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ereardon · 2 months

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Before I Knew [Jake Seresin x Reader] Chapter Six

A Jake Seresin unexpected pregnancy fic

Overview: On your first night after moving to San Diego to spend more time with your brother Bob, you unknowingly have a one night stand with his teammate Jake Seresin. For the first time in his whole life, Bob has a closely knit friend group and you’re desperate not to rock the boat. But an unexpected and unplanned pregnancy upends your world, forcing you and Jake closer together, against Bob’s wishes. What will happen when you find yourself actually falling for the father of your unborn child?

Pairing: Jake Seresin x Reader; Bob Floyd x Sister!Reader

Warnings: Pregnancy, cursing, eventual smut, angst

Chapter summary: Ducky goes to her first doctor's appointment; Bob and Jake fight it out; Jake makes a staggering proposal

WC: 2K

Masterlist here; previous chapter here

You caught the bus a few blocks from the library and rode it across town to the doctor’s office. Waited in the front area with all the other women in various stages of pregnancy. Your heart sank as you watched woman after woman file in with a partner at her side or a friend.

You felt utterly alone as they called your name and you stood up alone.

The sonographer pushed off of her stool and smiled. “The doctor will be in soon.”

You nodded, laying back against the paper-coated exam table. When the doctor entered, she smiled softly. “Hi there, I’m Dr. Whitman.” She took a seat on the stool. “Let’s take a look here.” She pulled up the sonogram charts. “Everything looks good. You’re measuring at eight weeks and three days. How do you feel?”

“Nauseous,” you replied. “Tired.”

She smiled. “That’s par for the course, unfortunately. The second trimester gets better for most patients.”

“Thank God.”

The doctor clicked off the screen and folded her hands in her lap. “Y/N,” she said softly. “A core part of a pregnancy is a support system. Are you married?”

You shook your head. “No.”

“Do you have a boyfriend or family to lean on?”

“It’s complicated,” you whispered.

“I understand.” There was something so soothing about her. “But I also know that what many people don’t realize is that a core part of a healthy pregnancy is having people to lean on. Stress is not good for the baby.”

“I barely know the father,” you replied. “And I’ve been staying with my brother. But he’s not happy about all of this.”

The doctor nodded. “No pregnancy is easy to plan for,” she replied. “But keeping your stress levels low is critical, especially during this first trimester. Do you have any friends who can help support you?”

You thought of Phoenix. So far she was the only one who seemed to want to help. You nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Good.” The doctor scribbled on a pad. “I’m going to write you a prescription for an anti-nausea medication. Take it once a day for at least a week to see if it helps.” She ripped it off and then handed you the sonogram. “And here’s a photo of your baby.”

You held the black and white photo in both hands, choking on air. For perhaps the first time, it dawned on you.

You were going to be a mother.

***

“Fucking shit, Floyd, what the hell was that?” Jake whipped off his helmet the moment they stepped foot on the tarmac.

Bob grunted and turned to storm away. Phoenix put one hand on his arm and he shrugged her off. She looked at Jake and raised her eyebrows. “Above my pay grade.”

“He’s your back seater, Natasha,” Jake said and Phoenix’s lips pressed into a fine line. Jake only called her by her first name when things were serious.

“He has his own mind,” she hissed back. “I can’t help it that you knocked up his sister.”

Jake’s green eyes went wide with anger. Bradley stepped between them, trying to diffuse the attention. “Alright, hold on. Let’s just take a step back here before we say things we don’t mean.”

“I meant it when I said you only think about yourself,” Phoenix said. Her words landed on Jake with a solid delivery. It had been three years, but their last fight still stung.

Jake shook his head, heading toward the locker room where Bob had disappeared. Behind him, Bradley held both of Phoenix’s arms, keeping her back, his whispers blending into the whirring background noise of jets landing on the tarmac. “Floyd!” Jake’s voice rang out in the empty changing room. He was quiet for a moment before a clang caught his attention, the sound of a locker door slamming. He moved further down the halfway, rounding the corner where Bob stood wearing a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans, a frown laced over his delicate face. “Floyd, listen–”

“I pretty much raised her,” Bob interrupted. Jake frowned, but stayed silent as Bob laced his shoes, refusing to make eye contact. “Our dad left. Our mom worked all the time to put food on the table. So that left taking care of Y/N to me. And I did it, because I loved her. I did it because I wanted what was best for her.” He looked up, blue eyes hollow against sullen skin. “And now you’ve shown up and ruined everything.”

“I didn’t know she was your sister,” Jake said. “And we didn’t mean for her to get pregnant. It just happened.”

“But it happened to her!” Bob shouted and Jake took a step back. There was something unhinged about angry Bob. So different from the wallflower that he had always been. You were the one thing that he cared enough about to pick fights over. “You happened to her. You ruined her fucking life, Hangman.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” Jake said. “It’s her life, Floyd. Not yours. It’s hers. You’re acting like I did this to you as a personal attack.”

“She was just starting to get her footing,” Bob said quietly. “And you took that away from her. You took away her future. Everything she worked so hard for. Everything we both worked so hard for. To get out of Chattanooga. To not end up like the rest of them.”

Jake sighed. “So that’s what this is about, isn’t it,” he said. “It’s not about me. And it’s not even really about Y/N. It’s about you.”

Bob squinted. “What?”

“You’re mad because you think this foils all of your plans, all of your work, everything you did to get the two of you out of that small town life.”

“She deserves better.”

“I agree.” Jake shook his head. “Listen, man, I’m not going anywhere. This might not have been what I expected. Hell, it might not even be what I want. But it’s where we are. I’m not going to leave her alone in all of this.”

“She isn’t alone,” Bob said. “She has me.”

“Does she?”

***

A little girl set a pile of library books on the counter in front of you. She was barely tall enough to reach, her thin arms struggling beneath the weight of the books. “Hi,” she chirped.

You turned and smiled. She had big ears and a wide, uneven grin. “Hi there,” you said, scanning the first book. “Wow, you scored big.”

“I like bugs,” she explained and you slowly noticed every single book was about snakes or bugs. You could feel bile creep up your throat as you nodded.

“That’s nice.”

“Do you like bugs?”

“Not really.”

She frowned. “That’s too bad. Do you like puppies?”

“Yeah, puppies are better.” You finished scanning her books. “Do you need a bag?”

She shook her head. “No, my mommy is over there.” She pointed at a pregnant woman standing next to the door looking at her phone. The little girl cocked her head to the side. “You look like her.”

“Really?” You squinted. The woman by the door was taller, with different hair. “How so?”

“You’re going to be a mommy,” the little girl said. “All mommys look like that.” And then she grabbed her books and jogged off toward the door. You had to practically pick your jaw up from the ground, hands dropping to your barely visible bump. How had she known? Then again, kids were like animals. Sometimes they knew things. You watched the little girl hand the books to her mom, who slid them into a tote bag before grabbing her hand tightly.

Something stirred inside of you. It was too soon to be the baby, realistically you knew that. But somewhere, deep down, you knew it was the baby making their presence known.

“Hi there,” you whispered, one hand over your belly button.

***

It was late. You were asleep on the couch when the door opened. You opened your eyes wide, watching as Jake and Bradley dragged a barely coherent Bob through the door. You stood up, wiping at your eyes. “What the hell?”

“He’s wasted,” Bradley said. “We tried but we couldn’t stop him.”

You put your hands on your hips, turning to Jake. “Did you do this?”

“I’m so tired of everyone blaming me,” he replied.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Bradley cocked his head. “Here, let me take him.” Easily, he slung Bob over one of his shoulders, carrying him straight into the bedroom. You dragged your hand over your face, turning to Jake.

“What’s going on with him?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Jake replied, looking at his feet. “He and I, we uh, we had a fight.”

“About what?”

He lifted his gaze to yours. “You know what.”

“Oh. That.”

Jake nodded as Bradley stepped back into the living room. He looked at you, and then Jake. “I'm going to head out.”

“Thanks for bringing him back.”

“Any time.” Bradley paused by the door. “Hey Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Be patient with him. He’s still processing.” The door shut softly.

“He heard me say that I hate him,” you whispered, moving back onto the couch, curling into a ball. Jake followed, sitting on the other end of the couch, a safe distance away. “Maybe he hates me, too.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Jake replied. “He wouldn’t act like this if he didn’t love you.”

“Then why is he hurting me?” you whispered, a tear slipping down your cheek.

“Because he’s hurt, too,” Jake said. “And it’s easier to be mad.”

You tipped your head to one side. “That night we met. You had no idea I was Bob’s sister?”

“Fuck no,” Jake replied and you smirked. He shook his head. “You’re gorgeous, but I never would have looked at you, let alone did what we did if I had known.”

“So it wasn’t some ploy to get back at him for whatever the hell you two have beef about?”

“This has become a lot bigger than I ever imagined.”

You sighed. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a cool girl you met in a bar and had sex with and never saw again. I’m sorry I’m ruining your whole life.”

“Maybe it’s not so bad,” Jake whispered and you looked up, surprised. “Maybe I needed something to change.”

“So you’re not upset?”

“I’m upset,” Jake clarified. “This isn’t at all what I expected. But it’s done, right?” he asked. “We just have to deal with the consequences.”

“How romantic.”

“Fuck.” He leaned back. “Shit, I, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You shook your head. “It’s OK, it was a joke.”

“But is that what you want?” he said quietly. “Something romantic?”

“No. I don’t know.” You pulled your hair back into a loose bun, fighting for words. “I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know anything.”

“Are you happy here?”

You frowned. “What do you mean here?”

“Staying with Bob.”

“He’s my brother.”

“I know, Y/N.” Jake rolled his eyes. “That’s why we’re in this lovely predicament. I’m asking if you feel safe here.”

