Chapter 5 - Dressed to (un)Impress
Chapter 5 – Dressed to (un)Impress
-Azriel-
The long-awaited day had arrived.
Azriel stood by the entrance to the River House garden, hands tucked into his trouser pockets. Around him, the symphony of chirping birds and rustling leaves provided a soothing backdrop. A grand white arbor was erected beside him, draped in climbing roses and vines, marking the gateway where guests would soon enter the ceremony space.
The garden was lovely on an ordinary day; today, it was a marvel, its beauty elevated for the occasion. Rhysand and Feyre had lovingly set aside this sanctuary for Elain, and her talent for cultivating such beautiful flowers was undeniable. Rows of vibrant peonies, salvia, clematis, and roses flanked the clearing, their colors creating a kaleidoscope of nature's artistry. Sunlight filtered gently through the trees, casting a golden glow upon the altar, which was adorned with fresh blooms and greenery. A neatly trimmed grass aisle divided the space, bordered with delicate purple blossoms that added a subtle charm.
Overall, the space was enchanting and tranquil, though a bit more…frilly than Azriel would have thought appealed to Nesta, though he mused that its elaborate elegance was likely Feyre and Elain’s handiwork, more so than Nesta’s preference.
For the occasion, Azriel had abandoned his usual battle leathers in favor of formal attire. He wore a fitted dark navy blue jacket with a high mandarin collar, with its edges detailed with cobalt blue embroidery. The neckline dipped just below his throat, revealing a hint of his tattoos, while seven silver clasps secured the tunic’s front. A pair of black trousers, immaculately pressed, completed the ensemble, and his polished dress shoes gleamed in the sunlight. His hair, often unruly, was freshly washed and combed, and even his nails were meticulously clean. Yet, beneath the finery, he still wore his trusted undershirt designed to hold his siphons.
Rhysand’s words from the night before lingered in his mind, circling endlessly. Upon parting ways with Rhys and Cassian, he retreated to his private cottage—one that not even his family was aware that he had. He’d desperately wanted to go home to the House of Wind, but he couldn’t bring himself to face Gwyn…not yet. Not while Rhysand’s words still haunted him, leaving him grappling with his feelings for the beautiful Valkyrie.
Sleep had eluded him, leaving him restless through the dawn hours. He gave up attempting to rest and took flight as soon as the sun crested the horizon.
A note from Nesta was waiting for him upon his return to the House of Wind:
"Az,
We’ve gone to run some last-minute errands before heading to Mor’s to get ready. Please wait for Emerie and Gwyn at the garden entrance—Iwant to be sure they sit up front with the rest of the family.
-Nesta"
And so, here he stood, waiting at the garden entrance as instructed, while the hum of arriving guests’ chatter filled the air, mingling with the sounds of nature. His thoughts turned to Gwyn, imagining what she might have chosen to wear today—perhaps something borrowed from Nesta or Mor. Regardless of her attire, he had no doubt she would look captivating. Even her priestess robes or fighting leathers suited her effortlessly, though the latter, he admitted, was his personal favorite. The way the material hugged her ample curves and accentuated the muscle tone she’d built up during training made his mouth water whenever he saw her in them.
Azriel tried to shake off his tension, a mix of his own insecurities and the lingering weight of his conversation with Rhys. He had always struggled with the concept of deserving happiness, let alone the possibility of love. His shadows whispered their cryptic encouragement, but as always, their words only left him more puzzled.
“Az!” Feyre’s familiar voice cut through his swirling thoughts, bringing him back to the present.
Feyre swept towards him, Rhysand by her side, her radiant smile reflecting the joy of the occasion. The High Lady was a vision in an elegant black maxi dress with a glittery sheer overlay, evoking the twinkling stars of a night sky—an ode to her status in the Court. Her hair was styled in a chic half-up twist, crowned with a jewel-encrusted tiara. Rhys, walking beside her, exuded his usual regality. His fitted black jacket, adorned with silver scroll details, was unclasped at the high collar, revealing the tattoos etched on his neck. Though similar to Azriel’s attire, Rhysand’s bearing—a perfect blend of poise and authority—unmistakably marked him as royalty. He caught a look from his brother, though he couldn’t decipher the expression.
