said to get ready. Something is going on and Rhysand needs us all.”

Needs us? Her eyebrows shot up in surprise as the High Lord of Night dropped into the rooftop, wearing Illyrian leathers as if he was...

“What’s going on, Rhys?” Cassian said, securing his leather jacket after he had apparently located his shirt. “And why are you wearing your leathers?”

Violet eyes bored into each of them as he surveyed the troops. “They have breached wards at two temples.”

“Which ones,” Cassian asked Nesta as he handed her a sword, helping her prepare.

“Cesere.” Rhysand’s vibrant amethyst darkened, affixing on Gwyn as he continued. “And Sangravah.”

A shiver raced up her spine at the name. Sangravah. She felt Azriel step closer to her side.

“But Sangravah and Cesere are both abandoned,” Azriel said, his tone dark and flat. A deep crease developed on the shadowsinger’s forehead. “Why the hell would anyone go to either of those?”

Good question. After the raids by Hybern, after being presented with the opportunity to rebuild their peace by Rhysand, some temples were deserted. Treated now more as shrines to honor their dead. And there had been many at Sangravah. But not nearly as many as Cesere, where no one was spared. Gwyn swallowed around the rising lump.

Rhys stood like a steady pillar in the middle of their group, a true High Lord. “I don’t know why, but it’s too much of a coincidence that two are being hit at once. And that this is all occurring right after the Merrill incident. Cass, I want you, Emerie, and Gwyn to come with me. Mor, I want you to go with Azriel and Nesta.”

Cassian stepped forward. “I want Nesta with me.”

“Having your mate with you is a distraction—” Rhysand started before Cassian snarled.

“Wondering if my mate is all right is more so. I want her with me.”

The leather creaked as Rhysand rolled his shoulders. “Fine, General. You, Nesta, and Gwyn come with me. We’re going to Cesere. Az, Mor, and Emerie, you’re going to Sangravah. Mor and I can be the go-between to winnow either location in case the other needs help—"

“No,” Gwyn interrupted the High Lord, causing all of them to turn her way. She swallowed down her fear, set her shoulders back, and lifted her chin. For she was the rock, and nothing could break her. Not her fear. Not her past. Not Merrill. Not anyone or anything. And wasn’t this a giant step to prove to herself just that? “I want to go to Sangravah.”

Silence covered the rooftop as Azriel’s shadows rapidly whizzed around the huffing shadowsinger’s wings.

“No.”

𝄋

What in the ever fucking hells of…

What the fuck was she doing?

What the fuck was she thinking?

Absolutely fucking not.

Shadowsinger… His shadows barrelled around his wings, their worries, and warnings a discordant hum.

“No?” Gwyn asked, her tone mocking. She crossed her arms over her chest after arming herself with two daggers. He grabbed her by the arm with a light grip as she walked by to choose a sword.

“No. You’re not going to Sangravah.”

“Is that so, Shadowsinger?”

“Yes, it is.”

Teal eyes cut deep into him. “Well, it’s a good thing you don’t decide for me then.” She shook off his hold, walking over to Rhysand’s side after she was fully armed. “I’m going. I need to go. I know every nook and cranny in there, including the catacombs. “If there is anyone there, I’ll find them and take care of them.”

Visions of a red-headed priestess strewed upon a table in a warmly lit room. Men around her waiting their turn as if she was some sort of amusement. Laughing men.

For the first time in so many years, Azriel’s mask collapsed in a devastating crash. He snarled and growled at his High Lord.

“Azriel,” Nesta yelped as Cassian wrapped an arm around her waist, holding onto his mate. To defend her friend’s honor.

“Rhysand,” Azriel brought his attention to his High Lord, his brother, who should have his back. “You know this a bad idea—”

Rhys sent him a warning glare. “Don’t play it this way, Az. You will regret it in more ways than you think. Trust me on this.”

Azriel crossed his arms over his chest, the leather creaking. The shadows pulsated around him. “I’m not winnowing her there.”

In reality, he was not capable of this. Couldn’t stand himself if he had to take her back there. And what if she fell apart? Especially now, after the resurrection of the nightmares. He couldn’t...

“I’ll winnow her.” Mor stepped up beside Gwyn. Her aureate gaze found his and everything in him demanded to yell betrayer. And wasn’t it an ironic fucking kick to the balls to have Mor be the one to side with Gwyn over him? “She needs to go, Az. Trust me. She needs to do this for closure.”

“Oh, because you’ve visited the border of the Autumn Court for closure? Do you sip tea now with Eris? What do you know about closure, Morrigan?”

Mor flinched. Actually flinched at his words and Emerie came to her, weaving their fingers together and scowling at Azriel as if she’d never met him before. That’s because this one, the one breaking through the carefully crafted disguise, was one he saved for his private apartment. To his own room. To the Hewn City.

Shut up, Shadowsinger, his shadows scolded and warned, now in unison. Your anger is too high for your mouth to be of use except to do more harm!

Darkness shot out from the High Lord in gusty swirls of unending night.

“That’s enough, Azriel,” Rhysand ordered in an ominous voice that brokered no argument. The power reverberated around them, the authority of the High Lord, the tone so close to imposing his will upon them all. “She’s going to Sangravah.”

Regardless of the show of strength, Azriel stepped forward, his shadows expanding, his darker ones chuckling, mingling amongst Rhys’s tendrils of twilight as the shadowsinger fought against them. “If anything happens to her, Rhys, it’s on you.”

“Stop it!” Gwyn stepped between the two of them like a sentinel. “Azriel, I don’t know why you’re acting like such an…an asshole.”

His shadows tittered in amusement as they eddied over his shoulders.

The priestess called you an asshole. Followed by more hilarity.

I have ears, thanks.

Just checking, Shadowsinger, because you have not been listening to the lovely Priestess.

So Azriel listened. The azure eyes staring back were like whirlpools. Churning and ruthless, towing him in. “I’m going, and if anything happens, it’ll be my fault for not doing my job. Now,” Gwyn stepped to Mor, holding her palm out so Mor could take it. “We’re wasting time. So, the question is, will you join us, Shadowsinger?”

Azriel stood there and stayed firm, his eyes flashing between the merciless glare of his High Lord and his female's headstrong, prideful, searching gaze.

Not just a female, his shadows reminded him. Our Valkyrie.

Shit.

Because he had little recourse. Because he could not bear the thought of her leaving without him. Az stalked forward and put out a hand, which Gwyn took without hesitation. His Siphons flared a blazing bright cerulean at her touch. And suddenly they were on their way to the absolute last place he or the priestess should be going.

𝄋

Even in the obscurity of winnowing, she’d known when they approached. Fresh pine and water lilies saturated the whirling air as the world started settling back into place around them. The music of trilling birds harmonized with the gentle whoosh of leaves in the wind.

When Gwyn was a child, Sangravah seemed enchanted. To Catrin and herself, it was a mystical sanctuary. Tranquil. Safe. Home. A beautifully wonderful place to grow up. Well, until…

As ground solidified beneath her feet, a rough hand crushed hers to the extent she was positive her fingertips were turning white. In the silent signal, there was so much. Azriel’s strength. An apology. His anxiety; and she perceived it was not just for her. He would have preferred that they not go, didn’t wish either of them to relive that infamous day three years ago.

She squeezed back, her thumb smoothing over the taut wrinkles on the backside of his hand. Up and over the smoothness of his Siphon.

Regardless of what he said, of his trust in her, they were going to have words about his overprotectiveness; she knew in her heart every word broke from a place of tangled fears.

Together. They would confront the past headlong together.

As one, they landed with their weapons at the ready. The same trio who had fled together after Hybern.

But as she went to follow Mor, she found herself hauled backward. Firm yet tender hands clutched her shoulders. Azriel rested his forehead against hers.

“Stay alert and focused, Valkyrie.”

Her heart jumped. Valkyrie—not Priestess today. As if he finally saw where she was coming from, why she wouldn’t back down.

“I know.”

With a hard smash of his lips to her forehead, he started towards Sangravah. Gwyn caught up to Mor as they dashed through the dense brush and woods outside of the secluded temple.

When it finally came into view, Gwyn’s throat constricted and her eyes burned. Only three years and the wilderness had engulfed much of the exterior. Ivy and white blossoms climbed up the ancient stone, like moss on a tomb. And wasn’t that was Sangravah had become? The ashes of her fellow priestesses, her sister, were spread near here. And—

Azriel stopped ahead, raising his hand in a motion to stop.

Gwyn and Mor crouched low as Azriel did the same up ahead. The shadowsinger spoke so low neither she nor Mor could discern the words, but his shadows shot ahead of them towards Sangravah. Why...

A dark form passed by a paneless window. The library, Gwyn thought. But why? The priestesses brought the books to Velaris after being rescued. The only items left behind were of the fallen and anything the priestesses shed. There was nothing of value for an opportunist.

Something crashed from inside the temple. At once, Azriel’s shadows slithered to his side, climbing to confide in his ear. Once more, he lifted a scarred hand and held up four fingers.

“Four of them,” Mor said, her eyes narrowing. “Not as bad as I thought.”

Gwyn smirked, readying her weapon, choosing her sword over her daggers. Unsheathing the perfectly balanced Illyrian steel. As Azriel left at a clip, almost as if he was trying to take care of them before they’d even get there, the priestess said, “Let’s go.”

“Gwyn, if anyone comes at you with a weapon, defend yourself however necessary.”

Nodding, they both ran after Azriel, who had already slipped into the shadows. The clang of steel against steel followed by a gurgle had Gwyn rushing through the main entrance of the temple with zero hesitation.

Azriel stood in the main hallway, a body with his throat slit ear-to-ear, the blood pooling beneath his head, eyes open and void lying on the ground before him. Dead.

The hazel eyes of the Illyrian warrior were waiting for her.

“Azriel!” she shouted, as a male appeared behind him.

As Azriel spun to the side, Gwyn switched her sword to her opposite hand and grabbed her dagger. Aiming, she sent it flying. It struck true between two ribs in the mid-left torso, the blood already spreading through the attacker's tunic as his sword clattered to the ground.

As Azriel was about to dispatch him permanently, Mor cried out.

They pivoted, finding her battling two males in the main hallway, at a part where it narrowed. With no hesitation or fear, Gwyn rushed to her. Her sword met a male, and she kicked out until his back met the stone wall. Snarling, she swung her arms in an arc, aiming for male's exposed neck. His sword opened up and fended off the blow far enough for him to reach her stomach with his boot.

Her breathless backward stumble led her to regroup and try to match her opponent hit for hit. She saw it then. A weakness. She feinted left. Then right. Then left again. He was slow, too stiff, and absolutely no match for her speed. His sword was too heavy.

In his frustration, the male hoisted the weapon high to deliver a death blow straight down in the tight corridor. As his arms went up, Gwyn slid to the ground and her sword entered upwards, striking the heart under the ribcage.

Mouth gaping open and shut like a choking fish, his blood bubbled up with every fraught struggle to inhale.

Then the male slumped down—and didn’t get back up.

Her first kill.

Not by a beast. Not by craftiness. But by her own blade. By her hand. And she didn’t know how to—

“Gwyn, we need to help, Az!” Mor yelled, her opponent now lying in a contorted heap. They stepped over the limbs of the attacker the priestess—no, the Valkyrie—had killed, and ran to help Azriel. The shadowsinger was battling six opponents. Six? Hadn’t the shadows determined merely five…

Mor’s eyes glazed over. “Shit,” the blonde whispered, twisting to Gwyn as the priestess struck down the seventh, darting from one of the open doorways to Azriel’s back. “I have to leave, Gwyn.”

“What?” the priestess barked out, her arms thrusting forward, the tip of her sword scarlet from the wound as she pulled back. Azriel was down to three opponents now. “Another temple is being raided. Bramoul. Rhysand and the others already fled Cerese and are on their way there.”

Bramoul. The second largest only to the High Temple.

And full of priestesses.

Gwyn shifted back to Azriel, who was down to two adversaries. “Go,” she told Mor. “Go help. I’ll remain with Azriel.”

Mor nodded, smiling slightly as if she knew a secret Gwyn did not, and departed.

Turning her full attention to the shadowsinger, Gwyn found him…gone. She chased the harsh grunts and clanging of ore down the central corridor. Abruptly, another male advanced in front of her and she drove her blade forward into him before he could make a move. Before he even had a chance to surrender, Gwyn realized, to her horror.

Shaking her thoughts, Gwyn forged on, scanning each wide doorway to the dorms, the library, all shrouded in pollen. Ivy crept in through the ruined windows, and dust hovered in the sifted sunlight from the fractured roof.

There. Azriel was right ahead.

Only one more room, and she rushed to him…

Pain lanced her left shoulder and head as her body made the acquaintance of the stone. As her hair stirred in the current of the arcing blade, Gwyn ducked, rolling out of the way. Popping up behind the aggressor, her grip met the back of his head, which she promptly smashed against the wall again. And again. And again. Until he slipped down the now painted rock, lifeless.

Just two more steps to the door, she told herself through the pounding in her skull.

To Azriel.

One.

Two.

Her eyes widened in terror as Gwyn entered the room.

𝄋

There were a few over six. Thank you for the underestimate, Azriel chided his shadows, as he withdrew Truth-Teller from the throat of what had to have been the fifteenth...no sixteenth male he’d killed.

They winnowed in once you entered, Shadowsinger.

Meaning, most likely, someone or something was warned. However, many of these males were not capable of winnowing in on their own. So someone moved them here. But for to what end?

We take one alive, Azriel said. Find any alive and bind them until I make my way back.

The shadows bobbed and streaked off.

Azriel turned towards the doorway when agony pulsed from his left wing. Suddenly, there was another quick flick and snap. As he staggered back, a secretion exuded from a wound in his thigh. Burning. His skin felt as though it was set ablaze. Ash arrows and faebane, he discerned, too late. But this faebane was something strange. It soaked into his veins like liquid fire, bringing back memories of the intense anguish he experienced when his hands were ignited.

He was powerless to move through the shock.

A death blow was coming, and he was paralyzed to stop it. And Gwyn…

He did his best to lift his sword to block…The sharp tip of a sword jutted through the besieging male’s front, straight through his heart and lung. With a grunt, he tumbled forward to his death. Gwyn held where the male once stood. An avenging Valkyrie. Even with her plaited copper snagged and disheveled like a junk box of tangled ribbons, freckled face and hands splattered in blood, she was the most glorious creature Az had ever seen.

A tender smile adorned her pink lips as her eyes met his. She took one step forward. Then her body jerked. Her mouth dropped open as she glanced down at her right side—to the steady stream of ruby liquid pouring down.

“No!” Azriel stumbled forward against the strain and burn as Gwyn howled, her legs giving out. As she lurched forward to her knees, her attacker crawled across the musty ground to complete what he started. Growling with the savagery of a ferocious beast, the shadowsinger rose between them and slammed Truth-Teller down to the hilt into the man’s skull.

The suffering moan of his priestess drew him back to her as her trembling hand sought to contain the wound. While the blood exuded between her fingers, she pressed her lips tightly together, staunching a scream.

“Gwyn,” he said, his voice thick, wavering as he knelt by her side, evaluating her injury. “It’s all right. It’s going to be all right, Priestess. I promise—” His words ended on a yelp as the faebane worked through to his fingers, the internal inferno convulsing them into tight fists.

“Az.” She gulped. “It…real-really hurts,” Gwyn gritted out through clenched teeth, wincing as tears slipped free. “Burning.”

“I know. I know.” He lifted her hand just enough, and he swallowed a gasp as she cried out. His eyes watched as blue shone amongst the thick red. The coated dagger in the limp, pale hand beside them.

Faebane.

Fuck. This wasn’t good.

Glancing down to his leg, he finally noticed the blood seeping from the gash; the damage created by a laced ash arrow he'd yanked from his thigh.

He tried to send out a godsdamn distress signal to Rhys.

Nothing.

When Azriel tried to maneuver his wings, pain ricocheted along his spine, blazing like acid through his veins.

He couldn’t contact Rhys.

He couldn’t winnow.

He couldn’t fly.

To Azriel’s utter horror, he realized they were on their own until someone came for them.

Chapter Text

“Priestess?”

The priestess could barely think through the agony devouring her. The heat flaring with each gasping inhale. But, slowly extending beyond the pain, Gwyn determined her head rested upon something notably solid. Then soft caresses over her sweat and blood-drenched strands. An embrace of cedar and chilled night enveloped her.

“Priestess, please open your eyes.”

When had she closed them?

She opened them, discovering Azriel gazing down at her, his greenish-brown eyes wet. Her beautiful male. Though the smooth planes of his bronzed face were harsh. Oh, no. Did he blame himself?

“It was my fault,” Gwyn rasped out, grimacing as she hacked, the motion pulling at the gash in her side.

“What?” His shaking hand pressed harder against her wound.

“Before we left…I…I told you if I got hurt.” She hissed. “It was my fault.”

Azriel tried his finest to act annoyed with her, but she could see the genuine worry. The pain and the panic brewing a perfect storm. His shadows were probably swirling like a small cyclone…

But they weren’t.

Gwyn tilted her head as much as she could, curious. The shadowsinger’s eyes sharpened and narrowed. A muscle ticked in his cut jaw.

“One of these pricks is still alive. The shadows are keeping him bound. Though, with the faebane in my blood.” He paused, listening. “They’re faint.”

A few of his dim comrades emerged over his right shoulder. They were fuzzy, like the last trace of drifting smoke. One dropped to stroke tenderly on her cheek and, Mother above, the frosty kiss of wind felt like the best thing ever.

Azriel concentrated on the one shadow above his ear and then turned his concern back to her.

“They stabbed you with a blade covered in some new variation of faebane, reducing both our healing abilities. Meaning, no winnowing. No contact. And no flying.”

Gwyn finally checked for Az’s injuries. One to his thigh. One to his wing.

Azriel held up his gauntlets containing the now barely flickering Siphons.

Oh, no.

Her palm was sticky from applying pressure on her stab wound. They were so screwed. Stranded in the temple, depicted in her worst nightmares.

Without the High Fae and Illyrian abilities to heal quickly?

“We need to stop the bleeding,” Gwyn said.

“I know,” he replied hoarsely.

An idea snagged hold, a guiding beacon from her past. “Next…two doors on the left…was a healing room.” She halted with a groan as pain lanced through her. Azriel leaned forward, his lower lip quivering against her forehead as he kissed her. “We had humans on…occasions take shelter for a short time. Many of them.” A wheeze. “When they’d suffer injuries, they didn’t want us to use the stones. They feared magic, I think. But…we assembled a bag holding bandages and things for mortals…might work…"

With a swift peck to her cheek, he smoothly lifted her head from his hard thigh, lowering her to the floor.

“I’m going to do a quick sweep. Then I’ll look for the supplies, all right?”

She nodded somewhat as he stood.

He shifted his regard to his shadows. “You two stay here and inform me if anything besides her moves in here.” Azriel’s shadows bobbed, weaving in response as he made his way to the door, his fingers snagging on the jamb, knuckles white.

Gwyn managed a pithy, somewhat encouraging grin, or at least as much as she could muster through the discomfort. “I’ll be all right.” At least she hoped as the blood thickened and curdled, her fingers sticking together.

Finding solace in her assurance, Azriel exited the room swiftly, the echoes of his boots the only thing keeping her conscious as she awaited his return.

𝄋

Azriel only wished he could kill each one of the fuckers all over repeatedly as he stumbled over corpses along the now-empty passage. He didn’t give one shit about any of these pricks. Not who they were. Not if they had a family. Or friends. No. They went after her , so their lives were fucking forfeit. Same as those Hybern soldiers years ago.

Scanning the halls and empty rooms, he found they were currently alone. Thank the Cauldron. They were going to have to move eventually, seek refuge, but foremost was getting Gwyn ready to flee if necessary.

Your leg too, Shadowsinger.

Later. First was Gwyn. Her injury was…he shook his head. If he’d been fucking paying more attention to their surroundings instead of her , Azriel would have seen the asshole rise to his knees with the blade. But her smile had too enraptured him.

By her strength, she’d saved his ass.

Here.

He found the room.

Examining tables and chairs were strewn among littered paper as if ravaged by a violent, sweeping gale. Had the place been in this condition for three years? Or had this merely happened today as the men smashed through?

Above, Azriel eyed a grouping of cabinets attached to the right wall. Doors flew and banged open one by one as he hastily checked each until the last. Several tawny leather pouches lined the upper shelf. Pulling one out and unwinding the thick leather strap, Azriel found what he required and scrambled back to his priestess.

His feet tripped up at the entry when he spied her prone on the floor. Gods. Her freckles were like sharp constellations against her wan skin. Pale. She was so fucking pale.

“Priestess,” Azriel said as he trudged over bodies to get to her.

“Shadow…” Gwyn licked her cracked lower lip. “Singer.” And yet she blessed him with a smile. That smile he had to see more and more often.

Grunting from the strain as he knelt, Azriel set the satchel onto the smudged ground alongside Gwyn, who struggled to sit up.

“No.” He tenderly encouraged her down until her head settled upon the chalky stone. Unacceptable. Quickly, he shed his leather armor to his ebony tunic, balling up the jacket as a makeshift pillow. “I’ve got you, Gwyn. Just…" His eyes found her once creamy hand now a rich maroon. “Stay still, please.”

She nodded as much as her body allowed. “There should be…ne-needles and thread…al-alcohol…"

Opening the bag, Az found all the supplies she'd described. He took out the glass bottle filled halfway with a viscous amber.

His lips twitched despite himself. “Whiskey? I didn’t think the priestesses imbibed.”

Her smile faltered. “There’s a lot you don’t know then, Shadowsinger. This is for wound cleaning and pain relief. We used to pack pain tonics as well. Usually, they only last for about a month, and it’s been a while…"

The temple hadn't seen a visitor beyond a mourner for three years.

The searing along Azriel’s nerves had become more bearable. But, after he removed the curved needles and spool of thread, he detected something so much worse.

His hands seized up, blasting pain down the knuckles in his right hand until the tips of his fingers were numb.

No.

No.

Not now.

Not when he needed to control his useless hands to take care of his female.

“All right,” Gwyn said, her voice unsteady as she raised her hand. “I need help out of the leather.”

Azriel set the tools back in the pouch, observing her trembling fingers undo each clasp. A task he could not perform, anyway. He helped pry her arms from the tight sleeves, leaving Gwyn in a thin cream shift on top. She laid her head back down on his coat with a grimace.

“Whiskey, please,” she requested, holding out her hand.

He passed the drink to her, not sure if his fingers would allow him to unscrew the cap. Fucking waste.

Gwyn opened the bottle, biting back a wail as she poured over the wide gash, setting the open liquor next to her.

The blade only pierced muscle and skin, Shadowsinger. Nothing vital.

Thank the Mother. “The shadows said it’s just muscles and skin.”

“Well, then this should do.” Grunting, she squeezed until the wound was slimmer. “All right, I’m presuming you know how to sew, Azriel?”

Oh, fuck no. He couldn’t do this—literally. Even if his hands provided for him to hold the needle, how could he force a needle into her flesh?

“I—I can’t, Gwyn.”

“Azriel..."

“I can’t.” He shivered with a sigh. “I can’t do this for you.”

Worthless. A burden.

Gwyn reached for the decanter and swigged, cringed as she gulped the liquor. “Fine. Can you at least thread the needle?”

No. He couldn’t. Not when Azriel had absolutely no sensation at his fingertips.

He just shook his head. “I wish I could, Gwyn. Cauldron knows I wish I could do this for you.”

Her features were unreadable as she merely put out her hand in a silent demand for the items. He did as she bade and sat back.

The small shadow urged him to, Tell her.

And he watched her thread the needle. Tie a knot at one end of coarse ebony twine. Squeeze the wound with one hand.

“I…"

Tell her. Tell her everything.

“My fingers go numb.”

Azriel forced his eyes shut, avoiding seeing her reaction. He couldn’t stomach it. Her disgust at the dreaded Shadowsinger. Spymaster of the Night Court. The Angel of Death’s near laughable weakness. “Sometimes it’s the contrary and they…hurt. It’s from…" He opened and closed his fist, willing for feeling to return to his dominant hand.

“From what?” The question broke from a strained voice with the initial jab of the cord into her skin.

“I know you’ve noticed my hands.”

𝄋

Her trembling arm froze with the stretched string, tugging the first stitch through at his words. Yes, Gwyn had regarded his hands. Yes, she’d seen the mottled flesh. And yes, she’d noticed the way he would peer at them in revulsion, notably when they were against…her skin.

“I was burned as a child and—”

Oh, Mother above, as a child? Gwyn had assumed the scars were due to an act of war, but a small boy? Her mind was a flurry of questions. Was the scalding an accident? Or was it done with malicious…

She was going to be sick. For who could forcibly burn a youngling? Or anyone, for that matter?

“And the injury aggrieves me still.”

Gwyn saw then the way the shadowsinger sealed his eyes as if he couldn’t bear to see her reaction, and it was absolutely heartbreaking.

Did he truly believe she would see him differently? By how his entire body stiffened, his breathing hastened. By how his tiny wisps of shadows eased over him, as if consoling that maimed little winged boy still. The young priestess recognized what he was about to disclose was important. Special. And Gwyn needed to hear.

“I can’t fully extend some of my fingers. The skin is—" Azriel flexed his fist.

“Taut,” she gritted out as she continued digging at herself with the needle, drawing through for the second stitch.

His voice was reedy as he continued. “Sometimes pain jumps up and down my fingers, the top of my hands. Other times, I can scarcely feel anything at my fingertips. Tiny things like.” He exhaled, scouring a hand down his stern face.

“Needles,” Gwyn finished for him as she pulled through number five. Realization struck her like lightning. “The thread?”

The shadowsinger kept his brutalized hand in front of his face and didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to. Gwyn knew part of his reaction that day months ago was because Az returned from the Hewn City, which Cassian had confirmed. But Azriel’s genuine outburst, when he had yelled at her, had been when she’d sought to get him to make...the friendship bracelets. Bracelets fashioned by weaving three thin segments of…string.

Oh, gods.

Gwyn’s ire wanted to press, wanted to ask precisely what occurred. How his parents had let his injuries heal like…

But she held her tongue. His false face was completely off, slashed to shreds, and the Azriel in front of her was struggling with vulnerability. The best thing the priestess could do was tend to herself so she could take care of the shadowsinger.

She glided the sharp point through her sensitive skin over and over. And over. And over, battling back rising bile with every new tug through her flesh. At some point, she felt a large hand rest on her leg, trying his best to silently comfort her, to stop her from shaking. Until Gwyn was left panting, her trembling hands finally tying off another knot at the other end.

With one more deep swig of whiskey, Gwyn requested a linen wrapping from the bag. Then she sat up as carefully as possible and dressed the wound.

Fully intact again, albeit bruised and punished, she turned her concern to Azriel. “Now, let me see your leg.”

“I’m fine and I can—”

Azriel made to haul away, but Gwyn stayed with him with a touch. “I didn’t ask how you are. Let me see your leg.” He stubbornly remained where he sat, rifling through the bag between them for the gauze. “Azriel, please.”

He scooted closer, blanching as he bent his maimed leg at the knee to permit her better access. Ripping away some of the fabric, Gwyn took in the sight of his wound. The insufferable male had yanked out his own arrow, inadvertently creating more damage in his panic to reach her side.

“You were hit with faebane and ash?” Azriel nodded, refusing to meet her gaze. “I’ll need to stitch this as well. Then I’ll take care of the arrow in your wing as best I can.”

He remained soundless, but turned his head to her and agreed with a scant nod.

Lifting the jug of whiskey, she splashed some to clean the wound before handing it to Azriel.

“Take a drink and a deep breath.”

As she threaded the needle again, knotting off the edge, noting how much smaller his wound was. Lucky bastard.

But her thoughts reached back years and years. To the halls they were now in and to her surprise, she didn’t hear the clang of swords. Or peals of cruel males.

Instead, she heard the prayer. Children’s glee as they tore through the halls, though undoubtedly scolded. And she pictured two small daughters; one with the complexion of moonlight with flowing ebony locks. The other flecked with freckles and hair the color of the sunset. Both with eyes matching the hue of the sea, seated around a roaring hearth, working on embroidery pieces with their mother relaxing in a chair close by, her golden eyes pensive, trained on the crackling embers.

“So what would you like, Shadowsinger?” Gwyn asked as she brought through the first stitch. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right, Priestess.” He exhaled deeply. “Honestly, you don’t need to do this—”

His shadows routed by his head and evidently told him otherwise because he relented.

“So, what would you like? I was well-known for my embroidery skills around here. I could sew in ‘Gwyn was here’ or perhaps a fancy symbol to match your tattoos when they scar.”

She turned back to her work but stopped when Azriel shook; she peered up briefly to find not misery but a devastatingly crooked grin.

“What?” He asked, unable to hold back his puzzlement and then an ouch.

Gwyn shrugged, mighty proud of her skill at distraction. “I don’t know. Maybe delicate, dainty flowers would work best for the broody Shadowsinger.”

He chuckled then, and she had to scold him to keep him steady, for which he apologized.

“Stay still as I stab you several more times.” Gwyn lifted her face with a scowl. “And I will not lie. This feels good after what you did before we left today.”

After the priestess finished her decidedly boring yet secure short lines of black, she squatted back on her haunches. Throbbing aches streaked through her at the movement as the exhaustion of the day set in. Sealed up or not, Gwyn needed to rest and the temple was not secure...

“Priestess?”

Grunting, she made to stand. “Shadowsinger, I need to remove the arrow from your wing if you can walk me through the best way…"

Azriel seized her hand as she walked by, bringing it to his mouth and pressing his lips to the first knuckles. Then the next. Then the top.

“Thank you.”

Gwyn couldn’t look away from the male. Her male; her heart galloping as if she’d run from Velaris to Sangravah on her own two legs. Because there was a tug inside in the way he said thank you. As if buried within his gratitude were more than two words—but three. Three distinctly life-altering words.

𝄋

The priestess fell asleep, or passed out, leaning against him not long after she’d removed the arrow from his wing.

He didn’t want to leave her, but he had something to attend to.

He’s still here, his shadows relayed, sounding as if they were underwater.

I can’t leave her.

You come and get the male, Shadowsinger, and we will cover her. Protect her. Warn you of impending danger. The male needs to pay for what he did to our priestess.

That snagged his attention and had his blood boiling. If the male they’d recovered and bound had anything to do with hurting Gwyn? His hands balled into tense fists.

Fighting through the aches and fatigue, the lessened heat in his veins, Azriel rose with the priestess securely in his arms. Moving slowly and gritting through the pain, Azriel navigated the hallowed halls as Gwyn’s soft breath evenly puffed against the crook of his neck. Proof that she was still alive, Azriel reminded himself. The vision of her body jerking and her falling would haunt him forever.

She’s alive, Shadowsinger.

Yes, she was, and she had saved herself. As well as rescued him from the verge of death.

His Valkyrie.

When Azriel walked into the room, he found a frayed cot that used to be sleeping quarters. Most importantly, the room still had a functional door. With the utmost care, he laid Gwyn upon the worn mattress. After ensuring her comfort and stroking her hair back once, he twisted back to the few swaths of pursuing shadow.

Show me, then come back to her.

The black mists led him down the hallways, near to the entrance, where his shadows sidled into a room.

He tried to escape, Shadowsinger.

I have him, Azriel assured. Go to Gwyn. Guard and lock the door.

Sneering at the trembling male on the ground, the Shadowsinger dispersed some of his shadows to protect what was most precious to him. And his eyes stretched in shock—Azriel recognized him. One of several mercenaries he’d witnessed with Beron in Vallahan months before.

An injured male sat up with an oozing hand on his ribs. The victim of Gwyn’s near-lethal aim. “The Shadowsinger and Spymaster of renown.” He smirked, his teeth stained crimson. “What happened to the red-headed bitch?”

The bitch?

The bitch?

Azriel didn’t deign a response as he wrenched the male by the collar, gripping him until only the toe of his boots barely grazed the floor.

The male simply sneered. “The thing is…she reminds me of a girl I used to know a few years ago. Even looks like her a bit. Possibly the eyes.”

What? Was he playing some game with him?

Diversions and little games were not in the cards for him. The Spymaster demanded answers. Needed retribution.

Umbrae and wind drowned whatever the male was going to say out as they winnowed into the void.

𝄋

Screams of sheer panic had Gwyn bolting upright in bed.

Bed?

Gwyn would have thought she had dreamed the entire altercation and journey if not for the tension of the stitches. But no. She had come back to Sangravah, a place she had vowed never to step foot in again.

Now, she rested on an uncomfortable cot in the old dormitories, a room not unlike her and Catrin’s. Only blackness and the moon shone through the small window, along with the sounds of crickets. Night had fallen. How long was she asleep? How had Gwyn even gotten to the bed?

Foggy memories of powerful arms lifting, cradling her so sweetly as she swayed, appeared in her head. A soft touch on her face.

Only finding a sparse cluster of shadows lingering by the door as a misty barricade, her skin felt itchy as dread filled her.

Where was Azriel?

Another guttural scream pierced through the darkness, drawing her up and out of bed. The shadows scrambled around the door as if to block her path.

“I know you know where Azriel is.”

They stopped stirring and almost turned to one another.

“Take me to him.”

More high-pitched cries broke over the sonances of twilight.

If her male made those? Hurt or not, someone was going to pay dearly for laying a finger on him.

She placed her hand on her good hip, helping to balance herself as she held her ground. The dark little beasts didn’t budge.

“I’m leaving with our without you. I’m assuming Azriel told you to stay with me?” They sagged slightly. “Well then, come on.”

They parted for her as if she’d put her arm through a waterfall and followed.

She recognized this annex. It was…

Gwyn and Catrin’s old room was just behind the third door on the right.

Even with the faraway screams, her feet were advancing, driving towards her old room as if summoned.

For something bothered her ever since Gwyn had those dreams of her sister before...before everything happened later that night. When she’d walked into their room before, all hell broke loose.

Catrin’s eyes were wide as she scrambled to cover something on the ground, rising and spinning around to meet Gwyn. Her sister’s hands were full of bags—full of their possessions.

“Catrin? What are you doing?”

Throwing her dark hair over her shoulder, her twin turned back to work, tossing items hastily into a couple of large cloth sacks.

“We need to leave,” her beloved twin said.

“Need to leave?” Gwyn choked out an amused laugh. “What are you talking about? We have a service in—”

Catrin shoved a heavy sack into Gwyn’s chest, causing her to grunt and stumble backward. “No, Gwyn, we go now.”

Her sister’s vibrant teal eyes, the same as her own, reflected at her lined with silver.

What was Catrin doing on the floor when Gwyn had walked in? It was a strange action, eclipsed by the terrors thereafter. But while Gwyn was here…

The door inched open with an ominous creak.

Three years. It had been three years, and yet the room was as if they’d never left. All their possessions, besides Gwyn’s Invoking Stone, which she took with her, remained where they’d been set. The soldiers never forced into their room, Gwyn thought, tears lining her eyes.

She could sense her—Catrin. Her sister was in this sacred space, her bright blue guitar still leaning in the corner, now with several strings snapped. But she could hear Catrin strum as Gwyn accompanied her with her instrument; her voice.

Gwyn’s eyes latched onto the loose stone. She could picture Catrin kneeling that night, as she was doing so now. The shadows peeked over her shoulders and she pried up the wiggly shale, uncovering what they’d left behind. Catrin’s illicit collection of books. Several fragments of paper with notes coded to each other in their special twin language. But there was something else. Something draped in cloth. When Gwyn reached in, she unrolled it and almost burst into tears.

A bluestone lay in her hand.

"Catrin’s Invoking Stone,” Gwyn whispered on a choked sob as droplets of tears fell upon the round gemstone.

Another scream withdrew her from her sorrow. Az might need help. She needed to go.

Pocketing the last remnant of her sister into her leathers, she rose to her feet, fighting off the discomfort and fatigue as she raced through the temple. Until her steps faltered, her heart clenched at what was coming up on her right.

Pulse beating as hard and fast as Azriel’s wings in flight, Gwyn stared from the entryway into the gloomy kitchen. At the wooden table, where it all happened, standing where the shadowsinger once stood.

Shouldn’t she be feeling something from seeing this?

Breaking down?

Shouting out obscenities?

Cursing the world?

Smashing things?

Become a blubbering mess?

But… no.

There was nothing but sorrow and remorse for the girl who had been there…and pride at what that girl had become, despite all of it. Not allowing the horror she experienced to define her. Growing into a full-fledged Carynthian warrior who ran toward danger. Who protected her friends against all odds.

So, with one last look, Gwyn strode away from the past, snagged a castoff dropped sword as she pursued the shadows into the night, hurrying toward the terrorized howls.

Chapter Text

The shadowsinger had been lucky. There had been an ash tree in these woods, one in which he used the sticks as makeshift body skewers. Between the torture and the madness ensured by his shadows practically suffocating him until allowing him to breathe anew, the male sang with a godsdamn sparrow. And the Spymaster got the answers, Azriel more than he’d bargained for.

Yes, the foe was stupid enough to do the bidding of the Autumn Court. Though he was wise enough not to implicate the High Lord. No, he didn’t know Merrill nor heard of her.

The prick was laughing as bloody saliva spewed through clenched teeth. “The redhead was a priestess here, right?” He stopped, tilting his head. “I thought she looked familiar. Did you know before I worked solo, I was a soldier?”

As Azriel vibrated with rage, he flipped a jagged piece of wood he had been sharpening in his hand. Without warning, the shadowsinger drove the branch through into the male’s side. He screamed out, his body now spiked to the tree at five points.

“I never met her before…but I was well acquainted with her sister .”

Azriel became motionless, as did his shadows. He had never had the privilege of meeting Catrin Berdara. He’d been too late that fateful day. But he knew enough from Gwyn that her twin was adventurous. Artistic and loving. Trustworthy—perhaps, as he was understanding, to a fault.

“I wasn’t at Sangravah that night, you know. But…sweet Catrin.” The enemy licked his lips, dragging sanguine obscenely around his mouth and to his chin. “All I needed for Catrin to talk was a tender word and a passionate glance.”

As the Spymaster’s glare hardened, he scowled. “What are you talking about?”

The prisoner leaned forward as much as the spikes would allow, grunting. “How do you think I knew to tell Hybern to strike here? We were looking for these items as well—for the King.”

