An Education In Malice Part Five

An Education in Malice — Part Five

Pairing: Vanserra!Reader x Azriel

Summary: With the sharp tongue of your notorious family, you are Azriel's most tantalizing challenge yet. It only takes one small meeting before you both realize that the line between hate and desire is dangerously thin.

Warnings: lots of bickering, some IC drama, underlying sexual tension, threats, forced proximity trope, brief mentions of abuse, the sickening sense of being vulnerable and being perceived, helion not being a snitch

Word Count: 8.9k

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✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Azriel was many things.

It could take him years to list all of the attributes he held— characteristics that spanned between inherently good and inherently bad. Centuries of living had led him to creating so many different versions of himself, some more kind than others, some more wise. But none of them were weak. 

Since the day he’d been freed from that basement, hands charred and shaky, a newfound anger burning in his chest, Azriel spent every minute ensuring he wasn’t weak.

Yet, your voice persisted in his mind. 

You are weak. 

It wasn’t physical strength you were referring to. Which, perhaps, made the statement even worse. Because deep down Azriel was troubled by the fact that you maybe were right. Maybe he was weak. Somehow, someway, you had gotten under his skin— buried yourself somewhere deep and hidden. As much as he tried, he couldn't dig you out, couldn't stop your voice from echoing tirelessly in his mind.

A slave to your anger.

Azriel’s fists slammed into the training dummy. 

To your impulses.

He threw another punch.

to your High Lord.

A biting feeling nagged at his battered knuckles, at the ridged scars that marred them. 

You have always been weak.

Azriel let out a curse as a streak of pain painted his arm. 

This was an unusual form of training for him, the bare hands and hand-to-hand combat. Usually, he practiced with a sword, with his weapons, and it was often sparring with Cassian. But Azriel needed something more today— needed to feel the pain in his own hands, needed something to pull him back into his body, to tie him down from floating away in his thoughts that were plagued by you. 

His wings flared, shadows whipping around him in a frenzied dance as he remembered the look on your face, the fire in your eyes. He replayed it in his mind over and over, focused on the hurt he had sworn he glimpsed there, a flash of vulnerability that you quickly masked with your anger. He couldn't shake the image, couldn't forget the rawness of your voice as you hurled those words at him. He’d begun to think he imagined it, that he’d somehow convinced himself that you’d shown some semblance of care. 

Weak. 

His self control was weak. Maybe this he could admit. He’d been working on it these past two years, working on how to control his temper, on how to be more approachable to those who hadn’t known him for centuries prior. A part of him had done it instinctively around Elain, scared to spook her like a terrified fawn in a forest. And then he began working on it for himself– to prove, in some sense, that he was still capable of being someone perhaps more deserving of a mate. 

It wasn’t going all too successfully, but he was working on it. At least, he was trying to. But with you, Azriel had no control. There were only three emotions he felt with you, only three reactions that his mind registered: fight, flee, or fuck. It had become too difficult to separate them—

Azriel.

The voice echoed in his mind. He skillfully pushed it away. There was an emotion deep in his chest that didn’t belong to that group of three, one that burned hot, tasted vile and sour. He felt it whenever he thought of you. 

He threw another punch. 

Azriel. 

His name was spoken with a tone much deeper this time, much more firm. It shot him back into a prior memory, into one of him staring into angry violet eyes with an icy defiance. Once again, he pushed away the force in his mind. The space that the call had occupied was quickly replaced by you. 

Rhysand’s face was etched into his memory too, a disappointed and angry look of a newly made father. Azriel didn’t want to see it again, didn't want to bother pretending he felt sorry. 

So he struck again. And again.

“Azriel.”

The voice was louder.

This time, it wasn’t just in his mind. It was real, commanding, and filled with an authority that made his shadows tremble for a moment, skittering to hover above his heavy, black boots. 

Azriel paused, chest heaving, and looked up to see Rhysand and Cassian standing at the edge of the training ring. He gave no verbal greeting, opting to straighten his back and tuck his wings into the blades of his back. 

Rhysand raised a brow, an edge of annoyance creeping into his voice. “I’ve been calling for you.”

Azriel only tossed a glance at Cassian before bringing a hand to wipe the sweat off his brow. Rhys sighed, a sound that was clipped in a sense of frustration. “We need to talk.”

Azriel looked at his hands, taking in the bloodied knuckles and the slight tremble in his fingers. His shadows slowly snaked around his forearms and he felt a tug deep within his chest. 

He cringed at the sensation, at the feeling that had grown to something so routine as of late. 

He assumed it was the nagging feeling of unfinished business, that he was restless and unsettled because, in any other case, he would’ve killed you, would’ve done something to keep you contained—but he couldn’t. He wasn’t allowed to. A beast wandering free and he was feral for you. Not that he’d ever admit it. Not even to his shadows. 

“I’m busy,” Azriel finally said, his voice cold and final. 

The tone of it felt so jarring that even Cassian’s eyes widened slightly in shock. From beside him, Rhysand’s jaw twitched. He stepped closer. 

“Well then. Finish what you're doing and meet me back in my office within the hour.”

Something burned beneath Azriel’s skin. “I’m not your dog,” he snapped.

Something shifted in the air and Azriel didn’t need to look over at his brothers to know he was pushing their patience— he could smell it, the offense that radiated off them. It should have made him sick, made him feel guilty if anything, but it didn't.

It was Cassian who replied first, a flaring anger as he stepped forward, wings extending with the movement. “Az,” he said sharply, a warning clear in his tone.

Azriel almost laughed to himself. Your voice rang in his mind again, loud and entirely too overwhelming. If he was a slave to Rhysand, what did that make Cassian? A better brother, maybe. An even better-trained dog, too.

Rhysand’s face flickered with indecision, as if he were struggling between what role he should assume—  that of the High Lord or that of a friend. Anger flashed in his violet eyes before he pushed it back. 

“No, you are not,” Rhysand said, “But you are my family and this court’s Spymaster. And I am calling on you in regard to those two positions you hold.”

A moment of silence passed and the thickness of it prickled at Cassian’s skin. He let out a scoff, focusing his gaze on Azriel as he shifted his weight on his feet. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Azriel glared at him.  “Nothing.”

Rhysand sighed. “Fine. You don’t want to leave this ring? I can work with that.” He beckoned Cassian to walk with him onto the ring, stepping closer to Azriel. “I’ve set up a meeting with Beron.”

Azriel’s head snapped up. “That is a bad idea.”

Rhysand raised his eyebrows. “You hid a prisoner from me and risked an entire alliance. I’m not asking for your approval.”

Azriel’s shadows wrapped coiled tighter against him. 

“So why are you telling me?” 

“Because you will need to be in attendance,” Rhysand replied. His tone left no room for argument. “And I expect you to be in control. Whatever issues you have with Y/N, you will not be repeating them again.”

Azriel cringed inwardly. His brother didn’t know the full extent of what had transpired. He only knew the story that Azriel had spun– one of you threatening to end the alliance if he didn’t help you with Renard, how he had claimed he couldn’t stand being around you anymore and ended it on his own terms. The beautifully and carefully constructed lie Azriel had fed him so easily that it concerned him. 

Cassian watched the tense exchange with a furrowed brow. It only took a few seconds before his restraint broke, and he let out a small growl in warning. “Cauldron, Az, are you itching for a fight?” he said, “I would’ve expected you to be ecstatic now that you're not forced to spend time with that pretentious bitch of a—”

“Shut the hell up,” Azriel snapped, his head whipping up to glare at Cassian. The force of his words made Cassian step back, the frown deepening on his face. His jaw tightened as he took a step forward, as if to ready himself to strike.

Azriel quickly checked himself and took a deep breath. “This has nothing to do with her,” he said, his voice strained but measured— controlled. “Of course I’m glad to be free of that gods-forsaken arrangement.” He sent a glance Rhysand’s way, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. “It never should have been made.”

Cassian opened his mouth, his protest painted clear in his expression, but Rhysand clapped a hand on his shoulder, silencing him before he spoke. “Cass, I need a moment with Az.”

Cassian looked offended, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to form words. “What—but—”

“Go,” Rhysand said firmly. Once again, his tone held no room for argument. Unlike Az, Cassian complied, but not without a head shake and a scoff.

Cassian grumbled under his breath, casting one last burning glance at Azriel before leaving the training ring. Az made a mental note that he’d have to fix that later, whatever small crack he’d just created between them. He wasn't too worried about it, but he needed to do it before the wound festered.

Once they were alone, Rhysand’s eyes bore into Azriel’s in a scrutinizing gaze. It was heavy, curious, and frustrated at the same time. It felt heavier than usual. “What is this really about?”

Azriel stared at him, shadows swirling around his hands. He shook his head. “Nothing.”

Rhysand’s expression hardened. “Azriel. You have already kept too much from me. I have been graceful.”

A muscle tensed in the shadowsinger's jaw.

“And if I don’t say anything? What will you do then? Command me to be honest?” Azriel’s voice was sharp. While there was a clear challenge in his tone, Rhysand recognized something else in it, something that reeked of insecurity, of a male unsettled.

Rhys narrowed his eyes and his power crackled beneath his skin. “Careful.”

They stood locked in a silent standoff, both rigid in posture and face tightened in a stare. Azriel’s mind raced as he weighed his options, desperately searching for the best route to end the conversation. He settled on a half truth.

“Eris can be predictable. But Y/N is not. And now we have no read on her.”

Rhysand narrowed his eyes. “And whose fault is that?”

Azriel snarled, but Rhysand let out a small sigh that cut through the sound. “Let me worry about that alliance. Get yourself together.”

And then he began to walk away, a picture-perfect image of calm and control.

“When is the meeting with Beron?” Azriel called after him.

Rhysand stopped and shrugged, a faint, almost dismissive gesture. “Maybe in two days. Or two weeks. We will see. Either way—my sentiment still stands.”

Azriel knew Rhysand was right; he needed to get himself together. But the disaster within him, the tangled mess of emotions and unresolved conflict, was driving him more mad that usual. Your face, your words, haunted him still, and he wondered if he would ever find a way to fix the mess you had left in your wake.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You made your way around the library, navigating through the rows of meticulously organized shelves, each one filled with hundreds of beautifully bound books. The scent of aged parchment and faint traces of magic hung in the air and you were almost tempted to linger and explore.

You'd always craved a day in the Day Court's libraries, a time to read and run your fingers along a variety of books. It was just as beautiful as you'd imagined, and you told yourself you'd return another day and appreciate it properly.

But right now, your focus was on a different kind of discovery. Skillfully avoiding the watchful eyes of Helion’s skilled librarians and guards—each dressed casually yet elegantly, exuding an air of quiet power—you moved with purpose.

It only took you a few more minutes before you found the heavy door concealed within a niche, its ancient wood imposing against the backdrop of polished stone. With a mixture of excitement and caution, you pushed it open, revealing a dimly lit chamber tucked away from prying eyes. There were countless shelves laden with dusty volumes lining the walls of the chamber. Small tables and ornate couches were spread throughout the room with faint, glittering faelights that accompanied them.

You could only imagine the type of people Helion had housed here, the conversations that must have unfolded amidst the quiet elegance that the space seemed to hold. 

A smile tugged at your lips as you stepped inside. 

And then you stilled as a prickling sensation bit at the nape of your neck.

You whirled around, seizing Azriel’s arm and slamming him against the wall. Surprise flitted across his face, replaced swiftly by a calculating gaze as he reversed your maneuver with effortless grace, pinning you back against the cool stone instead. 

Before you could offer him a few choice words, a faint shimmer of light danced through the air. The large door through which you had entered shut with a heavy thud, the surface of it shimmering faintly, as if an invisible force sealed it shut.

"No, no, no," you muttered under your breath, pushing Azriel off with enough force to make him stumble. His eyes darted across the room as you pressed your palms against the door, trying to push it open again, but it remained resolutely closed. The air around you crackled with suppressed magic. 

"What the hell was that?" he demanded, his voice tinged with urgency.

"It's a containment spell,” you bit out, “We're trapped.”

Some time passed in tense silence as Azriel moved methodically around the room. Your gaze followed his every move, your jaw set in a tight line as you swallowed down the insults that were itching to be thrown at him.

“Can’t you make them do something useful?” you snapped, nodding towards the black smoke that buzzed around Azriel’s form. “Send them to get help or something?”

Azriel rolled his eyes and his shadows seemed to mimic the movement, circling his arms in a fit of annoyance.  “Thank you for that brilliant idea,” he said, tone dripping with sarcasm. “If you haven’t noticed, princess, they are shadows.”

He gestured to the sunlight flooding through the cracks of the grand door.  “They can’t go out in broad daylight. And from what I’ve observed about this library, there's a lot of that. We’re going to have to wait until sunset.”

Helion’s libraries were bathed in perpetual sunlight, with large, open windows that invited the sun's rays to flood the space. It casted a warm, golden glow over the towering shelves in a way that made the space seem dreamlike, made it seem holy. The sunlight wasn’t just a feature; it was a constant presence— the library was filled with sunlight every hour of the day that the sun was shining.

This particular room, however, was the exception. It was windowless, the only light filtering in through the cracks of the large charmed door. The room was designed to preserve the unique and delicate books within, shielding them from the harsh sunlight that could damage their pages. You had come here specifically for this reason, to find a particular book in this carefully protected area.

“Sunset?” you echoed incredulously. “It’s nine in the fucking morning, Shadowsinger. You’re telling me I have to wait until either Helion finds us or until your little shadow dogs can finally go out and play?”

Azriel raised an eyebrow, his mouth falling into a tight line.  “Well, maybe you should break into libraries at more reasonable hours of the day.”

You resisted the urge to pull a book from one of the many shelves and hurl it his way. “I wasn’t breaking in,” you retorted, crossing your arms. “You made this a break-in when you followed me and set off some strange alarms.”

Azriel’s eyes narrowed and he took a step towards you. “I didn’t follow you, and I certainly didn’t set off any alarms. That was all you.”

“You didn’t follow me?” you scoffed. “Then what were you doing? Brooding from afar in hopes that I’d apologize for hurting your feelings?”

A flicker of irritation crossed his features. His jaw tightened and his eyes flashed with something close to anger. “H-hurting my feelings?” he said, his voice low, “You think you hurt my feelings?”

“Yes,” you replied, lifting your chin. “I think I bruised your ego by shoving the truth down your throat.”

“Oh, please. Don’t flatter yourself, ” he sneered. Azriel turned on his heel and took one step away from you before he was spinning around, lifting an accusatory finger your way. “And I don’t brood. I was surveying the area for threats, which, if I recall correctly, is my job.”

“Yeah, in the Night Court,” you snapped back, “We’re in the Day Court, genius.”

Azriel’s eyes narrowed with irritation. “The Day Court is our ally. That means ensuring their safety—and ours. If you weren’t wandering into places you don’t belong, I wouldn’t need to follow you.”

You let out a bitter laugh, stepping closer to him. “So you admit you were following me?”

Azriel stiffened as if he had barely registered the words he’d spoken. He blinked and then he strengthened himself, speaking to you in a voice that was steady and cold. “You’re a threat that needs to be monitored.”

Something burned in your chest. 

“Is that what you were doing every time you slept with me? Monitoring me?”

The words seemed to hit their intended target. For a moment, there was silence. Azriel’s expression hardened and he held your gaze for a beat too long before looking away.

When you realized he wasn’t going to offer a verbal response, you let out a deep breath.

“I don’t understand why you can’t just leave me alone,” you growled through gritted teeth. “I’ve done nothing besides visit an open court. Helion has no problems with me being here. And now you’ve gone and trapped us because you’re an obsessive, paranoid, freak.”

He looked at you again, his eyes guarded and expression unreadable.

“This is not my fault. This is yours. Forgive me if I didn’t believe that you had innocent intentions.”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course, the all-knowing Spymaster assumes I’m up to something sinister. Maybe I just wanted to read in peace.”

“Then why all the secrecy?” he shot back, “Why the need to sneak into restricted sections?”

You felt a surge of frustration flickering in you like a hot flame. You curled your hands into fists, grounding yourself as your nails bit into your palm. “Like I said, I just wanted to read in peace. You don’t know everything. You don’t know what I’m doing or why. So stop pretending you do.”

Azriel studied you for a long moment. 

“Okay,” He began as he took another step towards you, shadows flickering around him like agitated serpents. “Tell me exactly what you are doing here. What book are you looking to read?”

The shadows around him seemed to pulse. You held his gaze, feeling the weight of his scrutiny bearing down on you. Swallowing against the sudden dryness in your throat, you glowered at him. 

“None of your business,” you said, your voice low, cold, and clipped. “Get off my back.”

“Not until I know you’re not up to something.”

“Paranoid bastard.”

“I have every right to be,” he said, “Especially with you.”

“You’re insufferable,” you shot back, feeling the heat of frustration rising within you — fast and unforgiving. It simmered at the edges of your skin.  “It must be so exhausting living in that tiresome head of yours.”

Azriel didn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening as he struggled to rein in his temper. “You have a habit of causing trouble. It’s my job to ensure that trouble doesn’t affect my people or our allies.”

“Your people,” You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. You pushed away the urge to make a further comment on his choice of words. “If you stopped treating me like an enemy, I wouldn’t feel the need to act like one. Everything that I am is what you have pushed me to be.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, you thought he might actually strike you. But instead, he took a deep breath as a shadow of conflict passed over his features. Before the silence between you could stretch any longer, Azriel straightened, his mask of indifference slipping back into place. 

“Why not just tell me what you’re doing?” 

Because you didn’t owe him an explanation. The thought echoed resolutely in your mind. Beneath your defiance, a familiar, almost comforting, surge of resentment bubbled up—why should you justify your every move to him? He was nothing more than an obstacle, an irritating shadow that refused to fade.

