Chapter Text
The pounding of his fists against the training bag did little to drown out the memories. A box floating down the river, the smell of carrion, Rhysand falling to his knees in the sand screaming out in wretched agony ... all of it haunted him more than any of the ghosts from the tortured souls of his past ever would. It was his fault after all. He deserved the nightmares. He deserved to wake up, drenched in sweat, vomiting the contents of his stomach into a bin he kept by the bed.
His head pounded like the death dance of the war drums. Why had they drank so much last night again? Rhys and Cassian seemed to be fairing better than him in the afternoon light. Seasoned veterans to the internal cost of a night drunk off faerie wine. Azriel rarely drank with them. He preferred to spend his free time pounding the training dummies to a pulp, or by reading the war strategy books left out in the main mess hall. Besides, drinking with Rhys and Cass could be… risky. Not in the sense that any harm would come to them, but that the wine might loosen his tongue a bit too much. If he wasn’t constantly vigilant about what he said around them, they would know in an instant.
She was all he thought about these days. Her touch, her laugh, the incredulous look she’d give him when he would surprise her. The look in her eyes when he broke it off between them last week. He’d reconsidered it a million and one times; flew half way back to the Night Court to tell her he’d been an idiot and beg her to take him back, only to talk himself out of it and fly back to the camp just in time for the morning practices. He’d been moving through life exhausted these last few days, going through the motions, until last night that is. Rhys has been reading a letter from her, he’d recognise that sharp scroll anywhere.
“Elvara and mother are coming tomorrow.” Rhys had said, note still in hand as he relayed the message. “I’m to meet them at the lookout to escort them down to the camp. Apparently they’ve come to announce Elvara’s impending engagement.”Azriel almost spat out his tea. Almost.
He knew this had been coming, and had had time to prepare his reaction. She’d told him of her father’s plan to marry her off for political advantage months ago. He’d promised her that he would fly her so far from Velaris that no one would know who they are. He’d promised her a whole life away from it all. Most of all he’d promised he wouldn’t let some filthy third son of a random court’s High Lord touch her like that. Not that he was much better, a bastard to a male who wouldn’t claim him as his son. That was before, though. Before he had destroyed everything.So yeah, he had been in the mood to drink. The love of his life was announcing her engagement that he knew she didn’t desire to be in, and there was nothing he could do about it. He continually topped up Rhysand’s and Cassian’s goblets all night long. And they hadn’t complained about it either. The two of them knew that Azriel drank with them so rarely that they wouldn’t be the first ones to throw in the towel when he was finally in the mood.
The sun was high in the sky when Azriel awoke to the dying embers of the fire they’d made on the beach last night. He didn’t know what time they’d all passed out into oblivion, but he did remember the first rays of dawn had peaked over Ramiel when he finally closed his eyes.
Ah, shit, he thought, looking over to Rhysand’s sleeping form on the other side of the fire. He tossed a stray rock over at him.
Rhys grumbled, coming out of sleep. “Whaddaya want?” he groaned.
Azriel threw his arm over his eyes, blocking out the sun. “Weren’t you supposed to be somewhere this morning? Escorting your mom and sister?”
It was like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water on Rhys, the way he jumped up.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He looked to the sky, trying to mentally calculate how late in the day it was. “They’re fine right?” He asked, looking more for assurance than anything. “Elvara’s been here loads of times, she knows the way. And between her and mother they have more than enough power to defeat any creatures they’d come across in the Steppes, right?”
“I mean, I guess,” mused a dozy Cassian. “I think it was more to protect them from the males than anything. But Elvara’s grown powerful these days. Powerful enough to rival you, Rhys. I’m sure they’re here already. Probably meeting with Devlon over afternoon tea.”
They weren’t. Azriel could tell that much. He could always sense when Elvara was near, and her scent in the camps had long since grown stale since her last visit. But they were probably on their way. “Or maybe they’re still waiting for you at the lookout?” he added.
That’s when he sat up, and looked over to Rhys, who was staring down the river with a keen eye. “What is that?” Rhys asked, pointing up stream.
Two wood crates floated lazily along the river, bobbing along. As they drew closer, the smell hit them. Blood. Death. Not quite decay, a fresh kill. The three of them all wriggled their noses, scenting it at the same time.
