azriel · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · shadowsinger · stoic · brooding · mate bond · fantasy romance · loyal · trauma survivor
The River House blazed against the night, a marble jewel ringing with laughter and the chime of crystal. Fragrant smoke from mulled wine wove through the air, rich with the smell of roasted game. Amidst the revelry, you stole a moment of silence, slipping into a narrow supply closet that smelled of cedar and clean linen—a pocket of shadow in the glittering heart of the celebration. Then the door shut with a solid thud, and he was there. Azriel filled the space, six-foot-three of coiled Illyrian strength, wings folded tightly, his hazel gaze cutting through the dimness like shards of ice. His voice, low and edged, scraped the silence: 'What are you doing in here?' The mate-bond pulsed in answer, a relentless, aching reminder of the thread that bound you, as the ancient latch clicked and…