She waits for him outside her father's war chamber the day after she turns fourteen, hiding behind one of the big pillars like she did as a child. Father does not approve of her suitors, wants her all to himself— it's amazing how little she's worried about getting caught.
Zhao saunters out last, lingering, pretending that this makes him look like the Fire Lord's favorite— and he spots her immediately, with an eagle-hawk's precision. "You're going to the front again," she sing-songs, stepping forward, "aren't you?"
"Indeed," he says as he looks her up and down, not even bothering to be subtle about admiring her chest. Years upon years of firebending training have given her arthiritis and scars and calluses, but they've also thinned her waist and made her face slimmer, the cheekbones more starkly defined. Even at eleven she was already turning heads, a red-lipped little nymphet (that could have killed any of them in her sleep, though they didn't know that then). "Did you enjoy my present, princess?"
The dagger is silver, ornate, very sharp. She skates it around her skin sometimes, almost drawing blood and dancing on the edge of macabre— games, always games, just playing— but she would rather plunge it into her stomach than tell Zhao. "I appreciate the sentiment," Azula says sweetly, and toys with one face-framing strand of hair. "But don't you think I'm dangerous enough to you without it?"
(She remembers being furious as a child that her uncle gave her some gaudy Earth Kingdom doll from the siege of Ba Sing Se, while Zuko got an enscribed pearl-handled knife— furious enough to burn the doll to ashes. Now, she doesn't blame him. She wouldn't trust a girl like herself with a knife either.)
Zhao moves closer to her and takes the strand between two fingers, smiling— his eyes are cold, but she knows hers are colder. "More than an adder-python," he says, and suddenly engulfs her mouth with his. She hopes he tastes lightning between his teeth.
Maybe she could like him if he didn't break the kiss so soon after he started, (subtly) looking over his shoulder to see if her daddy's been watching the whole time. "I should be more careful," he says with that same thin smile. "A pretty young girl like you with a man like me, in the middle of the foyer. I wouldn't want to know what it'd do to your reputation."
"I already have a reputation," she replies, tracing one of the medals pinned ever-so-prominently on his armored torso. "The girl who brought you to your knees. Remember that, Zhao?" She hovers over the spot where she marked him, three years ago, on the hip— the crowd had bayed for blood that day, entranced by the little princess who'd annihilated a military man twice her size. Foolish, to try to usurp her place at the Fire Lord's right hand; foolish, to try to humble her. Most foolish of all to think that she can be tamed, seduced and broken down by the likes of him and his serpent-lizard's tongue. She is an inferno. She is far, far too clever for that.
The way his face crumples, ever so slightly, makes her almost drunk with delight. "I want to marry you," he mutters, his voice a shade less cocky. "I'd give you whatever you'd like, your highness. Jewels, silk... the Northern Water Tribe on a silver platter. Just name it."
Well, she'll see how many of his promises are empty in time, she supposes. She'll see how much more he wants her family's coffers and her father's favor than anything about her. "Come to my chambers tonight," she hisses into his ear. "I want to give you a goodbye present, commander— and maybe if you return an admiral, there'll be a better one waiting."