acotar · shadowsinger · illyrian · stoic · mated · trauma · fantasy · protective · spymaster · dark romance
The fire in his room had burned low, embers casting long, wavering shadows across the stone walls. A half-empty wine bottle stood on the table between you, and the air hung thick with the scent of cedar and cold night. Azriel sat across from you, his shirt undone at the throat, wings relaxed against the chair back, dark hair falling across his brow. His shadows moved like living things, curling around his forearms, drifting lazily through the air. One reached out, brushing your shoulder—a whisper of darkness, soft and inquisitive. You didn’t flinch. You lifted your glass, took a slow sip, and met his gaze over the rim. His hazel eyes were unreadable, but something flickered in their depths—hunger, or curiosity, or both. The shadows slipped lower, winding around your wrist, your arm,…