“Bob would never hurt me.”

“I think he already has.” Jake’s words stung and you realized for the first time that hurt was much more than just physical. “I was thinking. There’s an apartment across the hall from mine. It’s two bedrooms.”

“Are you asking me to move in with you?” You practically scoffed.

Jake shrugged. “Why not? At least for now. Until he cools down.”

“That’ll only make him angrier.”

“I don’t give a shit about what makes Floyd happy,” Jake said. “I care about what’s best for you.”

“Do you actually?” you pressed. “Or is that just what you think you’re supposed to say and feel and do? Take away all of the outside voices and opinions. What do you, Jake Seresin, want?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, in the smallest voice you had ever heard, he replied, “To be a good dad. To do the right thing.”

You nodded. “OK. I’ll move in with you.” You looked up into his clear green eyes. For the first time in weeks, you felt hopeful.

Please follow my library page @ereardonlibrary as that will largely serve as my tag list. Anyone I previous promised to tag is here:

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theredofoctober · 1 month

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MANNA- CHAPTER THIRTEEN: TEA

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse and more

Read after the cut...

For a near week your deceptive submission endures, the hours newly tightened by a schedule your host has contrived to divert you from your anti-appetite.

Days rise from the borderless veil of time like castles from a dawn mist. Made a school child again, you sit before documentaries and foreign art films, take up a journal whose pages bear but glances of your internal woe.

You find yourself wishing that you could write with any particular talent.

As a girl you’d yearned to be an author, never daring to materialise the urge with any substantial effort. Now you can’t imagine you’ll ever be allowed so loose-penned a profession, if any at all, kept covetously home and infantilised until you cannot think beyond a fraction of words.

Why, then, does Hannibal go to such arduous lengths to educate you? Surely it is only so that—before the eyes of peers—you'll be the cultured averment of triumph through therapy.

In the soirees of your doctor's hopes you cleave, willing, to his side, bewitching the throng with smirking witticisms before sucking his cock with that same clever mouth when the last guest steps, merry and ignorant, into the night.

Already Hannibal aspires to materialise that abstraction. You find proof enough of it in the wardrobe he’s amassed for you, which expands as the days progress.

Some of his choices are attractive to you, reluctant though you are to consider this— long velvet gowns in puce, umber, black, blouse and skirt co-ordinations plucked from the runway, some still in boxes emblazoned with designer names.

Others of the selection offend you, however, in their bald intent for closed-door wear. Girlish dresses in light chiffon, corseted silk in flowering lace. Short necks and hemlines, some of them scarcely reaching the knee. Then there are sheer nightclothes stored in perfumed sheets, no practicality but for the sort of sleeping in which no slumber is to be had.

You’re to dress like some obscure young celebrity, a whimsical echo of an era thirty years passed. Still, there is an attempt in this incredible closet to appease you as well as to change, adapting your preferences to a style acceptable to Hannibal’s eye.

It’s of particular note to you that the garments are each the same size, implying that you haven’t gained significant weight since your last awareness of its value. Conceivably the labels might have been replaced, but it’s so unlikely a trick that the theory is quickly thrown out.

Hannibal is inviting you to trust his process with a peace offering of equilibrium, the second-best prize to starvation.

You are not such a fool as to take it yet, though in action you may appear to have done so.

When in the presence of your keepers you remain in unwavering character, an amplified, changeling copy of the child you'd once been. In this way you're allowed your little misbehaviours—pulling a face at food you do not like, or the shrugging rejection of an idle caress.

So long as you sit at meals, and don’t speak in any manner that threatens the illusion of family you are unharmed, and laden with unending gifts. It would be a winning childhood, had you been born into it through a far less insidious violence than that which brought you here.

Still, the awareness that you must simper and lisp for another month before you venture an escape soon wears upon your tolerance.

One Saturday morning, alone in your room, the silence of that cushioned cell amplifies your every thought to a piqued tenor.

You miss when hunger bled like smoke through your skull, ridding its halls of all but its fey shape. With a scalding clarity you behold what you are now: a homunculus, the issue of diablerie, cut small by men’s black magic.

You cast yourself amidst a tide of cushions and mimic your own words upon them in a bitter snarl.

“‘Yes, Daddy’”, ‘no, Daddy’. ‘Little one’. Oh God! It’s all so stupid. Stupid!”

An involuntary laugh chatters through you like a coin thieved from a beggar’s cup, hateful and maniacal. Yet you perform this anger as you do the docile coquette, the bounds between that self and your own a gradient that softens by the day.

It’s become rather easier to be a monster’s daughter than a woman, this you cannot deny. The longer you are extracted from the world the less you’ll remember of how to live within it, if you ever knew, before.

The misery of this thought proves too much to bear.

You cry until your head is as hot about the brow as a horseshoe turned white from the forge. The sobs wrench the muscles of your stomach in two pained halves, and still you weep until you laugh again, thinking how deranged you’d sound to any eavesdropper in the rooms below.

Afterwards you sit very quietly, like an ailing bride in a Victorian novel; you are, after all, very ill, and it suits you well to behave so.

Having nothing better to do, you switch on the television and skim through the channels with neither aim nor interest.

Thin, beautiful women populate the screen, their waists like darner flies, their wrists as narrow as your thumb. Even the history programmes feature experts with trim figures in sensible interview dresses.

Perturbed, you flick on and on until you find something on eighteenth century Paris, hosted by a grandfatherly old professor marked safe from scrutiny in the absence of compare.

You watch until your lids fall, thinking of catacombs full of monk bones, the cloying scent of ancient death, each as forgotten under dust as you are by all those who once loved you, and revered by those who never have.

In the afternoon Hannibal wakes you gently by turning the television off at the set.

“Are you feeling alright, little one?” he asks. “It’s unusual for you to sleep in so late.”

You hum in a noncommittal fashion, scarcely bothering to open your eyes.

Perhaps he’ll let you drowse the day away; you’d dream through all horrors like this, should your insomnia give you reprieve. A week, a month, a year sold to the sandman in exchange for peace— yet the dark would follow you there, also, antlered men in imagined night.

“You’ve been in bed long enough,” says Hannibal, peeling back your sheets with a brisk tug. “Up you get. Alana is visiting us this evening. She’ll have some questions for you.”

Weakly attempting to thieve back the blanket, you say, “I really don’t feel like talking to her. Can’t you do it? Please?”

“Jack won’t be satisfied with a second-hand report. Alana must see that you’re comfortable here. Not a particular incentive for you, but I can provide others.”

You open one eyelid, enticed by this readiness to bargain.

“So what do I get if I say yes?”

“A light dinner,” says Hannibal. “And—depending on your behaviour—perhaps another reward we’ll negotiate later tonight.”

At this you sit up; starving is a precious contraband in the doctor’s abode, worth more to you than every decadent thing under its rafters.

“Feeling better already, I see,” says Hannibal, through one of his charitable smiles. “Please stand by the mirror and allow me to dress you.”

Unbidden there comes the thought of his hand under your skirts, pressing inwards like a starfish sucking at a stone.

“Oh, come on, Dad,” you say, in flustered haste. "Really?”

“There’s a certain picture I’d like to create for Alana’s benefit,” he insists. “One of wellness and serenity. Your selections tend to imply something far more brooding and morose.”

With a testy little sigh you slip out of bed, rubbing your arms free of rising gooseflesh.

“You bought me those ‘brooding and morose’ outfits, remember, Dad? What does that say about you?”

“That I seek to please you,” says Hannibal, touching your mouth with playful thumb. “Today I hope that you’ll return the gesture.”

He holds aloft a pastel blue dress in transparent lace, a beaded line of detailing pointing downwards at the hips in a suggestive v.

“I don’t know,” you say, far more sharply than intended. “It’s short. And I don’t like the colour.”

“The shade will suit you,” Hannibal replies. “And you’ll wear a shift underneath for modesty, if that’s your concern.”

You don’t bother with reproof; he’s guiding you out of your nap-rumpled clothes and into the dress before you can think of an excuse he’ll entertain.

Unresisting, you only glance aside, breathing shallowly so as not to brush your chest against him as he adjusts your collar.

That Hannibal hasn’t made love to you since you shared a bed makes you think that he’s waiting for something, a moment fermented to sweeten the sex. He is, you warrant, as driven by pleasure as any man, being only of a tighter and more methodical restraint.

You can’t decide whether you’re glad of the wait or if you’d prefer he throw you down on your bed and ravish you now to have done with it.

Doubtless Hannibal considers an identical dilemma, turning you before him like a ballerina in a mirrored jewellery box.

“Even the greats couldn’t hope to replicate this image of you,” he says, as he inspects his work. “To attempt it would have them rending the canvas to pieces rather take credit for their failure.”

The compliment is long forgotten when, later, Alana breaches the house, her pretty face above her mulberry blouse like a lily in a violet bouquet.

Her casual manner in kissing Hannibal’s cheek at the door suggests a social visit, as does the gift of white wine under one thin arm. Still, she remembers her duty, taking you aside with a subtle professionalism within two minutes of having greeted her host.

Her kindness is a shingle in a cyclone, dashed away by the futility of its own existence.

“Dr Lecter told me you’re doing a lot better than when I last saw you,” says Alana, placing one of her graceful hands atop your own without comment as to its frigidity. “Are you feeling more positive now, or would you disagree with that?”

Slipping your fingers out from under hers, you say, “Well, I have a TV now. I’m allowed to do a lot more things I’m actually interested in. That helps. Thanks for that, by the way. I know you talked Dr Lecter into it.”

Smiling, Alana says, “I can’t take credit for that. He was already making preparations when I brought it up. He's racked up quite the shopping bill.”

The notion of Hannibal navigating the catalogues of online stores is ridiculous, somehow anachronistic, but then again you’ve witnessed him tapping at a sleek iPad, a jarring sight, on every occasion.