Azriel's jaw tightened when his gaze shifted to the figure accompanying his High Lord and Lady: Elain. She wore a pale green peasant dress with flowing butterfly sleeves, simple yet graceful. She looked pretty, though the pearl earrings she wore—Lucien’s thoughtful gift during the last Solstice—brought back a fleeting memory of the hurt in the Autumn Court male’s eyes when she had barely acknowledged the gesture.
Cradled in Elain’s arms was a sleeping Nyx, swaddled snugly in the special blanket Gwyn had given as a gift. The deep navy fabric, swirled with shades of black, purple, and blue, bore a striking resemblance to the night sky, with tiny white speckles mimicking stars. It was a piece that encapsulated the essence of the Night Court, both beautiful and meaningful. He wasn’t sure where Gwyn found such a thing, but the thoughtful gift had made something tighten in his chest when Feyre had opened the gift.
Azriel inclined his head in greeting. “Rhysand, Feyre,” he said, his tone formal. He turned to Feyre's sister with a slight nod. “Elain.”
She replied softly, “Azriel,” her voice almost hesitant.
Rhysand’s gaze flickered between the two before he broke the silence. “We better get inside,” he said quickly, a deliberate attempt to dispel tension. Azriel made no objection, eager to keep some distance between himself and the middle Archeron sister.
“I’ll be in shortly,” Azriel replied. “Nesta asked me to escort Gwyn and Emerie to their seats. She wants them up front with the rest of us.”
“Emerie’s already here!” came a bright voice from behind.
The group turned to see Mor gliding forward with her usual grace, wearing a striking, form-fitting red mini dress with a plunging neckline and long sleeves that tapered to elegant cuffs. Glittering black heels emphasized her lithe figure, while golden waves of hair cascaded down her back. Mor’s beauty was undeniable, though Azriel’s feelings for her had long since shifted to friendship—a fact that was cemented further as his gaze moved to her companion.
Walking beside Mor was Emerie, radiant in a sleeveless dark chocolate gown. The satiny fabric draped gracefully, complemented by gold earrings and matching heels. Murmurs of approval rippled through the group as eyes brightened at the sight of the two women together, holding hands; a subtle but unmistakable sign of a romance between them..
Well, that explains a lot, Azriel mused silently, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
THE HIGH LORD’S COUSIN ONLY SAW YOU AS A FRIEND. HER HEART NEVER BELONGED TO YOU, his shadows murmured, their frankness cutting through his thoughts.
You don’t have to be so blunt, he replied, though the ache in his chest was fleeting. His shadows’ cryptic truths often stung, but they rarely lingered.
“Ah, you both look wonderful,” Rhysand said warmly, pecking a kiss on his cousin’s smooth cheek. He gestured towards the garden. “Shall we?”
Azriel shook his head slightly. “I’ll wait for Gwyn. I thought she and Emerie were arriving together.”
Emerie’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Oh, she’s not far. Just a quick stop to freshen up.”
”See you in there, Az!” Mor singsonged as she glided away, still grasping Emerie’s hand.
As Mor and Emerie left him there, joined by Rhysand, Feyre, and Elain, Azriel couldn’t shake the sense that something was amiss. There was a glint of mischief in Mor’s and Emerie’s expressions that hinted at a plan, though he couldn’t quite place it.
“Hello, Shadowsinger.”
The soft, melodic voice broke through his spiraling thoughts, snapping his head up. His breath hitched as his gaze locked onto ethereal teal eyes, framed with a delicate touch of gold liner.
“Gwyn.” Her name escaped his lips in a husky whisper, unbidden.
She stood before him, radiant in a teal dress that hugged her form with effortless grace. Gold boning traced the bodice, accentuating her figure before tapering into a V-shaped waistline. One sleeve extended down her right arm, intricate gold-stitched leaves flowing along the fabric, while her left side was bare, revealing freckled skin that seemed to glow in the soft light. The sight of her so…exposed sent his pulse racing, and he fought the sudden, maddening urge to count each freckle with his lips.
