Work Text:
Five Golden Rings
“What are you doing?!” Azriel jolted upwards and fell back just as fast, wincing and grimacing from pain.
Everything hurt. Everything.
His ass hurt. His back. His arms. His wing was gnawing with dull, steady, very unpleasant ache. His head seemed clear enough, but it also hurt. His stomach growled with hunger.
“Checking on your wing.”
Once he was able to gather his thoughts for a second, he looked around and recognized the tiny hunting cabin. The cabin that belonged to Elain’s fiancé. He couldn’t believe that she still called Graysen her fiancé. Strange sort of anger and resentment bubbled up in his chest at the thought. That Elain loved that prick Graysen. Gave him her hand. Accepted the possibility of him as her future, as her husband, and potentially as the father of her children. Who knows what else she might have given him? Surely Graysen had kissed her. Taken freely and easy that which Azriel could only dream of.
For a year! For a damn year he’s been dreaming of kissing her. He’d fantasized about how it would happen, what her sweet lips would taste like, what sounds she’d make against him, and how she’d feel in his arms. For once, it wouldn’t be connected to transportation and he wouldn’t be serving as a valet to haul her and others up and down the House of Wind, or from the River Estate to the townhouse. She’d embrace him and lean against him and…
No, that was for Graysen. For Lucien, maybe. Not for him. He recalled her angry words that she spat earlier this evening—that she was done. She was done with him and with his pathetic attempts at courting her. She was done. Which was the correct way to go anyway, because he wasn’t for her. He wasn’t worthy of this decent, kind, steadfast, intelligent woman, who saw the best in the world, even when things crumbled around her and darkness consumed everything that she loved. She still remained optimistic, polite, and helpful.
So, here they were, in Elain’s finance’s cabin. And her hands were on Azriel’s wing.
Gods above.
No one was ever permitted to touch his wings. Ever. Madja, and even she usually just hovered above them, and didn’t make contact. In almost 520 years that he’d known her, Mor never touched his wings.
And here was Elain, her small hand firmly holding the bone, while she inspected the membrane closely, her face almost touching it as well, and Azriel shuddered when he felt her breath blow softly on the already-healing wound. He just about shrieked like a little girl, both scandalized and aroused, and only just stopped himself from yelling and telling her to not touch his wing. But he held back, though he fisted the hands and pressed his face into the thin pillow, figuring that if he suffocated himself right now, it would be better than turning around and frightening her with his ravenous desire.
And the way she fisted the bone…
He gritted his teeth and almost moaned.
“Does it hurt?” she asked softly, as her delicate fingers lightly pulling the edges of the torn membrane together. “It seems to be healing…”
Grhfjskdh, he only managed to growl into the pillow.
“What?”
“Hmmm,”
“What?” she repeated.
At last, he gathered his remaining self-control and managed, “It’s better, I think.”
“Good,” she placed something soft on the wing, which he figured was a bandage of some kind and then she gingerly folded it and laid it back on the bed. “I know,” she added, “that I am not supposed to touch your wings,”
“You can touch them,” he blurted out suddenly. He surprised even himself.
But it’s not like he hasn’t imagined her touching them. She’d be the only person he’d allow, too. Elain, he’d imagined Elain touching them.
“I know that you Illyrians are sensitive about your wings,” she said casually and pulled away and Azriel didn’t like it. But short of telling her to put her hands on his wing again, he didn’t know what to do. He’d have to have her ‘inspect’ them and the healing later. That would be the best excuse he could think of right now.
“How do you know?” he asked, his voice sounding hoarse even to his own ear.
“My sisters are mated to Illyrians,” she reminded him, and then, in one singular, rough motion, she pulled down his trousers.
“Fuck, Elain,” he exclaimed, “what are you,”
“Only checking your wound,” she said, those small hands gentle, but firm on his buttock, squeezing, patting.
“A little warning next time,” he requested, attempting to not sound rude, but feeling like he was failing.
Elain only shrugged indifferently, “You know I was going to check your injury. Why are you surprised?”
“I didn’t think of you being so…bold,” he admitted. Her fingers played over his skin, lightly pressing around the wound. He winced, but opted to not move, as his trousers were down and his position was somewhat vulnerable.
“I am not bold,” she explained, and then placed a cloth bandage soaked in something over the wound, “I am nursing you back to health. You, on the other hand, are acting like a maiden about to be ravished,”
Azriel would be lying if he said that he didn’t wonder—frequently—whether she was a maiden. He stopped himself from asking just that, though it would be another lie if he said that he hadn’t pictured himself taking her maidenhead. How he wouldn’t be gentle, but he would be thorough and loving and would take her wholly and she would feel every part of him within her lovely body. He’d imagined it all—her crying out in pain and pleasure, and bleeding and begging and pleading.