The feet of the Cauldron, Az knew—but what the fuck else? The Spymaster considered and challenged, bearing Truth-Teller to the male’s throat.

“Why should I answer?” His captive choked around the pressure on his windpipe. “You’re just going to kill me, anyway.”

“Because,” Azriel crooned, passing the sharp edge just enough to draw blood. “I could make your death take much longer or this could all be over like—” The shadowsinger snapped his fingers, mentally picturing the prick’s neck snapping at the sound, head flopping to one side. “Your choice. Or I could bring the shadows back and…"

They teemed at the ready, dark soldiers at his command; for Azriel to sing the grave song that would assuredly drive the man to slit his own throat as slowly as the shadowsinger allowed.

That got the idiotic man’s attention. “They sent us to locate the Cauldron feet... the Dread Trove.... and the Seer Stone. Hybern was searching for anything to win the war!”

Seer Stone? The Spymaster had never heard of before. But since they had the other items, didn’t take a genius to figure out what they’d most likely been in pursuit of this day. Azriel picked up another semi-sharp stick carrying the makeshift weapon.

“Of course you know we got the feet. But Catrin, that delightful, crafty minx. She must have told someone or known something was awry after our last fling at the tavern. A real pity they killed her.”

Did Catrin know? Had she warned the priestesses, and they weren’t quick enough to hide the Cauldron foot?

The soon-to-be-dead mercenary clicked his tongue. “Despite Catrin Berdara’s grotesque webbed hands, she was a genuine pleasure in bed and gave a superb hand job. Though I wager the other Berdara is even bet—”

Azriel could listen no more, and slammed the unsharpened end of the stick through the male’s throat, impaling the bark, leaving the man to die slowly, gurgling for breath.

Did Gwyn notice her sister meeting up with the soldier?

Was Beron trying to take hold of the Seer Stone? If so, why?

All the circling shadows suddenly vanished behind him, and his spine went straight. As if an invisible string unwound a top, he twisted to confront the inescapable. The inevitable. Because this was always going to end this way once she understood the true him.

Azriel pivoted, feeling the blood drip from his hand, discoloring the grass crimson. And what he saw in teal eyes was all he needed to see.

The back-lit moonlight appeared as if Gwyn glowed, like when she sang. Utterly breathtaking. Pure as freshly fallen snow on the Steepes. But with eyes as vast as the full moon behind her, her body shuddering so much, her sword clanged to the ground.

Gwyn raised her hand to cover her mouth. “Oh, gods…"

𝄋

The sparse shadows had drawn her through the night straig...to him, to a scene she couldn’t be sure was real. But as the other the shadows assimilated to her side, parting to expose what was happening, being said, she realized this wasn’t a dream. Or a nightmare.

Azriel bound one of their assaulters to a tree. No, not bound. Bolted. Fastened. With what appeared to be... ash branches. One still gripped in Azriel’s fist. He casually flipped the stick as if it was not for interrogation. But was merely a piece in a game.

He suddenly lunged forward and plunged into the man’s side with a grin on his face. A smile not his usual, though this one was equally devastating for a wholly different reason. His full lips contorted in violence and retribution. Sadistic.

The Spymaster, she picked up on the faint breeze.

The Spymaster was right—this was a facet of Azriel she’d never beheld. The one he concealed from everyone. This is the one that flourished in the Court of Nightmares.

Silently, her hand barely holding onto the sword in her hand, she listened and watched. As the Spymaster interrogated. Mocked. As he menaced. Azriel held Truth-Teller to the man’s throat, forcing in just enough to draw a single line of crimson against ruddy flesh.

For a split second, the young priestess was almost sorry for the male. A mouse in front of a cat toying with his supper. Because that was exactly what this felt like; the outcome was inevitable.

But then the male mentioned Catrin.

He was the soldier who’d known Catrin…

Oh, holy Mother above…

And what he’d said about Catrin? Herself?

He deserved to die, Gwyn told herself. But not like that. Not choking on his blood as the Spymaster watched and did nothing.

And now Gwyn was face-to-face with him. Not Azriel. She’d seen his many masks over these months, the detached ones to deflect, but this face?

She blinked back hot tears.

He raised his arms and sketched a bow, challenging. “So, now you’ve seen everything, Priestess.”

He’s doing this on purpose, priestess.

On purpose?

Yet another masquerade?

Gwyn straightened, forcing herself to stop trembling at his glacial stare. “So I have.”

“You’ve seen what I’ve done. What I can do.” The Spymaster took a stride toward her. “And, you’re scared.”

“I am scared. I rushed out here expecting you were in danger. Dare I say regardless of…" A thick burbling came from the fading man behind a smirking Azriel. “The circumstances, I’m glad to find you unharmed.” Gwyn didn’t choose to say well, because well the shadowsinger certainly was not.

“Now you see who I am, Gwyneth.” The priestess recoiled at the way he said her name; the same as when they were together .

“This isn’t the real you.”

Another step closer to her. Then she to him.

Azriel raised a mocking brow. “It’s not?”

“No. There is no one way to be. We are all capable of doing horrible things for the people we want to protect.”

He barked a derisive laugh, driving a blood-soaked hand through his dark hair. “Oh, come on. You think you are capable of something like that?”

Oh, that was it. Gwyn saw now. How they stood on the side of Sevenda’s that night and he’d been waiting for her to walk off. Expecting this .

The shadowsinger thinks he is unworthy of you. He is horrified you’ve caught him like this, priestess.

Moving as swift as her legs carried her, Gwyn marched until they were mere inches apart.

“If you don’t think for one fucking second that I haven’t dreamed of cutting off that Hybern commander’s male organ and feeding it to him, then you are out of your mind!”

Azriel blinked for a minute through the mask and blinked some more. She’d shocked him back.

Keep going, priestess.

“I heard what he said ,” Gwyn jerked her chin toward the infamous tree, “In regards to Catrin. About me. If he was connected to her death in any form, he’s a dead man.”

“I only wish I could have done that and taken my time with every single fucking one that touched you that night,” Azriel growled, his tone sounding utterly primal. “Slice each one slowly until they begged me to end them.”

“And I don’t blame you.” Gwyn lifted her palm to cup his cheek, which he stopped, snatching her wrist in his grip. “But I also recall you killing them fast to save me... So you could clothe me in your cloak at my most vulnerable.”

Azriel released her hand, backing off. Shaking his head, he made to step around her.

“We are a sum of our parts, Azriel. A sum of our experiences. Not just our worst.”

He started shuffling away, and something in her heart was tugging her to pursue.

“Azriel, I’ve seen you capable of terrible suffering. But also of great mercy. You are not only…"

The shadowsinger spun on her so fast that Gwyn tripped back, his teeth bared, hands tugging at his hair as thunder rolled in the distance.

“That is who I am! Who, I am deep down! I enjoy doing that, Gwyn!” Azriel pointed to the tree for emphasis before stalking toward her. “I enjoy getting the answers.”

“For your court, your friends you—“

“This is why the Cauldron forsakes me of everything, because I am damned! ”

Her heart broke for him as Gwyn watched him, eyes glistening, feuding between fury and sorrow. Did he truly despise himself this much?

“Az, that’s no…"

"They turned me into this!”

They? When her eyes slid to his bloodied, quaking fists, the recognition hit. Mother above, his scars were purposeful, weren’t they? They’d abused him as a young boy…

Tortured.

Gwyn pulled herself from the spiral of remorse for the man in front of her.

Fight for him, the wind whispered. Your hearts sing the same song.

“Regardless, that is not merely who you are, Azriel! Your trauma does not define you. You taught me that.”

“And what if I am, huh?! What if I want to go live in the Hewn City? Would you willingly journey into Hell with me? Lay next to me in bed, let me hold you, knowing what I am truly capable of?”

“If any of this was more than sheer self-loathing bullshit , you’d already be living in the Court of Nightmares! Instead, it takes days for you to wash off what you do there! I know you suffer. You feel everything, see everything, perhaps too much.”

Gwyn’s throat nearly closed at the emotions she was holding back, holding herself together.

“I am a monster . They call me the Angel of Death for a reason, Berdara. And,” the shadowsinger paused, his chuckle deep and mirthless. Pained, “at least now you’ve seen me.”

“You can tell yourself that if you wish, but you are not a monster. If that were true, I wouldn’t have fallen for you in the first place!” And that was the truth. Because Gwyn had fallen in love with him and still falling slowly. But…she had.

The way Azriel lurched reminded her of when she was stabbed earlier as he pitched back, breath sawing out of him. His smoky hazel eyes were large and disbelieving as he rocked his head. Then he reeled on his heels and ran.

𝄋

“Azriel!”

Her voice.

But he continued, seeking to elude her, even stumbling with his injuries. Azriel couldn’t let her see him like this.

If that were true, I wouldn’t have fallen for you in the first place!

His chest tangled into a knot too tight to unravel. Too difficult to breathe around.

Blood on his hands. Blood on his conscience. He’d enjoyed every second torturing that male, leaving him to die and rot like filth.

“Azriel!”

The ominous shadows within seethed in his head, reminding him anew. A waste of breath. A burden. Worthless.

If that were true, I wouldn’t have fallen for you in the first place!

No.

No, that’s not fucking true. The young acolyte was mistaken. She was naïve; he told himself.

Gwyn had to be completely out of her fucking mind to say those words after what she’d witnessed; his worst nightmare come to life. He was entirely undeserving of those words. Unworthy to even lay have lain tainted hands upon her perfection.

He ruined everything. And he’d become too disillusioned over centuries to believe in miracles. Azriel was cursed. By the Mother. By the Cauldron. By the gods themselves.

Shadowsinger, your heart sings the same song.

Fuck the same song. And right now? It punctured his heart worse than any knife. Twisting and twisting. Until there was no holding back a strained, choking gasp.

This wasn’t fucking fair.

“Az! Stop! Please! ”

He did not stop. Azriel kept limping and rushing into the night until darkness overwhelmed him.

𝄋

There was no choice. She had to follow him as if her boots were tugged over the dropped leaves and pine needles covering the dry soil.

“Az! Stop! Please!”

He did no such thing. No, Azriel acted as if he was ignoring her, or simply didn’t hear her pleas as he faltered between the looming trees. Where was Azriel heading? Were the shadows leading him somewhere?

In a last-ditch effort before she fell, Gwyn cried out, “Stop him, please!”

His shadows shot and swarmed ahead, granting her a chance to catch up.

With much effort, Gwyn ran, gnashing her teeth at the toll on her body, fighting against collapse. Until she could reach him. She had to reach him. With an outstretched hand, Gwyn snagged the sleeve of Azriel’s black tunic and whirled him around.

And what she saw made her heart stop. She’d seen this before—him, so devoid of everything. The night at Sevenda’s. The day after, he’d come back from the Court of Nightmares. But this was even worse. He…

“Azriel,” Gwyn murmured, her voice weak.

His eyes. Those hazel eyes stared at her, yet were unseeing, as if he saw straight through.

“Azriel.” She went to stroke his cheek, and he pulled away, his face distorted in a snarl.

Gwyn stayed and didn’t flinch. She realized what he was doing, what he wanted her to see. The monster he thought he was. But she would prove him otherwise.

She gently gripped his tunic once more and led him further into the woods. To the same secret spot, her mother had snuck herself and Catrin for swims years ago.

When they’d finally reached the water’s edge, Gwyn went to her knees and tugged him with her, the sodden sand soaking their leathers. And she brought his hands to the water and washed them, scrubbing off the blood. Into each indent and crease of skin. From under his fingernails.

Gwyn quietly dipped his fingers into the shallows of the sacred pool, turning pink, and rinsed off the grisly signs of whatever he’d done as Azriel remained borderline catatonic. The entire time, she watched Azriel trying to suppress his objection to what she was doing, shivering. Pouring a few droplets over his Siphons, she wiped them off the gore and proceeded on, as he could not face her gaze.

“I feel like I shouldn't have to repeat this, but do you remember that night outside of Sevenda’s? Our promise,” the priestess whispered. “When you shatter? I’m here for you. I've got you, Azriel.” Gwyn brought his hand to her lips, kissing the knuckles as he had in the temple. Azriel cringed and seeing his reaction tore her up inside.

The water dripped from both their fingertips, falling to the water in heavy plops that sounded as loud as drumbeats after that revelation.

“This lake,” Gwyn began as she continued to clean his hands. Then his face. “My mother used to take Catrin and me to swim.” She paused, a smile tipping up at the edges of her lips. Her thumb wiped away the drops under Azriel’s eye and his cheek.

“We weren’t allowed, you see. Ill behavior not befitting a priestess but, my mother wouldn’t be contained. She had a spark in her; a wildness. I…I think Catrin took after her more than me. Though,” Gwyn snorted. “My mother called Catrin her Dewdrop, and I was her Wildfire. I always thought the names should have been flipped, but it must have been the hair.”

A floodgate of wonderful memories opened as she tidied him by the lakeside, regaling him with her past. Stories on her mother. Then how Catrin took care of both of them after their mother’s death when they were eight years old. How the tradition of friendship bracelets got started. Anything and everything to evoke a response from the despondent, empty male seated in the silty bank in front of her.

Gwyn stroked his palms, groaning as she stood, bringing him to his feet. The night lit up with bursts of lightning and the roar of thunder. The storm was moving in. “It’s too far to make get to the temple before—" The skies opened up. Gwyn snatched his wrist and lugged him with her as the torrent cascaded down upon them. "Come! I know a dry place we can rest!”

So the priestess guided the shadowsinger to a spot no one else besides Catrin and herself was aware of. But for Azriel, only for him, she would expose their small hidden world.

𝄋

Azriel didn’t know what to say as she scrubbed his sullied hands. No one—no one had ever physically washed the blood off his hands. He’d always had to purge himself, deal with the aftermath of the kill. But this female?

Paying no mind to the fat raindrops soaking him, his shadows moved between, misty darkness swirling like black ribbons between and over their joined hands as they trudged along until Cauldron knew where Gwyn was leading him. But he would follow her anywhere.

Through the woods, until there was a cliffside with a waterfall. She helped him tiptoe on the lichen-covered rocks with his gimp leg and shoved back a barrier of hanging vines. To his amazement, there was an opening leading to a cavern?

With the biggest smile on her face, Gwyn advanced to drag him along until it dead-ended. In the blackness, he heard her stumble and curse until there was a muffled click and a, “Oh, thank the Cauldron this still works,” as dusky faelight lit the area from a little lantern.

Gwyn turned toward a small fire pit, working two sticks together until white smoke appeared and the wood kindled the smoke, rising into a slight opening high above in the cave.

She turned to him, concern etched in her brows. Though Azriel couldn’t help as his eyes ventured lower, trying to ignore the way the wet white linen stuck to her pale skin.

She bade him move nearer to the fire to dry their clothes as they sat back against the damp rock facade.

There was so much to see in the small space. Funny little caricatures on the walls. Piles and piles of old, tattered books. And there was no way not to imagine Gwyn practicing singing in the soaring space. With the acoustics, her voice would be a transcendental experience.

Gwyn scooted closer, careful of his aching thigh, until their shoulders brushed.

Pain flared in his hand again and Az flexed open and closed until—until Gwyn reached over and took his hand in her own.

He made to pull away, and yet she held on and peered into his eyes.

“Please,” was all Gwyn said.

She kneaded his hand, massaging each finger. Each knuckle. Different points in his palm. Opening and closing his hand, as if she knew exactly what to do for him. And in some strange way, this seemed more intimate than anything they’d ever done before.

His eyes edged with silver and her immense kindness. At her stubbornness, for not letting him sink into himself.

For not turning away when he was at his worst.

For not giving up on him.

Something wrapped tight, coiling around his heart suddenly, and he understood what it was—it was her.

Concentrating on the task, Gwyn hummed an ancient melody, and the song beguiled him. Compelled. He said in a deep, yet too small of a voice for the Shadowsinger, “When I was eight, my step-brothers poured oil on my hands and lit them on fire when they wanted to find out how fast I would heal.”

She hesitated at his revelation before slowly applying pressure to his thumb in limited, even circles. He closed his eyes at the feeling.

Azriel wondered how far he wanted to wander into the mire that was his shitty childhood. But—Gwyn had divulged damn near everything about herself, hadn’t she?

He held back a moan as Gwyn worked harder into the center of his palm. And he told her everything he could handle, the words slipping out in seamless secrets. On being thrown into the isolation of the family keep, only being allowed sunlight and fresh air an hour a day. Only permitted his true mother an hour a week, though he wasn’t ready to go into detail regarding her yet. Didn’t even want to think about her. Wasn’t strong enough for that tonight.

All the while, Gwyn worked, singing in hushed, lulled tones to accompany the pattering rain. He knew what she must be feeling. After all, Gwyn felt with her whole heart. Her inherent goodness. But she also knew, like herself, Az didn’t want pity.

He swallowed thickly. Gwyn propped her head on his shoulder.” I didn’t know how to fly and, at my age, that was an awful thing at the camp. Rhys and Cass taught me how to fly, eventually. But between that and the shadows.” Azriel was always an outcast.

Gwyn rubbed along his wrist and then switched hands. Azriel did not pull away this time, oddly enjoying her pampering.

“Did you live with Rhysand and Cassian at the camp? Is that why they are your brothers?”

He nodded before leaning his head atop hers. “Yes. Rhys’s mother took me and Cassian in. She—she knew my mother.” And was the parent he wished for. "And Rhys’s sister was…"

Ah, and you broke that, too , the malevolent voice creeping inside said. You ruined her, and if you speak those words again, you will wreck the priestess.

“Sister was…?” Gwyn asked.

Shadowsinger, go on.

He pictured Isra in his mind then, flowing onyx waves and enormous eyes like two brilliant, flawless amethysts. They’d been so damn young, mere teens. He’d been foolish and careless with his heart. Issie was too concerned about what would befall his relationship with Rhysand if they were discovered, falling apart before it even really began.

She was the first and only girl he had ever uttered those words to. Right before...

“She died. They died.”

And that’s all Azriel would say on the matter as he pushed Issie back into the murky, bitter depths of his soul where she still lived.

His eyes were bobbing under the peacefulness of Gwyn’s touch, anchoring him back to the present. To the girl still with him. Who, despite everything, wanted him.

Because she didn’t take any of his shit or let him wallow in his own.

Because Gwyn should have left him where she found him in the woods.

Because the priestess should have returned to the temple and waited on her own.

But she didn’t, Shadowsinger. The Priestess is here with you now.

He didn’t know if he could ever say those three words again. If his heart could accept such a risk. But there was one thing he would tell the priestess. A secret the shadowsinger shared with only one other person.

“Azriel,” he whispered hoarsely, his body and mind spent as he rubbed his cheek against her soft hair. “In ancient Illyrian, Gerona means Azriel.”

Chapter Text

Her eyes remained locked on the wet cavern wall ahead. The battering storm outside synchronized the crackling embers. The fire barely replaced the chill seeping into her bones.

Catrin.

Shutting her eyelids, Gwyn’s mind once again moved to the deceased male still mounted out in the woodlands. The one Azriel killed. The former soldier her twin had been seeing—who used Catrin to get insight on the temple. Abused her twin’s goodwill and naivete. Exploited her insecurities against her to ply information. Used her sister’s body.

Now Gwyn simply wished she was the one to have driven that stake into his foolish throat. Though, if Gwyn were being honest with herself, she hoped she could have asked him more questions. Because now that’s all Catrin left behind; her Invoking Stone and a whole bushel of whys and hows.

Cauldron boil and fry her. How many times had Catrin begged Gwyn to accompany her to the tavern? Too many to weigh. And now? What had her sister gotten herself into? Why hadn’t she told Gwyn? Truthfulness and honor had been very important between them. They were twins, for Mother’s fucking sake!

The past was becoming clear now, like frost slowly vanishing off a temperate glass pane. Catrin’s hurried words that evening, her frantic packing, and pleas for them to leave. Gwyn thought her need to leave was part of her sister’s distaste for priestesshood. But now?

Gwyn’s heart and gut tensed at the thought Catrin knew what was going to pass that night.

Could Catrin have stopped it? Any of it? All of it?

Despite her efforts, Gwyn’s vision could not escape the crumbling stone facade in front of her. Or the self-portraits she and Catrin drew around the age of eight. Catrin’s much better, full of detail down to the pleats in her flowing light blue robes, while Gwyn’s was barely a glorified stick figure wearing a burlap sack.

Gwyn, always competitive, added some coal to her twin’s portrait, sketching a curly black beard and mustache. As soon as Catrin noticed, her ears practically gushed steam. The same treatment was soon given to Gwyn’s picture. Henceforth, the two pirate priestesses would be immortalized forever.

Gwyn’s nose and eyes stung as she held the tears at bay, her sister’s cobalt stone a cold, heavy burden in her pocket.

“What did you know, Catrin?” She asked in a whisper. As the shadowsinger rubbed against her, she cursed inwardly. His faint exhales brushed her hair once more as he settled.

Several hours ago, Azriel passed out from exhaustion, not only physically but also emotionally. So Gwyn took the first watch, a hand steady on the dagger attached to her thigh. While the other was clutched in the shadowsinger’s grip as he leaned into her, using her head as a pillow, one wing tucked tight to his back, the other draped over them both.

She often glanced at his hands, imagining what had happened. What he had endured as a youth. To this day, Azriel often bound cloth dressings around his fist beneath his gauntlets to cover his scars while in public, the damages inflicted on him so much more than just to mere flesh.

Gwyn wondered if his horrid parents and brothers were alive. Because deep down a new fire roared, blazing in her chest, urging her to defend him. And if they were? One day, Gwyn would surely make them pay.

The distant howl of a wolf drew her concern from the shadowsinger. Her ears had been perked the entire evening, tracking anything beyond the voices of the forest and the rainfall. Her nose was keenly aware of the dampness of the cave. Of the petrichor and crisp foliage beyond the secret entrance. But it was the shadowsinger’s chilled night air and cedar scent she couldn’t elude surrounding her. Comforting her as much as the weight of his wing.

Gods, what Azriel revealed just before he’d drifted off had the world dropping out from under Gwyn’s feet. Had her brain spinning at his words, every so often interspersed with others.

In ancient Illyrian, Gerona means Azriel.

Whispers in the wind. “Gerona leads you home.”

In ancient Illyrian, Gerona means Azriel.

Catrin’s. We forge our own path, sister. We follow our own stars.

In ancient Illyrian, Gerona means Azriel.

The ones from her dreams. You know Gerona will always lead you home, don’t you, Gwyn?

In ancient Illyrian, Gerona means Azriel.

And as Gwyn valiantly struggled against the sleep claiming her, there was only one word repeating as she held Azriel’s hand…

Home.

𝄋

By the time Gwyn pried her eyes free to birds crying and trilling, the storm had passed. Her body throbbed with tenderness, and she couldn’t feel her legs—because an Illyrian male’s head was lying on her upper thighs. Azriel gently cradled her arm, captured between his powerful biceps against his firm chest. His heartbeat was slow and steady under her palm. He spread out one half of his wing over her lower legs as a makeshift cloak, keeping her warm after their small fire had doused.

She allowed herself a slight smile, watching him doze, his faint shadows rising and falling to the tempo of his breath around them. Gods, he must have been drained to have collapsed onto his side like so.

Her hands had a mind of their own, absently delving into his hair, brushing the longer ebony strands from his forehead. Gwyn had never known him so relaxed, so loose, so...very un-Azriel.

“Mmm, keep doing that. It feels nice,” he blurted, his deep voice raw with sleep.

Gwyn gazed down at him, his lids half-open as he stretched, cringing. Her fingers kept sifting through his sleek ebony.

His eyes opened fully, exposing rich hazel, enticing her in that fierce way they always did. “How are you, Gwyn?”

“Fine.” His hard stare told her he didn’t believe her, so Gwyn added, “A little tender.” A lie. She was actually in great discomfort from her wound. But, thankfully, the lingering fever in her nerves from the faebane was ebbing from an inferno to dying sparks. “But my legs are asleep.”

His perfect lips curved in one corner and seeing that smile attempt was like drawing in a long breath after near-drowning; potent relief.

“I’m sorry,” he drawled, but didn’t move, merely nudging his head into her palm as she caressed his scalp.

“It doesn’t seem like you’re a bit sorry. If you were, you’d get off them,” she nudged, wiggling her legs under his neck.

“Well,” The shadowsinger’s fingers skimmed over the back of the hand she still had over his heart, his feather-light touch creating a riot of shivers in their wake. “I wanted to make sure you stayed where you were and not sneaking off as you often do.”

“I do no such thing!”

“Uh-huh.”

Gwyn moved her arm to playfully bat at him and Azriel caught midair, planting a lingering kiss on the inside of her wrist. There was something different about his touch after yesterday. Last night. As if he felt something, too, Azriel sat up, grimacing as he did so.

She snorted. “Aches and pains in your old age?”

He shot her a wry look. “Smartass.”

“Just pointing it out.” She offered him a shrug as he scooted closer until they were hip to hip on her uninjured side. Reaching up, his large hand poised over her cheek. In quiet thanks, Gwyn leaned into his reach.

Slanting his head, Azriel leaned in, and when his mouth met Gwyn’s, all the uncertainty about what awaited them that day went away.

𝄋

Azriel reaffirmed what he’d thought the first time their lips met; he could happily live off her kisses. Her breath in his lungs.

Her lips drifted over his in soft sweeps. Slow. Deep. The kiss consumed all else. One you proffered someone as a vow. And a kiss he wanted repeatedly from his priestess. Every single damn day.

You can have that if you allow it, Shadowsinger.

And he held those words and split open that shield around his dark heart. Through the angered darkness surrounding, spewing insult after insult.

She will regret being with someone as unworthy as you, they hissed and swore, not releasing his safeguard to open any more than a fissure.

Breathing raggedly, he withdrew, dropping a brief peck over the freckles of her nose, his hands still cradling her face.

“Az, can you promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“I—" Gwyn bit her lip, hesitating, her auburn brows knitted.

His thumb swept over her jawline in a soothing caress. “Just ask me, Berdara.”

“I know you can’t tell me all that passes in your day-to-day work. Frankly, there are probably things I shouldn’t hear. But,” she stopped, pleading with those big, expressive eyes, “when you have a rough day, Azriel, even as awful as yesterday; I want you to tell me. Share with me what you can, so I can be there for you. And if you still need space afterward? Fine. But I’m here and at least I’ll see where your head is at. I know what it’s like to go through that alone.”

Azriel brought his forehead to hers, his lips murmuring against her mouth. “That’s it?”

She shrugged, and her nose bumped into him as she nodded. “Yes. I recognize it’s a big ask, but that’s all I want, Azriel. Yesterday was…"

“A lot,” he finished, and she agreed. “For both of us.”

And it was. He felt flayed apart, torn wide open. Too exposed. He’d talked more about his past yesterday than to anyone before in one go. So much of both their souls, their relationship, had been bared and tried. And it hadn’t escaped Az how waking by Gwyn’s side this morning had seemed different from before.

“But we were true to one another. Honesty, Shadowsinger. As much as you can provide. That’s all I want.”

But were you true with your words? Azriel mused. Had the priestess truly fallen for him, or was that a tactic to get him to step back from the edge? If they were expecting full disclosure, perhaps he should ask—

The shadowsinger received a strong flick against the curve of his ear. Do no such thing! You know the lovely priestess meant what she said in here. A mass of shadows hovered over his heart. You know she meant every word, Shadowsinger. Do not doubt her words.

Gods, Azriel needed to consider them. Believe he was worthwhile to gain her devotion.

But you see you are not, the insidious voices inside him responded. We all know your love will be her ruin. End her.

Do not go there, his shadows ordered. Fight them! Fight for her—for you. Promise us you will try.

“I promise,” Azriel answered. As Gwyn moved in for a kiss but Azriel leaned out of her path. One side of his mouth quirked up when she huffed loudly. “But I expect you to do the same. And sometimes that means we will not agree on all things.”

“Oh, believe me, I understand that,” she said, obvious frustration of two very diverse varieties written on her face.

“But I promise to tell you what I can when I can, Berdara. All right?”

“I just don’t want you to carry so much if I can help you bear some of the weight,” she said. Her words gutted him. How in the ultimate fuck had he gotten lucky enough to encounter this girl? How had the horrors of how they met, ironically in this place, led to something so...

“You want me to be truthful, Gwyn?”

“Yes.”

When you collapsed yesterday … A shudder rolled through him at the memory. Watching her eyes widen, the blood dripping over her leathers. Time stopped. Everything had stopped. His heart. His breath. Between that and the library, too many close calls recently. And I…

Say it, his shadows urged. Speak your truth.

But for Az, though yesterday may have been an exhausting exception, actions always spoke louder than words. He kissed her again, this time stronger than before, forcing everything he felt for her into it. Hoping his passion expressed to her what he couldn’t say in words.

I don’t want to lose this.

I don’t want to lose you.

Not right now.

Never, his shadows hummed, drowning out the darkness in his mind, thumping against the door he’d tucked them behind.

Gwyn wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned into him, her breasts flush with his tunic, the thin fiber of both their clothes no contest for the heat between them. The peak of her nipples against his chest. She opened for him and he moaned into her mouth, his hands smoothing over her lower back, her sides.

Until she gasped and jerked when he accidentally grazed over her wound, which resulted in her knee crashing into his thigh and him seeing stars and holding back a scream.

“Sorry,” they both said at the same time. Gwyn laughed and leaned in to kiss him again, brief and sweet.

“Azriel,” she said, rubbing his nose as she dragged away, her lips damp. “I don’t mean to ruin this, but. I—need.” Whatever she needed, whatever he could physically do for her? He was down for. Injury or no injury. Cave or no cave.

Her stomach rumbled loudly, and she flushed.

“Hungry?”

“Yes, but—”

“Food. You need to eat.”

“After I…gods, I have to tend to my needs ,” she mumbled.

Oh.

Shadowsinger, that means she has to…

I know what that means, thank you.

Just checking because your mind was working another way.

The priestess sent him a stern expression not to be ignored. “You will stay here and wait for me.” She held up a staying hand. “And before you even start, I am armed with a dagger—and that warning isn’t just for any foe that may approach me in that sort of vulnerable situation, if you understand my meaning.”

Little did she know, the thought of Gwyn holding a knife to his throat was not a threat to him. Quite the opposite. Not that he would ever tell her.

She said to be sincere, Shadowsinger, his shadows reminded, almost swelling and sinking in a mass shrug. Azriel rolled his eyes at their antics.

Before Gwyn rose, her eyes enlarged, peeking over his shoulder. His hand automatically went to Truth-Teller at his side, ready to act and protect them both. “No. No. Azriel, look.”

She moved her arm to her rib cage, holding up her wrist. Her bracelet was…glowing. The charm lit from the inside.

Holy fucking shit.

That glass charm dangling from her bracelet. How in the hell had he never noticed before? He recognized it as the one from the necklace he’d given her the Solstice before…

After she returned the jewelry to his gift pile. He could sense his friendly shadows shuddering at the memory, while the inner dark ones tittered in delight. At the pain the episode had induced to three lives.

A fourth, if he knew, his shadows gently censured. As they were blunt, they had not agreed with his decision in his past pursuits of Elain.

And then fate and brooding had led him to the training ring to find Gwyn practicing. His only joy came from the thought of her grin at receiving the gift. After all, why shouldn’t the damn thing bring someone happiness?

But shining like a star? Unless the saleswoman had left that description out at the time of purchase; illuminating, it certainly should not.

“Why is the charm glowing?” he asked, perplexed, as she tried to scramble to her feet, only to slump back against the wall. “Gwyn, stay still, please. You’re hurt worse than me.”

“Help is coming!” She smiled so wide tiny lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes. “This is how Nesta, Emerie, and I found each other during the Blood Rite! We each made these friendship bracelets last Winter Solstice. They function as locator beacons. Which means—“

“Azriel!” a female voice cried out. What the fuck? Feyre? That had the shadowsinger on his feet. Godsdamn, what was his High Lady doing out here?

“Gwyn! You better be fucking alive or I’m going to kill you, Valkyrie!”

“Nesta!” Feyre snapped.

“Gwyn! Azriel!” The voices grew closer.

“In here!” Gwyn shouted as Azriel stood, bringing Gwyn with him to their feet. Leaning on each other for help, they started to the cave entrance.

As they emerged from behind the climbing vines, Nesta almost knocked them over as she bolted for Gwyn, hauling her into her arms.

“Shit, Berdara. Shit,” Nesta said, the eldest Archeron’s voice wobbling. “We went to the temple first and then the woods.” She squeezed the priestess harder.

"Ouch. I’m fine, Nesta.”

Azriel’s growl vibrated in his chest as Nesta drew back, sending a glare. “Calm down, I wasn’t trying to hurt her, prick. Wait…are you hurt, too?”

“Too? Who else?” Azriel asked Feyre as she approached him, folding him in an easy embrace.

“Cassian,” Nesta said, rancor in her tone. “He ran to protect Rhys and then ended up taking an arrow for me and the bolt was—“

“Ash, and spiked with an unusual faebane?” Azriel asked, checked out his leg, and Nesta nodded. “Yeah, well apprised.”

“So are Mor and Rhys,” Feyre appended. “They hit Rhys right away, so he couldn’t use his powers. I sensed something strange down the bond, and I left Nyx with Elain and winnowed everyone home. I even called Lucien for help to winnow since he can go farther. We have an antidote for the faebane, at least, or something that works faster. But no one else could winnow and I couldn’t leave Rhys or Nyx…"

Azriel nodded, bowing his head. “It’s all right. We survived thanks to the little Valkyrie.”

As they moved again, Gwyn couldn’t suppress her wince, and Az knew she was suffering more than what she let on. So incredibly stubborn.

“They stabbed Gwyn in the side,” Azriel said as he led her to easier terrain by the arm. “So be careful next time you rush to hug her, Nesta.”

“Stabbed?” Immediately Nesta’s eyes appeared steely, and she began assessing Gwyn’s body.

“I’m fine,” Gwyn assured. “This is just Azriel playing overprotective nursemaid.”

“She sewed herself back together with needle and thread,” he added, finding humor in watching both Feyre and Nesta’s mouths drop open wide.

“We need to get her home. Get Madja to check her over,” Nesta said to her sister, hysteria building in her voice.

“Let me reach Rhys down the bond. The antidote should have acted by now and he could winnow faster,” Feyre said as the two Archerons discussed a method for their safe departure.

Gwyn sent Azriel a glower. And gods, he wanted to kiss it right off her obstinate face. And praise the fucking Cauldron, he’d get the chance. He captured her hand in his own as they waited for their High Lord to winnow them to home to Velaris.

𝄋

Azriel hadn’t left her side since they returned, not even in the High Lord’s study. He’d chosen the seat beside her, dragging hers closer to him. Rhysand smirked at the gesture as Gwyn rolled her eyes.

Azriel leaned closer, his mouth against the shell of her ear, speaking only loud enough for her to hear. “Remember what I said about rolling your eyes all those months ago, Berdara?”

She did.

“I look forward to it, Shadowsinger,” Gwyn sighed, relishing in his ragged inhale against her skin. And she truly did. She wanted to feel his bare skin against her own. Wanted to kiss him all over. Wanted to live.

Cassian’s low laughter and Rhysand’s throat-clearing dragged them away from each other. All four of them banged up, bandaged, and blackened. Both Cassian’s wings had been punctured multiple times and were slowly healing under Madja’s care and Nesta’s ever-watchful gaze. Feyre stood beside her mate, the High Lord seated at his desk more rigid than usual from the arrow wounds to his back. Mor was still in Madja’s charge, Emerie by her side.

“Now that we’re all here, we can discuss—” The High Lord began but was immediately interrupted.

“What the fuck happened?” Cassian supplied.

Rhysand turned to Gwyn and Azriel. “Well, we know this was a well-coordinated offensive. They were prepared.” Purple eyes as strong as amethyst whirled on the male at her side. “Az, I understand you questioned one detained?” Azriel nodded. Then Rhysand asked, “May I?”

Azriel dipped his chin slightly and Gwyn could see his hazel eyes go blank as Rhysand saw the scene through the Shadowsinger’s eyes. After a few moments, and a few clearing blinks, Azriel was back to his normal stoic persona.

Rhysand’s dark brows drew together. “So this began even before the war with Hybern?” His fingers tapped on the rich wood of the arms of his charcoal wingback. “We have the Dread Trove. That’s under lock and key. The Cauldron is concealed. But…the Seer Stone?” He swung his head. “I’ve never heard of it before today.”

“Me neither,” Cassian added. “This seems like Amren territory. Someone needs to drag her ass out of Varian’s bed and bring her here.”

“Seer Stone?” Gwyn asked, her hands wringing the edge of her fresh black tunic, one she borrowed from Azriel’s closet at the River House. The shadowsinger had yet to bring up the Seer Stone in conversation, as their initial chats after everything had been intense.

“Does the resident priestess have any clue about that?” Feyre inquired, tilting her head in question. Her cheeks heated as all gave their attention to Gwyn. Cool breezes swept over her cheeks, her fingers now burrowing into her thigh.

Gwyn thought for a moment of growing up in the temple, running around and hiding as children. “We’d overheard talk of a Seer Stone at Sangravah. But…" She took a deep inhale. Exhale. “After the attack, nothing. The last I gathered was that the gem was secure. I merely assumed that meant they sent the stone to the High Temple for safekeeping.”

“Do you know of the stone’s abilities?” the High Lord asked, resting forward with his fingers steepled.

She shook her head. “No. I mean, High Lord, one could guess it was related to something with seers—” The simultaneous sounds of Azriel’s snort, Cassian’s choking, Nesta’s amused hum, the High Lady’s chuckle, and the High Lord’s clicking of his tongue had her at the peak of embarrassment. And panic. “I meant no disrespect, High Lord.”

Cassian laughed loudly, and she felt Azriel sending him a silencing glare over her head.

“For the last time, Gwyneth, it’s Rhysand or Rhys. And not to fret. You’re correct in your hypothesis. That would make sense.” Turning back to Azriel, he mulled, “But how is Beron involved?”

“Beron?” Cassian asked, scowling as he swiveled in his chair toward them. “Vanserra set us up?”

