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“Do you trust me?” she asks while stretching the blue rope, the rough jute a stark contrast to her turquoise ensemble. A loose silk organza robe layers the long skirt cinched around her chest. The satin ribbon and embroidered seam highlight the gracious jut of her collarbones. Stray hair frames her face, her loose bun held by a silver hairpin.
“Of course.” He inhales deeply, containing the overwhelming scent wafting from across him. Roses and agarwood from her homemade soaps, and spices he’s never heard of before, like salacious secrets he has yet to uncover and explore.
“Any idea what this might be?” she puts on the rubber gloves before she pours a sachet of black powder into a porcelain bowl and stirs it. The thick, golden liquid drips from the ferrule of the brush, turning the white bristles into light brown.
“Why don’t you tell me?” he props both hands on each side of his torso, long legs sprawling over the woolen carpet. His hair is damp after a bath, and every inch of his body is bare to the lights and her coveting eyes. The bond flutters inside his chest, urging and anticipating.
“Olive oil and a very small amount of ground ash wood.”
He slowly licks his lips, letting the sentence sink in until a vulpine smile spreads on his face. His shadows skitter, each tendril pointing at her, curious and frisky. “You want to tie me up that badly?”
“Of course,” she says with a chuckle. “I take an extra step lest you break free and ruin the fun.”
She puts the brush down and starts sectioning the rope. She has layered the table with worn linen and old parchment paper to prevent the mixture from dripping on the precious brocade tablecloth she brought from her birthplace. A faraway fertile land on the other side of the world, abundant with mountains and seas, with creativity beyond measure.
She arrived in Velaris ten years ago after a long journey through the world. Her skin was the color of buttermilk, her face cold and round as the moon, with waist-length hair and epicanthic eyes dark as obsidian. She rented a big townhouse facing Sidra and paid with a bar of pure gold. Her unusual appearance and wealth stirred the town, and out of curiosity and suspicion, the High Lord extended a dinner invitation at the River House.
“You can call me Saille, I’m a poison master and a physician from the far east. I was once human, but the Gods granted me immortality. Since then, I’ve been fortunate enough to see the world evolve and gain knowledge from people I’ve met along the way. I hope that could answer some of your questions,” she said once pleasantries had been exchanged and the entrée was served.
There was a brief pause before everyone present lifted their heads toward her. She welcomed their scrutiny with an easy smile.
“And excuse my insolence, High Lord, but it’d be easier if you ask me right away instead of trying to break into my mind.” She looked at the violet-eyed fae and then at the reticent male sitting facing her.
“What if we don’t believe you?” Azriel’s mouth twitched when one of the shadows gently coiled around her shoulder. The imposing curve of his wing and the taut leather of his uniform gleamed under the crystal chandelier. Vivid bluish glow speckled across his upper body, peeping through the slithering darkness.
She tilted her head, soft gaze probing into his hazel eyes. As if holding him, beckoning him, but oh, how he used to be so blind.
“Believing and trusting are two different things, Spymaster, and in this case, I can confidently say that you all believe me.” A ghost of a smile spread on her lips when the darkness drew away and revealed the refined slope of his cheekbones. “But none of you trust me, and that’s the point of this dinner, no? To ensure that I have no malicious intent, and to consider whether I’ll benefit your court or not.”
“What makes you so confident that we want you in the court?”
“Do you invite every stranger that sets foot in Velaris for a dinner in your private residence?”
“A very good point.” The High Lord swirled his wine glass. “But I suppose such an occurrence was nothing new for you?”
“Always an honor, nonetheless.”
“How long have you been wandering?”
“Six hundred and twenty years and seven months.” She smiled at the subtle change in their expression. “I know I don’t look like it.”
“Why Velaris?” the High Lady asked as she dipped her spoon into her consommé.
“Knowledge, culture, and history. I was thinking of taking a break for a decade or two before resuming my trip, so when I heard of the City of Starlight, I decided that I have to see it in person.”
“What if I don’t allow you to stay?” Rhysand quipped, earning a playful glare from his wife.
“Then you don’t.”
The High Lord welcomed the jest with deep, genuine laughter.
“Please don’t misunderstand, Poison Master, but we’re still adapting to the aftermath of the war, and somehow, it made us grow wary of strangers. Especially when we knew nothing about them.”