So you said nothing, gave no reply. The silence stretched between you and each passing moment seemed to exacerbate his agitation. You observed the cracks in his usual unbothered, stoic facade— the clenching of his strangely battered fists, the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. He deserved to be unsettled, you thought bitterly. His mistrust was a reflection of his own insecurities, his duty an excuse to assert dominance over you. You refused to be cowed, not by him or anyone else.

“Silence. Beautiful,” he scoffed. Azriel turned away and you reveled in the momentary victory, savoring the small triumph of making him fall into a state of unease. 

He began to pace the room, muttering under his breath— you could hear it only slightly, a continuous complaint about everything from the sunlight filtering through the door to the layout of the library. You stared at him, noticing how his shadows mimicked his agitation, swirling around him in a frenzy. His wings twitched with every movement. 

His pacing became more frantic as he moved closer to the door, placing his hand on it as if trying to force it open. “This is ridiculous,” he growled. “We’re trapped here because of your secrecy. If you hadn’t been sneaking around—”

He paused mid-sentence, his movements halting abruptly. As if the weight of your gaze was tangible, he turned to look at you, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that almost made you twitch.  

“What?” Azriel snapped, a strain seizing his voice. Even his shadows seemed to jump at the sound of it.  “Do you finally have something to say, princess?”

You remained silent, meeting his gaze with a steady calmness that seemed to unsettle him further. After a long moment, you finally spoke, your voice cool and measured. “I just have a question.”

Azriel scowled. “And what would that be?”

You observed him closely, tracing every miniscule movement of his body. A wicked smirk tugged at the corners of your lips.

“What color collar would you like?”  You asked, raising an eyebrow as if to feign impatience. You leaned forward slightly. “You know, to go with all of your bitching and whining? I’m thinking a sapphire blue to coordinate with your gaudy jewelry.”

Your eyes flicked down to his siphons, and as if in response, the siphons glowed angrily. Underneath them, his fists clenched tightly, his whole body seeming to vibrate with anger. If Azriel wasn’t angry before, he was fuming now. The atmosphere crackled with animosity.

“Shut up,” Azriel said through clenched teeth. 

You tilted your head, a defiant glint in your eyes. “Why should I?”

With a sudden surge of aggression, Azriel stomped towards you, his footsteps echoing in the confined space. He came to an abrupt stop just a few paces away, visibly fighting to maintain his composure. His fists clenched at his sides, shadows swirling around him like black smoke as he took a deep breath.

“Until we’re out of this gods-forsaken room,” he said tightly, “Just shut your damned mouth and stay over here. I’ll stay on the other end, out of your way.”

You weighed your options for a moment. You gave him a nonchalant shrug. “Fine. Works for me.”

Azriel shot you a final piercing glare before turning away, his back rigid with tension. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You weren't sure how long had passed, but it had certainly been longer than an hour. 

The enchantment that bound you and Azriel to this room seemed to turn every minute into an eternity. You were suffocating. 

The weight of time pressed down on you as you scoured the shelves, determined not to let Azriel and this infuriating enchantment thwart your purpose. This restricted area of Helion's grand library was vast, filled with more books on folklore and legends than you had anticipated—and a rather peculiar assortment of erotic 'vampire' poetry that you tried your best to ignore.

Despite your persistence, you had yet to uncover any clue as to the whereabouts of what you sought. Each book you pulled from the shelves yielded nothing but disappointment.

You sighed, turning away from yet another shelf of books when your eyes caught sight of a one that stood out amidst the worn and weathered bindings. It was a slender volume with a vibrant red leather cover, contrasting sharply with the tattered browns around it. Without fully realizing your own actions, you reached out and delicately plucked the book from its place, cradling it in your hands.

The cover felt smooth and cool to the touch, the red leather soft against your fingertips. The title was written in an elegant, swirling golden cursive. It wasn't what you had been searching for—a book of love poems wasn't going to help you find the edge you sought—but something about it called to you nonetheless.

You landed on one particular page. The corners were marked with a dog-eared fold, a simple act that nearly drew a smile to your lips at the thought of Eris’s disdain for such casual treatment of books. He would have scoffed, made some remark about how it marred the delicate pages and diminished their value. 

Before the rift between him and Eris grew too wide, Lucien used to sneak into Eris’s room and borrow his books, delighting in folding the pages to mark his favorite passages. Eris would fume at the sight, scolding Lucien for disrespecting not only his belongings but the value of the books themselves. Lucien basked in the frustration and would laugh so hard— a bright, joyous sound that echoed through the halls until Beron wearied of it. 

Lucien stopped stealing those books soon after. He quickly learned that his place was not in his brother's room— it wasn’t even in his own home. 

You turned your attention back to the poem on the page before you, your heart skipping a beat as you recognized the title. Something as heavy as a stone settled in your stomach. 

Your mother was a lot of things. She was quiet at times, yes, but it was more pensive than it was shy. She was unbelievably brilliant, to a point where it pained you to think about it, to let yourself wonder how different her life could have been had she married someone other than your father. How different her life may have been if she never had any of you.

When you were younger, she fed you her fascination of books. Besides Eris and Lucien, your other brothers never took to it as much. They much preferred sparring in rings and finding ways to appease your father. While they lived off of the praise they received like good soldiers, you lived off of the stories your mother could tell you at night. 

It was during those quiet hours, after Beron had retired to his chambers and the River House grew still, that she would sit by your bedside and brush the hair from your face. She would whisper stories into the darkness, tales of far-off lands and brave heroes, of mythical creatures and forbidden romances. But there was one story she cherished above all others.

It was a short poem from the perspective of two lovers torn apart by war. They loved each other fiercely, but the cruel hands of fate kept them separated in life. So profound was their longing that they struck a bargain with Death himself, pledging their souls to be together for eternity in the afterlife. The poem spoke of their sacrifice, their undying devotion, and the bittersweet beauty of a love that transcended even death.

You loved it almost as much as your mother did. 

Love was real. This you knew. But it wasn’t for people in Autumn. It wasn’t for people who shared your blood. 

Your mother proved it. The way her eyes would glaze over as she recited the poem, the way she’d talk about a love that you knew was never referring to Beron. She longed for someone that wasn't your father, someone she could never be with. And Jesmindas death only solidified the fact that love wasn’t made for Vanserras. 

You still heard her screams at night, still held the image of Lucien’s blood curling sobs. 

Loving someone, as much as you craved it, was selfish. It was a death wish— not only for you, but for them as well.

You read the poem again and a heavy feeling itched itself into your heart— something like a dagger of melancholy, stirring emotions that made you feel small and weak. Your chest tightened and you gripped the book tightly, feeling a flicker of fire growing within your bones. 

Your mothers poem was here. In a book that was so clearly loved, so clearly worn. It felt almost sacred, imbued with a history of love and loss, cherished by someone who, like you, sought solace in its verses.

In this spell-protected sanctuary, amidst the hallowed halls of knowledge and ancient books, a realization hit you with a chilling clarity. You fought to regain composure, blinking away the tears that brimmed on your waterlines. 

A soft, feather-light sensation around your wrist startled you back to the present. You looked down at your hands, watching as Azriel’s shadows flitted around you.Their touch was so gentle, so tender that it made you itch. You snapped the book shut, shoving it back into the shelf with a loud thud. 

“If you don’t stop, I will pin you and your wings to the wall like a fucking decoration.”

Azriel let out a growl, but he refused to look your way. He didn’t have the energy needed in him to properly reciprocate the threat, didn’t quite care enough to be bothered by it. 

You let out an angry breath. “Can you please control your little creatures?”

Your hand swatted at the shadows that still circled your wrists relentlessly. 

“What are you talking about—”

Azriel’s words died in his throat as he looked at you. His body stiffened, and within seconds the shadows were dissipating from your wrists. They curled around his body, a single tendril wrapping around his ear.

Azriel’s face softened slightly, a crease forming between his furrowed eyebrows. He held your gaze for a moment. And then he was stoic once more— no trace that he had felt anything at all.

He said nothing and turned around sharply, a wave of agitation passing over his features as his shadows swirled around him. You frowned at the abrupt change in his demeanor and watched as he paced back and forth, his boots tapping softly against the library's polished floor. The repetitive movement was starting to get on your nerves and you opened your mouth, ready to make a biting comment to make him stop.  But you hesitated. Your mouth fell closed once more. 

Something felt deeply wrong. You couldn’t place your finger on it, couldn’t explain why you felt it deep in your chest, but something was wrong. 

Azriel’s shadows, usually dark and smooth like ink in water, appeared unsettled and disjointed. They moved with an unusual haste, swirling around him with an air of desperation. It wasn’t there— that seamless synchronization they usually held with him. 

His hands were clasped together, fingers flexing and fidgeting, marred by various cuts and bruises. He lingered near the sunlight that poured through the door in sharp lines across the floor. He seemed almost drawn to it, yet hesitant, like a moth wary of the flame.

Perhaps it was the troubled look on Azriel’s face, or the tenderness of his shadows, or the memory of your mother—  but something inside you settled. Whatever it was, the pointed edge in your voice melted into a more rounded, concerned tone. You threw a quick glance over your shoulder at the red leather-bound book you had clutched moments ago. 

"What's wrong with you?” 

Azriel’s eyes flicked towards the sunlight again, and you saw a wave of something you couldn’t quite place—fear, perhaps, or deep discomfort. His shadows recoiled slightly as if the light was pushing them back.

“Nothing,” he muttered, but the word rang hollow, lacking conviction.

“Bullshit,” you shot back, not unkindly. “You’re pacing like a caged animal.”

He stiffened at your words and his movements came to a halt.  

You knew what Azriel's past had been like, not fully, but enough.

Vanserras were talented in making it their business to know everyone else's, and you had made it your point to ensure you knew everything about one of your family's greatest enemies— the male standing before you now. You knew what his brothers did to him, even made pointed comments about it recently, ones you fully meant in the moment. But you had never thought deeply or long enough about it, never truly imagined a younger Azriel. Now, as you watched him pace back and forth, his wings tightly folded, his hands fidgeting near the sealed door and the sunlight, you couldn't help but see a different side of him.

Azriel had been confined to a basement, a place likely with little light and minimal freedom. Now, he was trapped here, in this room, with you. Your heart tugged with a mixture of empathy and unease, a wave of nausea rising in your throat. Before you fully comprehended what you were doing, you spoke.

“I suppose since we’re both here, I should thank you.”

Azriel spun around, caught off guard by the unexpected tone in your voice— one that was uncharacteristically gentle. His brows furrowed in suspicion as he stared at you, eyes narrowing slightly. “Thank me?”

You nodded, swallowing back your pride as you continued, “Renard came back to Autumn. I don’t know what my father did to him after, but his story was that he’d fallen into bed with a female and got lost in the pleasure — drunken bender and all.”

Azriel’s expression remained guarded, but you detected a sweep of something in his face— a wave of release as his tension visibly faded— only slightly, but enough to where his wings shifted behind him, flaring out to occupy more space.

“So thank you,” you repeated, your eyes not leaving his. “I know it was Rhysand who influenced his mind, and I know it was you who asked him to do it.”

Azriel shrugged, a terse gesture that seemed to dismiss the weight of your gratitude. He looked away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You hummed and annoyance simmered beneath your attempt at gratitude. "Fine," you said curtly, turning away to inspect the nearby bookshelves. But after a few steps, you stopped yourself and pivoted back toward him. "Actually, no. Why didn’t you just kill him?”

Azriel’s eyes met yours as you continued. 

“Renard, I mean. You could have. Probably would’ve been easier. I assume it would’ve saved you a lecture from your owne-'' You stopped yourself, and within the same breath, corrected the word you spoke. “Rhysand.”

Azriel hung onto your hesitation, his brow raising in silent inquiry as he fixed you with a penetrating stare. He cocked his head at you. “Well, that could have gotten you killed, couldn’t it have?”

You blinked and your chest tightened.  “I wasn’t aware you cared if I lived or died.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t either,” Azriel said quietly. As the words left his mouth, he stiffened and took a deep breath.

“What I mean to say is,” he started, his voice now strained with a different tone.  “You’re no use to me if you’re dead. It would be hard to maintain an alliance with your brother if I got you killed.”

You snorted, a smile playing on your lips as you absorbed his words “Right.”

But the smile you wore wasn’t bitter. It was amused if anything, which seemed to ease Azriel’s mind enough to where he was saying your name in an attempt to gather your attention. You met his gaze.

“What are you really doing here?”

There was no use in hiding. You glanced at his shadows, noting their restlessness, and realized they might even help. You decided to tell him the truth. The air was still, the room still locked, but you no longer felt suffocated. Looking at him, at the hazel in his eyes, you began.

"Renard did tell us everything we needed to know," you said, your voice steady. "He doesn't know anything because Beron doesn't know anything. He's trying to find any information on how to get power. I just thought that if I could learn more about Koschei, I could figure out how to step forward."

Azriel watched you intently. Something burned in the hazel of his eyes.

You sighed, the weight of his gaze heavy on your shoulders. "I know Helion has a special interest in folklore and legends. And I know somewhere here is a very old, very special book that has the story and origins of that stupid death god."

You thought of Eris, of your mother, of how Autumn had been these past two weeks. Beron's temper had grown more volatile, his punishments more severe. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the flash of his cruelty, felt the sting of his whip. Your stress was a living thing now, coiling around your chest, making it hard to breathe. You were exhausted— so exhausted that you couldn’t muster the energy to be angry at Azriel as much as before, couldn’t find the effort to hide your vulnerability. 

You waited for him to say something dismissive. Instead, he simply said, "Okay.”

He glanced at his shadows. They darted out from him, spreading around the room like wisps of smoke seeking the smallest crevices. You frowned, watching as they probed the shelves and corners. 

“They’ll find it,” Azriel said. His tone was casual, but the burning in his eyes betrayed his focus. You held his gaze as it seared into you. You already knew that this look would be etched into your memory, that it would surface at times you wished it would not.

A clear hesitancy found its way onto your face through knitted brows. He was too quiet, too nice. It made you wary. 

“Unless you're eager to search hundreds of books one by one?” he added, raising a brow at your silence. “I’m happy to sit back and watch your unsuccessful search resume.”

You scowled. "No. This works."

Azriel gave a small nod and resumed his pacing, though this time, it seemed more purposeful.

You watched as the shadows flitted from shelf to shelf, their dark forms moving with an eerie grace— slipping into the gaps between books, brushing over spines, and teasing open pages.

Your mind wandered back to the poem you had read earlier, the love and sacrifice it spoke of. For some reason, your mind wandered to the shadowsinger that walked a mere few feet from you. As much as his cold exterior suggested otherwise, there were moments—fleeting, rare moments—where you saw a flicker of something more than just anger in his eyes. You wondered if Azriel understood such depths of emotion, if he had felt such love for Morrigan— if that was what blinded him into his deep loathing of you and your family.

The minutes ticked by, and you found yourself glancing at Azriel more frequently. The tension in his posture had eased, his wings now slightly unfurled as if he too felt some semblance of peace.

It was odd, being in this situation with him, and suddenly not feeling a burning, biting hatred at his presence. You were so used to that feeling of anger, that fierce, consuming rage that burned so hot it turned into desire. That you understood—the satisfaction that came with knowing he was hungry for you despite everything he hated about you. The push and pull, the electric tension, it had always defined your interactions.

You wanted to shred your skin because this female now, this emotional, open one, who was beginning to see Azriel as something more than a male to fuck and a dog to rile up, wasn't you. It made your skin crawl with a kind of vulnerability you had long since sworn off. 

You forced yourself to look away, to focus on the task at hand, but the unease lingered. The minutes stretched into an eternity before Azriel spoke again, breaking the heavy silence. 

You looked at him, noticing the shadows curling around his wrists. He was holding a book, its cover worn and ancient, and he lifted it slightly. "Here it is."

You quickly strode over, reaching for the book, but he lifted it out of your grasp. You clenched your jaw. "Give me the damned book."

He stared at you, his expression unreadable. "We can look at it together."

"Are you kidding me?" you snapped, "Are you seriously so afraid of me that you won't allow me to read a book in your presence?"

Azriel's eyes darkened slightly, but his voice remained calm. "You're not the only one seeking information about Koschei and his origins. We're on the same side about that—unless you've forgotten."

 “Fine,” you said, then added with a sarcastic edge, “I’m honestly surprised you can even read. You lack so many manners that I figured you were as slow as the rest of your kind.”

Azriel growled but handed you the book anyways, and a small smirk of satisfaction tugged at the edges of your lips. You took it from his grasp, fingers brushing against his. 

A strange jolt of something—recognition, perhaps—passed between you. You ignored it, focusing instead on the text before you.  You placed the book on a nearby table, feeling Azriel’s presence behind you, his shadows hovering around the pages. You resisted the urge to swat them away, recognizing that they were probably relaying the information to him. 

Time went by, and frustration began to mount as you found nothing new. “So he’s deathless, has no body, is powerful, confined to a lake, and has a thing for trapping females. We know all of this,” you muttered, snapping the book shut with such force that the shadows flinched. “He’s a powerful freak with a fetish for holding women captive.”

You glanced over your shoulder, a mocking smile on your lips.  “He’s basically an Illyrian without wings.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened as he stared at you. His eyes darkened for a moment, and then something flickered in them. He raised an eyebrow. “We should just offer you to Koschei. One day with you and he might be tempted to kill himself just to be free of it.”

Your eyes widened as a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. Despite sensing his expectation for your anger, you let out a laugh. Azriel blinked in surprise and his shadows stilled momentarily. He felt it again, that strange chill that ran down his back at the sound leaving your lips. His wings shuddered for a moment and he traced the movement of your mouth as it curled into a grin. 

"That was actually kind of funny, Shadowsinger," you remarked, meeting his gaze squarely. "Who knew you had a sense of humor under all of that self-loathing and impulsivity.”

