Chapter 6 - The Mistake That Didn't Stay Buried
Chapter 6 – The Mistake That Didn't Stay Buried
-Gwyn-
The reception was unfolding in the breathtaking outdoor space behind the River House—though calling it a “house” felt like an understatement. The estate, a gift from the High Lord to his High Lady, was nothing short of magnificent.
The yard had been transformed into an elegant venue, with a dozen round tables arranged neatly on either side of the space, each adorned with fine linens and floral centerpieces. At the heart of it all stood a long table reserved for the mated couple, their family, and closest friends. A platform for dancing had been set up on the grass, and a live band was tuning their instruments, preparing to fill the evening with music.
Gwyn hesitated as she arrived, unsure of her place among the Night Court’s elite. Though she assumed she was meant to sit at the long table, doubt gnawed at her. Cassian and Nesta had yet to make their entrance, and the rest of the Inner Circle mingled effortlessly with the other guests.
She had exchanged lighthearted banter with Emerie and Mor earlier, but now, surrounded by the dazzling company of the Night Court, Gwyn found herself retreating into polite conversation.
“Gwyn, please call me Feyre,” the High Lady said gently when Gwyn addressed her formally for what felt like the hundredth time.
Gwyn’s cheeks flushed.
“And you can call him Rhysand,” Mor teased, her golden eyes sparkling. “Calling him ‘High Lord’ only makes his already massive ego even bigger.”
Rhysand shot a mock glare at his cousin, his violet eyes glinting with humor. Gwyn had to bite back a laugh, recalling Azriel’s story about the High Lord during a game of Chicken in his youth.
Feyre smiled warmly at the playful exchange before turning her attention back to Gwyn. “By the way, I wanted to say how stunning you look, Gwyn. I remember that dress from shopping yesterday! Nesta was right, it suits you perfectly.”
Heat rose to Gwyn’s face as she murmured her thanks.
“Doesn’t she look amazing?” Emerie chimed in. “It’s like it was made for her.”
Gwyn blushed deeper at her friend’s praise.
“Well, my sister clearly has impeccable taste,” Feyre said with a grin. “And Mor, as always, your styling skills are unmatched.”
“Yes, yes, Mor has a new doll to dress up,” Amren quipped dryly, taking a sip from her wine.
Gwyn’s shoulders sagged, her confidence deflating.
“Amren!” Feyre scolded, her tone sharp.
“What? I’m just saying…” Amren trailed off, her gaze darting to Varian, who was watching Gwyn with a kind expression. Her silver eyes flicked back to Gwyn, softening slightly.
Gwyn stared down at her shoes, her face burning with embarrassment. She felt like an imposter—a child playing dress-up, trying to fit into a world where she didn’t belong.
“I-I mean…” Amren stammered, uncharacteristically flustered. “Forgive me, Priestess. The wine here is stronger than I anticipated.”
Gwyn forced a small smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s alright. I’m not used to wearing anything other than my priestess robes or fighting leathers. I didn’t realize I’d stand out so much.”
“There’s nothing wrong with how you’re dressed, Gwyn,” Emerie said firmly, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“No, there’s not,” Rhysand added, his tone sincere. “You look lovely, Gwyn. Truly.”
“Thank you,” Gwyn replied softly, wrapping her arms around herself in a futile attempt to shield her vulnerability. “It’s just…all of this is new to me.” The weight of the attention became too much. “Excuse me for a moment,” she said, her voice tight. She caught Emerie’s concerned glance as she turned and hurried toward the ladies’ room.
Her heart pounded as she tried to steady her breathing, but her frantic steps led her straight into a solid figure.
“Whoa there,” a smooth voice said.
Gwyn looked up to see the male who had been watching her during the ceremony.
“I’m so sorry,” she stammered. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“That’s quite alright,” he replied with a feline grin, his green eyes sweeping over her dress before meeting hers again. “I saw you at the ceremony sitting with the upper ranks of Rhysand’s crowd. You must be someone very important in the Night Court.”
“No, not at all,” she said quickly, crossing her arms over her middle. “I’m just a close friend of Nesta’s.”
“Ah, I see.” His smile widened. “I’m Roderick.” He extended his hand.
“Gwyneth,” she replied, hesitating before placing her hand in his. She inhaled sharply as he brought her knuckles to his lips, brushing them lightly.
“Lovely to meet you, Gwyneth,” he said, his tone flirtatious.
