Chapter 9 - Time to Explain
Chapter 9 – Time to Explain
-Azriel-
As soon as Gwyn disappeared with Lucien, Azriel had to wrestle against the trembling in his muscles, the unbearable tension beneath his skin. He clenched his fists, willing himself to stay in control, though every instinct screamed for him to claw his way out of his own skin. Tension burned beneath the surface, a storm threatening to break loose.
He stumbled toward one of the chairs in the back row, sinking into it with a heavy groan. It wasn’t physical pain that weighed him down—it was the relentless ache in his mind, his heart, his soul. He ran a shaky hand through his hair and hunched forward, resting his elbows on his thighs.
What the fuck just happened?
Even his shadows, usually so attuned to his thoughts, offered no answer.
Gwyn’s devastated expression wouldn’t leave his mind. Nor would Lucien’s withering glare. If Azriel had ever doubted whether Lucien knew of his past feelings for Elain, that doubt was gone now. Of course, the Autumn Court male knew. He likely scented Azriel’s lingering desire from all the way upstairs during that Solstice night, the night he had come so close to kissing Elain. And now, he was sure they’d both heard far more than he’d wanted them to.
He sensed Elain still lingering nearby, and his blood began to simmer. Slowly, he turned, his wings twitching as he fought to suppress his rising anger. He saw then that Nyx's bright eyes were open, the small babe innocently gazing back at him, completely oblivious to the shitshow that had just gone down.
“Take him to Feyre,” Azriel said quietly, his tone laced with a deadly calm that made the words sharper than a blade. His wings shifted slightly behind him, a ripple of controlled fury.
“And you…” He paused, his throat working as he fought to suppress the torrent of words threatening to erupt. Words that would scorch, words he knew he’d regret if he let them loose. He took a breath, composing himself, though the icy edge in his voice remained as he continued, “You stay away from Gwyn, Elain. Stay away from me.”
Elain flinched at his tone, her wide brown eyes flicking up to meet him. They shimmered with remorse. “I’m…I’m sorry, Azriel,” she said softly, her voice trembling.
“It isn’t me you owe an apology to!” he snapped, his wings flaring to their full span. The movement made her shrink back, her grip on Nyx tightening. He softened his voice for the sake of the little one in her arms. “Take him to his mother. Now.”
Without another word, Elain turned and began walking toward the reception, slow and tentative—likely an effort to avoid encountering Lucien and Gwyn along the way.
Azriel exhaled sharply, his hands trembling as he raked them through his hair again. He hadn’t expected Elain to be so vicious, to lash out in such a slanderous way. Gwyn—bright, brave, kind Gwyn—didn’t deserve any of it. The words Elain had used…calling her a whore in everything but name…it made his blood fucking boil. The memory of her shattered expression twisted like a dagger in Azriel’s chest.
What was he supposed to do now? Go to the reception and pretend nothing had happened? Or confront the situation head-on? Did he really want to turn the Inner Circle against Elain?
Blowing out another shaky breath, he cracked his neck and prepared to face the storm that awaited him. He could already imagine Rhysand’s vindicated expression—he had warned Azriel that getting involved with Elain would only lead to trouble. And here he was, in the very trouble his brother had predicted.
Azriel pushed himself to his feet and made his way toward the reception, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd for familiar faces. He didn’t see Gwyn, but Lucien was there, standing with Feyre, Nesta and Emerie. Rhysand, Cassian, and Mor were approaching the gathered group, seeming to have come from the direction of the bar, drinks in their hands. Amren and Varian, too, were edging their way through the other guests and heading towards the rest of the family as well.
As he drew closer, he heard Lucien’s voice, cold and biting: “I knew you were many things, Elain, but cruel and cowardly were not any of them.”
“Lucien,” Feyre gasped, her tone one of shock.
“That’s enough, Fireling!” Nesta shouted, her voice ringing with authority. “What the fuck is going on?”