Azriel glared at you, his expression carrying his usual intensity, but there was a subtle softening in his eyes. The sharp edge that usually accompanied his gaze seemed to dull slightly, hinting at a glimmer of amusement. Under the weight of his gaze, you turned your head back towards the book in front of you, finding a place for your eyes to settle that wasn’t his hazel ones. Still, the heat radiated off his body— he was too close, entirely too close.

Ignoring him, you glanced towards the door and noticed the sunlight had lessened. "I believe your little creatures are safe to wander," you remarked coolly, "I think you could do us both a favor and send them to get us the hell out of here."

Azriel let out a grumble, but you observed as shadows flitted across the floor and through the cracks. Relief washed over you at the thought of soon being free from this place, away from Azriel's unsettling presence.

Yet, you could still feel him staring at you. 

"Why go through all of this trouble?" His voice was steady, probing.  "Search for a book you weren't even sure had any answers? Without my shadows, you could have spent hours going through each shelf to find it."

You gritted your teeth. "Gods, do you always ask so many questions?"

"Humor me," he replied evenly.

"I think I've done a bit too much of that recently," you retorted, a hint of exasperation coloring your tone.

You sighed, feeling his intense stare burning into your back. Turning around completely to face him, you gripped against the table, trying to control the heat rising within you. Azriel’s eyes were already on you when you found the will to look at him. 

"You admitted it yourself a few weeks ago. You'd go to extreme lengths for your family, too.”

He raised his eyebrow slightly. “All of this effort for that cruel brother of yours?"

Your anger flared and you felt your body tense as the ember of your powers simmered beneath your skin. But as you glanced at Azriel, his gaze unexpectedly open, you recalled your last conversation with him, how angry you were at the realization that Eris deserved better, that no one would ever let him live down his past. But here, staring at Azriel, in a space that felt so intimate, maybe you could push a new perspective even harder, force a seed of understanding. 

Taking a breath to steady yourself, you decided to reach out beyond the walls of your blinding anger.

"The only difference between your brother and mine is that Eris won’t try to write off his actions as for the greater good. Sometimes bad things are just bad things. And we all have to do bad things to survive."

Azriel scanned your face, his gaze lingering so long that you immediately regretted saying anything. The feeling rose in your throat like bile and a simmering heat spread through your chest, a fire you almost wished would consume you. 

“I’m sorry,” Azriel finally said, “That you couldn’t find anything. That you wasted a day here.”

His tone was so soft that you were almost tempted to believe that he meant it— that he was being sincere. Your chest tightened. That reality was unlikely, and you quickly let your defenses kick in, looking away with a roll of your eyes. 

"Don’t mock me," you snapped.

Azriel's expression hardened as he frowned. "What?" 

Meeting his gaze angrily, you reiterated, "I said, don't mock me. Pretending to care is cruel, even for you."

You released your grip on the table and turned to walk past him, but he reached out, grabbing your hand firmly, pulling you to him. The touch sent a chill through your arm. 

“By the Cauldron, must you fight me on everything?” He said through clenched teeth. “Can’t you just let me say that I'm sorry?" 

You stared at him, taking in his troubled expression, the way his eyes seemed to hold a storm of conflicting emotions. Pulling your hand from his grasp, you rubbed the spot where his touch lingered, as if trying to erase his imprint on you.

"I'm just supposed to believe that you've suddenly had a change of heart?" 

Azriel ran a hand through his hair. "You are infuriating, you know that?" 

"Ah yes, a supposed genuine apology followed by insult. Hypocritical as usual, Shadowsinger." 

Exasperation flickered across Azriel's face. "If I wanted to insult you, princess, I'd do a much better job than calling you infuriating."

You held his stare, anger and suffocation swirling within you. Your hands curled into fists as Azriel's troubled gaze continued to burn into yours.

He followed the line of your neck as you swallowed, his eyes lingering on you in a way that felt too intense for the confined space. Perhaps it was the lack of his shadows, the absence of his usual watchful companions, but Azriel found himself moving closer to you despite your recoil.

"What is it about you that drives me insane?" he murmured his voice barely above a whisper.

Your brow furrowed in confusion and your stomach twisted into a knot.  "What are you talking about?"

"These past two weeks," he continued, his tone tinged with something raw and unguarded. "You have not left my mind. I hear your voice, calling me weak."

You scoffed and looked away. "So I have hurt your feelings. A bit pathetic, don't you think?" 

Azriel shook his head. "No. You didn't hurt my feelings, Y/N."

The sound of your name on his lips sent a shiver through your body and your chest tightened.  His gaze flickered down to your mouth briefly before meeting your eyes again. You found yourself unable to look away.

“You want Eris to be High Lord,” Azriel stated, “I will help you make that come to fruition.”

You stared at Azriel, momentarily stunned. His words hung in the air, mingling with the charged, suffocating atmosphere between you. The intensity of his gaze made you feel exposed, vulnerable, and yet there was a gleam of something else—it felt like hope, buried deep beneath layers of mistrust.

"Why? You hate Eris.”

"It is one cruel leader for another. But at least this way, it will benefit my home. And then I can be free of you and work to take down Koschei."

His words sunk in slowly. He can be free of you. You tried to read his expression. Azriel extended his hand towards you, palm upturned. 

"We seal this bargain," he said solemnly, his eyes searching yours. “No more sneaking around and I will help you. You get what you want.”

You hesitated. But something inside you—a desperate need for a way out of this predicament, a glimmer of hope for a future where Eris could be High Lord—compelled you to reach out. You placed your hand in his, feeling the warmth of his palm against yours.

As soon as your skin touched, a surge of energy coursed through you both— a burning sensation, starting from your intertwined hands and spreading outward. Azriel's eyes widened imperceptibly, and you sensed him searching for the hidden markings that sealed your pact. He found nothing on your exposed skin. 

You withdrew your hand slowly. There was a newfound weight to the air. You opened your mouth to speak when a burst of sunlight pierced through the dimness of the room. 

You took a large step back, gaze darting to the entrance of the room. Helion strode in with characteristic grace, his presence commanding the room effortlessly as tendrils of shadow snaked towards Azriel, winding their way up his body.

Helion's eyes swept over the scene before him. His expression gave away nothing as he observed you and Azriel. After a moment, he finally spoke. 

"Out of all the collectables in this room, I have to say seeing you two together is the rarest thing I've set my eyes on.”

You shot a quick glance at Azriel. You offered Helion a small smile. “Helion–”

Helion lifted a hand gently. "I'm not sure I want to know," he said. His gaze settled on you. "Have you done anything I need to be wary of?"

You shook your head firmly. "No."

"Then that's all I need," Helion replied casually, his attention now turning to Azriel. "Am I correct to assume Rhysand has no idea you're here?" 

You frowned, head turning to look at Azriel, who managed to meet your gaze briefly before looking back at the High Lord that stood before you. Azriel said nothing, opting to clench his jaw. 

“Alright.” Helion let out a small breath, pursing his lips in thought. "I'm known to keep a secret or two.”

He did, indeed. You knew this now more than ever.

You took advantage of Helion’s presence to observe him closely, taking in his chiseled features and the graceful stature in which he stood. Despite the reputation both you and Eris had garnered, Helion had always been fair to you, not quick to judge. You wondered now if that was due to something beyond an innate sense of empathy he held— if he had a sense of loyalty to you because of the blood that ran in your veins. 

"Let me escort you both out," Helion offered finally, breaking the silence that had settled between the three of you. Without waiting for a response, he turned towards the door. 

As you walked with him, you heard a faint shuffling behind you. From the corner of your eye, you glimpsed Azriel adjusting his posture, the tail end of his movement obscured as he tucked his wings further and clasped his hands behind his back. His shadows coiled around him more tightly than usual. He fell into line behind you. 

You felt a peculiar sensation in your chest. Instinctively, your hand rose to settle over the spot just above your heart. There was a subtle sensation of heat— a tingling warmth that lingered beneath your touch. 

You ignored it as Helion led you out of the library.  

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

enemies.... to enemies to with benefits.... now to tentative allies....dare i say.... friends?

this is a lil turning point for our two cunty losers bc now their bickering is less cruel and vile and its just teasing ugh my HEART

permanent tag list 🫶🏻:

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @sarawritestories

An Education in Malice — Part Six

Pairing: Vanserra!Reader x Azriel

Summary: With the sharp tongue of your notorious family, you are Azriel's most tantalizing challenge yet. It only takes one small meeting before you both realize that the line between hate and desire is dangerously thin.

Warnings: mentions and descriptions of wounds, scars, and allusions to torture, canon-typical violence, fighting, killing, death— all the fun stuff really. reader being a lil badass, az being emotionally vulnerable, a turning point in their relationship!!!!

Word Count: 9.8k this was originally going to be like 2-3 diff parts, but i loved reading it all as one, so consider this my lil offering since i disappeared for like 2 weeks <3

Part Five | Series Masterlist

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You always hated the ornate mirror that had stood in your room — its gaudy, gilded and tarnished frame was far too large for your liking.  You hated how much space it took up, how much of yourself you could see as you passed it. 

On most days, the female staring back at you felt like a stranger— someone wearing your face yet existing in a distant world. She moved when you did, blinked when you did, too. But she wasn’t you. And you hated it. So you didn’t often linger on your reflection. 

Except for today. 

Your hair was damp from the bath and a faint smell of sage and patchouli clung to your skin from the residue of your bath soap. 

Your eyes traced the lines of your face, following the tired shadows beneath your eyes and scars that marred the skin of your stomach. Normally, when you stood there with a focused gaze and a troubled spirit, it was because you were examining new wounds, cataloging the fresh marks left behind from nights where your father was particularly angry. All of those wounds were hidden beneath clothing, concealed where no one but you would ever see— carefully, strategically, placed. 

You’d gotten used to the marks, comfortable with them, even. There were many things in your life that weren’t yours. But these— these scarred areas of skin, these were yours. Proof that your body had worked to protect you, to fix and heal itself despite what had been inflicted unto it. And in some strange way, it made you feel less lonely. 

If it was any other day, you wouldn’t have looked any longer than a second, a minute at most. You’d walk past the mirror, change into a dress fit for an audience, and leave. 

Today was different. Today, your eyes were drawn to the intricate tattoo etched just beneath your left breast, wrapping around your rib cage. It was the first time you’d really looked at it, the first time you’d allowed yourself to acknowledge its presence since its creation. 

The tattoo was a delicate masterpiece, a swirling pattern of dark ink that almost resembled Azriel’s shadows perfectly— so perfectly it made you nauseous, made you flinch at the first sighting because it seemed too real.  It was beautiful, haunting, and undeniably meaningful.

It made you feel sick.

You traced the pattern with your fingertips, thinking back to how Azriel’s hand felt in yours, to the warm feeling you felt in your chest. You’d never made a bargain before— not even in Autumn. Perhaps all bargains caused this feeling you now felt, a sense of residue that your body held of him, as if you had crumbs of his being stuck to you. 

A knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. 

You turned to see Laney's ears twitch as she registered the sound. Whenever you showered, whenever you were naked and vulnerable at all, really, she always guarded the door heavily, never moving. The knock was so gentle that she didn’t growl; instead, she sniffed under the door, her movements growing excited— happy. You could tell by her posture that the visitor was no threat. Not only that, but the knock was delicate— patient, almost. You knew who it was by that fact alone. 

Scrambling, you hastily pulled on your clothes, trying to regain some semblance of composure as you blinked away the last remaining images of Azriel from your mind. 

The tension in your body eased as you opened your door. 

"There’s my beautiful girl."

A small smile tugged at your lips as you embraced your mother, feeling the warmth of her body fold over you like a comforting cloak. You held her for another moment, savoring the softness of her touch and her heartbeat beneath you, and then you stepped aside to let her in. 

Your eyes flickered to the back of the hallway she’d come from. 

Your mother caught your gaze swiftly. "He’s with some of his men. Drunk. He’ll be busy for the night."

You swallowed, trying to suppress the unease that settled in your stomach. She placed a gentle hand on your arm.

"It’s alright," she said gently, “Too drunk to even function.”

You hated that you knew what she meant, that you and your mother had grown to develop your own language regarding the males in your home—regarding the one that owned you both. Her words meant that Beron had an enjoyable day, one that filled him with enough joy to celebrate— that such celebrations were going to tire him so deeply that he’d fall asleep straight after. No issues for you, no issues for your mother. You nodded slowly.

Your mother stepped closer, her fingers brushing through your still slightly damp hair. "Let me braid this mane of yours," she said softly, her touch light as she affectionately stroked your cheek. You casted a wary glance behind you, towards the darkened hallways, but nodded nonetheless, closing the door behind you with a soft click. 

Laney curled up comfortably on your bed, her relaxed posture easing some of the remaining tension in your shoulders.  The act alone was a sign of her trust, a reminder that she felt safe and saw no threats nearby. If Beron ever caught her on any furniture, she’d be punished. But in this moment, she was calm and content, and you let that calm you too.

And then you were back in front of the mirror again. 

Your mother pulled a small velvet stool in front, gesturing for you to take a spot. The large frame of the mirror seemed to laugh at you and as your mother stood behind you, delicate arms reaching for a hairbrush, you felt like a child again. The mirror seemed to grow even larger, even grander, and you fought to recognize the female that stared at you through it. 

You watched as your mother moved with the same gentle grace she had always possessed, bringing a hairbrush to your damp hair. Your mother was beautiful. She always had been. Even now, with the sadness in her eyes— a trait specific to Vanserras, you were certain—she was one of the most beautiful people you knew. Your thoughts drifted to what she must have been like when she was a bit younger, how she was when Helion first met her. You wanted to know it all, wanted to know your mother as a teenager, wanted to know how she fell in love. 

Her eyes caught yours in the mirror and her movements slowed. The expression on her face softened. 

"Where has that mind drifted off to?" 

You blinked, shrugging slightly. There was a lump in your throat as you responded, "Nothing real."

She frowned, and her eyes danced across your face before she continued brushing your hair. A thoughtful hum left her lips. "You've been gone a lot recently. Done a great job of stressing your poor brother out. Where is it you've been running off to?"

Her voice was soft and kind and just below a whisper—  as if you two were sharing a secret. It was her classic motherly way of interrogating you. The gentleness in her tone made it clear that she didn't mind, no matter the answer. She never did.

A soft laugh escaped you. "I have to visit all of my many admirers."

Her answering laugh was sweet and quiet, a sound so pure it almost felt out of place in this house. You resisted the urge to look back at your closed door, to wait in fear for heavy footsteps. But your mother didn’t seem worried about an intrusion. Instead, she looked at you with a glint in her eyes, a mischievous sparkle that reminded you so much of Eris—right down to the playful eyebrow raise.

"Joke as much as you'd like. We both know you have plenty of those," she teased.

You smiled to yourself.  

"How could you not when you're so beautiful?" she added, her voice filled with a sincerity that made your throat tighten.

You looked at her in the mirror again. Her eyes were so kind. They held the same warmth you’d see in Lucien’s— a warmth that you’d see even in Eris’s when he was at ease, comfortable. Those times were rare now, if not impossible. 

You looked at your own reflection.

You didn’t have kind eyes. You had your father’s eyes. Beron's eyes—hard, angry, simmering with rage. You had his temper, his unforgiving nature. You were every part of him that you hated, and you were reminded of it every day. Reminded of it when you struggled to control your powers, when you failed to harness the very essence of who you were. Reminded of it when you looked in the mirror for too long— when you thought about how you would never be soft like the females males often loved. That your pain didn’t lead you to be kinder, didn’t teach you to be gentle.

Your hand drifted to your heart instinctively, fingers brushing on the fabric just above your breast. You trailed down to the side of your ribs, to where a spiral of ink now adorned your skin. 

Your mother finished the large braid, bringing it around your shoulder. She caught your gaze in the mirror and smiled. "Do you like it?"

She had a freckle above her eyebrow, the same freckle your brothers each had in different places on their faces. Eris had the most freckles out of all of you. They painted the bridge of his nose and his arms the most—

"Honey?" 

You blinked. Your body felt fuzzy as you reached up to touch the braid. "Yeah,” you said, clearing your throat. “Thank you."

Her kind eyes softened at you— softened in a way you didn’t feel worthy for. There was a faint simmering in her eyes, a fire that she still held despite how her life had treated her. It had dimmed over the centuries, lessened to a small flicker. But the flame was still there. You saw it. 

You took a deep breath, maneuvering yourself to turn in the chair and face her. You made room for her to sit next to you, gesturing with a small smile and a lift of your chin. 

"I have to tell you something.”

She sat and frowned slightly, eyes scanning your face. But she said nothing, waiting for you to continue.

"Do you remember when I was little? And you used to love reading me that one poem?"

Her expression softened, and a gentle smile played on her lips as a distant look grew in her eyes. She knew, without you even saying the title, exactly what you were referring to— after countless nights spent curled around you, running her hands through your hair as she repeated the words she’d memorized so long ago, how could she not?

So she watched you, her gaze unwavering, as you began to recite your favorite stanza. "In life's cruel grasp we could not abide, so we made a pact with the Reaper's side."

Her voice joined yours. "And in death's embrace our freedom lies, where we'll find each other beneath somber skies."

You smiled to yourself, looking at her, scanning her face. "I know why you love it so much."

She furrowed her brows, yet even then she looked so patient, like she'd sit there and wait for hours until you were ready to speak again. This was someone who had been made kind by what they had gone through. You almost felt ashamed that you had turned out differently.

Finally, you said, "I found the book. In Helion's library."

A flash of recognition crossed her face, and she softened, her eyes taking on a distant, wistful look. "You did?"

You nodded again, watching her closely as a tender, almost nostalgic smile played on her lips. She tried to compose herself, her eyes growing distant and glazing over. "I've heard he loves to collect stories." She paused, then asked, "What were you doing all the way over there?"

You thought about her question, about answering, about maybe telling her everything. But there was only one thing you could pull yourself to say. "I know," you said softly. "About Helion. I know."