She hummed, eyes glinting knowingly. “What are you trying to say, High Lady?”
“Please, call me Feyre,” she said, “well, we don’t intend to pry, but if I can be so bold as to ask, could you allow us a glimpse into your memory?”
“What have you been thinking?” she asks as she lathers the rope with oil. Some shadows now gather around her, peeping from her shoulders like children before a toy shop.
“Our first meeting.”
“Not our first night?”
“Aren’t we taking it slow, dear wife?” he lets out a dark chuckle. “I don’t think I’ll be able to hold myself up if I entertained that idea.”
“And thinking about those times when we were strangers help you cool down?”
“Not really, but it just came to me.” She tilts her head to let him know that she’s listening. “The realization that we went from that to what we are now.”
Feyre later reshared the vision to them, teary-eyed and utterly touched. Saille was raised by an old woman who found her in the woods after her parents abandoned her due to poverty. Not only naturally gifted, but she spent her life helping wounded animals and healing people for free. When wars broke out and the village was attacked by robbers, the old woman was killed and Saille escaped to a rundown temple. Inside was a dying deer that was nearly sacrificed in a dark ritual.
She nursed it back until it was fully healed, but the process drained her life force in exchange. On her last breath, the deer revealed itself as a divine pet of the mountain gods. Touched by her kindness, they bestowed her immortality and superior senses.
Her palate is immune to poisons and toxins, she can differentiate poisonous ingredients by sight, neutralize them by touch, determine one’s health by hearing their heartbeats and pulses, and recognizes poisonous substance by smell.
As she had predicted, Rhysand invited her into the court to learn with Madja and permit her full access to Night Court’s libraries and medical archives. She took the offer and returned it tenfold. She shared her inventory of crafts with the artists in Rainbow Quarters and spent hours with the healers and priestesses, allowing them to copy her leather-bound scrolls of plants, mantras, and recipes. The Inner Circle was equally charmed, including Amren—with a little help from her collection of luminous pearls and vibrant gemstones.
But Azriel, despite his respect and approval, was as guarded as ever. When she visited the townhouse or when she joined the Inner Circle at Rita’s, he wondered about how things went for her and whether she would stay or change her mind. She was a great advisor, as Cassian often mentioned, and whenever things went sour with Rhys and Elain, the idea of asking her opinion had crossed his mind more than once. Words were scarce, so he chose to observe and trust his shadows. They returned with banal reports and banal details that feed his heart with an odd comfort—stray flower petals, dried herbs, crystal crumbs, a stain of oil, and pearl powders.
From time to time, there was a mélange of less-gentle scents: sweat, chipped wood, and iron. Traces of other males and cold forest after she was foraging or picking up orders from the blacksmith and the gaffers, or when she made rounds delivering medicines and other knickknacks. His concerns followed, then dread, and frustration.
He had no right to feel so protective of her. She was so free, so passionate, so sophisticated. She had seen the world beyond any of them combined and had her fountains filled by the Gods themselves. She didn’t need anyone to play hero for her. The notion gave a sharp pang in his heart, nurturing his doubts and fears. Just when he thought he would bring the dwindling questions to his grave, his brothers snapped him out of it.
“You better stop being so uptight around her, Az, it’s been a year,” Cassian said one night when they were checking reports in Rhysand’s office.
“I’m not,” he said without taking his eyes off the papers.
“You are,” Rhysand said and poured the rosé into three crystal tumblers. “She even gave you a gift last month for the winter solstice, but you always avoid her.”
“What? She didn’t even go to the cabin with us because she had promised to celebrate with the townsfolk.” Azriel stared aghast.
“Where did you think that strap came from?” Rhysand put a glass in front of him, nudging his chin at the horse leather sheath on Azriel’s thigh. Cassian let out a guffaw.
“I thought it was from you and Feyre.” Azriel cleared his throat, cheeks reddening. He was too busy catering to Elain’s timidity and too mad at Rhysand’s disapproval to pay attention. “I’m not that close with her, why would she give me a present?”
“She’s benevolence incarnate, why wouldn’t she?”
“I—” Azriel stammered, Cassian’s statement felt like a slap on his face. “—I should—do you think it’s too late to buy her a gift?”
Cassian hollered.
Rhysand gave him a sheepish smile. “Or you can just visit and thank her sincerely.”