Azriel rolled his shoulders, schooling his features as his knuckles cracked. “The prick only alluded to being hired by the Autumn Court but didn’t implicate Beron directly. But, considering I saw him meeting with Beron in Vallahan months ago, it’s no leap in logic.”

Rhysand sat back, his eyes fixating on the door behind them all. “Beron’s involvement in the continent. Hiring men to recover this stone. He’s making a move...but why?”

“It’s chess,” Azriel’s deep voice proclaimed as they all focused on the Spymaster. “Your game in your head is always moving pieces ahead before you move on the board.”

“So, it’s a strategy?” Cassian said, his knuckles cracking.

“Well,” Gwyn started, her mind working. “If one were to get the stone and use it, to be honest, I do not know how it works or if it works, but if one could use it to see...could it be used to see an outcome?”

Nesta straightened beside her mate, crossing her arms over her chest. “Like a war?”

Strained silence spread across the den.

Oh, gods. Another war?

Her eyes met Nesta’s, and she understood. Gwyn knew. If there truly was another war, the Valkyries would enter and leave their indelible mark.

𝄋

She would fight this time. Azriel knew it without her saying a word.

Nesta, Gwyn, and Emerie would lead the Valkyries, no matter what he or Cassian said to the contrary. And it fucking terrified him to his very core.

Us as well, his shadows admitted. Not because we do not trust the lovely priestess, but…

But if something happened to her in the heat of battle, he’d never fucking recover.

We need to stop it before the war happens. Noted.

“I’ll have to think on the next course of action and speak with our allied High Lords. You’re all dismissed. But, Gwyn?” Rhysand’s smooth voice carried the shadowsinger from his thoughts. “I need to speak with you in private.”

Azriel stiffened.

“Do you need me to stay?” he heard Nesta offer from the doorway as she helped Cassian. Gwyn reassured her chosen sister she would prevail without her help.

The door shut behind them and Rhysand eyed him, brow arched. Azriel didn’t move a muscle.

Rhysand cleared his throat again. “I received word from the High Temple with the details of the note you found.”

Fuck. Azriel almost forgot about the list in Merrill’s office because of everything going on. The one showing Gwyn’s imminent requirement to be present at Calanmai. As if the young priestess were a lamb to the slaughter.

“I’d rather Azriel stay,” Gwyn said, straightening in her chair, her hand absently finding his, his squeezing in answer. He’d remain, no matter what Rhys said. Feyre nodded and proceeded to slip out when Gwyn added, “the High Lady as well. If you don’t mind.”

Feyre offered a comforting grin, and then they all turned to Rhys, whose jaw was already ticking. Not good.

“I sent a message explaining the situation to the Temple, and it seems they already had you listed, around the same time you found the list in the office.”

Gwyn’s eyes went large. “But how is that possible?” She twisted to Azriel and then back to Rhys, bewildered. “Whoever met Merrill was the one who wrote it! How did the Temple have my name listed at the same time?”

“Merrill must have sent word, or whoever this accomplice sent it. But according to the temple, it was directly ordered from the Mother and is, therefore.” The High Lord ground his teeth and the High Lady gasped. “Unchangeable.”

Azriel was seeing red, his shadows swarming around the room in eclipses of fury, sending papers flying off the High Lord’s ornate wooden desk.

Azriel, calm down, Rhysand warned. And you’re about to break Gwyn’s fingers.

Az blinked and realized he was, and Gwyn was unmoved. Even though her fingertips were crimson and white, the sides of her knuckles grinding together painfully.

“She’s not doing this, Rhys,” Azriel snarled. “I don’t give a flying fuck with the High Priestesses or the Mother.”

“No, she’s not,” Rhysand said. "In my discussion with Clotho, she was disgusted and knew nothing about this. She suggested a workaround but...because when you accepted the Invoking Stone, you accepted a bargain.”

Azriel’s stomach dropped, and he tasted the rising bile in the back of his throat. No. No. That was it. He was plucking her up and disappearing. They’d go to the mortal realm, hide…

You can’t shelter from a bargain, Shadowsinger.

And the ramifications of breaking one?

Gwyn’s lower lip quivered, but she bared her teeth. They all jumped when her fist slammed down onto the arm of her chair. “But I was merely eight years old! My mother had just died when I took the vows. How is the indoctrination of younglings something condonable by the fucking Mother?”

Good question.

“I agree. That’s why the younglings you saved from Sangravah are being transferred here to our sanctuary. We will remedy this, Gwyn. There will be no more of this now that I am aware. Clotho will help ensure so.”

“That’s good,” Gwyn said, her chin high.

“Yeah, fine, but what about Gwyn?” Azriel directed back to the issue at hand.

Rhysand’s eyes moved back and forth between the two of them. Azriel did not let go of her hand. “Clotho showed a loophole in the original bargain you took for the Invoking Stone, Gwyn. It was a promise to fulfill your duties to the Mother while you are a priestess. The while is the keyword; only bound you to follow those orders—”

“As long as I remained a priestess,” the words came out in a strangled gasp that even he could feel in the pit of her stomach, in the narrowing of his own throat and chest.

“Gwyn,” Az sighed, easing a thumb over the back of her hand.

“So, I guess therein lies the choice,” the young priestess said, her shoulders tall but quaking, shaking the hand in his. Her glossy eyes lifted to Azriel. “Where will I go? They're all I've ever known.”

He knew those words were meant mostly for herself cut him to the quick.

“You’re family, Gwyn,” Rhysand said, his voice soft and warm like a summer night breeze. “You’ve already carved out a place here. If you would like to leave—” Leave? Azriel’s shadows scattered about in panic again, swelling and expanding, practically covering the already traumatized girl until he called them back. Rhysand shot Azriel a stern look before continuing in soothing choice words. “If you would like to leave, you have my support, but if you want to stay in Velaris, we’ll set up the Townhouse or we’ll ask Nesta about..."

“You can stay at the House,” Azriel answered. “If you want to, I mean. You don’t have to ask Nesta, you know she’ll say yes. You can have your own place. But it’s your choice.”

Please, he begged with his eyes into the sadness of her own. The helplessness. And you’ll be near me.

She’ll be near us.

Let me take care of you. Protect you.

Do not forget she is more than capable of doing that herself, his shadows chirped their approval.

It was well known to Azriel, but something inside his body was dying at the thought of Gwyn leaving. Dimming. Withering.

I need you; he wanted to scream at the top of Ramiel.

Gwyn gazed at Azriel with tears swimming in her eyes, as if he were the only person in the room. Her brave, beautiful response was a simple, yet world-changing, “All right.”

Chapter Text

“How’s darling Gwyn holding up?” Rhys asked, gently prodding the shadowsinger for updates.

Azriel sipped his liquor before responding. “She’s…working on it.”

But what other option was Gwyn left with? A choice under duress was not a choice. Either leave the priestesshood or take part in Fire Night—there was no other option.

Well, in the shadowsinger’s opinion, there was one other one. Dismantle and overhaul the entire practice from fucking scratch, something his High Lord was acting on with both Tarquin and Kallias. Helion would surely join their cause if he’d left his chambers long enough to get him a message. Thesan would yield to the majority. Beron and Tamlin could go fuck themselves.

Gwyn had been subdued since the High Lord had dropped the truth at her feet a week before, but thankfully, not distant. They’d spent a lot of private time nestled together, she reading one of her romance books—if one could call a book ripe with explicit fucking romance —while he went over all the reports about Autumn, scouting for hints he may have missed. Calculating when their Court needed to make a decisive move or have Eris execute his own.

The silence bothered him deep down. Azriel was used to quietude his own life as the priestess was in the library. But, around him, and her chosen sisters, Gwyn had always been the one to talk, and he…missed her voice. Her keen observations and her irreverent commentary.

The shadowsinger wasn’t sure what to do. What piece to move—a fact that ate at the ego of a master strategist.

You are doing fine, Shadowsinger. She just needs you and her friends. Her family. Support.

But was he? Kind of Azriel’s shadows to say, but the need to do more pulsed inside him, demanding his help. To ease and comfort Gwyn’s ever-churning mind as she claimed she would do for him. To share the weight of her burdens. But she wasn’t speaking about any of that, at least not to him. And fuck, didn’t that sting after all their talks trapped in the cave.

“I’m glad Gwyn agreed to join Feyre and Nesta for lunch,” Az admitted, allowing his mask to slip.

A sharp squeal sounded down the corridor, followed by a hoot. “Fuck! I mean shit! Crap! Godsdammit, when did you get teeth, little man?” Cassian yelled.

“Should you go check on them?” Azriel asked, his shadows already on their way.

Rhysand’s smirk turned downright feline. “No. I believe it was the General that insisted he is the one to get some nephew-uncle playtime, correct? Besides, it’s great practice for Cass one day. Or the very best reminder to take a contraceptive tonic.” The High Lord shrugged, lounging, flinging an arm over the back of the tufted dove-gray sofa. “Either way, I’m not turning down a minute of not being vomited on and a stiff drink.”

Azriel snorted and raised his glass in cheers from his perch on the armchair across the way. They reveled in the sounds of the roaring fire in the hearth and the boisterous giggles joining low chuckles from the playroom. Azriel’s eyes squinted over Rhysand to the windows, noting the fallen golden leaves swirling in the chilly breeze. Temperatures were dropping, and they were in the thick of autumn.

Shit. Did Gwyn have her coat, he considered, trying to recall if she had worn one or a cloak as he winnowed them in shadows to the river estate.

She did, his shadows whispered. The lovely sleek dark gray one the Illyrian Valkyrie bought for her. The Priestess will be fine.

But would she?

Azriel hoped Gwyn was enjoying her time out with the girls and having fun. As long as it was only Feyre and Nesta, anyway.

“Are they meeting anyone for lunch?” Azriel asked, treading lightly.

Rhys leaned back fully, tossing an arm over his eyes, his drink gripped over his chest. “Mor is off doing her courtly duties in the Hewn City and later off to visit Vivienne and spoil their daughter. Emerie is working but promised to attend the next luncheon. And...Elain moved into the townhouse after the wall incident. She insists on taking care of herself, and far be it from me to deny my sister-in-law that request. But.” He took a drink. “Lucien has been more insistent that she leave this court.”

Azriel took a sip of his own and waited patiently for Rhysand to continue. Even though Azriel had a past with Elain, he simply wanted her to be happy, and that her mate was troubled? No matter what the circumstances, that unsettled him.

Rhys’s throat bobbed. “He claims the bond is taut, near vibrating, close to snapping, but Elain has yet to reject it.” He sat up, leaning forward to prop his forearms on his knees, swirling his rock glass, fixating on the amber whirlpool. “And I’m trying to walk a very delicate balance between what to do and say because she’s my mate’s sister. But after what Elain did to you in the hallway, Az? I’d be lying to say I’m not worried about her mental state.”

A delicate balance indeed. To be a mate and a father on top of the other courtly woes of being a High Lord? Any envy Azriel felt for his brother slipped at that moment.

“I am as well,” Azriel admitted. “She hasn’t been acting like herself since the mating ceremony.”

Rhysand sighed. “I’d like Lucien to speak with her, at least to obtain a better read, but Feyre is against it.”

“Perhaps Elain should be the one to decide if she would like to speak with Lucien.”

“I agree,” Rhysand said, his eyes drifting shut as he was sitting. Gods, new babies had to be fucking exhausting. Rhys's shoulders slumped, and he jolted upright before he fell over, spilling his drink over his pants and the couch. With a roll of his violet eyes, Rhys set the glass down on a low table and cleaned up the mess with a swipe of his hand. “Nyx has been having some dreadful nights with teething and unfortunately for Feyre darling and myself, his favorite place to sleep is on us. Which means no sleep for the parents at all.”

“So you giving him to Cassian was more of a tire that poor child out a strategy?” Azriel’s lips quirked. “Well played, Rhys.”

“A nap for either Nyx or Cassian. Both would be preferable.” Rhysand’s chuckle ended on a weighty sigh as he ran fingers over a day’s worth of stubble. “That’s why I suggested Feyre go out for lunch as well.” His expression turned pensive and pained. “She’s been a little melancholy lately, and I didn’t want her to feel...trapped again. Never again.”

“Uh, Rhysie!” came a deep shout from the hallway. “We’ve got a problem.”

Rhysand was on his feet instantly, and Azriel followed suit.

“What, Cass? Is he hurt?” Rhys asked, stepping between the couches and chairs to the grand foyer.

“Uh, not exactly.” Cassian’s booming voice ricocheted off the vaulted ceilings.

They both stopped in their tracks at the sight, and Azriel was helpless to hold back his amusement. Cassian was holding Nyx at arm’s length, the little boy’s short wings flapping happily against the back of his pale yellow footed sleeper—which now had a not pleasant smelling dark streak running from rear to the neckline.

Rhysand put his hands in his pocket and bit his lip, clearly pleased. “I see. And you didn’t think changing him would be the remedy, Cass?”

Cassian gagged, his skin tone bordering on green. “Look, I’ve been on a battlefield after bodies have laid out in the sunlight for days and I’ve never in my entire fucking life smelled anything this bad.” He halted, swinging his head to gag again as Nyx cackled. “What the absolute fuck do you feed this poor kid to make that?”

“I’ll make certain to tell Feyre she produces inferior food,” Rhysand said with a crooked grin and a wink at Cassian’s attempt to breathe through his mouth.

The General dry-heaved and Azriel’s shadows were rolling in hysterics. “I tried to bribe Nuala and Cerridwen to take him and they did their whole creepy wraith disappearing thing and fucking laughed at me. I even think Cerridwen waved at me. But I don’t think I can change him. I—” Another heave and Nyx was giggling, patting his pudgy hands. “Nope. I can’t. I submit. You win, Nyx.”

Rhysand laughed, striding forward to take his son in his hands, gripping him similarly to how Cassian did, but he was brave enough to plant a smooch on his son’s chubby cheek.

“You hear that, my son? You’ve already bested the feared Lord of Bloodshed, the top general of the Illyrian forces.” Rhys turned his attention back to Cassian. “To be clear, this is shit I’d much rather be dealing with than any Merrill, Beron, the Queens, Koschei, or any of the other shit in our lives right now. Now come on, let’s get you cleaned up, Nyx.”

As Rhysand winnowed with a belly-laughing Nyx up the stairs to the nursery, Cassian bent over, his hands on his knees, drawing in deep inhales.

Azriel stood, hands in his pockets, and waited for Cassian to...

“If you say one fucking thing about this to Nesta, I swear to the Mother, Azriel, I will end you.”

“You are so fucking dramatic, Cass.”

𝄋

The High Lady of the Night Court was laughing so hard she kicked the table leg as she revealed the scene now taking place at the house, courtesy of Rhysand.

Nesta had her elbows on the table, shaking her head in her hands. “Seriously? The same Cassian who wishes to have a baby. This is the powerful Illyrian warrior whom the Cauldron paired as my equal. Gods spare me, what am I going to do with that male?”

Wiping happy tears from under her eyes as Feyre cracked a grin. She said, “You should have heard him, Nesta. Holding Nyx out and away like he was a cursed object.” Another fit of breath-stealing hysterics took hold as Feyre used her arms and pulled faces to enact the scene as live theater, attracting curious glances from other diners. “Oh, my gods, I needed that.”

“Well, you painted quite the mental picture, Feyre,” Gwyn giggled, reaching to the middle of the cloth-covered table to the giant tray of assorted cured meats, fruit, nuts, and cheese.

She took a sip of her wine infused with bubbles. Something Nesta ordered for her since Gwyn was quite the novice with drinking, only imbibing at their sleepovers now and then. Whilst building a pyramid of cheese on her plate, Gwyn eyed the dessert cart as a worthy opponent when Sevenda rolled one by.

“Don’t worry, sweetie, there’s chocolate,” Sevenda said as she passed, winking at Gwyn, whose blush matched the liquid in her glass.

Nesta lifted her head and smiled, reaching for a handful of candied pecans. “I keep forgetting this isn’t your first time here.”

Gwyn sipped and shook her head. “Azriel loves this place. We’re here as often as he’s in town. Sevenda now spoils me with desserts. Or I should say, a certain Illyrian male encourages her to spoil me with whatever I want. But we usually sit outside; this is the first time I have been inside the bistro.”

“Well, I love you, Berdara, but I would not freeze my ass off sitting out on the veranda in the midst of autumn winds even for you,” Nesta said before guzzling fizzing flavored water. “But I would never have known this is your first time in here until you mentioned it. You’ve come such a long way. Proud of you, Gwyn.”

Gwyn noticed, though. The clanging, sizzling from the kitchen, and chatter of the diners generally intimidated her to the point of freezing up. But nearly six months after her first guided tour by a certain shadowsinger into the city, she sat without fear. And wasn’t that amazing?

“We all are proud. Speaking of which, how are you doing, Gwyn?” Feyre asked, and she was still awed that Feyre Cursebreaker, Defender of The Rainbow, even wanted Gwyn in her very presence, let alone at her table.

“Gwyn,” Nesta started, eyeing her blooded sister over her glass. “You don’t have to talk—”

But Gwyn truly did. And she wanted to because…

She exhaled. “I’ve spoken with Clotho, and though she’s sad, she understands and respects my decision.” Gwyn ran her finger around the wet lip of the glass until there was a low, constant hum, one she could match pitch. “The girls are sad, particularly the Valkyries. But if I’m to be sincere—I don’t think they’ll be there for long either. Not with the current state of things. Clotho informed me to take as long as I like and then she can offer research work even after I officially leave, which I’m considering but…Nesta has been helping me pack my things. Well, the few things I own, anyway.”

Nesta’s smile didn’t reach her eyes as she reached across the table, resting her hand over hers. Their friendship bracelet charms clinked when knocked together.

“But the House already changed one of the guest rooms into Gwyn’s,” Nesta snorted. “I walked in and there were new white and teal linens and curtains. House already packed an enviable new bookcase full of books and a wardrobe with new clothes. Including an adorable pair of pegasus slippers that look like an actual pegasus, which I’m stealing. ”

Gwyn glanced down at the cranberry light-knit sweater dress with long sleeves and chocolate knee-high boots the House had prepared as part of her new wardrobe. The new Gwyneth. It was just flowing enough to feel like her robes, and she was pleased to have something beyond her leathers to make her comfortable in her own skin. Unlike a spider spinning a delicate web, the change would not be overnight.

“I’ve been spending my suppers and evenings at the House trying to normalize a routine,” Gwyn explained to her High Lady.

Lately, her evenings were spent reading, chatting, or playing cards with Azriel, Nesta, and Cassian, or any other combination therein; as Azriel was often called to duty, toiling long hours in his office. Gwyn found herself in her small dorm bed most nights, with Nesta walking her down the stairs, embracing her at the door to her room.

And then there were the nights Az would escort her, bestowing a tender kiss to her lips, wishing her goodnight.

And though his gesture was slow and considerate, the gentle touch left her burning. Making her strip off her clothes as soon as her door locked behind her. There was no need to read a steamy scene to become aroused. Not after months of being under the shadowsinger’s deliberate, precise handling.

In the dim light of her room, she’d let her hands willingly rove over her body. Kneading her breasts. Stroking and sinking into her warm sex. Touching herself in the way Az had taught, his decadent rich voice always in her ear filling her with sinful promises. As always, Azriel’s face and name were on her mind and her lips when she finally reached the pinnacle and tumbled over, leaving her a trembling, panting, smiling mess. Which was a shame when the shadowsinger with a perfect ass was only floors above, probably more than willing to help find her pleasure.

But things had been different since they’d returned from Sangravah and neither had taken the time to push anything further physically. Truth was, Gwyn knew Azriel was giving her space since the news of Calanmai. Not that she could blame him. Though as much as Gwyn appreciated the thoughtfulness, she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t say she was ready for more.

Because Gwyn was ready to try new things. So ready.

Everything since the cavern was more open, stronger, and yet felt more precious and oddly fragile. Like receiving priceless porcelain as a gift; too beautiful not to view and cherish. It was so delicate that you were afraid it would break if you touched it. And she had the sinking suspicion Azriel was seeing her as said gift.

She thought this had to do with her choice to still sleep in the dorms at night. Azriel wanted Gwyn up in the House and had been outspoken on the matter. Thought it was safer, and she agreed. To a point. But his longing, anxious gaze before he’d bid her goodnight plucked at her heartstrings.

But there was one other thing tugging at her heart, making it difficult for Gwyn to leave the temple dorms.

“Usually before bed,” Gwyn began once more as the two Archerons listened. “When the children stay, Ananke and I read to them and we sing a song before they go to bed.” A song about destined love and the sea her mother used to lull Catrin and herself to sleep as children. “Then Roslin, Deidre, and Thea help tuck them in and bring in dim fae lights, so the little ones are not in the dark.” They hated the dark, and Gwyn feared her shoving them in the cellar was the root cause. “I appreciate that Clotho said I didn’t have to leave everything but, I’ll miss that.”

Feyre met her stare, her blue eyes sharp yet glistening. “The children will be taken care of and will want for nothing. We promise, as does Clotho.”

Gwyn offered a strained smile. “I know. It’s just. Nesta, do you remember that little girl I sang with on Memorium night? Got in trouble with Merrill for spinning?” Gwyn twirled a finger for emphasis. Nesta nodded, folding her arms over the table. “Tulia. She was merely two at Sangravah and she’s shy. Even at her young age, she saw a lot and, out of all the kids, she’s become attached to me. She’s opened up so much recently and I’m just terrified of her regressing. They killed her mother that night and we do not know who the father is because she is a Rite child.” And gods didn’t that similarity eat away at her.

Feyre stepped into the conversation. “Tulia will be taken care of, and you will have full access to those kids and the library. I don’t care if I have to go down to the High Temple myself and make them yield. Understood?”

Gwyn gulped down the rest of her wine and nodded.

“This is the Court of dreamers, Gwyn. They will be allowed to dream, especially children.” The High Lady shared a poignant look with the eldest Archeron, toying with her lower lip before she continued. “Do you think the children would care to attend one of my painting classes?”

𝄋

Azriel had the first night off in a blessed while. Well, not entirely. Seated on the dark gray settee, he scoured through a stack of documents from Autumn and Rask, finding absolutely nothing of note. No Merrill or Koschei either. With a frustrated groan, his palm skimmed over Gwyn’s bare knee, her legs tossed over his lap as she sprawled full-length, her eyes fully engrossed in her book. Though he thought it was charming that she thought using her hands to conceal what kind of work she was deeply engaged in.

They’d spoken when she’d come back from her lunch this afternoon, rosy-cheeked and happy, and that made his heart sing and his shadows dance. And what she was wearing? Cauldron, she looked adorable. The color of the dress reminded him of currants, bringing out her eyes and her hair, turning her into the embodiment of Autumn. All the sweetness and spice of a warm apple tart. One of his favorites. He was sure she tasted the same.

But then there were those fucking fuzzy pegasus slippers glaring with dead button eyes beyond her crossed ankles.

We fear the priestess’s feet, Shadowsinger.

Smirking, Azriel shook his head, locating his place on the page. Per Eris, all was business as usual and peaceful in Autumn since the solstice festival. Good, and ultimately not.

Gwyn’s legs shifted over his thighs again for the fourth time. Not that he was counting.

You are, but not well. It was the fifth, his shadows countered.

He turned back to his papers, seeing Beron had hauled out people from Rask and Vallahan. He’d have to ask Eris what the fuck that was about. Nuala and Cerridwen were leaving on a mission tomorrow for—

Gwyn’s thighs moved, and her scent changed.

Fuck him.

Reports. He had reports to go over…

Another change over his lap, and now he felt tight in his skin. Though he’d changed into looser pants for the evening, the band of his undershorts pinned the head of his massive erection and had him adjusting as well. It always surprised him by how fast Gwyn could get him as hard as fucking granite.

Concentrate, his brain ordered. His eyes refocused on the page. Beron’s men have been...

Another crinkle and flip, and her lush scent even heavier. He squeezed her knee. Being this close to her heat was too much.

Setting the pile of papers over her long, toned legs, Azriel focused his full attention on her. He cleared his throat. Gwyn didn’t seem to notice as she turned another page.

Moving slowly, Az forced the book lower so he could see her face. When Gwyn’s teal orbs met his, they went wide, and a pretty flush spread under her freckles and down her throat.

“Care to share what you’re reading with the class, Berdara?” He teased with a half-grin.

Her eyes narrowed. “It’s a book, Shadowsinger. Why?”

“Well,” he crooned. “It still has to be more entertaining than my reports.”

“Most likely.” She lifted the book, and he pushed it back down. Her brows drew together.

“And I’m just wondering what has you all hot and bothered.”

She choked, shocked. “I am not!"

“You lie, Priestess, and I thought we promised to be honest.”

She suddenly paled, marking her place in the book before shutting it, cradling it against her chest. “Don’t call me that.”

He arched a questioning brow. “Why?”

“I’m not a priestess anymore,” Gwyn answered with a hint of sorrow.

“I won’t if you don’t want you to, but I have to admit, I’ve grown fond of your nickname.”

“Even if that’s not who or what I am anymore?”

Azriel reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss her knuckles. “Priestesses receive esteem and devotion. You are to get on your knees before them in reverence. In my mind, you’re still all of those things and are my priestess, Berdara.”

And Azriel would worship at the temple of Gwyneth anytime she demanded.

She rolled her eyes, but as the pink deepened the apples of her cheeks and her lips pursed, Azriel knew she had found his evidence enough.

“So, what were you reading?” He went to reach for her book, but she swiped it and hit him in the arm, which he rubbed and feigned pain.

“You’re such an Illyrian baby,” she smirked and sighed, relenting. “The novel is the new Sellyn Drake.”

Ah, yes, Azriel heard much about Sellyn Drake while residing under Nesta’s roof. And from what Cassian extolled about the author’s creativity, his brother gave a five-star review in the bedroom.

Only this was Gwyn reading these books, and the shadowsinger was curious as hell to find out what was so damn arousing. But he wouldn’t ask or pressure her to know more. If Gwyn wanted to share, that was on her own…

“This is a friend-to-lovers story and a slow burn. In this scene, the female and her love interest are at the stage in their relationship where they are becoming intimately acquainted. The pleasant twist here is she has more experience than the male. Which I appreciate because I am over the virgin trope.” He listened to her rant over tropes before she got back on track. “Anyway, this is the first time they were trying things together.”

“Oh,” Azriel said, massaging the back of her hand with his thumb. Gwyn moaned softly, her eyes fluttering shut. And he thought back to the first time she’d allowed herself to be intimate and vulnerable with him on his bed. And every time since.

“She was touching herself,” Gwyn continued, her voice breathy, “so was he, in front of her. And later they touched one another.” Gwyn opened her eyes, peering straight at him in what Az could swear was a challenge. “And I really want to try it.”

Everything froze except for his twitching cock at her words.

“Yes?” He met her intense stare, searching for signs. For permission.

“Yes,” she said, loud and clear.

Papers and books went flying as Azriel yanked on her legs, pulling her until her ass was cradled in his lap. Then he kissed the living shit out of her.

Chapter Text

A line from one of her favorite Sellyn Drake novels recited in her head.

She didn’t know it was possible to drown in fire, but she was burning in a sea of passion…

Gwyn always adored the quote, even though she never quite understood its meaning—until the moment Azriel tugged her into his lap and kissed her. This, Gwyn thought. This was what Gwyn imagined only possible in books. Where the character described being consumed, devoured by their partner. So immersed in each other, nothing existed beyond the now. Beyond the steam and want.

She didn’t know it was possible to drown in fire, but she was burning in a sea of passion…

And, Mother above, Gwyn would willingly let the passion drown her.

Gwyn hadn’t yet faced this version of her shadowsinger in bed. The one he struggled to conceal from her. This was Azriel, not being careful. Wasn’t treating Gwyn like frail, breakable glass in his grip.

No. This was a male who needed his female. And was making damn certain she accepted it. And Gwyn was loving every raw and sultry second of it—and she wasn’t afraid. Never of Azriel, who still hadn’t sung for her but drove away her shadows nonetheless.

Her shadows of dread. Shadows of uncertainty. Shadows of shame.

Gwyn fully reclined into his cradling arm, letting him hold her as his mouth claimed hers feverishly. Her fingers burrowed into his silky hair as he angled her head the way he preferred, deepening the kiss. She opened for him, forcing him close with a hand on the back of his neck. His tongue leisurely flicked over hers, teasing her to play. And she satisfied with her own, tasting him. A startled groan emerged from him when her teeth gently nibbled his lower lip as she pulled back.

Azriel’s free hand coasted lower to her waist. She shivered, his mouth capturing her muffled gasp as his thumb swept over her hipbone. Her essentially bare waist, Gwyn realized through the fog of lust.

The same attention must have crossed Azriel’s mind. Too soon, he lifted his head, glimpsing at her midriff. To where Gwyn’s deep red sweater dress had ridden up past her stomach when he’d towed her into his lap. How her exposed thigh pushed up against the hardness beneath his soft black pants.

“Gwyn,” Azriel murmured, throat bobbing, his anxious hazel eyes searching hers. And damn, the fact that he would break to check on her pierced her heart like an arrow.

She grinned. “It’s all right.” Her answer didn’t seem to placate. She tried again. “I’m all right, honestly,” Gwyn reassured, her fingers playing with the short ebony strands at his nape.

Shadows floated to his ear, and he nodded. Gwyn rolled her eyes.

“Do you not trust me, or are you getting evidence from your little lie-detecting shadowy minions?”

Az smiled timidly as his amused shadows twirled as he mumbled to them. When they implied a bow and slid under the threshold, it was clear the shadowsinger had dispatched them from the room.

“Sorry. I just need to be positive,” the shadowsinger sighed.

Though his next kiss was soft, the hold on her hip was not. Azriel brought his callused hand up to rest just below her breast. There was no eluding the heat of his palm through the tight-knitted fabric. And yet Gwyn knew Azriel would let go, move away if she requested. But she didn’t want him to go anywhere.

“So what happens next in this book scene, Berdara?”

Gwyn’s eyebrows shot up. “You want to know what actually happens in the scene?”

He acknowledged with a slight nod. “I’m assuming it all began with a passionate kiss,” Azriel said, brushing his lips over hers again, lingering this time. “Checked that box. So what next?”

She closed her eyes, softening into his embrace as his mouth moved to her cheek. Her jaw. Gwyn reclined back, giving him better access to her neck, where he expressed more kisses. Nibbling and lightly sucking at her pulse.

“They undressed in front of each other,” she exhaled. His thumb passed under the curve of her breast, inducing a moan and him to smile against her throat. She retaliated with a tug on his hair, triumphing at his rumbling groan, her heart racing at the noise.

With one more peck, he lifted his head. Those hazel eyes warmed to honeyed tea.

“Are you ready for that, Gwyneth?” He sought, gliding a finger over her lower lip.

Was she ready to be completely naked with him? No one had seen her bare down there since…

She gulped hard and sighed, defeated. “I want to be.” Her lower lip quivered as he passed his thumb over it again in a soothing caress. “But I can’t. Not yet.”

Azriel must have seen the shame on her fa… The annoyance and irritation. “It’s all right,” he said. “It's—”

“No, it’s not,” Gwyn exclaimed, thinking out loud. His forehead creased, and she could sense her words cooling the hotness they’d created. But she wasn’t ready to turn this off. Not now. She wanted him. “Underwear all right?”

He nodded.

When she sat up, he followed, running his fingertips down her leg.

“Before this goes any further,” Az murmured against her mouth. His hand went lower and lower until... Suddenly her slippers were yanked off her feet, landing with a soft thud somewhere across the room. She wiggled her bare toes and huffed in indignation.

“Hey!” Gwyn protested and pouted, sticking out her lower lip. “I love those slippers.”

“I’m sorry, but those furry abominations had to go,” he replied. “There is no way this is going any further with those awful things watching .” He feigned a shiver.

“Are you making me choose between you and those adorable slippers, Shadowsinger? Because it may not be as easy a choice as you may think.”

Azriel chuckled darkly, his hand skimming back up to her thigh. Gwyn sucked in a sharp breath. “That so?” He raised a daring black brow, amusement glinting in his gaze.

She narrowed her eyes and stood up, nearly ripping his arms out of the sockets as Gwyn tugged Az’s fine, chuckling ass off the couch.

“Now we get somewhat naked,” Gwyn declared.

He snorted. “Is that how it’s worded in the book? If so, I think you need to change your favorite author.”

Scowling, Gwyn hoisted her dress over her head in one fluid motion until she was standing before him in the matching lingerie she’d picked up when she lunched with Feyre and Nesta. They'd briefly shopped around a store, as any girl would do after their meal. Searching for girlie things one would normally be excited about. The set had caught her eye in the boutique window the moment Gwyn had noticed it; aqua lacy swirls with shimmering golden threads woven through like afternoon sunlight reflecting on a tranquil sea.

With a toss, her dress joined her supposedly hideous slippers. For a minute, she thought Azriel stopped breathing altogether because he didn’t move. Not even his eyes, which did not leave her body for a second.

“Gwyn, you are so fucking beautiful.” His darkened eyes valiantly tried focusing on her face, but like her, there was a tug to gape down each other’s bodies. To his hands, opening and closing at his side. To the very noticeable bulge under the seam of his pants.

Eyes finally finding hers, Azriel never looked away as he stalked forward. Taking her hands, he embraced her and kissed her gently, his lips floating over hers. They were so close she could feel his erection against her, the thin layers of fabric between them leaving nothing to the imagination. And left her head swimming.

“Can I ask you a question?” His breath warmed her damp lips.

“Anything.”

“I want you to take my pants off for me.”

Gwyn froze, angling her head. He was about to put distance between them when she chortled and pressed her lips to his. “That’s not a question, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel heaved a laugh, and his cheeks pinked. “Would you take my pants off? But you don’t have to if…"

“Yes.” After taking a stride back and a breather, she continued, “You take your shirt off, though. I don’t want to hurt your wings.”

One side of the shadowsinger’s lips quirked. “All right, I will. But just so you know, you wouldn’t hurt them. And I’m not opposed to you just tearing the shirt off me either.”

She snorted a giggle. “You are ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous is the last word most would use to describe me. But I will be only for you, Gwyn,” Azriel said, carrying his shirt up and over until there was nothing but tan skin and swirled ink before her. The only remaining thing was his sleep pants and what lay beneath. A vision that romance writers composed whole books about, and not unlike the male in the book she was currently reading. Only Azriel was a thousand times better than the hero. Because he was hers.

Gwyn’s shaking fingers boldly skimmed the waistband of his pants, flirting with the edge, her knuckles brushing against taut, flexing skin. A shudder rolled through his body, his wings included. She smirked at the fact she caused it.

“Are you sure?” She asked before going any further.

“Yes,” he gritted out.

“Just wanted to make sure. This consent thing is a mutual thing,” Gwyn said, smiling as she slowly undid the knot at the drawstring of his pants until they were loose on his hips. He groaned, his head tipping back as she shoved them down his waist. When she hesitated, as her hand got closer to his erection, Az walked back. His eyes never strayed from hers as he stepped out, left only in the tight black undershorts she’d become accustomed to, the fabric straining with the hidden flesh beneath and now…

Her fingers reached for the waistband of the sleep shorts.

“Gwyn,” he grunted her name, and desire coiled low at the sound, like a curse and a prayer to the gods all at once. And Gwyn wanted to be Azriel’s answer to both. But then Az removed her hands with what appeared to be a considerable effort. “Let’s give that a minute, all right?”

Taking her hand, he kissed her knuckles and led her back to the settee. She realized what he was doing as he stepped backward, facing her. He was offering her an out; a space to bring this to an end.

Instead, when Azriel sat, she settled over him as before, cradled in his lap. And there was no hesitation on either part as they both went in for a kiss, meeting in the middle.

With one arm around her shoulders, Gwyn moved his grasp from her waist up to her breast. He cupped her, engulfing her. Her nipples tightened, rubbing delightfully against the mesh, nudging into his large palm.

This part wasn’t new. And Gwyn wasn’t nervous to touch herself in front of him anymore. Although they’d never been this close before. Never cradled so tight she could feel him throbbing against her.

“You can take my t-top off,” she stammered, seeing Azriel’s eyes blaze. A deep sound reverberated from the back of his throat as his fingers lazily slipped the straps off her shoulders. Lower and lower, until he could free her from the gauzy cups. Until it was first his kneading hand and then his hot mouth against supple flesh.

Her own hand began its way lower, under the sole remaining fabric covering her, finding her core soaking. Together, they built her pleasure as she caressed and massaged below, and he swirled and nipped above. He bit down as she plunged a finger inside herself, then another, writhing, moaning as his hips ground against her free arm pinned between them.

She was getting close, but the scene from the book came to mind—and this wasn’t all it entailed.

“Azriel,” she moaned out, her hand holding the fire building. He removed his head from her breast, flicking the pink tip one more time as he met her stare. “Azriel, touch me, please. And before you even ask, I am so sure.”

His eyes shuttered, and the shadowsinger’s large body tensed and trembled beneath her.

“Show me what you want me to do, Gwyn.”

Removing her hand from her panties, she reached for his on her breast. Only Azriel grasped her wrist first. Their gazes locked. Azriel growled and sucked the two fingers that had been inside her sex into his mouth. His tongue slid between them, not leaving a single drop behind. Cauldron take her. It was so fucking sensual—and had definitely not been in the chapter. Her core went positively molten.

As he dragged back, he licked his lips clean. And yet; he blushed. “Shit. Sorry,” he whispered, kissing her knuckles in an apology. “I’m sorry, I should have asked first. I—”

Frantically shaking her head back and forth, Gwyn said, “No. No. I liked it.” Her cheeks heated at the admission. But, communication and all. “I loved it, in fact. You did that because you wanted to, and you would do that with a normal girl, right?”

Azriel froze. His eyes thinned and then softened. “You are normal , Gwyn. Perfectly normal. And you’re right, I would have done that. But the difference is, I didn’t give a shit about those girls and I fucking care about you. I don’t want to screw this up.”

Her heart banged in her rib cage. Gwyn knew Az cared about her and she speculated about the depth of his affections and yet…she didn’t ask. Not yet. Eyes lined with silver, Gwyn interlaced their fingers and trailed their joined hands down her body, both of them trembling as she slipped them under the band of her underwear.