She understood what you were truly saying. A sigh left her lips and an echo of her younger self appeared in her eyes, a female who had fallen hopelessly and madly in love. A version much younger—much more innocent. More hopeful.

"I'm so sorry," you whispered, your voice breaking as she met your gaze. Her face seemed pained, shocked almost, and her eyes filled with confusion. She moved closer to you, grabbing your hands in her own.

"What could you possibly be sorry for?"

It was becoming increasingly difficult to draw a full breath. There was something constricting around your chest. Perhaps it was all of the recent stress, the worry of how much harder things had gotten, the image of a life your mother could have had— this suffocating tie to Azriel that you now had etched into your very flesh. 

"You were loved. And you deserve better,”  Your voice caught in your throat and a tear trickled down your cheek as you shook your head slightly. “And I can't do anything to help—"

“No, no,” She interrupted you, bringing her warm hands to cup your cheeks— pulling your eyes to her kind ones.  "I'm your mother. I'm supposed to help you."

Tears welled in your eyes as she continued. "I should be apologizing to you,” she murmured, “I could be better, stronger. I should apologize that I was selfish and brought you into this world."

"Selfish?" 

How could she ever consider herself selfish? You knew the pain she carried, the weight of responsibility that seemed to crush her at times. You saw it reflected in Eris— a specific pain that came from feeling like you could never do enough. But even with your older brothers, despite their cruelty and callousness, your mother loved them fiercely, passionately. Loved them with every fiber of her being, every part of her that she gave to them. 

"Yes," she replied softly, her touch gentle as she rubbed your cheek, her eyes full of emotion. "Oh, how excited I was to have a girl. You, my sweet, are one of my greatest blessings. My beautiful daughter. So strong, so loyal. I just couldn't imagine a life without you."

You wanted to reassure her, to alleviate her guilt, but words seemed inadequate in the face of such profound love. Instead, you leaned into her touch, covering her hand with yours, and held on tightly.

"One day, things will be different," she said, her voice soft but filled with conviction— enough of it that it eased the anger that bit at your gut. "You can be different. And you won't be like him."

She paused, her eyes locking onto yours with a depth of understanding that made your chest tighten. "You’ll know what love is. And you won’t have to resort to reciting poetry to know how powerful it can be."

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The dense canopy of trees above barely let any light through as you hurried along the forest path. Spring along the border was always odd, with dense forests giving way to large rolling hills. The difference in scenery, usually something you welcomed, felt nauseating today. All the sights, the smells, even the sunshine, seemed overwhelming.

You walked faster than usual, eyes fixed ahead, hands clenched at your sides. Azriel’s keen senses had already picked up on the subtle signs—your shallow breaths, the way your shoulders were stiff with tension. 

"Why are you walking through the woods and not even looking at me?"

You stopped as Azriel’s voice rang in your ears. 

You’d come to rely on these meetings with Azriel to exchange information, to strategize, to plan how to give your brother an edge. They’d eased your anxiety slightly, giving you a sense of support that you’d never thought would be found in Azriel of all people. But he was smart, as much as you hated to admit it, and had dedicated time to offering you aid. 

The truth was, you didn't quite trust your self-control right now. For some inexplicable reason, Azriel's scent was intoxicating, flooding your senses and causing your thoughts to swirl in a disorienting mix of attraction and confusion. Despite how hard you tried to fight it, you found yourself looking forward to these encounters. And that was a dangerous reality. 

"I like to stretch my legs," you finally responded, attempting to sound casual. "And maybe I just don't want to face you."

“Is that so? Nervous to stare at me too long?"

You could already picture the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips— a bit of personality that you’d seen grow over your time together. You rolled your eyes, turning around and facing him with a blank look.

He stepped closer to you, eying you closely. “Worried that you’ll go crazy with desire?”

His smirk deepened, a rare, genuine smile breaking through his usual stoic mask. You bit the inside of your cheek in response.  "Don't flatter yourself,” you scowled. “Maybe I’m being kind and saving you from embarrassing yourself with how badly you’ll want me.”

This was dangerous— it was entirely too playful, too close to the brink of what you assumed friendship felt like. 

“Are you?” he asked, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. “Being kind?”

Azriel’s hazel eyes bore into yours and your chest tightened at the eye contact. You cleared your throat, turning away and resuming your brisk pace. “Shut up and let's just go.”

Behind you, Azriel chuckled softly, the sound rolling across your senses like an unwelcomed caress, making you shiver involuntarily. 

"Stop laughing," you gritted out, “I’ve never heard a worse sound.”

The chuckle faded and you heard him come to a stop. You turned around, meeting his gaze with a glare. He stood there, arms crossed, a faint smirk still playing on his lips. He seemed amused, at ease, even.

“What?” you snapped, your patience wearing thin.

He nodded towards you. “What’s your problem?”

“You standing there. That’s my problem.”

Azriel raised a brow, uncrossing his arms as he took a few steps forward to stand directly in front of you. He narrowed his eyes, studying you intently. “You’re bitchier than usual.”

“Careful,” you gritted out, staring at him with a heavy, burning gaze. 

“I’m here helping you,” he said evenly, his voice holding a hint of reproach. “You can drop the attitude.”

"You’re only helping me because you want to get rid of me and, sadly, you can’t kill me," you shot back, bitterness lacing your words.

Azriel's jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with something that almost seemed to resemble something like anger— like hurt. 

"I believe I've made it clear that your death is something I've purposely avoided."

Something about the way he was staring at you made you shiver. You fought the urge to run your hands over the area where your skin was now marked with the tattoo of a bargain. You met his gaze, steadying yourself. "Why didn't you tell me that Rhys presented my father with a proposition? That he requested an audience with him?"

Azriel blinked. "I wasn't aware that Rhysand had already done so."

"But you knew?" 

"Yes," he replied,  "I did."

"What good is this stupid bargain of ours if you don't even uphold it?" 

Azriel's expression hardened and he leaned down further. The scent of him filled your nostrils and you sucked in a tight breath, feeling your chest constrict with the motion. "I take my bargains very seriously. Our deal was that I would help you, that you would get what you wanted. Not that I would tell you everything."

Your nostrils flared.

"Do you realize how much danger Rhysand has put us in? Put me in?" Your voice trembled with barely restrained anger. "Beron is upset that Rhysand thinks of him as someone so conforming. He's convinced he has a traitor in his ranks. And if you haven’t noticed, Shadowsinger, he does!" 

You pointed to yourself and Azriel’s face seemed to darken with understanding. 

"Y/n—" he started, but he stopped abruptly, his gaze shooting to the trees beyond you.

Annoyance flared within you. "What?" you snapped, but he ignored you, his focus elsewhere.

"Can you just finish whatever the hell—"

Azriel moved with lightning speed, grabbing you and pushing you against a tree. His hand flew to your mouth, covering it as he brought his other hand to his face, a finger on own lips in a gesture of silence. Your eyes widened, watching as a muscle feathered in his cheek, his wings flaring slightly, shadows skittering around him.

Then you heard it too—a familiar laugh. 

"I know you're here, Shadowsinger. I can smell the bastard on you," Renard's voice echoed through the trees, taunting and cruel.

Desperation clawed at you. In a surge of panic, you bit down hard on Azriel's hand. He pulled back with a sharp intake of breath and you gave him one last look before you winnowed away. You could've sworn you saw a flicker of hurt, a sense of betrayal in the whites of his eyes. 

And then he was gone from your view. 

You didn’t get far, appearing in another thicket of trees within the same forest. Breathing heavily, you leaned against a sturdy oak.

Why hadn’t you winnowed farther? Straight to Autumn?

A tug in your chest nagged at you.

Faintly, the sounds of a struggle reached your ear—grunts and the clash of metal. You clenched your fists, chastising yourself. Do not go back, you thought. It's dangerous. You're putting yourself at risk—you and Eris, you and your mother. If they find you, if they manage to tell your father, you're dead. He'll kill you.

Azriel doesn’t matter, you tried to convince yourself. He can handle himself. And if not—

“Damnit.”

You made the decision before you could second-guess yourself, winnowing back immediately to where you had left him.

Disorientation clouded your vision the moment you landed. You blinked rapidly, taking in the chaotic scene before you. Azriel was engaged in a flurry of combat with three men— soldiers adorning the colors of your court. His gaze flicked to you for a split second, and his face softened with a brief, almost imperceptible relief.

You gave him what felt like a smile—an acknowledgment, a reassurance—before the reality of the situation snapped you back. Countless men surrounded you both, their eyes glinting with malice, with something that felt awfully like hunger. 

You had no weapon, but Eris had taught you ways to deflect attacks. 

One of the men lunged, and you dodged, feeling the blade cut through the air dangerously close to your side. With a swift kick, you sent him stumbling backward, then followed up with a sharp jab to his throat. He gasped, clutching at his neck, and you swiftly disarmed him.

Steel clashed against steel as you parried another strike, your movements agile and precise. A second attacker closed in, and you deflected his blade before stepping inside his guard, driving your elbow into his face. Blood sprayed as he staggered back, dazed. With a decisive motion, you brought his own weapon down through him, a sickening squelch filling your ears as he dropped to the ground.

Azriel was a blur beside you, his movements so swift and deadly it was almost poetic.

You managed to disarm another man, twisting his wrist until he dropped his weapon with a cry of pain. You kicked the sword away and followed up with a decisive strike to his chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. Your weapon found its way clean through his throat next.

Breathing heavily, you scanned the clearing, your eyes darting from one enemy to the next. There were countless bodies now, sprawled across the ground like fallen leaves— but none of their faces matched the one in your mind. You surveyed your surroundings once more. 

"Looking for me, princess?" The voice cut through the air, raspy and filled with disdain.

You spun around as Renard emerged from the trees, stalking closer with predatory grace, like an animal preparing for a kill. "Because I was looking for you."

He looked worse than the last time you’d seen him, barely alive, supporting swollen eyes and blackened marks around his neck. Beron had indeed tortured him, and the sight filled you with a grim satisfaction.

"Must be hard looking for anything with those eyes," you retorted, a grin on your lips.

"You did this to me, you traitorous whore," Renard spat, his face contorted with anger. He made a move towards you, eyes narrowing as he caught sight of the flames flickering against your hands, unsteady.

"Real cute," he mocked. You bit back the frustration boiling in your gut, gritting your teeth as you focused on the simmering underneath your skin. 

“Come closer,” you sneered, “Let’s see how cute they feel on your burning flesh.”

“You always had such a foul mouth on you. It’s like you’re begging to be killed.”

Without hesitation, Renard lunged at you with a speed fueled by rage and desperation. You both collided in a flurry of strikes and parries, the sound of clashing metal ringing through the clearing. The flames in your hands flickered erratically as you tried to maintain focus amid the chaos.

You had always observed your father's men so you could be one step ahead— just in case. Now, facing Renard, you could sense his frustration with every move you countered, every strike you parried.

"You think you can match me, girl?" His voice dripped with contempt as he circled you, "I'll make your father's punishments seem gentle compared to what I have in mind."

"You talk too much," you managed to rasp out between clenched teeth. 

Renard's face twisted into a cruel smile as he pressed on, his strikes growing more aggressive. "I wonder what Beron will do with your body," he taunted, "If your mother will even be allowed to mourn you."

The thought hit you like a physical blow, momentarily freezing your movements. In that moment of hesitation, Renard seized the advantage. With a swift and brutal maneuver, he knocked your weapon from your grasp and delivered a fierce blow that sent you sprawling to the ground. Before you could react, he was upon you, gripping your hair and wrenching your arms behind your back, a hold tightening around your throat.

Panic surged through you as you tried desperately to summon your fire, but it wouldn't respond. You tightened your jaw, focusing every ounce of concentration to call forth that spark of heat, cursing the world—the training that was never enough, your father's prevention of you perfecting the skill.

Renard's breath was hot against your ear as you writhed beneath him. He gripped your chin roughly, forcing you to watch as Azriel fought against overwhelming odds. Men surrounded him, their blows raining down on him relentlessly.

"Is this how he had you?" Renard's voice dripped with venom. "From behind?"

You closed your eyes, summoning images of Eris, your mother, Lucien— each face a steadying breath in your mind. When you opened your eyes, your gaze landed on Azriel, surrounded by a sapphire aura that blurred with his swift movements. 

With a surge of willpower, you summoned every ounce of strength, every flicker of fire you could muster. Flames erupted from your hands with a hot burst of energy, startling Renard and giving you a split-second window of opportunity.

You turned around and seized him, your grip iron against his throat as you backed him into a nearby tree. With cold intensity, you stared into Renard's eyes, the flames casting flickering shadows across his face. 

"Don't worry,” you growled, “I won't be gentle."

Within seconds, flames engulfed Renard's throat and face, the heat and light blinding in their intensity. He screamed in agony, thrashing under your grasp, but you held on, firmer and harder each time he flailed.

As the flames dwindled, leaving behind only smoldering ruins, you staggered back, hands trembling and covered in ash and the stench of burnt flesh. But before you could dwell on the burnt remains of Renard that lay at your feet, you spun around to focus on Azriel, still fighting off multiple men, surrounded by the shimmering sapphire light of his power.

Two men stood directly in front of him, while another pair prepared to strike from behind. You glanced down at your hands and screwed your eyes shut for a fleeting moment. When you opened them again, the fire was there—steady and trained. With a fierce determination, you summoned the flames into existence, shaping them swiftly into whips of fire that crackled and danced in the air.

You brought your hands out towards the two men, feeling the fire respond to your command, crackling and whispering with power as it morphed itself at your will. The flames transformed into fiery whips, extending from your outstretched arms like extensions of your fury, connecting with the two bodies threatening Azriel.

The fiery tendrils snaked around their necks like vengeful serpents, searing flesh and scorching hands as the men futilely tried to break free. With agonized screams, they collapsed to the ground. The flames dwindled down to mere embers. When you looked up, Azriel met your gaze, his face bloodied and his leathers splattered with crimson. Shadows writhed around him, dancing on the forest floor towards your feet.

He walked towards you, his eyes shifting to the fallen bodies at your feet. He took in the sight for a moment, gaze focusing on the marred flesh across their throats. Then he blinked and brought his focus to you. "Where's Renard?"

You glanced over to the disfigured body and pile of ash near a tree. Azriel followed your gaze and he blinked once more, his eyes widening as he took in the sight. His lips parted as if to speak, but before he could utter a word, his attention abruptly shifted.

He pulled your body into him, his wing extending protectively in front of you right as a sudden ripping sound tore through the air. You were pushed away from him just in time to witness a thick weapon—a sharp, wide blade welded to a spear—pierce through the membrane of his wing. 

He cried out in agony, falling forward slightly, enough for you to catch the gaze of a lone soldier peering over the apex of his wing. You grabbed a nearby weapon and hurled it with all your might. The blade found its mark, burying itself in the soldier's neck. He collapsed instantly, motionless on the forest floor.

Azriel let out a cry of pain as he ripped the weapon out from his wing, causing it to twitch involuntarily. "C'mon, we need to go," you urged, moving closer to him. With great effort, he tried to adjust himself as you lifted his arm over your shoulder, feeling his weight and warmth press into you.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The journey back to the cabin was a blur of frantic winnowing and determined dragging through the dense forest. Your muscles ached as Azriel’s weight dragged heavily against you, stumbling with every move as the pain in his body grew. He groaned in pain as you lowered him onto the couch, the sound raw and unsettling in the quiet home.

Kneeling beside him, you moved closer to get a better look at the injury on his wing, but Azriel scrambled away from your touch and further into the couch. Your gaze settled on his face— eyes screwed shut, jaw clenched so tightly that you could see the strain in every muscle. His siphons glowed with an intense, flickering light and his shadows seemed to respond to his distress, curling protectively around him. For a moment, you felt a pang of envy. Even in his delirium, he had something to shield him from the world. 

The sight of him like this—so vulnerable, so raw—made your stomach churn. His breathing was ragged, each exhale accompanied by a soft whimper that he seemed to be fighting to suppress. Sweat matted his hair to his forehead, and every so often, he would twitch. 

You always thought that seeing Azriel suffer would make you feel good, make you feel some sort of vindication. Often, you used to imagine it would be you bringing him to his knees in pain, him and the rest of Prythian—making them suffer as you and your family had for centuries. But now, as you watched him writhing in pain on the couch, your heart hurt in a way you had only ever felt for your family—and even worse. You felt like you were in pain too.

But you had no wounds comparable to Azriel. 

A knot tightened in your chest and an unexpected urge surged through you—to comfort him, to wipe the sweat-dampened hair away from his forehead, to ease his torment. You blinked the thought away— nauseating and entirely too heavy for you to acknowledge further. You brought your attention back to his wing.

The membrane was pierced clean through by the weapon, a gaping wound from which blood and darkened poison gushed. The sight made you nauseous and you pushed away the haunting images of your father's face, the sound of leather striking flesh, and the memory of Eris's scarred back.

"I need to burn it out.”

Azriel's eyes shot open. "No, no," he pleaded weakly, his voice strained heavily. "Please."

Your hands hovered uncertainly above him. The first time you’d felt this poison in your wounds, it had felt like your body was eating itself from the inside out. You’d gotten used to the pain after a while, but Azriel was new to it— and Illyrian wings were incredibly sensitive from what you’d learned. He was in blinding pain.

"It's the only way to stop it from spreading," you insisted. "It'll only get worse if I don’t. You won’t be able to heal otherwise."

"That's—that's not how faebane works," he stammered, shaking his head vehemently. 

You gritted your teeth, letting out an exasperated breath as he rambled. "Because it's not faebane–”

Something seemed to snap. Azriel flinched, his eyes snapping to you with a wild intensity. His pupils were blown wide with fear, like a trapped animal. "You set me up."

Your stomach dropped.

"What?" 

You pulled your hand away, feeling an unfamiliar sting of offense wrapping itself around your chest. Azriel’s jaw clenched and his gaze darkened into a dangerous, skeptical narrow. 