When they first met and she was still a human woman, he’d scented her purity. She was untouched then, with no male scent on her. And that first night, while sharing an opulent bedroom with Cassian, who kept grunting, tossing and turning and suffocating Azriel with his arousal, Azriel buried his head in the pillows and thought of Elain. She was enchanting. Human. Engaged. Unavailable in every sense. But unafraid. Not in the same way that Nesta was not afraid, brash and challenging, but in a quieter, less obvious manner. Yet, still unafraid, and even ready to defend herself, and her sister. She was also beautiful beyond belief. Sweetly curvaceous, healthy and blooming and he recalled how it struck him back then that she was everything that he liked and wanted in a woman. The gorgeous brown eyes, the honey-golden hair, thick and lustrous, pale, creamy skin, beautifully shaped limbs, a small waist that flared into nicely rounded hips. Fuck, she was like a walking pastry.
While he’d never admitted it to anyone, even himself, but the desire to make her his flared in him instantly, overwhelmingly. He wanted her. Wanted to leave his mark on her, his scent, his essence—so that every male out there knew that she belonged to him. His male Fae senses ran wild, devastating thought and reason, for he found her utterly irresistible, and yearned to brand her as his. He wanted to bite her…Even now, smelling her, feeling her hands on his ass, he wanted to bite her—sink his teeth into her neck, claim her, mark her with his teeth, so she knew that she was his and that would carry his imprint on her forever.
When she emerged from the Cauldron, remade and anew, he’d lost her scent, that wonderful human scent that he carried with him up until that moment. It was replaced with her delicious current fragrance which he adored—jasmine, the dominant scent, the scent of the Night Court, of everything he loved and cherished, and a more subtle scent of honey, which had light caramel and vanilla notes. Still, even after the Cauldron, she still smelled like a pastry. He could drown in her scent and never come up for air. Alas, he was no longer able to tell whether she’d been with a man. If Lucien was in the vicinity, all he smelled was the nauseating stench of their bond, which gagged him and actually made him physically ill. But he doubted that she’s been with anyone since she was Made, so the question remained…
Elain pulled his trousers up and then said, “You are healing.”
And then, she slapped his ass, the naughty minx.
“Elain!”
“Azriel?” she challenged, but there was a playful tone to her voice. He liked it. Perhaps she wasn’t as angry with him as before?
“You are not supposed to be hitting your patients,” he reprimanded her primly, but she chuckled.
“If you remove your trousers, I can patch them up,” she offered, “I found needle and thread in the cupboard.”
Inexplicably, colour bloomed on Azriel’s cheeks and he felt himself flush.
No woman, other than his mother, ever offered to do something for him. A simple task, surely, but stupidly, he didn’t know how to respond to her offer. That Elain, his beautiful—not his—Elain, should sit and patch his clothes? It suddenly threw him for a tailspin and he didn’t know what to do with himself. So he finally turned his head and glanced at her. And his jaw dropped. His heart stopped beating. His brain ceased functioning. He stilled.
Elain was sitting beside him, wearing only gray cotton hose in which, he assumed, she travelled under her ridiculous wide trousers (at least she was convinced by her sisters to start wearing trousers particularly when traveling or flying), and a white cardigan. Nothing else. Under the buttonless cardigan, he saw her exquisite lace breast wrap, which was intricately embroidered with flowers. Nude body under the half-open cardigan. He could see her stomach, her bellybutton.
And then, he spied a soft, delicious roll. A pudgy little roll over an overwise flat, if pleasantly rounded belly. Maybe it was how she was sitting, and how her body was turned, but the fold was tantalizing and absolutely drove him wild. He wanted to touch it. Needed it. Needed to place his hand over that belly, brush his knuckled over the delectable fold, feel the satiny smoothness of her skin.
“What are you wearing?” he murmured instead, instantly wanting to slap himself for not catching his words before they left his lips, for probably making her uncomfortable with his stupid question.
She looked down at herself, and then absently closed the flap of the cardigan on her body, though it didn’t seem like she was too perturbed by his comment, or the need to cover herself.
“Everything was wet or dirty,” she explained, rising and walking to the tiny kitchen, if he could even call it that, where something was bubbling on the one-burner stove. “I had this in my bag. Does it make you uncomfortable?”
“No,” he retorted immediately. It made him very, very comfortable. In fact, despite his injuries, the realization that he was alone with Elain—for the first time ever—in this little hut, with the fireplace crackling merrily, while the wind was howling wildly outside, made him irrationally and completely happy. Just the two of them. No meddling or interfering by anyone. Cutoff from the world.