They moaned in unison as her hand moved with his, as their fingers circled her pulsing clit and spread lower. Harder and faster. Azriel’s eyes darted between her face and the lush spectacle of their hands under the useless scrap of lace. As their fingers inched into her entrance, she slid her own away.

“Azriel,” she begged, and his focus returned to her, and she nodded. “Please.”

His breathing snagged, and Azriel looked as if he were about to say something when he slid a finger inside. Their eyes held as he slowly and tortuously plunged his finger in and out as she caressed her bundle of nerves. Azriel swore under his breath, shuddering as she gyrated against him.

“Are you all right?” he asked, despite her breathy pants of bliss.

“Yes,” she gasped. “Oh, yes.”

He smirked. “You feel amazing, Gwyneth. Just amazing. Your cun… You’re so warm and tight. Perfect.”

Her skin warmed at his wicked detail and she whined and rubbed harder, her other hand coming up to massage her breast, tweak her nipple.

“Fu…" Azriel said, before biting down on his lip to stop himself.

“You don’t have to hide your swears from me, Az. Please let them out. It’s fucking hot.” Her sentence ended in a whimper as he thrust harder. And gently, when she was more than ready, he eased in another finger.

With that, she was utterly lost.

Her eyes sealed shut, both her hands landing on her breasts, worshipping them as Azriel would. His laugh was pure seduction, his mouth lowering to hers as his fingers thrust, his thumb circling her swollen clit.

“Holy gods, Az!”

They moved in tandem as Azriel pleased her, his movements hindered by the delicate fabric. Until it was all too much and not nearly enough.

“Fuck, Gwyneth,” he grated out against her lips. “I can feel you. Let go.”

With those words, the knowledge that he was inside her, loving her, she did.

Gwyn cried out his name, and he whispered hers back. They rode out her pleasure as his fingers slowed and yet remained buried. And when she opened her eyes anew, her shadowsinger was beaming down at her with quiet admiration and joy and yearning.

After several serene moments, Az withdrew his fingers, dragging wetness over her skin as he went. She immediately lamented the loss of him. And wasn’t that just shockingly wonderful?

But as her mind pieced back together, Gwyn clearly remembered the scene. Her eyes traveled to the erection threatening to rip the shadowsinger’s pants apart. Oh, they were not done.

“Az,” she purred, running teasing fingers over his abdomen. He jerked, and she grinned. Gwyn sat up swiftly, straddling him. Leaning in, she kissed him. Stretching back, she whispered, “Your turn, Shadowsinger.”

𝄋

Azriel didn’t know what good things he had done in his life to be granted the privilege of satisfying Gwyneth Berdara, but he wished to thank the Mother and whoever else. Because of holy motherfucking Cauldron.

The girl was a fire in his hands that smoldered under his touch. A dancing flame he could capture that burned only for him. The thought alone made him harder than he could ever possibly imagine. But the current image of her straddling him topless, cheeks still flushed from the passion he’d inflicted, had a bead of liquid leaking from his tip.

“So, what is the next part?” he grunted in delightful pain from the tug on his earlobe.

“You touching yourself for me, Az.” Her eyes darted to his groin, and he groaned. His head smacked the back of the low couch. “So?”

A growl rumbled through his chest as his hand flew to the band of his pants and under. Wrapping his fist around his length, Azriel pumped up and down once.

“I want to see,” Gwyn mumbled. Her eyes went wide as if she caught herself in a thought made real.

He panted, suspending his movements. “Are you sure, Gwyn? Positive?”

She nodded, gnawing her lip. “I want to see you, Az.”

The priestess’s big blue-green eyes didn’t blink as he yanked down the waistband and freed his erection from its constraints. Az was a little worried at first about Gwyn’s lack of a reaction besides just…blatantly staring.

After she blinked out of her trance, and when her gaze found him; she barked a laugh. Now he blinked.

“I’m sorry, Azriel.” She leaned forward to lavish a tender kiss. “I was just doing mental gymnastics, trying to figure out how you would fit inside me because I’m not sure it would.”

Oh, he was absolutely sure it would. And the prospect of someday making himself at home inside that soft warmth he’d just experienced for the first time almost made him come right then and there.

With one hand on the base of her neck, his thumb soothing her spine, Azriel insisted, “Watch me, Gwyneth.”

And she indeed watched as he stroked himself. Staring as her eyes darkened to depthless sea green with every shift of his hand. Every twist of his wrist. Every time his thumb smoothed over the tip, that made his hips buck up and bite his lip.

"You like watching, don’t you?”

"Yes,” she responded instantly, her hips rolling above his lap.

His grip tightened, and he rubbed faster, the pleasure building at the base of his spine. He would not last much—

“May I touch you, Az?”

“Fuck!” he howled out, stopping almost before he came. Because godsdammit, if his Gwyn wanted to touch him, he was going to build a fucking dam to hold back the orgasm. Between panting breaths, he pleaded, “Yes, Gwyn. Please, gods, touch me. I want you to fucking touch me.”

Gwyn’s answering sexy chuckle had his eyes turning into slits. Did she somehow know how close he was and made him stop?

“Please touch me, Berdara,” he ground out.

Gwyn moved her hand closer until a lonely finger dragged over the underside of his dick from root to tip. He swore, his head slumping forward to her bare shoulder. The way her fingers wrapped around his erection one by one was pure, perfect torture. And when she finally gripped him and squeezed, he was in paradise.

She softly sighed. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted as she kissed his neck. “Watching you was a brilliant demonstration, but…" Her melodic laughter made his chest hum. “Help?”

Azriel curled his hand around Gwyn’s much smaller one, reassuring her she could hold much harder without hurting him. In fact, he preferred it that way. So Gwyn did, and he helped guide her fist up and down his shaft, over and over. Until she had a rhythm in her firm grasp as Gwyn jerked him off all by herself.

“Gods, Gwyn, you are unbelievable. A fucking goddess,” he groaned as his hips punched up into her fist as the pleasure hit him hard. Though Azriel always prided himself on having remarkable endurance, there was no way in hell he was going to last much longer.

Not when her velvety lips drifted over his collar.

Not when his Gwyn was gripping him, working over his throbbing cock to make him come.

Not after Gwyn had let him in.

“I’m close,” he growled in warning, not sure what Gwyn wanted to do. Though he was confident, she knew what to expect from her smutty books. "Gwyn. ”

“I know,” she crooned, lifting her head. He found her teal eyes as she stroked him into sweet release. His breath whooshed in and out of him in a rush as he spilled. She clutched him, her fingers remaining curled around his pulsing length.

For a solid, terrifying minute, Azriel weighed what they’d just finished and if Gwyn was going to panic. Fuck, what had he just done? Had he pushed too hard? He'd never forgive himself if…

And fuck, he came all over her hand.

But Gwyn merely grinned, leaning in to kiss him. “Thank you for bringing one of my favorite chapters to life.”

Azriel snorted, snatching his discarded shirt to wipe her palm covered in him. But he couldn’t help but kiss her again and again. “If you have any more scenes you want to explore, please let me know.”

She playfully tweaked his nose. “Oh, I have many bookmarked, Shadowsinger.”

Cauldron, after tonight? He fucking hoped so.

𝄋

Gwyn woke up the next morning alone in her new bed in the House.

After she and Azriel had done things and cuddled in his room the night before, he lent her one of his cotton shirts and carried her to her room down the hall. She also did not successfully locate her slippers.

“I swear if you touch them, Az,” she’d suggested.

He merely chuckled. “Your threats are doing the opposite of what you believe. You know how I enjoy sparring with you.”

"Did your shadows stow them away?”

No answer. Insufferably desirable male.

“I have to leave early tomorrow morning and don’t want to wake you,” Azriel said, brushing his lips to her forehead as he gently laid her between the fresh teal and white cool sheets. But Gwyn had asked him to stay, if only until she fell asleep. She needed him near after they’d been so close. And he did, with little coaxing. She’d fallen asleep with her head on his chest, his arm wrapped around her shoulder.

As scheduled, he had left by the time Gwyn sat up in bed, stretching her body. Finding herself a trifle sore between her legs, she smirked, remembering the way Azriel had relished in touching her. In bringing her satisfaction.

And godsdammit, Gwyn was proud of herself. Of them . And the wide beaming smile gracing her face during a particularly hard morning training showed it.

“What are you so happy about?” Nesta wheezed, holding her side on the ground from a sneaky strike that would have made the shadowsinger proud. Gwyn helped her friend to her feet, shrugging.

“Just happy.”

Nesta smirked. “You slept in your new room last night?”

“Yes, I did. Cozy and warm.”

“I’m sure. And I also noticed shadows lingered outside of the door when I went to get a glass of water late at night.”

Gwyn’s teal eyes thinned with caution, meeting Nesta’s keen stare. “You could just ask the House for water. Why venture all the way to the kitchen?”

The eldest Archeron’s lips curled into a knowing grin when she walked away, apparently not needing any more information, as Cassian closed out another training session.

Gwyn clapped her hands together and practically skipped down the stairs to the library. She’d decided. She was going to pack the rest of her things and move into the House today.

Going into the library, she bowed in greeting to Clotho, waving to a few fellow Valkyrie sisters getting ready to work as she went. Making her way to her dorm, she spun, suddenly deciding to go give praise to the Mother in the temple after the wonderful night she had. After the revelation.

With a full heart and a pulsing in the center of her chest, Gwyn entered the reticent, solemn space. She anointed her head from the blessed fount, making her way up the aisle to the altar with love and praise.

For the strength to overcome.

For the focus she needed during her worst.

For the courage to try new things.

For the hope that they did not damage her heart beyond repair.

Despite how shitty the organized religion had become, the Mother had never truly left or let Gwyn down.

“Thank you,” Gwyn said, eyes misty.

“You should have left when you had the chance, Gwyneth Berdara.”

Hairs rose on the back of her neck as her entire body stiffened. She would recognize that condescending voice anywhere— Merrill.

Chapter Text

Any residual languid warmth froze over her blood like the first frost the moment Gwyn heard her snide voice.

Hands clenching into fists, she swiveled around to face the temple entrance.

Merrill stood before her in all her beautiful cruelty, occupying the aisle, barring her path. No longer in priestess robes but a dirtied silvery shift, glimmering like moonlight against her light brown flesh. A sword fixed in her clutch. And the edges of that damnable cloak she had worn the night the Gwyn spied her with her co-conspirator blowing as if the brisk November breeze streamed in from an open window. But there were none.

Gwyn’s fingers twitched, itching to swipe the dagger at her thigh. But she waited. Patience was the core of the shadowsinger’s discipline. Observe. Detect. Let your opponent make the initial move whenever you can—the first mistake. Then strike.

Merrill’s knuckles gripped the pommel of her sword. A weapon with more reach than Gwyn’s shorter blade. Gwyn donned a veil of indifference, schooling her features. Though deep in her mind, she was loosening her mental shield, reaching out for the High Lord of Night. Surely a powerful daemati such as himself could receive…

“You won’t be able to call him. She made certain of that, Gwyneth. ”

Gwyneth.

There were only so many people Gwyn tolerated calling her by her given name, and it was a ruefully short list. Catrin and Azriel. Merrill did it out of sheer spite, expressing it as most would use obscenities, as if she were consciously seeking to rile the young Valkyrie. And it was working.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gwyn replied, her tone dry. Scanning the soaring space, Gwyn was grateful they were alone—the younglings had not yet arrived for their choir practice. May the Mother bless them and keep them safe. They’d endured enough.

A crisp wind lifted the end of Merrill’s cloak, stirring the loose copper from Gwyn’s twisted, sweaty braid.

Only then did she glare at Merrill, eyeing her adversary for weakness. Good gods. Those eyes … There was something wrong with Merrill’s eyes. The once brutal ice-blue irises that could freeze you on the spot were clouded like churned silt in stormy waves.

“What, no eye rolls today, behind my back or front? No snotty retort?” Merrill’s sinister chuckle evoked a snake in the grass. Careful. Serpents could strike without warning. Be on guard. Think of your mission in her office.

“Where are the books, Merrill?”

She tapped her chin with the tip of her blade. “Books...Books...There have been so very many, Gwyn. Refresh my memory.”

“The ones from your office. The Book of Breathings and The Walking Dead. ”

Strands as pale as fresh snow floated behind the elder priestess on a strange phantom wind. “I see the shadowsinger’s whore has reaped from his lessons. Tell me, Gwyneth? How many of his lessons were flat on your back?”

Whore—that nasty word again. One that her friend the High Lord himself had imparted to Gwyn dared to be applied to even him in the past when he’d been Under the Mountain.

Merrill’s eyes fogged over, nearly opaque. “How many times did you spread your legs for Az? Lain with the Spymaster of the Night Court, the Angel of Death?” Those eyes changed color, overcast, turning into a bright day. A vibrant azure like a twilight sky once again. The elder priestess swayed from side to side.

Gwyn held everything in, all the inner violence and fury at her words, the implications brimming beneath a crafted visage. Especially after she shared with Azriel last night, and what she felt this dawn. Gwyn was nobody’s whore. And Azriel was no Angel of Death.

Focus. Azriel and Cassian trained her for occasions like this. Get this dumb bitch to continue talking, get answers for Rhysand. No matter the cost.

Gwyn pushed harder, tone as sharp as her knife. “Where are the fucking books?”

Merrill took two strides forward, but Gwyn held like Nesta at The Breaking. For Cauldron's sake, this was Merrill, an over-inflated-ego priestess. And a priestess with vast knowledge of Valkyrie tactics, she gently reminded herself, dread sifting in her gut.

Eyeing the exit in the corner of her vision, Gwyn wondered how quickly she could reach the door. Would she make it before Merrill used the sword?

“It’s locked,” Merrill said, taking another step, closing in.

Then another.

Do not yield, Azriel’s deep, firm voice echoed in her mind. Do not yield, Gwyn. Not an fucking inch.

“And you don’t think I can break a door, Merrill?” She really needed to stop with the mocking gibes.

“No one is getting in here. And like I said, you should have fled when you still could. That’s all I wanted. Truthfully, I didn’t want it to come down to this—I was hopeful, you know, that you would merely leave and spare all of us, including yourself. At least that is what we had hoped but you remained despite all the attempts.”

Leave? No one had requested her to leave. But something had been stalking Gwyn. Chasing her through the gloomy depths of the library. Scaring her. Hurting…

"Oh gods,” her teal orbs seared into Merrill. “The attack in the library. That was you."

She could swear the cold-blooded priestess recoiled at the accusation. "For what it’s worth, no, the attack was not me. I would have put no one else in danger, nor did I want you hurt.”

Gwyn’s answering growl rumbled against her bones. “Bullshit." She pointed straight at Merrill’s crooked heart. “You are the reason Shelah is dead. Why Thea got hurt.”

A muscle ticked in Merrill’s elegant, stubborn jaw."It was an error born out of anger. It wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did because of you."

"An error? Shelah’s death classifies as more than a mere error." From deep inside, a sardonic laugh climbed with a dawning understanding. “The Rite. You entered my name into the list for fucking Calanmai to scare me away?”

"That was a last-ditch effort to send you screaming from the court, an idea not born from my mind.” There was something mimicking regret in those winter eyes. “She thought you would leave then, that it was ironclad. I prayed to the Mother that was all it would take. For what was foretold can’t stand.”

Foretold?

Another step advanced, each heavy plod echoing on the vaulted ceiling. “You’ll ruin all of us, Gwyn.”

Finding the cold metal hilt against Gwyn’s thigh was like being reacquainted with a dear friend right when you needed them. One that always had your back. Gwyn withdrew her dagger from its leather sheath, calculating the distance for a precise throw, gauging if Merrill could block with her saber.

“She said you have to go. We offered you choices, but you’ve left us none. Night will yield to the siren of fire. The Valkyrie, broken by their own hands at her song. Melody and flame, a smothering end to shadows. It sings the end."

A prophecy? It sings the end —the end of what? In all her years of research, for Merrill or otherwise, Gwyn had never happened across this prognostication anywhere.

Merrill’s eyes cleared then and her pale eyebrows drew down, eyes focused as she lifted her sword. As if...as if she knew how to wield it.

“Who is this she?” Gwyn asked, her eyes darting to the various sites of entry, praying to the Mother none of the children entered.

“It all has to change—to end. Especially these fucking traitorous courts and I was more than willing to have a role. And I will not have you mark the end of the Valkyries, leading them to pain and ruin, Gwyneth Berdara. Not again. Never again.”

As Merrill held her sword aloft on a battle cry and unleashed. The last thing Gwyn saw before she snatched her dagger for the block was a sliced white ribbon bound around the hilt, the untied ends thrashing in the mystical breeze.

The token of an initiated Valkyrie.

𝄋

Shadowsinger! They flicked his ear hard.

He blinked back to awareness, focusing again on Rhys as Cassian was delivering on the utter shitshow of the Illyrian territory. Fuck all of them. If he was the High Lord, he’d move out the females and children, and mist the rest of those useless pricks.

Instead, the Night Court would simply apply the same tired hard diplomacy and a firm hand when required.

“Devlon says the assholes were taken care of.”

The harsh expression on Rhysand’s face was visible as he tapped his fingers in a thoughtful rhythm. “So what do you think, Cassian? I would ask Azriel but,” the High Lord clicked his tongue, his gaze snapped over to the shadowsinger. “We know his choice would be to mist the whole thing.”

Stay out of my head, Rhysand.

Then close your damn mind, Azriel.

Az slammed his mental shield with ample enough force for the High Lord to flinch. And even then, the magnificent bastard winked in enjoyment.

The shadowsinger scrubbed a hand down his face, eyes gritty. Azriel loved feeling his Valkyrie in bed last night, but sleep brought no joy. He’d taken off her before the first light, having to escort Cerridwen and Nuala to the border of Autumn and Spring for reconnaissance.

But before, for a few precious hours, he’d lain awake, relishing in the warmth of Gwyn’s body crowded into his side. Her silken, rust-colored hair fanned over his bare chest. Perfect. Gwyn was fucking flawless. And what the couple had shared in his bedchamber was a revelation. And it was unbelievable how comfortable Az was in her room, even lacking a blade under the pillow. Besides, he would tear someone apart with his bare hands for touching his…

He thrust that right down, sealing it up in the depths.

She will regret being with someone as unworthy as you … Your love will be her ruin. End her.

You promised to try, his shadows susurrated, citing his commitment in the caves by Sangravah. And fucking gods, he wanted to try. Wanted to be better for her. To deserve her.

There is no need to be better. She loves you for who are.

His heart ceased beating at their message.

She loves you, Shadowsinger.

ENOUGH!

His word was a dominant order of a lord to domestic, reverberating tremors through the dismal mist. A tone his bastard of a father often used on his servants. On Azriel’s true mother—and applying it himself, even to his shadows, made him ill. For once, they actually obeyed, and the shame of it ate away at his conscience. Deep in his wicked heart, he realized the shadows were merely trying to bolster him in their meddlesome way. They always had. Sometimes they were the only ones.

But what facts did his umbrae have to back up their claim? Yes, the young priestess had declared in the cave she was “falling” for him; true. But Gwyn’s young and obsessed with romance novels. How could she know for sure if something was love versus desire? Or hope? Lust? Obsession?

The brooding fool with centuries on her had yet to distinguish between the two. The inky darkness shifted as his shadows snickered. Azriel rolled his eyes.

Even after all he survived, endured, how fucking dare his shadows tease him with false hope?

A hope that he would be hers.

As he imagined Gwyn coming apart on his fingers, his heart drummed rapidly in his chest. Remembering how she had writhed so brazenly in his lap, on his body. Her secret beauty he adored and admired. His hands blessed to caress her parted lips and flawless freckled skin.

His shadows hummed their dismal approval. And you didn’t think of your hands once, did you?

Shock jolted him. Because no , he had not. Not once while he touched Gwyn had his mottled hands even crossed his mind. Before last night, Azriel had never forgotten his scars or how his intimate partner thought of them on their skin. But last night? There was not one moment he wasted fretting.

But how could Gwyn love him?

A ghostly smack to the back of his head knocked him out of his circling thoughts. That is for her to decide! When you are not so miserable, you are admittedly quite loveable.

Fuck. He rubbed the spot they struck. Guess the theory they would be obedient went straight out the damn study window.

His pulse sped up, whirring through the shadowsinger in a low hum.

Your hearts sing the same song, Shadowsinger.

You keep repeating that like I’m supposed to fucking understand. What does it mean?

You know exactly what it means if you see beyond your insecurities, Azriel.

Azriel. They never referred to him as Azriel, not since they first arrived in the dark cell beneath his father’s keep.

Suddenly too tight in his skin, he closed his eyes, seeking to lessen the growing compression in the center of his chest.

Shadowsinger, the High Lord is speaking. Pay attention.

“Azriel? Is everything all right?”

The shadowsinger cleared his throat, adjusting his wings as he straightened in his chair. “Yes. Why?”

Perched on the edge of Rhys’s desk, Cassian crossed his arms and lifted a nosy, dark brow. Rhys remained behind the immense wooden desk, his tan forehead etched with concern.

“Yeah, I…" The heel of his palm ground and smoothed over his chest, his heart, fighting the rising tension with slow, purposeful circles. “Why?”

“Why?” Cassian snorted. “You’re usually a fucking statue, and you haven’t remained still for the last ten minutes.”

“I have to admit, Azriel,” Rhysand said, “You are reminding me of my son in his crib. Constantly fidgeting.”

“Sure as shit, Az. I haven’t seen you this jittery since I put itching powder between your wings when we were kids.” Fucking Cassian. “What the hell is up with you?”

Good question. In truth, Azriel had felt nothing like this in some time, not since—

A squall blew a howling foreboding song across the wide lawn, the willows surrounding the boundary of the Sidra bending in view of the window behind Rhys.

Cassian stood tall, arms dropping to his side as he twisted to the song of the wind. The hairs on his arm rose. “Do you feel that?”

Bumps erupted all over Azriel’s skin, scraping against his leathers as a surge of power pulsed through the city. The den suddenly shone in azure and crimson as the Siphons adorning the Illyrian’s leather bracers flared brilliantly.

Azriel’s enormous eyes found Rhysand’s simmering, glowing violet. “Something is wrong.”

Cassian huffed, tying his hair back into a leather strap at the nape of his neck. “No shit.”

𝄋

Ringing filled the spot between her ears as she scrambled to gain her bearings. She saw metal glinting in the candlelight as she reached the growing knot on her head. Gwyn’s dagger hand shot up, preventing another direct blow from Merrill’s sword.

Never be on your back. Get to your feet.

With a heavy grunt, she launched Merrill back with both her legs, sending the bleeding and injured white-haired female hurtling into what remained of the benches that weren’t decimated by the elder priestess’s devastating blast of wind. In the same breath as Merrill, Gwyn erupted on her feet.

Her heart pounded against her rib cage as they mirrored each other’s movements. Gwyn’s gaze fell on the sword in Merrill’s hand. To the golden imprint of wings from point to hilt. To the molded, gilded wings at the end of the pommel. The once pristine severed white ribbon.

“How do you have a sword of a Valkyrie?” Gwyn asked, scorn dripping in each word.

Merrill’s smile curled in a mixture of disgust and grief. “My mother’s sword.” She twirled it around, the frayed fringes of the ribbon whirling in a circle in perfect form. Mother, spare her. “My mother was a Valkyrie. Noble and brave.”

Gwyn’s mouth fell open in shock. Her mother was a Valkyrie—that’s what spurred her obsession for research and testimony on their history. Why Merrill had been so fixated on upholding the Valkyrie past and the future.

Keep her talking, Gwyn thought.

Buy time.

Someone would have to check on the inner sanctum, eventually. All she required was one well-placed distraction.

“And you?” Gwyn studied her opponent, thinking about how this was the first time they were evenly matched. Not mentor and apprentice. They shared the same knowledge of technique, but perhaps Gwyn finally had the upper hand. “You do not appear fully trained with the way you hold that sword with a limp wrist right now,” Gwyn said, hearing how mocking it sounded.

Merrill bared her teeth, her hand readjusting on the weapon with precision. “I was in training when they fell—betrayed. The ones that survived scattered as if Rabath himself had swept them into unknown lands. Destroyed or sent away. Gone.”

Rabath, the Lord of the Western Wind. The powerful fae Merrill descended from, as she had touted many times over.

“All they wished was dignity and the heirs of Rabath, scions of the first to come to this world, and their kind wanted was their family and land returned. Or to return whence they’d came. They were promised thusly for aiding in the war, but—” Merrill’s snicker reminded Gwyn of thrown stones and bones, foretelling something dark and significant. Letting out a lengthy sigh, blowing more like a hiss, “No matter. The seer promises she will restore everything once the prophecy is avoided.”

A thump sounded outside the massive door.

“Berdara! Clotho said you came this way. I wanted to know if you needed any help today.” Nesta. “Berdara!... Roslin, you said she came in here, right?”

“Yes,” she overheard Roslin, her fellow Valkyrie-priestess, answer in confusion. There was a clunk on the handle, metal hit metal. “Ananke, why is this locked? Odd. We never bolt the temple.”

“Something doesn’t seem right. Roslin and Ananke, are you armed? Lorelai! Deidre! Ileana, go alert Clotho,” Nesta commanded her Valkyries. “Berdara!”

“Gwyn!” A persistent cadence of pounding and shouts commenced.

“NES—” Her words cut off as a gust sent backward into her, knocking the air from her lungs.

Merrill growled, hefting her sword high as she stalked Gwyn. Left with no other option, the young Valkyrie aimed and threw her sole weapon—her dagger. It met its target.

As Merrill howled in agony, hands sliding through blood as she tugged at the blade impaled in her trunk before tossing it to the ground. Gwyn scrambled to get behind the altar. If she could get beyond the shrine and sacred pool where the priestesses drew the water for the blessing fount, Gwyn would reach the rear entrance leading to the dorms.

A blow came out of nowhere, sending Gwyn careening into the water with a splash. Get out, she thought. Twisting in the shallow depths on her hands and knees, she slithered toward the back door as the distant, insistent pounding turned into wood cracking.

“Nesta,” Gwyn shouted. “It’s Mer—”

A blast of wind flipped her onto her back, propelling her down. Down. Down. Until Gwyn was underwater, gazing up through wavy glass. The blurred figure of a luminous, white-haired goddess glowered over her.

Gwyn fought against the force pinning her body.

Fight. Her limbs flailed.

Fight. Her palms slipped on the slick tile on the floor, fingernails cracking.

Fight. She grasped at her sides to find she’d indeed used her one weapon.

The more Gwyn protested, the harder she struggled, the more the power pressed against her skin. Her back flattened to the bottom, the corners of tiny tiles piercing into the leather.

She could hear Nesta’s voice muffled in the distance as her lungs burned.

Nesta was coming.

Nesta was almost here.

She would find her if Gwyn could only call…

Her mouth opened on a phantom gasp, trying to yell and draw in air at once, water rushing into her lungs.

“It’s a shame it has to end this way, Gwyneth,” Merrill began as bubbles rose from Gwyn’s nose to the surface. “The resurrection of the Valkyrie is welcome. But not under the charge of that audacious Archeron, a crippled Illyrian, and some half-breed.”

Half-breed. How many times had that miserable witch referred to her as a half-breed nymph? The daughter of a half-breed nymph .

The memory sparked something inside her, awakening.

Nymph.

Nymph.

Gwyn was a part nymph.

Control. She had to get this under control; she thought. Still herself, her mind. Closing her eyes, she battled against the rising terror in her body. Her burning lungs.

I am the rock against which the surf crashes.

“We nudged you several times, Gwyn. But you surprised me. If only you hadn’t ensnared that damned shadowsinger. This might have worked out differently, siren. At least from my end.”

I am the rock against which the surf crashes.

“Just remember, you brought this all upon yourself.” From below the shimmering surface, Gwyn could see Merrill’s eyes shift once again from bright azure to milky alabaster. Her features evolved from a snarl to quiet resignation. “I’m sorry. You were going to get him killed. And I can’t have that—and he’s better off.”

Merrill’s eyes transformed, blending colors, now the odd hue of damp bluestone.

Gwyn’s hands flattened on the bottom as she focused her mind, delving deep into herself beyond the hurt in her lungs, and she let go.

Falling through the pain, watching a memory of her mother taking her and Catrin to their lake. The broad smile on her mother’s pretty face, gaping up at the beveled sky from the bottom with no fear.

So, like her mother before, Gwyn became part of the water, letting it seep into her bones. No fear.

Until the pool was still. Until Gwyn no longer thrashed but lay as still as a rock in a surf.

Until the liquid in her lungs didn’t burn. Until it felt right.

Gwyn smiled inside and bided her time. Perhaps she should show Merrill what a half-breed nymph Valkyrie was truly capable of. Because tossing Gwyn into that pool was a huge fucking mistake.

The moment Merrill backed away, believing she had drowned her rival, and turned to find Nesta closing in from behind, Gwyn burst out of the water.

Chapter Text

She didn’t have a plan as Merrill’s invisible force waned. Only rise and strike. Now, with her foe’s attention fixed squarely on Nesta, Gwyn had to knock Merrill over before she could attack.

Two objectives, then. Disarm and drag Merrill’s ass to the ground.

As Merrill squared off with Nesta, Gwyn’s soaked body crashed into the priestess. The two bodies rolled over one another, tumbling together until they slammed into a far granite wall. Scrambling for an advance, Gwyn rose on her knees, straddling her disorienting opponent. A growl unleashed from within, along with a punch that had the very stone quake beneath their feet.

Gwyn’s head snapped back as Merrill countered, cheek thrumming from the impact. The blow went unchallenged as the young Valkyrie was thrown off, grounding a few feet away, to find Nesta standing above Merrill. A sword held above Merrill’s black heart as Nesta’s boot's heel ground into the elder priestess’s wrist until she lost hold of her weapon.

“Here,” Nesta said, handing Gwyn the dagger she had pitched before being assailed into the pool.

“Thanks, Nesta,” she returned, wiping blood on her leathers.

“Holy fuck. Is that a Valkyrie sword?” Nesta glared at Merrill. She motioned to Gwyn, then to the discarded sword, the gilding shining in the candlelight. “Take the sword, Gwyn. You disarmed her.”

“Don’t you fucking dare! That was my mother’s!”

Nesta snorted. “And appears to be Gwyn’s now. A Carynthian Valkyrie, I might add. So.” Nesta undulated her shoulders and neck. “Should we make this insipid cunt talk, or wait for the Spymaster?” She bared her teeth, imparting a proper weight of dread. The near-infamous Lady Death was the monarch of such matters.

Merrill’s eyes were no longer murky, but the magnetic azure Gwyn had come acquainted to scowling at her in sheer distaste.

Gwyn bent, aiming the blade at Merrill’s throat. “The other people you were speaking of from the Great War. Who were they? Where did they go?”

Snarling, the elder priestess spat blood in Gwyn’s face. Nesta forced the point of the sword into the wound previously created by Gwyn’s knife. The intention close enough to the heart, but not close enough to kill. Merrill’s chest rose and fell rapidly in panic, her eyes darting. “We don’t know and don’t remember. Nobody does.”

Gwyn’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“Preposterous bullshit! Someone has to remember," Nesta barked out.

The young redheaded Valkyrie reeled her head, forging onward. “Who is she you’ve been conspiring with?”

Merrill hissed like the viper she was. “All the same endgame, you know. All the same. The High Fae that betrayed will fall. Only a matter of time.”

Merrill shrieked as Nesta twisted the sharpened steel into the open injury an inch or two, with a smirk on her gorgeous face. Cauldron, one would assume she was the dreaded spymaster of the Night Court.

“I’ve been waiting to do this since I saw you treating Gwyn like complete shit during my library assignment, Merrill.”

“You worthless bitch!” Merrill’s snarls and shrieks reverberated through the open space.

“Nesta, do you need…" Roslin hailed from the entrance.

One second.

All it took was one second to turn, detecting two of their Valkyrie sisters in their leathers. Armed, bracing to do battle, but too set in worry to move. One second for Merrill to knock Nesta’s sword away and kick both Gwyn and Nesta backward.

Weapons clattered as they all rose to their feet to fight their opposition in a flurry of swinging arms and kicking feet. The three of them each won their share of solid blows, true evidence Merrill had instruction, and Mother above, she could deliver a punch with force. But Gwyn would always be better. Faster at hand-to-hand. And she applied her swiftness. Her gods’ given nymph speed to bring the bitch down.

While Nesta tackled Merrill to the ground, Gwyn seized the gilded Valkyrie sword, charging forward. A pure animalist snarl broke from her as she neared. Nesta was now standing, clasping the struggling priestess’s arms behind her back.

Blood seeped from Merrill’s bronzed skin as Gwyn pressed the blade to her throat.

“I will ask you again before I call upon the Spymaster. Who. Is. She? ” Gwyn panted, showing her teeth.

A film clouded over those eyes again, the sky-blue paling to the shade matching Merrill’s silvery locks. Those cruel lips contorted into something insidious, deadly. A knowing secret behind the hideous smile.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” The sardonic chuckle skittered across Gwyn’s bones. Merrill fought against Nesta’s hold, lurching forward enough to mumble in a sing-song voice, “You’ll find out soon enough...but I’m not telling. At least I will go upon my mother’s sword.”

Merrill’s skull slammed back into Nesta’s face so hard, the eldest Archeron fell back onto the saturated stone floor—and then Merrill rushed straight into Gwyn’s sword. Blood sprayed onto Gwyn’s startled face and leathers as Merrill impaled herself with a perverse grin. One that remained on her face as Merrill struck the floor and dragged in her last gasping breath.

𝄋

They spread their wings to soften the hard landing as they dropped onto the roof of the House of Wind.

“The burst of power came from the center of Velaris,” Rhysand said as he strolled around the training ring. “But it doesn’t seem like it was only from here. There’s someplace else, too.” He considered for a minute, his violet eyes vacant, discerning.

“Something to do with the House’s power?” Cassian offered.

“Perhaps, but that hasn’t happened before. Think Nesta could track the power?” Rhysand asked Cassian, who shrugged.

“Not sure. She’s tried none of that shit since the day Nyx was born.”

The day Cassian’s mate had made a tremendous sacrifice to save three lives, for which all were eternally in her debt. In typical Nesta fashion, she was making damn sure everyone paid up. Not that he blamed her.

“Could Nesta have been trying to use her powers again?” Azriel asked, tracing his foot over the mats. Odd. Usually, Gwyn and Nesta rolled them. “Where is Nesta?”

Cassian smiled, shuffling backward toward the door leading to the interior of the House. “She should be inside being lazy and asking the House for lunch.” As soon as they crossed the threshold, Cass hollered out, “Nes! I’m home. Hopefully, you’re decent because we’ve got company, and I don’t want to have to bust skulls.” Nor did Azriel ever want to wander in on anything such as the infamous table blowjob. Ever again.

Cassian’s heavy footfalls sounded further along the long hall toward their marital bed. “Nes!” A knock. “I’m coming in.” More footsteps up and down the corridor. The opening and shutting of various wooden doors.

Azriel and Rhysand paced the great room as his shadows tore through.

The Lady Death is not here, they reported back.

“Nesta isn’t here.” Cassian scrubbed his palm over his stubble. “Did she go to lunch with the girls?”

“She’s not with Feyre,” Rhysand said, obviously checking mind-to-mind with his mate. “And no one brought her to Emerie.”

“She mentioned nothing to you after practice?” Azriel asked, an eyebrow raised.

“No, she and Gwyn were all chatty at the end, and then Gwyn literally skipped off to the library.”

Knowing Gwyn’s happiness this morning was so extreme that she was skipping all over the damn place caused Az’s heart to do the same.

You made her feel that way, Shadowsinger. You make our lovely priestess happy.

"Gwyn’s not supposed to work today.” In fact, she had mentioned in passing she wished to grab dinner and wander the avenues of the Rainbow later.

Rhysand picked invisible lint off his sleeve. “You mentioned she’s packed; maybe she made a final decision to move in.” The High Lord’s eyes crinkled at the edges as he smirked. “And I wonder what could have prompted such a bold decision.”

Rhys, don’t you say a thing and stay the fuck out of my—

The groan of the heavy door leading up from the library severed his thoughts.

“Hey Nes, where the hell were…you?” Cassian strode forward, clutching his beloved mate by the shoulders and examining her, then glancing over her head, asking, “Why the fuck are your hands bloody and Gwyn soaking wet?”

Nesta shoved her mate aside as Gwyn trudged not far behind, their swords dragging on the ground. The two huffed, groaning as they drove headway across the room, neither uttering a single word. Both girls were bloodied and beaten, as if they’d survived another Blood Rite.

Azriel’s shadows at once left him to go to Gwyn’s side. They whirled around as she batted her hand as one might at annoying insects.

“Tell your master I’m fine , you busybodies.”

“You know I could hear you, right?” Azriel replied dryly. Gwyn didn’t deign a response, merely continuing into the room as the three brothers gawked and sent questioning stares while Rhysand merely waited.

“You care about this couch, Nesta?” Gwyn asked, pointing to the furniture with her weapon.

The eldest Archeron shook her head. “Not fucking today, Berdara.”

“Well, that’s good because I was going to do this, anyway.” With that, Gwyn toppled on her side with a grunt, her braid hanging over the edge of the couch like a blood-soaked rope. “So. Good.”

Nesta joined lounge her on the adjoining navy settee, moaning as she sprawled on her back.

"Ice," Nesta bid, placing her hand out for a cloth bag full of it to drop into her open palm. "Thank you," she said before applying it to her nose.

Then silence. A thick, weighty, unsettling silence.

A silence only so long with Cassian in the same room. “So, is anyone going to ask or am I going to be the one to find out what the flying fuck just happened?”

Gwyn’s hand shot up from the couch. “Rhys, you can look into my head. I’m too tired to talk.”

That made Azriel worry. Gwyn was never too tired for conversation. The shadowsinger learned that fact well during their late-night sparring sessions.

Rhys stuffed his hands in his pocket and strode forward a few steps. “Are you sure, Gwyn?”

A thumbs up signaled above the couch.

Rhysand’s violet eyes zoned out momentarily before refocusing. His lips curled. “Merrill.”

𝄋

The situation wasn’t comical. Not in the slightest bit. But her emotions were stretched too thin, and she cracked. Peeping over to Nesta, who was lying face-first on the love seat, her exquisite cheek squished against the cushion, sword dangling from her fingertips. Gwyn couldn’t help herself.