“How about mealtimes?” asks Alana. “I understand you’re working towards a plan that’s easier for you.”

“It’s still hard,” you mumble. “Tough. You know.”

Your eyes are on Alana’s patent court shoes, picturing a blandly organised rack of identical heels in alternate shades. Perhaps ankle boots for the colder days. Simple. Nothing flash.

Alana pauses, quickly assessing your disinterest in the exchange.

“Hannibal says he’d like you to agree to more therapy sessions,” she says. “He feels you’re opening up. I think we both know that’s probably wishful thinking on his side, but don’t shoot him down just yet.”

“I won’t,” you say. “Couldn’t anyway, right?”

Alana rearranges her discomfort into another closed-lipped smile. You can’t envision that lipstick ever moving, striped across her face as yours has been by both of the friends that she holds dear.

“So how are things between you and Will now?” enquires Alana, quite on cue. “Rumour has it you’re getting along like a house on fire.”

Truthfully Will has rather cooled since the night of the seizure, his envy retreating to the black of some inner primordial cave. He seems both caustically amused by your recent performance and cynical of its longevity, yet neither judgement is as severe as before.

The thought of your kindness sits with him, has been taken up with the cagy hunger of an orphan to a heel of bread. Piece by piece you’ve given him more of it in flirting words, but these he’s yet to take, turning each away with a smirk.

“Don’t try so hard,” he’d said, only a day ago, but when you’d thrown an idle foot across his lap as you read a book beside him he hadn’t removed it, only pretended to ignore the intrusion.

“Me and Will are okay,” you say to Alana. “That’s all.”

You must give away something of your successes in your expression, for Alana’s mouth twitches into a coy grin.

“Just okay?”

At that moment Hannibal knocks on the open door, a merciful trespass, setting you free of her.

As promised, you’re offered a modest salad while Hannibal and Alana make their way through numberless courses over the gifted wine.

At first you’re too absorbed in the mortification of eating in front of the other woman to pay attention to their mounting chemistry, dragging the same tattered leaf through streams of congealing oil.

It’s only as you’re making a fortress of cutlery across a lump of uneaten meat that you take full stock of the flirting at work before you.

Though attempts are made by both parties to fold you into the conversation they are mild at best, almost neglectful.

Alana glances up into Hannibal’s eyes in frequent, laughing enjoyment, touching his shoulder or forearm lightly; he, for his part, looks upon her lips and the curves of her form and speaks fondly to her, his voice hushed with a want of sex.

You’ve heard it often enough to know it, and should be glad to have his attentions otherwise distracted.

Yet your hands creep under the table, squeezing your thighs and stomach as though to claw out the matter you've ingested through your meat.

"I'm done," you blurt out, cutting across Hannibal's opinion of a recent classical performance he’s attended. "Can I go upstairs?"

It's with difficulty that you bite off the habitual 'Dad' that has replaced 'doctor' in your vocabulary.

Hannibal offers you a near invisible look of disgruntlement at the interruption, quickly mollified by Alana's fingers at his elbow.

"I'm sure we're boring you," she says. "Go on up and relax. You don't have to stick around just to be polite."

You glance at Hannibal, seeking his approval before you stand. His eyes, within so static a face, are black glass in their suspicion.

"I'll come up to speak to you later on," he says, at last. "If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask for it."

Rather than go immediately to your den above you linger to watch as the couple drink in the parlour, so close as to almost be in one another’s arms.

You see from Hannibal's relaxed posture that he is not ablaze with a fascinated love for Alana as he is for Will; he holds her merely with the affection of an old friend, and, too, with an uncomplicated desire.

He would never rape Alana Bloom; such violence, to Hannibal, is an entry into a cabal of which she has no part. Her value to him is as representation of his treasured comforts, and all that which Hannibal would not willingly change.

Alana is as used for her parts as you are, in her way, and oblivious to it, like some grinning scarecrow blind to the birds that snicker and creep at its back.

Yet as you watch her lean, murmuring, into Hannibal’s neck you feel a tooth of ice grind through your heart and turn away, feeling numbly for the bannisters behind you.

Almost on hands and knees you climb the steps to your bed, brought low by that astonishing cold.

Pausing at the bathroom you prostrate yourself at the toilet’s mercy, still unable to empty yourself of the pain and bile you'd evict to be naked of your jealousy.

In surrender you rest your head on the cool floor and remain there even after the compulsion to vomit subsides.

If you cannot flog yourself for your sins as the saints did then this will do, sprawled before the porcelain God of another degredation.

Presently the bathroom door creaks open, striking an unwanted rod of light across your face.

“Go away,” you mutter, wiping your face with an angry scrub of your knuckles. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Hannibal looks at you with a minister’s pious severity.

"I see. So I was correct. You object to Alana and I having a sexual relationship. Any other father would sternly inform you that it’s none of your business, and as your therapist it’s even less so.”

Raising your head, you snap at him as fiercely as you dare.

“What about me?”

“My friendship with Alana is very different to what you and I share,” says Hannibal, and you snort, wiping a stream of clear mucus across your lips.

“I’ll bet.”

Hannibal turns his head at a quizzical angle, and you perceive the very second of his understanding like the unveiling of some trick.

“You must explain yourself, darling,” he says. “What is it about this that has upset you?”

The logical answer should be that you wish to save Alana from him, that you cannot watch her beaming, black-haired head roll out from under the axe.

Instead, you blurt out, “Don’t you get it, Dad? How it makes me feel? You’re supposed to understand me, and I’m pretty sure you do. You knew that it would hurt me. You did this on purpose the way you wave me around in front of Will.”

Using the sink to right yourself you get to your feet, standing on pathetic, defiant tiptoe so that you might gaze into the devil’s face directly.

“If you have to do this, then please, just me. Just me. I can’t stand it. It makes me feel sick to think about you and her together. Knowing you’ll touch me afterwards. Don’t do this to me. Please."

“I see,” says Hannibal.

He speaks with such calm that you deflate from your anger at once.

“Very well,” he says. “I can make an excuse for Alana to leave. Would that please you, little one?”

This time you don’t answer, only stare at him with huge and terrible eyes until he retreats to the stairway.

“Oh, god,” you say, under your breath. “Amy, you’d really hate me right now, wouldn’t you?”

You hear Hannibal and Alana talking in low undertones, the female voice a coo of thoughtful sympathy. In time Alana collects herself to leave, but only when her car propels itself quietly from the driveway does Hannibal come to you again.

By now you’re sitting at your dresser, making a humiliated attempt to recollect your dignity with cosmetics. You know that Hannibal will not like what you’d made of your face—the eyes painted black, your lips the colour of your heart, a sinking, well-bound stone.

Yet all he says as he stands behind you is, “Look at me, little one.”

Your hand shakes, blotting your eyelid with an errant apostrophe of mascara.

“Don’t want to.”

“I know. I’d like you to, even so.”

The gentleness of Hannibal’s voice is an agony to you. You’ve never hated nor been more drawn to him than you are now, this impossible spirit in the vessel of a man.

Stiffly you turn on your chair, meeting his gaze to find it truly repentant.

“I won’t make love to Alana again,” says Hannibal, and you know as you do the reality of elements that he does not lie. “I see that this triggers your fear of abandonment too greatly. But it might not be possible for me to avoid all romantic advances.

“There are rumours abound as to our arrangement already, and it will seem suspicious if I don’t take a lover. But I’ll do my best to be faithful to our family.”

He pauses, watching you battle to suppress your disgust for him, for yourself, for all things in the bracken of his design.

“For now, I’d like you to relax,” says Hannibal. “This level of distress will make you ill. I’m concerned that it already has.”

Taking you by a hand as clammy as mermaid skin he leads you down to the living room to serve you from a pot of fragrant tea.

Though its calorific value is likely near to air you catastrophize with immediacy, unable to touch the cup, let alone drink.

“I’m not doing it on purpose this time,” you babble. “I’m not, Dad, please, you’ve got to believe me.”

Hannibal raises a hand to caress you— that, and only that, and yet you shrink against the couch in expectancy of a blow.

An appalled look tightens Hannibal’s expression, a hypocrisy of which he seems endlessly capable.

“There, now,” he says. “I can tell the difference between unruliness and genuine struggle. You and I both know that tea is only leaves and water— why do you believe against logic that it will affect your weight?”

“I don’t know,” you say, with a helpless shake of the head. “I feel like if I drink it I won’t be able to stop myself. I’ll eat and eat until I’m... big, and then I won’t be able to go back to the way I was. Everyone will see me differently. Treat me like they used to. People can be cruel.”

“And none crueller than you are to yourself,” says Hannibal, and he eases the cup between your hands so that you must take it or scald yourself raw. “There is nothing shameful in having a body of any kind, and any who judge you for that would wear their foolishness like a flag for all to see. Nevertheless, I’ve balanced your weight here, and will continue to do so if that is what’s needed for you to believe in my intentions.”

He aids you to drink, lifting the cup to your mouth over and over until the last drop. From the bitter taste you know it altered by some drug.

For once you do not care.

The night has left you so ashamed of your bearing that you’re half joyful to be done with it, sinking back as euphoria transforms all things that touch you into nirvana.

Your fingers drape across your body in aimless exploration, stopping only as Will enters the room with Hannibal at his side.

The younger man’s eyebrows jump as you giggle and hide your hands behind your back.

“You’re smiling,” says Will. “And I’m not sure how I feel about the circumstances.”

“Our girl is relieved to see you, Will,” says Hannibal. “A familiar face is a balm for even the most taxing day.”

Will looks from you to Hannibal ponderously.

“Alana was here earlier,” he states.

“She was, much to our little one’s chagrin.”