“We are snowed in,” Elain said absently, stirring the pot, as he watched her from the bed, taking in her very long, slender legs, clad in the soft hose. And the bum. He tried not to stare at her pert, round behind, but who was he kidding—he was a Fae male, alone with a female that he desired on every level. But he also knew that he wouldn’t make that final move, not until she was willing and ready, and asked for it herself. He’d seen plenty of instanced of Illyrian males doing just that—taking females, especially the captives, and bending them over barrels, using them however they saw fit. He’d seen too many abused and raped females in his lifetime to ever develop a taste for violence against women. Cassian and he were both dominant males, he, even more so, but force was never in the cards for them—they always chafed against it, especially having seen what it did to their mothers, and they punished others for it.
Dominating Elain gently and lovingly was a dream that he could only aspire to, but he wanted her to crave it and need it, as much as he needed for her to want and accept it.
“There is a bathing room,” she jerked her head to the side, without turning, “if you want to use it. It’s tiny, and I don’t know if you’ll fit, but at least you’d be able to relieve yourself.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly and got up, with a groan. His thigh and buttock screamed in pain once he put weight on the leg, but at least his wing felt better. So he dragged himself to the bathing room, which was more of a closet. Maneuvering his huge body, his wings and arms was a disaster waiting to happen, and he quietly cursed under his breath, wondering why human men couldn’t build things bigger. Higher ceilings, larger tubs, bigger toilets…Thank the gods he could do his business standing up, because he wasn’t sure that if he sat down, he’d be able to get up, without destroying this silly tiny room and needing Elain’s help off the shitter. That would be a sight to remember.
After he washed his face and upper body as much as he could, which was more like splashing in a tiny sink in freezing cold water—melted snow that ran down the one pipe—he considered and then exited the bathing room and removed his trousers. He felt a little ridiculous, but also somehow liberated. He put Truth-Teller on the bench, along with his six Siphons, keeping only one on. He didn’t exactly feel threatened with Elain. And his shadows were gone.
When he returned to the main room, Elain turned around and ladled something into a bowl. But, she stopped short of moving, when she looked at him and took in his half-naked body. He wondered if she’d ever seen him train, which he always did shirtless, and he didn’t think that she had. This was an evening of first for both of them then.
Her throat bobbed and he watched her, watched her swallow audibly at the sight of him.
He knew that he was a fine specimen of Fae masculinity—perhaps, almost exaggerated in his primal manliness. He was carved into this being by birth, years of brutality and centuries of training and killing. He knew that he oozed dominance, his whole being designed to conquer and reign supreme over lesser beings. He was Fae and an Illyrian, and a greater predator did not exist in Prythian, for he also possessed his seven Siphons and the biggest wings in all of Illyria. Short of High Lords, he and Cassian were probably the most powerful Fae in existence. He was built to attract, force, conquer and seduce and now, Elain was sensing the predator in him, just as he lured her to him, unbeknown to her.
She watched him, eyes raking over her his torso, stopping on the bare chest that she could see through his unbuttoned shirt. He didn’t bother with it, for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was this—the caramel-brown eyes gliding over him, watching him, studying…Whatever she said before was probably true, and she was fed up with him, and maybe Lucien and the whole situation, but that didn’t stop her from looking. Didn’t stop him from noticing her pulse, her heated gaze, and how she, likely unknowingly, shifted on her feet. His own legs, bare, were a point of interest to her. She looked down, to his feet, then his thighs and stared for a moment at his middle—his muscle-clad stomach and certainly at what was packed into his black undershorts.
“It was small,” he said at last.
She started, roused out of her reverie and blanched.
“What?”
“The bathing room. It was small,” he said.
Blushing wildly, she nodded quickly and then turned away. He smiled faintly. There was no need for her to turn away, for the bowl was in her hands.
“I…” she muttered nervously, “I…sit,” she nodded to the chair, “I found rice and dried mushrooms. I made,”
“Thank you, Elain,” he said, sliding down heavily onto the chair, balancing himself on one buttock. “You don’t need to cook for me,”
“Well, it’s not for you. It’s for us. I am hungry too,” she countered, and placed the bowl in front of him, and then filled her own. He waited for her to take her place across from him. “There is a little bit of tea,” she added, “but I am conserving it, for tomorrow, just in case we have to spend another day here.”
“I am sorry,” he whispered.
“Why?” she cocked her head and watched him.
“I know you don’t want to be here…with me,”
She stirred her rice slowly with a spoon and then murmured, “It’s not true.”
He glanced at her serious little face and pressed, “What isn’t?”
“That I don’t want to be with you.”
His heart skipped a beat and surely, he wasn’t breathing.
