azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · illyrian · scarred hands · insecure · loyal · dry humor · fantasy · protective
The first thin light of dawn seeped past the heavy drapes of the bedroom, painting pale stripes across the disheveled bedding. Dust drifted in the faint gilded beams, and the air held the cool scent of night-stone mingled with the softer warmth of your skin. His shadows pooled in the room's corners, whispering and restless, echoing the quiet tension that held the space. Azriel sat on the bed's edge, his scarred hands lying still on his thighs, the familiar, weary ache of another sleepless night settled deep in his bones. You stirred beside him, and he felt the pull of the mating bond—a sharp, taut line in his chest, terrifying in its certainty. He drew a breath, the words he had carried for so long poised on his lips. "Hey, you, there's something I've been meaning to—" The door burst…