"You're not hurt," he continued. "Was this some setup?"

Azriel's shadows flickered and writhed around him, siphons glaring with an iridescent light. He clutched at his injured wing, muttering through gritted teeth, "I knew it. You— you Vanserras."

He spat your family's name with such venom that for a fleeting second you questioned whether poison had lined his mouth rather than the wound on his wing. 

You were a fool. Azriel’s pain shouldn’t have bothered you so deeply. You should have never went back to help him. The hurt boiling under your skin made you feel weak, made you feel small.

"I will never be trusted by you, will I?" you asked, the words weak on your tongue. You looked at him and fought to push that stupid empathy away. Azriel said nothing as he grimaced further in pain. You let out a humorless laugh.

 "Right,” you said, “Deal with it yourself then. Stay here and die for all I care.”

You turned to leave, but his hand shot out and grabbed yours. The grip was firm, but not hard enough to hurt you. He adjusted his fingers around yours. When you looked down, Azriel’s pleading gaze met yours, sweat clinging to his hair as he looked up at you through darkened lashes. "No, no, I'm sorry," he murmured, "Please."

You hesitated. 

A surge of conflicting emotions—anger, hurt, and an unsettling tenderness you didn't want to acknowledge—washed over you.

Pull away. Leave him.  

And then you swallowed down the hatred, the cruelty that had risen, and knelt back down in front of him. He let out a relieved sigh. Your eyes fell to his hands, taking in the scarred tissue covering his skin— deep marks etched by fire and flame. 

"Close your eyes and pretend I’m Morrigan.”

His eyes flickered to you. "What?"

“Azriel,” You took a deep breath, training your eyes on him. "I need you to trust me. And since you don’t—close your eyes and pretend that I’m not me."

Your voice was gentler than you’d ever heard it, softer than you ever thought yourself capable of.  Azriel swallowed hard, then gave a small nod. His eyes shuttered closed.

You gently placed your palm on his injured wing, feeling the delicate membrane beneath your touch. Your other fingers trembled slightly as you summoned Eris' voice into your mind, calling upon that familiar heat and flicker as the flame began to rise through your hands. You struggled to keep it steady, each breath becoming more labored as you bit back your frustration.

Slowly, soft tendrils of shadows began weaving around your hand– a soft, cooling touch that made you blink. They drifted over you, calming the flickering flame to a steady warmth.  You took a deep breath and cautiously brought your fingers to the wound.

As the fire met his skin, Azriel tensed, a strangled sound escaping his throat. You could feel the poison reacting to the heat, the black substance dissipating under your fingertips.

"I can do this," you murmured, more for your own benefit than his. "It’ll be alright."

You weren’t sure if he could hear you, but you kept talking, hoping that your voice might anchor him to something other than his pain. It always helped you when Eris told you it would be alright, when he talked to you as he tended to your wounds, gently, tenderly, lovingly. 

You focused solely on the task at hand, blocking out the rest of your thoughts and the tightness in your chest. Finally, when you felt the last remnants of poison retreat, you withdrew your hand, the flames extinguishing with a final flicker.

Azriel’s breathing, though still ragged, had eased from the strained gasps earlier. Encouraged by this small sign, you withdrew your hand, a quiet smile of satisfaction tugging at your lips.

Looking down at Azriel, who had slipped into unconsciousness, you took a deep breath. "Thank you," you whispered to the shadows that continued to hover around you. For a moment, you felt silly for speaking to something so intangible— to things that probably didn’t even understand. Yet, as if in response, they slithered back toward Azriel, settling near the crook of his neck.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Azriel’s eyelids felt heavy as he finally came to, his surroundings blurry and unfamiliar. 

It took him a few moments to orient himself, to remember where he was. He noticed three things first: it was nighttime, and a gentle moonlight bathed the space he was in; he was covered in a thin orange blanket, the fabric soft and worn, smelling faintly of pine and something sweet; and he was no longer in the agonizing pain he had succumbed to earlier.

Azriel shifted slightly, grimacing as a dull ache radiated from his wing. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to sit up, the blanket sliding off his shoulders. He glanced at his wing, noting the faint hole where the gaping wound had been. He extended it in a light stretch, feeling a slight sting, but it was bearable. Healable. His mind replayed the events leading up to this moment, your voice echoing in his thoughts—soft, concerned, saying his name. 

Pretend I’m Morrigan.

He had nodded, closed his eyes— but he hadn’t pretended. It was you kneeling beside him, not Mor.

Azriel's gaze wandered around the room. His shadows had left their original position, perched and curled around the apex of his wings, and now seemed to be leading him across the small living area. He frowned, his boots heavy against the aged floors as he followed them past the wooden table— he pushed away memories of you bent over the furniture, shaking his head as he approached a small bookshelf tucked in the corner. 

The shelves were adorned with an assortment of well-loved books, spines worn from what Azriel could only assume were countless readings. His shadows hovered near the middle shelf, where something caught his eye—a slight indentation in the wood, partially concealed by the darkness they casted.

As he drew closer, the shadows dissipated, revealing a carving etched into the wood—

L.V., Y/N. V. 

Azriel blinked, brows furrowing as he inspected the letters further. He traced the letters with his fingers, feeling the rough wood against his scarred, ridged skin. 

You had mentioned offhandedly that you kept in contact with Lucien, that you visited the Spring Court. But he hadn’t given the statement any further thought.

He glanced around the room. 

The space seemed to come alive around him, details he had previously overlooked now asserting their presence. He had never paid proper attention to the home, never questioned why it seemed to be so oddly clean, why you favored it so much. His fingers hovered over the initials once more.

Y/N. V. 

Glancing down at his shadows, they stilled momentarily before slithering across the floor, guiding his gaze towards the doorway. There, through the windowpane, he caught sight of you standing a short distance away from the house, beneath the starlit sky.

Azriel approached the door with cautious steps, ensuring every footfall was quiet– undetected. He reached out, his shadows wrapping around the door handle to muffle any noise it might make. With a gentle push, he swung the door open just wide enough to slip through, his shadows ensuring the hinges made no sound, either. Leaning against the sturdy frame, he allowed the darkness to envelop him further, becoming one with its comforting embrace as he observed you in the distance.

From this vantage point, he watched you, bathed in the soft light that painted the sky with a silvery hue. A gentle breeze stirred, ruffling a few strands of your hair and carrying your faint, familiar scent to him. Sweet with a hint of spice, a smell that he’d grown used to recently. There's an emotion woven into it that he can’t decipher, and for a brief moment, it frustrated him. You seemed at odds. Peaceful, in this night air, but stiff. 

There was a tightening in his chest. 

Seeing you now, basking in the moonlight as the cold air licked at him, Azriel wondered if you were the same Y/N he had so violently hated. Could someone so cruel enjoy the light of the moon? Did his other enemies also watch the stars?

“How long are you going to stand there and stare at me?”

Azriel stiffened and a heat rose to his cheeks. He looked down at his shadows in accusation. Maybe they had betrayed him, not covered his approach adequately. He glanced back up, meeting your gaze as you looked over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

Azriel waited for it— the expected glare, the indifference, or even a cruel smile. Something foreign, something that aligned with the adversarial image he held of you. But it didn't come. There was no hostility, no cruelty, no snark. Only a softness reminiscent of one that he had seen those in his family hold many times before. It caught him off guard.

You snickered softly. "I can feel your stare burning a hole into my dress."

Azriel swallowed and cleared his throat, willing himself to regain composure as he walked towards you. You turned to face him, arms crossed, eyes flicking to his wing.

"You don't look like death anymore," you remarked, a faint hint of amusement in your tone.

Azriel offered a wry smile. "I suppose I have you to thank for that." He paused, searching for the right words. He had too many questions in his mind— too many thoughts floating around, headless, bodiless. 

— You had called him by his name. You had been here with Lucien. You left and you came back. He shielded you with his wing. You healed him. You stayed. You watched the stars. 

Crickets chirped, and a soft breeze rustled the leaves overhead. Azriel's mind wandered to the initials carved into the wood.

"This was your home," he finally said, his voice quiet. "With Lucien."

Your head snapped towards him, eyes widened and lips parting in surprise. "What?"

Azriel simply looked at you, taking in the contours of your face, the way the moonlight painted soft shadows on your features. You had always been attractive, dangerously, irritatingly so. But you looked softer in this light. Someone more approachable, more real—someone he could dare to care for.

Someone he cared for enough to protect.

"Am I right?" he asked again, his voice steady.

You glanced back at the modest house. With a small sigh, you met his gaze briefly before your eyes looked down, unfocused. 

“It was Lucien’s.”

Azriel remained quiet, steading his breath as your eyes met his again. The normal simmering rage within them was replaced now with a distant sadness. 

"After Lucien fled Autumn, Tamlin had this made for him," you continued, gesturing subtly towards the house. "A place close enough to the border that Eris could sneak me to. A place for me to see Lucien, to stay with him when it was possible."

Azriel’s chest tightened further. This wasn't a Spring Court citizens home— it was yours. He thought back to the first time he’d found you here, how bitter you had seemed when you talked of its emptiness. To you, Feyre had taken away the only place you had to escape— when Lucien was forced to flee from another court, when Hybern took advantage of a weakened Spring.

"Why risk sneaking away constantly? Why not seek refuge like Lucien did?" 

Your face seemed to harden briefly at his question, a flicker of defensiveness crossing your features. "I could have," you replied, your tone tinged with a hint of regret as you offered a shrug. "Lucien begged me to."

"Yet you stayed. In Autumn.”

You tilted your chin to look at him properly, meeting his eyes with an intense, burrowing gaze. 

“Would you leave your family? Your court?" 

"My court is not known for its cruelty." 

The words slipped out almost automatically, like a response that had been trained in your presence. He cursed himself inwardly. Something flashed in your eyes and your jaw twitched imperceptibly.  For a brief moment, he braced himself for the anticipated flash of anger, the potential for conflict that could leave him stranded in this spot he now believed himself tethered to. 

But you only raised a brow. 

"Isn't it, though?" you retorted with a slight snicker.  "The all-powerful and brutal Rhysand, feared High Lord of the Night Court."

Azriel bit back the discomfort at the sound of Rhysands name, at the way you disregarded his title so flippantly. He took a deep inhale, and you recognized the action as the response that it was. 

"Autumn is my home.”

The freckles on your face seemed more visible in the moonlight. All the times he'd been with you, the weeks spent meeting you, fucking you, he couldn't remember a proper conversation, face to face, that had lasted this long without a cruel, vile insult. He found it hard to picture you in Autumn anymore, to see you alongside your other brothers, alongside Beron. The image of you among the autumn leaves, your fire-red hair blending with the fiery landscape, felt almost surreal now.

“It was Lucien's too."

“No.” You shook your head gently, a rueful smile touching your lips. “Lucien spent most of his life in other courts. He was always too kind for us. Him and his large heart were destined to leave. A bleeding heart in Autumn gets you nothing but a loss of blood."

You looked like Lucien now, more so than Azriel had seen before. The snark of Eris was still there, the same guarded, calculated movements— even the still, low cadence of your voice, like a practiced talent. Seemingly emotionless despite the topic of conversation.

Seemingly.

Gods, he hated how much you looked like Lucien now.

Because Lucien was fair. Just. Lucien had every reason, as Azriel was beginning to see like you had, to hate him. He'd gone after his mate, had rushed to prove himself in a battle to the death, hadn’t thought about Lucien as a life, as a person, beyond an adversary standing in front of a prize he wanted—that was what Elain had been. A prize. Something he wanted to deserve. Something to prove he was good.

But Lucien was kind. Lucien was diplomatic, good with people. Lucien had won Elain over with his patience, with that good heart you spoke of.

Azriel studied you, wondering how much of Lucien’s qualities you had in you that he had refused to acknowledge. That heart—it was there, beneath the layers of bitterness and guardedness. He had seen glimpses of it tonight, in the way you tended to his wounds, in the way your voice softened despite the hatred you held so deeply, so fiercely. 

He found himself wondering, not for the first time, what you could have been had you left with Lucien.

Azriel cleared his throat. “So you stayed.”

You held his gaze for a moment. He wondered if you were deciding whether to answer, waited anxiously to see whether this openness of yours would vanish. 

"I couldn't leave my mother. I couldn't leave Eris."

Azriel opened his mouth— to say what, he wasn’t sure. But you beat him to it.

"And besides that," you added, your tone shifting slightly, "I fit. You're the one who's talked about my cruelty. I belong in Autumn."

A familiar hardness began returning to your expression. He could see it building, a wall of cold resolve. Your arms tightened around yourself, nails digging into your biceps. You were cruel—this was a fact he knew well. Cruel, calculated, and dangerous for him. Yet, despite all this, an inexplicable urge to apologize welled up within him. 

He had always known getting involved with you was a bad idea. He had rationalized it as a way to fulfill his urges, telling himself that fucking you was the path of least resistance compared to killing you. One option provided a release, the other would only escalate into more chaos. But now, as he stood here, the realization hit him: perhaps it was more dangerous than he had thought. Perhaps he had been dipping into something more addictive than he realized, and now he couldn’t think straight.

Why had he protected you with his wing?

You glanced back at the house, your gaze softening, body relaxing. "I don't think Lucien ever truly got over that," you whispered, almost to yourself. "The hurt that came from his belief that I had chosen my cruel brother over my kind one."

It felt like an admission not meant for Azriel, like you hadn’t realized you’d confessed it out loud. You blinked and the flicker of vulnerability he had seen was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the guarded expression he had come to know.

"But that's not the truth,” Azriel said.

You met his gaze again. Years of sacrifice and loyalty that bound you to a life you never chose. A curved smile touched your lips, a mask slipping back into place— so easily, so swiftly, it almost made him sick. 

"People believe the stories that make the most sense to them. I'd say you're more than familiar with that habit, Shadowsinger."

Azriel's brows furrowed as he straightened, instinctively pulling his wings closer. A small ache radiated from his injured wing, and his mind drifted back to the wound. His shadows coiled protectively around him. Through their whisperings he felt an inexplicable urge to ask, "How did you know it wasn't faebane?"

You looked at him, your expression unreadable. With a nonchalant shrug, you replied, "Lucky guess."

He shook his head. "Do not lie to me."

“I don’t take orders from you.” Your jaw tightened, a flicker of defiance danced in your eyes. "And does it matter? You're healed. You’re welcome. Move on.”

"It matters," he insisted, his voice firm. "How did you know it wasn't faebane? That you needed to burn it out?"

You sighed in irritation. "You're supposed to be smart. Why do you think I knew?"

Azriel's heart pounded. He did know. Deep down, he knew the answer, but he needed to hear it from you. "How did you know?" he pressed.

You looked away, a dry laugh escaping your lips. Shaking your head, you said, "Faebane became useless to my father when an antidote was created for it."

Azriel's brows furrowed further, a sick feeling churning in his stomach. His fists curled at his sides as he asked, "What does that mean?"

A bitter smile twisted your lips as you met his gaze again. "He needed something else to make his punishments effective. So he created a new type of poison, similar to faebane. You can burn it out, which he loves. It's like a fun game for him—inflict the wound, heal it with even more pain, just to do it all over again."

Azriel's shadows seemed to still, softening in their movements. He fought the urge to keep them close, feeling them drift away towards the night air, towards you.

He scanned you with a burning gaze. He’d never noticed any scarring before, but then again, he'd only ever seen you from the back, your dress hitched up to your waist as he rutted into you from behind.  A tightness in his chest made him feel sick.

"I'm sorry," Azriel whispered before he even realized what he was saying, the honesty in his voice surprising even himself. Azriel didn’t apologize. He never did. Even when he should’ve.

You let out a wicked, cold snicker. "Don't go soft on me, Shadowsinger. We both know you're not really sorry. Just like your brute brother wasn't sorry when he figured out the same thing about Eris."

He shivered at the tone of your voice— a bite stronger than the night air that surrounded you both. His fists tightened at his sides as an image of Cassian came into his mind. He felt a rush of two things: blinding rage and blistering guilt. You had no right to call Cass a brute— Cass was a good brother, a loyal brother. And he and Azriel had talked about Eris, had talked about your brother, how little they cared about his punishments. The guilt bubbled up faster than the anger did, swallowing the rage entirely. 

The nighttime air felt suffocating now, pressing against his skin. As if you sensed it too, a cough escaped your lips, breaking the silence that had settled between you as Azriel observed you further. 

"That's enough sweet talk for me. I'll be leaving now," you declared, making a move to step away. Azriel intercepted your path, stepping in front of you with a determined stance.

You shot him a pointed glare. "I can just winnow away. You are aware of this, yes?"

Azriel ignored you, his gaze fixed on you as he searched your face for the answer to a question he didn’t know how to ask. 

"You left me earlier," he said.

You rolled your eyes, an incredulous scoff leaving your curved lips. “Gods, what is this, an exit interrogation? I just saved your ass and—”

He cut you off. “Earlier. When Renard ambushed us. You left.”

"Yes, Azriel, I did," you replied evenly.

The sound of his name seemed to cause a ripple, almost imperceptible, through the shadows around him. He flinched slightly and his stomach twisted into a small, tight knot. Azriel. 

Azriel's eyes darted between yours. “And then you came back.”

He could sense your growing annoyance, could see the simmering flame in your darkened eyes, the tightening of your hands.

"Are we summarizing the events of tonight?" 

He ignored you. “Why?”

"I'm not doing this with you," you shot back, frustration lacing your words as you attempted to push past him. But Azriel moved with a swiftness that caused a small sound of surprise to leave your lips. His strong grip closed around your arm, halting your movements and pulling you back into him.

Now, you were standing close, barely an inch separating your bodies. He could feel the heat of your body radiating against his and the faintest hint of a question lingered in his gaze. His shadows wrapped around your arm.

“Why?”

Your eyes locked with his and you sucked in a breath. "Because you're no use to me if you're dead.”

