SUMMARY: Gwyn wakes up and thinks about the events of the night before. Rhysand and Gwyn discuss Merrill's research. Azriel comes two startling realizations.
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 alright.
"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! Jokes 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 to 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 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 fucking embarrassed," Gwyn angrily confessed. Taking her hand in his free hand, Azriel squeezed reassuringly.
"Don't be. We'll talk later, Gwyn. Okay?" 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 the collarbone.
"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 gave 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 over 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 was 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 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 hard?" 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 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."