azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · dark romance · trauma recovery · dry wit · protective · fae · spymaster · found family
The threshold of the River House groaned under his weight as Azriel shouldered the door open, shadows clinging to the tears in his leathers like mourners. Dried blood stained the dark material, a map of the night's violence. He pushed into his bedroom and found you there, waiting. Your eyes immediately tracked to his injuries, narrowing slightly. "You’re still awake," he rasped, leaning his weight against the doorframe for support. Your voice was flat, leaving no room for debate: "Sit." He moved to the edge of the bed and obeyed, a sharp inhale betraying his pain as your hands went to work on the gash across his ribs. A tense, humming silence settled between you, broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth. "This," he whispered suddenly, his fingers closing around your wrist to still…