WARNING: Violence and a slight NSFW scene.
"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 of fuckery. 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. 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'd 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, 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 to her cheek.
Points scored for both 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 with 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 scowl "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 leaving her breathless causing 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 grey. 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 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 overthought.
How do you even start?
What do you…touch?
Taking a deep breath, Gwyn let her hands fall to the fabric of her shirt resting over her stomach. And then she 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 touched where she never dared unless it was an absolute necessity. But never like this. Never so hot, near combusting.
Hands dipped, finding herself warm and wet. A moan escaped as she dragged along her seam. She explored. Gliding. Pressing. Rubbing. Until she felt good. More than good. Until her hips pushed against her palm, her breath came out in quick gasps. Her pulse raced in her veins.
It wasn't 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 cool against her heated thighs. It was tongue on her, doing what he did to her mouth but…
Faster and faster. Harder and harder. She saw Azriel licking and laving over her scorched flesh. She couldn't take much more. The pressure coiled in her belly. Too much and yet not enough. She kept going and going until—
Her mouth 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 pounded and tears pricked her eyes….
"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. "Well, 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 paused. "He was there...he saw."
"Not everything," Nesta murmured, rubbing a thumb over Gwyn's shoulder. "And I know it's scary as shit, and it will be hard." A pregnant pause. "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 triggered 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 Gywn 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 okay."
"Where is he?"
"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—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.
Are you really okay? 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.
Yes. One word. Her throat constricted.
Okay. I guess I'll see you soon? The paper poofed out. Her fingers tapped on the mahogany desk.
Tomorrow.
Okay. 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.'
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 on his chest.
For a minute, he hoped he was seeing things. But he'd know that elegant scrawl anywhere.
Are you really okay?
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 a response. Okay. 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 simple, Tomorrow.
In true Gwyneth fashion, she didn't let that be the last word. Okay. 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.