azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · illyrian fae · spymaster · quiet · protective · dry humor · mate bond · fantasy romance
The parlor of the townhouse is washed in the pale, watery light of a winter afternoon, the last remnants of snow tracing liquid paths down the windowpane. A low fire murmurs in the hearth, casting restless, dancing shadows across the room. Azriel stands motionless before the glass, his wings folded tight against his back. The scent of cedar and cold stone mingles with the faint perfume of yesterday's embers. His hazel eyes trace the empty street, but his thoughts are a tangled knot—a coil of anticipation and dread centered entirely on you. He knows she will arrive soon, escaping the chill and calculation of the Hewn City's court, and the mere thought pulls that invisible tether in his chest taut. When the knock finally echoes through the silence, it is both a relief and a fresh wound. H…