Chapter 18 - A Lot To Catch Up On
Chapter 18 – A Lot To Catch Up On
-Azriel-
Azriel followed Balthazar back to Boulderhearth, the two landing silently in front of the male’s family home. The mistrust in Balthazar’s eyes was clear—understandable, given Azriel’s earlier threat toward his family.
“Wait here,” Balthazar ordered, his tone firm, leaving no room for negotiation, disappearing into the small cottage.
Azriel gritted his teeth, swallowing the retort that rose unbidden. He wasn’t accustomed to taking orders from anyone—not even Rhys, who rarely issued outright commands. The High Lord told Azriel what needed to be done, what duty demanded of him, and Azriel obeyed. Perhaps he had been foolish to think there was a difference. The last time Rhysand had given him a direct order was last Winter Solstice, when he’d commanded Azriel to stay away from Elain.
The mere thought of Elain sparked a flicker of anger in his chest. He tried to remind himself that she was hurting, confused, but it was harder than he anticipated to release the contempt that lingered. His feelings for Gwyn were deeper, more profound than anything he’d ever felt for Elain, and a small, bitter part of him couldn’t help but resent her—for the pain she’d caused Gwyn.
Gods. Gwyn.
The thought of her still filled every corner of his mind, consuming his thoughts. He wondered what she was doing now, if Feyre had found her like she’d promised. A pang of guilt twisted in his chest. He should have brought Gwyn with him. Rhysand had suggested it plainly enough: "You should take Gwyn with you to Boulderhearth, Az." Not an outright command, but close enough that he should have followed it. If he’d just told her she was to go with him when he’d first spoken to her, instead of implying the assignment was his alone—their conversation might have gone an entirely different way.
Maybe I wouldn’t have fucked it all up.
Balthazar emerged from the front door moments later. A small Illyrian girl was perched on his hip, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, the side of her head laying on his shoulder with her face angled away from Azriel. Another girl, slightly older, held Balthazar’s hand, keeping partway hidden behind her brother. A black-haired middle-aged female followed close behind—likely their mother, Azriel guessed—her head bowed, her posture shrinking as though trying to make herself invisible. His sharp gaze landed on her clipped wings, the precise scars an unspoken testament to Illyrian culture’s cruelty. But when his eyes flicked to the young girls, he noted with a flicker of relief that their wings remained intact, untouched.
Balthazar murmured softly to the girl on his hip as he approached. Kneeling down with practiced ease, he balanced her securely on his side and whispered in the ear of his other sister. The smallest seemed to tighten her hold on her brother, seeking comfort in his embrace. The older sister’s gaze, hesitant and cautious, slowly rose to meet Azriel’s. Their mother stopped a step behind Balthazar, her hand drifting up to stroke the dark hair of the youngest child in a silent act of reassurance.
Azriel’s chest tightened under the weight of his emotions. Guilt churned for the threats he’d made against this family—these innocent children, afraid of him; their mother, bending to his authority like so many subservient females in Illyria. Envy burned alongside the guilt, for the bond of closeness and protection these siblings shared—a bond that had eluded him as a child. Pain followed swiftly, memories of his own half-brothers rising unbidden, their cruel laughter as they tormented him in the cold, dark cell in his father’s house. And finally, relief—relief that these young girls had a brother who fought for them, who defended them, and relief that their wings remained whole. That they still had the freedom to fly.
Balthazar’s brown eyes flicked up to Azriel’s, their gazes locking. “This is my mother, Olla,” he said, gesturing to the older female behind him. “This is Nemiah.” He gently raised the hand of the older sister standing on his left. “And this,” he said, pressing his lips to the side of the littlest’s head, “is Iris.”
Iris turned her little head, her face now angled toward Azriel. Though she kept it lowered, partially hidden by the arm draped around Balthazar’s neck, one curious eye peeked out at him. Her gaze was soft, her honey-brown eyes brimming with innocence, her cherubic features delicate and untouched by the harshness of the world. In contrast, Nemiah’s eyes—dark brown like Balthazar’s—held a sharper edge, and were fixated on his fingerless gloves, likely examining the blue siphons on the back or his scarred fingers, though it was likely the latter. Her features, though more angular, were not severe but carried a quiet strength, echoing her brother’s protective stance. He had no doubt that in her brother’s absence, she was charged with protecting her little sister.
Azriel swallowed, his gaze sweeping over the small family of four. He inclined his head respectfully toward their mother, then gave a brief nod to each of the young girls.
“The Spymaster just wants to ask you about what you found in the woods this morning,” Balthazar said, his voice soft but steady as he addressed his sisters. Iris’ arms tightened around his neck, her small fingers clutching him desperately, while Nemiah sidled closer to his side. Releasing Nemiah’s hand, Balthazar draped an arm protectively around her shoulders. “I’ll be with you the whole time you talk to him.”
Azriel cleared his throat, his voice calm but firm. “Actually, I’d prefer to speak with them alone.”
At the sound of his words, Iris whimpered, a small, fragile sound that sent a sharp pang through him. Balthazar’s eyes hardened, flashing with defiance. “You will not speak with them alone, Spymaster. Non-negotiable.”
Azriel exhaled slowly, holding back a retort. It wasn’t how he preferred to conduct interviews, but these were children. He couldn’t ignore the possibility that they’d grown up on tales of the ruthless Spymaster of the Night Court, meant to instill fear and obedience.
“Fine,” he said, his tone even. “Is there somewhere we can go?”