Lucien ignored Nesta. He didn’t look away from Elain, his golden and russet eyes boring into her with a fury that could have melted steel. “Tell them, Elain. Tell everyone why Gwyn left.”
Gwyn left?
Azriel’s shadows whispered, curling around his shoulders. SHE IS STILL HERE. SHE IS HIDING.
“Elain?” Rhysand’s voice rang out, cutting through the thick tension. His tone was sharp, demanding an answer. “What is going on? What is Lucien talking about?”
Elain kept her gaze fixed on the ground, her posture rigid and silent. Amren’s brusque voice shattered the quiet. “Out with it, girl!” she snapped, her patience clearly wearing thin.
It was Lucien who first noticed Azriel standing nearby, lingering just at the edge of the group. His mismatched eyes locked onto Azriel, narrowing with cold precision as his posture turned rigid. “Better yet,” he said, his tone venomous, “ask your Spymaster, Rhysand. Ask him how long he’s been involved with my mate!”
A collective gasp rippled through the group, their shock palpable.
Shit. This was bad. No—it was so fucking bad.
“No, Lucien!” Elain’s voice broke through the tension, trembling yet resolute. It was the first time she’d spoken since leaving Azriel behind in the garden. “Azriel and I were never together!”
Lucien’s fury was as unyielding as steel as he turned back to his mate. “Then why, Elain?” he demanded, his voice low and sharp as a blade. “Why would you say such cruel things about Gwyn?” His accusing stare flicked to Azriel, the weight of his words heavy in the air. “Because to me, it sounded an awful lot like jealousy.”
The way Lucien pressed Elain for answers, relentless and unshaken, suggested one thing to Azriel: perhaps neither Lucien nor Gwyn had overheard the part of his heated exchange with Elain about the necklace. At least, he hoped that was true; he had wanted to tell Gwyn face-to-face first, before divulging that part of this fucked up situation to anyone else.
Lucien’s incensed expression remained fixed on his mate as he waited for her reply. Azriel, too, burned with the need for answers from Elain. The anger simmering in his chest felt like a flashpoint, but he held himself still, his expression carefully guarded. He didn’t need to say anything—not yet. His mistakes may have precipitated all of this, but this…this present situation was her mess, and she could be the one to clean it up.
His gaze flicked to Elain, watching as she stood there, her head bowed, shoulders tense. He could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on her, but still, she hesitated, the truth seemingly caught in her throat.
If anyone asked him at this moment, he would confirm the only thing he knew to be absolutely true: he and Elain had never been together—not in the sense that Lucien was alluding to. That was the only part of this chaos he could definitively agree with.
“Elain, what is he talking about? What did you say about Gwyn?” Mor’s voice cracked like a whip, her rich brown eyes flashing with anger as she turned toward the middle Archeron sister.
Lucien was done waiting for his mate to answer. Instead, his gaze snapped toward Rhysand. “Better yet,” he hissed, “I’ll show you.”
Rhysand hesitated, his violet eyes narrowing as he considered the offer. He seemed to realize that Elain was not going to be forthcoming, so he agreed to Lucien’s proposition with a subtle nod.
Both males’ eyes turned distant, their attention shifting inward as Lucien replayed the scene mind-to-mind for Rhys, as the group stood in anxious silence. Seconds felt like an eternity, until their focus returned, awareness flooding back into their gazes.
Rhysand’s head whipped toward Elain, his expression thunderous. “Elain, you...you didn’t,” he growled, his voice tight with furious incredulity, his violet eyes ablaze.
“What? What happened?” Cassian’s worried voice broke through the charged silence, his brow furrowed with concern as his gaze darted between them.
Elain finally lifted her head, her teary gaze sweeping across the assembled faces of the Inner Circle. Silent tears slipped down her cheeks as she reached trembling hands to her earlobes. With deliberate slowness, she removed the pearl earrings, her movements weighed down by regret.
Her steps were hesitant as she approached Lucien, his expression a complex mix of distrust and quiet sorrow. She extended the earrings toward him, her hand hovering as he hesitated to take them. When he didn’t reach out, she gently took his hand in hers, pressing the small tokens into his palm. His fingers curled around them, along with her own, before she slowly drew her hand back.
