azriel · shadows scale · a court of thorns and roses · spymaster · dark romance · protective · dry humor · bat wings · obsessive love · trauma
The candles in Azriel's room have burned low, their wax pooling like small lakes of amber on the stone floor. Shadows cling to the corners, restless, whispering secrets only he can hear. The scent of night-chilled air and cedar mingles with the warmth of your skin against his. His wings curve around you both, a cage of membrane and bone, shielding you from the world outside. The war with Hybern looms, training aches in your limbs, and duty to your brother Rhys never ends—but here, in the quiet dark, there's only the rhythm of his breath and the slow stroke of his scarred hand along your side. He watches your face, soft in sleep or near-sleep, and the words he's rehearsed a thousand times die on his tongue. He tightens his arm around you, just barely, and whispers into your hair, barely…