“Do you have to talk about her?” you interrupt, in loose-tongued irritation.

Hannibal chuckles.

“We do not. There are other topics I’d find far more engaging.”

You watch from under heavy lids as the men discuss the Lover’s case in low, library murmurs.

“Tanya Marrow was found washed up by the Patapsco River this morning,” says Will, with a grim regret. “Her wounds were fresh, meaning the Lover only mutilated Tanya and placed her into the doll when he was ready to throw her away. He was content with how closely she resembled the woman he’s desperate to make, for a while.

“But she wasn’t close enough. In the end he had to remind her that she was just a toy to him, and punish her for her lacking.”

The contrast of these dreary horrors with the rainbow light of feeling through your needy cunt should sicken you, but your mind is in disorder, barely one thought akin to the next.

“We’ve made a breakthrough in regards to the dolls,” Will continues. “The well-made ones are expensive; for one person to have so many implies that the Lover is either a wealthy collector, or that he’s able to access them at a considerable discount. Possibly for free.”

“I’m assuming the factory producing these dolls has been identified,” says Hannibal.

Will swallows a mouthful of whiskey.

“There are only four vendors known to produce the style of doll the Lover uses. Jack’s got someone looking into their customers, narrowing down the suspects to buyers in Virginia. Considering how specialised these clients are that shouldn't take long.”

The older man listens with a solemn intensity, scarcely drinking from his own glass.

“I see the Lover almost exactly now,” says Will. “He knows he has to take his bride eventually; he’s circling her, choosing women that are closer and closer to her physical proximity. The next target will be someone she knows.

“It’s a dangerous move, but by now the Lover wants someone that’s stood so close to this woman that he can taste her. Imagine her beneath him when he defiles the inferior victim.”

Fear swims, crocodilian, within you, disturbing your narcotic stupor.

Seeming to sense it, Hannibal says, “Let’s continue this line of conversation later on. I wouldn’t want to give our surrogate daughter bad dreams.”

Will glances at you, watching you fumble idly with the hem of your dress.

“You don’t plan to cast her as our daughter in tonight’s play, do you?” he asks, plainly.

“That would unnecessarily chasten the evening,” says Hannibal. “She’s the woman for whom we are legally responsible, and what we deem fit for her continued health is ours to determine.”

You recline across the couch like an empress, watching the firelight glance shadows across your skin like a garment in a dream. Hannibal slips a hand from your shoulder to your breast, teasing the tiffany lace across your nipple, and the warmth and delicacy of the touch breathes through you a shiver of ermine delight.

Only vaguely do you acknowledge your revulsion, a whisper at a keyhole on the other side of the house.

“What did you give her for her to let you touch her like that?” asks Will, curiously.

His hands play upon the sides of his whiskey glass, and the thought of them upon your thighs or between them drives your lower lip between your teeth with unbeckoned desire.

“I’ve offered her release from her spirited rebellion,” says Hannibal. “Even having promised us fealty, this act she wouldn’t easily endure. I wish for her to experience intimacy unhindered by her mental bounds.”

His fingers glance beneath the neckline of your dress and cross your bare skin as a swan's wing meets the sky, rushing a moan from you more akin to a sob in its juddering resonance.

“Besides,” Hannibal continues, “she’s had a trying afternoon. Her body welcomes this.”

Will’s face, washed honey bronze by firelight, is so neutral that even if you were not high you’d fail to extract the mechanisms of thought behind it.

“We’ve both succeeded in bringing her to climax,” says Hannibal, as his other hand folds your skirt against your pelvis. “But never her consent. Tonight, perhaps we will.”

“In this state she has no real autonomy,” Will argues. “We’re witnessing an illusion.”

Hannibal pauses, his face like that of an antiques dealer slyly unveiling some stolen wares.

“Not exactly,” he says. “Little one: you’ve described me as handsome. Do think that Will is good-looking?”

Your concentration wavers as two digits inscribe an ouroboros in your arousal. The wrongness of it all only enhances the sensation, the thought of being a lovely toy for older men to play with.

Your name on Dr Lecter’s lips recalls his question.

“Yes,” you say. “I— I do.”

You don’t know why you’re honest. Even a child, embarrassed, could lie.

Will smiles, and for a moment there is something almost sweet in his expression.

Then the dark of him slithers behind it again with predatory ease, and he leans forward, knees apart, possessed of a revelation of self-assurance.

This is the self he becomes when challenging Dr Lecter, the arrogant observer of all living things.

“I already knew that,” says Will. “I don’t mind hearing it clarified, though.”

You can’t imagine him ever admitting that you’re beautiful in return. Hannibal would, has done so already in such a succulence of language that your mouth could water with it, but not Will, not in so many words.

All that he will allow thus far is that you are not ugly. Blearily you vow to unwind from him his obsession.

“Puppy love,” says Hannibal, looking into your face with a gentle irony. “You’d like him to touch you, wouldn’t you, little one?”

This you don’t answer, and rather than press you again Hannibal makes you come with three fingers inside you, patient as you cry out and roll your head aside in conflict and delirium.

You cannot decide if he means to reward you for your participation with Will or to humiliate you for that same eagerness. It is bewildering and erotic, this envy they have for one another; to quell it you must kneel to the hierarchy, submissive always to your covetous masters.

“Join us, Will,” says Hannibal, at last.

Briefly you think that he won’t, a scoffing lord, above it all.

Then he crosses the room, sets down his whiskey and kisses you, first your mouth, then your neck, leaving the taste of smoke and almonds wherever his lips meet.

Whimpering, you kick your feet on the couch as each petal of ecstasy comes loose from a branch within you.

Sometimes Will’s teeth push against your flesh, not quite biting; Hannibal, on the other side of your neck, gently does, as though inheriting the expected assault from his would-be lover.

His fingers form a cylinder of delight in you, the pad of his thumb undoing another orgasm in a trio of strokes.

“How gifted we are to receive such delights,” says Hannibal, and as you groan he docks his arousal in your own, filling you so entirely with his cock that you think and feel only the fucking and nothing more, a witless hole.

Will brings your hand to his erection, and there is no uncertainty in that motion, nor in his lips about your breast. His rough tongue, the saliva like a paste jewel on your nipple—

Writhing, panting, you stir through pleasure upon pleasure like the layers of the earth, soft, dark, deep.

Your palm tightens on Will’s cock like a night sea about the lighthouse it yearns to bring down, working him with a knowing purpose. As Hannibal continues his pelvic rolls against you Will draws back, avoiding the early release that your cunning fist would bring.

Not once do the men make contact in a sexual manner with each other, and you don’t understand it, this avoidance of the ultimate lust. Yet perhaps it is that they fuck through you, for when Hannibal achieves his orgasm and moves away Will pushes into you without caution of the other man’s seed still warm in that same place.

He looks up into Hannibal’s eyes as he does it, watching his response as he weaves pleasure from a loom of servile flesh.

But then you make some shapeless sound of need, one hand extended, not quite touching him, and Will's eyes return to you with such intensity that you forget that brief, lost woe.

He mimics Hannibal’s command of your body, hands moving, unrushed, from breast to hip as he opens you further to him. His violence is a mage’s dance, something once done around fire, and charged now through the vessel of a young and studious man.

No wonder, then, that you have neither strength nor will to repel him. You roil, loose-limbed as the dead, only your noise and perspiring response to sensation to evidence your ongoing life.

Hannibal’s arms go loosely around you, holding your head in his lap as Will makes love to you with a brooding fervour. Every touch is like the discovery of a new and indescribable existence, having traversed to some frontier of feeling only sects of pleasure have previously founded.

You know yourself wanted by both men, now, feel it through their mutterings of ecstasy, the unending pressure of mouths and hands upon your skin. They crave your wanting of them in return, lap up your slightest sign of it, tainted as it is by Hannibal’s poison.

Will pours in you his ending, his breath a kiss against your eardrum.

You come again with both men gazing upon you, their faces as close and beautiful together as stringed pearls.

Dimly you fear that they will succeed in their work with you, no matter how fiercely you defy their twofold will.

“Hey,” says the younger man, nudging your shoulder lightly. “Snap out of it. You’re bleeding. Did we hurt you?”

Your first thought is, “yes, of course you did.”

The next, having looked down at the red dart through the milk of semen on your thigh, is the same nip of terror you know from an unexpectedly high number on the scale.

The final cognition—and one almost certainly true—is that this carnival of sex has brought that crimson forth like the incitation of bacchanalian madness.

The shock of it wrings you near dry of the doctor’s drug, a bald winter sobriety.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “It’s my period. I haven’t had one in years.”

#manna fic #hannibal fic #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #tw noncon #tw eating disorders #tw bulimia #tw anorexia #tw dubious consent #tw nonconsensual drug use #tw fatphobia

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mother-above · 3 months

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The Golden Warrior | Chapter 7

Azriel x Reader

Summary: To you, love was a poison that slowly killed. It was something that could make the strongest of warriors and leaders weak and vulnerable. You had successfully evaded romance and relationships for a century until the day you realized it had been plaguing you from within.

Chapters: 7/?

Word Count: 8.6k

Warnings: suggestive, violence, and swearing

*masterlist*

A/N: please bare with Azriel and the reader. They’re both stupid and have deep-rooted problems.

Azriel burst through his shadows and startled his family who were sitting by the campfire. They stopped their tasks to watch Azriel swiftly walk by them with clenched fists. He acknowledged no one as he entered his tent. Feyre and Mor looked at Rhysand and Cassian to see if they knew anything, but they shrugged. Giving him a few minutes to simmer down, Rhysand and Cassian make their way to Azriel’s tent to find him lying on his cot staring at the ceiling. After a few minutes of pestering, Cassian finally got Azriel to tell them about his frustrations toward your obliviousness to the bond.