Azriel's thoughts raced. He hadn't meant those words when he said them, either. 

His shadows whispered things he couldn't quite focus on, their murmurs blending into the background as all he saw was you—so close to him. Someone who could have left him for dead. If Renard's men hadn't taken him so off guard, the poison would have. But you helped him, even after he insulted you, accused you of setting him up.

You looked like Lucien. You looked like Lady Autumn. You looked like Eris. But for the first time, you didn't look like someone he hated. 

"You are not Beron," Azriel said, his voice rough like gravel. He watched as your brows furrowed, your lips falling into a slight frown. "I should never have compared you to him. You are not your father.”

He could see the conflict in your eyes, darting across his face as you began to fall lax in his touch.

"And you're not your brother either," he added quietly.

The words felt like a confession from his lips, as if he was saying something besides the actual words he uttered. 

You blinked, staring at him as you pulled away slightly. Confusion flickered in his expression, his hand hovering where you had been in his hold. You took another step back.

"I am not my father," you affirmed, your voice steady. "I'm loyal. And I'm smart. And—" Your voice faltered. "And I get those things from Eris.”

Azriel stiffened, feeling his shadows tighten around him involuntarily as he watched you. He saw the softness fade from your face, replaced by a steely determination that caused a pang in his chest. You shook your head slightly, swallowed hard, and locked eyes with him.

"I am exactly like my brother. It's one of the things I'm most proud of.”

Before Azriel could respond, before he could even make a move toward you, you turned on your heel and were gone. The night swallowed you up, leaving him standing alone amidst the whispering shadows, grappling with the sickening vulnerability that washed over him like a wave. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

IM BACK BABIES AND IM WRITIN LIKE ITS A FULL TIME JOB

ill make parts shorter i swear (actually....will i???) but alas.... azzie baby has been hit in the face with the beginning of his FEELINGS!!!!

also, in case you wanna SEE our angsty hate-love birds, the super talented @micahssketchbook has sketched them not ONCE, but twice!!

The scene in part three where Azriel has reader in a chokehold and she pulls one on his ass by taking Truth-Teller

and what theyre about to be like in future parts with Az caressing readers face!!

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @panther-girl-124 @bubybubsters

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @vansaddy

Never forgotten but...never finished.

carve your name

part seven — the killerverse masterlist

pairing: luke castellan x daughter of ares reader

summary: it’s the fourth of july. you try and come to terms with your weird feelings toward your best friend while he chases another girl

content: something something creator chose not to use warnings. its getting real

notes: set after the trio’s return from their quest. this is divergent from the show! after the trio comes back from their quest, luke and percy do Not go out into the woods

You’re beating Luke in an arm wrestling contest when Chris brings it up.

“You guys know that girl that just got claimed by Athena?”

Neither of you answer, too busy putting all of your energy into slamming the other’s hand into the table.

You’re winning by the slightest margin. His hand’s about a quarter of the way from the upright position, which doesn’t sound like much, but is a lot when you’ve been at a stalemate for the past five minutes.

“Someone told me she was talking about Luke.”

You begin to lose your grip on his hand, sweaty and sore. But you’re both tied with two wins in this best of five, and you refuse to even let up for a second. The muscles in your arm protest and threaten to give out for a second before you readjust your grasp.

Chris claps a hand on Luke’s back, and when he doesn’t say anything, you can tell he’s just as focused as you are.

“She wants to make a move on you, dude,” Chris says.

Luke’s hand hits the wood, a swift and decisive victory.

“Fucking finally,” you grit out, rolling your shoulder. You pick up your water just so you don’t have to look at either of them, something sick and familiar pulling in your chest. “I thought you’d never give up.”

Luke’s rubbing at his forearm when he laughs, and your stupid mind imagines the feeling of stupid butterflies stirring in your stupid chest.

“It felt like my arm was gonna pop out of its socket. How’d you do that thing at the end?”

You take a long sip of water, fanning at your face. You wonder if your thirty minutes of arm wrestling combined with the July sun would be enough to convince them that that’s why you feel so flushed.

“You mean that thing called winning?”

He kicks your ankles from under the table. “Fuck you. I win plenty. But it was like you got your dad’s blessing just to beat me at arm wrestling.”

Your face pulls up into something that you hope looks amused. “I think you’re just losing your touch, Luke. I bet even Percy would be able to beat you and those weak noodle arms.”

It’s not meant as a dig, but Luke takes a half beat too long to respond.

He stands up abruptly, shifting the bench backward with Chris still on it. He protests at the sudden movement, catching your glass that teeters off the table.

You meet Luke’s eyes again, and his grin lets you know he’s not gonna let your joking slide. He rounds the table, his hands outstretched for you, and you nearly throw yourself in the opposite direction.

“Luke,” you say, the single word sounding like a plea. You walk backwards all the way to the edge of the pavilion, trying not to trip over your own feet. “I was kidding.”

“I know,” he says. His smile is growing wider by a second. “But you’ll say sorry, right?”

“I’m sorry!” You squeal when he lunges for you, trying not to dissolve into laughter. “And I’ll never make fun of you and your weak arms ever again.”

You know there’s really no use running. Luke’s fast, and even though you are too, you won’t outrun him. You let him rush forward and throw you over his shoulder.

Luke gets an apology from you eventually, when you’re dizzy from being over his shoulder and floating with laughter. He holds onto your shoulders during the walk back to your table even though you’re not that dizzy.

When you sit down on the bench opposite of Chris, the first words out of his mouth are, “You guys are fucking weird. Did either of you hear what I said?”

Luke takes his seat across from you, and you try not to let your gaze linger for too long.

You sound breathless. “Sorry, Chris. We take arm wrestling very seriously.”

Luke cracks his knuckles before turning to his friend next to him. “Were you talking about Callea?”

Oh. So he was listening.

Chris snaps his fingers before pointing at him. “Yep. Her. She’s pretty into you.” His eyes slide over to you before he gives his attention back to Luke. “You gonna do something about that?”

“Nah.” Luke smiles, a little embarrassed like he always is whenever he finds out someone new likes him.

It happens a lot to him. A lot more often than you think you’re comfortable with.

…If it were happening to you, of course. Not Luke. You are perfectly okay with the amount of people who fall at his feet. Because he’s his own person. His own person who’s not yours.

“You scared?” Chris jokes. You stare pointedly at the ground. How weird would it be if you just up and left? “She’s pretty.”

Luke’s amused. He slides your glass across the table between both of his hands. “Yeah, so? A ton of girls are pretty.”

Chris is about to say something, you can tell. But he laughs instead. “I’m saying you should go for it.”

He doesn’t look like he cares much, and some sick and twisted part of you feels relieved.

“I’m good, man. I don’t need a girlfriend, especially if it’s some random girl.”

You can tell Chris knows that Luke isn’t giving up anytime soon. So he turns his attention to you.

“C’mon, dude. Help me out—I know he’ll listen to you. Luke should go for it, right?”

You feel frozen on the spot. Both of the boys are looking at you expectantly, believing wholeheartedly that you’ll take their side. You swallow despite the dryness in your throat.

You want to say no.

Not a single part of you wants Luke to make a move on this girl because… The idea makes you want to vomit. It makes you want to take Luke and drag him far, far away where no one can even look at him. Just you and him on top of a mountain, far away from the rest of society.

The endless stream of girls that would constantly make eyes at him from across camp had always made you defensive, but to a perfectly normal extent.

But you’re scared now. Those protective feelings are starting to look like something different, something you don’t even want to think about.

You feel sick, and it’s all because Chris is suggesting Luke should get a girlfriend.

What’s happening to your chest right now isn’t normal. You need to cut whatever it is that’s growing inside of you at the root and shove everything into the very back of your mind. You aren’t supposed to be feeling like this. It isn’t right.

You lean onto the palm of your hand while you turn to look at Chris. You refuse to let your voice waver.

“Yeah. He should.”

The smile on his face tapers off into one of shock. His eyebrows go high for a second, and he huffs a surprised laugh. “Wait, really?”

“Really.” You refuse to look at Luke. You’re beyond scared of what he’ll say. “I mean, half of camp has been pining after him for years. What could it hurt, you know?”

There’s a beat of silence before Chris turns back to him. “Uh, well, you heard her. Two against one.”

You rub at the skin by your wrist.

At the root. At the root.

“I’m kinda jealous. If I had half as many people in love me…” You laugh, and you’re glad to hear that it doesn’t sound half as forced as it really is. “I probably would have a boyfriend by now.”

The lie feels like acid in your throat. You force your eyes back to Luke. His are just as deceptively blank as yours, the look on his face unreadable.

He looks indifferent at the idea, and it stings more than you thought it would. You’d felt physically sick at the idea of Luke having a girlfriend, and he couldn’t care less about you getting involved with anyone else.

The nausea worsens the pressure on your chest.

“And it’s the Fourth of July bonfire tonight,” you add, the hole you’ve dug for yourself growing deeper and deeper with every single word. “So it’d be a great time to do it.”

“Real romantic,” Chris tacks on.

Luke still hasn’t said a word, and the anticipation of what he’ll say might just kill you. You aren’t sure what you’ll do if he actually agrees. Probably something incredibly stupid. You’ve never wanted someone to tell you no this badly.

After a painfully long few seconds, Luke shrugs. “We’ll see, then.”

You feel like the floor has fallen out from under you.

Chris covers up his choke with a laugh. “Are you being serious?”

You’ve never felt so far apart from Luke in your entire life. For the first time ever, you can’t even begin to imagine what he’s thinking.

“Well,” he laughs, a smile you’ve never seen him wear before get plastered on his face. “What could it hurt?”

The sound of your own words coming from his mouth are enough for the sick feeling wearing away at you to grow violent. You get up slowly from the table, trying to push down everything in you that’s threatening to make itself painfully known.

“I’ll see you guys tonight, then?”

Chris scratches his head. “Where are you going?”

“I told one of the Hephaestus kids I’d help set up for the firework show.” You’re blatantly lying. A good amount of them have been weary of you ever since that fight between Luke and Max at the start of the summer. “They’re loading up the barge right now.”

Luke looks confused, but you don’t have anything to say to him. You throw a halfhearted wave over your shoulder and make sure not to look at either of them as you turn away.

(You don’t head down to the beach. You dry heave in the bathroom for thirty minutes before feeling fine enough to walk back out.)

—

You’d been beyond excited to see Annabeth, Percy, and Grover come back to camp a few weeks ago. Returning safe from a quest was no easy feat, and preventing a literal war even more so. You’d been sure to hold all three of them in a group hug so tight they’d gotten annoyed with you.

When you see the former two laid out on a picnic blanket by the sand, waiting for the show to start, you drop in right behind them.

“Hey, guys.” You smile at the way Percy jumps. “You ready for the show?”

“Oh, hey. Is Annabeth right about how cool it all is?” he asks.

It’s nice to see they’re both friends now. During Capture the Flag, he’d seemed scared of how prickly she was.

“Annabeth’s always right.” You wink at her before turning back to Percy. “And absolutely. I saw the fireworks a bit ago—they’re even bigger than last year. I think they’re doing something special.”

Percy looks impressed. He pops a grape into his mouth from the Ziploc bag in his lap.

“Hey.” Annabeth smiles at you before her eyes dart to the space behind you. “Are you okay?”

You squeeze her shoulder. “Yeah, why? Do I not look okay?”

“Oh, no. You look fine, I was just confused.”

“About?”

“About where Luke was. I have something to ask him, and he’s usually around wherever you are.”

Your face warms.

“He said he’d catch up with me soon,” you explain, trying not to read into her words too much. “But, uh… He’s back at his cabin getting ready to romance one of your sisters, I think.”

Percy freezes, a grape halfway to his mouth. You’re reminded of how he’d assumed you had liked Luke, all the way back when he’d first gotten to camp.

The little shit.

“What?” Annabeth’s brows are knit together in disbelief. “Are you messing with me?”

“Nope.” You steal a grape from Percy and listen to the crunch it makes between your teeth. “Chris suggested it. And I think I kind of encouraged him.”

The two of them share some sort of look right in front of your face.

“Hello?” You snap your fingers in between them. “Share with the class?”

“It’s nothing,” she insists, turning away from the ocean to face you. “I’m just surprised.”

You bite back your remark that probably would’ve been, That makes two of us! and let some sand fall through the gaps in your fingers. “Chris seemed surprised too. But Luke can do whatever he wants.”

Percy and Annabeth share another side glance, and you groan. You take back whatever you’d just said about being happy they’re friends.

“Okay, seriously. Spit it out or stop conspiring in front of my face, please. It’s rude.”

“Sorry,” Percy says quickly. “I mean, you already know, but I thought you guys liked each other. I didn’t take him for a guy who’d go for another one of Annabeth’s sisters.”

You can’t help but smile at that.

“Do you know who it is?” Annabeth presses. “I can’t believe so much has changed since we’ve been away,” she says, genuinely considering the thought of this. “Luke used to flat out ignore girls that liked him.”

“It’s Callea, the one who just got claimed.”

Be nice, you remind yourself. It’s not her fault you told Luke to go after her.

“She’s nice,” you add. “I remember her from the times I’d stay over at the Hermes cabin.”

Annabeth frowns. “Oh. Are they like… friends?”

It’s going to make you sound like a crazy psycho, but you know the answer to that question is no. No, they are not friends.

But you just shrug. “I don’t know.”

The kids are quiet, and it puts you on edge. Everyone seems to be especially close-mouthed around you today. There’s clearly more they want to say, especially Annabeth, but she leaves it off with an eyebrow raise and moving over on the blanket.

“Want to watch the fireworks with us?”

You love Annabeth. You’re grateful that she’s dropped it.

“Of course.”

The three of you watch the work of the Hephaestus kids in awe. The red, white, and blue fireworks (projectiles would be a more accurate term) illuminate the sky, showcasing little stories in the lights. So far, the highlights have been the Minotaur (which you make sure to nudge Percy to look at), a scene of your father in battle, and planes made out of lights swerving and shooting at other firework planes.

Sometime between the scene of the warships braving the storm and something from the American Revolution, you feel the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You turn, searching for who you know is standing somewhere amongst the other campers on the beach.

You find him embarrassingly fast. He’s at the edge of the tree line, leaning against an oak and watching George Washington do whatever it is he does.

Percy doesn’t say anything when you get up from your spot, but Annabeth catches you with a hand on your ankle before you move off the blanket.

“Can you ask him where he left my book?” she asks. “He’ll know which one.”

“Oh.” You have no idea how she’s so all-knowing all the time. “Yeah, of course. I’ll see you later, Annabeth.”

“Later.” She turns back to watch the show, grabbing Percy’s shoulder to make him look at some sort of special spiral the fireworks make in the sky.

Luke’s face is painted in the red lights from a burst shaped like the American flag when you approach.

He’s dressed nicely. Not too overly fancy that it looks like he put effort in, but you can tell he definitely sat over his stuff an hour ago wondering what to wear.

He nudges your shoulder when you settle next to him against the tree. “Where’s your jacket?”

You tug at his sleeve. “Right here.”

He always overheats when he drinks and ends the night with ten less layers than he started with, which all end up going to you. Luke smiles at you because he knows you’re right.

“You ready for tonight?” You draw a circle with the point of your shoe in the dirt, looking away from him and the light of the fireworks.

“Absolutely,” he says, his eyes probably crinkling. “Can’t wait for you to sneak shots behind my back and get so drunk I gotta carry you back to the cabin.”

You think you might hate yourself, because the next words out of your mouth are, “I was talking about Callea.”

The light hearted air around you sours almost immediately. You can picture the furrow of his brows with weird accuracy.

“Oh,” he says, in that tone that tells you that you just caught him off guard. “Sure. Whatever happens, happens.”

The campers on the beach ahead of you burst into boisterous applause at the firework show finale: the warriors battling it out in the sky are as tall as skyscrapers.

Luke pushes off of the wall of wood behind you, slinging an arm over your shoulder.

“Go slow tonight.” He waves to one of the younger kids passing by you as you make your way towards the other half of the beach. “Can’t have you getting alcohol poisoning.”

“Don’t worry,” you say. “I’ll be fine.”

The two of you wander over the sand dunes, the little tufts of beachgrass tickling your ankles. While you walk, he talks to you about what he was doing before he showed up to the beach, and you listen half heartedly.

You can’t wait to drink the memory of this night and Luke and Callea out of your mind.

—

The number of people that have already made their way to the site by the time you get there surprises you.

There aren’t many campers old enough to go to these things. But there’s still a decent amount of people here, most crowded around the bonfire glowing bright red in the center of the clearing. It’s about twenty feet high and the pieces of wood keeping it alive are about the size of entire tree trunks.

There’s a few people standing around a foldable table that’s dirty from age and long stained with various drinks. A group of girls you know are talking around the cooler, and you find yourself moving in their direction before you can stop yourself.

The first conversation about Callea happened a few hours ago, but you’ve been feeling irritated and sick and on edge and annoyed ever since. So it really isn’t your fault that the second someone hands you a can of hard lemonade, you’re cracking open the tab and tipping it down your throat.

It burns on the way down and really isn’t that good. Most of the cheap stuff people get for these things aren’t, but you still find yourself hoping every single time. You let the sting in your throat replace the sting of the mean mix of emotions in your head.

“Hey.” The can pressed against your mouth is lifted clear over your head, spilling a few drops of sticky lemonade onto your shirt. “What’d I say? Slow down.”

“You’re no fun sometimes,” you complain, but you feel an out of place sense of relief.

Luke’s still here. With you, not someone else.

“It’s been forever since I’ve had one of these.”

“Is that why you downed half the can in fifteen seconds?” Luke asks, squinting into the opening at the top. His eyes find the flavor printed on the side of the can, and you stare as he puts his mouth over the spot yours had just been and takes a long swig.

He makes a face at the taste. You swallow around the dryness in your throat.

