Author's Note: I realized today that I've been spelling Elain's name wrong this entire time and can't bring myself to change it TT_TT I'll fix it eventually I swear, but for the time being it's Elaine. I hope you guys like this Chapter as always!
(Feyre)
I took a deep, calming breath before turning into the canvas tent erected in the center of the Windhaven camp, the place where my mate, my sister, my brothers, and I had hashed out the details of the Illyrian rebellion's bloody end.
A handful of remaining traitors had been rounded up the morning following the attack, all set to stand trial and face inevitable execution. The remaining loyal Illyrians . . . they'd been quiet, borderline peaceful.
For the first time since Silbah's claim for the Illyrian throne I'd seen children playing freely in the camp, running to and fro, squealing their delight as their mothers looked on with a new sort of peace in their eyes, their wings relaxed.
Some had even offered me tentative smiles, waving shyly as I strode through the array of tents.
I could only hope it meant this was truly coming to an end.
Cenric had not spoken to me since the Rite's end, having stayed at Valka's bedside as the female slowly but steadily recovered. Once she'd been declared stable and predicted to wake soon he'd disappeared, winnowing home to the Riverside Estate without so much as a word.
I needed to speak with him.
Pushing past the canvas I paused, my head swimming after days without sleep. I could feel the lightheadedness creeping in, threatening to send me into oblivion with a face full of mud. I felt I'd sleep for a week once I got home, or perhaps sink into a bath and never emerge again.
I had one thing I needed to do before that though.
Letting the canvas flap fall behind me I found Azriel exactly where I expected him to be, bent over a wooden table glancing through an array of papers. The reports that had miraculously materialized in the Ironwood leader's home, listing the names of all of the Illyrian females who'd lost their wings: sacrificed in the name of their King.
Giving their lives for his cause, willingly dying and facing the funeral pyre for his name.
The thought had left me nauseous, wheeling from the absurdity of it.
Azriel had been compiling the casualty reports, reading through each name to see which clans they'd hailed from. Last I had heard they appeared random, sporadically claimed from numerous clans, many of whose their families hadn't even realized their absence.
As though they'd simply vanished from their memories.
The thought had been unsettling, whether a reflection of the culture's disregard for females or just the general lack of compassion, I wasn't certain.
Stopping before the wooden table I lightly cleared my throat, nervously fiddling with the braid that hung over my shoulder.
He glanced up from the papers before rising, immediately dipping his head into a respectful nod, his face neutral.
The formal motion flooded me with guilt. Such things were used only when we needed to present a unified front or when things weren't . . . good.
I couldn't let this be.
"Azriel," I wrung my hands before me, nervous to meet his gaze, "about what happened in the mountains—" The thoughts swirled in my mind, a patchwork of guilt and sorrow stained with the ink of my careless words.
Before I could continue the shadowsinger interrupted me.
"I'm sorry, Feyre." The apology startled me. I forced myself to meet his eyes, molten cores that were shadowed in a way I had slowly learned meant pain. "For . . . all of it."
It was like a punch to the gut.
"You owe me no apology, Azriel," I scrubbed at my face, feeling childish for my actions. "The only apology owed is the one I came to give you. I was unjustified in my accusations." Irredeemably so. "I was just so terrified, certain that they'd kill him, that he couldn't protect himself."
And they'd nearly succeeded.
But I'd been wrong about Cenric, he'd grown powerful, more so than I'd even realized. But in my eyes . . . he remained a child. The same small, precious, screaming bundle Rhys had lowered into my arms after days and days of excruciating hell from bringing him into the world. That same bundle I'd sworn my very existence to protect.
"When I saw the ash arrows, the way he collapsed in that canyon . . ." I swallowed hard, shuddering at the memory.
I'd lost myself to that darkness, desperate and inconsolable.
There was a pause.
"They were dead men." Azriel's deep voice was low, his eyes downcast as he absently flexed his fingers.
Something inside me had already known that, had known that no matter what promises he had made Cenric he would have never let the past happen again. Rhys and I had never been alone in our grieving.