Rhysand puts a comforting hand on Azriel's shoulder. “I know how you feel Az, I truly do. All you can do is be patient. She didn’t reject the bond, she doesn’t even know it exists,” said Rhysand. “Think about it, she just started getting to know you. It’s normal for her to assume you are inviting her as a friend.”

“I’m worried that the bond hasn’t snapped because she doesn’t like me,” admitted Azriel.

“That’s ridiculous,” exclaimed Rhysand. “Just give it time and everything will fall into place.”

Azriel shook his head. “We don’t have time,” he snapped. “I don’t know if we’ll survive this, and I can’t die knowing I never told my mate. I’m beginning to think keeping this from her isn’t a clever idea,” said Azriel as he pressed his palms over his eyes.

Cassian had avoided thinking about the possibility that his friends wouldn’t make it alive, their stories ceasing to exist beyond this war. It’s a miracle they’ve lived this long, and he was beginning to think that this was it. He couldn’t blame his brother for feeling desperate, Azriel found his mate and had no idea if they had any time together.

Cassian chewed the inside of his lips as he weighed Azriel’s options. “You told us she has some issues with relationships, right? I’m not going to tell you what to do but do you think it’ll do more good than bad? She might freak out and we need her full concentration, Az.”

Azriel sighed deeply and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his whole body slumped forward. “You’re right.” The conversation in the Palace’s courtyard was still fresh in his head. He’d never met anyone so passionate and anti-relationship in his life.

He said nothing more as his shadows swarmed him. Rhysand and Cassian patiently waited for him to elaborate but they knew better, Azriel wasn’t going to say a word and would just sit there and ruminate in his thoughts. Once left alone, Azriel laid back down and stared at the ceiling. He could feel his chest tightening, the golden cord desperately reaching for its nonexistent other half.

Of course, my mate doesn’t want me. How foolish of me to think that the second-in-command of Dawn Court would give me, an Illyrian bastard, a chance, thought Azriel.

***

Hybern was moving fast, they had reached the border of the Winter Court and those who could winnow were scrambling to transfer the troops to the correct location. While the camps were being set up, the High Lords sent you on a reconnaissance mission. You were the fastest of the Peregryns and could glamour yourself to avoid detection. When you were airborne, you took notice of a shadow that was struggling to keep up with you. Rolling your eyes, you hold your hand out allowing the wisp to latch on and wrap around your fingers.

“Tell the shadowsinger that he needs to start trusting me to report accurate information,” you whispered to the shadow.

It chittered back but of course; you couldn’t understand it. Little did you know Azriel sent his shadows to alert him of any sign of trouble. With one whisper of danger from his shadows, Azriel would drop everything to find you.

After a couple of hours of scouting and traveling as fast as you could, you arrived at the main war tent to report to the High Lords and their military commanders. Sweating profusely, you dumped your helmet on the floor as Callon handed you a cold drink of water. The shadow that was curled around your hand skittered back to Azriel who stood in the corner of the room. Thesan, Rhysand, Tarquin, Helion, and Kalias patiently waited for you to catch your breath as you plopped onto a chair.

“I’m not going to lie, boys,” you said solemnly. Azriel held back a chuckle, only you would get away with calling the High Lords ‘boys.’ Except for Thesan, the other High Lords were secretly afraid of you. “What I saw was disheartening, the army was twice the size of the first battle. I tried looking to see if more ships were arriving by sea, but I saw no movement as far as I could see. It’s a possibility they glamoured their ships so I don’t know for sure.”

There were so many things to prepare for and you were constantly moving around the tent strategizing over the war table’s scale map of the battlefield. Despite being busy all day, so much of your attention was spent keeping track of Azriel’s whereabouts. You always wanted him in your line of sight, it was easy to evade him that way. Despite your diligence, it was hard to truly avoid him, especially after you realized that whenever his gaze landed on you, it felt like a cool breeze caressed your skin.

The last interaction you had with Azriel at the healer's tent was so intimate that it terrified you. You remember reveling in his presence and you hated that you were still thinking about it. Then there was the possibility of Azriel asking you out on a date. You were curious to know if that was what he meant or if your paranoia of someone getting close to you was affecting how you viewed his intentions.

Once battle strategizing was done, you allowed yourself to look over at Azriel who was talking to Cassian. You had to admit he looked incredibly handsome in his Illyrian leathers that it was tempting enough to go and talk to him. Before the Shadowsinger had the chance to make eye contact and weaken your resolve, you grabbed Thesan and Callon and winnowed them to the Dawn Court camp. The two males looked at your retreating form in shock, the force of your power making you winnow so fast, it gave them whiplash. They watched you enter your private tent and gave each other concerned looks.

Lounging in bed, you rubbed your chest hoping to get rid of this tight feeling, but it never prevailed. It was one of the reasons why you were so tired after your mission, the whole time you felt constricted even though there was nothing physically wrong with you. It was anxiety but you couldn’t pinpoint what was causing it. Was it about the upcoming battle? Your family's safety? The court's safety? Whatever it was, you hoped it would go away soon.

***

The cool crisp air drifting from the Winter Court felt like a blessing as it dried your warm and clammy skin. From the sky, the battlefield looked even more chaotic in comparison to what you saw on the ground. The Prythian troops were getting slightly overwhelmed, which prompted Thesan to signal that now was a suitable time to use your ‘venom’. Breathing hard and rubbing your chest, you force yourself to concentrate and harness your power. With enough of your golden energy gathered at the palm of your hands, you send a burst of magic to the Hybern soldiers.

Moments later, about two hundred soldiers dropped to their knees as they coughed up blood and keeled over. Some were screaming in pain and others just dropped dead. You tried to muster more magic, but it sputtered and only reached a couple dozen Hybern soldiers before noticing your magic reserves had run dry. The soldiers you killed allowed a few moments rest for Prythian, but it wasn’t enough, everyone was back to fighting. Joining the soldiers on the ground, you felt your cheeks redden knowing you barely made a dent against the enemy. The Courts desperately needed the upper hand, and you couldn’t give it to them.

Using your embarrassment as fuel, you moved swiftly and cut through the Hybern soldiers. Caked in dirt, blood, and sweat, the Prythians slowly moved forward as the scale tipped in your nation’s favor. At one point, you, Wyla, and Azriel formed a trio that worked well together quickly taking down the enemy. A day ago, you were avoiding the male, but you couldn’t afford to think like that. In battle, all of that was irrelevant, it was either kill or be killed.

It was mesmerizing watching Azriel fight, he was like an impenetrable wall with his sword and dagger. Even his shadows worked in tandem with him, they watched his back and were weapons themselves. You had forgotten his shadows were weapons too, those same wisps that once gently wrapped around your hands were now striking for the kill.

All was going well until you watched a Hybern commander cut Cassian from his navel to sternum. With your eyes wide open, a scream escaped your lips as your death and poison rolled off your fingers. With precision, you directed your magic to every single Hybern soldier within ten feet of Cassian. They dropped dead within seconds. With a beat of your wings, you were the first person to reach the General, your glowing hands the only thing keeping his organs inside.

“Shit!” you roared, laying Cassian on the ground. “Stay with me Cassian!” He was screaming in pain and there wasn’t much you could do but keep your glowing hands on him. If you let go, he was going to die.

His skin was stitching too slowly, and he was losing too much blood, you willed more healing magic toward his abdomen, but you were too tired. He was going to need a well-rested healer or Thesan, but he was still fighting. In seconds, you decided that you had to save your new friend. You winnowed the both of you to the joint Dawn and Night Court's healing tent, your abrupt arrival made them jump in surprise. They helped you place a too-pale Cassian on a cot and immediately began to help you heal.

Quickly wiping your bloody hands with a cloth, you efficiently ordered the team of Night and Dawn healers. “I want one of you to focus your magic on stopping his bleeding, someone to clean the impurities that got into his body, and I want another healer to start stitching the skin on the sternum. I will focus on the arrangement of the organs and begin reconnecting the abdominal muscles. Please and thank you.”

The Night Court healers knew who you were, word had spread that the Dawn healer they learned from decades ago was the 2nd in command and Golden Warrior. Most healers in Prythian learned what they knew from the schools in Dawn Court, and under the guise of a normal Dawn Court citizen, you were able to work and teach healers from all over Prythian. After careful and fast work, you were able to reconnect the abdominal muscles which meant the worst part had finally passed. His body would have to finish the rest of the healing but with the work you did, he was going to survive.

Cassian was only asleep due to a strong painkilling potion, but you could tell the pain was still there because his brows were furrowed. You and a healer named Madja were stitching his skin together when Azriel and Rhysand winnowed into the tent. You lifted a quizzical brow at Rhysand, and he verbally confirmed that the battle was over, and Thesan was safe. Rhysand stood over Cassian, his features a combination of concern and fury. From what you could gather from his and Azriel’s conversation, Cassian had disobeyed a direct order from his High Lord, and it resulted in today’s injury.

After you and a healer named Madja finished stitching to the best of your abilities, you sagged against the wall in complete exhaustion. Healing Cassian took all your remaining energy. Azriel rushed to your side and helped you sit on a cot. He felt how drained you were and drew you close to lean your body against his. You were so tired it didn’t even cross your mind how intimate this gesture was.

Rhysand and Azriel profusely thanked you for all you’ve done for their brother. Feyre and Mor rushed into the tent and the blonde made a beeline toward you. She wrapped you in a big hug and blubbered her ‘thank yous’ before making her way to Cassian.

Azriel was looking at you with his eyes wide open and his pupils blown out. He was so impressed he couldn’t believe you were his mate. Without you, he would have lost his brother and that alone made him forever indebted to you. He felt good now that you were safely by his side, the feeling of your weight against him made his heart flutter.