“I am very angry with you, Azriel,” she admitted simply. “And I don’t know what happened. And why? I don’t understand why you rejected me, because you seemed interested,”
“Elain, I…”
She went on, ignoring him,
“But…It’s difficult for me,”
“What is?”
“To just turn it off like that. Maybe it’s easier for you, I don’t know. But I…I am not like that,” she sighed. “I feel things. Deeply. I want to move on, but I can’t and it’s difficult for me. Because,”
“Please don’t,” he quickly reached for her hand and grabbed it without thinking.
Confused, she asked, “Don’t what?”
“Don’t turn it off. Please, I am begging you, Elain,” he grabbed her hand harder, squeezing it, grasping fingers, unwilling to release, “things are complicated, but nothing’s changed. Nothing at all. Not for me, and I hope not for you.”
She sighed again and then added after a long pause, “Eat, Azriel.”
He looked down at the bowl and said quietly,
“You’ve prepared food for me.”
She looked at him from under her lashes and reminded him, “Yes, but I’ve cooked before. You’ve eaten,”
“No,” he interrupted. Shook his head.
She let go of her spoon, but he did not let go of her hand.
“This is different. This is just for me.”
“Yes.”
“When a female,” he began, “a woman,”
“I know,” she whispered. “I know about the food. That’s why I never cook anything when Lucien is around.”
He licked his lips, staring at her.
She swallowed again and said,
“Eat, Azriel.”
He didn’t.
He needed her to understand,
“Elain. This is…it is important. When a female offers a male food. Particularly, food that she’d cooked for him,” his thumb stroked her fingers. “I need you to know that,”
“I’d choose you, Azriel,” she interrupted him. “I would’ve chosen you,” she corrected herself. “If you chose me, I’d choose you too. But you didn’t, so it’s alright. You can eat it. It won’t make a difference now.”
Stupid girl. His stupid, brilliant, naïve girl.
If she only knew. If she only knew that he had chosen her a long, long time ago—when he saw her that first time, in her cobalt dress and all thoughts of others crumbled and faded. Forever.
Azriel took a bite then. It was good. The food was tasty. Rice and mushrooms.
She watched him.
Her cardigan had fallen open again, and he could see her soft, full breast, clad in that beautiful lacy wrap. And he couldn’t help himself and glanced at the delightful soft roll of her stomach, and imagined putting his lips to it, biting it gently. Gods! He was going to lose his mind and there was still the whole night ahead of them.
She wore a delicate gold chain with gold charms. He’d never seen it before.
“This is new,” he nodded towards it and her fingers touched the chain, her long, pale throat.
He swallowed a mouthful of rice and said casually, “Is it a gift?”
And gods only knew what he’d do if it were a gift. From a male. He knew that she never used Lucien’s gifts, not the gloves, or the earrings, but a sense of extreme possessiveness suddenly washed over Azriel, for that beautiful throat was where his gifts belonged. It was for him.
“No,” she said simply, though she blushed.
Fucking good. Very good.
He waited for more, watching her.
She offered, “I ordered it…for myself.”
Azriel knew that there was more, so he waited for her to explain further.
“Five golden rings…shaped as the Moon, and a crescent, and a star, and the sun. And…” she paused, “for my sisters…five golden rings.”
“The sisters I understand—but the other two?”
“For my nephew, whom I already love,” she smiled a soft secret smile, and he smiled as well. He loved that little boy as well, and hoped that everything would be alright with the birth at the end.
“And the stone on top?” he nodded towards a small diamond that sat above the rest of the rings.
She bit her lip and picked at the stone.
“You know who it’s for,” she whispered at last. “You, Azriel. You. Because as I said, I can’t turn it off…Can’t let go.”
Neither could he.
He extended his arm across the table, towards her and pulled up the sleeve. Around his wrist wrapped the leather cuff with his siphon, and he unbuttoned it, to reveal a delicate gold chain and dangling from it,
“It’s my necklace!” she breathed; eyes wide.
Her necklace.
She smiled.
So did he. Because she still thought of it as her necklace.
“Your necklace,” he nodded.
She wrapped her hands around his wrist and held them there, over the ‘bracelet’.
Her face thoughtful, she murmured, “I am glad you kept it,”
He didn’t want to lie, so he confessed, “I gave it away…for a day. I was angry. And sad,” his hazel eyes looked straight at her, “I was so sad, Elain. I still am, because it all didn’t go the way that it should have. But it broke my heart,” he shifted on his seat, “it really did, when you returned it. I wanted you to have it, and then,”
“I am sorry,”
“No, ever you,” he shook his head stubbornly, “no. It was my fault. But regardless, I didn’t want to keep it, but then I didn’t want to let it go either,”
She leaned back in her chair, hands still wrapped around his, and said, “Good. Good. Because I was angry too,”
“I understand.”