"I'm foul," I pressed my palms into my eyes, perhaps the Mother would strike me down for my foolishness, "I should have—no-I knew better."
And with the way he'd intercepted the creature . . .
A shiver danced through me as my skin prickled at the memory of the monster's haunted face as it screamed in her voice. I needed brandy, a tall glass.
"And Cel—the creature," I nearly choked on the word, reliving the memory of my arrow piercing its heart, "what was it? Where did it even come from? It was like the puka." The foul little monster that had nearly tricked my naïve nineteen-year-old self into following it from Tamlin's estate, almost becoming its dinner.
"Leshka, deeply rooted in Illyrian legend," Azriel craned his neck, stretching the muscles. "They're like the puka but," a small, barely visible tilt of his lips, "related in the way that a house cat might resemble a lion."
The thought made me shiver.
Azriel grew contemplative again, his gaze flickering around the tent, refusing to meet my own.
"They lure their victims by showing them those they desire most. It was rumored the only way to kill them is to strike when they are in another form . . ." His eyes flickered back to mine, guilt lingering in that stare. Another silent apology.
I shook my head.
If he'd been desperate enough to use me as bait as a tactic to kill such a creature . . . the need had greatly outweighed the risk.
"You did what you had to," her face flashed into my mind, the softness of her skin around my wrist as she'd pleaded with me, the touch familiar, "and I will never hesitate that way again."
My daughter was dead. She was never coming home. And my refusal to accept that fact had nearly cost myself and Azriel's lives . . . it couldn't and wouldn't happen again.
The shadowsinger nodded once, silence taking him.
He hadn't voiced it but I'd known that we'd both seen her, swaying feebly in that tattered, too-small dress, tears streaking down her face.
And he'd been forced to cut her image down to protect me. My stomach turned sour from the words I'd so carelessly thrown at him in the Steppes, even as the rift between us stitched closed.
We stood in contemplative quiet for a moment with only the howling winds outside for company.
"I need to find Cenric."
I needed to apologize to my son, explain my thought process to him, to try and make him understand why I had done what I did. To apologize for his failure of the Rite. Apparently, someone had caught sight of a white-tailed hawk circling above him through the last days and had reported it to the clan leaders and while not the greatest offense in the Rite . . . it certainly hadn't helped.
I desperately needed to patch that rift that had formed, before it became so wide that I could not salvage what I had broken.
"I should see Elaine as well."
I quirked a brow at him. Azriel shook his head.
"Too many things have been left unattended." I understood the unspoken words, the distance he'd put between himself and her since Celeste's death, since the rise and fall of the rebellions. The implication that grief could not rule us forever.
Something inside me lifted, a lightness flooding the void I'd felt since her death. No, she would never come home but she had never left, at least not in the ways that mattered.
I held out a hand to my brother, an offer of peace and understanding.
"Then let's go back together."
"Do you like it?" Anelisse twirled once, the dress billowing around her legs in a beautiful iridescent band of gold and pink, the wide-necked design showing off her pale shoulders in the bright morning sun that slipped through the shop's window.
The owner hadn't lied when she'd said she had the perfect pieces for the petite blonde.
"Not bad," Celeste tapped her chin thoughtfully, tilting her head to evaluate the needlework of the dress, nowhere near as nice as what Pennelope crafted but it would do, at least until the woman set up her new shop. "I still think the silver and blue looked nicer."
"¿Porque no los dos?" Gandriel hummed from his supine position on the red velvet chaise lounge—Why not both? Celeste realized he'd inquired. She was inclined to agree. She and Anelisse were slowly beginning to understand the rolling Monteserrian language he spoke, namely the foul curses that tended to slip past his lips.
The male clicked his tongue as he flipped through a book of songs for lute he'd picked up from the market square, his crisp new white shirt bright in the sunlight. "They both look make you look radiant after all."