The skirt, shorter than her usual priestess robes, skimmed her mid-thigh, with a sheer overlay embroidered with golden vines and leaves that cascaded asymmetrically to the hem. The teal and gold hues made her oceanic eyes shimmer, the gold liner adding an otherworldly touch. Her hair, typically straight, now fell in soft waves down her back, a single braid wrapping around her head to create the appearance of a waterfall. Golden teardrop earrings and a matching cuff on her bare arm completed the ensemble, each detail enhancing her natural beauty.
“The one and only,” she said with a playful smile.
He blinked, confused. “What?”
A blush crept across her cheeks as she tucked a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “Never mind,” she murmured, glancing down at her gold-strapped sandals. “J-just a silly joke.”
It was then he realized two things: his mouth was hanging open like a fool, and he had unintentionally made her feel awkward.
“You look very handsome, Azriel,” she said softly, smoothing her hands nervously over her skirt.
“You look…” His mind scrambled for words, his shadows whispering a chorus of praises: STUNNING. GORGEOUS. LIKE A DREAM. EXQUISITE. THE SUN’S ONLY REASON FOR RISING.
“You look…nice, Gwyn.”
The moment the words left his mouth, he wanted to groan at his utter stupidity. Her smile faltered, her shoulders dipping slightly.
SHADOWS GAVE YOU MANY DESCRIPTIONS FOR THE BEAUTIFUL PRIESTESS, YET YOU SAY ‘NICE.’
“Th-thank you, Azriel,” she replied quietly, her voice tinged with disappointment.
“Really nice, I mean.”
THE ADVERB DID NOT HELP, SHADOWSINGER.
“Shut up!” he hissed, too late realizing he’d spoken aloud.
Gwyn’s brows knitted in confusion. “Excuse me?”
“No, not you,” he stammered, gesturing vaguely. “I was talking to them.”
“Um…who?”
He glanced at his shoulders, only to find his shadows had conveniently vanished, leaving him to look utterly ridiculous. He lifted his arm, peering underneath, where the mischievous wisps quivered as if laughing. “Them,” he said, exasperated. “My shadows.”
Her face lit up with a wide smile as she beheld the traitorous little puffs of smoke. “Oh!” Then, her expression shifted to a frown. “Why were you telling them to shut up?”
He scowled at his shadows. “They can be…a bit much sometimes.”
"What were they saying? Something about me?" Her smile returned coyly.
TELL HER WHAT WE SAID.
No, just...no.
WHY? SHE LIKES US. SHE WILL APPRECIATE OUR HONESTY.
You'll scare her away.
NO. YOU WILL SCARE HER AWAY SHADOWSINGER, WITH YOUR IDIOCY.
It wasn't that bad!
PERHAPS YOU WILL SCARE HER AWAY IF YOU JUST KEEP STANDING THERE STARING AT HER WITHOUT SPEAKING.
"Fuck," he mumbled.
"What?" At Gwyn's adorably bewildered expression, he had the urge to press his lips to hers, if only to reassure her that he was not out of his mind. Except, that would probably verify his insanity rather than dispel it.
Desperate to move past his blunder, he extended his arm. “Nothing...may I escort you to your seat?”
Her smile returned as she placed her hand on his arm, her bare shoulder brushing against him. The warmth of her touch sent a shiver through him, and he resisted the overwhelming urge to press his lips to her freckled skin. He inhaled deeply, hoping to steady himself, but her scent—clean and invigorating, like waterlilies and citrus—only made his head spin.
“Lead the way, Shadowsinger.”
-Gwyn-
She had never felt more out of place.
Why had she let Nesta and Emerie talk her into this outfit? Sitting among the Night Court’s Inner Circle—each draped in muted, elegant shades befitting their realm—she stuck out like a misplaced thread in a finely woven tapestry. Even Emerie, radiant in her chocolate-brown satin dress and gleaming gold accessories, seemed like she belonged effortlessly to this assembly of striking and refined beings. Gwyn, by contrast, wore teal and gold—colors more suited to a celebration in the Spring or Summer Courts. And her fiery hair only made her stand out further, an unwelcome beacon of vibrance amidst the dusky hues.