Looking down at her feet, Elain rasped, her voice thick with tears, “I’m sorry, Lucien. I’m so sorry.”
Elain turned away from her mate, her pace hurried as she strode toward the River House, her figure stiff with tension. She likely intended to retreat to her quarters, to cower away from the weight of her actions, and part of Azriel wanted to shout at her to get her ass back here and face the consequences.
Feyre shifted as though to follow her, still cradling Nyx in her arms. But Rhysand gently stopped her with a light touch on her arm. “I think,” he said, his tone measured yet firm, “it’s best that we let Elain go for now. We’ll address this later—when there aren’t so many curious eyes.” His gaze flicked meaningfully toward the rest of the group, their expressions a mix of shock, confusion and unease, and then towards the other guests milling about in the yard, a few prying eyes regarding the group with interest. Then, turning to Azriel, he added, “I can, however, assure you that neither Lucien nor Azriel did anything to harm Gwyn.”
Lucien scoffed faintly but said nothing, his jaw tight as he held his emotions in check. For once, the fire in him simmered, contained, as he silently followed Rhysand’s directive to table the issue for now.
Azriel scanned the faces of his friends. Fury, confusion, and worry were etched into their expressions, and he knew none of them would be able to enjoy the celebration with this unresolved storm hanging over them. He took a step forward, his voice low but resolute. “Rhys,” he said, “Gather everyone in the study. It’s long past time I explained everything.”
Rhysand regarded him for a moment before nodding, understanding the gravity of Azriel’s words. Without hesitation, he started toward the short flight of stairs leading into the River House, his steps purposeful.
Nesta’s commanding voice cut through the murmurs as she glanced at Lucien. “Go and let the coordinator know we’ll be unavailable for a while.”
“No.” Azriel’s sharp tone caught her off guard, and her silver-blue eyes widened slightly as she turned to him. Meeting her gaze intently, he said, “Lucien is needed for this.”
There was a brief pause, the tension palpable, before Varian stepped forward. His hands rested lightly on Amren’s shoulders as he offered, “I’ll take care of it.”
Rhysand nodded his thanks to the Summer Court male before resuming his climb up the stairs. The others began to trail after him, their footsteps heavy with anticipation. Azriel’s sharp eyes followed Lucien, who hesitated briefly before joining the procession. Relief flickered through Azriel as he watched the Autumn Court male fall into step with the group, understanding the necessity of his presence.
Taking a deep, grounding breath, Azriel ascended the stairs, his shadows coiling tightly around him. Each step brought him closer to the moment he’d dreaded but could no longer avoid. His shadows whispered faint encouragements in his ears, their presence both a comfort and a reminder of the truth he carried.
The time had come to explain everything—especially to Lucien. He at least owed him that.
After he came clean...he would find Gwyn. He would explain everything.
Including the way he felt about her.
-Gwyn-
She barely made it to the ladies' room before the first tears began to fall. As she stepped inside, she scanned the expansive space—a lavish retreat adorned with mirrors, sinks, a few ornate armchairs, and even a chaise. Thankfully, it was empty. This sprawling powder room, designed for females to freshen up or steal a moment of peace, now felt like her only sanctuary. Slipping into one of the small adjoining rooms where the toilets were, she locked the door and pressed her back against it, dabbing delicately at her eyes with Lucien's handkerchief. She couldn’t afford to ruin her makeup any more than it already was. Rejoining the party felt out of reach—not after everything that had transpired.
But as tempting as it was to linger here, hiding forever wasn’t an option. Eventually, she would have to leave. And when she did, she was determined to do so with her head held high—not with mascara streaked across her cheeks
How had things unraveled so quickly?