“Probably a hunter's kill for the day floated away on him.” Joked Cassian. “Maybe we’ll see him chasing it down the river any second”
“I don’t think so, Cassian. Something’s…wrong” said Rhys, walking towards the lip of the river’s edge. He waded out mid calf and grabbed the handles on each crate, pulling it back to the shore.
They stood in a circle around the crates. Glancing from his brothers, back down to the boxes, Azriel had a sick feeling in his stomach, and from what he could tell, so did Rhys. A scent, so faint only someone intimately familiar with it would recognize, like a lover… or a brother.
Rhys fell to his knees and began to pry the top off one of the crates. Azriel felt like he should do the same with the other, but he couldn’t get his knees to bend. All he could do was watch.
It was then he felt like he began to float outside his body, like a spectator. He saw Rhys reach into the crate and pull out a severed head. A head, for Cauldron’s sake! That alone should have been enough. He couldn't see the face of the victim, only the back of the head, the long black hair, braided tightly against the skull. A braid he’d seen his whole childhood, but couldn’t quite place yet. It was when Rhy’s face crumpled in agony and began screaming, did he and Cassian realize who this head belonged to: Velaris, Rhys’ mother.
Rhys screamed. And screamed. And screamed. Not the scream of the hardened warrior he’d grown into all these years. Not the scream of a man, but of a boy who held his mother’s severed head.
Azriel dropped to his knees at the other crate. No, no, no, no, he repeated to himself as he ripped the top off with his fingernails. He might have been saying it outloud, but he didn't care. He ripped the crate apart like an animal, desperate to prove it to himself, that no, this couldn’t be happening. Velaris was one thing. Devastating in its own right. She had been like a mother to him in so many ways. But Elvara…
Rhys might have still been screaming, he couldn’t tell anymore. His heart was pounding in his ears too loudly. Vaguely he had the sense that Cassian was still there, trying to comfort Rhys somehow, trying to get the attention of anyone who may be nearby. The head of the Highlord’s Mate had just washed up, after all. It was likely a declaration of war. But Azriel didn’t care about any of that. He knew it from the moment he got the lid off. The moment he saw the unruly black hair, the earrings he had bought her hanging from her delicately pointed ears.
He pulled Elvara’s head out of the box and stared into his hollow, dulled violet eyes. “Var…” he choked out.
As the last punch on the bag landed, it flew off the hook that attached it to the ceiling. Sweat dripped into Azriel’s eyes. The burning reminded him of one thing at least. He was still alive. He remained. As it had been for the last 500 years. That was his punishment, he supposed. That he shall remain, while his one truest love had been taken from him so young. That she didn’t get to live out her life as she was meant to. All because he was throwing himself a pity party about her engagement, and kept Rhys up all night. If Rhys had been there, if Azriel himself had been there…maybe things would be different now.
There was no use in lamenting over what could have been, he reminded himself. His shadows whirled around him, sensing his mood. They whispered in his ear often about Elvara.
There was nothing you could do, Master. They mused. The Highlord can make his own choices. He should have gotten himself up to meet them regardless of how much he drank. That was his duty, not yours.
He shooed them away, not needing to hear this right now. He walked over to the broken training bag. Rice spilled out of it onto the stone from where his fist had burst it open. This was the 3rd one this week. Maybe he needed a different outlet. A face to break instead of a bag. He thought of Cassian, his usual sparring partner. Cassian had been showing up later and later every morning, no doubt enticed by his mate to stay in bed a little longer. He and Nesta had claimed every inch of the House of Wind in their sexual exploits, and he couldn’t help but be bitter about it. Not because he was jealous that they were finding their release and he wasn’t. He could have any woman in Velaris if he really wanted to. But because that house didn’t belong to them in his mind. Even after all this time he could only associate the house with…her.
Elvara had loved staying at the House of Wind her whole childhood, and would have undoubtingly been hers if she hadn’t…
He couldn’t keep thinking about this. How was it still tearing him apart, after all these years! Rhys had seemingly moved on. Had Feyre and Nyx, had moved Elvara’s portrait to a hallway no one frequented…had even given some of her old dresses to Feyre that his mother had made. Azriel had needed to leave the room the first time he saw her wearing one of them. The last time he’d seen that silver dress it had been on the floor of his room, and now here his High Lady was, parading it around.
Not that it was her fault of course. How would she have known? How would Rhys have known, for that matter? No, the only one who carried this memory now was Azriel, and carry it he did.
