Have i known you 20 seconds, or 20 years?
Dinner at the townhouse was lively, filled with the warmth of crackling firelight and the steady hum of conversation. Even Mor had joined tonight, her golden hair gleaming in the candlelight, her laughter loud and uninhibited as she leaned into Cassian’s side. The scent of spiced wine and roasted lamb wove through the space, mingling with the faint chill that still clung to the windows.
Elain was on her second glass of wine, something Azriel noticed immediately.
She stood at the bar cart, fingers delicately tracing the rim of her glass before she poured, the deep red liquid catching the flickering light. He approached her in silence, his usual fighting leathers replaced with fitted black trousers and a sweater, only two siphons gleaming on his wrists. The sapphire stones caught the glow of the firelight, glinting as he lifted his own glass of whiskey.
She felt his presence before he spoke. "The twins said you’re going to help Madja with her greenhouse?" His voice was low, even over the noise of the others.
"Yes," Elain said, turning slightly to face him. "I start tomorrow. Madja wants to meet at dawn. I’ll be going every Tuesday to help."
She hesitated, running her finger along the stem of her glass. "I suppose now that it’s getting cold, we can sometimes play chess. When you’re not busy, of course. It’s been quite some time since I’ve beaten you. But I understand if you don’t want to come by now that it’s winter..." Her cheeks burned the moment the words left her mouth. She hadn’t meant to admit it, that she had been thinking about those mornings. About how much she would miss them.
Azriel’s lips twitched slightly, but his expression remained unreadable. "Of course I’d still like to spend my mornings with you." He stepped closer, just enough that she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze. "You do brew the best tea, after all."
Elain let out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking her head. "I know you’re busy. You always have so many letters to read and write—"
"I will always make time for you." His voice was quiet, but firm.
Warmth spread through her chest, but she swallowed it down, not wanting to examine it too closely. Instead, she searched for something else to say, something to fill the space between them.
"You know, Sophie said you were much kinder than she imagined you would be," Elain said, trying for a teasing smile. "And I have to admit—I agree. When we first met, I thought I would have been more terrified. I had only heard of these winged Illyrians in books. Books about the horrors of the Night Court. But there stood two of the kindest males I’ve ever met."
Azriel scoffed softly, looking away for a brief moment. "Unfortunately, I think most people who meet me wouldn’t agree with that assessment." His voice had hardened slightly, the warmth in his eyes cooling.
Elain studied him, the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers curled around his glass just a little too tightly. She knew what he was thinking. What he did. What he had to be, for this court. For Rhysand.
"I know your job isn’t to be kind," she said gently. "You don’t have to hide that side of you from me."
His throat bobbed, his gaze flickering to hers. "Trust me, it’s much better for both of us if you never see that side."
She sighed, shaking her head. "Fine, continue to shelter me like everyone else does."
She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her. "Elain..."
She paused, glancing back at him. Azriel ran a hand through his black wavy hair, a rare show of frustration. She was learning his tells—the little ways his carefully composed mask slipped when he was unsure, when he was exhausted, when he didn’t know what to say.
"I’m sorry," he murmured. "I know you don’t like to be sheltered. I just..." He exhaled sharply, staring at the firelight for a moment before looking back at her. "There are sides of my life I never want others to see. Especially you."
Elain held his gaze, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. "I meant what I said in the garden when I told you I wanted to see you. All of you. That hasn’t changed."
The silence between them was thick, charged with something neither of them dared name. Azriel looked as though he might say something—his lips parted, his expression unreadable—
Then Mor’s voice cut through the moment. "Az, can you hand me the bottle of red?"
The tension shattered. Elain turned swiftly, retreating back to the couch, settling beside Feyre as Cassian launched into one of his many stories, his laughter ringing through the room. But Elain barely heard him.
Because across the room, Mor was speaking to Azriel, her expression sharp, unreadable. Azriel’s wings tensed, his shoulders stiff. Whatever they were discussing, it wasn’t lighthearted. Then he turned, breaking away from her abruptly, his shadows trailing after him as he settled into an armchair. His face was carefully blank, but Elain saw the tension in his jaw.
Mor, however, strode toward the couch, graceful and unbothered. She slipped onto the cushions beside Cassian, her long legs crossing beneath the slit in her dress, brushing against his as she poured herself another drink.
Elain swallowed, looking away. Elain had never quite understood the dynamic between the three of them—Cassian, Azriel, and Mor. Feyre had told her once, long ago, that Azriel loved Mor, but… Elain had never quite seen what everyone else did.
Although now, in this firelit room, with Mor glowing in gold, Cassian’s easy touch on her knee, and Azriel watching them from across the space, Elain thought she might finally understand.
Mor was everything she wasn’t. Strong, flirtatious, confident. A warrior. A fighter.
She had walked through hell and emerged laughing, powerful, unshaken. She could drink Cassian under the table, could put anyone in their place with a single sharp smile, could command a room without even trying. Elain had seen the way others looked at her, the way males and females alike vied for her attention, drawn to her like moths to a flame.
And Azriel… Azriel loved her.
Elain tried to tell herself it didn’t matter. That it had nothing to do with her. But something in her chest twisted, low and deep and unfamiliar. Because what did she have, in comparison?
She was soft where Mor was steel. She was quiet where Mor was loud. She had spent most of her life in the background, watching rather than acting, tending rather than fighting.
And Azriel, surely someone like him would want a female like Mor. Surely someone like him would need a female who could stand at his side in battle, who could match his fire, who wouldn’t flinch at the blood staining his hands. Not a gardener. Not a seer who still feared her own power.
Elain swallowed, looking away, trying to shake the strange weight pressing down on her chest. Mor laughed at something Cassian said, tossing her golden hair over her shoulder.
Azriel wasn’t laughing. His face was unreadable, but his eyes... his eyes weren’t on Mor. They were on Elain. And something about that made her heartbeat quicken, made her fingers tighten around the stem of her wine glass. So she drained the last of her wine and forced herself to stand. "I should get to bed. I have an early morning," she murmured to Feyre.
"Are you sure? It’s not even ten!" Feyre said, half-draped across Rhys, her mate’s arm securely wrapped around her.
"Yes, I’m a bit tired. Goodnight, everyone."
She slipped away, before Cassian would start complaining and telling her to stay, climbing the stairs, her heart unsettled for reasons she couldn’t quite name. And as she reached the landing, she swore she felt a shadow brush against her wrist.