Their males were frenzied, shouting questions as Rhysand showed them what had arisen through Gwyn’s eyes. Merrill’s reappearance. The subsequent battle. And she recognized the part where she nearly drowned because Azriel’s chin jutted out and his hands fisted so tensely, his knuckles blanched.

But at least the girls wouldn’t have to describe verbally. Not there was nothing to be repentant for. They held their ground and did what they had to do. Merrill’s death was something neither she nor Nesta would have predicted. Though Gwyn regretted the outcome nevertheless.

“If you all are going over what the Valkyries did wrong for a lesson,” Nesta murmured against a headrest. “You can go kindly fuck yourselves.”

A loud cackle burst from Gwyn. And suddenly she couldn’t stop. No, it was the neurotic kind, where you laughed and shook for so long your chest ached as you gasped for breath. Usually accompanied by unstoppable hiccups. Which, of course, with Gwyn’s luck today, would assuredly arrive. Lucky for her, Nesta was right behind her.

Their hysterics brought reticence and then cautious strides. Azriel’s powerful leathered thighs came into Gwyn’s vision before he sat on the low table before her.

“Gwyn,” he said, his manner restraint. When his fingertips skimmed her delicate cheekbones, she flinched. His hand wandered to the back of her head, undoubtedly finding the raised knot she’d discovered herself before going into the pool. Then his rough, large palm came back to cradle her cheek. On a heavy sigh, his thumb thoughtfully traced over her split lower lip, those greenish-brown eyes never wavering.

“I’ve had worse,” she said between guffaws, hoping to lighten the mood, but Azriel’s mask held firm. He was in full spymaster mode. As his sight perused over her frame, falling on her hands.

“Nesta, may I see what you saw?” Gwyn heard the High Lord ask, cordial with a robust measure of care.

The way Azriel’s pupils fixated before her eyes startled Gwyn as he received Nesta’s viewpoint in his own mind. Thus began an inquiry of questions from the three males as Nesta and Gwyn took turns responding.

The shadowsinger’s forehead creased and tilted in concern as he stared at her. “You almost drowned.”

“She looked dead from where I was standing,” Nesta growled at Cassian, who helped her up while kissing her cheek. “She didn’t look like she was breathing and her eyes were open.”

Gwyn lifted and sank a shoulder casually. “Nymph heritage for the win once again.” Everyone gaped at her like she was a walking, talking fish out of water. “Apparently, my pliant body was not the only thing gifted from my mother.”

“What about the glowing?” Nesta asked.

Gwyn’s nose wrinkled as she sought to think back to a point she could remember glowing . She shook her head. “I don’t shine, though.”

“Yes, you do,” Azriel and Nesta answered at the same moment, exchanging a glance.

“When she sings, right?” Azriel asked Nesta, who nodded in reply.

“Exactly, Azriel. She does when she sings sometimes.”

“But you’ve only seen me sing one time, Az,” Gwyn snorted.

“And you shone like a star. I saw the glow when you sang at the service. So did my shadows." He paused as inky darkness gathered by his ears. "Actually, we saw you when you were humming our first night at the park watching the Aurora as well.”

Her eyes expanded and fluttered in dismay. His shadows saw her glow?

“But I’m sure my mother didn’t…"

With her pedigree, there was a full bushel of unknown heritage tucked away she’d yet to uncover. Her mother had been completely mum on the identity of Catrin and Gwyn’s father. Frankly, Gwyn was now well convinced the temple had ordered her mother to act in the Great Rite. And consent wasn’t really consenting under intoxicating magic while imbibing on wine.

This magic did not differ from any other immoral or illegal potion that might induce one to relax. Gods, Gwyn wouldn’t be surprised if her mother didn’t indeed remember who she slept with. The bitter thoughts stuck to Gwyn’s skin like the wet leather that presently imprisoned her.

Did her father glow? Her grandfather? Grandmother?

Her head and heart ached. She’d pack those up for later. Right now, all Gwyn desired was a nap and an opportunity to tidy up.

“Could you breathe underwater?” Cassian inquired, “Like, do you have gills now or some shit, nymphie?”

Gwyn wheezed as Azriel helped her to a seated position. “None that I know of were visible. But there have been lore concerning nymphs breathing from, uh,…unlikely places…"

“Such as?” Cassian crossed his arms over his broad shoulders. Places she was certainly not going to mention in front of everyone.

“Crack open a book and find out, Cassian,” Gwyn smirked as Nesta snickered.

“Are we done?” Azriel asked, his tone clipped. “I can write the report and have one for you by tomorrow, Rhys.”

“What of the bitch’s carcass?” Cassian asked, and Gwyn’s cringe was not well hidden from the keen gaze of the Spymaster.

“The priestesses are handling the arrangements,” Rhysand said, possibly after conferring with Clotho.

Azriel stood, offering Gwyn his hand, which she accepted without question, and quietly led her down the hall.

𝄋

Azriel knew Gwyn was going to say something when they’d stopped in front of his door instead of hers. Especially after what had occurred between them on his settee last night.

Three. Two. “Shadowsinger, I’m sleepy and I—”

Cauldron, did Gwyn truly think he wanted to do that right now ?

Sex was the absolute last thing on his mind, especially when he could feel the blood crusted on her palm. And after receiving what she’d been through her eyes. Fuck.

“Come in,” he gently urged her, and she agreed with a solemn groan.

Slowly, he edged her to his bathing chamber and then over to the marble washbasin. Standing behind her, Azriel reached onto the metal shelf beside the mirror and plucked the leather pouch, removing the items inside one by one.

The House set the sink faucet to warm without him even having to prompt. Warm; not scalding, as he would normally set after the gore of others covered his own hands. The House always had Gwyn’s best interests at heart. Because of this, it surprised Azriel when House didn’t lock his ass away in his room whenever Gwyn was present.

Maybe we are not the only ones who see you two as charming.

Not bloody likely.

Gwyn’s loose strands swept against his cheek as she turned to peer up at him. Their eyes met instead in the mirror above the sink, those sea-foam eyes flat. Shock, he registered from far too much experience.

Once she comprehended what he was readying to do, Gwyn said, “Azriel, I can do this..."

“I know you can. But...just let me do this? Please?” He let out a shuddering exhale.

How many years had he done this for himself? Hidden in his shadows, shrouded in his indignation and the enduring agony of his heinous deeds in the bowels of the Hewn City. Never once had Azriel appealed for someone to take care of him afterward. Never crossed his fucking mind. Never found himself deserving of such comfort.

Never understood how much he needed that—until the young redheaded Valkyrie had taken such great care of him by the shore of her lake by Sangravah.

Her eyes sank to the black veined countertop, and the things he’d set out in a tidy row. Holding her hands in his, he wet the soap he found worked best for this task. Not the mildest, nor the greatest smelling to a female, he imagined, reminding him of soot and timbers. But the soap was the very finest to get the grisly job done.

Once the soap lathered, foaming gray, he worked over her palms before rounding to the back of his hand. He was painstakingly careful with her pale skin, more so than himself. Ordinarily, his own attempts to eradicate the ichor from his hands resulted in raw, reddened skin. But with Gwyn, he scrubbed with gentleness. Reverent in each sweep of his fingernail scrape. Working the suds until they foamed darkened pink, running them under the tepid water to rinse away the evidence of what she had...

Azriel shook his head, snapping up the nail brush. An unnecessary step for some, perhaps, but he always did for himself. The image of that line of sanguine under his nails made his gut twist with regret. They were hushed as Azriel scrubbed at the delicate skin around the nails and her cuticles, but she leaned her back against his chest in thanks.

“You saw what happened?” Her voice little more than a breath.

He set the brush down before kissing her right temple, syrupy with sweat and blood.

“I did.”

Gwyn inhaled hard, shuddering. “I was going to keep her alive for you.” She hoisted her gaze to the mirror, finding him again. This time, her eyes were watery. “I really was, and she…ran herself right into it.”

“I know. I know, sweetheart. And godsdammit, I hate that you feel this way. But it wasn’t your fault. Do not make room for an ounce of guilt in your good heart. She tried to kill you, Gwyn. You resisted like a godsdamn warrior and survived. That is all that matters.”

“But there are so many things unanswered. Who is this person she’s working with? What is this speech regarding these other forgotten people?” He could practically feel the panic swelling in his chest as she clasped her now immaculately clean hand to her blood-spattered throat.

“Let the spymaster figure that out. For now, you did your job. Both you and Nesta fought as soldiers. Come.”

“You’ve done enough, Shadowsinger. I should go.”

“Um, House?” Gods, he always felt fucking stupid to be talking to thin air. “Could you start the bath?” No response. Azriel pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s for Gwyn .” A small waterfall thundered behind them from the tub faucet, followed by a dropped wicker basket of distinct floral scented oils and glass bottles containing various salts.

The laugh that burst out of Gwyn was nothing shy of ethereal music. “One day, you will have to tell me what you did to gain such ire from a house.”

Azriel grunted. “Perhaps.” He spun her in his arms, planting a tender kiss on her forehead, lips lingering as his fingers trailed down the graphite scalloped leather plating on her arms. “I’ll leave you to your bath. I’d recommend using clear salt. The one that smells of mint and orange. It’ll ease your sore muscles.”

“All right. Thank you.” A slight giggle from her softened the uneasiness from him. “At least I know if I fall asleep in the tub now, I won’t drown,” Gwyn quipped, and his shadows swirled around them in equal delight. Though he knew damn well, his shadows were going to forsake him and allocate their time indeed, making sure Gwyneth didn’t slide under the bathwater.

“Let’s not tempt fate and do that. And who’s being ridiculous now, my little nymph.” He tapped her nose.

“Still you, Shadowsinger.”

With one last soft press of his lips to her cheek and a bow, he made his leave to his bedroom, sitting at his desk, close enough to intervene.

The sloshing of water followed the noises of shucking clothes and groans. He couldn’t help it, making him a rare sort of bastard. Fuck. The image of his Gwyneth wholly naked in his bath...

A possessive groan resounded through his rib cage. Fuck. He really was a bastard.

“Azriel.”

He bolted up so quick the chair toppled. Azriel entered the bathing chamber without knocking—and without checking in with his shadows. Surely they would have notified him if she were in crisis. But no, instead he barged in like a maniac. Standing at the threshold, watching her wrap loose, clean auburn strands around her fingers.

He swallowed hard at her damp, soft shoulders.

“Az?” She swiveled to see him over her shoulder, droplets of water adhering to those long, black lashes.

“I’m here.”

“I can see that. Can I ask you something? You can say no, but..."

He could never say no to her. Ever. “Go on.”

“I don’t want to be alone. Would you…would you join me…in here?”

His weak knees forced him to clutch the doorjamb with his hand. Fuck. Clearly, this was some sort of hallucination. When he saw that somber face, the teal orbs brimming with tears, he had as good a shot of stopping his answer as stopping a falling star. Impossible.

“Yes.”

He drifted toward the bath, disposing of his leathers, leaving on his undershorts...

“You can remove those too if you wish,” she said, small but bold.

His pulse sped up. “I want you to be comfortable.”

Gwyn offered a modest grin, a delicate wash of pink blooming over her freckles. “I’ve seen you now. Well, most of you. Enough to bathe with one another, I would think. But, whatever you wish, I am merely stating don’t keep those on for my account.” She turned back around, her gaze trained elsewhere, the water swishing in waves as she scooted up to afford him room.

Fingers trembling, he shimmied off his undershorts. Standing in a room completely naked while Gwyn was bare in the tub—and his reaction was immediate. Fuck him.

“Gwyn, just to warn you, maybe I shouldn’t…" He cleared his throat, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“What?” As she glanced over her shoulder, he hastily covered his erection, heat rising to his cheeks. Her grin was puckish yet even. “Oh, that’s fine.”

That’s fine? His shadows hummed and buzzed with gales of laughter.

Azriel shrugged, peering up at her from under heavy lids. “Sorry. I can’t help my bodily reactions to your nakedness.”

“Understandable. Frankly, I’d be more perturbed if you didn’t at this point in our relationship,” she answered rationally. And yes, it made sense but, he couldn’t help feel apologetic.

“As long as you don’t mind,” he said, his gulp audible.

Gwyn nodded, the water spraying up as she patted the spot behind. Azriel couldn’t help it. He moved as if tugged, drawn in, as he plunged his body into the warm water. A delighted hiss escaped him as he submerged to his chest, his wings draping over the back edge onto the floor. The shadowsinger settled his hands on the sides, fingers caressing the white enamel edge.

Gradually, cautiously, Gwyn scooted back, silky legs grazing against his until her lower back was pressing his cock against his stomach. Her slick shoulder blades crowded against his bare chest. Her head relaxed back into the crook of his neck.

”You would think after what I’ve just been through, water would be the last thing I’d want to be in, but this is nice.” A pregnant pause. “Azriel, could you hold me?”

Without another word, Az folded his arms around her and bore her close, resting his cheek against the top of her head. And he held her in the quiet and found peace in it. In her.

Euphoria danced over his ruined skin when she interlaced their fingers as her eyes drifted shut.

Shit. But what if Gwyn wakes up like that horrific morning? What if she wakes up not identifying who’s behind?

She knows who is holding her. That’s why she took your hands. So she knows it’s you, Shadowsinger.

And Gwyn did indeed fall asleep soundly in his arms.

Lust receded like the tide into something more meaningful. More powerful. Two friends who wished to care for each other, walk through the darkness for the other. Two admirers who desired one another. Two hearts thumping in time.

Two hearts that sing the same song.

A bond to protect with every single fucking breath Azriel had in his lungs until there was none to offer.

Fuck it. Despite not finding himself worthy of Gwyn’s affection, Azriel was that much of a bastard to keep this for however long they were together. Until she inevitably one day came to her senses. But until then…

As she slept, knowing she would not hear his declaration, Az stroked her damp hair and confided in the barest whisper, “I’ve fallen for you too, Gwyn.”

Chapter Text

“I know this week has been hard on all of you since…” Nesta paused and Gwyn saw her chosen sister valiantly battling against her desire to use profane words as a descriptor for the departed. “Since Merrill died.”

Whispers drifted amongst the seated Valkyries, elite and novice alike, as Nesta addressed her legion from the top of the training ring, flanked by Gwyn and Emerie. The trio had taken on the roles of trainers while Azriel and Cassian were busy getting answers for the High Lord. How the hell Merrill slithered back into Velaris undetected? How she made it past Clotho and the protective wards. And who the deceased ex-priestess was abetting.

A priestess dead by Gwyn’s hand—guaranteed dismissal from priestesshood.

Her old dorm was now barren, cleared out, and ready for the next lost soul the day after Merrill’s death. There was tranquility in the knowledge someone else would receive their safe place to heal. To rebuild.

After stowing away the last belongings and assessing her tiny room one last time, Gwyn had gone to formally relinquish her Invoking Stone to the High Priestess of Velaris. But when Gwyn had held out her hand, Clotho shook her head, mouthing, It’s yours.

A breath caught in her throat. ”But, it’s custom. I’m leaving. Therefore, I must return this to you. I—”

The pen scrawled on stationery, the limpid blue radiance from her headdress of stones defining beneath Clotho’s hood.

I know you haven’t believed yourself worthy for some time, dear Gwyneth. Clotho’s knobbed fingers folded around Gwyn’s hand. The cobalt stone chilled her fingers, which closed around it. Let this gem be a reminder of how far you much you’ve grown and to light your way to your future.

“But the magic—”

The magic is yours ; not the stone. The stone only amplifies what we have— you have. Perhaps what you have yet to discover. As you would never use it for harm, it is yours. Clotho’s eyebrows climbed in the azure hue. I am High Priestess, am I not? I say it’s yours; it is. The library is also accessible to you whenever you request. Attend service when you choose. Please visit the children for they admire you so.

Her eyes brimmed with tears as Clotho rose, her dusty blue robes settling to her feet. When the High Priestess opened her arms, Gwyn clung to her as a child would do with a mother.

“Thank you, Clotho. This is more than what I deserve.”

Since then, Gwyn dedicated her time in the library, researching the insanity Merrill had spewed as fact. Forgotten people, indeed. Those that Gwyn discussed such a matter with - Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel, and Mor - all rejected the idea.

“There were no such people,” Rhysand said directly.

“Sounds like the ramblings of someone hitting the sacramental wine too often,” Cassian had grinned wildly, knocking his shoulder into hers.

Mor merely twirled her strands of burnished gold around her finger and shrugged, shaking her head, suggesting Gwyn speak with Amren. Gwyn would not speak to Amren—at least not alone. Childish as it was, Amren was still nightmare fodder for the youngsters of Prythian.

Azriel had been, well, Azriel. His hazel eyes and onyx brows set in harsh concentration, reflecting on his past, and came up with nothing as well.

Curious. Perhaps Merrill’s ramblings were simply that—madness in rhetoric.

Something was simmering in Gwyn’s subconscious, drawing her to the library each day after practice. Only now escorted by rogue shadows perched on her shoulders. Her quiet, smoky little sentries. They genuinely made her feel protected, and it would be a lie to say otherwise.

She ransacked the stacks, devoting far too much time with her nose in a book of elegant script and prose, which often followed her to sleep.

“It was awful,” Roslin murmured to Thea, who had recently rejoined their ranks, carrying Gwyn from her thoughts. “There was so much blood and the way Merrill just…how could one do that?” Faces. So many faces dipped to the floor in what? Shame. Regret. Remembrance. Those who witnessed may have hesitated, but for a fair reason. Reasons Gwyn was not to judge.

“You’re right,” Gwyn interjected. “It was awful.” And believe her, even worse when the fresh blood was on your skin. On your conscience. “Merrill made her choice. But we resisted, we held our ground, and we stopped her from hurting anyone else.” A few lifted their gazes to her. Not near enough. “Death is never hard to witness and all of us have seen our fair share, haven’t we? Each one of us lost someone dear at Sangravah.”

The mere mention delivered every single priestess’s eyes to hers. No matter if they wore robes or armor, each one of them looked at her as one with sharp eyes. Because yes, each of them felt the icy grip of Death. Heard His wraith-like wail through the dim corridors of the temple.

The name of the temple is sacred and seldom ever spoken unless in prayer. But now it was the right occasion to speak the name. To face it with a driven joint purpose.

“None of us were immune from the loss that eve. Each of us witnessed horrors beyond our comprehension. All of us bear a scar, whether it’s on our skin. Or soul. Or heart. We all have trauma. That’s why we are here, correct?” A few nods in the crowd. “To face such things, to never be powerless again.” Gwyn’s eyes turned to Roslin and Deidre. Ananke and Lorelai. All who watched the moment Merrill had plunged her body into Gwyn’s blade. “Sometimes our trauma will sneak up on us without warning. Progress does not come without failure. Without trying. And each of you tried.”

Nesta stayed Gwyn’s next words with a hand on her shoulder. “That you armed yourselves and came to Gwyn’s aid despite your fear? That is the heart of a Valkyrie. I’m nothing but proud of you all.”

“And before you say anything about being scared,” Emerie chimed in. “If you don’t think we weren’t terrified during the Blood Rite, you’d be wrong.”

Nesta and Gwyn nodded in agreement.

“And as Azriel and Cassian would say, these are learning experiences. Conquering fear doesn’t happen in just one incident. Trust me on this,” Nesta added.

“I for one am proud to call each of you my sisters,” Gwyn said, gaining a few smiles from their ever-growing division, one that in the last week nearly doubled. “I will have your back as you have had mine.”

“And on that positive note, training is over and you’re dismissed. See you all tomorrow,” Nesta said as the females rose, some sending them polite nods, formal bows, or friendly waves.

Brisk winds whipped across the roof as the three of them tidied up the training ring, Emerie was squirming, her unbalanced wings fluttering and shaking.

“Nervous about your date tonight?” Nesta teased because, indeed, Emerie had a hot date. After being circled on Emerie’s calendar since the two began dating, November the fifteenth finally arrived.

“Can one refer to a party as a hot date when we all will be there?” Gwyn inquired, curious.

Nesta snorted. “Semantics, Berdara.”

“You’re coming tonight, right, Gwyn?” Emerie grunted as she hefted the rolled-up mat, tucking it into the far corner against the drab stone wall.

Cauldron boil and fry her. This wasn’t the first time Gwyn ventured into Velaris with her girls. But this wasn’t a charming bistro or wandering the boulevards; this was a club. One full of bodies that could crash into her. Anxiety churned her gut.

“Gwyn, you don’t have to,” Nesta said with gentle blue-gray eyes. “But if you really want to, we will be there for you. I’ll be your personal bouncer if you need one, though, with the way you can kick ass, I doubt you’ll need me.”

Gwyn laughed because, well, she wasn’t wrong. After the scene at Nesta’s mating ceremony, she proved she could handle herself.

“Besides, it’s Ladies’ Night tonight,” Emerie said, waggling her ebony brows. “It’ll be fun.”

Ladies’ Night? Hmm…well, that seemed more her speed. Ladies’ Night sounded safe enough.

Fun. Cauldron, how long had it been since she had nothing to worry over? How long since Gwyn merely let go and had fun? Besides her time with the shadowsinger and her found family, there had been…none.

“All right,” Gwyn relented, her answer turning into a high-pitched squeak from Emerie’s hug. Mother, spare her. What had she gotten herself into?

𝄋

Azriel sat at his desk, poring over three piles of reports. So many challenges with no fucking solutions, a puzzle with missing pieces. Other pieces didn’t fit. The edges missing to identify a distinct picture.

You should seek Tiny Creature’s council, perhaps? She is good with puzzles. He groaned. Good luck stealing Amren away from her blissful fucking oasis in Summer with Varian. Or the lovely Valkyrie? She’s quite good with research. We’ve seen her in the library.

Not an awful idea. Gwyn’s mind was sharp, and she was undeniably clever.

And sweet. Kind. Strong. Lovely.

And bold. Every day she grew a little bolder. There hadn’t been a night since Merrill’s death that they hadn’t shared a bed. Hers or his didn’t matter. Even if instead of dozing, they spent half of their night facing each other, talking about everything and nothing. It was mostly listening to her lyrical voice, observing the way her full mouth moved and nose twitched in the spirited way she spoke.

And when that didn’t work to fall asleep? They often found themselves up in the training ring, sparring until too exhausted to continue.

Well, mostly sparring. Pinning each other to the mats now usually led to more attractive activities. Az couldn’t help but kiss Gwyn when her gorgeous, heaving breasts pressed against his chest, her thighs snug around his hips. More often than not, one of them would find themselves rolled under the other. And he didn’t mind one damn bit.

Especially not when Gwyn asked, wanted his touch. Wanted his hands on her. In her. And she loved touching him and learning how she affected him. And damn, Azriel fucking loved the confidence Gwyn was building, and not only in the bedroom.

Knock. Knock.

“Hey, Az? Are you coming out tonight?” Cassian asked from the threshold, clad in a navy dress shirt, slightly open at the color, showing off a hint of Illyrian tattoo. Onyx hair tumbled down from his shoulders, curling slightly at the ends. That damn enviable gold band shining on his left ring finger.

Wait…tonight?

Azriel swiveled in his chair, finding his back aching from having not shifted his position in so long. Velaris’ lights winked to life. The last trace of sun long since disappeared beyond the western horizon. He’d spent the entire damn day from pre-dawn hours when he’d left Gwyn’s warm bed to now; puzzling.

“What’s so special about tonight?” Azriel grumbled as he cracked his lower back with a twist.

Cassian pinned him with a look. “I’ll give you a hint. It’s November fifteenth.”

November fifteenth?

The Morrigan’s birthday, Shadowsinger. A day you equally loved and despised for over four centuries?

The shadowsinger banged his head on his desk. “Mor’s party is tonight?”

“Yeah, didn’t Gwyn mention it?”

His head shot up, a paper sticking to his forehead. “No. Why would Gwyn mention Mor’s party?” Azriel asked as he ripped away and crumpled the offending paper.

“Well,” Cassian strolled in, hands clasped behind his back. His brother touching things often ended with things broken. “She’s one of Emerie’s best friends. Emerie is dating Mor. So Mor invited her.”

Azriel stared at his brother in abject shock. Mor had invited Gwyn? And Gwyn had discussed not a word to him?

“To be fair, according to Nes, Gwyn wasn’t planning on going, but she changed her mind during training. Kind of a last-minute decision. I’m meeting them at Rita’s right—”

“They left already?” Az shot up, stalking around his desk. “All of them?”

“Yeah, they all got together and did girlie getting ready shit with Mor and left already. Mor said no boys allowed until after eleven. Something about Ladies’ Night at the club.”

The shadowsinger was sure his head was going to explode. Why hadn’t she said anything to him after training?

Because you informed her today, you would be busy and had to concentrate last night. You asked her to kindly leave you be, so she did. Begrudgingly.

Excellent point. But, for fuck’s sake, going to Rita’s?

Why not? The lovely Valkyrie deserves to have a little fun.

And rightly so. Not that Gwyn couldn’t take care of herself. Plus, she had the girls as backup. But, even though Gwyn had made great strides in public, there were still moments when crowds got too loud or people brushed up against her where she tensed. Rita’s was always packed, and it was inevitable one would bump into someone else on the dance floor. Particularly if Cassian and his leaden feet were present.

The end of Cassian’s words set in had Azriel’s muscles tense. “Hey Cass, did anyone bother to explain the concept of Ladies’ Night to Gwyn?”

Cassian rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “What do you mean by concept?”

“What the fuck a Ladies’ Night at a bar really is—” A method for the club owners to usually drag in a barrage of females with the guise of cheap, watered-down drinks. Where males flocked because of the ratio. “Because Gwyn has never been to a club, Rita’s or otherwise, and I can make a very educated guess at what she is assuming.”

The color blanched from Cassian’s face. “Oh shit, do you think Gwynnie only thinks there’s going to be ladies there?”

That’s exactly what Azriel presumed. The idea was bad enough imagining his Gwyn there, dressed up, looking gorgeous without him. But the thought of other males trying to prowl on her?

No. Fucking. Way.

“Give me five minutes, Cassian. I’m coming with you.” Before disappearing into his bathing chamber.

“I’ll give you ten. You look like shit, Az. Spruce up a bit for your lady, for gods’ sake!”

𝄋

She sat at the small round table, her toe of the heels she had no business walking in, tapping a nervous rhythm. Males were here milling about.

Perhaps Gwyn should have inquired more into Ladies’ Night. Too late now.

Males had only dared approach their table once, and Nesta’s snarling death promise was enough to keep the rest at bay—and a respectful distance. Praise the Cauldron.

The thin white shawl over her dress didn’t feel nearly enough cover, given the dress her friends convinced her to try from Morrigan’s closet. But who was Gwyn to deny The Morrigan’s immaculate fashion sense? Anything other than leathers or vestments was out of her comfort zone.

But when Mor had pulled out a lustrous loose, silver halter dress, not that the color bothered her. The length grazed a few inches above the knee, revealing much more leg than Gwyn was used to.

An amount only the shadowsinger was familiar with seeing in person.

And the back? Well, it dipped daringly low for her, below mid-back. When she put it on though, paired with the low heels, then saw herself after Mor waved her chestnut hair?

“Holy gods,” Gwyn said, ogling her reflection. Turning before the full-length mirror in Mor’s townhouse bedroom, Gwyn peered over her shoulder, noticing for the first time the muscles on her upper shoulders and back. She felt bold. Powerful and confident. Strong and beautiful in her own skin.

“You’re gorgeous, Gwyn,” Mor smiled over her collar. Morrigan was impeccably dressed, per usual, the skintight crimson dress and heels as high as the House of Wind. Her golden, wavy hair draped over one shoulder to show off dangling rubies in her ears. “Az is lucky he snatched you up when he did, or I would have taken a chance.”

“Oh,” Gwyn said, her cheeks warming. “I’m flattered, Mor.”

“Just a few more touches and then we can get going.” And those few touches were kohl lining the eyes, a bold red lip. “Oh, and these,” Mor added, putting small teal studs in Gwyn’s ears, a little snug from only wearing them during ceremonies.

“What do you think?” Mor asked the multitude, spinning Gwyn around for the final appraisal.

“Fucking gorgeous, but I always thought you could give Mor a run for her money in the beauty department,” Nesta smiled wickedly, shooting a glance at Mor, who clicked her tongue. Nesta was Nesta, cutting a striking figure in velvet as dark as night, a short dress with long sleeves but a plunging neckline. And, of course, sharp black heels that could be used as weapons.

Weapons were, of course, their most important accessory; Gwyn’s favorite dagger strapped to her thigh.

“So cute, Gwyn,” Emerie said, wearing a cute charcoal gray jumpsuit with a low back for her wings, a silver belt slung over her curvy hips.

Gwyn had felt wonderful, even after they entered the club. They’d found a cozy booth, and the girls ordered some drinks. Nesta ordered for Gwyn while she herself drank water, comfortable in her commitment to sobriety.

“You’ll like this,” Nesta said. “It’s a little tart and sweet, but bubbly. Like you.”

Gwyn laughed, sticking her tongue out at Nesta as their drinks arrived.

And Gwyn did like the drink enough to order another. Her shoulders swayed in tempo with the song, noting the people dancing in pairs and groups.

“Let’s dance,” Mor said, tugging Emerie up in a fit of giggles until they were dancing for all to view.

“I’m ecstatic for them.” Nesta smiled. Her eyes shot up, and she waved a hand in the air.

Gwyn sipped through her short black straw, inhaling until there was nary but ice left. And then she gestured to their happy server for another one. Her toe was no longer tapping in nerves but on the beat.

Nesta scooted out of the booth to embrace someone in a hug. “Feyre, I’m so glad you made it.”

“It’s good to let Rhysand have Nyx on his own for a little while,” their High Lady beamed, her eyes settling on Gwyn. “Hello! So good to see you here.”

Gwyn nodded and extended what she hoped was a respectful smile. She hoped.

“Elain. You came,” Nesta said, her smile warm but thin as she hugged her sister in the same manner. Feyre cleared her throat and scooted closer to Gwyn, offering a tight smile.

Gwyn met the middle Archeron’s intense brown eyes, reminding her of the chocolate fountain the House often served at sleepovers. They dipped their chins to each other in greeting as Elain slid across the maroon leather. Nesta behind. Sitting in order of birth, Gwyn smiled to herself.

Blooded sisters who couldn’t be more unique. Nesta, the epitome of mysterious, artistic grace in her onyx, missing all but a crown. Elain wore a long flowing dress that reminded Gwyn of peonies, sunrise, evoking spring breezes. And Feyre, wearing a black turtleneck and dark riding breeches. Yes, the High Lady indeed wore pants. Yet, it didn’t diminish her aura of power.

Gwyn sipped her third glass when Nesta nodded her head to the dance floor. “Want to dance, Berdara?”

Dance?

“Yes,” Gwyn said, smiling, getting up with her shawl wrapped around her shoulders, following Nesta onto the dance floor.

Watching Nesta dance was like seeing water flowing in a stream. Like ink on sheet music slipping off a page into her body. Adagio and allegro. Forte and leggiero. And Gwyn might understand music through her ear and voice. Was quick and light on her feet. Might have a graceful tendency in battle—but choreographed steps? Ironically, not Gwyn’s forte, to say the least.

“Berdara,” Nesta chuckled at her, joining their hands as she tried to lead her across the floor. Until she, too, realized Gwyn was a lost cause. The only thing reeling was their laughter as they spun in a circle, changing directions and speed every so often.

“Hold on,” Gwyn panted, catching her breath as she darted through the crowd back to the table to set her shawl down. Hot, so hot. She needed something to drink. Oh, her fruity thing! Sipping until there was nothing left, Gwyn saw only Elain sitting at the table. “Oh, I didn’t know you were here alone.”

“Feyre joined with Mor and Emerie,” Elain said, her tone neutral, as if she were speaking of things like the weather.

“Well, Elain, if you would like to join Nesta and—”

“No,” Elain said, a little too quick. “I mean, no thank you. I’m fine watching.”

“Well, if you change your mind…”

“I won’t, but thank you.” Elain smiled, but there was something wrong with her smile before she motioned for the server and ordered a drink of her own.

Gwyn returned to Nesta, slowly swaying to a fast song. She could sense eyes on her, piercing into her like a knife to the back. When Gwyn peeked over her right shoulder, Elain was…staring. Watching them dance.

“Gwyn, what’s wrong?” Nesta asked, leaning in while moving closer.

“I think…”

“Shots!” Emerie split them up, a tray of small filled glasses. “Here you go, Gwyn.” She handed the shot glass filled with something clear. She sniffed it and the fumes stung her nose.

“Gwyn, I would advise you to stop after this shot,” Nesta said, signaling over to Elain to join.

“Noted,” was Gwyn’s reply.

Feyre, Gwyn, Nesta, Emerie, and to her surprise, Elain stood in their circle, their glasses held high.

“Birthday wish time,” Mor squealed. “Wishes for me!”

“To enduring peace,” Feyre said first.

Mor scoffed. “This isn’t Prythian’s birthday. It’s mine.” She turned up her nose in faux indignation.

Nesta held up an empty glass. “To better Solstice gifts.”

Everyone besides Gwyn choked on their laughter, pretending to cough as Mor said they were all just jealous. Gwyn was going to ask Azriel about that for sure.

“To love,” Emerie said, her eyes glittering as her gaze locked with Mor’s and they leaned in for a brief, sweet kiss.

“As much as we can handle, babe,” Mor said, hip-checking her lightly.

Gwyn smiled to herself, thinking she could drink to that, and as she did, Elain’s cacao eyes met hers over the tiny glass rim. Her lips pursed.

“Gwyn?”

“Hmm? Oh, sorry. Um…I’m sorry, I’m bad at this.”

“Not true,” Nesta muttered, and Gwyn rolled her eyes.

“For all of us still here.” They exchanged solemn, soft smiles amongst the gathering of friends.

“Elain?”

“The courage to face change,” Elain said. “Happy Birthday, Mor.”

They raised their glasses with a shout. Gwyn watched how the girls knocked back their drinks, even Elain, and followed suit…and coughed and choked unmercifully. Nesta snickered and patted Gwyn’s back as her throat burned from the unholy hellfire she just swallowed.

“Valiant effort, Berdara,” Nesta chuckled.

Gwyn danced some more with Nesta before switching to Mor and Emerie. And then she and Feyre laughed themselves silly, making asses of themselves in the floor’s heart. And Gwyn didn’t care that people were gawking at her and their High Lady. One person nudged her by accident. They watched those forewarned males on from afar.

The drinks flowed along with the music and Gwyn couldn’t get enough—though Nesta paced Gwyn along with water.

“Buzzed, not dumb,” Nesta had said. “You don’t want to be throwing up all night.”

And yet all the while, the entire night, someone was staring daggers.

Elain stood from the booth, tottering a bit on her feet before Feyre stood in front of her, hands up. Nesta noticed, saying, “I’ll be right back,” approaching her sisters and running back to her. “Gwyn, Elain is not feeling well, so Feyre and I are going to take her home. Feyre already told Cassian, so he’s going to meet us at the townhouse, but we can take you…”

Leave? But Mor hurled an arm over Gwyn’s bare, glistening shoulder and smirked.

“I’ll winnow Gwyn home or the townhouse, or we’ll call on Fey or Rhys. We’ll be fine.”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed. “Will you be sober enough to get her home?”

“Eventually,” Mor shrugged. “Come dance with me, Gwyn!”

“I’m a terrible dancer, Mor.”

“But your feet are lighter than Cassians, so if you step on my toes, I don’t care.”

And as Nesta and her sisters left, Elain peered over at Gwyn. When their eyes met and held, Gwyn felt a shiver dance over her skin and the hair lift on her nape.

But…

Had she done something?

Did Gwyn offend Elain somehow?

“Shots,” Emerie came back with six of them; for the three of them.

“To the stars who listen,” Mor shouted, raising her glass.

Gwyn’s gaze couldn’t help but follow the flowing purple gown in the moonlight. “And to the dreams that are answered.”

And Gwyn knocked one back. Coughed. And then the other.

𝄋

Azriel wasn’t sure what the hell he was going to encounter when he strode into Rita’s. Especially not after Cassian had to bail to pick up Nesta. Because Nesta had to leave with Feyre and Elain. Because Elain was trashed.

His shadows fell behind his wings the moment Cass had mentioned her name.

But when Az heard Gwyn wasn’t with them, his finger tugged at the collar of his black sweater.

So he winnowed through shadow to the alley next to Rita’s forthwith, advancing past the line to get inside. His eyes scanned the club from the booths to the discreet alcoves. The bar. The ladies coming out of the powder room.

Follow the gazes of the males, his shadows chuckled.

Az’s gaze trained on the bar, finding four High Fae males openly leering. His eyes turned into slits. Thank fuck there weren’t any godsdamn Darkbringers currently visiting Velaris. Because if those were Darkbringers? He’d have to kill and not ask questions if they were looking at. He followed their stares to the middle of the dance floor.

Mor and Emerie were dancing close, fronts flush, arms draped over one another, lost in each other. But no, they weren’t who these soon-to-be-dead pricks were undressing with their soon-to-be-removed eyes.

No. All eyes were spellbound by the stunning redhead in the backless dress, moving to the heady beat like a silver flame. Silvern fabric hung to curves like liquid steel, barely enough to cover her ass—and that was pretty much all in the back. Ending just above those delightful dimples above her firm behind that he wanted to trace with his tongue. Arms high in the air and hips swaying in time to the steady cadence of drums, his damn pulse matching. Her teal eyes were closed, ruby lips parted but smiling. Wearing a dress that…

Fuck him.

Seriously, fuck him. Please.

Gwyn.

His Gwyn.

Yes, now Azriel really was going to murder those mother-fucking, pieces of pure shit…

His shadows shot off to cloak their lovely Valkyrie.

The shadowsinger snarled and growled at the males by the bar, his feral possessiveness in his Illyrian blood boiling. A need to claim her surged in his body. To fuck her amid the godsdamn dance floor if she granted him permission, just so everyone saw Gwyn was…

When Azriel finally reached her, swirling in the inky mist, Gwyn turned around and smiled.

Fuck. She was breathtaking. Sexy. Adorable. Sweaty. And he wanted to winnow them home right now. Get naked and do whatever the hell she requested. Get on his knees and beg to please her.

“Shadow!” Hiccup. “Singer! You’re!” Hiccup. “Here!”

