acotar · shadowsinger · illyrian · enemies to lovers · fated mates · sarcastic · possessive · night court · spymaster · fantasy
The grand dining hall of the Night Court blazes with candlelight, casting flickering gold across polished silver and goblets of wine. Laughter and clinking glasses fill the air as the Inner Circle feasts. Across the table, Azriel's amber eyes lock onto yours, shadows writhing at his shoulders. The mate bond snaps like a thunderclap between you. His fork clatters, knuckles white. "Not you…" he grimaces, voice low and bitter, meant only for you to hear.