He fluttered his long gold lashes at Anelisse and flashed her a grin, his tawny eyes glinting playfully as he smiled at her, their emerald and gold hues shimmering like jewels.
Color bloomed high on Anelisse's cheeks.
Celeste barely contained the eye roll.
Anelisse turned back to the mirror and ran her hand down the front of the gown, the fabric exquisite and price tag just as extravagant. "I do think I'll get both . . . if that's all right?" She sent Celeste an inquiring look.
An old habit.
Celeste laughed.
"Like there was ever another choice, get them both and those teal shoes too," a nod to the embroidered suede slippers by her feet, "they look too nice not to."
Anelisse's face broke into a wide grin as she dipped quickly to swipe up the other dress and shoes. Rising she returned to the dressing rooms to slip back in her original dress, a simpler cotton piece she'd been wearing while they shopped and did their best to avoid Ithaca.
The . . . woman . . . had taken to prowling the balcony like a stray cat, growling at all hours about being released at once.
Celeste had merely ignored her, going so far as to have pulled the curtain over the door's window so that the woman couldn't glare inside.
She'd leave eventually.
Patting absently at her pockets she felt the satchel of coin she'd brought with them, content to spend the bulk of it on whatever they needed or, in Anelisse's case, wanted.
A sense of peace enveloped her, as she relished in the fact she was able to buy her sister such lovely things without putting a significant dent in their finances. And if their coffers were only going to grow with the work Fallon had offered them . . . She sighed in relief as she leaned back against the wall, surveying the bright room with its many mirrors.
The owner would definitely be pleased with their choices.
Even if Celeste had elected not to try on the wispy gown of midnight that shimmered with lustrous moonstone beading that the shopkeeper had presented her, its neckline a plunging v that would have left little to the imagination.
She had no use for such things.
Gandriel grunted, as though he'd read her mind. "You should get something as well, something dark and seductive like the dress you refused to try on. You can slay your enemies while looking like a goddess of the Underworld."
A snort.
"No, thank you, I have no need for dresses." She stretched her foot, her new black leather boots crinkling as she twisted her ankle, mindful of the invisible trigger on the heel that would send a blade flying. "These, on the other hand, will serve me just fine."
She'd spent her share of the money stocking up on various supplies she'd find useful on her future hunts, dark shirts, leather leggings and a plethora of knives in every shape and variety, as well as a deep-hooded cloak.
"You were eyeballing it."
"I'm surprised you noticed with how you were eyeballing my sister."
"The shopkeeper knows how to sell a product, forgive me for appreciating her exquisite taste. I would be doing the same to you if you'd tried the dress on."
"Perhaps we should stuff you in it instead and tie you to the front of the Loreley," she looked at her nails, freshly trimmed and shaped, "you'd serve more use as a figurehead."
He barked a bright, high laugh.
"I think you'd only be jealous that you couldn't be as beautiful as me."
Celeste found herself smirking.
"If you consider that beauty I think I'm grateful to not be considered as a competitor."
"You wound me. I'm serious Celeste, you should buy it if for no other reason than to shove me into it the next time we drink."
"I'll think about it."
"Think about what?" Anelisse peeked her head out from the dressing room, her silvery curls bundled loosely on her head, "are we talking about that dress the shopkeeper wanted Celeste to try? I think you should buy it."
Celeste shook her head, pushing off the wall. "You're both worthless and are going to spend all of our coin on useless things. Let's go."
The loaf of bread was a crisp golden brown, its crust littered with elaborate leaf patterns and braided dough garnishing its edges. Pleased with her creation, Elaine eased it from the oven, mindful of the hot steam wafting from it.
With nimble hands she quickly sat it on the counter and tapped knuckle on the bottom of it, content with the hollow echo that sounded from it.
Carefully, she scooted it over to join the other numerous loaves she'd baked, all various colors and designs, the baking having served as distraction for her during the final days of the Rite. She'd grown tired of sitting idly with Mor and Amren in the Riverside Estate, anxiously awaiting the results.