“Or offer to be her slave for a week.”
Azriel was tempted to whack Cassian for that, but as he spent the night pondering and the next morning making rounds of the town, he was grateful he didn’t. Finding a gift for someone as worldly as her was already difficult, and the fact that he didn’t know anything about her preference made Cassian’s idea sounded fitting. He did intend to thank her in person, but not thick-faced enough to come unannounced with empty hands.
He finally showed up in the early afternoon. The immortal’s assistant, a wispy young woman with a feline face, silently led him to the backyard. The house was spacious, with sturdy oak flooring, antique furniture, and ivory and lemon interiors. Books and scrolls crammed the shelves, some made their way to the tables and the damask-clothed sofas. Some of the windows were left open to ease the smell of brewing herbs and dried spices hanging by the ledges, the pearl-white curtains fluttered along with the river breeze. The brisk, chopping sound grew closer as he walked past the arched stone backdoor.
“Spymaster, what a surprise.” She smiled and motioned at a wooden bench near the large table. Azriel sat down, tucking his wings close to avoid knocking things out. Before he could say anything, she was already heating a pot of water and paddling through the shelves full of jars and clay pots. Her white-green dress flowed with her movement. Smooth arms exposed by the slit on her sleeves. Sunlight bathed the cool, open kitchen with a golden sheen, a refreshing citrusy tang coming from the big basins of orange rinds and rosemary by her table.
She returned with a tray of tea. A chunk of root and crushed dark leaves fill a quarter of the base of the glass teapot.
“It’s ginseng and green tea; to revitalize and calm the nerves,” she said while placing a plate of sweets dusted with icing sugar. “And this is rahat lokum, to ease the bitterness.”
After putting his cup down, he took a small bite of the jelly. It was flavored with rosewater and ground pistachio. “I think I’m doing just fine.”
“I won’t describe recurring headaches due to fatigue and lack of sleep as ‘fine’.”
“How did you know?”
She raised an eyebrow, lips crooking into a teasing smile. He cleared his throat, chuckling into his tea. She was a physician, after all.
“But you’re not here for prescriptions, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m here to thank you,” he said, hesitating for a moment. “For the sheath.”
“Have you been using it?” he nodded and she leaned forward to take a quick look at the shiny leather, smiling. “I thought it will suit you when I first saw it, glad to know I’m right.”
“Yes, well—here, for you. Happy belated Winter Solstice.” He put the velvet box on the table, grateful that his gloves didn’t only hide his scarred hands, but his nervousness as well.
She refilled their cups, her eyes flittered to the present and back to him. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I wanted to,” he said, “I hope it is to your liking.”
“Let’s see, then,” she said, smiling as she untied the bow.
Seated between the cushioned lining was a lean silver hairpin. A lotus carved out of white jade sat on its filigreed crest. Azriel watched with bated breath as she gingerly touched the beaded tassel.
His eyes darted to the neat golden pin on her head and a fear seized him. What if it’s too extravagant? Or was it too simple? Of course, he chided himself, what is silver compared to gold? He should have chosen something else, something less ordinary and—
“It’s very beautiful,” she said with a smile, her thumb tracing the smooth petals.
Before Azriel could properly savor his relief and think of an answer, she had replaced the golden hairpin and the silver tassel soon bobbed along with her movement.
“You wear the hairpin so often; have you ever felt tired of it?”
She sets the brush and the empty jar aside. “It was your first gift and it represents our beginning. How could I grow tired of it?”
“I know, but sometimes when I see it, I couldn’t help but to regret that particular year I spent away from you.”
“Oh, don’t be silly.” Saille pinches a section of the rope and makes the first knot. “You’ve made it up to me in the last nine years.”
“What if it took me another decade, then?” he taunts, smile widening as she walks over to him. His shadows flurry around him, mimicking the rush of excitement along his veins.
“You have a whole lifetime to try and seduce me.” She stops when she’s at an arm’s distance, eyes dilating at the sight. Chiseled muscles ripple along with his breathing, naked golden skin smothered with inky motifs, wings flaring and framing his clear-cut silhouette. She supposes this is what those human preachers meant when they talk about the fallen angel and the temptation of sin.
“Judging from the way you look at me now, I don’t think I have to try so hard,” he says, shifting onto his knees as she puts the shears down on the floor.