“I still don’t get why you like this stuff. Pure sugar.”

He uses the edge of the table to pop off the cap of the cheap beer that his brothers always buy, and you wince just imagining the bitterness of it. He tosses the cap into the trash bag tied to the end of the table.

(You all take trash disposal very seriously at these bonfires. You’re all still a little scared from the time a nymph threatened to snitch on you all when she found a discarded can by the edge of the woods.)

“You know the drill though. I’m not cleaning up your vomit again.”

“You’re going to have to stop bringing that up one day.”

Luke gives you a lopsided smile. “But you get so embarrassed when I do.”

“Gods, who wouldn’t?” you shiver. “I couldn’t look your brother in the face for weeks after that.”

He mimes himself tumbling out of bed and then vomiting onto what you know is supposed to be the foot of his brother’s bed.

You hit his shoulder, tugging your drink out of his hand. “Asshole. We get it, all your siblings were there—”

“Luke!”

The two of you spin in the direction of the voice, off in the direction of the beach.

It’s Callea. The sight of her is enough to send burning hot jealousy through your bloodstream.

She’s so effortlessly pretty that it has you tugging uncomfortably at your own clothes. Her hair has been curled to perfection, and it's pinned back, putting every part of her insane bone structure on display.

There’s a group of people behind her, a mix of kids from every cabin. You see Chris amongst them, all of them waving you in their direction.

Callea’s smiling, and Luke looks stunned.

You take a step back without meaning to. When he turns to you, he’s smiling in a way that almost looks nervous.

You try for a smile too, feeling out of your mind. “Good luck, hero.”

The look flickers off his face for a second. He’s confused. “You’re not coming?”

You know you won’t be able to handle the sight of him and Callea together without tears pricking at your eyes. The hurt is making itself known already, and you know it’ll only get worse from here.

“I’m gonna find my friends.” You gesture vaguely behind you because you have no idea where any of them actually are. “I’ll catch up later.”

He’s not convinced, his hand settling on your shoulder. “C’mon, please? Don’t make me go alone. I feel like I’m being left to the sharks.”

You pull yourself away too fast, and it’s clear that he picks up on that too.

“Sorry.” You look away because you know you’ll give in and go with him. “An hour at most, and I’ll come looking for you.”

“An hour?” His tone is off.

You take another long sip from your drink. It’s about one-fourth of the way full now.

“Go get your girl, Luke.” The words are forced out through gritted teeth and the envy clouding your mind.

You can feel him watch you as you walk away.

—

It takes another few cans of fruity drinks and two Dirty Shirleys until you feel your face getting hot and your tongue get heavy in your mouth.

One of your sisters did something with your hair, but you’re much too preoccupied to care much about it. You’ve lost track of how long it’s been since you first got here, but the drinks have been flowing and have started tasting really good, though you think that’s just because of how tipsy you are.

It’s kinda hard to think about other things when you’re standing amongst twenty other kids cheering on a son of Aphrodite who’s doing a keg stand.

You feel someone tug at your arm. It’s Ruby, trying to drag your attention away from the boy doing a handstand on top of the barrel. She has to shout over the sound of everyone egging him on.

“I’m go— to give —s to V—t!”

The guy in the middle of the crowd lets out a roar of triumph, and everyone around you joins in.

“Huh?”

Someone jostles you around while they rush for the middle and you lose her for a second. But then she’s seizing your wrist and dragging you out of the layers of people.

“I’ll be back! I’m gonna give this to Violet.” you think she says. Your ears are ringing from the change of volume.

She shakes a can of something in front of your face, and the melted ice water from the cooler splatters onto your shirt.

“Can I come with?” you yell over the sound of someone turning up the music.

She intertwines her hand with yours as she starts singing along with whatever song they’ve put on. She seems to know exactly where she’s going, dragging you behind her as she heads in the direction of the ocean.

“There she is,” you say, pointing to someone wading in the water.

“Uhh,” Ruby squints in the direction you’re pointing in. “I think that’s Jace.”

The boy’s face catches the light when he splashes the person standing next to him, and you wonder how you’d mistaken him for her in the first place.

“Oh, whoops.”

“There,” she says suddenly, pointing in the direction of a smaller group a little bit away. “Violet!”

You nearly get whiplash from the way she changes course so fast, snapping your head to the left.

“There you are,” Violet groans, trying to squeeze her way through her dense crowd of friends. “I was starting to think you’d never show up!”

“But I’m here now,” she defends, giving the girl her lukewarm drink. She gives her a big hug in thanks, and it makes you smile. You give Ruby a hug after Violet lets go of her just because you can.

Ruby falls into easy conversation with the people standing around, but you stare out at the water, something unsettling setting in. You think you’re supposed to be doing something right now, but can’t really remember what it is.

You already gave up your bet money to the girl you’d lost to. You hadn’t forgotten to put on sunscreen earlier. You’re getting rum and Coke spilled down the front of your white shirt.

Wait.

“Oh, fuck. My bad.”

You’re getting rum and Coke spilled down the front of your white shirt.

“Oh, fuck,” the guy repeats. His hands flutter around your shirt but he clearly knows he shouldn’t try dabbing it out. “Sorry, dude. That was on me.”

“No shit,” you say, but you’re not too upset about it. It wasn’t your favorite shirt or anything.

His face is growing bright red, and he stares very solemnly up at the sky.

You frown. “Oh, um. You’re good, dude. It’s not that serious.”

“Mikey!” someone hisses as he shoves his jacket at you. “Great going, jackass.”

You look down, and see that your shirt is starting to look a little transparent.

Ha. No wonder he’d gone tomato red.

“It’s fine,” you insist, letting Ruby shove your arms through the jacket. “No harm, dude.”

He gives you a fist bump before disappearing back inside his group of friends.

“Oh, hey! Where’ve you been?” someone asks.

You think back to what you’re definitely forgetting while you wait for Ruby to respond to them. It’s on the tip of your tongue, too.

After a few seconds of your friend’s silence, you realize that person’s talking to you.

“Chris!” you greet, smiling. You throw your arms around his shoulders with so much force he nearly tips over. “What’re you doing here?”

His curly hair is looking super windswept, and you point it out to him with a smile.

He flattens the wayward strands before returning your grin. “Bradley was breakdancing over here earlier.”

A laugh finds its way out of your mouth. “Really?”

“Yep.”

“It’s been a bunch of fun over there,” you tell him, and you think you can still hear them yelling about something.

“I can tell,” he says, laughing. Then, he gets a curious look on his face. “By the way, did you go see Luke? He was looking for you earlier.”

The mention of him hits you like a truck, slamming the memories straight to the forefront of your mind.

“Oh. No. I didn’t.”

“Do you want me to take you to him? He’s sitting with Callea.”

You lift Chris’ cup straight out of his hands and finish whatever’s in it. It’s not as bad as that beer Luke likes, but it’s definitely not good, either.

It takes Chris a second to find his voice. “Are you good?”

You want to be honest. No, you aren’t good. You’re jealous and bitter and feel like you’re about to lose the only person you care about.

But you just give Chris a thumbs up while wiping away the bits that are dripping down your chin. “Well. Yep.”

That was what you were forgetting.

You really have to thank the drinks you had earlier for helping you push him to the back of your mind.

But it doesn’t matter anymore. Your eyes scan the shoreline, and you find them a little too quickly.

They’re sitting on a log by a few other people at the big fire. One of the Apollo kids is singing something on a guitar, but neither Luke or Callea are paying attention. They’re talking quietly, the two of them engrossed in whatever stupid shit they’re talking about. When Callea laughs, she leans her head back and puts her hand on Luke’s arm, and—

You look away so the bile doesn’t make its way up your throat. You sit down on the sand. Hard.

Chris settles down slowly next to you. You let your head hit his shoulder, defeated.

You’re supposed to be cutting everything off. Every single out of place feeling you have towards Luke is supposed to be gone. Gone from your mind and gone from your heart, because none of it is normal.

You shouldn’t feel possessive at the thought of Luke being with another girl. It’s not right. He deserves to be happy— so happy that he doesn’t stop smiling. So happy that he’s head over heels for a girl.

What kind of sick person are you?

You don’t want Luke to be happy with Callea. You don’t want him to kiss her, and you don’t want him to hold her hand and let her sleep on your side of his bed.

And that’s not normal. You’d encourage any one of your other friends to go after a cute girl, but the thought of Luke doing the same made you drink your weight in vodka cran and hard strawberry lemonade.

Your chest burns. Feeling this way hurts, but you can’t stop it. Your feelings for Luke are so innate, they’re a part of you.

It’s not possible to get rid of this. You know it for a fact.

Chris nudges you with his elbow. “I… Shit. I have something to tell you.”

You brush sand from the edge of your jeans. You’re not in a big talking mood.

“I only told Luke to go after Callea because I thought you’d tell him not to.”

You spin around so fast to look at him that Chris has to catch you when you fall forward.

“You did what?” you spit out after a second, trying to fight back the nausea.

This entire thing started… Because Chris Rodriguez wanted to test you?

“You’ve stopped him every other time!” He looks guilty and frantic all at once as he settles you back onto the ground. “I was so convinced you would do it again, and I just... I’m sorry.”

“Gods, Chris,” you complain. Your head is spinning. “Why?”

He runs a hand through his hair, looking sheepish. “You gotta promise not to be mad.”

You know he can tell how angry you are when he seems to shrink into the sand.

“Uh… I was convinced you two got together recently without telling me. And I mean, I ask Luke about girls all the time, so—”

“You thought it wouldn’t be a big deal to ask him about some girl again?” your stare is flat. “To see how we’d react?”

He shrugs, running his hands through the sand. “Yeah.”

“And you didn’t expect me to tell him to go for it?”

He shrugs for a second time, too guilty to really look at you. “I mean, obviously. But I was even more surprised when he actually agreed to it.”

You think about Luke and Callea by the bonfire, too busy staring into each other's eyes to notice anything else. The regret feels like a physical weight on your chest.

“Wasn’t really your fault,” you admit, leaning your chin against your knees. “I um… Fuck, Chris. I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud.”

You smile, and he smiles with you, but you think it’s because he’s scared you’re going to cry.

“I think I like Luke.”

It’s weird to admit that to someone other than yourself. But the words are a lot less scary now that you’ve said them out loud.

You like Luke. You have for a while.

It’s hard to trace the start of your feelings for him. There’s so much between you two, and the thought of trying to comb through nineteen years of friendship to find the exact moment where your world shifted is impossible.

You think about the way you feel around him — the way only he makes you feel. You don’t think you could explain it to Chris even if you wanted to. You don’t even know if you could explain it fully to yourself.

“And I got scared. I was trying to pretend like if I ignored it, it would go away.” You laugh at how ridiculous it all sounds. “But nothing could erase the way I feel for him. He’s just… He’s been everything.”

You know you like Luke. You think it might even be more than that.

The words sit heavy between you and Chris. He exhales as he lays back, trying to make sense of the drunk slew of words you’ve spit up at him.

It’s a lot.

But he lets you wallow for less than thirty seconds.

“Get up,” he says, conviction coloring his words. He’s staring out at the ocean, and you give him a funny look.

“What?”

He pushes himself to his feet before grabbing your hands and tugging you up. You stumble forward, still feeling the effects of the alcohol, but Chris has you stable before you even realize you’d almost fallen over.

“Stand up and get over there,” he demands, brushing sand off your shirt.

“Over there?” you repeat weakly, glancing between Chris and where you know his best friend is sitting.

He drags you even further away from Ruby’s friends. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Are you fucking crazy?” you hiss, tugging hard on his hand and stumbling in the sand a bit. “I’m not going to interrupt that, Chris. I told him to go after her.”

He must get annoyed with the way you’re dragging your feet, because he stops the weird tug-of-war you’re having. Chris turns to face you, fire in his eyes.

“Then, congrats. We all make stupid decisions, so welcome to the club.”

Your eyes widen. You’ve never seen him this worked up about something in your life.

“But you’re going to regret this,” he insists. He grabs onto your shoulders with so much force it scares you a little. His stare is serious. “You’re important to him. I can’t think of something he cares about more.”

With his grip on your shoulders, he spins you around to face the boy in question. Luke’s face is lit up by the fire. He’s smiling at someone else.

“You’re a daughter of Ares for a reason, dude. You’d never sit back and let this happen.” He nudges you forward. “Get it done.”

You think of Luke. Your best friend, the only person you know you want in your future. The boy who holds you in your sleep and knows exactly what you need based on the way you reach for his hand. The boy who is a part of you just as much as you are.

When you turn around, you’re met with the sight of Chris’ back as he walks away.

He’s insane.

But he’s right.

You have to stop whatever it is that’s happening between Luke and Callea, even though it’s basically your fault. You know that the hurt you feel will only get worse if something really does happen between them, and the thought of that scares you more than anything else.

You’ve been less afraid of demigod-eating monsters than you are of this teenage girl.

Luke’s talking about something, and Callea’s looking at him with stars in her eyes. It makes you stumble over the sand a little faster.

From so far away, the sight of them had been manageable. But you find unease settling in your stomach the closer you get.

The wind tousles his hair and you’re taken aback by just how nice he looks. He’s a little flushed from the alcohol, but you like how it makes his smiles just a little bit wider and his hands a little more touchy.

You’re so busy staring you don’t notice when his eyes find yours. He sits up straight.

You call his name what must be a little too loudly, because the Apollo kid playing the guitar stops strumming.

“Hi,” you say, out of breath from the hike over. He’s grinning at you, finding something a little funny. You bend down so you can wrap him in a hug, and his hand slides up your back.

You inhale his cologne and sigh against him. “Missed you.”

“There you are,” Luke says, and you almost sigh with relief. “I missed you too. You disappeared.”

“Sorry. Ruby’s sister broke up with her boyfriend. I wanted to figure out what happened, and then he did a keg stand.”

“Ruby’s sister’s ex-boyfriend?”

“No. Matt did.”

“What does Matt have to do with Ruby’s sister’s ex-boyfriend?”

“Nothing.”

He’s grinning when he says, “My bad.”

You stand up to your full height, but you let your hand linger on his shoulder. His hand slides down your leg.

“I made you a Shirley Temple with vodka a while ago,” he says, handing you a red solo cup. “Extra cherries.”

You try not to smile too wide.

He knows, he knows, he knows.

“There’s only cherries in here,” you say, confused when he hands you the cup.

He squeezes the bare skin at your calf. “Yeah, sorry. They ran out of beer, and I got thirsty.”

“Luke, who is this?”

It’s Callea. She’s smiling at you, her head tilted to the side. Her hair is still perfect despite the light breeze.

You decidedly do not like the way his name sounds in her mouth.

You introduce yourself, trying to make your smile look as not strained as possible. “I’m Luke’s best friend. Who are you?”

“Callea.” She’s still smiling at you with her perfect teeth.

“Cool,” you say, because you don’t know what else there is to say. You’ve already met her. You aren’t sure why she’s pretending not to know you.

After a second of you staring at him, Luke makes room for you on the log. You get a sick sense of satisfaction when he moves further away from her.

He’s tapping on your leg. “You wanna sit?”

You nod automatically, leaning down to press a kiss against his cheek. “Of course.”

Luke has to steady you by your waist when you sit sideways on his lap.

He’s warm like he always is, even more so because of his proximity to the fire and the drinks he’s had. One of your arms goes around his neck as you lean against him.

“Annabeth wanted me to ask you where you left her book,” you say, your thumb rubbing over a part of his jaw. There's a tiny nick there you think he got from shaving, and you tell him that too.

It takes a second for the surprise to wear off. But he wraps an arm around your waist like he always does, and gives you a wobbly kind of smile.

“I’ll make sure to give it back to her,” he promises.

You miss the look he’s giving you, too busy curling your fingers in his hair. Callea had done this earlier. She didn’t deserve to.

“Wanna go back now?” you ask, yawning. “My head’s pounding.”

He squeezes your hip, and you forget what you were supposed to be mad about. “Thought you wouldn’t want to for a while. It’s not that late.”

“I think I drank too fast. I kinda just want to go and sleep at yours.”

You think if Chris were here, he’d probably tell you you’re laying it on thick. But you really do want to go to bed. Preferably after you take Luke far away from the girl next to you.

He tugs at the fabric of your jacket. “Where’d you get this?”

“Get what?”

“This.”

You look down at your chest, and see the logo of some sports team on it. You aren’t quite sure where it’s from, but Luke probably does.

“Some guy.”

“Some guy,” he echoes.

“Ruby’s friend,” you explain. You shove your face into his shoulder, which is stiff and so unlike him you pause.

“Are you friends with him?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t really see his face. We didn’t do much talking.”

You realize just how tense he is only when he shifts you off of his lap and stands up abruptly. You sway on your feet.

“She’s drunk. ‘M gonna take her back,” he says to Callea.

It sounds like she protests, and you hear him apologize before saying goodbye.

(You choose to be nice and don’t wave at her while you walk away.)

Luke’s walking pretty fast, and you struggle to keep up with his long strides over the soft sand. Usually, you’d link your hands together at this point of a walk, but there’s too much distance between you two for it to work.

He’s weirdly prickly right now, so you keep your mouth shut the entire way back to his cabin. He can’t see you, but you frown at his back.

About halfway there, you hear him mumble expletives under his breath when a branch gets in his way, and the piece of wood, as thick as a dictionary, gets snapped in half from the pressure he uses to step on it.

You’re surprised he doesn’t blast the cabin door off its hinges with the way he shoves it open.

You follow him into the empty room. It’s just the two of you here because all of the younger kids are gathered in the pavilion to watch an old movie on a projector someone had brought back to life.

Luke’s already at his bed by the time you shut the door.

“You’re mad,” you point out, slinking over slowly. Luke could never scare you, but his silent anger is making you wary. “Why’re you mad?”

Luke doesn’t respond as he rummages around in his drawer, fishing out one of his t-shirts and a pair of pajama pants you’ve forgotten here.