You cast your magic over Cassian one last time and nodded in approval. “He’s going to be fine, a few days rest and he’ll be back to normal. Make sure he takes it easy.”

Realizing how close you were to Azriel, you sat up and leaned away from his warm body. You stomped down the feeling of comfort you were getting from him. He opened his mouth to say something, but you didn’t give him a chance.

Azriel’s cheeks burned as he watched your mud-stained wings grow smaller as you briskly walked away. He was glad that his family was occupied with Cassian to take notice of him. He could tell you were avoiding him, and that very idea made him feel like shit. He knew he pushed too far by inviting you to Velaris, he should’ve listened to that little voice inside his head that told him he wasn’t worthy of love.

Turning his attention back to Cassian, he inspected the work you’ve done. He listened to Madja as she spoke to Feyre and Rhys. Madja was Rhysand’s most trusted healer and to hear her speak about you in such high regard made his chest swell. His shadows whispered their approval as they danced around him. He just wished he knew what you were thinking.

***

With your skin scrubbed clean and a fresh set of clothes, you walked into the main war tent with confidence. The icy blonde heads of the Winter Court swiveled in your direction, Kallias gave a nod to Thesan as Viviane waved you over to the chair next to her. The two of you were chatting about what type of potions you use for clear skin when you found out that Kallias had banned his wife from fighting.

Leaning forward dramatically, you glared at the High Lord of Winter. After semi-hostile banter and input from the other courts arriving, you helped convince Kallias to let Viviane fight in the next battle. You and Viviane were giggling about Kallias’s pout when you felt a cool caress on the scarred side of your face. You turned to see Azriel’s earnest eyes on you as Night Court filed into the tent.

Captivated, you keep eye contact before you see Viviane bristle in the corner of your eye. Her eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and fascination, following her gaze you saw someone you’ve only heard about.

Amren. Rhysand’s 2nd in command.

You could feel her power now that you noticed her presence. Her sharp eyes fleet across the room as she nods to everyone in her presence. The only thing you know about her is that she was thousands of years old and extremely powerful. Thesan and Rhysand waved you over to officially meet her and you could understand why everyone in the room stiffened when she came in, Amren was terrifying. Her stature was one of the shortest in the room and yet, she had this menacing aura around her.

Her silver eyes scanned you from head to toe and then looked curiously over to your wings. Everyone held their breath as they watched two powerful beings size each other up. Amren flashed her perfect teeth and grinned at you wickedly. She grasped your hand in a hold that you assumed was a custom way of greeting in whatever world she came from. She told you she was excited to work with you in the future.

The meeting finally started, and the High Lords and Generals discussed any advantages we could have. The court’s scouts were reporting that the next fight was most likely the last battle. Hybern’s forces increasingly grew as more ships transported them from their island. They were also moving into human territories, which posed another problem. The odds against Prythian’s armies and Hybern’s forces were looking grim.

While discussing Spring and Autumn Court’s participation, High Lord Helion pointed out that he could tell you were not reaching your full potential. He criticized Thesan for keeping you hidden away for all these years when you could have been trained to do bigger things. This pissed Thesan off, his teeth gritted as he tells Helion he had his reasons, but Helion was having none of it.

“Maybe that’s the extent of her power,” interjected Kallias. “She may be a great warrior but there could be a chance she’s not as powerful as we think. I think we’re putting too much pressure on someone who just can’t perform.��

Viviane grimaced as she looked at you for a reaction. Sometimes she couldn’t believe her husband didn’t get in any more fights with the way he talked and presented himself.

“There's no way in Hel her little display in yesterday’s battle is all she could do,” pressed Helion. “Do you not feel her power? I choke on it every time she walks into the room. She’s just untrained, that’s all.”

You cringed as the other High Lords and their entourage agreed. Feeling embarrassed, you reigned in your power and stored it in the sapphire necklace that appears on your neck. It was humiliating to hear them agree that you could do much more… save more Prythian lives if you were strong enough. Your heart started to pound, you wanted to defend yourself, but they were right.

Azriel could feel the anguish under your calm demeanor, he wished he could bash the heads of everyone who was speaking ill of you. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and comfort you, but he couldn’t. Instead, he let a shadow discreetly curl around your ankle. Even if it was a small gesture, he had to do something to show his support.

The moment you felt the cool wisp touch your skin, you knew who and what it was. The burning anger in your chest slowed as you held the gaze of the Shadowsinger. You give him a discreet nod and he responds with the smallest quirk of his lips. To your surprise, another gesture of comfort came from Tarquin who sat on your other side. He placed a large reassuring hand on your thigh and kept it there, it was affectionate, and bewilderingly, you didn’t swat him away.

Tired of all the bullshit the males were spewing, Amren piped in as she picked on her red nails. “You choke on it because you’re all too weak to handle it,” she said coolly. “Don’t worry about our angel of death, she will be powerful enough when the time comes.”

You're not sure whether it was because everyone was afraid of Amren or because of the finality in her tone, but the topic thankfully changed. Her support was appreciated but you have no idea why she was confident in you. With a shadow still wrapped around your ankle, you sat and contemplated how you could reach your full potential.

***

The next few days were spent doing everything you and Thesan could think would help you harness control of your power. The problem wasn’t the stamina of your magic, for 12 hours straight you were doing extensive protective magic around the camps and your magic never faltered. After many theories were evaluated, it all boiled down to either a mental block or something the Mother or Cauldron intended. Thesan had ordered you to relax as much as you could but that was a ridiculous request. An attack on the camps could happen at any moment and it was impossible to relax when that was a possibility.

You had just spent the last 8 hours back in Dawn Court checking the magical shields in the borders and doing research with the priestesses. You invited them to your private library, and you all scoured the books for any information on how to develop your magic. No one found any new information on how to boost your powers, but the priestesses did stumble on something that could be useful. There was a death god named Achlys from thousands of years ago who could poison people like you. The ancient tome didn’t have much information, but Achlys was noted to have developed their magic and had become incredibly powerful. The priestess made a point that in theory, you should be able to cultivate your powers to grow stronger and do things you never imagined.

The head priestess, Irabel, revisited one of Thesan’s theories about your problem being connected to the Cauldron or the Mother. After some prayer, meditation, and focusing on your aura, she believed you were having problems because you were not “whole”. She said she sensed that there was a missing piece in your soul. You blinked at her as if she had two heads. You were more than a hundred years old; you would have noticed if a piece of your soul was missing.

She shook her head, “You may feel perfectly fine because you’ve never felt your soul completely intact.”

“Prythian is at war, and we desperately need every advantage. How do I find the missing piece?” you asked urgently. “I need to find the other piece.”

Irabel looks at you with a fond smile. “My lady, I think the Mother may be implying that you are blessed with a mate. I suspect that you won’t have full capacity of your powers until you are mated.”

Your ears started to ring. No fucking way. This was the last thing you wanted.

“W-what?” you stammered. This may be one of the worst news you’ve ever received. “High Priestess… a mate… the bond… that’s not an option for me.”

“This is all theory, but you do seem to be glowing brighter since the last time I saw you which was before Thesan came back from Under the Mountain. Maybe you’ve met your mate since then. Has there been someone you’ve met and had a connection with?”

Your mind drew a blank until a certain male with rich brown skin and turquoise eyes popped up. Tarquin. It had to be the High Lord of Summer; you should have suspected since you two became easy friends. Until Tarquin, you’ve never slept with the same male twice. Hot panic flooded your bloodstream, you couldn’t believe your worst fears were coming true.

“There’s not enough time for a mating bond,” you diverted. You were going to spare the High Priestess from your slander against something as sacred as a mate bond. Taking a moment to gather yourself, you looked at Irabel fiercely. “Please, there must be a way to be stronger by the time the battle arrives.”

She rested her chin on her steepled fingers. “We mustn't forget the power of sheer will. This may not be the answer you were looking for, but it may be your best chance.”

Once you said goodbye to the priestesses and received word they were safely back in their temple, you winnowed to the war camps. You trudged to Thesan’s tent where you ranted about the discoveries to your cousin and Callon. Thesan kept note to do further research on the god named Achlys, but Callon was far more concerned about finding out who your mate was. At first, you weren’t going to tell them who you thought it was but Thesan and Callon were persuasive. Thesan promised you an exceedingly long vacation if you told them, so you did.

The shock on both their faces was almost worth the agony of knowing you might have a mate and it was probably Tarquin. Thesan didn’t say a word as he looked at you quizzically. Callon on the other hand could barely contain his excitement. He knew you never wanted to be in a relationship, but he couldn’t help but feel joyous for you.

You weren’t on a battlefield today but the level of exhaustion you were feeling felt like you’d participated in one. The weight to perform in the final battle sat heavily on your shoulders and all this nonsense about a mate made things worse.

Saying goodnight, you walked to your tent warily looking around hoping a certain High Lord wasn’t popping by for a visit. You had no idea if you could even look at Tarquin now that you knew what you knew. You scrutinized every interaction you had with him and the more you did that, the more you were convinced he might be your mate. Despite everything, the mating bond must not have snapped because you felt nothing, and you were grateful for that. It would be difficult to avoid Tarquin forever, so you vowed to never touch him again to avoid the snap.

Irritation crawled up your neck at the thought of the High Lord of Summer. In an attempt to forget about him, you submerged yourself in the hot bath water. After washing up and getting dressed, you were so tired that you only bothered to wear underwear and a long tunic that stopped mid-thigh.

Flopping into bed, sleep quickly took over as vivid dreams enveloped your mind. It was a strange dream, nothing was making sense, but you felt like you were being chased, the sounds of howling behind you. The rest of the dream was muddled, the only thing you could clearly see was a scene of Azriel only wearing his Illyrian leather pants. He was leaning forward like he was in pain; blood was dripping from his torso and wings. The rest of the dream was bland, you were just about to peacefully doze in dark bliss when a heavy hand shook your shoulder.