“Perhaps,” she says with a smile. “You have your safe words?”
“Green, if I want you to proceed. Yellow to slow down. Red to stop.”
“I will start from your neck, down your body, round your pelvis, and connects it with the loop on your nape. Will that be all right?”
“You’ll tie me down there too?” he raises an eyebrow.
“Around it, then the rope goes through your rear and stretches along your back.”
“Let’s just try first. I’ll tell you if I change my mind.”
She drapes the rope around his neck. The knot she made earlier dangles at his nape. He keeps his eyes low, her slender fingers tying another knot that rests at the hollow of his throat.
“Don’t,” she warns as his left hand disappears into her dress, massaging his way up the line of her legs. The roughness of his skin stirs her inside.
“You didn’t say anything about—” he heaves out a sigh when she slips a gloved finger between the rope and the skin over his vein. “—about me touching you.”
“Azriel—!” She yelps, one hand reaching up to his shoulder when he pulls her by the waist and presses her flush against him. “I could have hurt you, don’t do that,” she weakly hisses as he nuzzles his nose on her stomach, laughing softly.
“Or you could have tied my hands,” he says, craning his neck toward her. His eyes are hazy and glimmering. A pool of molten gold swirling around a dark eclipse.
She dabs her forearm on his glistening forehead, her left hand loosely coiling around the rope. Sensing her hesitation, he straightens his torso and presses his lips to hers. With his free hand cupping her face, the other grazes down to her derrière. She shudders, his grin widening against her lips. The sweetness of candied orange remains in his warm mouth. His cool, cedar scent is warmed by oil.
“Come on, sweetheart, don’t get soft now,” he murmurs at the column of her neck. “We both know what happened in the past. Why don’t you give me something else to remember?”
“I don’t think tying you up will magically erase those nasty memories.”
“Shall we proceed to the bed, then?” his hands cup the swell of her hips, burning her through the layers of her dress.
“Lovely, nothing a good fuck cannot do.”
Azriel shakes with laughter and she rolls her eyes in mock annoyance.
“I was thinking of having a long talk, but I’ll comply if that’s what you want,” he jests, looking at her through thick lashes as he cradles her cheek. The touch of his coarse, fibrous skin holds nothing but love, as though reminding her that if she can gain comfort from a part that he once shrank from, then she too can give him a piece of her to fill the gaping hole in his past.
She releases a long, defeated sigh as she removes the rope and proceeds to stand behind him. “Still remember your safe words?”
“Yes.”
“Deep breath.”
Saille gently positions his hands so that his right forearm is atop the left one. She then inserts the rope through the space between his arms and his back and wraps it around his wrists. The oily jute and powdered ash begin to tickle, flashing throughout his body.
“I’m going to wrap this around your shoulders,” she whispers on his nape, and Azriel releases a tremulous sigh in response. She creates another stop at the crown of his spine before draping the rope around his biceps twice in a crisscrossing direction, careful not to let the rope nor her gloves touch his wings.
By the time she works on the section in between his wing bones, Azriel feels the air grow heavy. An eerie reminder of the hollow wind in the dungeon. The dim lights of their bedroom flash like fireballs. The ash pinches and burns his skin, almost elusively, and he bites back a smile at the irony. Ash wood is lethal to his kind, but in her hand, the pain feels sweet, addictive almost, and he yearns for it as though it was an elixir. A wail grows in his ear, but before it could dominate him, his mind drifts to one afternoon stroll by the riverside.
Saille told him of her past, of how she used to have plenty of names, and Azriel remembers each of them as if they were his own. The old woman named her ‘Liu’ because she was found under a willow tree. She keeps the name and adjusted it according to the places she visited, but as she went along and helped many people, they saw her as an incarnation of deities and fondly addressed her following their beliefs. Divine Physician, God of Essence, the Dark Lady, the list can go forever.
“Since my last visit to the Mediterranean coasts, I’m Saille. It has the same meaning as Liu but doesn’t raise as many questions. But in the sultanate, they called me Shahmaran.”
A magical creature: half-woman, and half-snake, who represents love, trickery, and healing magic. The name was given after she came across the Sultan who was bitten by a giant snake during hunting.
“At that time, snakebite was very hard to cure, so they thought I could rule over the snakes and called me so.”