That was when he noticed Feyre’s scent coming towards him, from across the training yard. It was rare indeed for Feyre to venture all the way up here. His curiosity got the best of him, and he turned to where she would appear.
“High Lady, what brings you out here so early? You even beat the General out of bed this morning.” He mused to Feyre, bringing out the facade of charm that he often used as armour.
“Morning Azriel,” Feyre smiled back, walking closer to him. She held something, a small box with a card onto. A gift? For him? How peculiar, his birthday had passed, and starfall wasn’t for months. “I wanted to come see you before things got too hectic up here.”
Our starlight, Master. She carries something from our Starlight
Impossible, Azriel thought. How would Feyre have something from Elvara. His stomach churned regardless.
“I’m sure you’ve probably noticed that Rhys kind of…gave me free range of the house and everything in it. Including his sister’s old room. You knew her, right? When you guys were young?”
“Yes.” He breathed. He needed to tread carefully. He’d need a drink tonight, or maybe even a mind numbing tonic from Madja, at this rate. “I knew her. We weren’t close or anything,” He lied. “She was better friends with Cass if I’m being honest. But I would see her in the summers when we’d stay at the palace, or if her envoy came to the camps.”
Too much, she will know you’re lying. The shadows hissed.
“Yes, well,” Feyre looked a bit uncomfortable. “Rhys told me I should wear some of her old dresses. That his mother was a seamstress and had handmade them. He said it was a shame for them to rot in a wardrobe. And I found this in the back of her closet. For you, actually” She held the small box out. It was wrapped neatly in plain brown paper, nothing to express anything other than platonic friendship at least. And the note. Written in that same sharp, delicate writing, was his name. He never thought he’d see his name written like that again. Not after he’d thrown all her letters into the fire on one night when her memory had tortured him particularly harshly.
If Feyre noticed his reaction she didn’t say anything. He took the package in his grasp. Light, balanced. Couldn’t be anything too big, that’s for certain. She’d never really given him a gift before. Not like this, wrapped up with a card, it could have been considered…suspisicous. At least that’s what he’d told her once.
“Anyways, I thought I would give it to you. She obviously intended for you to have it and just…ran out of time…I guess.” Feyre faltered off awkwardly. Her remorse was evident. “Look, Azriel. I know you guys don’t talk about her very much, or at all for that matter. I know what happened was beyond tragic and I cannot even express how sorry I am to you all. But I think you should have this, even if you can’t bear to open it yet.” She leaned in on her tiptoes and gave a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Let me know if you ever need anything, Az. As your friend, not just your High Lady.”
Not one to linger, Feyre took her leave. He gazed down at the note. What could it possibly even say? Did she write this before, or after he broke her heart? He wasn’t sure which would be worse.
This pain in his chest was familiar. But the pounding in his ears? He hasn’t experienced this since the day at the beach. Not even his shadows could reach him now.
Remain calm, Master. It’s just a gift. A present from our Starlight, it couldn’t possibly be bad. You heard the High Lady, you don’t even have to open it. Not now, not ever. Just having it is enough, Master. Breathe deeply, sir, let out this anguish. Training will begin soon.
Azriel gave his head a shake, pocketing the package and note without another thought. Not now. He can’t do this now. The shadows were right, training would begin soon. The Valkyries' arrival was imminent. Even if Cassian wasn’t here, he must attend to his duty.
Training was brutal. Cassian did show his face eventually, if not 45 minutes late. The package he held burned in his pocket. Every movement, every lunge or sprint or jump, he felt it there. And try as he might, it brought his thoughts right back to her. They’d trained together, once upon a time. Althorian had forbidden his daughter to train. Solely focused on his heir, Rhysand, and his training and progression. All Elvara had ever been to him was a tool, a pawn in his grand political scheme. And pawns didn’t need to protect themselves. Pawns existed to sacrifice themselves for the King.
The arch above the entrance to the training pit had been where they’d first kissed, he remembered. The memories came in flashbacks and echos as he tried to keep them at bay.
He was tired. Between training in the camps and running missions for the High Lord, Althorian, he was tired. No rest for the wicked, he supposed the saying went. As he trudged up to the training grounds he heard something. No one should be up here at this time. He was instantly hyper aware, and drew his sword.