She could feel the weight of curious glances. Eyes darted toward her, scrutinizing, and she hated the attention. Bowing her head, she focused on her hands, which twisted nervously in her lap. She and Azriel had taken the last two available seats in the front rows, reserved for family and close friends. To her left sat Azriel, silent and imposing, while on his other side were Emerie, Mor, Amren, and a handsome Summer Court male named Varian—apparently Amren’s companion. In the front row ahead of them were the High Lord and Lady, and Elain, who held a sleeping Nyx in her arms.
When she and Azriel first took their seats, Gwyn's gaze immediately noticed the swaddling blanket she had gifted to the heir of the Night Court. Seeing the tiny babe wrapped snugly in its soft fabric brought a warm smile to her face. The dark hues, flecked with patterns reminiscent of the night sky, stood out as a reminder of the care she had poured into gifting something so meaningful.
Her eyes lifted, catching an unexpected sight—Elain. The Archeron sister’s gaze was fixed on Azriel, her jaw visibly tight and her eyes sharp, as if she were trying to pierce through the male’s composed exterior. Gwyn’s stomach twisted slightly at the expression. Then, as if Elain suddenly sensed her watching, her brown eyes flickered toward Gwyn. Gwyn froze under the brief scrutiny, noticing how Elain’s gaze darted quickly downward, taking in the dress she wore.
There was something there—an unspoken critique, a silent judgment that lingered in the air. Gwyn didn’t understand why Elain appeared so annoyed, but mustering her courage, she gave the High Lady’s sister a polite smile, one meant to break the tension. Elain’s response was lackluster at best—a fleeting quirk of her lips that barely qualified as a smile before she turned back to face the front, effectively dismissing Gwyn.
At the altar stood Cassian, exuding a rugged charm in his tailored black vest and gray collared shirt. His black hair was swept half-up in a loose bun, a style Gwyn knew Nesta adored. The golden sheen of his skin caught the light, making him appear almost celestial as he waited for his mate to arrive.
The music swelled, and heads turned toward the aisle. Gwyn rose with the others, watching as Nesta appeared. The ceremony, a blend of Fae and mortal traditions, reflected the delicate balance Nesta had sought. She had once resisted acknowledging the bond with Cassian, fearing it would sever her last ties to humanity. Now, while embracing her bond with the Illyrian general, she had infused the celebration with touches of human customs. Cassian, of course, had eagerly surrendered all creative control to her, happy to grant her every wish.
Nesta glided down the aisle, serene and radiant. Her trumpet-style dove gray gown, adorned with delicate white scrollwork from her arms to the hem, hugged her figure beautifully. Tiny white flowers wove through her braided coronet, adding a gentle, romantic touch. Among the blooms in her bouquet lay a single wooden rose—a creation of her father’s—a poignant symbol of his presence guiding her to her mate.
As Nesta passed the front rows, her gaze met Gwyn’s. A soft smile lit her face, a silent exchange of warmth and gratitude. Gwyn, blinking back tears, managed to return the smile, allowing the joy radiating from her chosen sister to calm the emotion threatening to overwhelm her.
Settling back into her seat, Gwyn became acutely aware of a pair of eyes fixed on her. Glancing to her right, she spotted a light-haired Fae male across the aisle. His green eyes sparkled with interest, and when their gazes locked, he flashed her a roguish grin. He was handsome in a youthful, carefree way, but his attention didn’t stir the flutter in her chest that she had come to associate with…
No. She wouldn’t let herself go there. Don’t even think it, she warned herself. He doesn’t see you that way.
Azriel’s underwhelmed demeanor earlier had stung more than she cared to admit. She regretted her choice of attire, wondering if she had gone too far in her attempt to look appealing—if she’d tried toohard.
Still, the male across the aisle clearly admired her dress, his gaze a mixture of appreciation and interest. There was nothing predatory in his demeanor, though it lacked the rightness she had longed for. Perhaps he might ask her to dance at the reception. A bit of flirting was harmless—she didn’t need to find a suitor tonight, after all.
Her musings were cut short by a low, almost inaudible snarl from her left. Startled, she turned to Azriel. His hazel eyes, usually so controlled, blazed with an intense golden hue. His jaw clenched, the muscles feathering as he glared daggers at the male across the aisle.
What the…?