“But then, I didn’t want to be angry, with you or with us, so I returned it, yet, I did it with good will, Azriel,”
“I am sure you did,” he nodded and then brought her hands to his lips and kissed each one.
It felt good. The food filled his stomach and he was comforted and comfortable, and it seems like old wounds that lacerated his very soul were healing. Elain was life and light, and if she was forgiving him, maybe things were better?
Sheepishly, she ducked her head and whispered, “I think I Made it.”
His brow furrowed and he asked, “Made what?”
“The necklace,” she nodded at his hand, “I wanted you to have it, but I wanted it to serve you well. As protection. I slept in it that night, and I think it’s Made.”
He looked at the necklace, then at her, baffled, and amazed.
“Elain it’s,” he didn’t have words. “It’s a…It’s a Cauldron-made item then and,”
“No, it’s Elain-made item,” she corrected him with a laugh. “And it’s for you. And no, we are not giving it to Rhys. He has enough Made objects in his possession. It’s mine to give however I want and to whoever I want. And now it’s yours.”
“Ours, I suppose,” he proposed.
She nodded, “Ours. A little of my strength to protect you.”
“Elain, it’s…” words lodged in his throat and he only caressed her fingers, “it’s something I will cherish forever. Thank you.”
She stood up and went to put her bowl in the sink.
Without looking at him, she said quietly, “Don’t leave me, Azriel. Whatever happens, don’t leave me. Even if nothing happens, I want to live in the world knowing that you are somewhere in it, with me.”
And Azriel knew at that moment that nothing’s changed. In fact, Elain might have developed even stronger feelings for him since that damned Solstice night. She was angry and frustrated and understandably so, but it was all still there despite his horrible words.
“Thank you for dinner,” he said at last, placing the leather cuff over the bracelet-necklace. “It was delicious, and even if there are probably no ingredients to work with here, you still managed to make it amazing! I will clean up.”
“You should rest,” she protested, but he waved her off, “I’ve rested. Now it’s your turn.”
She looked around uncertainly and then reminded him,
“There is only one bed.”
“Well, I am not sleeping with you,” he assured her quickly, hoping that she understood that that’s not what he was expecting, but she frowned and asked,
“Where are you sleeping then?”
“I can’t sleep with you,” he muttered, taken aback by the conversation. Surely, she did not expect them to,
“I am not offering to ride you, Azriel,” she reminded him with a nervous laugh and then blushed profusely and turned around.
“I…no,” he stumbled, “no, I mean, I wasn’t expecting…What?”
“What?”
They paused and stared at each other.
“Is it something,” he murmured at last, not taking his eyes off her, “you’ve considered?”
“Mmm,” she was beet-red, biting her lip, the lip that he wanted to bite as well. Suck on it, until she whimpered and moaned against him. “Considered what?”
“Riding me,” he said flatly.
She wrung her fingers and then said, with the same nervous laugh, “I don’t think you are in any condition,”
“Believe me, I am in fine condition,” he argued. “But you haven’t answered my question,”
“Yes,” she answered at last, “yes. If you must know. I’ve imagined things…”
“What sorts of things?” he prodded; brow cocked.
She scrambled, “I am not telling you!”
Then, almost angrily, she grabbed everything off the table and dumped it into the sink.
“We are sleeping together,” she declared. “That’s the end of the conversation.”
He reminded her, “The bed is small,”
“So we’ll have to make do with what we have. I am not offering anything beyond sleeping, but you aren’t sleeping on the floor or in a chair. And neither am I.”
Azriel chose not to argue.
Outside, the wind was so strong, the trees swayed and sand a winter’s song.
Even though he just recently woke up, the quick healing process of his Fae body meant that he’d have to sleep again, soon. By tomorrow, he should probably be mostly recovered.
He washed the dishes and then watched Elain re-braid her hair and walk to the tiny hallway that separated the common area from the bathing room. When she re-emerged, she was wearing a long shirt and nothing else.
It was awkward and he knew that it was awkward, so he suggested, “You sleep between me and the wall. I’ll take the edge of the bed, so I have somewhere for my wings to fall.”
She nodded wordlessly and then slid onto the bed and under the blanket.
Azriel approached, sat down, and began to gingerly unlace the stays on his shirt.
“Would you like me to help you?” she offered, softly, watching him struggle with his damaged wing.
“Please, if you don’t mind.”
She kneeled behind him and he felt her hands work through the laces and loosen the shirt. It was surreal, to have Elain in his bed—their bed—with him, helping him undress. Whoever shot him (and that was going to be an investigation for another day) did him a massive favour, for which he’d be forever grateful.