Then Gwyn threw herself at him, her arms slipping around his neck as she smashed her lips to his. And when her tongue demanded entrance in a sloppy as hell kiss, he tasted something sweet and noticed the alcohol on her breath. There went all the fun plans—Gwyn was drunk.

Chapter Text

This was not a temple hymn. No. This music swelled through her body like a separate entity. Life and death. Flame and frost. Happiness and heartache and everything within entwined. And Gwyn allowed the rhythm to invade her, use her as her hands twisted above her head toward the colorful blinking fae lights. She dropped her ass to the ground and came twisting back up to the low pulse.

“You weren’t watching her?”

“We were keeping an eye on her, Az.”

“She has a fucking bargain tattoo, Mor!”

“She’s an adult, Azriel, and she’s having fun. You remember what fun is, don’t you?” Mor poked him softly. Azriel did not seem amused. Not in the slightest. “Emerie, Nesta, and Gwyn made the bargain in friendship, and Nesta was sober enough to verify the terms. And, for your information, we weren’t funneling the shots down your girl’s throat, for Cauldron’s sake!”

Azriel swore under his breath. “She did shots? With you?”

Gwyn beamed at him and nodded enthusiastically. The sublime flavor of him lingered on her lips, and she wanted to kiss him again. Gods, he was pretty. The way the bright faelight above the dance floor shone on his fierce features and thickly lustrous black hair…And those long, dark eyelashes. Why were males so lucky to have such full lashes?

So this is what swooning in those romance novels actually meant. Gwyn sighed contentedly.

Mor smirked, leaning in to whisper something to Azriel, and Gwyn tried to hold back a reaction to get rid of Mor’s perfect ass. While Mor’s golden hair slipped over Azriel’s broad shoulder, a surprising noise rumbled from deep within Gwyn’s chest.

Azriel’s lips quirked as Mor’s elegantly sculpted golden brows shot up to her hairline.

After several blinks, Gwyn realized what she was doing. She was growling .

“I’m sorry,” Gwyn soughed, pressing her hand to her throat.

“Don’t worry,” Mor assured, with a wink at Gwyn and a crooked smile at Azriel. “It’s getting late, anyway. I’m about to take my girl home. Go get ‘em, Gwyn.”

A teasing wave of Mor’s fingers floated across Emerie’s shoulders as she murmured in her girlfriend’s ear, causing Emerie to suck in her lower lip and nod. They cut all the other talk off as Mor kissed Emerie, sliding a single finger along the edge of Emerie’s wings before catching her hand and towing her Illyrian lover out into the night, stumbling as they giggled between kisses.

But Mor was drunk. How was she going to get Emerie to Windhaven…

Oh.

Unless they weren’t traveling to Windhaven, were they? Mor lived close to here…

Azriel was using his thumb and forefinger to rub his temples as Gwyn peeked out from under her lashes. Meanwhile, they were still on the dance floor.

“Dance with me, Shadowsinger,” she said, encircling his wide shoulders with her arms, soft fabric against her bare skin. Inhaling deep and breathing loudly, he brushed his fingertips along her forearm in a graze that caused goosebumps, before reaching behind his neck and unclasping her hands.

His bandaged hands, she realized with narrowed eyes.

“You covered your hands.” The powerful male in front of her exhaled a long, rough breath. As she met his gaze, she raised her chin high. “I don’t like that.”

Cauldron, she was thirsty.

Gwyn weaved through the crowd, signaling for another fancy drink when she became swathed in darkness. The only sound above the hiss of the engulfing shadows was the astonished gasps of club patrons.

“Where are you going, Gwyn?”

She teetered on her heels, whirling around. A hand came out to steady her. Ah yes, that vexing question asker.

“I’m going to get myself another yummy drink,” Gwyn replied. “Oh! You should have one, Az! Let me order you a—” Azriel’s arm didn’t let go as she tried to walk, and he mouthed something to the closest server as he led her away from the bar and the dance floor.

“Hey! Where are we going?”

“Let’s get some fresh air,” Azriel suggested, clutching a clear beverage in his hand. Oh, hopefully, the same as those shots! “Close your eyes,” he whispered, his deep voice enticing. Oh gods, was he going to kiss her? She would do anything he said.

After Gwyn squeezed her eyes shut, her hair lifted to a crisp breeze, brushing her skin. “You can open now.”

Azriel kept his arm steady on her until, for some reason, he learned she could stand. Insufferable male.

With that drink in her hands, Gwyn walked along, her heels clicking on the tile. Velaris was truly the City of Starlight. Colorful orbs of faelight and small firepits lit up the night like a solstice celebration. And music . There is so much music coming from every direction. Gods above.

“What are you doing?”

In a moment, Gwyn realized she was revolving in slow motion. Her eyes widened as she found those hazel orbs and said, “Spinning, of course!”

The shadowsinger’s expression dulled. “Drink, please.”

“Yes, sir.” Gwyn knocked back the refreshment and found it lacked the infernal bite she was used to and that its contents were not effective. “It’s water.”

With a nod, Azriel stepped closer. “Yes, and you’ll drink them until you’re sober.”

As she grunted and wildly waved her hand at him, he snorted back in disgust. “I’m not drunk, Shadowsinger.”

“The classic words of a drunk. ”A wry smile crossed his face as he adhered to her as she wandered around a rooftop.

“Where are we?” Gwyn asked, rubbing her arms, willing heat into her limbs. Her eyes trained on the small fireplace on the other side of the rooftop lounge, as she turned like a pig on a spit in front of the lovely flame.

“This is the rooftop of Rita’s.”

“You winnowed us up a flight of stairs?”

As his eyes roamed down her legs to her silvery heels, and back up, Azriel said, “I didn’t want to die catching you falling because I know you’d be dragging me with you.”

Her fingers met nothing but air and shadow as she swatted at him. Azriel shoved another glass of cold water into her palm and pointed to it in request.

With her eyes glaring at him over the glass rim, Gwyn sipped this one deliberately slowly.

Across the street, a fresh melody floated. At first glance, the building appeared extremely high-class, and the tune would have required dance steps.

Gwyn glanced sidelong at Azriel and set her water on the rail, shifting to face him. One step led to another until she was right in front of him. Hands in pockets, brow arched, the shadowsinger stood there. Shadows watched as his wings twitched.

“Shadowsinger?”

“What?” He asked cautiously.

“Do you dance?”

He choked on his mirth. “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” Gwyn drew out the word, “The last winter solstice on a roof nearly a year ago, I asked you if you sang.”

“Indeed.” A simple smile stretched across his beautiful face at the memory. She was overjoyed he likewise found it meaningful. “But you also asked if I sang because I am a shadowsinger.”

“And you said yes, and just a friendly reminder, I have yet to hear you sing, shadow singer .”

“Noted.”

“So are you suggesting you don’t dance because your title isn’t shadow dancer? ”

Despite Azriel’s bland expression, his amused shadows spun and fluctuated. Gwyn held out her hand to the shadowsinger, smirking.

“Yes. I dance, Berdara.”

“Perfect, because I want to dance.” Gwyn stepped into Azriel’s space, till her chest brushed his and she could feel his shuddering inhale.

“Are you asking me to dance with you?” He closed the distance.

Gwyn placed a sure hand on his shoulder, holding his hand with the other, waiting.

And when they finally moved, she was swept away.

𝄋

The ability to dance was an asset to a spy. The same way loose-lipped soldiers would share information for drink or coin in taverns, a spy would swoon a female until she became putty in their hands. A bunch of gossipy sex-seekers would be the second easiest prey for him, even though the idea and practice disturbed him, and he only used the scheme as a last resort.

His role as spymaster allowed him to Waltz with many, charm his way into their lives and secrets. Sometimes, they’d beguiled him into their beds. Most of the time, however, a few spins on the dance floor with a colloquial female were worth more than months’ worth of intelligence.

Apart from those, the occasional turn on the floor with friends at special events was all there was. Azriel had too often found himself tucked in a corner, watching Mor dance with Cassian and beckoning him to join. As a buffer from Eris, Azriel danced with Nesta the last Winter Solstice at the Hewn City when he’d received her from Cassian into a sweeping Waltz.

He enjoyed certain parts of dancing. His favorites were those reminiscent of battle. Ultimately, all battle is a dance. The first move required patience. Start and stop, steps performed with precision. Pace and breath control.

But dancing with Gwyn?

The experience was unparalleled. Even if she couldn’t find her correct step half the time, he did his best to lead her, eventually letting her feet stand on his to do so.

There were flaws. Neither of them was elegant. He didn’t dare spin Gwyn for two reasons: she was atop his shoes, and he was afraid she might get ill. Even so, his heart never pounded as hard as it did now. Never has anybody stared at him with love as intense as Gwyn while her teal eyes were shining straight into his fucked up heart. Never were his shadows dancing with him. Nothing had ever felt more real.

Soon, the song was over, and Azriel slowed down, letting her regain her bearings.

Her laugh, the ultimate solution to all his woes. Even though Az had everything against him, he thought, if he came home to Gwyn, if he came home to her smile, it would blind all the darkness in his heart.

As an alert hound, Gwyn’s ears focused on the song from across the mezzanine. After tearing away, she skipped to the railing to see if she could find the source of the music. Putting his palms on the balcony, he effectively cowed her in, setting behind her just enough to grab her if she somehow tumbled over the barrier.

In combination with the hornpipes, ominous drums beat by hand and other percussion created a tempo of eerie seduction.

Azriel peered over her shoulder. Her eyes twinkled in the firelight as she inhaled, her lips parting.

“What’s that place?” Her voice sounded soft. On the beat, her hips swayed.

His voice was rougher as he confided, “A pleasure house.”

“Oh,” Gwyn breathed, letting the music consume her. She rolled back into him until she was cradled in his thighs, her hips moving to the music. And no matter how much Azriel shifted back, her ass followed with invading heat. The grip he kept on the railing left his knuckles white. Please have mercy on his soul, Gods above.

As Gwyn leaned against him, her back arched against his chest. Together, their bodies found the rhythm. Her silver dress was cool and slippery under his palms.

“Are you familiar with that place?” Gwyn asked, her fingers twining around the short hairs of his nape.

“Where, my priestess?”

“A pleasure house.” She tilted her head back against his shoulder, sweeping his cheek with silken waves.

He let out a long, forlorn breath against her collar. “Yes.”

“And what indeed happens there, Shadowsinger?”

Anything and everything a perverse mind devised. “Conversation. Dancing…”

“Sex?” Whilst her body writhed in his embrace, her words ceased. “Have you experienced…pleasure there?”

His chin scraped her neck. As hard as he could, Azriel bit down on his lips to stop kissing or licking. From tasting her luscious skin. Or tracing her new tattoo of a sliced ribbon, starting with the tailpiece on the right collarbone and running over to the left with his tongue.

“Occasionally, I’ve found myself at one seeking satisfaction,” he admitted, choosing his words carefully. He could only describe his presence in there as scratching an itch.

And what about your predilections? The demons in his mind jeered. Did you think about doing these things with the priestess? Are you plotting to ruin her even more?

Fuck him, he could. His cock swelled with excitement at the image of doing things with Gwyn. Seeing her bare before him, shadows bound around her wrists as she begged for him. And didn’t that just make Azriel a sick bastard after everything she’d—

Gwyn hummed her response. “Would you take me one day?”

Her words caught him by surprise. Even his shadows drifted about, dazed.

“Where?” He questioned cautiously.

“A pleasure house,” she sighed as she ground into the bulge under his pants. Azriel’s eyes rolled in the back of his damn head. Fuck him. “I’m—”

He pressed a soft kiss against her temple. Safe enough in her condition, he supposed. As Gwyn danced, her body stiffened. “You’re what?”

Her movements slowed, but she did not answer.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Gwyn.” Never with him. Everything she had in mind piqued his interest. “Tell me.”

Her face tilted toward him as she swiveled in his embrace.

Those crimson lips were smirking sleepily as she answered. “I’m just curious, I guess,” she replied, lifting her shoulder. Those lips were all his eyes kept darting to.

Gods, why did she have to be drunk?

Fuck, he wanted her. Had she not been wasted, Azriel would have carried her over to that lounge near the fire. Created a cover for them with his shadows. Lain her down on the velvety cushions under the blanket of stars. Hiked up that short as hell dress and pleased her with his mouth. His tongue. Allowed her to move those hips, let her follow the dance against his face. Drank her pleasure.

“Azriel,” she whispered, her lips a hairbreadth from his. He dragged his bottom lip between his teeth. “Would you take me home?”

Oh, praise the mother-fucking Cauldron. She could be safe in bed, and he could work himself out of his misery in private.

“All right, Gwyn. We’ll get you home and to sleep.”

Her head swung back and forth. Gwyn rose on her tippy toes so they were eye-to-eye. Her palms caressed his chest, gliding down his front lower. And lower still.

“No, Az.” She crooned his name in a seductive tone that made him throb. Ocean eyes held him in place. “I want you to take me home. Like Cassian took Nesta home.”

Gwyn slid her fingers lower until she was playing with the top of his pants before skirting alongside, her knuckles following the hardened length hidden beneath. He bit back the moan building down low. Hell.

“I want you to take me home.” She leaned forward to kiss his throat, her tongue darting out to flick at his skin. “Like Mor took Emerie home.”

“Gwyn,” he groaned, finally placing a firm but gentle hand on her wrist. “ Please. ”

“Please, what?” A kiss on his collar. His jaw. The corner of his mouth, now set in a hard line. “Should I beg, Azriel?”

Holy fucking Cauldron. Mother, give him the strength of the gods.

Gwyn drew back again, her stare as unrelenting as his grip. “I want you to take me home, Azriel. Take me home and have sex with me. Fuck me. Make love to me. However you want me, I want you. So, take me home and make me yours.”

His hand squeezed her wrist and waist as he closed his eyes.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Why? Why did the Cauldron hate him so much?

His shadows offered no support, only concerned for her well-being and mocking his misfortune. Wispy dark pricks.

We are sorry for your pain, shadowsinger. But you need to get her home.

The face before him was determined, but those glazed eyes were vulnerable. His fate was worse if he did than if he did not.

“As much as I want to do all of those things and worship you.” He groaned in resignation. “You’re drunk.” His hand tucked back wavy bronze strands as he whispered, “We can’t. And tomorrow, you’re not even going to remember asking me to have sex with you.”

Gwyn’s whole body tensed, and she reeled backward. The more she grew nearer to the railing, the more his heart arrested. The shadows behind him pushed at her as he clutched her wrists.

Her voice was muffled as she said, “It’s all right. I understand.”

With a sigh, Azriel reached out to her and said, “I’ll fly us home.” Before Gwyn could even ask. “If I winnow you like this, you’ll get sick.” She fastened her arms around his neck. He gathered her up and held her close, setting a brief peck on her forehead. “Shut your eyes and hold on.”

𝄋

Gwyn held on as Azriel flew them home, her eyes closed until she saw white. The heady warmth of regret replaced sensual fervor.

Shame.

Cauldron, damn her. She had been rubbing against him like a feline in heat.

Gods. What had she done? She wanted him, that’s all.

A logical part of Gwyn realized Azriel was simply being considerate. Responsible. Sweet. But she didn’t need sweet. Or polite. Or conscientious. Gwyn wanted wildness; to have the unleashed, uninhibited version of Azriel. The one that came out to play in the pleasure house with those others.

Others. The thought turned to ash on her tongue.

Speaking of which, gods, her mouth was dry.

Gwyn craved a bit of roughness with him. Dreamed of those hands seizing her, tugging her hair. Nipping and scraping her skin with his teeth. To leave his mark. And she wasn’t afraid—because it was Azriel, and his intent with her wasn’t to cause her harm. He hungered to please her, and gods, she had wished to be satisfied.

Dancing with Az reminded her of slipping between sheets, and Gwyn hoped that was where the night had been heading. Until he’d uttered those words, You’re drunk. We can’t, sweetheart.

Drunk. She wasn’t drunk . True, Gwyn had a few drinks and danced a little. Fuck, Gwyn had fun. But drunk?

The words he whispered to her on the way home didn’t register, as she was too lost in her guilt spiral. So stuck that Gwyn didn’t even apprehend when they landed on the balcony of the House of Wind until she realized Az was walking.

She quickly wiggled until he loosened his hold, letting her get to her own feet.

The first thing she did was to kick off those heels in the middle of the hallway and moan in relief as she spread her toes against the wooden floor.

The shadowsinger snorted. “If the first thing girls do after a night out is to sigh happily after taking off their shoes, one would think you’d stop wearing them.”

Her eyes narrowed at him. “Mor called these fuck-me-pumps, and since no one was getting fucked, the shoes came off.”

As Azriel smoothed his temples in a way that spoke volumes, Gwyn huffed and wobbled her way to her room. A pair of loud, quick footfalls ran behind her as her fingers brushed the knob.

“Where do you think you are going, Berdara?”

Her chin jutted out. “My room, of course, since there’s absolutely no reason to be in yours.”

Azriel caught her hand and yanked her close before she could protest, putting a finger to her lips. His eyes darkened as Gwyn nipped at his finger. Leaning in closer he said, “That’s Nesta and Cassian’s room.”

Gwyn stepped back and considered. That was absolutely true. Imagining that she could have strolled in on whatever they were doing made her cheeks flush even fiercer. Gods, she really was hot. She needed somewhere cool But not something to eat because her stomach was…

With an arm around her waist, Azriel guided her to her chamber. Instantly, when she entered, Gwyn wanted to clamber on top of her bed. Not under the blankets. Too hot. Though she didn’t wish to wrinkle Mor’s dress. Thus, she battled with the knot at her collar, unable to coordinate her absolutely sober fingers.

The amused snort from Azriel made her want to commit violence.

“What are you doing, Gwyn?”

“I’m trying to get this cursed dress off so I can cool off! I’m so hot.”

His exhalation was audible. “May I help you?”

As she nodded maybe a little too aggressively, amazing chilled wisps of darkness sketched the curve of her spine to her nape. Shadows caressed her skin while they unraveled the string.

Rather than catching the dress, Gwyn let the fabric drip at her ankles, leaving just her underwear on display.

“Gods, I’m hot.” As she swung to face Azriel, she fanned herself, her stomach gurgling furiously. “Aren’t you super warm? How are you wearing a sweater?”

Azriel’s expression was one of concern. “No. It’s mid-November, and I already opened the window.” Exhaling loudly then, he took a decisive step toward her. “Gwyn, are you sure you’re al—”

“I’m fi—” Gwyn could not complete the lie.

Acidic bile rushed up in her throat as her stomach roiled violently. Gwyn shook her head and covered her mouth with a hand, praying to the Mother that she would reach the bathing chamber in time.

𝄋

For the last half-hour, Azriel held Gwyn’s hair and smoothed her back as she retched uncontrollably until she was dry heaving.

“Oh gods, I’m never drinking again,” she whimpered pitifully, sniffing as she tipped onto her side and pressed a cheek to the cold tile floor.

Seated with his back to the wall beside her, Azriel thought he had heard that phrase before.

A sigh of contentment spread over her as his shadows curled around her neck, cooling her forehead and her cheeks.

“That feels so nice,” she mumbled.

Watch her, he ordered his shadows as he stood and made his way to his bedroom, first changing into sleep pants before snagging the pouch on his nightstand. A gift that sat unused next to his bed for nearly two years. Until now.

Getting back to her room as fast as possible, finding Gwyn hadn’t moved a muscle as Az stepped around her, filling the short glass tumbler on the basin counter first with the headache powder and then water.

He supported her by sitting up slowly, his wing wrapping around her for balance. “Here, drink this slowly,” he encouraged, helping her bring the short cup to her lips.

Little by little, she sipped.

“Azriel,” she slurred, fingers gripping the glass in her hands.

He swept back her hair. “Hmm?”

“I don’t think Elain likes me.”

His hand froze on her cheek. “What? Why—what makes you say that, Gwyn?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. She was acting strange at the club.”

That’s right, Elain had been there. Fuck, what had she said or done to Gwyn?

Squinting at the dangling charm on her bracelet, he clenched his jaw. “Weird how? ”

After finishing the drink, she remained silent. Despite dread lying like lead in his gut, he abandoned the conversation when she yawned. For now.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he said as he took the cup and scooped her up, slowly carrying her and tucking her into bed on her side. He grabbed a wastebasket before settling beside her, just in case she was sick again.

She’s fast asleep, Shadowsinger.

Her body moved in easy, even breaths as he observed her back.

As Azriel attempted to fall asleep, stinging thoughts flooded his mind with what Elain might have said to Gwyn. And at the core of his being, he knew if something did truly occur at the club? It was all his own fucking fault.

Chapter Text

Frigid air had her tugging the blankets up over her bare shoulders. A winter kiss upon her skin. She shivered.

Wait? Bare shoulders?

Gwyn slowly opened her eyes, rubbing them with the back of her hand. Her eyes burned under the glare of the sunlight. Even that small insignificant act took effort, her arms leaden. Oh, sweet gods above. Why was she so exhausted? Lifting the blanket above her head, she peered down at herself. An entirely sensible question arose; why was she only in her underwear?

And why did she have a tattoo?

Staring at the ceiling while squinting, Gwyn recalled the night in fragments. Mor’s birthday celebration at Rita’s. Dancing. She gulped, her dry, sore throat reminding her of the drinking. There was more dancing after Azriel arrived. And then…

She shivered as curtains flapped in the brisk breeze whipping around the mountain. Cauldron, why were her windows open?

“House, if you please?”

The windows shut, curtains drawn to shield some of the fierce sun.

“Thank you,” Gwyn muttered, her voice hoarse.

Gods, she was thirsty. Before she could sit up, a glass of water appeared on her bedside table. Thank the House again.

Taking a long sip, Gwyn felt eyes on her when she sat up in bed. She squealed when she recognized her missing pegasus slippers. On top was a precisely folded note. Setting her drink aside, she straightened the white parchment.

Due to last night’s festivities and how you must feel this morning, I deigned it of utter importance to return your hideous yet seemingly comfortable slippers. As Gwyn rolled her eyes, a gigantic smile stretched across her face. Once you rouse, toss on some clothes and your evil slippers and come join me in the kitchen. I can’t wait to hear what you remember from last night. - Azriel

Remember from last night? Gwyn started to sweat. Oh, Mother in the Cauldron, what had she said and done?

As she searched in her closet for something to throw on under her robe, her fingers stilled on a pajama top.

Holy shit.

She’d danced with Azriel. He’d waltzed her into a stupor, like in a dream. And then Gwyn had ground into him on the rooftop. Moved and twisted against his body as they did in private quarters. And then she’d spoken…something…

The shirt fell to the ground, a wave of heat rising to her face.

I want you to take me home. Take me home and have sex with me. Fuck me. Make love to me. She’d asked him again to fuck her and he’d said something back. What had he said? Ah, yes.

You’re drunk…tomorrow, you’re not even going to remember asking me to have sex with you.

Her eyes narrowed. Oh, Gwyn remembered, all right.

“House, a shirt please.”

As if the magic read her mind, one of Azriel’s massive black cotton shirts fell from onto the bed. The shirt swallowed her up as Gwyn hastily pulled on the shirt; the hem falling to just above her knee. Angrily stepping into her floppy-headed pegasus slippers, not even troubling to brush her hair or look in the mirror, her irritation marched into the hall.

Upon launching the door, the smell of salt and the sizzle of grease immediately ravished her. Her mouth watered. Bacon. Oh, gods, the inhale made her hollow stomach happy. And toast. And eggs. As she stomped down the hallway, Gwyn saw something else equally as delicious as bacon. The backside of her winged male in low-hung gray sleep pants and a black shirt evidently manning the stove. Ebony hair tousled in messy waves as if he too had just gotten out of bed. Or he scrubbed his angry hands through them. From the night before, possibly both.

“Ha! Joke’s on you, Shadowsinger,” Gwyn’s voice echoed off the walls, pointing a finger at him. Azriel peered over a shoulder, brandishing a metal spatula at his side like a weapon. Her smile was ruthless as she stalked him down the seemingly endless corridor. “I do remember asking you to have sex with me. And I haven’t changed my mind and—”

She thought she would die right there as her feet ground to a stuttering halt. Gwyn emerged from the hallway to see Azriel and two others at the table.

Nesta’s shrewd gaze was lazy, but her lips tilted up in unrepentant amusement one would get when they knew something all along, staring leisurely over the lip of a white teacup. And Cassian was mid-bite into the scrambled egg, which had spilled onto his plate. He wiped his face with his napkin and the smirk that emerged was a magic trick.

“Good morning, Gwynnie,” Cassian’s words were low, ending on an amused snort.

Cauldron, drown her.

“Morning,” Gwyn murmured, struggling not to reveal her utter mortification as she shuffled her fuzzy, slippered feet over to Azriel’s side. He was busy flipping pancakes in a wide pan, mashing his lips together to withhold his amusement.

Her finger pinched his muscular side. “You didn’t think of warning me?!” Gwyn yelled in a hushed tone. “Didn’t your shadows say anything?!”

“The little shits never warn me when you’re around. Plus, I instructed them to let you sleep , so no , they didn’t disturb.” The shadowsinger’s gaze dipped and flickered. “Nice shirt, Berdara.”

“I’m so godsdamn embarrassed,” Gwyn angrily confessed. Taking her hand in his free hand, Azriel squeezed reassuringly.

“Don’t be. We’ll talk later, Gwyn. All right?” She nodded. “First eat.”

Her head tilted, curious. “Question, Az; How did you know I love pancakes?”

The shadowsinger flipped several onto a plate, along with bacon and eggs, leading her to a seat at the table. Cassian vigorously slapped the one beside him, mischief written in his eyes.

“No, no, sit by me, Gwynnie.”

Azriel sighed and placed Gwyn’s plate next to his brother. After Gwyn unceremoniously flopped onto the chair, Azriel poured her a cup of water and a mug of tea. Then the shadowsinger got his own fare and sat on her other side.

“Azriel, how did you know I love pancakes?”

Azriel smiled softly. “You may have mumbled about wanting to make pancakes. And eat pancakes at one this morning. And a few times while I flew you home last night.”

Oh, gods. If she couldn’t recall that, what else couldn’t she remember doing or saying?

Straightaway, her eyes trained on Nesta’s collarbone, and the two tattoos of a sliced white ribbon on each side.

“You have a tattoo as well?” Gwyn asked her friend across the way.

“I do.”

“A bargain, then?”

Nesta nodded. “Yes, but I made sure the terms were good. You and Emerie were being ridiculous. In the event that we go to war, we promised to never leave the other on the battlefield.”

“Eat, Berdara,” Cassian spoke around a mouthful of bacon. “Not every day Az cooks. You must be all special or he’s feeling bad for you. Either way, worked out for us. Sop up some alcohol with some food. It’ll help the hangover.”

“Hangover?” Gwyn asked, taking a bite of the fluffiest pancakes she’d ever had in her entire life. An unexpected moan rose out of her, and Azriel noticeably stiffened beside her. Immediately at the sound, his hand was on her knee, rubbing smooth, careful circles over her bare skin under the cover of the table.

“A hangover,” Cassian explained. “Is what you get after you over imbibe. Usually caused by dehydration, so drink a lot of water.” For emphasis, he pointed at her with his fork. “That should treat the headache, too.”

Gods, these were delicious pancakes. And Gwyn would love to eat without choking from Azriel’s steady, precise movements under the table while he ate.

“But I don’t have a headache.” Gwyn shrugged and worked her way to the bacon.

Nesta blinked several times, surprise marking her features. Her finger followed the circle of the teacup. “I’m surprised, Gwyn. I thought your head would be a percussion section this morning.

Cassian grinned. “Shots. I’m so proud of you, Gwynnie.” He ruffled her coppery-brown hair into a nest. “Next time, we’ll go out and—”

Instantly, Azriel and Nesta both said no.

Gwyn turned her attention back to Azriel. “Did you give me something last night for the headache, Azriel? I somewhat remember you handing me a drink of water, but the taste was rather minty and chalky.”

After Azriel took a few thoughtful bites of food, he answered, “I did. I gave you a headache powder before you went to bed.”

Nesta swore and spilled her drink. The House cleaned up the mess and refilled Nesta’s glass before Cassian could grab napkins.

Nesta’s steel-blue eyes tracked Azriel with a certain intensity. Like prey.

“Headache powder. Hmm?” Her long, elegant finger tapped against her chin rhythmically. “For all the headaches everyone always gives you? Since you rub your temples so often?”

Suddenly, the grip on Gwyn’s knee tightened almost to the point of pain. The shadowsinger was a stone statue with a set face. Umbrae descended upon his shoulders, bolstering against his wings. Under the table, a blue haze covered her exposed thigh as the color flared.

Gwyn cocked a brow. “Well, why else would one have a headache powder? Is this one special?”

There was something in Azriel’s stare. A warning.

Cassian’s warrior hands braced on the table, as if ready to jump into battle at a moment’s notice.

Nesta simply lifted her cup and took a long draw, her eyes never wavering from the shadowy Illyrian. “I guess someone has truly spilled the tea.”

𝄋

Azriel didn’t help clean up. Let the House handle the mess. Or Nesta. Even better.

Although Nesta never expressed a rumor concerning Elain, Azriel knew that the eldest Archeron was sly and observant. Certainly, if caught with Elain in a compromising position, Rhysand expected Cassian to tell on him if he learned. The role of a devious chaperone. More than likely under the weight and authority of a High Lord. In essence, a sworn oath Cassian had to uphold. The odds were in Nesta’s favor to gain this insight if Cassian knew.

Had Elain mentioned something to Nesta? As far as Azriel was aware, the sisters barely spoke, their relationship strained.

Did Nesta notice something in Elain’s way of looking?

Last Solstice, Shadowsinger. You lingered. She brushed against you. Lady Death noticed.

But solstice was almost an entire year ago. But this was Nesta. She was like a feral dog with a bone. Any problem she encountered, especially for her family, would find a solution with the eldest Archeron. She was going to come to ask him some questions that he’d rather not answer. Nor would he. Because this was none of her damn business.

Whatever Azriel once had with Elain was brief and never even ventured to be wholly intimate besides kisses and secret touches. Despite his earlier suspicions and hopes, Elain was not his mate. When their lips finally met, nothing clicked. He didn’t feel any spark. True, her lips were soft and lovely. As sweet as honey. And he’d been willing, except—

Your heart has been through too much.

Slumping shoulders accompanied his expression. Ultimately, the middle Archeron sister had not been ready to disavow her bond and Azriel couldn’t…

He’d made his feelings clear. Left any future up to Elain. Given her time and space to sort her feelings and intentions. What Azriel said then remained; he only wanted her to be happy. She still deserved happiness, a life of contentment. A life of joy. Above all else, he didn’t want to ruin their friendship. Yet that is exactly what had happened.

But perhaps disappointment and anger were far better drinking companions than heartbroken.

The day Azriel left Elain, he was correct. Love shouldn’t have to be hard.

Love was something else altogether.

As unrelenting and as unstoppable as the tide. A constancy of ebbs and flows. Push and pull for a greater purpose. Unpredictable and could slam into you when you least expected, bringing you to your knees.

Az realized that now, and it hit him last night after he’d put her to bed, staring at her sleeping form before he’d gotten up to help with training and make breakfast.

For better or worse. Worse, his inner darkness hummed. Much worse.

Fuck them. Fuck all those gloomy intentions in his head, crying out. Damning him. Damning her.

Because Azriel was already damned.

He had fallen completely in love with Gwyn.

The fact was, he’d probably started the moment she cut the ribbon. Or perhaps the first night of midnight training when the priestess knocked him over. Head over heels, flat on his ass.

Gwyneth Berdara had brought him to his knees.

Now if he could only tell her.

As he walked toward his study, Nesta emerged from her room, arms crossed over her chest.

“We need to talk, Azriel.”

𝄋

The High Lord had requested her and winnowed her to the river estate after brunch. Which, of course, had Gwyn teeming with unease. For two reasons, actually. Without Azriel present, what would Rhysand want to confer with her? Second, Azriel’s conversation was on hold—one she needed to have.

The two now had late afternoon tea in Rhysand’s impressive private library.

She took a sip. The warmth soothed her still battered throat.

“I hope you are recovering from the revelry and debauchery last night,” Rhysand crooned, unable to hide his amusement.

Debauchery? Oh, gods, what did people see?

“I’m sure your High Lady told you all about my evening,” she said, abashed eyes flitting to the floor.

“Hungover?”

She groaned, wiping her brow. “Tired, but not a headache, so I guess that is nice. But I’m guessing speaking on my first drunken night on the town was not why you brought me here.”

“As entertaining as that sounds, no. I wanted to speak to you in private regarding what transpired with Merrill and anything of note you can remember regarding her research.”

While ruminating over her endless tasks, Gwyn sat back.

“All my research was primarily on the Valkyries. Their history, customs, traditions. Obviously, we know Merrill’s mother was one, so why didn’t she know these things?”

“And those other texts she had in her office? The ones taken?”

Gwyn shrugged. “I pulled Mysteries Creatures of the Waters and Seas and A Record of Prythian before the Great War the day she attacked the library . But I pulled no publications on the High King. Definitely never anything sirens.”

There were also the Legends of The Night Court. A text Gwyn hadn’t grabbed but had ended up in her hands, nevertheless.

Rhysand rested back, his hands landing on the cushioned tufts of his armchair like he was on a throne.

“And obviously I heard of The Book of Breathings, but definitely not The Walking Dead. ”

“Why was she looking into water folk, I wonder?” he asked, shifting from discussion to pointed questions. “You are from water folk, correct?”

“My grandmother was a nymph from the Spring Court. She seduced an Autumn Court High Fae and had his child, which was later left at Sangravah.”

His finger tapped a thoughtful rhythm, clearly pondering why Merrill deigned necessary to search for such a thing.

“I think Merrill was looking for anything since she didn’t like me. Probably to dislike me more, to be honest.” Gwyn shifted uncomfortably in her seat, draining the remaining tea to the dregs. When Rhysand offered her more, she declined with a polite shake. He nodded, crossing his ankle on a knee.

He tilted his head, her eyes meeting starry violet. “May I ask you about something, Gwyn?”

Gwyn’s toe tapped nervously on the floor. “Of course.”

“What Azriel and Nesta were saying about your glowing when you sing; is that true?”

“I haven’t noticed, though I honestly mostly sing with my eyes closed,” she chuckled, tucking a loose strand behind her arched ear. “So I’m not sure. Possibly, I suppose?” She raised a questioning brow. “Are you asking for a demonstration?”

His laugh was a lovely note. “No. I was just. You identify your mother’s lineage, but do you know your father?”

“No, I do not. They conceived Catrin and I at the…Great Rite.”

“So your father could be anyone.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“It makes one wonder if perhaps your father was from Day or Dawn, is all. Or perhaps a son of both.

Well, Gwyn supposed from what she studied about the Day court, the infamous glow she had yet to see whilst singing made sense, but…

“I don’t think I can break curses,” she chuckled, and Rhys grinned. “And although I always assumed the Invoking Stone was for healing, Clotho made it seem as if the stones only helped amplify powers for good.”

“Not everyone has that ability. Feyre does because Helion gifted directly. But the light would be from Day.” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, deep in theory. Gwyn merely stared and blinked.

“You seem to be more invested in this than I am, Rhysand.”

“Have you never wondered?”

“Not really,” Gwyn sighed, fretting with her cream oversized wool sweater, which covered her up over her black leggings. “I don’t think my mother even remembered, to be honest. My father probably never knew she was with child.” Or cared.

“You’re in your twenties, right?”.”

Her chin rose in indignation. “I’m twenty-eight. Nearly twenty-nine.”

“Sounds like you have taken offense to my query, Valkyrie.”

“Seems as if you underestimate me because of my age, High Lord.”

A smile lit up the High Lord’s face. “So young and impulsive. Amazing someone could put up with Az at all with his incessant broodiness, but especially you at—”

The stare she gave him held him in place, and he clicked his tongue. “Don’t. And, I must admit, the shadowsinger has his moments,” she admitted, considering some of those occasions would be most inappropriate to share with his High Lord, brother or not.

“As I was attempting to get at; at your age,” Rhysand winked as she scowled. “So many of us were Under the Mountain at that time.”

A darkened expression appeared on his face. In a flash, swirling night engulfed the study. But even as they retreated, his eyes still held that dimness. Gwyn often saw the same darkness in her own reflection when Sangravah slipped into her mind. Shadows she’d seen in Azriel’s golden-green eyes when he spoke of his past.

She couldn’t resist reaching over and squeezing Rhys’s hand. Her attempt to pull away was met with his grasp.

“I don’t think I’ve met anyone else who understands. Who truly understands,” Rhysand exhaled. A shiver went down her spine. Gwyn had heard the names they had called him as he’d confided in her before, but—oh, Mother no.

He wasn’t Amarantha’s whore by choice, was he? She squeezed his hand harder, tears clouding her vision as she trembled.

Fifty years.

He’d endured nearly fifty years of being under the influence of that horrible woman, she recalled from her research. In her bed with no choice. No means of escape. Even if his trauma didn’t involve being horribly brutalized, her heart broke for him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

His radiant eyes were lined with silver as he met her gaze. “As am I, Gwyneth. If only we had gotten to the temple sooner. I—”

She shook her head vigorously. “Don’t. I’ve told Azriel the same. That kind of thinking will make me insane. I am uncertain whether I believe in fate or the Cauldron. However, it was undoubtedly the catalyst for so many good things in my life that followed. Some days are…”

“Still difficult?” The High Lord offered his hand solidly around hers. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, still holding the hand she offered.

“Yes, very. Though every day, the weight seems to lessen some. You?” Well, that was a bold question to ask the most powerful High Lord of all time, Gwyn thought, wanting to pull back her hand and smack herself with it.

“Yes.” His voice was soft, so much vulnerability in the thickened tone. “Some nights are still hard. Every day gets a bit easier, but some days…”

“You wake up and everything is ten times harder?”

He cleared his throat and nodded, releasing her hand.

“Enough of that.” He coughed a hoarse laugh, softly, hiding the fact that he was wiping his eyes. “The reason I asked about your father and your powers is that I want to identify what you can do. Find out if there are other ways for you to protect yourself. Because it’s clear to me from the books Merrill was squirreling away, she was looking into you.”