It was pronounced with a raspy ‘ah’ and trilling ‘r’ as if it was a mantra, one that Azriel would chant in every waking moment of his life if she allows him to. He considers calling her so, but if he has to choose, he likes Saille better.
Sigh-ye, sigh-ye.
Azriel repeats silently, almost losing himself in torpor if it isn’t for the provoking heat along his shoulders and forearms.
Her name is a wisp of smoke. The softest silk between his fingers. A block of sugar that melts in his mouth. It makes him sigh, out of intrigue, reverence, and pleasure. The latter was more of a secret he shared with his hands during sleepless nights for almost a decade. It wasn’t until a week ago, at their nuptial night and the consummation of the mating bond, did he start sharing it with her and learned that her name could make him rasp, whimper, and go breathless.
Azriel tries to move his arms and groans when the sudden pain sears through his lower back. Blood rushes to his loins, and his spine arches in search of friction. Time flows like a snail’s trail on a leaf as he waits for her to finish the intricate braid over his wrists.
“Patience, sweetheart.” She runs a finger on the curve where his wings meet his back, sending another jolt of pleasure through his veins. She takes her time, prolonging the languorous torture and sowing butterfly kisses and sweet words on the delicate flesh behind his ear.
“Won’t you allow me some time to admire my handiwork?”
“If that means having your hands on me, sure,” he manages to say, lips curling up into a faint smirk. He stretches his neck from side to side, waiting as she discards the gloves and washes her hands.
"If only you could see yourself the way I see you."
When she reaches out to tip his chin, he opens his mouth to her orange-scented palm. Azriel swallows his breath, mouth dry with want. Her presence graces him like lazy summer breezes, her sweet scent rousing the air. He could explode just by having her warm breath on his skin.
"You’re not satisfied with just seeing, I hope?" he croaks, thrilled at their little game of push and pull. Thrilled at the idea of him, the emissary of darkness, the most feared Spymaster and Shadowsinger, kneeling for a woman who has no strength to lift a sword and has never known the slightest taste of fish and flesh. It's as though they are reprising the night when he claimed her chastity vow, but this time, she is the one claiming everything that he is.
“Of course not,” she says. Firm in its softness, teasing in its sincerity.
She strokes his lips, her eyes traveling to where he wants her the most. Blushing as a plum, taut with ardor, throbbing in anticipation. “But you seem to enjoy it very much?”
Azriel lets out a scoff that borders on laughter.
“I do,” he breathes out. Dark locks cling to his glistening forehead, thick eyebrows sharpening over the gentle plea in his gaze. She hasn’t shed any clothes, hasn’t touched him except for a few small kisses here and there, and yet his body responds the way a candle melts with the tiniest flame.
She buries her hand in his hair and guides him to look down at the blue rope around his pectoral where his skin bloom bright red. Their foreheads touch as she kneels before him, the innocent gesture betrays the alluring heat of her body. “Beautiful,” she says, repeating the word onto the swirling ink on his clavicles, tasting each dip and swell of his muscles.
“You are,” Azriel pants, eyes glazed with awe as she goes lower between the slopes of his sculpted abdomen. His hips stutter once she puts her mouth on him. She is careful, almost hesitant, but before Azriel can tease her, her loving hands join the motion and make him choke on his moans.
He can hear his swallows, mingling with the salacious echo of her ministration. She is thorough and slow, relishing the authority and regarding his responsiveness with a childlike curiosity. The salt of his sweat agitates his skin in a vicious circle of lust and agony. Long minutes stretch and the pleasure grows in tandem with her stimulation.
Her touch slithers lower as she takes him deeper, following his gasps and the sloppy tics of his hips, a rhythm that makes him question if erotic prowess was also a part of her blessing.
“Saille, you don’t have to—" He releases a heavy and long sigh, trying his best to keep his eyes open. To drink the erotic image, the sinful flickers of her eyes, and the way her lips fit him so.
Saille remains as he climaxes, concentrating on the warmth that engulfs her palate, light salt and musk, and faint, sweet earthiness. Azriel, writhing, begging, and riled with desire is a sight to behold, and it dawns on her that he was not exaggerating when he said he could stay forever between her thighs. There’s power and pride in what seems like a degrading position, and a deeper intimacy amidst its lasciviousness. It evokes her deepest yearning, her innermost desire for her other half. So feral and passionate, the bond pricks with a possessive ache, a thirst that only he can quench.
