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 someplace 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-foresaken 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 gone
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 okay, 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 cajones."
Female cajones? Was that a term from one of the smut books?
"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.
"Okay," 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 too 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 she was his 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 towards the house, grumbling at herself to show some backbone—when her body met a wall. No, not a wall. A hard male chest.
"Woah, you okay," 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?"