Gently, Elain assisted him in removing the shirt, carefully sliding it off and around his injured wing and then, he was naked, save for his undershorts. She stilled behind him and he sat unmoving, allowing her to take her time and study him. Her delicate little fingers brushed over the muscular panes of his back, down the column of his spine, and he realized that she was inspecting his tattoos. He’d forgotten that he even had the tattoo snake all the way along his spine and ending at his ass.
“Beautiful,” she breathed.
He felt her breath on his neck, and the soft brush of her braid along his shoulder. That’s where her hands travelled next, to touch his arms, the thick biceps, and the forearms. Whether she realized it or not, but she’d moved so close that he felt her breasts skid along his back, the little nipples firm and erect, her shirt the only barrier between their otherwise naked bodies.
To his immense regret, she pulled away at last and lay back in her spot.
He turned around and began arranging his damn wings, so they didn’t fall all over the place, but it seemed like they covered half of the room. He swore under his breath, trying to make himself comfortable and not crowd poor Elain, who was squished like a sardine next to him.
“Why don’t you just put one here,” she suggested, watching him struggle, “and let the other one hang on the floor.”
Cautiously, he stretched his wing over her and asked, “You don’t mind? I know it feels like a tent,”
She giggled and nodded, “It does feel like a tent! But no, I don’t mind. And I won’t touch them,” she promised.
He wanted to tell her that she was allowed to touch it all she wanted, but he didn’t.
With the claw perched just above her, she tentatively touched it with her finger.
“It’s not sharp!”
“The claws are vestigial,” he explained. “They are not sharp. And someone promised not to touch,” he chuckled.
“Oh,” she gasped and pulled her finger away. “I am sorry.”
“I am just joking, Elain. You can touch whatever you want.”
She didn’t understand the importance of what he just told her, and the significance of his permission, but he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, so he just lay there, and tucked his arms behind his head. Elain looked down at him, absolutely unabashedly checking him out, even propping her head on her hand, studying the network of sinew and scars that covered his entire body, the breadth of his wide, muscular chest. His innocent, silly girl who didn’t understand that it wasn’t prudent to look at Fae males like this. Like she wanted him.
“May I ask you a question?” she requested.
“Sure,” he allowed, curious about what was going to come out of her mouth.
“Umm,” she drummed her fingers on his chest absently, while he concentrated really hard on not getting an erection. “Would you say that you are typical…for an Illyrian?”
He snorted softly and said, “No, I wouldn’t say that Cass or I are typical. For Illyrians or the Fae.”
“So…” she drawled, and he watched a pink blush spread on her chest and her cheeks. He wished she’d just come out and ask him what she wanted to know—is your cock really as large as I think it is, based on what’s in your shorts? The answer would yes, but bigger.
“Cass and I are larger than most Illyrians,” he said at last, not specifying in which way he and his brother were larger. “But I am a little bigger,”
Elain swallowed hard, her brown eyes glittering with primal Fae desire, sparkling with need.
“So…like your wings?” she squeaked.
He smiled and nodded once. “Yes. My wings.”
“How do you know?
He laughed, “Cass measured.”
“Measured?” her brows shot up, “with a ruler?”
“Rhys’s mother’s measuring tape. She was a seamstress and had all kinds of measuring tapes lying around. So Rhys and Cass would extend their wings as far as they could, until they hurt,”
“And?”
“And make me measure them. And fight and scream over every sliver, even if it was as thin as a hair,”
Elain was shaking against, laughing.
“Who won?”
“Between the two of them? Cass.”
“Ah…” she wet her lip with her tongue and asked quietly, “and you?”
“Oh, I was always the biggest,” he informed her modestly.
She turned on her side and tucked her palms under her cheek.
It was dark around them, the lanterns turned off and only the fire in the fireplace as the source of light.
“Good night,” she said.
He rubbed his thumb over his lip, contemplating something and then asked, “May I ask you a question?”
“Why not?”
“Are you a maiden?”
If the question surprised her, she did not show it, but she remained silent. Understanding his mistake, he said, “I am sorry.”
“Would it matter?” she inquired instead. “To you?”
Azriel kept bothering his lip and then admitted truthfully, “I don’t know.”
She scooted closer to him, and he extended his arm and to his surprise, she nestled into his embrace.
“A Fae female,” he then explained quietly, “she can choose who to give her virginity to. Perhaps it’s foolish, but the Fae value virginity,”
“So do the humans,”
“It’s different here. For humans, it’s about possession and ensuring that their progeny is of the right bloodline,”
“And here?”
“It’s guarded for a different reason. Choosing the right male will unlock a female’s power. Most females will come into their first power with their first bleeding. But if she chooses wisely the rest of it would be harnessed upon the deflowering.”
Elain cocked her brow, curiosity written all over her face.