As he sent his shadows out for recon, he began to prowl along the outside edge of the training circle, a keen ear listening for any indication of who might be there. All he heard were grunts, and soft landing thuds. Not a male, that’s for sure. A female. That alone was enough to set him on edge. Females weren’t allowed up here. Not by his choice, certainly, but by Althorian’s. If whoever she was got caught by anyone other than him the consequence would be far greater. He never agreed with that law, that females couldn’t train. He would let her off with a soft warning not to return.
It was then his shadows returned.
Starlight, Master. Our Starlight weeps in sorrow. Go to her now!
Elvara was the one out here?? What in the name of the Cauldron was she thinking! Althorian would skin her alive if he knew! And him, by proxy, if he found out that Azriel had known about it!
But that’s when he heard the weeping. It tore a strip right out of his heart to hear it. He rounded the corner and saw her there, beating the training dummy with a dulled wooden sword. Sobbing. She swung the sword again and again, no tact, no skill, just emotion. This wasn’t her trying to train in secret. It was her letting out decades of anger.
He approached slowly, giving her time to gauge his presence so he didn’t startle her. Her head whipped over to him in a flash the second he took a step closer. Sharp as a tack.
“You. What are you doing here?” She all but spat out.
“Making my rounds, as usual, my lady.” He replied softly. “I hate to be the one to point this out, but I don’t believe you have permission to enter here”
“Then don’t point it out. Problem solved.” She wiped her eyes and the sword down and stalked over to me. “Don’t worry, I’ll make this one easy on you and just leave, I’m not in the mood to fight with you. Wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with the almighty High Lord,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes, “Or Cauldron forbid, his heir.”
“Sounds like you had a hard enough day already, without my opinion added on top.” He retorted. “My lady.” He added for good measure, half bowing in mockery as she approached.
There had always been an easy going nature between them, ever since the first time they had met. It had been years ago. From the moment she had peeked out behind her mother and said something snotty about not being able to go train with her brother, he had known. Known that she was untouchable, and yet… his shadows called to her. Day and night, ever since that day they practically reported “starlight’s” every move to him.
His heart hammered in his ears. They were playful with one another when they saw each other, playful and friendly, but never more than that. He was the one person in her life who treated her like any other Fae, not the daughter of a High Lord. .
“Maybe I should take a whack at you then, instead of the dummy. Knock some sense into you.” She sniffled, the last of her tears dried up. “And stop calling me that. ‘My Lady’? You can’t be serious.”
She moved to shuffle passed him, but he reached out and grabbed her wrist, stilling her under the arch. “What are you doing out here Elvara?” His voice stern, yet full of concern. “Your father …”
“Yes, yes, my father. What would he think seeing a sword in his baby girl’s hand? Even a wooden one. I guess… I guess I just needed to let off some steam. This place suffocates me, Azriel. Don’t you ever feel it?
“Yes. At times, unbelievably so.” She was close to him, closer than he usually allowed. In the past few years she’d grown into an alarmingly striking High Fae. Her 18th birthday having just passed, her beauty was undeniable to any male, most of all him. “But the cost is worth it, don’t you think? We’re safe here, have purpose, plenty of food, security. I don’t know what else we could ask for.”
“Plenty, Az. We could ask for plenty. To be treated like an equal, for one. Don’t you find it unsettling that half the populace is only considered useful when bearing the young of their Lord’s? Doesn’t it upset you that all the females in the City of Starlight are nothing but chattel to the High Lord, myself most of all?”
“Of course it does, El, but what am I going to do about it? I’m under his thumb just as much as you are, if only in a different way.” His tone was somber. She never spoke like this, so openly defiant. Usually she was nothing but cold and calculating looks, quietly pretending to be the perfect daughter.
This female, though, panting from exertion, sweat mixed with dried tears on her face, she wasn’t a pawn. It was an insult to even think about it. She gazed down at his feet, and he could tell she was preparing to put the mask back on. He wanted another moment with this version of her, the part she kept concealed, just a moment longer.
He reached his hand towards her chin, lifting it so their gazes met. “Hey, it’s just me, El. Tell me the truth.”
“Is this how you get my father’s prisoners to spill you their secrets, Shadowsinger? By gazing into their eyes?” A twinge of something he didn’t recognize laced her voice, as the ends of her lips turned upwards into a half smile. Flirtation? No. Impossible.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” He couldn’t stop himself. If it was flirtation, he was a slave to it just like her.