-Gwyn-
“Gwyn?!” The shout echoed across the Library, snapping Gwyn’s head up. Emerie was rushing toward her, Mor close on her heels, drawing the curious gazes of the nearby priestesses.
“Em?” Gwyn asked, worry prickling at her chest as her mind raced. After Feyre had helped her clean up her room, she’d bathed, dressed in her robes, and thrown herself into work, hoping it might offer distraction. “What’s wrong? Is everything alright?”
“I should be asking you that!” Emerie exclaimed, her wings flaring slightly as she waved her arms. “I’ve been worried sick about you.” Reaching Gwyn, she pulled her into a hug so fierce it nearly knocked the air from her lungs.
Gwyn blinked, stunned that Emerie knew about what had happened that morning. Feyre must have told her—and Mor, too, judging by their combined presence. Surprise flickered into resignation as Gwyn reminded herself that Feyre, as High Lady, didn’t owe her an explanation. Likely, she’d only shared the details to ensure Gwyn had a close friend checking on her. Feyre had probably mentioned their kiss as well, though she hadn’t specified how much Azriel had chosen to share with her.
Gods, their kiss.
No—kisses, truthfully. Because while that first meeting of their mouths had been nothing short of spectacular, what followed was so achingly tender, so profoundly intimate, it left her breathless. She had never been kissed before last night, and part of her had feared she never would be. Even as she dreamed of one day leaving the Library and longed for connection with someone, she had always harbored the quiet dread that her first kiss would paralyze her, that she’d falter and ruin the moment.
But with him, with Azriel, all her fears seemed to dissolve. The gentle way he kissed her lips, face and neck, the way his scarred palms had caressed her—from her cheeks, down her neck, her shoulders, her arms—and finally settled at her waist, holding her with such reverence, such quiet possession. It had unraveled her. His lips, when they found hers again, felt like a prayer, as if they worshipped every part of her. In those moments, she had never felt more…more whole.
More wanted.
More loved.
No, she corrected herself, forcing the thought away. Not love.
It wasn’t love.
Maybe it never will be.
Perhaps this fragile, beautiful thing between them was meant to go no further. She truly held no anger toward him for this morning; how could she, when they had slowly built something between them these past several months? When last night had been so blissful, so perfect in its simplicity? Kissing him had made her happier than she had felt in years. And truthfully, she could see herself falling in love with him. So easily.
But she knew, deep down, that a male like Azriel—one who had lived over five centuries, one who was far more experienced than she could ever dream of being—would need more, want more than kisses alone. He had told her she was the best kiss of his life, that he would be content if kisses were all they ever shared. But surely he had been lost in the high of the moment, just as she had been. And someday, inevitably, he would need more. The memory of his arousal, pressed against her last night, was proof enough.
Gods, the press of him against her core had felt so good. She knew she wasn’t ready for anything so intimate, but she couldn’t deny the delicious ache that formed low in her belly at the feel of his hardness against her heat.
Despite thoroughly enjoying the sensation, the fear still lingered: That she would lose her grip on reality during physical intimacy and become trapped in her memories of Sangravah—just like she had this morning.
He was likely already weary of her dramatics—first, the chaos of yesterday’s ceremony, and then this morning, when she had spiraled into a dissociative state and fled from him as though she’d lost all sense.
Who would willingly choose such complications in a partner?
He could be happier with someone else, she told herself. Someone who’s not broken, someone that doesn’t have tragic past looming over them, waiting to ensnare them, keeping their relationship stagnant.
The thought of him being with another, though, was unbearable. She had tried to never dwell on what she knew of Azriel and his history with females: That he preferred pleasure houses and taverns to find sexual partners and had not had any long-term relationships—at least none that anyone knew of. Whether it was a fleeting one night of passion or a romantic relationship, imagining him with someone else made her heart hurt and her stomach rebel. If whatever this was between them really was destined to stay confined to last night, she would not be able to stay friends with him; Hel, she probably would not be able to stay in Velaris—maybe she’d need to leave the Night Court altogether to avoid seeing him with someone else.
Getting a little ahead of yourself, Gwyn, she scolded herself silently. She snapped back to the present, at her friend and sister in her embrace, and how she should explain everything to her and Mor.
“I’m fine, really,” Gwyn murmured, rubbing Emerie’s back gently, mindful of her wings. “Azriel just…he didn’t realize what he said would trigger a flashback. I mean, last night with him was so…so romantic.” She and Emerie parted then, continuing her rambling explanation as she rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. “I mean, something was really happening between us, and then, this morning, I woke up and he wasn’t next to me any longer, and I was just so confused, and then he showed up and told me about his mission and I said…” She trailed off, noticing the wide eyes and slack jaws of Emerie and Mor.
“Oh, um…did you not know about the…?” She gulped, heat flooding her cheeks as she wrung her hands. “…about his mission to Illyria?”
Emerie and Mor looked at one another before their gazes slid back to Gwyn. “I’m sorry,” Emerie said, holding up a finger. “Can you go back to…?”
“…the flashback?” Gwyn ventured.
“That,” Mor agreed, “but, also…?”
“Oh…um, you mean…about us kissing?”
Both females gasped in unison. “You kissed?!” Emerie practically shouted, her voice ringing through the space. Gwyn wanted to shrink into the nearest shelf as her cheeks burned brighter.
Mor, thankfully noticing Gwyn’s embarrassment, took charge. Leaning toward Emerie, she murmured something in her ear. Whatever she said made Emerie freeze, her gaze darting to the other priestesses who were now openly staring. “Let’s go to one of the private research rooms,” Mor suggested, her voice low but commanding. “It seems we have a lot to catch up on.”