After a few moments of quiet, steady breathing, she managed to calm her racing thoughts and muster just enough courage to step out of the chamber. Relief swept over her when she saw the room was still empty. She rushed to the mirror, bracing herself as she took in her reflection. Despite her flushed cheeks and faint smudges beneath her eyes, she looked composed enough. Using a damp paper towel, she swiftly erased the evidence of her tears and repaired her smudged makeup—frustration prickling as she thought of Mor’s careful handiwork, now undone after all her meticulous effort to perfect every detail.
Ships don’t sink because of the water around them; they sink because of the water that gets inside them, my lovely girl. Her mother's words surfaced in her mind, a memory from years ago when she’d been teased by another girl about her freckles. Don’t let the words of others seep into you and pull you under.
Drawing a deep, grounding breath, she slipped off Lucien’s jacket and neatly folded it over her arm, tucking his handkerchief into the pocket for safekeeping. Adjusting her posture, she planted her feet more firmly apart, settling into a defensive position as if preparing for a sparring match—quite a feat indeed, as the material of her dress didn’t allow for widening her stance. Azriel had once told her that adopting a warrior's stance before confronting challenges—battle-related or otherwise—could bolster confidence. Now felt like the perfect moment to put that advice to the test.
She gazed at herself in the mirror, noticing how much she’d changed since the day she accepted Nesta’s invitation to train. Her arms, toned and strong, bore the proof of her relentless efforts. Her posture was more upright, her balance steadier. The workouts that once left her breathless now invigorated her. Even her face seemed sharper, her features more defined and contoured—a transformation she’d never thought possible without the help of makeup.
Azriel was right. She did feel stronger. More confident.
Oh, Gods...Azriel.
Just the thought of him made her chest tighten, the resolve she had just found evaporating into the air. She hadn’t spotted him during the tense exchange that sent her fleeing to this powder room, and she could only hope he hadn’t seen her retreat—one that now felt more like a surrender than a graceful exit. The memory of Nesta, Emerie, and Lucien still lingered like a storm cloud, and her heart sank further as she realized that Feyre, who had been near the exchange, would be eagerly asking Lucien and Elain what had happened. The rest of them...Gods...they too would inevitably hear about whatever had unfolded.
And Elain… Gods, how were things unraveling between her and the others at this moment right now? She couldn't help but feel a kernel of pity for the middle Archeron sister, especially if she had been slighted somehow by Azriel, as Lucien had suggested.
She couldn’t dwell on it, not when she was still struggling to regain her own composure. She could only take solace in the fact that Azriel hadn’t been there to witness her breaking point.
Azriel had tried to defend her, but the ghost of his connection with Elain haunted her. That thought alone was almost worse than the sting of Elain’s words—knowing that he had once been hers, in a way Gwyn never could fathom.
Elain’s venomous words clung to Gwyn like a festering wound, raw and unyielding. It wasn’t just the cruelty of what had been said—it was the way those words had sliced through her defenses, each syllable a jagged blade exposing fractures she had fought so hard to seal. Her failure to withstand them felt like a betrayal of the strength she had worked tirelessly to build, her composure crumbling in the face of insults that lingered like spectral whispers in her mind.
And then came the doubt. That insidious, ever-present whisper that crept along the edges of her resolve, waiting for moments like this to take hold. The fear that she wasn’t strong enough—that no matter how fiercely she fought, no matter how high she reached, she would always be tethered to the confines of the Library. Its quietness, its safety, its loneliness. The thought coiled around her like chains, the weight of it dragging her down until it became impossible to breathe.
The Library had been her sanctuary, her life, for over two years now—that refuge, however, had become her prison. It had saved her when she needed it most, wrapping her in its stillness and shielding her from the tumult of the outside world. But it had also confined her, its comforts becoming unbearable. The realization gripped her chest like an iron vice, pressing harder with every breath.
She wasn’t meant for the noise and chaos beyond those walls. The world outside felt jagged and wild, a place where she would always feel out of step, never fully belonging. The thought sank into her like a heavy stone, pulling her further down.
She wasn’t built to thrive, to belong, in the outside world.
She wasn’t meant to leave the Library at all.