She offered a polite smile. “You as well, Roderick.” Withdrawing her hand, she added, “If you’ll excuse me, I was on my way to the ladies’ room. Perhaps I’ll see you later at the reception.”
“I certainly hope so,” he said, stepping aside to let her pass.
As she walked away, she felt his gaze lingering on her. Glancing back, she shuddered at the way his eyes loitered too long on her figure. His devious smile only made her quicken her pace
-Azriel-
Azriel had lingered behind when the guests made their way to the sprawling yard where the reception was being held. He needed a moment to steady himself, to calm the erratic pounding of his heart and regulate his uneven breaths.
Seeing Gwyn earlier had...unraveled him. She was breathtaking, a vision that had left him yearning in a way he hadn’t thought possible. He had wanted to tell her, to let her know how utterly stunning she looked. But the words had caught in his throat, and all he could do was watch her, aching to wrap her in his arms and shield her from the world with his wings—a treasure meant only for him.
And then that green-eyed bastard had dared to look at her. To leer at her. The memory alone made his blood boil. Azriel had never felt so unmoored, so unlike himself. The calm collected Illyrian warrior had been replaced by something primal, something feral. It was Gwyn’s touch—her gentle hand on his—that had anchored him, pulling him back from the edge.
Once he was certain he could don his mask of indifference once again, he rose from his seat, stretching his wings briefly before folding them neatly behind him. He froze when he spotted Elain standing at the back of the garden, swaying gently as she cradled a sleeping Nyx. Her gaze was fixed on him, and even from a distance, he could sense her agitation.
There was no avoiding her—not without making it glaringly obvious that he was trying to. With a resigned sigh, he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and made his way toward her, his expression carefully neutral.
As he approached, he couldn’t help but reflect on the fleeting infatuation he’d once felt for her. That’s all it had been—a shallow, lustful attraction to a female who had shown him kindness. He had mistaken it for something deeper, but now he knew better. He knew what true connection felt like, what real attraction was. It was what he felt for Gwyneth Berdara.
Stopping a few feet away, he inclined his head slightly. “Is everything alright, Elain?” he asked, his tone measured.
Her brown eyes flashed with something sharp. “What’s going on between you and Gwyneth Berdara?”
Azriel blinked, caught off guard. He hadn’t realized the two females were even acquainted, let alone on a full-name basis. “I don’t know what you’re referring to, Elain.”
She scoffed, her tone dripping with scorn. “You were holding hands, Azriel.”
The accusation made him bristle. “Not that it’s any of your business, Elain, but Gwyn is my friend,” he said firmly, though he knew his feelings for the priestess went far beyond friendship.
“I wasn’t aware that friends held hands through an entire mating ceremony.”
Her biting tone set his teeth on edge. “Bitterness doesn’t suit you, Elain,” he said coolly. “Perhaps you should focus less on who I spend my time with and more on your own…relationship troubles.”
It was a low blow, and he knew it. But something about the way she spoke of Gwyn, with such contempt, made his temper flare.
“I don’t have relationship troubles, Az, because I’m not in a relationship!” she snapped. “Tell me, were you lusting after us both at the same time?”
There it was—the mistake he had hoped to leave buried. He had known this conversation was inevitable, but he had hoped it would happen in private; not here, not now.
Letting out a slow breath, he chose his words carefully. “Elain, I’m truly sorry for leading you on. That was wrong of me. But it was wrong of both of us to…” He hesitated, searching for the right phrasing. “To entertain the idea of something between us. I got caught up in the notion that my brothers were mated to your sisters, and I convinced myself that we were meant to be as well. But you’re mated to another male, Elain. A good male. What happened between us was a mistake.”
She let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp enough to make Nyx stir. Lowering her voice, she hissed, “Yes, you made it perfectly clear what a mistake I was.”
He softened his tone, unwilling to escalate further. “Again, Elain, I’m sorry. I think we both know that pursuing this would have caused irreparable harm—to your sisters, to Lucien, and to our friends. Not to mention the political consequences—”
“So, you tossed me aside to avoid a brawl with the Autumn Court?” she interrupted, her voice mocking.
Azriel clenched his jaw, forcing himself to remain calm. “Elain, I’m done with this conversation,” he said firmly. “I’ve apologized, and I have nothing more to offer you.”
He moved to step around her, but her next words stopped him cold.
“You can offer an explanation as to why you gave my necklace to Gwyneth Berdara.”