Her spine straightened. “The water folk?”

Rhysand’s finger resumed restlessly tapping. “Yes. Clearly, some books were about whatever else she had planned, which we’ll get to the entirety of your research with her momentarily. I want to know everything you found for her and see if possible. But what is undeniable is that some of what she was interested in on her own merit was about you.”

“If you would like to peer into my memories, I’m happy to show you what I learned through my exploration with Merrill. But I hate to disappoint, Rhysand, but I’m not all that interesting.”

He grinned then, and his face was one of roguish charm. “Well, you’ve already captivated my wayward brother, so somehow I sincerely doubt that, Gwyneth.”

𝄋

His knuckles were a bloody mess, ravaged and split from the sum of blows he performed on the dummies—with no wrappings. How long since he’d taken anger, his pain, out on one of these?

Months? Had to have been.

After another punch, blood splattered across the dummy’s chest.

Godsdamn Nesta.

“What are you doing with Gwyn, Azriel?”

His gaze narrowed at her. “We’re together.”

“I hear you’re together, but—what game are you playing?”

He crossed his arms across his chest, flaring his wings. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“That headache powder has been on your nightstand for nearly two years. ”

“How the fuck would you know, Nesta.”

“It’s my house, you bat. Denial and stupidity are not a good look on you. Why yesterday?”

“What are you trying to say it meant something?”

“Maybe that your misconceived pressure with my sister—”

His eyes went round and his body lurched back. “Fuck you, Nesta. I never forced Elain to do shit.”

“But you don’t deny your intentions.”

His nostrils flared. “Did Cassian say something?”

“All I know is you kept that little pouch by your bed like a fucking shrine to Elain for two godsdamn years. I was there when you opened that gift. And then last night you randomly gave it to Gwyn.”

Shadows gathered behind him as his wings spread even wider. “You want to know why Nesta? And I can’t believe I’m even explaining this to you because you’d don’t deserve an explanation. You left her at the club to deal with drunk Elain. Gwyn got drunk. And sick. And was going to have a headache. I didn’t want her to. I had a perfectly good, unused headache powder on my Cauldron-fucking nightstand that was doing me no good sitting there. So I gave Gwyn something she needed.”

Suddenly, Nesta stumbled backward, hands resting on her heart. “Holy shit.”

He outstretched his arms in a challenge in the hallway. “What, Nesta? Will you critique the way I took care of her?”

“No. No. I-I thought—”

“You thought I was playing a game of giving her something of Elain’s?” An image of the charm flashed across Gwyn’s wrist like a phantom. A finger pointed accusatory at her as he released those thoughts. “This is no game to me, Nesta. Gwyn is not a fucking game to me.”

Nesta nodded, swallowing thickly. “I see that now. I just, after what Elain was saying last night—”

He halted, reflecting on what Gwyn had stated regarding Elain’s chilly behavior towards her the night before at Rita’s.

“Elain kept saying she needed to talk to you, Az,” Nesta said. “I was coming to see if you were seeing my sister behind Gwyn’s back.”

“No! Why the hell did she want to talk to me?”

Nesta’s eyes darted over the scars of his wings as she wrapped her arms around her chest. “I don’t know, but she kept looking at Gwyn, too.”

Fucking hell.

Nesta didn’t bother apologizing, and he didn’t blame her. She was only protecting her friend but, fuck.

Gwyn was correct about Elain acting off. Apparently, Elain wanted to speak to Gwyn and to him.

Nesta realized stuff was going on last Solstice.

That’s what had propelled him to the training ring hours ago. Use the rage. The fear. The uncertainty. Work out the coiled feelings he had for Gwyn in his heart. The ones that made Azriel’s heart stop, and he couldn’t breathe when he saw her. The ones that got wedged in his throat when he even thought about saying them aloud.

His shirt had come off long before as he jabbed and kicked into oblivion. Until the sole focus was on his body and movement. Much like dancing with Gwyn last night…

Fuck.

Her hips and ass fit his hips like she was made just for him.

Az punched the training dummy once more before he sensed eyes on him. And since his busybody shadows didn’t warn him who approached…

“Enjoying the view, Berdara?”

“The sunset? Of course.”

He snorted, wiping sweat off his brow with his forearm. And may have flexed his muscles on purpose as he did. Peering over his shoulder, she clearly noticed.

“Have fun with Rhysand? ” he asked, not entirely in a playful manner.

“I guess.” She gawked at him with a heated gaze as she leaned against the door, her foot propped up. “Have time for that talk, Shadowsinger?”

He made a full circle, opening and closing his fists. Seeing his aching fingers, Gwyn’s eyes grew wide. “Not really in the mood to talk, Gwyn.”

He stalked closer to her across the ring.

Her throat bobbed. Despite pushing against the wall, she didn’t advance. “I don’t think there’s much to talk about, anyway.”

“I think there is.”

“You heard what I said last night, Shadowsinger.”

“And that was?”

“I’m ready for something more,” Gwyn said.

He backed her into the door, bracing her in with his arms. “Define more. Because you asked me to fuck you last night, and I am inclined to oblige.”

She trembled against him, her nipples poking into his chest even through the thick wool sweater.

“More.”

He pressed into her so she could feel his erection against her core. She moaned.

“It was a rough day. I’m not feeling very nice right now, Gwyn.”

“I can see that.”

“I was up here training and getting my aggression out.” He brushed the back of his hand down the side of her face. Her neck. “But you interrupted me.”

“So sorry.”

“No, you’re not. Just like you aren’t sorry, you wore my shirt this morning to get a rise out of me. And you most certainly got a rise out of me, Gwyneth.”

She met his stare. “You’re right, I’m not sorry. I wanted to prove you wrong.”

And she was proving him wrong. Gwyn wanted him. He sure as hell wanted her, but the Az was conflicted. He wanted to fuck her right there. Strip her leggings down and pin her body between him and the wall, make her scream out his name so all of godsdamn Velaris knew who Gwyn was to him.

Staring at her bright teal eyes, Azriel thought on how he had fantasized about having her. Rutting her like an angry bull would not be their first time. Not when bitterness sat heavy in his heart. Not like this.

There were, however, many other things they could do if Gwyn was begging for more.

“You sure?” Azriel asked.

Gwyn nodded, and he gripped the end of her braid, tugging her head back as he rested his forehead against hers. “Words, Berdara.”

“Yes.”

Azriel grasped onto her firm ass, driving down until his fingers dug into those luscious thighs he couldn’t wait to get between. And he boosted her up. “Wrap your legs around my waist and hold on.”

Chapter Text

Whisked through whipping shadow and darkness, they arrived in his room.

Make sure no one fucking comes in here or hears a damn thing, he ordered his shadows.

Before Azriel’s feet even touched the solid floor, his mouth was on hers. His body surged forward with hers wrapped around him like a second skin. Gwyn’s full mouth tasting, her hips driving against his in silent demand, made it impossible for him to focus.

But if Gwyn wanted that. He kept her up with his forearm, freeing his hand to give her perfect ass a satisfying thwack. And to his astonishment, she begged for another one. Gods, this girl was going to be the damn death of him.

When they tore apart to breathe, both sharing panting gasps, she glanced at the bed. Fuck the bed. He wasn’t in the mood for soft mattresses and satin sheets. From her eyes, neither was she.

Azriel’s lips crashed into hers again as he carried her over, plunking her rear unceremoniously onto the corner of his desk, not caring if she was on top of important reports or not.

He broke out of the kiss long enough to seek if this was all right, gripping her chin between his fingers.

“Yes,” Gwyn replied, nodding her head for emphasis, her tone breathy. “Gods, yes.”

Az smiled wickedly, standing a few paces back to look at her. Those ample breasts rose and fell beneath the bulky sweater. Legs spread, dangling off the desk. Despite her lack of leathers or a robe, in his fantasy, godsdamn, she was still perfect.

“Fuck, Berdara.”

Gwyn moaned her reply, her legs shifting together, seeking friction. His cock and wings twitched in return.

He prowled forward, fingers drifting over the top of her thighs and under, curling into her flesh. In one fluid motion, papers went flying as he yanked her forward to the edge.

With no preamble, his mouth settled on hers, a clash of tongue and teeth. Not a single thing was sweet. His frustration backed the kiss and was rougher than he’d normally give. But Azriel would not lie to her. He wanted Gwyn to be with him. To hold him however he came. Even when anguish and pain backed his actions. And mostly he needed Gwyn to know; despite all the shit, she made everything better.

She made him better.

The fierceness made both their lips swollen and wet. Sweet Mother, his girl, was always up for the challenge. Gwyn kissed Az back and met him press for press. Stroke for stroke. She was as ravenous and as needy for him as he was for her.

His hand coasted up her body, locating the edge of the cream wool sweater that needed to go. This time, she didn’t need him to yank on the bottom. With a gasp, Gwyn hurled the shirt off so fast he couldn’t blink.

A bra of azure lace was all that remained. Not what he wished to see. Azriel desired soft alabaster skin with a zodiac of freckles. He wanted to see dusky, pretty peaks tight with pleasure.

With a grunt, the shadowsinger leaned over, dragging his nose up and down between the valley of her chest as his fingers freed her gloriously full breasts from the frilly confines. Pushing the cups over until her pebbled nipples sprang. Gwyn’s heart thudded heavily behind her ribs, his mouth peppering her supple skin with soft brushes of his lips. As his hands pinched and kneaded. Her body jolted, palms squeaking across the wooden surface, when his tongue laved over the turgid tips, leaving them glistening.

“You’re about to make my private library fantasy come true, Gwyneth.”

“Is that so?” Her throat bobbed as she watched, eyes widening as his nose grazed down her body, only stopping to dip his tongue into her navel. Azriel slowly knelt between her and spread her legs with the width of his shoulders.

“Do you remember what I told you months ago? How I wanted you on the edge of that fucking desk?” Her covered thighs trembled as his palms moved back and forth soothingly. “On my knees, you wide and wet before me, ready for my mouth?”

“Yes. I remember,” Gwyn said, her eyes darkening into deep-ocean depths as she met his ardent stare. “And I believe you told me you wanted me to drag your head between my thighs, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel’s fingers glided up soft ebony until he reached the stretchy band of fabric. “I did. But today?”

Gwyn placed her feet on his shoulders, allowing her enough leverage to lift her sweet little behind off the desk. He had them swiped off and tossed away in one quick action that had her snorting and lifting a brow.

“Today, I told you I’m not feeling nice.” The moment his mouth touched her inner thigh, Gwyn twitched. Az kissed and sucked so hard she probably had a mark. She moaned, her hips shifting wantonly as his mouth got higher and higher, the sweet scent that had tortured him for nearly a year so close. “I know you’re not ready for me to fuck you yet, but I need a piece of you.” Azriel stared up at her, his mouth a mere inch from a scrap of lace covering what he craved.

Never wavering from her gaze, he bent forward until his nose skimmed against the mesh. Tenderly, reverently, he placed a kiss at her center. Gwyn whimpered, her legs shifting on either side of his head.

He nudged against his breaths, coming out in deep, uneven groans. “I need my mouth on you.” He drove harder against her clit until she shoved back. “I want a part of me inside you. I want you to come on my tongue. I want to fucking taste you. Devour every drop of you. Do you think you can handle me?”

So he lingered, nuzzling into her sex, fingers tugging gently on her gauzy bottoms in a silent ask.

“Yes, and before you even tell me, I’ll tell you if I need to stop,” she pleaded in a low gasp, raising her ass again. Gave him plenty of time to draw the edge of her underwear over her leg, his tongue chasing the fabric down her inner thigh. Behind her knee. Down her long as hell calf until the underpants were thrown away.

“You’re such a good girl, Gwyneth.”

When Gwyn leaned back to relax, his hands went under and he held her up while his mouth settled on her. Azriel’s eyes rolled in the back of his damn head, groaning in bliss at the honeyed taste of her. He’d savored her on his fingers before, but this was so much richer.

Gods, her beauty was beyond his imagination. Gwyn was a feast for all the senses. Her flesh was soft and warm against him. He loved her mewls and moans with every light flick and a swirl of his tongue. How she bucked and cried out when his tongue subtly pressured her clit, or dragged his teeth over as he nibbled.

“Gods, you’re fucking soaked. You’re so delicious, Gwyn. So fucking sweet,” he murmured before diving in again. Gwyn let out a high-pitched whimper as he casually slid his tongue inside, thrusting, reveling in the sensual way she clenched around him, pulling him in more.

His senses told him she was close. Replacing his tongue with a finger, Azriel sank into her as he returned his attention to her clit. He listened to her breathy pants, the way her hands opened and closed, squeaking over the polished wood. A heady flush crept over her body.

“Gods, Az…I’m…”

And right before she reached the edge, he stopped.

Her teal eyes snapped open, gawking at him in disbelief.

“What in the absolute hell, Azriel?”

His dark chuckle echoed through the room as he rose just enough to adjust his now leaking erection in his pants.

“Do you trust me, Gwyneth?” His finger sunk in and out of her drenched entrance with agonizing slowness.

Gwyn’s vibrant eyes narrowed into slits, her teeth gritted. “Do I have a choice, Shadowsinger?”

“Well, I may as well stop now.” When he did so, she tossed her head back, hitting the desk with a hard thump.

“No, don’t you dare fucking stop, Azriel! Continue for the love of the gods. Do whatever you want. This feels so amazing.”

“Trust me. You’re going to see fucking stars, sweetheart.”

When Azriel descended on her again, she cried out. With purposeful leisure, he sucked and swirled with his tongue as his fingers plunged in and out of her body. He stopped again when she was on the brink. Gwyn whined and whimpered pitifully, giving him the evil eye as she tugged at her coppery-brown braid in frustration.

Staring down at him, the Valkyrie practically snarled. “Is two fingers enough, Shadowsinger?” He raised a black eyebrow. “I assumed from my time with your cock, you are much…bigger than two.” Her swollen lips twisted into a challenging smirk. “Unless I’m wrong about your,” she glanced down to the twitching bulge of his pants, clicking her tongue. “Wingspan.”

Azriel growled and delicately worked a third finger into her soaked sex. She cried out as her body tensed, and he stayed, letting her adjust.

“What do you think, Gwyneth? Are you going to be able to take my cock when I fuck you?”

When she was ready, his mouth lowered to savor her again, gliding his fingers in and out.

“Oh gods, please,” Gwyn begged in a brief sob.

Suddenly, her creamy thighs were over his shoulders, her legs locking him in place. Her thighs quivered and shook as she shifted unbidden over his face and met his tongue and thrusts unavoidably. When her foot accidentally, or perhaps not, slid against the edge of his wing, the shadowsinger almost lost all control.

Although Azriel needed to reach down and jerk himself, his hands never wandered from the female splayed before him.

If Azriel died right there, he would die a fucking happy male.

One of her hands found her breast, while the other grabbed onto his hair, tugging it to the point of pain. Gwyn began panting, her legs crushing against his ears. His palm landed on her belly, holding her in place until he got his fill. A pink flush covered her skin as she screamed, his name bouncing off the walls. Release pulsed and flooded around his fingers and over his tongue.

Gwyn was exquisite. Precious. The sweetest Azriel had ever tasted in his Cauldron-damned life.

And he knew he would never grow tired of her.

And he didn’t as he drank his fill before he pushed up, drawing his fingers with them, licking those clean as she watched under heavy lashes from where she collapsed against the wooden desk. Az leaned over her body, waiting for Gwyn’s reaction. Good or bad, he was ready.

To his shock, she tugged him forward by the neck and kissed the shit out of him, tasting herself on his lips. His tongue. And, fuck, the fact that she did that was possibly the most arousing thing ever.

Gwyn devoured his mouth as she sat up and pushed him back with a hand on his chest, scooting until she hopped off the edge of the desk. That her legs were as unsteady as a newborn fawn filled him with male pride. His wings spread.

And when she stretched back, her lips were just as glossy as his.

Reaching behind her back, her eyes never leaving him, Gwyn unclasped her bra, her heaving breasts jiggling as they settled into place. And without another word, she sank to her knees.

𝄋

She was boneless. She was mindless.

And the shadowsinger was going to pay.

Those were Gwyn’s fractured thoughts as she sampled herself on his clever, talented tongue. Before she decided, the best course of action was a taste of his own medicine.

Which is what brought her knees to the cool wooden floor before him.

“Gwyn,” he gulped on a hard swallow. “I didn’t do that because I wanted you to…”

Staring up, her fingers came to the waistband of his leathers, her fingers pulling on the ties and stays. She raised a questioning auburn brow.

“Fuck,” he said, nodding.

“Words, Shadowsinger,” she mocked, pressing her hand against the insistent strain at the seam.

“Yes. Fuck yes, Gwyneth.”

“Good,” she praised, earning a seductively low moan in reply.

Her fingers flew frantically, removing the stays from his pants. And when she curled her fingers around the top of not only his leathers but his undershorts as well, he didn’t balk. In one quick tug, both were down to his ankles. His impressive length jutted straight out, hard and long. Cauldron above. Gwyn had seen him before when she’d handled him, but being this close…

How in the gods was he supposed to fit inside her mouth or otherwise?

“Gwyn?”

Her cheeks tingled as she glanced up at him. “I’m all right,” she said.

“You really don’t have—” Azriel’s words ended on a swear as her fist wrapped firmly around the base and squeezed, her fingers not able to touch around his girth. Mother above, he was truly a sight to behold. Impressive. Enormous. Words that have yet to be invented to truly convey Azriel’s essence.

Gwyn stroked him tentatively as she planted kisses on his contracting taut stomach, following the dusting of onyx hair leading between the highly defined V of his hips.

The shadowsinger met her grip with quick thrusts, his hands finding her plaited hair as she worked him over, the hard, darkened flesh pulsing and throbbing in her grasp.

Gwyn licked her lips as she tried to remember the oral pleasure scenes from her favorite books. Her eyes fixated on the leaking tip, her tongue tentatively licking the slit, tasting the pearly fluid.

Azriel barked out a curse and tugged on her braid. Her core clenched, desire pooling again. Her mouth salivated.

Who would have dreamed this would be so arousing?

Taking an example from one of her favorite chapters, Gwyn ran her tongue under his rigid length, following the thick vein under the shaft. She was relishing all the ways Azriel swore and shuddered, how his legs shook.

Eventually, she opened her mouth. He swore as she took him in as much as she could, twirling her tongue around as she worked down farther and farther, until…she choked and drew off.

Cauldon boil and fry her. She knew that would be a problem. Gwyn could barely brush her tongue when she cleaned her teeth without gagging. But books always made it sound so easy. And she assumed from said books that men preferred when women took them deep down their throats.

“Gwyn?” When she didn’t respond, Azriel tugged her hair back, forcing her to look at him. “What’s wrong?”

“I gagged.” Her cheeks heated.

“Then don’t go so deep.”

She angled her head in question. “Don’t men like when you do that? In some books I read, this seems to be universal.”

Azriel’s eyes were dark chips of jade and amber as he stared down at her. “Gwyneth, I am going to be really fucking honest with you. No matter how you touch me. The reason I’ll love it is that you have your mouth on me. Your hand is stroking me.” The shadowsinger’s face softened a pinch, his rugged hand cupping her cheek. “You can’t do this wrong, sweetheart.” His hand wrapped, covering hers still around his length, crushing them together tighter than he had as they stroked his thick shaft together.

“I love the way you stroke my cock, Gwyn. So fucking good,” he ground out as she watched, mesmerized at the way he trembled in her hand. At how passionate they looked, holding him as one.

Her lips twitched in a devilish half-grin. Using another suggestion from a novel, Gwyn used her thumb to smear the slippery liquid around the tip. She placed a kiss on the wide, flushed head, and then took his cock back into her mouth. Gradually, she did her best to give him more, take more of him in.

Azriel must have sensed her building panic when she got as far as before, because he said, “Fuck, you’re so good at sucking me, Gwyneth. Use your hands, too.”

So she did. Sucking and stroking. He jerked and swore. She swirled and twisted. He thrust and yanked at her braid. And Az praised her the entire way, telling Gwyn she was the best he’d ever had. She was pretty sure that wasn’t true.

His hips pushed thoughtfully into a rhythm into her mouth, careful not to go too deep. And for some reason, that brought tears to her eyes. Even when her teeth scraped gently over his hard flesh, he made her feel like she was an expert.

Perhaps Gwyn could benefit from one thing from her books. When his entire body tensed up and she knew from his trembling thighs release was not far behind, she ran a hand down his length, lightly fondling his balls.

Azriel growled out in surprise. She gripped him tighter. Licked and sucked him harder. Until he barked out a warning.

But Gwyn didn’t want to pull off.

She wanted to taste. To savor him.

And she didn’t have to wait long.

His hips thrust forward, hand fisting her braid. He roared out her name and shuddered, his mighty wings flaring out as his release slid over her tongue and down her throat in a salty rush. She worked him through his completion, taking everything he had to give.

Before she had time to gather herself, Azriel pulled her off onto her feet and held her tight. A fine sheen of sweat covered his light brown skin, his hazel eyes wide, and a crooked grin on his face that spoke volumes.

“You have a little something right…” he swiped at the corner of her mouth with his thumb. She grabbed his hand, pulling his thumb into her mouth, sucking off the remainder of his pleasure. He choked on a laugh and groaned at the same time.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead on hers and kissing her nose.

“You are amazing, Gwyn. Absolutely fucking amazing.”

And with her swollen lips, pounding heart, and wobbly legs, she felt amazing. Absolutely fucking amazing.

𝄋

Gwyn didn’t expect to end her day naked in bed with Azriel. Nevertheless, after some life-changing oral sex, they tucked into bed, where they stayed for the rest of the day. The House even delivered dinner. An assortment of fruits and cheeses, which they ate in bed as they chatted and joked with one another.

The entire experience during and after seemed natural. Real.

The mild soreness between Gwyn’s legs served as a solid reminder of reality. Cauldron, if she was sore now, what would she be like after she had Azriel’s massive…

After they’d finished dining, they laid beside each other. Gwyn on her belly, the shadowsinger on his back, the silk black sheet covering their waists. Azriel played with her hand resting between them in the giant bed. His rough fingers whisper-soft over the back of her hand. And they talked about everything and nothing. But, inevitably, considering what they’d just experienced, the conversation circled back to intimacy and sex.

“So I truly did all right?” Gwyn asked again, more vulnerable now with the cooling heat.

Az kissed the back of her hand. “I would never lie to you, Gwyn. I think it’s pretty obvious I liked it.” He snorted, red blooming on his cheeks. “Dare I even ask where you got the idea to go for the balls?”

Gwyn groaned, cramming her face into the pillow. Her words mumbled as she said, “A book.”

“No,” he said, feigning shock. She made to hit him with the pillow, which he grabbed and tossed to the floor. “Now you don’t have a pillow. Next time, think before you make your attack so obvious. Sloppy. I taught you better than that.”

The redheaded Valkyrie stuck out her tongue. “I find it funny how loud you are during sex, Shadowsinger. I’m confident you spoke more then than during any previous conversation.”

His lips twitched even as his eyes rolled at her ridiculous statement.

“And your mouth is truly filthy, Az.”

“And you love it, Gwyneth.” True.

“Do you want to know my worst oral experience, Berdara?” Nodding, she scooted closer, their bare knees touching under the blanket. “When I was a teenager, I was with an Illyrian female who literally thought you blew. So I laid there as she, quite literally, blew on me.”

After laughing so loudly and hard that her cheeks hurt, Gwyn’s breathing became difficult.

“I love that,” he blurted, his lips quirking up.

“What?”

“Your laugh.”

“Truthfully, I love yours as well, Shadowsinger. Though you don’t laugh often enough.”

“There is very little to be amused about.” He sighed deeply, shaking off whatever forlorn feeling delved into his awareness. “Anyway, this book . I should like to thank the author for your brilliant, informed idea.”

Gwyn wanted to hide her face, but considering where both their faces had previously been lodged, there was nothing more to be embarrassed about. “I actually may have a list.”

His face lit up with wicked amusement. “A list? Tell me more?”

“It’s just a compilation of ideas from books that I read that…piqued my interest.”

“Turned you on and were curious about why?”

“Same meaning. Yes.”

“I would love to see this list someday. In fact…” The shadowsinger turned his head and his dark, wispy soldiers darted off.

“Don’t you dare!”

Not a minute later, the cloud of inky blackness seeped under the doorway, and Azriel reached into a pocket of darkness, pulling out a very familiar pink sheet of paper.

“Appropriate choice of paper color for such amorous material.”

Her brows slammed down. “I hate you. And your traitorous little minions.”

He cleared his throat, opening up the folded sheet, mashing his lips together. She let out an exasperated groan, trying to hide her face.

“Cataloged. Novel names. Page numbers. Quotes. And you numbered them. I’m impressed by your precision, Berdara.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” she scoffed.

Reaching over to his bedside table, Azriel grabbed a pen, making marks on the page.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking off boxes,” He said, peering over to her. “We’ve done some of these already.” He winked, and she couldn’t hide her smile.

As he read over the fifty or so she’d compiled over her adventure into erotica, he hummed or tsked as if rating them himself.

She huffed a sigh, her cheek resting on her forearm as she regarded him. His shadows ran cooly over her bare shoulders, causing shivers in their wake.

“I’m sure all of my desires are pretty standard for a male who is over five hundred. You’ve probably done everything.” Holy gods, had she just said that aloud? That was a fear Gwyn buried low, pushed to her toes. The fear of not being enough for someone who had so much experience in bed.

As if he heard her churning mind, the shadowsinger glanced over at her.

“I’m sure you’ve done all of those things and more, Azriel.”

He lifted and dropped a casual shoulder. “I have. Does not mean the experience was a good one, though. Sometimes, despite the act, the partner makes the difference.”

“I’ve bet you’ve had many partners.”

“I’ve taken lovers over the years.”

“Females?”

“Yes.”

“Plural?”

“If you mean over the years, yes. At the same time? There have been occasions for plurality.”

She nibbled her lower lip. “Males?”

He shrugged again, indifferent. “Berdara, I’ve tried everything.” He ran an irritable hand through his messy onyx locks before peering over at her with caution. “Does that bother you?”

“I…Yes? No? I mean, I will not shame or condemn you for choices you made over your entire lifespan, Shadowsinger. Sexual experiences can be shared with whomever you choose. But I’m experiencing all these firsts and they are not yours. Perhaps this all lands on my jealousy.”

His lips curved into a heartbreakingly soft smile. “There’s one I have not had the pleasure of doing yet, and I fully intend for you to be my first. If you’ll have me, that is.”

A fluttery feeling low in her belly accompanied her gasp. “And what would that be?”

“I’ll tell you when we get there, Gwyn.” He smirked, and she playfully swatted his arm.

Gwyn watched as he skimmed her literal to-do list, her face growing hotter and hotter the farther he worked down the list. The last few novels she’d read were different. Hotter. Dirtier. And there were a few things in the last one, highly unusual things, that had her lips and legs parting under the blankets.

And she noticed when he read that part. His eyes widened, and then he laughed in a dark tone.

“Well, this is surprising.”

As he rolled onto his side, paper in one hand, his other hand settled on her upper back, running down the stretch of her in soothing circles.

“What’s surprising?” Gwyn asked as his fingers massaged her muscles. “House, take that paper away from him this instant, please!” The House did no such thing. Unfaithful house.

“Number forty-nine.” Azriel cleared his throat as his fingers skirted lower and lower, following the curve of her spine. “His fingers disappeared between the globes of her heart-shaped backside. She liked when he took her there…”

His palm slid under the silky black sheets. Her eyes shot wide when his hand ghosted over the curve of her ass.

“Very interesting, ideas, Gwyn. That’s pretty advanced,” he crooned, his palm kneading tight circles over her firm cheek. “But if you are excited about that adventure one day, I’m all in.”

Gwyn snorted, lifting her rear to meet his hand, and rewarded with a smack that had her yelping and glaring at his roguishly beautiful face.

“I’m sure you are, Shadowsinger.”

Chapter Text

He came at her with a sudden jab to her right side. She blocked, ducking enough to take out his left leg. He, of course, recognized her move coming from a mile away. Grabbing a hold of her ankle, he tossed her until she flipped over, her back slamming to the mats. She twisted and rolled until she popped up to her feet. His annoyingly handsome face was there when she did.

Azriel was steadfast in teacher guise, hands planted firmly on lean hips that she was now intimately acquainted with. One glimpse at his scowl and forehead lines showed he was not amused with his pupil.

A brutal wind ripped over the training ring, biting her to the bone. Gwyn had never been so glad Rhysand bought out Emerie’s entire cache of fur-lined female Illyrian leathers for the trainees. Even so, the cold eked through the layered, thick material, her flesh bumpy under the tight fabric.

Still, the brisk air didn’t deter either of them on long nights when nightmares roused them from sleep. When not even a passionate kiss was enough to chase away the darkness, the fear, as well as poised fists and kicks. Sometimes Gwyn would need to be more aggressive, something she wasn’t entirely sure of yet in the bedroom. Yet being the most intriguing word.

So, instead of letting Azriel have his way with her in warmth and security, she recently crawled out of bed with him following her. Up the well-acquainted stairs together to face the chilling night air.

She stood, out of breath, her sweat freezing on her exposed skin. The shadowsinger was, of course, the consummate portrait of a warrior. His chest rose and fell even and smooth while hers mimicked hummingbird wings.

“What happened? You’re being careless, Berdara.” His hazel eyes were fierce and sharp, weighing.

Gwyn met his intensity, crossing her arms over her chest. “Well, I won’t blame a particular someone who has been a major distraction at practice over the past month.”

Azriel’s lips twitched as she kenned they would. His gaze dipped to the way her breasts lifted above her arms. As she also predicted.

“So, you’re blaming me for slipping in your training? Fuck, Berdara, a novice could have beaten your ass tonight.”

“Is that so?”

Azriel stepped forward into her space, his wings twitching in annoyance. Wings she was finding increasingly hard to not touch the closer they became, inviting her curiosity each time they were in bed. When they first pleasured each other with their mouths over a month ago, Gwyn managed a sneaky brief caress of his wing.

The first, but not the last. Since then, if Azriel was at home, they occupied any free time with pleasure as they consumed one another. And Azriel was voracious. The mere thought warmed the air a scant bit.

But since that eventful day, Azriel had a point. Training had become harder. They had both been naked. Exposed. Seen, felt, and tasted the most intimate parts you could share with another. And knowing exactly what Azriel looked like with no clothes on? What his face looked like gloriously screwed in pleasure?

The shadowsinger distracted Gwyn.

Everything about him was a fantastic distraction. His muscled form. His strength. The way he moved smoothly as rain over stone. His beauty both inside and out. The intensity of his look that she only suddenly realized had almost always been there. Before, she thought the shadowsinger merely regarded her form. Her precision with her fists and blades, strictly for correction.

Now, though, Gwyn realized there had always been an eagerness to his gaze. Sometimes stopping her mid-swing. There was no denying the heat of his stare caressed more than his shadows stretching over her skin. Even when there was a whole rooftop between him and her. His eyes were impossible to miss, even if the rest of Azriel’s face reflected poise and indifference.

They were the most beautiful color. A kaleidoscope of browns and dusky grays broken with bursts of viridity.

But when turned on? They became deep green onyx with copper veins. And they inevitably found her at least once every practice, turning her into a cumbersome fool on over one occasion. The last time being with a sword in hand the day prior as Gwyn worked on the eight-pointed star, back-to-back with Nesta.

The errors resulted in Cassian kicking Azriel out of training a few times for causing a disturbance with his ‘second favorite pupil.’

Which resulted in Azriel sending his brother a vulgar gesture and telling him, Funny considering you eye-fuck your mate the entire practice.

Which then culminated in Mor stepping in with a firm hand, admonishing them both that they were brothers and to act their age. Both crossed their arms over their hulking chests. Az rolled those exquisite eyes. Cassian mimicked and mocked her from behind her back.

Azriel stepped forward, lowering his forehead to Gwyn’s, jarring her from her thoughts. “I’m sorry. Does it truly make you feel uncomfortable?”

His hands glided down her leathered arms and around to her back, lugging her into his embrace. His wings wrapped around them in a cocoon against the December gales. Gwyn relished the heat of him. His palms rubbed her arms back and forth, willing heat to return to her frozen body.

“Uncomfortable? No. Still a distraction, Shadowsinger.”

“So, is my presence truly disruptive?”

“I can’t help but gawk at you when you’re shirtless and sweaty, Az. Or when you bend over.”

Azriel tipped his head back and laughed. She took every laugh he gave her as a win and tried to draw one from him whenever possible. Every precious one earned was like touching the stone at the summit of Ramiel again.

“Noted, Berdara. Though I must admit, I’m pleased you find my ass distracting. I will compel myself to cease bending in your direction. At least when blades are involved.”

Gwyn sighed wistfully, propping her cheek on the scalloped leather covering his hard upper chest.

“Fine,” she droned, and he grunted at her concession. “Same goes for me to you.”

“So, no more ogling your ass in public?”

She lifted her head, rubbing the cold tip of her nose against his. “You’re the shadowsinger and spymaster. I believe you could ogle without being detected. At least I would hope so.”

“True, but I like when you notice.” His hand slid to her lower back, gliding until his fingers spread across the swell of her ass, groaning when he gave a squeeze. “I’ve seen a lot of asses, Gwyn.” She pulled back to glower at his concession, and he flicked her nose playfully. “But yours is, by fucking far, the best I’ve seen in five hundred years.”

Gwyn huffed a laugh. “An admirable, charming but bald-faced lie.” He squinted down at her as she shook her head, sending her red braid slithering between her covered shoulder blades. “No way, Shadowsinger. Have you seen Morrigan’s ass? My gods, Mor’s ass is beyond perfect. I merely wish I filled out the rear of those dresses as well as she.”

His fingers gouged into her backside almost to a painful level, and his entire body stiffened. Coldness whipped in, striking her cheek as wings unfurled. The shadows surged around them, trying to obstruct the gusts.

Wait…

Her fingernails dug, leaving tiny crescents in the facade of his leathers. What were the chances? Had Azriel seen Morrigan’s ass? Without clothes? They’d known each other for a while. Sometimes, we saw other people in a different light.

All Gwyn could picture now was the gorgeous blonde leaning into the shadowsinger at Rita’s. Albeit a fuzzy picture through the haze of alcohol and jealousy, one that ended on a possessive growl from deep inside her chest, echoing as loud as thunder.

As if coming out of a trance, Azriel blinked and released the tight grip on her rear. Stepping back and creating a modicum of distance between their bodies, he used his wing to block her from the wintry onslaught, which now included a light powder of falling snow. Quietly, he ushered her to the door, and down the long hall between their rooms, stopping in the middle.

The choice was always hers. To sleep alone or together. Pick the room where it would occur. Gwyn knew if she wanted to, she could kick the dreaded spymaster of the Night Court out of his room and have the bed as wide as Prythian to herself.

Except for when he was out doing his court-appointed duties, Gwyn had been sleeping next to Azriel comfortably nearly every night since Merrill’s death. Most nights, they slept in his room together. She abhorred the image of him in her bed, the thought of his wings draping the floor almost sacrilege.

Some nights, though? Gwyn still needed space. Her mind was much like the weather outside tonight. A blinding flurry of questions. She wondered if she had the right to speculate. Or ask about it.

Your hearts sing the same song, the breeze whispered, his shadows curling around her ankle like contented house cats.

As Azriel waited for her answer, he loosed a resigned sigh, lifting her hand to place a tender kiss on her swollen knuckles.

Ultimately, as they both turned to go to their respective rooms, his low voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Gwyn, can we talk?”

𝄋

Cauldron, damn him. He didn’t want to discuss it. His physical energy had already run out. But his shadows wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

Something’s wrong. The lovely Valkyrie’s confidence is shaken.

About what?

The Morrigan.

Fuck. Fuck.

But you are over the Morrigan, correct?

Of course he fucking was. He and Mor had their heart-to-heart. They both moved on. Each of them was happy for the other. Didn’t mean Azriel wanted to dredge up their complicated history with his now…

His what?

Girlfriend sounded almost too informal, considering what she meant to him now.

Lover sounded cheap, undeserving of Gwyneth’s endearing beauty.

What would one call a best friend that you cherished above all else? A respected partner you’d lay your life down to protect?

A wife, his shadows laughed, roiling and eddying in their amusement.

Ha. Ha. Ha .

But in all seriousness, whatever the hell title they were for them, Az didn’t want to lose it. Like watching the last sliver of light behind his closing cell door, Az was near desperate to hold on to this as long as possible.

As his sinister, twisted thoughts reminded him every damn day with memories of his beloved mother, who suffered so much, all because she bore him. His mother, now trapped in the worst kind of hell because he was born, kept her connected to his abusive father.

Of Isra, Rhys’s beloved sister. Azriel’s first love, who had died so young.

Of Rhysand’s mother, who had taken in an abused boy and adored him as her own son.

Of Mor, who had enraptured him for centuries with her looks and resilience.

Of Elain, whose kindness began to patch up pieces torn apart by rejection.

Love was a fleeting beast.

Love would invariably end.

But until then? Gwyn was his only focus until then. If that meant baring his past and making himself vulnerable? Azriel would.

Years seemingly passed as he watched her tense shoulders sag and her head nod. He took her hand without hesitation when she offered.

Entering her chamber, Azriel picked a spot at the end of her bed and patted his knee. She perched on his thigh.

He tilted her face to meet his. “Talk to me, Gwyn.”

When she tried to look down, he strengthened the grip on her chin. His shadows ran over her fidgeting hands. With his free hand, Azriel undid her plaited braid, running his fingers through the silken red waves in a soothing touch.

“Have you seen Mor naked?” she asked, her tone soft in her question.

“No.”

She blinked rapidly. “I believe you.”

“Well, that’s a good thing.”

“Have you wanted to?”

A deep breath in. A heavy breath out. “Yes.” Her body fixed, and he had to stop her chin from dipping. His eyes stayed locked on the teal orbs, and he refused to let them fall. “I liked Mor for many, many years.”

“For how long?” Gwyn asked, her eyes seeking his in a voice that was too small for his fiery nymph.

He swallowed thickly, running his thumb over her jawline. “Until a few years ago. Though, I think I gave up genuine hope long before that. I’m not positive. I was in a rut.

“So she was the five-centuries-pining girl?”