“I’m not mad. C’mon, get dressed.” He says it quietly, but the clear signs of his anger give him away.

There’s the crease in between his eyebrows, for one. And the way he won’t look you in the eye. And when his fingers uncurl from the shirt to drop it into your hands, there’s wrinkles from how tightly he was gripping it.

“Aw,” you say, more amused than you should be. “You know, I thought you’d ditch me at my cabin tonight. But I think you’re a little too scared of me vomiting in my sleep and like, dying. So thanks. You’re pretty sweet for letting me still stay here. Even though you’re mad.”

“Killer.” Luke sighs when he looks away from you again, clenching and unclenching his fists. Definitely mad. “I’m not.”

“Not what?”

“Not mad.”

“You won’t let me touch you,” you say absentmindedly, taking a step closer to him. He doesn’t react, staring blankly over your shoulder. “It’s making me sad. You always let me ‘cause I can’t go a second without you.”

Luke inhales sharply, and you itch to have him under your hands again.

He scoffs a little meanly. “You have to stop saying shit like that.”

“What’s wrong with what I said?” you push, pressing closer to him. Just before you can get too close, he stops you with his hands around your biceps.

Luke’s lips are pressed into a firm line. His hands feel foreign against you, and it makes you feel weird. Everything is natural with him. Whatever is happening right now is not.

“You need to stop saying shit you don’t mean.”

“But I meant it. I can’t go a second without you.”

He doesn’t say a word. He sits you down on the edge of his bed and kneels down to untie your laces.

“Luke,” you practically whine, refraining from shifting yourself forward to hug him. “Why do you think I’m lying?”

“You’re drunk,” he states, matter of factly. He wrestles with your left shoe a little bit when it refuses to slip off. He flips it upside down and taps the sole to get rid of the gritty bits of sand that snuck into it.

“You’re drunk, too,” you point out. “So does that mean you’re lying to me?”

You put your left hand on the side of his face and make him look at you. He’s annoyed, and his face is warm and red like it gets whenever he drinks.

He sighs. Then he turns his face into your hand and lets his lips brush over your palm. “I’m not lying to you.”

Your skin tingles where his lips were. You rush your next words, giddy and a little embarrassed.

“Sometimes I wish you’d kiss me for real.”

Luke snaps. He backs away, running a hand through his hair. Your vision is blurry.

“Sorry,” you say, really frowning. You know you shouldn’t have said that. “Did that freak you out?”

“You can be so fucking mean,” Luke scoffs. “I don’t understand you sometimes.”

“What? Luke—”

“You tell me to go after some random girl neither of us really know, and then disappear for the rest of the night,” he grits out, angry at you in a way you’ve never seen.

His words aren’t making sense. He’d seemed so happy tonight, but speaks of it like it’d been torture. Your head is spinning.

“And then you come back with—” Luke cuts himself off before he can say what he really wants to. It seems to be a trend today. “Fuck, killer. You can be so mean.”

Your eyes sting with hurt. Luke never gets upset with you, and the immediate need to fix it makes your chest constrict.

You think you feel too much for him. Too much, too fast.

“What did I do?” you ask, and the frightening feeling of your eyes pricking with tears has the words rushing out. “I don’t know what you mean, I don’t get why you’re mad, Luke. Please talk to me.”

He tugs at the curls on his head, and it makes you frown. You wish he wasn’t so harsh on himself.

He kneels in front of you again, and you meet his eyes. They’re vulnerable.

You squeeze his shoulders.

Very slowly, he puts his hands on your sides again, and you soften into a puddle.

When he speaks next, it looks hard for him.

“Where’d you get this?”

The jacket.

You frown again. You’d already gone over this.

“Ruby’s friend, I told you.”

“You could’ve come to me if you were cold.” He forces the words out so quickly you almost don’t catch them. “I was looking for you.”

You rub his cheek sweetly. “Thanks, hero. You’re always looking out for me. But I had to put it on because he spilled his drink on me. Everyone would’ve seen through it if I waited to find you.”

It takes you a second before your hand finds the zipper, but when you do, you tug it down and show him your stained shirt underneath.

“Oh,” he says. He’s looking at your shirt and not at you. “You should get changed.”

“Why do you care?” you push.

“Your shirt’s sticky.”

“I meant about the jacket.”

Luke ignores you, tugging at the ends of your sleeves. “It’s nothing. C’mon, let’s get you outta this.”

You zip the jacket back up before he can stop you. “No. Tell me the truth.”

He gives you a look, stunned at your refusal. “I was being stupid, killer. It’s nothing.”

You get up, leaving him in his spot on the floor. “Tell me so it can be over.”

“It is over. I’m tired. You said you were too. Let’s go to bed.”

“Not until you tell me.”

“No.”

“Please, Luke?” you ask, knowing it’s only a matter of time before he gives in. “Please, please, please, please, pl—”

“If I tell you, will you finally go the fuck to sleep?”

“Yep. I swear.” You nod so fast you get dizzy. “I’ll shut up and we’ll go to sleep.”

He looks exasperated when he pushes himself to his feet. It looks like he can’t believe he’s having this conversation with you.

Luke sighs one final time.

“Earlier, you’d said you and this guy didn’t do much talking.”

You nod. “Yeah. He gave me his jacket and I walked away.”

“Well, I thought you ditched me ‘cause you wanted to go suck some guy’s face.” He gestures at your chest. “And it was worse ‘cause the jackass likes Arizona.”

He’d thought you’d been off with some random guy. And he’d been… jealous?

You don’t feel like joking with him anymore.

“That’s not fair,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

“What?”

“You were the one who was actually off making out with some random girl,” you point out.

His eyes widen. “You’re angry with me about that? I didn’t kiss Callea. And even if I did, you were the one who told me to go after her. Why are you upset about it now?”

“I don’t know!” You feel like you’re curling in on yourself. “I don’t like Callea. She annoys me.”

“I only said yes to talking to her because you wanted me to,” he says, bitterness creeping into his tone. “I’m so fucking confused. Did you want me to go for her or not?”

You think about Callea and Luke. The way she would kiss him. The way they would hold hands. The way she would be his future, not you.

You already know the answer to his question.

You shake your head vehemently. “I don’t want you to have a girlfriend, Luke.” You feel like a toddler throwing a tantrum, and shame curls around you. “I never wanted you to in the first place.”

“Then why did you agree with Chris?” he asks, and you’re shocked to hear that he sounds hurt.

You don’t want to talk to Luke about this right now. Not while you’re both drunk and willing to say something stupid.

But you look at him and the hurt in his eyes and feel the urge to spill every single thought you’ve ever had.

Your voice is quiet when you press your palms into your eyes. “I was scared.”

“Why?” he presses. His hands go around your wrists so you can’t hide from him. “Why were you scared?”

Luke makes you look at him then, his face inches from yours. You wonder if he already knows.

You know that you should wait and talk about this tomorrow. The both of you are drunk, no matter how much you want to deny it.

But it’s the alcohol.

The alcohol is why you do it.

It’s why you say, “I don’t want anyone else to have you, Luke.”

In the span of five seconds, you’ve uprooted nineteen years of love. Nineteen years of feelings that have been growing under the surface and into every part of who you are.

“I’m scared of the way I feel. I feel like throwing up whenever Callea looks at you,” you admit, eyes sliding to his shoulder. You can’t handle the weight of his stare. “So I ran from everything. I told you to go after her.”

Luke is still quiet, and the words finish pouring out.

“But I don’t want anyone else to kiss you. No one else but me.”

Luke still hasn’t let go of your wrists.

He hasn’t moved either, but you don’t blame him. You’d nearly been crushed under the weight of your feelings when you’d found out, and now, you’ve cracked open your heart and dumped it all at his feet.

Luke still hasn’t let go of your wrists.

But for good reason, you decide. He uses his hold on you to drag you forward and give you everything.

He tastes sweet. Like the grenadine from the Dirty Shirley he’d made for you, and you can't help the sigh that escapes you, a shaky exhale against his lips.

Luke lets go of you to cradle your face in his hands, brushing his thumbs under your eyes like he’s trying to commit the slopes of your face to memory.

His eyes are so brown. You’ve always known, but it feels different when you’re looking at the blackness of his pupils after he’s just kissed you.

“Was— Did you…” Where he’s looking is constantly changing, fluttering from meeting your gaze to down to your lips and then back up again. “Was that okay?”

You feel like you’re glowing. You can’t even imagine a world where you wouldn’t want this.

You say yes when you tilt your head up and slot your lips together.

He kisses you nice and slow, his hands sliding down to your back. He goes nice and slow because he’s not going anywhere, and you know it.

Your hands are shaking. You’re so jittery that you have to throw your arms around his shoulders and lock your hands together behind his neck. For the millionth time in your life, you thread your fingers through the dark sea of curls on his head. You’d never ever imagined you’d ever get to hold him like this, and it makes warmth spread to every part of your body.

Luke pulls away after a bit to rest his forehead against yours. When his eyes slide open, you lock eyes, and he breaks out into a grin. You find yourself mirroring it without meaning to.

His voice is so, so soft when he says, “Sweetheart?”

“Yeah?”

“Were your eyes open?”

Oh. You’d forgotten you weren’t supposed to do that.

You’d been so wrapped up in the thought that he was kissing you, you hadn’t even thought about looking away from him.

(Luke Castellan was kissing you. You, you, you.)

The tip of your nose brushes against his, your eyes finally fluttering shut. You inhale the barely there hints of his cologne and grow dizzy with it. “I just wanted to look at you.”

You expect him to laugh. It sounds stupid even to you, but you’d said it because it was true.

Luke is pretty. You could stare at him until the end of time, when you’re old and gray and your legs don’t work and you need him to carry you around with him forever.

You realize his hands have migrated over to your waist, and the feeling of him at your sides and at your back is making your stomach spin with butterflies.

You lean back to meet his gaze, and the look there catches you off guard. He’s breathing hard, his eyes completely glazed over.

You think that’s why you only half expect it when he pulls you against him and kisses you stupid.

Luke slides the jacket straight off of your shoulders, letting it hit the floor. He mumbles something, but you don’t think anything of it because then he’s doing something that nearly makes your eyes roll back and it’s forgotten in a second. You trip over the discarded fabric when he walks you backward to crowd you against the foot of his bed.

It wrings something embarrassing from your vocal cords, and he smiles against your lips.

“Yeah?” he asks, even though there’s no question there.

You feel dizzy at the feeling of him. Your hands untangle from behind his neck to slide down the solid planes of his chest, and he hums against your mouth. If he wasn’t propping you up against the bed frame, you know you’d have melted into a puddle on the floor by now.

You mumble something agreeable against him, your chest on fire. It’s not physically possible to be any closer to him, but you ache for it. You ache for him.

One of his broad hands slips up the back of your shirt and you gasp into his mouth, your fingers seizing the fabric of his jacket.

Luke is kind. So, so kind, and he licks into your mouth and you feel hot all over.

The warmth you’d been feeling earlier sets your chest on fire. You’re so frighteningly aware of the fact that you feel him everywhere. It’s too much and it’s not enough and he groans when you bite at his lower lip.

“Fuck,” he sighs out, the single word so desperate you nearly go cross eyed. “Fuck.”

You think you’re going to relive him every single time you need to take ambrosia.

“I can’t believe you’re real,” Luke breathes out, his eyes shining. The look he’s giving you is making saliva pool under your tongue. “You’re perfect, did you know that?”

You don’t let him get far before you’re chasing after him again, missing the taste of him. His grip tightens around you, and you think you get black spots in your vision.

“Thought I was gonna fucking die when you came back with that dumbass jacket,” he admits. “My girl. I’m sorry I was being stupid.”

You think it’d be embarrassing if he knew just how much you’d be willing to forgive him for.

“‘s okay,” you say, your voice thick. “I was sad it wasn’t yours, too.”

You’re pleased to find that Luke Castellan treats kissing just as seriously as he treats everything else, because the way he holds you is so desperate it surprises the both of you. You can’t even feel where the bed frame is digging into your hip because you’re too focused on the way he’s pressing you against it.

You try stabilizing yourself and find that your hands land directly on his biceps. When he flexes, you feel him smile against your lips.

“Wow, hero,” you tease, voice pitching up at the end when one of his arms snakes around your waist.

You’re very lucky he’s serious about this. But it means he doesn’t hear the sound of campers rushing past the door.

Something like greed possesses him when you snap your head to your left.

He tries following you, tipping his head down to capture your lips again, but you put your hands on his chest to stop him.

“Luke,” you warn. He settles for kissing at your neck instead, and your knees almost buckle when you feel his teeth drag against your skin.

“I think— I think there’s people walking outside,” you say. Every word that comes out of your mouth is labored and takes more effort than you thought was ever possible.

“Then fucking let them come in,” he grumbles, revelling in the sound you make when he kisses you again. “I’m their counselor. They’ll have stable duty until they die.”

You’re breathing hard against him, overwhelmed and dizzy, and you feel it when the pressure of his kisses starts shifting lower. You feel him at your collarbones and nearly pass out.

“We have to— Holy shit,” you sigh out.

The struggle to form thoughts is palpable. Every single one of your working synapses is focused on the feeling of your shirt rucking up your stomach when his hand slides up the back even further.

You say his name, and he hums.

“We’re drunk. We should be… We shouldn’t—”

You know you’re right. But you want to be wrong so, so badly.

“Five seconds,” he says, and the desire there is so real he sighs into your next kiss. “And then we’ll be done.”

Your breath stutters when you inhale. “Five seconds. Yeah. Okay,” you rationalize. “I’ll count.”

It’s just five more seconds, and you honestly think you need it more than him.

You’re breathing too hard for him to kiss you properly, so he tilts your head back and you nearly see stars.

You jolt at the feeling of his mouth against your jaw, a trail of wet kisses following from your mouth to the curved bone. Your fingers curl into his hair.

A shiver wracks your body at the feeling of the first two numbers being mumbled against the swell of your throat. It’s been five seconds already. Neither of you care.

Luke is smiling against your skin.

“Your heart is racing. I can feel it.” He presses an open-mouthed kiss to your carotid, and it feels like your heart is going to come out of your neck. “Right there.”

“Don’t be mean,” you complain, but it sounds more like a whine than an actual sentence.

Luke’s hand goes to the junction of your neck and the back of your head, keeping you steady so he can kiss you until you lose feeling in your fingers.

You can’t believe that this is seriously happening. This feels like something you’ve thought up in a dream, the feeling of his hands on you so perfect it seems too good to be true.

You aren’t proud of the sound you make when he pulls away.

“Five,” he whispers.

You’d completely forgotten you were the one supposed to be counting.

He presses his forehead against yours while you catch your breath. Your chests rise in tandem, and you wish your lungs were a thousand times bigger just so you didn’t have to pull away.

He wipes something wet away from the corner of your mouth, and you know you’re looking up at him with a stupid look in your eye.

“Luke,” you manage to say. You tilt your head up and your nose knocks against his. “Do you like me too?”

He’s smug. “Was the way I stuck my tongue down your throat too friendly for you?”

The laugh that escapes you must sound funny because he’s joining you the next second, matching smiles on both of your faces.

“Tomorrow,” he promises. You think he’s about to kiss you again but stops an inch away, evil and mean. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“Okay.” You peck his cheek because it technically doesn’t count and watch red bloom there. You think it’s funny he’s blushing at such an innocent kiss, as if he hadn’t been marking up your neck thirty seconds ago. “Tomorrow.”

You feel your heart beating through your chest as both of you get changed. You’re wearing matching pajamas, like promised, and you have to keep reminding yourself to stop smiling.

Your heart is still racing even after both of you are settled onto your sides under his thin sheet. You’re using one of his arms as a pillow and your back is pressed against his chest, and you feel better about the throbbing in your chest when he mumbles something about how dizzy he feels.

You’d slept over here just last night, but it feels like this is the first time you’ve ever been this close to him. You have to stop yourself from shivering when his hand finds its way up your shirt again. And when he rubs those circles between your shoulder blades, you have to remind yourself he does this all the time.

“I can’t believe this is happening to me,” you say, thinking out loud.

He kisses your hair, because that also technically doesn’t count. “Me neither.”

You’re sick and tired of how you can’t see his face, so you flip around to look at him. He lets you roll on top of his chest, and you just stare, unashamed. His curls look funny because of the way you’d been pulling on them. His lips are perfectly swollen.

You’re content. “The Demeter kids are going to make us so many more cakes, Luke.”

He shifts you higher against him so your face is pressed into his neck instead of his chest. “What do you mean?”

You feel him shudder when the point of your nose runs up the expanse of his throat. “We’re gonna need two cakes to celebrate the first time we kissed. And then even more for that stuff after.”

Luke tilts his head down and captures your lips in another kiss, this one much deeper than the peck he’d smothered into your hair earlier.

You pinch him, your eyes wide when you realize what he’d just done. “Cheater.”

“Couldn’t help it, I’m sorry.”

He has to flip the both of you over because you aim to kiss his face again. You groan, flattened underneath him.

“You’re not being fair, Luke,” you complain, but you rub his back because you’re greedy.

“Tomorrow.” His mouth has made its way to your collarbones again because he likes to torture you. “After we talk.”

“After,” you echo.

The lingering effects of the alcohol are making it a little hard to think straight. But you can’t even believe you’d doubted this for a second. It was always going to be you and Luke. You think it’s been etched into the very beginnings of your souls.

Luke kisses a sore mark he left on the column of your throat, and your eyes grow heavy when he leaves another right next to it.

“After,” he confirms.

You think this must be what going to Elysium is like.

series masterlist

notes: title from dress by taylor swift. final word count at 11k which means that like twenty percent of this was just them being crazy about the other…….. goodbye LOL.

ill probably be making another post just to yell and scream about the events of this chapter. can you tell i blacked out writing it

Me, except I actually don't write shi cause I'm too lazy