“Kiss me,” he says after a moment, voice thick with lust as he recomposes himself. He fists his hands in esurience as he tastes himself on her tongue, her hands are sticky and searing over his neck.
“Wait,” she says, pulling away with much effort and turning on her heels.
Saille returns and puts down a basin of warm water before she brings a cup to his mouth. The water tastes cold with a hint of lemon. He releases a contented sigh when she proceeds to untie him. She works with the dexterity of a spider, running her bare hands along the dented marks to neutralize the poison, spurring him anew with compliments and the lingering grazes of her fingertips.
Azriel slowly straightens his legs and flexes his torso as his healing ability returns. He can smell soap and peppermint oil as she dabs the linen on his back. It’s cool and comforting, but the fragrant warmth only serves to drive his desire further.
“Don’t do anything funny,” she warns as soon as she’s kneeling between his legs and presses the wet cloth on the side of his neck.
“I’ve been good, haven’t I?” he reaches out to push a strand of hair to the back of her ear, voice smooth as silk dipped in honey. His lips curl up as she makes a swift round across his chest and arms.
“I’m not done yet,” she whispers once his thumb and forefinger pinch the ribbon at the hem of her dress.
“Neither do I.” The knots on either side of the seam come undone. Her movement slackens when he starts loosening the entwined strands across her chest one by one. She moves to his stomach, averting her eyes from his renewing passion.
“Azriel—” she gasps, too stunned to chide when he buoys her in his arms to the four-post bed on the other side of the room. Her skirt comes off with the motion and joins the linen cloth on the floor.
“Isn’t it miraculous that you’re still dressed by now?” he asks once her back meets the stack of velveteen pillows, smiling when she responds with soft laughter. He lowers his eyes to the thin slip, drawing a finger to the side of her neck that seems to glitter under the turquoise organza.
“It’s understandable, you might have been tired after all of that.”
“I have plenty of time, no?” his gaze is still, painstakingly so, as his hand loiters over her heart, fingers looping into a band that secures her undergarment in place.
“I should have worn more layers, then.” Her voice shakes when the thin cotton slides down to her waist, exposing her upper body to the night breeze and the keen sparks in his gaze.
His chuckles are low and dark, caressing her ears like velvet.
“I’ve spied an enemy without food and water for days, stripping you is a walk in the park.”
“Is that so?” Saille whispers, trembling when he tilts her chin toward him. They hold each other’s eyes in tacit anticipation and challenge. Rich hazel and the mystery of the starless night.
“Are we still taking it slow?”
“Do you change your mind?” Azriel replies halfway through kisses, his hand feeling her breast through the robe. “Please tell me you do.”
His mouth and a slithering shadow join his touch, nipping at the raised nubs on her bosom, replacing her retorts with short, heavy inhales.
“You’re being sneaky.”
“I’m making an offer,” he says, grazing his teeth on her sternum. The rest of her undergarment follows his drawn-out strokes, stopping below her navel where her scent grows muskier. “Will you indulge me?”
“You know the answer already,” she rasps, breath hitching when he discards the cotton slip and parts her legs.
Azriel delves a finger beneath the soft patch of dark hair, then another, finding her dripping with heat. Her spine bows like a full-bloom inflorescence once his lips caress the valley of her hips. He told her that he had imagined such a thing in the darkness of his bedroom. Him, opening her, petal by petal as she would to those aconites. Pressing and grasping, until they yield their asphyxiating essence.
She treads both hands between his hair. His name is ardent on her tongue, and her peak on his. Her mouth opens in a silent cry when he persists, chasing every drop like a parsed pilgrim. She was soft all over, ripe as ambrosia, and her pleas are a lilting litany for his ears.
“What are you thinking,” he asks, peppering slow kisses on the back of her knee.
“Those days—” She pauses, seeking his eyes. “The early years of us, your fantasy…”
“No wonder.” He slides up and presses his hand on the valley of her chest. “It rings louder here.”
It snapped in him like a sudden rain in the middle of a summer night. In her fifth year in Velaris, under the golden moon, when she was harvesting the evening primrose. The air smelled of lemon and she was aglow between the frail yellow flowers.
His fingertips skim past the contour of her ribs, eliciting winded giggles and causing the bonds to tremble with mirth.
