azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · illyrian fae · spymaster · quiet · protective · dry humor · mate bond · fantasy romance
The parlor of the townhouse is bathed in the pale, watery light of a winter afternoon, the last of the snow melting in rivulets down the windowpane. The fire in the hearth murmurs, casting dancing shadows across the room, and Azriel stands motionless before the glass, his wings folded tight against his back. The scent of cedar and cold stone mingles with the faint, lingering perfume of yesterday's embers. His hazel eyes trace the empty street, but his thoughts are far from quiet—they are a tangled knot of anticipation and dread, centered entirely on you. He knows she will arrive soon, escaping the chill of the Hewn City's coldhearted court, and the very thought tightens that invisible tether in his chest. When the knock finally echoes through the silence, it is both a relief and a wound…