A red-faced, relieved Mor had informed her that Cenric had survived the Rite. She'd nearly collapsed in relief, content to lay on her bed in bliss until she'd heard of the circumstances surrounding it. Her nephew, along with the few remaining warriors, had not passed the Rite.
And would not be permitted to take it again, either.
Shame filled her as she'd taken in the news, mindlessly chewing on her lip, knowing that speaking to Feyre had contributed to that outcome. She'd felt even worse when Cenric had winnowed straight into the living room without a word before storming up the stairs, going so far as to nearly shoulder-check Amren in his ascent.
The ancient woman had hissed her irritation at the boy, threats of disembowelment leaving her lips, but he'd completely ignored her before slamming the door to his suite closed. Mor had flinched as the paintings on the walls swayed dangerously.
Not knowing how to help, Elaine had returned to the kitchen and started baking again, making loaves of bread alongside a pile of sugared pastries that she knew her nephew favored, hoping he'd find it in himself to forgive her for her part in his failure.
Kneading the dough, she barely registered the rustle of fabric as a figure materialized behind her, his footsteps near silent. She only registered the presence when a broad hand suddenly rested on her hip, tugging her close and nearly making her jump as strong arms wrapped around her.
The familiar scent of cedar enveloped her.
"Azriel," she turned in his arms to face him, surprised by the sudden contact, the dough on the counter suddenly forgotten. "You're back!"
Looking up at his handsome face she felt her lips purse as she saw the sorrow that flitted across his features, the shadows that dipped across the broad lines and sharp nose twining up to wreath his unusually slumped wings.
She reached up a gentle hand to cup his jaw before she suddenly remembered she was covered in flour and water.
"One moment, let me wash my hands—"
Azriel seemed none the wiser to it as he suddenly grasped her hand and pressed it to his cheek, nuzzling his face into her palm as his eyes closed, a low sigh of reprieve escaping his lips.
Concern filled Elaine.
"Are you all right?"
She gently ran her thumb across his cheekbone, smearing flour across his golden skin.
"Now," he gently pulled her hand away from his face, softly kissing her palm and nodding toward the sink, "let me help you clean up, I'd like to talk to you."
Worry slipped into her mind as the words left her love's lips, his features still wreathed in shadow. Had she done something? Was he upset that she'd helped Feyre interrupt the Rite?
He pressed another kiss to her brow, squeezing her gently around her middle. "No, Elaine, it's not you." She felt a blush rush up her cheeks; he'd always read her so easily. He pulled her close one last time before gently letting her go. "Will you come with me?"
"Of course," she began brushing at her hands, attempting to wipe off the flour on her apron. "Just give me a moment."
Azriel took a towel from the counter and dampened it in the sink before Elaine could move. With ease he brushed it across her palms, wiping away the remaining bits of dough. She felt something in her soften at the gentleness, the attentiveness.
Once he'd finished he pressed another soft kiss to the inside of her wrist before nodding toward archway of the kitchen. She nodded, slipping her hand into his and following him out of the kitchen and up the staircase that led to her own set of rooms.
Even though she'd been with Azriel for nearly a century they'd still kept separate quarters, a sense of modesty he'd offered her since they'd never officiated their relationship, not that there hadn't been an offer to.
She toyed with the lovely golden ring that sat on her left ring finger, its morganite stone a beautiful rose pink surrounded by the petals and vines of gold, their leaves encrusted with small diamonds.
Something Azriel had taken their late niece to help him shop for. The girl's taste had been impeccable even as a child. When Elaine asked him why he'd chosen to take Celeste for help he'd wryly informed her she'd been the only he could trust to keep a secret.
And the girl had never said a peep about it, even after he'd presented it to Elaine that night on the Sidra.
They'd planned to wed the Spring that Celeste had died.
It had been on hiatus ever since.
They slipped into the dimly lit suite, the cream-colored comforter washed in golden tones from the fading rays of the sunlight that slipped through the window. Striding towards the glass, Elaine peered out onto the river, watching the lapis waters roll lazily as her thoughts slid to her nephew.