“Why are you telling me this?” she wondered at last.
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “You should know about this, I think…I am not sure if Feyre or Nesta are aware,”
“Nesta doesn’t talk to me anyway,” Elain grumbled bitterly.
“I have never been honoured with a deflowering of a maiden,” he said suddenly. “It’s a great privilege to be chosen. The blood is special too,”
She choked softly, “What?”
“It fortifies and strengthens the male. Makes his power more…precise. His magic stronger. But I am 539 years old and I’ve never been fortunate enough to bring a maiden into womanhood,”
“Is it something that you want to do?”
He avoided answering and said, “Mor chose Cassian. She could’ve chosen me. Or even Eris, her betrothed, but she chose Cassian. He was the strongest of us all, and she sensed it in him. She knew he would be Enalius reborn—the greatest Illyrian warrior of all time.”
“I heard a different story,”
“All stories have many sides,” he reminded her. “But that was part of the reason.”
He fell silent.
“Just choose wisely, Elain,” he said at last. “You have a mate,”
Elain snapped, “I don’t want to talk about him. Not while I am laying in your arms. Not tonight.”
“I am sorry,” he said quietly, noticing that she didn’t respond to his initial question.
She was quiet for so long, he glanced down to see whether she was asleep, but her eyes were open. She just lay there, tucked under his arm, nestled against his side. He doubted whether she could even turn on her back, considering how tight it was.
“Would you want to deflower me?” she asked suddenly.
“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.
“So you could get more power?”
He chuckled, “No. Not at all.”
“Why then?”
“So I can mark you as mine,” he said simply. “Bring you into your womanhood and your power. Love you the way you deserve to be loved. Pleasure you the way you should be pleasured.”
She sighed and he wasn’t sure if it was from enjoyment, or bashfulness. The scent of her arousal fanned over him, slithering up and over his body.
To his surprise, she murmured, “Would you be gentle?”
Azriel brushed his fingertips over her bare shoulder and didn’t answer right away. She waited.
“I don’t think that I would be,” he concluded after some contemplation. ‘No.’
She seemed taken aback by his admission and she looked up at him.
“It’s not about being gentle…not with the Fae,” he explained, shifting against her, making himself comfortable, “May I hold you?” he asked quietly. “Through the night?”
She only nodded and put her arm around his torso.
Azriel never slept with women. He did not enjoy the emotional ramifications of sleeping with someone in the same bed, and he certainly detested the ‘morning after’ awkwardness that necessitated promises and assurances. He didn’t want to promise anything, and didn’t need to explain, and didn’t want anyone around for longer than needed. Pounding into someone, forgetting himself for a while and moving on—that was all that he required.
But with Elain…he wanted to sleep with Elain.
He wanted to do all the things with Elain.
Elain woke up because she lost the warmth and darkness in which she luxuriated the entire night.
The warmth came from Azriel’s immensely powerful, immobile body, which caged her wonderfully and the darkness was provided by his wing. She worried about leaning against the wing, or hurting it in some way, but it seemed resilient and Azriel didn’t pull away. He held her through the night, without even letting her go. It was the first time in her life when she slept with a man—male—in the same bed, and it turned out to be just fine. Very nice, actually.
She chose not to think about things too much. This was just a moment in time, and soon, they’d be back in Velaris and this stolen moment, this stolen night, would be nothing but a memory. She’d be back to her dealings, learning about herbs and potions, which became a passion for her, and not being paid attention to or used for any of her powers, mostly avoided and left to her devices. That was to be expected.
Azriel was standing by the stove, undressed, wings loose and barely tucked, barefoot. His hair was mussed from his sleep.
It was impolite to stare, but Elain couldn’t help herself. Didn’t even try to look away. His back was spectacular! Glorious muscles over his shoulders, his arms and necks, thick and firm, like the rest of him, and a waist that would be the envy of many ladies. And then that wonderful behind, carved of muscle and flesh, nicely clad in his undershorts. Elain tried not to think of other parts of him that were clad in the same shorts…tried, but failed. Because whatever it was, whatever he was packing, it was beastly. And she licked her lips, unable to stop the rush of heat that engulfed her body, and the visions that assaulted her brain. She’d never seen a naked man, but last night she very clearly realized that the only man she’d ever want to see naked would be this man. Male. She cursed herself inwardly, reminding herself to use the correct terminology, though she knew that Azriel didn’t care. The black and blue tattoos glided over his dark golden skin like spilled oil, and moved with every motion of his arms. Watching the Illyrian runes that extended down his spine, Elain thought that she wouldn’t mind kissing all the way up and down.
Azriel, sensing her awake or perhaps her scent, turned around and looked at her.