Those whom he used to fall for trod on a delicate path, too cautious it was pitiful. A vacillation masked as care. But Saille trusted him although there were no villains to save her from, or wars to prove himself to. When others gave him clues, she held his hand and showed him all the possibilities as they go. When others told him that they were all ears, she listened to his breathing and sat with him in the darkness. When others hinted about their interest, she wore her heart and truth for him to see.
She lets out a needy sound of protest when he prevents her from reaching his wings and pins her wrists on either side of her head. She juts her waist toward him, but his shadows launch around her legs, holding her like a banquet for their master.
“How convenient,” she hisses. “Have you done any of the prisoners like this?”
“No.” Azriel’s laughter is muffled on her chin. “None challenged me as you do.”
“All bark and no bite—"
She stutters, eyes fluttering shut as he grazes his teeth on her neck and eases into her.
“Patience, sweetheart,” he teases, entwining his hands with hers. His serrated breaths fan over her collarbone as her grip tightens around his hands, around him, pulling him closer until their heartbeats resonate against each other. She clenches, causing him to jolt and snap his pelvis forward, the shadows disperse into obscurity.
“Do you—have you heard of the mating bond?” he said when the trance started to diminish. He knew she had, and Madja had told him that she might not be able to feel it because she was not a fairy. But he couldn’t care less. He just wanted to confirm it, to relish the sense of belonging that bloomed with the newfound revelation. To ensure that it wasn’t just a delusional thought brought by the moon, or whatever pollen misting in the air.
“Are you mine, Azriel?” she replied. Direct and definite. As if she had known all along. As she always is.
He searches her eyes, his stare awed in its rove. He pulls the silver pin and sets it aside, letting the dark hair splays over the pillow. The rich purple duvet and disheveled organza are regal under the shift of cream and gold of her skin, a champagne he will forever be drunk in.
“You better move while you stare,” she whimpers, earning an endeared chuckle and a gentle kiss. Her flushed cheeks and yearning eyes diminish any bites from her complaints.
He levers her to his lap, and her voice hitches at the sudden closeness, her thighs gaining purchase around his body. He spreads his hands on her back, his fingers coiling around her collar and the robe soon rips apart from her skin. His grin widens at the flash of wrath in her eyes. It is not easy to rile her up, but it is a pure delight when she does. The gentleness melts into ire, the patience evaporates into steam. It sends a sweltering sensation down to the bond, and he can sense her hunger among the thorns. Desirous and almost possessive.
Azriel loosens his grip and lets her take the lead. She wraps her hands around his neck, thumbs pressing on his pulse points, his breathing hot on the curve of her chest. Slowly, her nails dig over his scapula, and her body grows restless alongside his shallow movement. She is graceful even as she chases after the pleasure, meeting him in every moment and goading him into lechery with very little effort.
Saille’s breathing falters as Azriel’s slender, chafed fingers round her hips. He angles her closer, pressing himself to the secret spot he just discovered three days ago at a dawn full of indolent touches. But like this, as his desire brushes against hers, the look of bliss is clearer, far more fervent, and potent. On the creases of her eyebrows, the bat of her eyelashes, the glazed eyes beneath, and the trembles of her thighs. Her whimpers are laden with thirst.
“You’re too good for me.” Azriel lets out a guttural chuckle the moment she stiffens and yields, plummeting into the high set by his relentless motions. He is afire with passion, hips erratic in pursuit of his impending release. He jerks her forward as he spasms inside her and trickles along her inner thighs. Her gaze burns into his, precipitating between ecstasy and pure affection, engaging the decadence that graces his features.
“Azriel, I don’t think I can—”
Saille buckles and claws at his shoulder as he sneaks a hand down and cups her.
“Just another one,” he murmurs, circling his abraded fingers over her sensitive flesh, watching with triumph and adoration as she throws her head backward, eyes rolling in delirium. His lips find the column of her neck, then her breast that blooms with kiss marks. His other hand dances across the base of her spine, stroking the thin skin above her rear. Her words divulge her in a matter of minutes, drenching them both from within.
She closes her eyes, savoring the aftermath of their union, the muted burn of overstimulation, and his soft kisses along her shoulder. He draws circles across her arm, and she can barely register the swiftness as he lies down and brings her to rest on top of him. His steady heartbeat pacifies the intensity, though it is still feverish where they connect. He pulls a side of the duvet to cover her lower half, then carefully pins her hair back into a loose knot.