She hoped he'd find the pile of pastries in the kitchen she'd left him, perhaps he and Feyre could share them as they talked. She'd taken note of her sister as they'd moved through the main room, her scent twining up the staircase and to the right toward his suite.
Elaine trusted they could work it out, believing in the bond that had held the two so close to one another.
But her mind did not linger there, instead trailing back to the male who stood behind her.
Whatever Azriel wanted to talk must have weighed heavily on him if he'd wanted privacy with her. Mor had told her they'd faced a great deal in the Steppes and whatever he'd seen . . . she'd bear the burden too.
She'd just turned to address him when she felt her nose nearly graze his chest, unaware of how closely he stood behind her. Peering owlishly up at him she felt the breath hitch in her throat when she saw the glimmer that flicked to life in his eye.
Something she hadn't seen in an age.
Tentatively he tugged the gloves from his hands, revealing the pristine golden-brown skin beneath, absent of the scars that had haunted him for centuries.
Lightly he ran his hand down the length of her hair, a sigh passing through his lips as he toyed with one of her golden-brown curls.
"What did you want to talk about?" Elaine felt her toes curl in her slippers, trying to ignore the delicate caress of his fingers in her hair, the soft gaze he saved only for her. Whatever he needed she'd give it to him-
He bent low and pressed a firm but chaste kiss to her lips, surprise flitting through her.
"This."
He nipped gently at her upper lip, a tentative question.
Always her choice.
Elaine did not hesitate.
Leaning into him, she pressed her body flush against his as she opened herself to him. Sucking delicately on his bottom lip, she slipped her fingers into his hair, eliciting a low groan that had a thrill coursing through her.
How long had it been since she'd indulged in him? Since he'd let her touch him in a way that wasn't a purely comforting gesture?
His hands trailed down her back, roving in loose, lazy circles that had her skin flecking up beneath her thin dress, heat beginning to pool in her core. His broad chest was pressed against her own, flattening her breasts against firm muscle.
Each movement sent tendrils of desire through her as he grasped her to him, pulling her closer as his hands cupped her bottom and pulled her up towards him.
Her mind was a whirlwind of respite and pleasure as she pulled a hand free of his hair and began tugging at the fastenings on his leathers, reaching beneath the fur-lined garments to rove over his bare shoulders and chest.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, panting as he nipped at the bits of exposed skin, gently tugging at her collarbone with his teeth, slowly running his tongue across the rising goosebumps.
A small moan escaped her lips as he pressed his palm tentatively into the tender flesh of her hips, causing her to roll them experimentally against him, willing each point of contact between them to last.
Elaine knew it was his undoing and he swept her up into his arms, continuing to pepper her neck with kisses, trailing his full lips down the thin column of her throat.
With near reverence he eased Elaine down onto her bed, her palms pressed flat to his chest as he hovered above her, eyes roving.
"Marry me, Elaine."
Surprise shot through her as she looked up at him.
"Pardon?"
"Marry me," he leaned down to press kisses to both of her cheeks, his soft hair tickling her temple. "Please."
"I already promised you that long ago." She thought of the golden band on her hand. "I thought you- with everything going on-"
His hand roved up the length of her leg, pooling her dress in a lilac pile at her hip, sending flour dusting onto the comforter like snow.
"We've waited long enough," he reached for her hand, eyeing the band that sat on her finger, no doubt remembering who'd help him select it before placing a tentative kiss to the stone. "Happiness should not be postponed for grief."
Oh.
The words wound through Elaine like vines, soft and assuring. A light at the end of the grief, a chance to move forward from what had been taken.
She felt tears prick the corners of her eyes. How long had she waited for this? For the return of the male who'd brought her back from the darkness, for the one who'd stolen her heart away from the moment he'd risked everything to save her from Hybern?
"Of course, Az," she reached a hand for his face, tracing the length of his jaw with her fingertip. "I'd be honored to."
He smiled at her response, a rare, true smile before beginning his ministrations again, losing himself in her, his touch nearly driving her to madness.
