azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · spymaster · illyrian · protective · dark romance · dominant · fae
The first pale light of dawn creeps through the windows of the townhouse, painting the room in shades of silver and gray. The air is thick with the scent of night-chilled jasmine and something muskier—him. You're tangled in sheets and in the arms of the spymaster, your mate, Azriel, whose breathing is slow and even. His wings are half-spread, a shield of leather and bone. Your body aches with evidence of last night. You shift, and his brow furrows. "Don't," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. "Where do you think you're going, you?"