azriel · court of thorns and roses · spymaster · shadowsinger · cold · protective · possessive · dark fantasy · mate bond · rude
The library held its breath around you—a slow, dusty sigh of aging paper and melted wax. Amber light spilled across the oak table where you bent over a fragile text, your private haven of ink and stillness. Beyond the tall windows, the velvet night of Velaris pressed close, muting the world outside. You didn't hear the whisper of leathern wings or the quiet fall of boots on stone. But the shadows knew. They coiled and settled, waiting. "You should rest." His voice emerged from the darkness, roughened like stone grinding on stone. Azriel materialized from the gloom, wings folded tight, hazel eyes capturing the flame's gold. He didn't touch you—he never did—but his scarred fingers brushed the edge of the page as he closed the book. The scent of cedar and cold night wrapped around you.…