“Quick! Get up, it’s the Shadowsinger!” said Callon urgently. “He needs a healer.”

You rolled out of bed and sprung onto your feet at the mention of Azriel. “What’s happening? Did Hybern attack the camps?” you asked, frantically looking around the tent.

Callon shook his head. “Something happened with the Night Court. Rhysand winnowed in Azriel and requested you since you know more about wings. It’s bad.”

The graveness of Callon’s voice made you make a beeline toward the exit only stopping to tug boots onto your feet. It was past midnight, and the only bright light was coming from the healer's tent. You strode in and the first thing you saw was Azriel who was bickering with Rhysand who was trying to get his brother to sit down and relax.

A gasp escaped your lips as you saw the injuries inflicted on Azriel’s body. There he was- shirtless and roughed up just like the scene from your dream. There were slow healing cuts everywhere and parts of his wings were ripped to shreds. Your eyes roamed over the expanse of his tattooed chest, he was still glistening in sweat, and it made the black swirls that decorated his skin pop out.

Their eyes snapped at you, Azriel’s eyes widened and then his body went slack as he sunk onto a cot. The sudden movement made the claw marks bleed more. Thesan who was assessing the damage looked up and sighed in relief.

“Thank goodness you’re here! He was shot by a faebane arrow and Nuan’s anti-faebane compound can only do so much. It’s affecting both of our healing abilities, and his wings aren’t looking too good,” said Thesan. “Do you think you can extract the poison?”

You stepped closer and peered at his lacerations. You could smell the sharp scent of faebane from the arrow wound on his shoulder. This was something you’d never done before but you could try.

Sitting next to Azriel, you hovered a glowing hand over a wound and you felt the strange resistance of faebane. You grasped his shoulder and Azriel winced at your touch.

“How bad does it hurt?” you asked.

Azriel rolled his neck trying to ignore the burning pain. “The arrow puncture doesn’t hurt much, it’s my wings I’m worried about,” said Azriel.

You sucked in a breath as you glanced at his wings. They were going to need extensive work and it was going to be extremely painful for him.

“You didn’t answer my question,” you said as you started the process of concentrating energy onto your fingers. “How are you feeling right now?”

“I feel better now that you’re here,” said Azriel honestly.

Rhysand’s eyes widened as Thesan and Callon shot each other looks. Your mouth curved into a smile as Azriel sputtered.

“You know- I feel better because you’re a master healer with wings,” said Azriel. “I’m in good hands.”

“Of course,” you said taking hold of his shoulder once more.

Azriel wanted to disappear into his shadows. He couldn’t believe he said that in front of everyone.

Closing your eyes, you breathed deeply as the magic concentrated in your hand. Instead of willing the poison to be released from you, you pressed your fingertips onto his skin as you tried to will the faebane out of the wound.

“I am death and poison,” you whispered, barely audible. Golden tendrils from your hand are absorbed into his skin. “Like calls to like. Come to me.”

Azriel’s eyes widened as he felt the strange sensation of your magic, it stung but your proximity was enough distraction. He let your presence calm his mind as he watched your magic in awe. Azriel moved his gaze to see your face slightly scrunched in concentration, the scar on the side contorting as your eyes crinkled. From the beginning, he was always attracted to you but the more time he spent with you, he found your beauty to be always flourishing.

Ever so slowly, you retract your fingers, and the tendrils had latched onto blood that was poisoned by faebane. Carefully, you pulled out all the faebane you could detect in Azriel’s system. Rhysand, Thesan, and Callon watched in wonder as they had never seen anything like this. Once you were finished and had a mass of Azriel’s poisoned blood properly disposed of in some pocket realm, they exploded into excited chatter.

While you appreciated their appreciation, there was still much to be done and they were far too distracting.

“Boys!” you snapped. “I may have gotten the poison out, but we are not out of the woods yet. Either shut up and let me work in silence or get out of the tent!”

Azriel chuckled as he watched his brother, Dawn’s High Lord, and a strong warrior shuffle out of the tent. He loved the idea that his mate had the power to make the High Lords do what you wanted. Granted it was your cousin and Rhysand, but it still meant that his mate was powerful, and he was beginning to adore that about you.

With no distractions, you were able to carefully work on Azriel’s wounds. To distract him from the pain, you asked him what happened. He explained that Hybern had taken Feyre’s sister Elain and that he and the High Lady went on a mission to retrieve her. He ended up having to carry Elain and a human girl while under attack. You gaped at him as you thought of the sheer strength it must have taken to do that. It explained the feminine scents that lingered on his skin you noticed earlier.

The scents weren’t the only thing you noticed. The black swirled tattoos that covered his chest and arms were so beautiful, you had to keep refocusing your attention. The swirls were mesmerizing, they reminded you of his shadows and you couldn’t stop looking. The black ink curved against the muscles under his skin, you had never gotten over how muscular this male was.

Once the wounds on his torso were taken care of, you moved to sit behind him so you could start mending his severely injured wings. Well aware Illyrian wings were sensitive, you wanted to survey what you had to work with before you touched him. Callon wasn’t lying when he said the wings were bad, they were wrecked, and you had no idea if they would heal in time for the big battle. With how tense Azriel was, you were sure the male was putting on a strong façade because if your wings looked like this, you’d be in agony.

“Azriel, I'm going to need to touch your wings to heal you,” you said. “Do I have permission?”

Azriel suddenly felt a little light-headed, he wasn’t sure if was from blood loss or the anticipation of you near his wings again. He nodded and sucked in a breath when he felt your warm hands poke and prod his wings as you examined him. He was glad he was in pain, otherwise, he didn’t think he’d be able to resist you.

“How do they look? Will I fly again?” said Azriel. He was so caught up in your presence that he had almost forgotten why he was in a healer's tent.

“I’m not going to lie,” you said softly “It doesn’t look good, but I haven’t started yet, my answer could change when we’re done.”

He turned to look at you and your heart plunged a little. He looked scared and vulnerable, the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen a warrior be. You don’t blame him, the idea of losing the freedom to fly was something you could understand.

“You should know it’s going to be painful, pain like you’ve never felt before,” you warned. “I’m going to do my best, but you’ll have to bear with me.”

“I trust you,” said Azriel.

It was strange to hear that coming from his own tongue. He had never trusted anyone this quickly, but he knew who you were to him. Despite the knowledge that you were his mate, his gut could tell that he could trust you with his life.

He said it with such conviction, that a gentle smile graced your lips.

“Thank you, Azriel. Good to know I have it,” you said. Clearing your throat, you place your hands on his shoulders and make him turn around again. “I want you to talk to me, tell me anything that’ll get your mind off the pain.”

He nodded and then the slow and excruciating process began. He felt every tug and magical stitch and it sent him rambling more about the mission and how he had to escape Hybern while carrying an Archeron sister and a human girl. You carefully worked and listened intently, his deep voice letting you slip into an ultra-concentrated trance. It was broken when you hit a nerve which sent Azriel gripping the cot and letting out a strained yelp. You apologized and let him gather himself before leaning down to continue healing.

“What was your childhood like?” you asked, trying to distract him.

Azriel’s shadows began to swarm around him, protective of their master. He wordlessly told them that it was alright, so they calmed.

“My childhood was… difficult,” replied Azriel. “You know, I’m no stranger to pain. It’s all I’ve felt my entire life.”

Your fingers froze over his wings, was he going to talk about the scars on his hands?

Letting out a shaky breath, you replied. “Oh?”

Blinking, you continued to heal while doing your best to calm your heartbeat. A part of you was eager to find out if you did have dreams about Azriel being locked in a cellar. A larger part of your subconscious was scared to find out because it would mean there was a deeper connection between the two of you. Even when you weren’t thinking about it, your heart was always protecting you.

Azriel glanced down at his clenched fists. Those scarred hands that he hated so much. He decided not to tell you what really happened to him, he didn’t want to scare you away with his childhood trauma. So instead, he resorted to deflecting which he was an expert at.

“Enough about me, I want to know what’s troubling you,” said Azriel as he smirked and looked back at you.

You raised a brow. “What makes you think something is troubling me?

“First of all, your energy is practically suffocating me at this moment and the second reason is you’re not wearing any pants. You’re Thesan’s 2nd, you would never step out in public looking informal.”

Jerking back in surprise, you looked down to see that he was right. You were only wearing a tunic and boots, your bare skin brushing against his waistband and back. Hyper-aware of how close you were to Azriel, you moved backward as heat rushed to your cheeks.

“I apologize for my appearance; I was in such a rush I didn’t realize I only had my tunic on!”

Azriel shrugged nonchalantly, the movement making him grimace in pain.

“It’s alright. I appreciate the urgency,” said Azriel.

You continued your delicate work on his wings while making sure there was enough distance between the two of you.

“You didn’t answer my first question. What’s gotten you so distracted you forgot to put pants on?” asked Azriel. “Is it the upcoming battle?”

Chewing the inside of your lip, you contemplated whether you should say anything. This was an incredibly personal topic but the weight it had on your shoulders was intense, you needed to talk about it. Choosing your words carefully, you make sure you don’t reveal too much.

“I was recently told that to be more powerful, I would have to find the other half of my soul…” you said quietly. “When I was searching for answers, that was the last thing I wanted to hear.”

Is she talking about the mate bond? Does she know about our bond? thought Azriel.

His heart started to pound as he tried to form the proper words in his head. Azriel stammered, “Uh- when you say your other half, do you mean—"

“The oh-so-sacred mate bond?” you interrupted; your voice laced with dismay.

Azriel felt the blood drain from his face, you sounded scared. “You told me you didn’t like relationships, but I didn’t think it extended to the mating bond.”