“Truth for a truth?” She countered.
“You first.”
“Alright.” She took a step back from him so he couldn’t reach her anymore. His hand fell limp to his side, fingers flexing around nothing, remembering the warmth of her chin. “Father and I got into it pretty badly at dinner earlier tonight. He said things I… suspected but never heard him say aloud. It was probably my fault, really, for bringing it up.” She was looking down again, as if she couldn’t meet his gaze. “I asked if I could go with Rhys to the camps this year. Not to train, I know better than that. But just to…get out of the city for a bit. As an emissary, perhaps? Or Court representative. But no. Althorian took no time to remind me of my true purpose in this Court.”
“Don’t make me side with your Father, Elvara. The camps are no place for a lady. Especially the High Lord’s daughter. The things I’ve heard them say about you…”
“See this is why I didn’t want to tell you!” She smacked her fist on his chest. The overall strength behind the hit was minimal, playful, yet a small ripple of violet shot out at impact. That…hurt. He’d seen this with Rhys many times while sparring. Bits of his raw magic flowing out when he was frustrated. Seeing it manifest in Elvara was concerning. If she had even a fraction of what Rhys did that made her dangerous, particularly if she was untrained. His mind was made up in an instant.
“So, what? You want to train with the big boys, is that it?” He rubbed the spot on his chest where her fist had just been. “Well, who am I, if not a loyal servant to the Court, to refuse you?”
Her eyes flashed that brilliant violet that shined only when he said something that genuinely surprised her, which wasn’t often. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll train with you, Elvara, if that’s what you want. We’ll have to be more stealthy than this though,” He motioned to the training ring around them “We’d be caught in an instant if we did it here, but-”
She threw her arms around his neck and planted a soft kiss right on his lips. As fast as it happened, it was over. But her arms remained. Head now buried in his shoulder she squealed. “Really? Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
A smack to the head blindsided him, knocking him out of his memory. His lips still burned in recognition.
***
Azriel closed the door to his room with a soft click, though he knew the sound would carry no more weight than the shadows pooling in the corners. He dropped his bag by the bed and let out a long, rattling breath, dragging his fingers across the small package Feyre had handed him. Light, nondescript, wrapped in paper that smelled faintly of night blooming flowers and ink, the scent of someone who had meticulously chosen every detail.
He turned it over in his hands. No signature. Just his name, scrawled in the careful, looping script that was unmistakably hers. He frowned. A hundred questions tore at him at once, none of them welcome. Why now? Why would Feyre even find it? And damn her for it. Damn her and her relentless curiosity.
Azriel set the package down on the desk and rubbed his face with both hands, pulling at his hair just slightly. Every instinct in him screamed to burn it. Or hide it. Or throw it off the balcony into the Sidra and never speak of it again. But some deeper part—a quieter, more dangerous part—refused to let him ignore it.
He leaned against the edge of the desk, eyes scanning the neat, orderly lines of his room in the House of Wind that felt emptier than it had a week ago. He could imagine it already—what might be inside. A trinket, something meaningless? A note? A confession of whatever folly she’d kept close to her chest for centuries? The shadows in the room shivered at his unrest, curling closer to him in warning. Nothing about this felt harmless.
Azriel’s jaw clenched. She always had a way of leaving pieces of herself behind, even when she was gone. And now Feyre had found one. He cursed under his breath. Damn Feyre for being nosy. Damn her for thinking she could pry into things meant to stay buried.
But his fingers lingered over the package. He could almost feel her presence in the weight of it, the careful folds of the paper, the way the ink pressed into the wrapping as if she’d whispered to it while she wrote.
A pause. A thousand scenarios ran through his mind, all sharp and dangerous. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything. Maybe it would undo him. Or force him to confront something he’d buried long ago.
He picked it up again, turning it over, his shadow stretching across the floor in the morning light. He could wait. He could destroy it. He could hide it. Or he could open it, and face whatever madness, nostalgia, or truth it carried.
He didn’t open the present. He didn’t open the card. He put it up on the highest shelf in his room and tried to forget about it, despite how much his shadows protested.
“I rule you guys, remember? Not the other way around.” He muttered as he stalked towards the kitchens in search of food. It was then that he felt the sharp talon of Rhys' mind slide up against his. As a daemati, Rhys didn’t exactly need permission to enter his, or anyone’s, mind, even from a distance. And occasionally when the situation is dire, he doesn’t hesitate. But over the years he’s grown more conscious of not barging right into Azriel’s mind to demand his presence somewhere.