Elain was wrapped up in the blanket like a sausage roll, only her nose and the top of her head peeking from under the covers.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning,” she breathed.
He knew that his morning voice was exceptionally low and husky, and it caused a desired reaction in her, for she blushed and he could see it even from his spot.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“My ass is fine,” he reported, and she snorted. “The wing,” he flexed it, “is operational.”
“May I take a look?”
He smirked and said, “Any time…swee-”
She rolled her eyes, while he turned around and she was faced with all of him in his primal, masculine, predatory glory. Her treacherous eyes kept sliding down, even though the chest and the torso were unbelievably delicious and warranted a much closer inspection on their own.
“You were going to call me a ‘sweetheart’, weren’t you?” she muttered, sitting up in the bed.
“No.”
“Liar. You’ve been living with Cassian too long. Listening to his ridiculous innuendos,”
“That’s not all I am listening to nightly,”
“Oh my gods!” she exclaimed, waving at him, “no. You are not to tell me about any of it. No!”
Azriel was laughing quietly, seeing her reaction.
“Why should I be the only one suffering?”
He stopped talking when she put her hands on his waist and forced him to turn around.
“Elain, I feel kind of strange having my,”
“Your ass in my face?” she concluded, “it’s alright. I am just a nurse right now.”
She pulled one side of his shots down and he shuddered, hips jerking.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
“Your hand is cold,” he lied. She knew that he was lying, because her hand was warm.
She looked at the pink scar, which was fading. He did heal incredibly fast, even without an actual healer. She stroked his behind gently, and he gritted, “Elain,”
“What? I am just checking. It seems like you are doing fine.”
He reached for his shirt and pulled it on but didn’t button it. “I’ve made breakfast,”
“Breakfast?”
“I found groats. I make a mean porridge,” he announced proudly. “Go wash up and I’ll finish up and start on the tea.”
They had a nice breakfast, and while there was no milk or butter, with a little sugar, the groats were very filling and Azriel didn’t lie—he did make a mean porridge.
Elain was fascinated, because at one point, he became swathed in shadows, though no shadows were to be seen the night before. Now they slid her bare legs, exploring curiously, touched her arms, her hair. They were cool and the sensation was barely perceptible—she wouldn’t have noticed if she didn’t know that they were there. He tried to pull them back, muttering ‘leave her alone’ or ‘stop that’ but they didn’t listen.
“I apologize,” he said, shaking his head and she smiled. “I don’t care. They are fine. What are they telling you?”
“Just news. Reports. Soon they’ll dump a stack of reports on my lap and will skid away. That’s what they do.”
She chuckled and then got up to add a few logs to the fireplace.
After a long period of silence, while was busy listening, “I would let you do it,” she said, her voice low. She was staring into the fire. She didn’t see him, but sensed his attention. Noted how he moved his head to the sound of her voice.
She didn’t elaborate, yet he asked, “Do what?”
She ran her finger over the mantle, noticing the dust.
She sighed and answered,
“Deflower me.”
And then he was behind her. Looming. His scarred hand lay on her shoulder and he squeezed gently, though he permitted himself nothing further. He just breathed in her scent.
She leaned back, resting her head on his chest, right at the shoulder and he put his chin on top of her head, the scarred hand slowly migrating from her arm to her throat.
“Why?” he asked at last.
She put her hand on his and pressed it closer to the column of her neck, holding it there.
“Because I’d want you to do it,” she trembled slightly against him, in his arms. He stroked her throat slowly, his thumb caressing the thin skin.
His face lowered and the felt his nose brush the side of her cheek.
“Only you,” she added breathlessly.
Elain wasn’t his to claim, but Azriel wanted to claim her anyway. She didn’t understand, and probably didn’t know that if he’d sunk his teeth into her flesh, his ancient Fae fangs that existed in him from primordial times, when his kind were beasts, it wouldn’t be something that could be undone. He’d own her, and he wouldn’t be able to take it back. If she offered it, no fucking mate bond with another could trump the mark of possession. Typically, it was a mark of mates, who left their claim on each other, so they’d be recognizable to others as mated and taken and unavailable. Fae didn’t mark each other like that, unless they needed to offer special protections to someone. But Azriel knew that if it happened, his whole being would devour her, and he would savage her and take what would be his.
But she cooked and offered him food and he ate it. And she knew that he accepted her.
Elain moved her head, exposing the neck to him in silent invitation. Offering it to him. Permitting him to make the claim.
All thoughts eddied from his head.
She’d be his. But the mark was untouchable: a bargain and a promise between the two of them for eternity.
It would be tattooed on her flesh, mark her perfect pale skin and scent her with his scent.
Her mate would know that she was no longer his.
Azriel licked his lips, stifling a moan. And did not mark her.