You sighed as you focused on healing a tendon in his wing. “I told you I have complicated feelings about love. What’s troubling me is I think I may have met my mate and I know who it is.”

“Oh?” said Azriel shakily. “Who do you think it is?”

“Before I say anything, you need to promise you won’t speak a word about this to anyone else. If you break my trust, I swear I’ll make sure you shit and vomit for an entire day. It’ll be the worst day of your life.”

Azriel hastily agreed. He wanted to laugh but the suspense was overpowering everything.

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but the High Priestess suspects I have a mate, and if her theory is right…. I think it’s someone I've recently slept with,” you admitted.

Jealousy ignited within the shadowsinger as he turned to look at you. You protested his sudden movement and his wings and muscles screamed at him, but Azriel couldn’t care less. He felt his blood boil as he thought of another male touching you. It took everything in him not to demand who your lover was, you had every right to sleep with anyone you wanted and Azriel had to live with that.

“What are you going to do about it?” asked Azriel lowly. His head was spinning, he wasn’t sure if he was ready to hear your answer.

You looked down in shame, were you going to tell Azriel how you planned to never talk to Tarquin again? The entire idea was ridiculous, but you were going to do anything to make sure that bond would never snap between the both of you. Slowly, you looked up to see Azriel’s exhausted features but despite everything he’d been through today, his gaze was sharp and calculating. There was a tinge of vulnerability in his hazel eyes, you weren’t sure why but that was enough to convince you to be honest.

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you looked down at your still-glowing hands. “I don’t know… ignore him forever? All I know is I’m terrified.”

“I don’t understand, what’s so scary about it?”

“Something as strong as the mate bond makes you so vulnerable and weak. I’ve seen what it’s done to my parents and other couples, the bond is a weakness and I refuse to let it distract me,” you admitted. “It doesn’t even have to be a mate bond, love itself is a corruption.”

Azriel was speechless as he tried to come up with something to say. He had never met anyone like you, and it made his heart twist knowing that his mate thought like this. In his silence, you gently urged him to turn around so you could continue to heal him. You were almost done stitching his wings when he finally spoke.

“What happened to you?” he asked, he didn’t bother hiding the sadness and confusion in his voice. “What happened to make you think like this?”

You thought about telling him about your parents, but you stopped yourself, it was too difficult and too personal to talk about. Instead, you let your hand's repetitive movements lull you into a memory.

“25 years ago, I was out on patrol with two Peregryns who were spouses. A creature was wreaking havoc on a town and at the time, we didn’t know it was a Puca.”

Azriel breathed sharply, he already knew it was going to be a horrible end.

“At one point, we were all separated and the Puca lured the wife pretending to be her injured husband. It was too late when we noticed, I didn’t even hear her yell…it was her blood that I smelt first. Her husband and I killed the Puca but the scream he let out when he saw her body—I can still hear it sometimes,” you said thickly. “We would check on him occasionally, but he was never the same. He was a shell of a male; it was only when the curse broke that I saw him walking around the city and even then, he looked ghastly and bleak.”

No one spoke after that, just the quiet shuffling of your hands moving and you and Azriel’s heartbeats. You wondered what Azriel was thinking, he probably lost all respect for you once he heard your opinions on something so sacred. Casting your magic over his wings and other injuries, you concluded that you did everything possible and that only time would heal the rest of his wounds.

Mindful you were going to face him after your haphazard explanation of why you don’t want a mate, you gathered your courage to reveal the bad news. Moving to sit on the cot across from Azriel, you explained to him that he was going to need at least 2 weeks of complete rest. It took him a second but when it dawned on him that he wouldn’t be able to participate in the big battle, he slumped forward and covered his face with his hands.

You looked at him in shock, you expected him to argue and fight against your orders, but he just sat there and breathed heavily. While you were concerned for the shadowsinger, Azriel was holding back hysterical laughter and roars of frustration. He wasn’t angry at you; he was furious at the world for all the hardships they’d thrown at him.

His own mate was so frightened and resistant of the mate bond, that you had deluded yourself into thinking another male was your mate. If only you knew who you were talking to, thought Azriel, you’d have a heart attack. He also cursed the universe for his injuries. How could he keep still while you and his family were fighting for their country? Azriel thought he was going to snap until he felt you place a hand on his knee.

“Azriel? I’m so sorry, I know how much you want to fight but your wings won’t last,” you said gently. “If you try to fly too soon, you’ll have irreparable damage on your wings.”

Collecting his thoughts, it took him a while to respond. “What if I don’t fly? Can’t I stay on the ground and fight there?” asked Azriel.

You looked at the beautiful, battered male in front of you. The healing you and Thesan could only do so much once faebane had affected it. You were able to remove the poison from his blood, but the damage was already done.

Shaking your head, you squeezed his knee in an attempt to comfort him. “I’m sorry, baby bat. I wouldn’t risk it if you want to fly again, I’ll make sure Rhysand gets briefed, so you don’t try to undermine my orders.”

He chuckled and a smile made its way to your lips at the rich sound. The both of you sat in silence once more, listening to the nocturnal animals make their faint sounds around the war camp.

“I think I understand you better now,” said Azriel, his voice slicing through the air. “You’re not scared of love or relationships. You shut yourself out because you’re scared of losing people. You’re scared of how much it’ll hurt once someone you genuinely love disappears from your life.”

Your jaw dropped as you blinked at him. No one had ever spoken to you that bluntly, let alone try to analyze your character like that and you did not like it. He was wrong but something about his words rang true. It almost seemed like Azriel was trying to make you feel bad for feeling like that, but it only did the opposite.

Memories of your parent's abandonment flooded your mind, and you blinked back tears. You were going to make sure that bond would never snap between you and Tarquin.

You would do anything.

“I don’t think you understood my story,” you chided, leaning closer to Azriel. “I don’t want a mate or a lover because I don’t want to be weak.”

Azriel raised a brow, he didn’t think you’d be this hard-headed. “Love doesn’t make you weak, little dove. Ignorance does.”

“It’s not ignorance, it’s awareness,” you quipped back. “Look me in the eye and tell me that you haven’t been worried sick about Morrigan in the last two battles. You took your eye off the enemy, Azriel, that sounds like vulnerability to me.”

Azriel couldn’t believe you mentioned Morrigan. He wished he could tell that it was you who he was always checking on, but he couldn’t do that. He wished he could tell you that a mate is what he’s been waiting for all his life.

The world felt eerily still as you and Azriel gravitated closer to each other, both of you desperate for the other individual to see their point. Azriel’s burning gaze took in the beauty of his irrational mate. If only you knew the whole truth, you’d be swallowing your words. With your faces inches apart, your eyes hovered over his lips and something within wanted to press your lips against his… to do anything to forget the High Lord of Summer.

Slowly, the scent of the disinfectants and potions in the tent dispersed into the nether. The only thing you could smell was the pleasant waft of cedarwood and the chilled mist of night. Your gaze flickered to his hazel eyes and suddenly, all thoughts of formality, consequence, and reason flew out the window.

“Can I kiss you?”

Azriel sharply inhaled. Did he just hear you correctly? He thought his mind was playing tricks with him until he saw the intensity in your eyes. “Why?” he asked shakily.

“Help me forget him,” you whispered. “I don’t want to be weak.”

Azriel should’ve said no for both his and your sake. He could only imagine how furious you would be once you found out he was your actual mate, but he couldn’t resist this request. He was desperate for you, and he would take scraps if that was all you would give him. For you, he was learning he would do anything.

He never thought he could feel heartbroken and elated at the same time. Azriel took his hand and placed it tenderly on the scarred side of your face. Your eyes go wide as he gently strokes your cheek with his thumb. Wholly taking advantage of the opportunity you gave him, he memorized every single detail, down to every hair, fine line, freckle, and beauty mark on your face. Gathering his courage, he pulled you towards him and you met him halfway.

The moment your lips met; everything went blank. All was forgotten but Azriel. His presence was the only thing you could sense. Everything felt magnified. His lips were soft as they slowly moved against yours. The scrape of your tunic sleeve as it brushed against his chest sounded like thunder. The smooth glide of your hands felt like silk as you gently pulled him closer where his neck met his shoulder.

Being this close and kissing Azriel felt exhilarating, so much so that your golden glow was detected with closed eyes. You don’t know if it was 30 seconds or 30 minutes but time felt different. Slightly out of breath, the both of you leaned your foreheads against each other in disbelief. Suddenly, the loud chatter of Rhysand and Thesan by the tent opening makes you and Azriel spring apart.

You were just able to stand up and straighten yourself out when Rhysand and your cousin casually strode in, their faces smooth and unreadable. Moments later Calon and Cassian walked in, and they met your eye with smirks on their lips. You cringed at the thought of the four fae hearing what went down between you and Azriel. You gave the warriors a warning glare that would ensure their silence for the time being.

Still slightly dazed from your kiss with Azriel, you gestured to Rhysand to walk with you to the corner of the tent in a desperate attempt to clear your mind before speaking to the High Lord. Clearing your throat, you explained to Rhysand what you were able to mend and how much damage the faebane had done to his body. You tell him that you highly recommend Azriel to be banned from fighting in the next battle. Rhysand asked questions and you prayed to the Mother he wouldn’t mention anything about the shadowsinger’s scent that wafted from you.

As the shadowsinger watched his mate talk to his brother, Azriel tugged hard against the golden thread in his chest but to his dismay, the other side was still vast and empty. He still couldn’t believe he’d kissed you, with the way things were going, he never thought he’d get the chance. Despite the bond not snapping for you, Azriel could tell with the way you were breathless and glowing; that at this moment, whoever your lover was, was long forgotten.

For now, this was enough for Azriel.

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