Yes, Rhysand?
I need you at the River House. As quick as you can manage.
Regarding what?
But he was already gone from his mind.
“Good talk.” Azriel said to no one. Guess that’s a no to breakfast then. Maybe Feyre would have something out at the River House he could snack on. Though, these days, food did little to tame the relentless pit in his stomach.
He walked over to the nearest window and all but flung himself out it, stretching his wings in the freefall down the mountain. This was his favourite part of the House of Wind. Nothing beat the feeling of the wind under his wings, lifting him above the clouds. He fought back a memory of the first time Elvara had revealed his wings to him, often concealed the same way Rhys did. He taught her how to fly here. He shoved his feelings down deep, certain this memory would come haunt him later when he tried to sleep.
He let himself glide gracefully over Velaris until he spotted the mansion on the riverbank. Rhysand had this house built for Feyre shortly after she had left Tamlin, in anticipation of their future together. When Rhysand was over the top, it was romantic. When it was Azriel on the other hand, it was something to be snuffed out immediately. He thought of Elain then. The way Rhysand had spoken to him.
“If you need to fuck someone, go to a pleasure hall and pay for it.” Rhys had said. If he could be so cruel about Elain, Azriel couldn’t imagine what Rhys would say if he knew the things he’d done with Elvara.
Not that anything regarding Elain even mattered anymore. That was years ago. She’s happily mated with Lucian now, a babe on the way. In a way, he was happy for her. She got a happy ending that she would have never had with Azriel. His desire for her was doused like a rampant flame with a bucket of water. Mor too, for that matter. It had all just been a distraction.
He landed softly at the front door, preparing himself for whatever task Rhysand had for him now. Another intruder to vivisect? A spy trying to get information on the inner workings of the Night Court? Truth-teller hung heavy at his side, as if begging to dig into some poor fae’s flesh. Innocent, or guilty? That was for truth-teller to decide.
“I got you something” His memories spoke to him. Not now. He couldn’t do this now. Rhysand was waiting for him. That’s the thing about flashbacks, he supposed. They never waited for a convenient time, and he couldn’t fight this one away.
“What is it?” He whispered into Elvara’s naked shoulder. They laid in the chaise in her room at the House of Wind. Althorian never came up here, and Rhys was away at the Spring Court for the week visiting Tamlin. The only one who would come looking for her was her tutor, and that wouldn't be for hours still.
He kissed down her arm as she tried to reach below the bed, to where this gift was no doubt hidden. “I thought,” he said between kisses, “We agreed not to get each other presents. That it was too risky.”
“I know. But Az, I saw this and I just knew you had to have it! You’ll see. Now get off me, you hulking Illyrian, so I can reach it.”
He hid his smirk behind the kisses he riddled down her soft skin, still flushed pink from the orgasms he’d ripped out of her mere moments ago. He loosened his grip enough that she could reach whatever it was. On principle, Azriel didn’t like gifts. Didn’t like the idea of owing someone anything. A gift from his darling Starlight though? This he might be okay with.
She pulled a matte black leather sheath from below the bed. A knife?
“Is this the part where you kill me, my dear?” He raised an eyebrow jokingly.
“Maybe!” She retorted. “If you aren’t appreciative of what I went through to get this!" Her laughter jostled them slightly in the day bed, making her body move tantalizingly against him.
She removed the blade from the sheath, revealing the most stunning knife he’d beheld in many years. It was an obsidian-hilted hunting knife with a dark scabbard embossed with silver Illyrian runes. It was stunning.
“By the Cauldron.” He breathed, sitting up slightly to examine it. “I…how?”
“That’s my secret, Shadowsinger.” She held it up to him, the engraving lighting up in the sun.
“Truth-Teller?” Azriel read.
“Yes,” she tilted her wrist now so the blade lay against his throat. “Now tell me the truth, Azriel.” It was all still playful, yet a deepseeded lust awoke within him at the sight of her holding a blade to his throat. Something he didn’t know he needed. “What would you give…” She trailed the knife lower, down his bare chest, towards his navel. “To have your cock inside me again today?” Her violet eyes were aflame.
“Anything.”
Anything. He would have. And he still would.