“Such a sweetheart.” She lifts a hand to feel his work, smiling when she finds it perfectly secure. “And a very skilled one too.”
“Do I make you fall in love all over again?”
“Though not very modest.”
“Because I do.” His hands dart to either side of her body when she shifts.
“You’re insatiable,” she says with a small giggle. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Azriel gently squeezes her waist, a lopsided smile adorns his face. “Are you tired? Shall I run you a bath?”
She shakes her head, tracing the intricate tattoo that marked his initiation. “How about you?”
“I’m good,” he replies, observing her roseate cheeks and the stray hair that frames her face. The bond teems with longing.
“I’m leaving for Hewn City tomorrow evening.”
She freezes, memories flashing through her mind.
The bond tugged her on a cold winter morning with a lacerating pain through her stomach and a burning sensation in her chest. Azriel’s name rang loud in her ears, and while she was slumping in the living room, Feyre came to winnow her to The House of Wind.
“There was a riot led by an unidentified gang. So far, they only spread false rumors from tavern to tavern, but the sooner we get to the bottom of it, the better,” Azriel quietly adds as he massages her back, noticing her sudden wariness.
Saille had cut her fingers once while cooking or sewing, and she had learned to empathize with her patients; the suffering of labor, the ache of diseases, and the distress of post-operatic sessions, but she was a stranger to such forceful pain as that morning. For her life has always been under godly grace, no harm big enough could come at her, and no people will dare to touch her even in the lone darkness of the mountains. Thus, the revelation struck her harder than ever when she finally arrived in Azriel’s room and faced the bleeding gash at his stomach and a narrow puncture in his chest.
“Saille, please, look at me,” Azriel cups her face, his thumbs stroking the edge of her eyes.
A revelation that despite his strength and stealth, things always could go wrong. A slip of hands, a misstep, wrong information, someone or something could come too fast or too slow. His life, unlike hers, was merely kept by a safety net that Death could take any time soon.
“All I have to do is investigate and plan the capture. Keir’s men will join me at the siege. It would be different from three years ago. You told me yourself, nothing will ever occur the same way twice.”
“I know,” she takes a deep breath, pressing her hands on his chest, seeking comfort in the rise and ebb of his body, and his pulsing heart. “I wish I trained how to fight, so I could go with you and not be a burden,” she says, “Or I could dip your weapons in poison. Just to subdue the enemies faster.”
“I appreciate the intention, but these hands—” He holds them, marred skin mapping her dainty fingers and delicate nails. “—Are too precious to be tainted by sword and blood.”
Every power comes with a price; and for Saille, it would be kindness. Just like how it came to her, her ability and knowledge must be used to preserve lives instead of taking them. If she intentionally hurts any living creatures, she will grow old and ill, and Death will seize her faster than the time required for rain to touch the ground.
But eternity is meaningless without him.
Saille used to think that she’d be forever traveling, cherishing the freedom and the fascinations offered by the world. Why settle down when she could camp on the amber desert under thousands of stars or sail with the singing wind and pink whales? What’s love compared to the magic of a blooming white lotus on a snowing mountaintop? What could be more thrilling than to pick the rarest opal burrowed in the earth’s belly, side by side with a slumbering dragon?
The answers reveal themselves between the shadows, in amalgams of repressed feelings and centuries-old stories, in baby steps taken through the growth of their odd friendship. She began to compare his eyes to the dappled seashore where the aquamarine waves kissed the golden sand. His silence, to the mystery of the moonlit Bosporus. His voice, to the whispers of the ancient soul among marbled columns and tarpaulined corridors. And as his visits grew more frequent, she kept postponing her trips in favor of the familiarity of his presence.
“Everyone else, dead, is better so long you live,” she says at last as he nips her fingertips, down to her palm. His smile cracks into easy laughter as he kisses her wrists, chasing her anxiousness away. Both know that such an impulse would be detrimental to either of them.
“Saille,” he murmurs, fondly pinching her chin.
She slips deeper into his arms, setting her weight over his. A call for distraction.
“I promise.” Azriel leans in to press his lips on her forehead, her eyelids. Gentler than the flap of butterfly wings, more solemn than any prayers or oaths.
“I will keep myself safe, for both of us.”