Azriel balked at the nickname, reflecting on a conversation on the rooftop months and months ago. The wonderful night Gwyn first kissed him. The night she reminded him he deserved love. That he shouldn’t let his thoughts beat him down.

He didn’t know how else to answer except with a faint, “Yes.”

Gwyn nodded in his grasp, her hands falling loosely in her lap. “I can’t blame you. She’s gorgeous. And amazing.”

“I thought I loved her for a long time,” he admitted, the first true words he’d spoken to anyone about his misguided affections for Morrigan. “But now, I realize, I wasn’t in love with her.” Not actually. Not in the same way he loved the redhead perched in his lap.

Gwyn angled her head, the fall of crimson spilling like wine over the obsidian leather. “But you were attracted to her?”

He nodded. “I was.”

“You wished to have sex with her?

He nodded again. “And I was jealous as fuck Cassian was the one she turned to when she sought to lose her virginity. A complicated history for another night. But we have since spoken on the subject and Mor was afraid to with me.” As Gwyn’s eyes widened, he quickly added, “Because she was afraid sex would seal my affections for her in my eyes and she wasn’t feeling the same way—”

“Because she preferred females, or because of you?”

“Both, I guess? I’m not sure.” He scrubbed a hand through his sweat-damped hair, now glazed in melting snowflakes. “To be honest, I can’t dwell on it anymore. But there is nothing between me and Morrigan besides a tangled past and friendship. Nothing more.”

“Fair enough.” Gwyn offered him a modest smile, kissing his cheek. “Thank you for being honest with me, Azriel. I see this was a lot. And I apologize once again. My jealousy and insecurities pop up at the most untimely hours.”

“Insecurities about what?”

“You’ve said you had many lovers. I’ve had you. Singular.” Tossing her head back, she cursed to the Mother before saying, “How do I know I’m not terrible? You’d tell no one they were, not even blowing-blowjob-girl. You’re too kind.”

A snort punctuated his hearty laugh. When her eyes narrowed, Azriel sensed the mood lightening, and his shadows expand a relieved exhalation.

“One, Gwyn. I’m not always nice in the bedroom.” He winked and her thighs rubbed together. “Second, you’re not bad at all. Sex isn’t right or wrong. Except perhaps sucking instead of blowing.”

“Perhaps the slang term should be renamed to reflect the actual act,” she quipped.

“Perhaps.” Az grinned crookedly, resting his forehead on hers. “Though, indeed, sometimes blowing on certain places has moments. You should clean up and change into your bedclothes. It’s late.”

“I will.” Gwyn paused as she stood. “Will you stay to chat for a few more minutes? I’m keyed up, and I have things on my mind now.”

He snickered. “Oh gods, I can only imagine what I’m in for.”

“Go clean up and come back to find out,” Gwyn said as she clutched a long t-shirt, one she stole from his stash, and skipped into her bathroom.

Mother, save him with this one.

Mother, let him keep this one.

𝄋

“I realized something, Shadowsinger. Your infatuation with my number forty-nine makes sense now. You are obsessed with my ass. Captivated. Almost as much as you are preoccupied with Truth-Teller.”

Gwyn giggled as he schooled his face as if this were not true. He reached across the distance of the bed and tickled her ribs. The instant she rolled onto her stomach, he swatted her ass, fondly rubbing out the slight hurt. His lips curved up wickedly in one corner.

“I won’t deny such a wonderful obsession, Berdara. Probably my healthiest, to be honest.” His hand lingered.

“Next question. You admitted to sex with more than one person in the room.”

He exhaled loudly through his nose, his head shifting restlessly on the pillow. “Yes. I have, as I’ve mentioned before.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“I’ve fucked a few females on one occasion, but the experience was ever…arduous.” She snorted, and his brows drew down. “Don’t take my statement to mean I lack stamina, Berdara. I can go all fucking night.” Cauldron above, Gwyn definitely suspected such. “I’ve fucked females in the same room with other men. I’ve shared a female with other men. My first encounter with a male was when I was young and at war, curious, and unsure. It was the first and the final.”

“Bottom or top?”

The shadowsinger stared at her with a blank expression. “What do you think, Gwyn? And have you read male-male smut?”

“You’ve tried everything, and I have read nearly everything. And I would presume top. You seem to prefer the control.”

His slight smile turned positively rakish. “Oh, you know me so well, Gwyneth.” The way he crooned her name filled her with dark promises she hoped he kept. “We definitely had things in common on your list. And, for the record, I don’t always like power. On the rarest of occasions, only with those I’ve trusted most, I’ve freely given up control.”

Azriel’s coarse fingertips elicited a shiver brushing along her forearm. Despite this wealth of detail, Gwyn was far more captivated than bothered by the revelations. The imagery alone caused her blood to heat and muscles to coil low in her stomach. Admittedly, she liked Azriel being open about his past with her. Glimpsing his past made her feel a part of his life. His future, even.

“Thoughts?” He asked with a raised onyx eyebrow.

Her arm slid across the teal sheets with her answering shrug. “You’re more seasoned than me, though I won’t hold anything against you. In fact, I realize the fact may be to my benefit now. Though I’m not interested in inviting anyone into our bed, Azriel.”

By tightly squeezing his hand, she reassured him.

He emitted a long, shuddering breath. “Your turn. So, out of your list, what position intrigues you the most, Berdara?”

Well, certainly a valid question. “Cauldron, I don’t think I could pick just one. This is how the list came into existence.”

“Noted.”

“All right, my next question, Azriel. Favorite position?”

“From behind,” he said without a moment’s hesitation, an answer she found unexpected. Gwyn thought it would be more complex for someone with such a past in between sheets.

“Why?”

“Depth. Leverage. Angle. View.”

“Well, Shadowsinger, such a highly clinical appraisal.”

“Plus, helps with my ass fixation.” He winked.

Gwyn howled with laughter and he offered her such a full smile, as if seeing her meant everything to him. The center of her chest throbbed, and she swore she heard music.

Until she realized something awful. As her smile slipped off her face, his hand gently cradled her jaw.

“Gwyn, what’s wrong?”

“I—” Her mind was panicking. Her eyes met his, darting from one to the other frantically. “I can’t imagine I would ever be able to. Not after…”

All the happiness and warmth slipped from his face and she knew— she knew he understood what she was saying without uttering the words. Having been there, he saw. Azriel had run in on the aftermath of her violation.

And damn her to hell, this hurt. Gwyn’s nightmares tainted something she craved to share with him, something he much enjoyed. It made her sick. Yet another thing always skulking in bed with them.

“Gwyn,” he said, his thumb stroking. Azriel scooted closer, adjusting his wings as he rose to sit. She moved to his side, nestling her head into the crook of his neck. His lips ghosted over her temple as he secured an arm around her, holding her for dear life. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” She shook her head, her nose brushing against the soft fabric of his white shirt. “You just told me from behind was your favorite, and I don’t think I can give that to you.”

“You don’t have to worry, sweetheart.”

“Like hell, I don’t, Az. This matters to me. I want to give you—”

His lips swept over her brow. “Think of the reasons I gave you, Gwyn. As you pointed out, everything was clinical. The position feels great to me but also good to whomever I was with. It’s not if your partner isn’t responding the same.” His shuddering sigh stirred the hair at her temples. “Do you want to know the main reason I prefer from behind?” Her forehead grazed against his stubble on her nod. “My hands were hidden.”

Gwyn sat up to hold his gaze as he continued. Azriel’s focus was only on the scarred hand over hers. “No matter who I was with; if I was behind, I didn’t even have to touch their skin. I gripped onto their hair only if my hands were an issue. So, although it’s physically great in the position, my other reason for the preference leaned on purposeful.”

Something inside Gwyn cracked at his admission. She twined her fingers through his, her eyes swelling with tears. “Azriel.”

“I want to do everything with you, Gwyn. Make you feel good in every which way possible. But the last thing I want to do is hurt you. Scare you. So, if doing that would drag your mind to a place of discomfort, I won’t. And I’ll be content with everything we can share. Because it’ll be with you.”

“And if I wanted to try someday?”

“I…” His throat bobbed. “I would never deny you anything. I can’t.” Az halted. His dark eyebrows slammed down in straight lines, forehead creasing in obvious thought. “We can do things to give you the same experience. If you straddle me, ride me facing my feet, the position would be the same physically for you and would put you in control of the movement.”

“Then we shall try that.” Gwyn brought his hand to her lips and kissed the back. Holding the injured flesh to her lips, she said, “And for the record, Az, I love your hands on me. I love they saved me. I love the pleasure they bring me. And I don’t trust anyone else’s hands to catch me if I fall.”

Unwrapping his arm, she rose to her knees, swinging one over his lap. His hands settled, steadying her hips. Azriel was always steadying her. Gwyn overwhelmed heart and mind swirled into a perfect storm. By his kindness. His consideration. His passion and desire. All from Azriel, who received little if none of the aforementioned in his long life.

Cradling Azriel’s handsome face in her hands, Gwyn’s words slipped out as naturally as breathing. “I love you.”

Chapter Text

He couldn’t breathe.

Everything stopped, seizing in a near painful way. His heart. His lungs. Even his shadows seem to suspend in place at Gwyn’s words.

She’d said them. Those three words that he’d waited his entire life to hear. She’d said them and they came out so damn easy.

I love you.

Three words Azriel had no right to receive. No right to accept, but he was a selfish prick. In the end, he took them. They belonged to him. Those words were all Azriel had.

“Azriel?”

“Say it again.”

As Gwyn affirmed what she had said, the corners of her lips tipped up. “I love you, Azriel.”

His rapid blinks suppressed the burn of tears behind his eyes as he met the teal orbs in front of him. Those gentle lapping waves of Gwyn’s worried eyes. With such gentleness, she cupped his face with her soft hands. This time, the wall shielding his heart cracked a little more. Gave way to her smile. There was a pulsation and thump, a rhythm in the air. The unusual tempo was familiar and the melody beautiful. Shadows dancing to the music seemed to say yes.

Yes.

So badly, he wished to repeat those words and recite them back. However, his throat grew constrictive. Azriel’s chest ached as he relived his past follies with these words being played as the song faded.

You declared you loved Issie, and then she died. You told her you loved her. That you considered her your partner, and she dismissed you. And then she was lifeless.

Rhys’s mother died with Issie because you told her you loved her before you left for the mission.

The last words you said to your mother before she was injured and forced into her own hell were “I love you.”

What is the only thing they shared? It was your love. Your words. You.

Silence followed. An uneasy note in the thick air.

A burning sensation raced down his throat as he gulped hard.

Damn him. Damn him to hell, he couldn’t damn her. The words would not leave his mouth. Not right now. Perhaps never. But he would show her.

As Gwyn’s palms started slipping away from his cheeks, he captured her wrists. An instant later, his mouth collided with hers. His lips lingered over hers as his stable fingers held her jaw. Slow and steady. Practiced as each spar began in the training ring. Controlled. Precise. Decisive sweeps of lips and strokes of their tongues.

Until it wasn’t. The softness of her body met the aching hardness of his when she rolled into him, pressing her hips into his lap as he exhaled. A hiss left his mouth as the full warmth of her settled against him. While drawing her close, his hands found her nape, keeping her near and taking control. As a worthy battle for control. Dominance proved who felt more. Loved more fiercely.

The moment he finally pulled back, leaning his forehead on hers, they were both shaking and his control was on the verge of breaking. When her eyes found him, pupils blown wide, he knew she would say yes. Despite this…

“It’s late, Gwyn.” His sigh was deafening as he leaned back, holding in his frustrated groan as she licked her lower lip. “We have a long day tomorrow and I have to wake up early.”

“Doesn’t Rhysand give you time off on holidays?”

As the shadowsinger laughed, he lowered his head. “Yes, and no. There is a tradition now where Cassian and Feyre decorate for the Winter Solstice. Instead, they get drunk and there are sprigs of holly and evergreen strewn all over the house.” And sometimes garland merely adorned an extremely intoxicated Cassian.

“And that’s where the mighty shadowsinger comes in? To decorate?” Gwyn blinked at him with wide eyes, as if picturing him performing such a menial task was confounding. Several years later, Azriel remained just as confused.

“Indeed.”

As Gwyn laughed, she tipped forward. Soft lips pressed against his cheek, sealing his eyes and causing him to shudder. A tender gesture full of…

Love, his shadows completed his thoughts.She loves you. And we’ve been telling you for a while, Shadowsinger.

“You can’t stay?” she asked. Her warm breath blew by his ear, sending waves of heat right to his dick. He compelled himself to concentrate and not do exactly what she was implying.

“Not tonight, Berdara. We both have to be up early tomorrow.”

“What does tomorrow have to do with tonight, Shadowsinger?”

The tips of his fingers touched her waist. “Don’t you have a morning service?”

Gwyn gave a loud, annoyed huff, making him snicker. “Yes. I promised the children I’d be there for the service in the morning. They are singing.” Her hands caressed over his shoulders, the fingertips spreading awfully close to his wings. “Tulia. The little lady I sang with asked me to come.”

“She misses you.”

Gwyn nodded, her hair sweeping against his skin. “So, I guess we should get some sleep, then.”

His heart sank as Gwyn slipped off of his lap onto the bed, and he cursed himself for leaving her right after she gave her heart to him. But if Az stayed…

He wanted to give her more. The whole fucking world. Give her something significant.

Even if he couldn’t say the words, he would show her.

Azriel tucked her under the covers, his shadows drawing the blankets up to her chin. When he was kissing her softly, he told himself everything would be different tomorrow. Hopefully for the better.

The idea alone made his strides to the door so much easier as he whispered, “Goodnight, Gwyn.” And closed the door behind him.

𝄋

“They are just darling,” Gwyn whispered, her smile not able to get any wider as she watched the children sway to the music, their voices ricocheting off the ceiling. The performance wasn’t perfect, and some shouted more than sang, but they sang their little hearts out. That counted. This eve, the Mother called for exaltation. To spread merriment into the longest night of the year.

Tulia’s eyes met hers, her fingers white-knuckling the threadbare teddy bear in her hands. But she sang on her own, delivering her tiny voice to the heavens. When Roslin raised and dropped her hands, their harmony faded with the echoes of the bells.

Collective applause erupted from the usually stoic group of priestesses and the girls went wide-eyed and stood a scant taller in the small dusty blue robes. Tulia’s grin was vast, and Gwyn caught she was missing several more teeth than the last time she saw her.

When the service concluded, the slight girl nearly flew to Gwyn’s side. The Valkyrie bent down and took the brunt of the peculiarly strong girl who threw herself into her arms.

“Gwyn!” Tulia’s voice was bright, a minor lisp because of her teeth.

“You did so well!” Gwyn peered up, finding others who wanted to say hello. “All of you. You did outstanding.”

“I have to agree,” Nesta said, her smile genuine. The eldest Archeron knelt at Tulia’s level and Tulia jumped out from Gwyn into Nesta’s welcoming arms. Seeing the two made Gwyn’s heart smile. Over the month since Gwyn left the priestesshood, she took every chance she could to visit the children. Instill a sense of normalcy whenever they visited and now staying.

In a surprise move, Nesta joined, bringing sweets and other gifts from the House. At first, Nesta clearly intimidated the young ones, but her stories quickly won them over and, of course, the miniature pegasus. Quite the contraband in the temple. But honestly, who might scold Lady Death?

Nesta had taken to Tulia right away, and Tulia requested stories of the human lands from Nesta, usually as Gwyn repaired the threadbare teddy bear with needle and thread. Nesta had bought the children each a new stuffed animal of their choice, including a new bear for Tulia. But Tulia wouldn’t accept.

“Momma gave me this bear,” Tulia simply said, clutching the bear to her chest, her clear blue eyes glazed with tears. Nesta had taken the little lady into her heart and hadn’t let go.

“Gwyn and I brought you all a gift for Solstice,” Nesta said, a great bag appearing behind her courtesy of the House. The kids squealed for joy and dove like a pack of hungry water-wraiths, the flurry of torn paper and bows of chaos around them.

Tulia remained on the sidelines, waiting, afraid to get crushed. Gwyn didn’t blame her.

“Nes! You in here?” Cassian stepped into the temple, Clotho by his side. A smile crossed under her darkened hood as the High Priestess watched the children’s glee. Cassian snorted and shook his head. “Cauldron, it’s like a war zone in here. Who knew little girls were such vicious creatures.”

As he carefully tiptoed around them, Nesta said, “Vicious little girls grow up to be equally brave and fierce Valkyries.”

Cassian took a step closer to Nesta and stared down at the little girl by Gwyn’s side, her tawny hair falling against her back as she tilted her head up.

“He is tall,” the girl whispered to Gwyn, her mouth concealed behind her hand.

Before Gwyn had a chance to reply, Cassian said, “I am.”

He knelt at Tulia’s level beside Nesta, placing a kiss on his mate’s head. Gwyn was never so happy to see Cassian in simple clothing and weapon-free, wearing a dark maroon tunic and black breeches.

“Cassian, this is Tulia.” As Gwyn made the introductions, she wrapped a reassuring arm around the little girl’s shoulders, tucking some caramel locks behind the little girl’s somewhat arched ear. “Tulia, this is Cassian. He’s my friend and is Nesta’s mate.”

“Happy Solstice, lady Tulia. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Cassian greeted, placing a hand over his chest, bowing slightly. After being formally greeted, the girl giggled.

“Hi,” Tulia said, as small and soft as the girl herself. “Your wings are really big.”

He smiled warmly in a purely Cassian way that somehow put anyone at ease. “Thanks, kid.”

“They are the biggest I’ve ever seen.” Those bright cerulean eyes flitted, and Gwyn could swear Cassian spread them marginally.

“The biggest around, in fact,” he said. Nesta and Gwyn couldn’t stop from rolling their eyes at the obvious wingspan joke clearly over Tulia’s short head. “I like this kid,” he whispered to Nesta. His mate rolled her eyes.

“Anything to stroke your ego,” Nesta huffed, but the closed-lipped smile was still plastered on her face.

Tulia tilted her head at him curiously, assessing the general as he would his legion. “Why is your hair up like a ballerina?”

Nesta snorted a laugh as Cassian patted the low bun at his nape, whispering under his breath that he was a mighty warrior, not a ballerina. Despite his reassurances, Tulia seemed unconvinced.

Twisting around, Nesta pulled the large sack through the piles of torn paper and presented Tulia with her present. Handing Gwyn her most trusted teddy bear, small hands took the wrapped gift. Her bright eyes lined with silver as her fingers skimmed over the tag.

“That’s my name,” she said, her eyes lifted to Nesta. “It’s for me?”

Nesta’s slate eyes were like rain on cobblestone as she bowed, swallowing hard. Unable to answer, Cassian said, “Yeah, it’s a Solstice gift, Tulia. From us to you.”

A label bearing her name caught her wide-eyed attention. “The last gift I ever got was my bear from Momma.”

The mother Tulia lost when she was only a toddler at Sangravah. The child knew the bear’s origin story because of the other priestesses. Because Tulia didn’t remember her mother. As Gwyn’s chest clenched in grief, she reached out to rub the back of the girl in small circles.

Smiling, Tulia hugged the still-wrapped gift and pranced off as if she’d been handed the key to Velaris.

“She didn’t even open it,” Cassian chuckled, running a hand on his nape, adjusting the leather strap bound around his hair.

Gwyn peered down at the tattered bear in her hands, one now missing an eye and parts of the fur worn away. A bear Gwyn had sewn back up so many times. How many tears had been shed over the well-loved stuffed animal for a mother gone? How many others had done the same?

“Priestesses, even the young ones, don’t receive many gifts,” Gwyn said, her eyes darting to the glass charm dangling from the bracelet on her wrist. A gift left for her a year ago with Clotho. And though Gwyn had her suspicions, he’d said nothing.

“Well, now with Rhys and Feyre supporting them, that’s going to change. I’m sure Rhys is already searching for ways to spoil them rotten.” Cass grinned, his eyes never faltering from the scene with the little girl hugging a still-wrapped package.

Nesta hummed positive assessments. “Though my preening brother-in-law and I might not agree on everything, I will help him on their crusade.” As Cassian rose and helped Nesta to her feet, Gwyn couldn’t help but notice how neither of them tore their gazes from the giggling little lady, her brown hair fanning behind as she twirled with the wrapped present in her tiny arms.

𝄋

Gwyn rolled a ball of crumpled wrapping paper to Nyx, who sat on the floor, his mother seated behind him. He clapped and giggled as he reached for it like it was his new favorite toy. The new piles of clothes and toys he’d received as gifts next to them barely touched. Of course, Nyx would find the paper and empty boxes more entertaining.

The river house looked lovely, the boughs of holly and evergreen evenly draped over doorways and mantels. The shadowsinger apparently was a perfectionist in all tasks. Even decorating. And when Gwyn complimented him earlier, she could swear he blushed.

There were piles and piles of gifts abound, including many more for Feyre. Gods above, she wished Azriel would have informed her the day was also the High Lady’s birthday! She felt a fool when the massive tiered cake rolled out and they handed the presents out.

She had, however, bought gifts for everyone else. Well, maybe not. Apart from the research and help she provided Rhysand, her Valkyrie duties, and her spy training for Azriel, her official employment was currently unpaid. Though, if Gwyn asked, she would think the High Lord would add her to the payroll.

But Gwyn wouldn’t dare be too audacious.

With limited means, Gwyn did what always did on holidays. She put her soul and heart into every gift. And always something unexpected.

The ex-priestess knew everyone assumed the bracelets, but she had a few secrets up her sleeve.

“Oh, a winter hat!” The High Lady exclaimed, turning the dove gray knit in her hands and playing with the black poof on top. “And it matches Nyx’s! Thank you, Gwyn!”

Heat rose to Gwyn’s cheeks, and Azriel nudged her with his elbow. The shadowsinger repeatedly praised the presents as perfect. Az’s was a black skull cap per his request. As was Rhysand’s. Cassian’s was a crimson reminiscent of his Siphons. Gwyn may have added the cutout for his man bun per Tulia’s conversation with him earlier today in jest. Nesta’s blue was steely. Both Mor and Emerie’s hats were red, and they chuckled at their identical looks.

Gwyn even knitted one for Elain in the same lilac as the dress she had seen last time at Rita’s. Although she still hadn’t figured out what she had done to the female, the memory still bothered her.

Amren held one as flaming as the brightest rubies, though the being from Gwyn’s nightmares seemed to appreciate the added touch of sewn-in faux jewels around the brim. Gwyn assumed Varian, being from the Summer Court, would like teal, even though she knew he would not use it. Due to his upcoming visit to the Winter Court, he actually seemed grateful. Her gift would be helpful to him, which thrilled Gwyn to hear.

She was unaware of Lucien Vanserra’s presence to make him a gift. He had offered her a pleasant smile, and a sketched bow in a greeting, which left her smiling and Azriel visibly tense beside her. The two redheads struck up a straightforward conversation.

One look at her hair, and the brow above Lucien’s amazing mechanical eye had winged. “Autumn, I presume?”

“Partial, yes.”

“Have you ever visited the Court?”

Gwyn shook her head in the negative. “No. My mother lived there, though. She lived in the Forest House for a time.”

The entire room froze. Even Rhysand leaned in an ear to the conversation. Lucien’s shock was visible, the tension body thrumming and head angled. Assessing.

“Hmm,” was all Lucien said, assessing her as if she were some kind of question with his calculating gaze.

Besides the odd moment with Lucien, the gathering was cheerful and light. Joyful and giving. Full of love and hope. This is the meaning of family. It had actually overjoyed her to receive any gift, including the hideous matching sweater for her and Azriel. She wasn’t sure there was a green in nature. Cassian called it baby-shit green. Either way, the thought counted and Gwyn accepted the ugliest sweater she’d ever seen with a smile.

“Mor will expect us to put them on together at some point,” Azriel sighed quietly in her ear. Her spine tingled as he gently blew over the shell.

“I’m game,” Gwyn said, her breathy tone revealing the effect his touch had on her.

His lips kissed her forehead, whispering, “I told you blowing had its place, Berdara.”

“Good job, Nyx!” Gwyn said, refocusing, clapping her hands excitedly as tossed the ball across to her. She rose on her knees, smoothing out the navy velvet dress over her thighs. “He has quite an arm.”

Feyre leaned over, setting a sweet kiss on his head, slicking back the raven hair from his forehead. The gesture was lovely. “Oh, I do not doubt if allowed, Nyx would trounce all the boys this year in the snowball fight.”

Gwyn angled her head to the side, the swing of her high ponytail hitting the side of her face. “Snowball fight?”

“Azriel never told you?” Cassian asked. “Well, to be expected, since he took losing so hard last year. I, Az, and Rhys go up to the cabin in Illyria every Solstice since forever and have a snowball fight. It’s a family tradition. I won last year.”

Rhysand clicked his tongue from his place over by the fireplace. “Only because you were too blissed out by what happened between you and Nesta. And Azriel and I…” Gwyn could not precisely read the sharp lines on his face, but the eye contact softened the look when he met hers. “Well, doesn’t matter. And it definitely won’t matter when I defeat you both in the morning.”

Rolling his eyes, Cassian smirked. “Keep dreaming, Rhysie.” Looking around, he turned his head. “Speaking of which, where is the shadowy little shit? I’m sure he’s plotting a strategy.”

Upon turning her head, Gwyn surveyed the surroundings. Good question. Where was Azriel?

Because the shadowsinger was nowhere to be found.

𝄋

He needed a break and a breather. There was enough stress without Vanserra constantly hounding Gwyn.

He was merely curious about her heritage, Shadowsinger.

Deep down, Azriel recognized. But another part of him wanted to gouge out Vanserra’s good eye and give it to Nyx to play with for merely looking at Gwyn. Gwyn in her cute as hell dark blue dress, one Nesta had commissioned for her. Long length, long-sleeved, simple cut, but showed off every godsdamn curve she had. And Vanserra had spoken to her while she wore that. Examining her carefully. The shadowsinger had to leave. Something primal in him rose with every high-pitched whirr of the damnable mechanical eye of his.

And gods didn’t the loathing bring up not-so-fond memories of the previous Solstice. Of standing alone by the doorway in case he had to bolt. In case the scent of their miserable mating bond was too much.

Last year, the mere thought, let alone being in their presence, was the fucking bane of his existence. Now their mating bond was barely discernible. And, honestly? This year, he didn’t give a shit.

Azriel’s fingers clenched around his rocks glass of whiskey as he walked through the boxwood hedge maze of the garden, the greenery now dusted in powder as the snow slowly flurried to the ground in a dusting. He shimmied fallen flakes off the tops of his wings. The frosted grass crunched under his boots as he drank and thought. Drank and reflected.

Tonight. Tonight was it. Azriel was going to do something. Something he’d never done before. Not once. What he was considering was offering his heart into her hands. To hold and cherish. Or to crush and throw away.

She won’t do the latter, his shadows assured, their quiet anticipation infectious.

Fuck, was he really doing this?

He tossed back the rest of his drink, hissing at the burn as the liquor warmed his body. With his head tilted back and eyes fixed on the stars and moon in the sky, Azriel silently prayed to the Mother. To the Cauldron.

“Please.”

Please let her like his gift.

Please let her see what he was offering in his own way.

Even without saying the words.

Please give him strength.

Spine honed into something stronger than steel, Azriel started the trek back to the river house before a voice had him halt. His steps faltered, planting into the snow. His hands balled into tight fists.

“Happy Solstice, Azriel.”

Az turned, faced with a scene so like a year before. The two of them meeting in secrecy. Those hickory eyes were large and innocent, like a startled fawn staring at him behind golden branches. Haunting him.

His shadows dissipated in the winter wind.

Elain.

Chapter Text

His body was frozen. Unable to move. To breathe around the tension seizing his chest, the same spiraling down his arms to clenched fists resting at his sides.

Elain.

Elain. The once-broken girl who opened her heart to him and only him.

The female Azriel once believed would be his above all else. That the Cauldron had made a mistake, and they were destined.

Elain. Whose sweet scent alone had at one time brought him to his knees in surrender. The cool, steady water to her eldest sister’s scorching silver flames. The radiant day to offset her youngest sister’s midnight.

His eyes narrowed on Elain’s purely innocent face.

I don’t think Elain likes me.

Elain. The same female who made Gwyn feel unpleasant at Rita’s recently.

“Elain,” Azriel greeted, indifference delineating his expression.

Her petal-soft lips curved up as she caressed the navy fur-lined cloak, drawing the dense fabric closer to her body as a barrier against the brisk night. Her exposed cheeks flushed from the icy wind. Or at least he hoped the added color came from the breeze alone. Mother, spare him.

“Chilly evening to be strolling the gardens,” he remarked casually, though in honesty was more of a query. Why wasn’t Elain with their family in the warm house? Considering this was her beloved nephew’s first Solstice, the fact Elain hadn’t arrived at all this eve was strange. Curious. Was this a sheer coincidence to encounter her out wandering the wintry grounds? Was she avoiding somebody in the household? Nesta? Lucien? Gwyn?

Or was Elain following him?

“I was determining whether to go in,” Elain softly confessed with a modest smile. A smile that still affected him. Because Azriel remembered when nothing made Elain smile or laugh at all. And when she was the one person who made him grin. “And you?”

“I required a moment by myself.”

“Ah.” Elain drifted forward, close enough to sense the warmth of her body at his side even through the many layers of fabric. She tipped her head back, staring up at the constellations appearing as diamonds against crushed velvet. Snow settled on her dark, long lashes. “Seems like the last Solstice was merely yesterday, does it not?”

Elain grabbed him before he was able to elude. Slender fingers he used to imagine on his bare body wrapped around his wrist. They seemed to be wrong now. In every sense, this was wrong.

As he slipped the mask on, a muscle in his jaw worked. “The last Solstice was another lifetime, Elain.”

The moment they nearly kissed while her unsuspecting mate slept beneath the same roof. When Azriel thought she held the answers to all his forgotten prayers. Held the key to unlock his happiness. Pictured them flourishing from the ashes. When he’d wanted to seduce her. Envisioned Elain coming apart beautifully under him in bed, tasting her sweet desire on his tongue. A time when he would have relished the fact she grabbed him with interest. When Azriel would have interlaced those fingers on his forearm with hers before carrying her away.

However, that was before a pitiful and resentful shadowsinger stumbled upon a sword-wielding priestess. Alone in the dead of night, her entire focus fixed upon a streaming white ribbon in the moonlight. Gwyn was relentless in everything she did, even when it came to coaxing every laugh and smile he could muster. She trusted him. Questioned him. Challenged him. Forced him beyond his comfort zone.

Elain Archeron may once have been the softness to his razor-sharpness. The gentleness to his brutality. The floral balm to his wounded soul.

But Gwyneth Berdara met him steel to steel. Blade to blade. She faced his scarred, shadowy soul. Stood before it, and saw every bleak part. Embraced him for who he was, the faults and flaws. The trauma and rage. Despite the darkness, she loved him for who he was.

Gwyn loved him.

The shadowsinger gently released Elain’s hold.

A time once existed when Elain would have shown regret for her impulsive actions. A shade of embarrassment would have bloomed on her cheeks. But now? The middle Archeron was clearly composed of tougher stuff, had built armor around her. Stronger, surer now than even a year ago. Her burnt caramel eyes met his unflinching. Unfazed. Unafraid.

“Indeed. How things evolve over a single year, Azriel.” Her eyes became somber and churning. Although unseen, his shadows quivered strangely.

“Yes,” he answered, his tone even. “Much has changed.”

A year ago, Azriel would have whisked her away at her word. One year ago, she would have been his only. And now?

“Elain, are you all right?”

A step back accompanied her scowl. “As you walked away from me and us, I am confident you forfeited the opportunity to question my happiness and well-being, Azriel.”

He stumbled back and flared his nostrils, creating much-needed space between them.

Even though time had passed, Azriel remembered what he’d told Elain the day of the ceremony. Take some time to think, he told her. To figure out what she truly wanted. That he’d support whatever decision she made. The only thing he wanted for her was to be happy. Even after Azriel finished speaking, silence reigned. Leaving him with nothing more than embarrassment, awkwardness, and a fractured relationship.

"I walked away? I told you to take time to decide on your mate, Elain. And you said nothing.”

Her umber eyes rolled. “Oh, my mate; always my Cauldron-damned mate.”

“Yes. The one you’ve been sitting on for years .”

Even Az admitted even though he had no love for the poor bastard, he pitied Lucien. To have your mate at your fingertips, to be close enough to overhear their heartbeats, and to get nothing had to be maddening. The ultimate form of torture.

“You and I have nothing to do with Lucien,” Elain replied, as if the name had a bitter taste. “This has everything to do with you and your lies. You lied to me,” she spat, pitching forward as her body trembled. Her knuckles turned white where she was pinching the cloak closed.

Rolling the tension from his shoulders, Az cocked his head in question. His wings flared. This was not the conversation he wanted. No, not tonight. No, never, but especially not tonight. His mind was filled with only one female, and this Solstice, it was not the one standing before him, tormenting his thoughts. “I did no such thing, Elain.”

"You said you would wait!”

“I waited for you to make up your damn mind and you offered neither party a straight answer!”

“No, you let Rhysand push you around and you gave in to his demands!”

He narrowed his eyes. “How did you know? So, you knew and didn’t say a word?”

“What was there to say, Azriel? He ordered, and you obeyed. Yet still doesn’t change the fact that you lied to me.”

Azriel let out a ragged breath, shaking his head. She knew. Elain knew what Rhysand asked of him. All this time, yet never said a word. Not one damn word. Why?

“Azriel…” When he turned to leave, she spoke again. “You gave her my necklace.”

The shadowsinger’s boots skid over the slippery frozen dew on the grass as he reeled back. The rock’s glass slipped from his hands, the ground cushioning the fall.

“I noticed at Nesta’s mating ceremony.” The middle Archeron took several steps forward, her deep blue cloak now open, flapping wildly in the frigid air around her. Her hair tangled, framing her delicate features in a wild, burnished-gold mane. “Don’t even bother denying, Azriel. I saw."

What could he truly say? Azriel had done it. Given a gift to Gwyn, that was first meant for Elain. All he’d wanted was for the cursed jewelry to bring someone happiness. For the damnable thing to not burn a burdensome hole in his pocket.

Imagining the chain on the priestess’s neck, and dreaming about her joy when she received it, he wanted Gwyn to have it. In Azriel’s distraught mind, the necklace belonged in grateful hands rather than collecting dust back in the display case of the Palace of Thread and Jewels. The necklace was supposed to bring happiness, not bring trouble and heartache.

“Do you still deny?” Elain asked with a chin tilt, defiant.

Before answering, he swallowed his guilt. “No.”

“So you did lie to me that day.”

“I did no such thing.” And he hadn’t. His relationship with Gwyneth was not romantic for a long time after that day. Sometime between last Solstice and Starfall, they’d established a friendship. Things progressed from there.

It wasn’t until the night Gwyn told Azriel he deserved someone’s whole heart. How she thought him brave. Kind. Fearless. Selfless. When she said he believed he was worthy of love. The memorable night she’d leaned over and softly kissed him for the first time. Not until then had he seen Gwyn as anything other than a cherished friend—long after Elain had cornered him at Nesta and Cassian’s ceremony.

“I asked if there was anyone else, and you said no, Azriel.” Elain’s full lips thinned into a straight line. “She was wearing the charm at the ceremony! Indisputable proof of your blatant lie!”

“I wasn’t lying! At the time, there was only you.”

Only secrecy and shame. Bitterness and resentment. Heartache and hope.

Her sarcastic laughter was stinging. “I saw the damn rose charm on her bracelet before I even asked you the fucking question, Azriel!”

He raked his hands through his hair, dragging at the ends in frustration. “Yes. I gave her the necklace. A necklace which you refused, in case you forgot. At the time, I gave it to her as a present from one friend to another. Nothing more.”

Derision dripped from her answering laugh. “What, Azriel, lost the receipt? Didn’t want store credit? Or were you deliberately trying to woo her at the same time you were working your way into my bed?”

Those words slit long-closed wounds, like a knife.

“None, Elain. She was a friend.” Barely even a friend if he were to be sincere. At that point, Gwyn was merely an acquaintance, though friendship was visible on the horizon with every laugh she enticed from him with her tenacity and irreverence. All of this happened long before Gwyneth Berdara stole his heart.

And Azriel had been right; love shouldn’t be so damn hard. And love wasn’t.

In an instant, Elain’s chest was almost touching his. Backing up, he maintained distance.

“Tell me, Shadowsinger. Did you give her the necklace before or after you heard her sing?”

Heaviness developed in the pit of his stomach like dread-laden ballast stone. “What? Why does that even matter?”

“For once, just tell me the godsdamn truth, Azriel! Did you offer her the necklace before or after she sang in your presence?” Elain pushed again, her voice shrill and on the verge of faltering.

The tumbled glass long forgotten in the snowbank, Azriel retreated two strides towards the river home. “Elain, why in the hell do you care?”

“Because she’s going to be the death of you, Azriel!”

As if struck by an arrow, he staggered back, hand to his chest. “What happened to you, Elain? Are you truly so petty?”

Over the bridge of her nose, her brows fell into a deep vee, aghast. “Funny calling someone petty after giving my gift to another girl. But no matter. I’m not. Nor am I awed by Gwyneth Berdara. Perhaps in another life, we’d be friends. But you don’t understand. Azriel, I’ve seen—”

He shook his head slowly, emphatically. “No. You don’t get to play these games with her, Elain. I’m not listening to another word you have to say. I don’t know what happened to you this year. I wish I did so I could help you. But then you literally pinned my ass against the wall in the river house to reignite the feud with Rhysand—”

“I was desperate, Azriel! Desperate for your touch. Your company,” she said, with full, innocent eyes. “I needed you, Azriel. I wanted you and I was so lonely without—”

Sardonic laughter accompanied his decisive forward movement. “Bullshit. Do you think I’m blind, Elain? I saw how you glanced back when Rhysand appeared. How you smirked. You caused a scene in the corridor on purpose.” A further step away. “I care about you, Elain, and I’m worried. Even the incident in the hall, I might have forgiven as a lack of forethought. I may have listened to what you have to say. But…” His tone lowered, the shadows slithered and seethed over his shoulders. “Then you treated Gwyn like mud under your shoe the night at Rita’s. You made her feel like shit for no reason.”