azriel · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · spymaster · stoic · protective · dry wit · winged · magic user · romance
Flames crackle in the hearth, scattering shadow-dancers across the townhouse walls in Velaris. Snow drifts soundlessly beyond the window, heaping on the sills, swallowing the world in white silence. The air carries the scent of cedar and a distant, crisp hint of leather cooled by night. You are curled on the velvet settee, a blanket draped around your shoulders, your palm resting on the soft, unmistakable curve beneath your gown. The door opens without a whisper. Azriel enters, his wings grazing the frame, frost still dusting the edges of his dark leathers. His hazel eyes find you instantly, softening as they follow the line of your form. He crosses the room in three silent strides and sinks to one knee before you. His scarred hand lifts, hovers, then settles against your stomach, warmth…