She was content to let him continue, watching as he deftly tugged at the laces of her dress before she caught sight of a paper out of the corner of her eye, the note that had arrived that morning—
"Azriel," he paused immediately, waiting, "a letter came from Lucien." Azriel went completely still, his pupils dilating, wings flaring. "—It was about the slave trade on the continent, it was addressed to you." Heat flared up her cheeks, "I decided to peek at it."
He visibly deflated. He watched her, waiting for her to continue.
"They flushed out one of the trade routes, freed an entire ship, they want to convene in Marchedor in a few months' time." She brushed the hair from his face. "You should look at it."
He nodded stiffly as he reached for the letter that sat on Elaine's night stand, even though she knew it was the last thing on his mind. She sat up and watched him unfold the paper, his eyes glancing through the text. His brows narrowed and, with a swift flick of his wrist, he disregarded the parchment on the floor.
Elaine's jaw went slack.
"Later," he leaned down, trailing kisses over her face, "It can wait."
Elaine tried to think past the arousal, the need to have him as she pressed a hand against his chest, halting him once more. People's lives were depending on this, a promise their Court had made to help with the fallout after the wall's collapse-
"Azriel, they want fae emissaries."
"Send someone else."
His voice had become a husky growl, his attention wholly fixed on her as he began to gently tug the last of the laces loose, freeing her from her gown.
A breathy laugh escaped her as the air pebbled her skin, her breasts tightening in the coolness of the room.
His pupils dilated as he took her in, watching her.
Yes, perhaps they should let someone else deal with it, at least for the time being.
"All right."
She reached for him, insisting on helping him undress, peeling the last of his leathers and siphons away, his fingers trailing over her, exploring.
He paused once, gently taking her hand. "Elaine."
"Hmmm?"
He pressed his lips near her ear, his hot breath tickling. "Forgive me for not wanting another male's name on your lips."
Celeste bought the gown.
She finally agreed to try it on at Anelisse's insistence and had been pleased to find that it fit like a glove, the material silky to the touch. Its stitching was finer than the gowns Anelisse had purchased, nearly as nice as Pennelope's handiwork.
A feeling of melancholy had consumed her as she'd looked at herself in it, a tinkering feeling of familiarity flitting through her at being dressed so finely, at the vanity that came with wasting money on such impractical things.
A nearly forgotten desire inside her demanded she purchase it.
So, she listened.
She'd refused to let either Anelisse or Gandriel see it much to their dismay. Instead she'd merely said she was purchasing it only to hold Gandriel true to his word about their next little drinking expedition.
Not that Anelisse would need to participate in another anytime soon. She'd finally woken up on their second morning in Marchedor feeling herself again, all signs of her perpetual hangover gone and her color and desire to paint returning in its place.
She'd been using what remained of her set that Celeste had rescued from Vanica, humming as she mixed the crude colors and rendered sketch after sketch. Upon seeing the lack of variety she'd had to work with Gandriel had demanded they venture into the city to get her a new, more elaborate set.
That and to purchase pastries, especially since Anelisse had been stuffing her mouth with any sweet she could get her fingers on.
Which was where they were now headed, meandering toward the tiny pastry shop in the market square when the owner had already learned her sister's name. The older, human woman waved the group over as they approached, already pulling fresh pastries from her oven.
"Pleasure, Miss Anelisse!" The woman smiled broadly, wrapping the treats in wax-coated papers. "Fresh cherry this mornin' for you, darling."
"Oh, thank you!" Anelisse passed a few coppers to the woman as she snatched up the pastries and passed them to Celeste and Gandriel, "You're such a wonder, Celli."
"You're too sweet, child." She dusted her hands off on her apron, her round face merry. "Where are you off to this evening?"
"Hunting for paints," Anelisse said around a mouthful of pastry, already halfway through it, "I'm hoping to find some nice pigments. Any recommendations?"
Celli pondered, sprinkling flour on her table.