-Azriel-
He couldn’t suppress the growl that rumbled low in his chest, his glare fixed on the male who dared to leer at Gwyn. His shadows mirrored his agitation, twisting and writhing with barely contained aggression. His hands, resting on his knees, clenched into fists, the fabric of his trousers bunching beneath his grip. The marred skin of his knuckles turned white with the force. A part of him itched to send a shadow or two slithering over, to wrap around the male’s throat and squeeze until life drained from his eyes. But even he knew better than to cause a scene at Cassian and Nesta’s mating ceremony.
Azriel didn’t fear much, not even Amren. He was cautious around the ancient being, sure, but Nesta Archeron? She was a force of nature he respected deeply, having witnessed the full extent of her power. Ruining her celebration would undoubtedly earn him a place at the top of her enemies list—a position he had no desire to occupy.
A sudden warmth broke through his spiraling thoughts. A soft hand, freckled and delicate, rested atop his clenched fist. He froze, his heart hammering in his chest as he stared at the hand now gently covering his own. Gwyn.
He hadn’t realized she’d heard his snarl. He remained utterly still, afraid that even the slightest movement might cause her to pull away. His shadows, too, seemed to pause, their restless energy stilled as they waited to see what would unfold. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. Concern etched her features, her teal eyes narrowed as she leaned closer.
“Are you alright?” she whispered, her voice soft and steady.
He nodded, the motion almost imperceptible. Before he could stop himself, his hand relaxed beneath hers, turning palm up to intertwine their fingers. Her sharp intake of breath was unmistakable, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she gave his hand a gentle squeeze, as if to reassure him. Perhaps she thought he was overwhelmed by the emotions of watching his brother unite with his mate.
YES. THE LITTLE PRIESTESS IS MERELY COMFORTING THE FEARED SPYMASTER OF THE NIGHT COURT AS HE IS OVERCOME WITH EMOTION AT HIS BROTHER’S MATING CEREMONY, his shadows teased, their mocking tone grating against his nerves.
Azriel gritted his teeth. Maybe, for once, you can be helpful instead of sarcastic.
LETTING A TEAR FALL MAY CONVINCE HER THAT YOU ARE BESIDE YOURSELF WITH HAPPINESS. DOES THAT HELP?
He suppressed a groan of frustration. The last time tears had pricked his eyes was when Nyx had let out his first cry, defying the odds after a perilous birth. But now, with Gwyn’s hand in his, a storm of unfamiliar emotions raged within him—none of which involved tears. He didn’t want to name those feelings, not yet. For now, he simply wanted to savor the warmth of her hand in his, the way it seemed to anchor him in the moment. He secretly lovedwhen she touched his hands—the only person to ever do so willingly and without repulsion.
The spell was broken when Nesta fed Cassian a miniature chocolate cupcake. The crowd erupted into applause and cheers, Gwyn included, as they celebrated the newly mated pair. She released his hand to join in, leaving his own cold and empty. He slipped back into his stoic mask, unwilling to let anyone see how much he missed her touch. Even his shadows seemed to sulk, their energy dimmed by the absence of her warmth.
His attention was drawn to the right, where the same male was now openly ogling Gwyn. His gaze lingered shamelessly on her pert ass, and though Azriel couldn’t fault him for noticing her beautiful, lithe body, the urge to act surged within him. He could kill the bastard for it.
As the applause faded, the male’s complexion paled under Azriel’s murderous glare.
“Something troubling you, Az?”
Rhysand’s voice pulled him back, his High Lord’s violet eyes sparkling with amusement as he turned to face him.
“No,” Azriel replied through gritted teeth, his tone clipped.
It was then he noticed Elain watching him as well, her brown eyes simmering with what looked like irritation as she cradled Nyx. The tension radiating from her was palpable, but Azriel’s thoughts were elsewhere. Gwyn was carefully dabbing at her eyes with her fingertips, attempting to avoid smearing her eye makeup. Fuck, he’d never wished so badly that he was the kind of male that carried around a handkerchief.
He had been avoiding labeling the emotions Gwyn stirred within him, but one feeling was impossible to ignore. It had surged the moment he’d seen that male’s bold, lustful gaze on her.
Possession.