"There's a shop up in North Town that sells some standard sets." She paused, then nodded her head across the square towards an empty, dilapidated structure across from her. "Used to be a fae lady who use to sell rare pigments there, had many a customer." Celli's smile vanished. "Rumor iss slavers got 'er. It's been empty ever since she disappeared."
Celeste felt a tendril of anger course through her, suddenly keenly aware of the letters addressed to her in Fallon's rolling script that had arrived that morning. They still sat, unopened, on her and her sister's shared dresser in Gandriel's small apartment.
"Bet this square would benefit from another artist though," the woman had pulled free a bundle of dough and was kneading. "You could set up there, darlin', sell your works, give you something to do." She shot a knowing look towards Celeste and Gandriel, "Since you seem pretty well taken care of. It'd be a good way to pass the time."
Anelisse paused, pondering before a sweet smile overtook her features.
"I think I'd like that very much."
Elaine had fallen into a deep sleep after their lovemaking, her lithe body bundled in the cream comforter as she slept quietly, the evening sun having set deep beyond the horizon, casting the room in deep shadows.
They sang to him, quiet and knowing as he disentangled himself from Elaine, unwillingly leaving the warm bed.
He'd tended to Elain for hours, breaking apart the walls he'd erected between them, those towering structures of grief and guilt he'd confined himself in for years, ripping them down piece by piece as he yielded himself to her fully once again.
Happiness cannot be postponed for grief.
How many close calls had they faced?
How many times had their survival come as a result of their stubborn will alone?
Life was not a given. It had never been.
And with what had happened in the Steppes, with that fucking creature using her form as a means of baiting Feyre—
Shoving his legs into his leathers, he pulled them up around his narrow hips and deftly closed them. He didn't bother with the discarded shirt.
Every damning word Feyre had thrown at him had been true.
Every. Single. One.
Her death would be a weight he would bear for eternity. A grueling reminder of his failure to protect the city that was his home and the people he called family.
He was grateful for the deep darkness, the shadows that obscured his healed hands.
He could only hope he could catch a glimpse of her one last time when the darkness finally claimed him.
Just once more.
They hadn't suffered nearly enough.
Neither had he.
He was still irate, content to spend the next few years slowly carving the entire monstrous species from the Steppes again. He'd exterminate them himself, one at a time, just like he'd done with the Illyrian traitors.
He eyed Truth-Teller, discarded with his boots, its obsidian hilt barely discernable in the darkness.
There was always time to break those who wronged those you cared for.
Beast or not.
He braced his hands against the ivory desk in Elaine's room, glancing over the rose stationary she preferred, the quartz paperweight he'd given her years ago.
But life—a soft glance at the sleeping female—how long had he postponed it?
There never would be the right time to give Elain everything she deserved, no perfect, peaceful moment. And he wanted to give it to her—badly—so why had he waited?
Because you're daft, he could hear Cassian gripe.
He was just grateful she'd still have him.
The origin of the leshka still puzzled him, trying to understand what had driven the beast back into the mountains. Another mystery for another time. In the meanwhile—
Lucien's scent wafted from the letter, sending pulses of possessiveness through him, making him want to crumple the paper and throw it away. But he was better than that, or at least he pretended to be.
The male had been more than accommodating with the bond with Elaine, going so far as to avoid visiting Night to give Elaine the space she needed, to respect the fact that she'd chosen Azriel. But with her laying there, sleeping after their joining—
It was best he ignored his existence.
Kneeling, he swiped up the discarded letter, the faint curve of Lucien's scrawling text nearly indecipherable.
He'd been tracking leads for the slave routes for months prior to the Rite, most of them dead ends, loops of endless, useless information, but this . . . whoever'd gotten those papers . . . incredible.
He'd thank them personally if he ever got the chance.
To Marchedor then.
Perhaps he'd purchase Feyre more of those rare pigments of paint he'd found there, those sold in the market square. An apology for all that he'd failed in.
But life, the future-
He smiled faintly.
There was a wedding to plan.