Chapter 15 Ilyra
ILYRA
The invitations arrive in a leather satchel carried by one of Bram's guards. Thick parchment sealed with dark purple wax, embossed with the Hethryn house sigil. Forty-three of them, stacked like death sentences on the kitchen table.
I stand in the doorway and watch Vaelra's fingers trace the embossing with something close to reverence.
"Look at the quality." She holds one up to catch the light. "He's sparing no expense."
My stomach turns. Each invitation represents another witness to my forced captivity, another person who'll remember the day I became property.
"These go out tomorrow." Vaelra sorts them into piles—local settlement leaders, distant trade contacts, minor dark elf houses. "The ceremony is set for less than two weeks hence. That gives us barely enough time to—"
"No."
The word drops into the room.
Vaelra's head snaps up. "What did you say?"
"I said no." My hands clench at my sides. "I won't marry him."
"You don't have a choice." She stands, smoothing her skirts with practiced precision. "Word has already spread through four territories. The announcements went out days ago. Do you understand what refusal means now? Public disgrace. For this entire household. We'd lose everything."
Days ago. She sent announcements before even showing me the invitations. Before giving me any chance to—
The realization is gut-wrenching. This was deliberate. Calculated. She's been maneuvering me into a corner where escape becomes impossible.
"You planned this." My voice comes out flat. Dead. "You wanted me trapped."
"I want us to survive." But her eyes won't quite meet mine. "Your father left us nothing. No trade agreements, no protection, no—"
"Don't." The word cracks like a whip. "Don't you dare use him as an excuse."
Something cold and serpentine coils in my gut. The way Vaelra looks away. How quickly she moved on after his death. The convenient timing of his illness.
Did she...?
I can't finish the thought. Not out loud. Not without proof. But the suspicion roots deep, sending tendrils of doubt through every memory of the past months.
"The invitations go out tomorrow," Vaelra repeats, voice hardening. "You will attend the final dress fitting on Sixthday. And you will smile."
Mariselle drifts in from the sitting room, examining her nails with affected boredom. "At least you'll eat well for a few months. Before he gets bored and trades you to someone with fewer standards."
The casual cruelty breaks something in my chest.
"Tell me, Mari." I turn to face her fully. "When you look in the mirror, do you see what you've become? Or do you just practice that sneer until it feels natural?"
Her mouth falls open. Actual shock flashes across her face—she's not used to me fighting back.
The silence stretches. Sharpens.
Finally, she spins and stalks from the room without another word.
I climb the stairs slower than necessary, letting my fingers trail against the worn stone wall. Each step brings me closer to my room—and the anticipation curling in my chest feels dangerously close to hope.
He'll be there. He always is now.
The thought warms something inside me that shouldn't exist. This is a contract. A transaction. He appears because I commanded delays and disruptions, because his bound service requires proximity to fulfill my orders.
The fruit last night was just... practical. Keeping me functional. Nothing more.
Except it wasn't bread or water. It was starfruit and pomegranate, things I've only seen at market stalls I could never afford. The juice had run down my chin and he'd watched with those gold-flecked eyes like my pleasure meant something.
Stop it.
Growing attached will only bring disappointment. He's here for a job. When the year expires, he'll collect whatever price the contract demands and disappear back into shadow like he was never real at all.
I push open my door.
He's already there.
Azrathiel stands beside the window, backlit by moonlight that catches the glowing red of skin. The chains covering his skin pulse faintly—dimmer than when we first met, I realize. As if our bond is somehow wearing them down.
"I sensed you were coming." His voice rumbles low, matter-of-fact.
Relief floods through me so sharply it's almost painful. "The invitations arrived. Vaelra sent out announcements days ago without telling me. She's locked me into a public spectacle."
"Then I will destroy him." No hesitation. No question. "Bram Hethryn will suffer an accident. Tragic. Irreversible."
"No." I shake my head, sinking onto the edge of my bed. "Killing him makes me look guilty. Makes this household look dangerous. I need the marriage undone publicly—in a way that doesn't destroy my reputation. This village was my father's home. I want it to stay mine."
He studies me for a long moment. Gold flickers in those impossible eyes.
"As you command." He turns toward the wall. "I'll return tomorrow—"
"Wait."
He stops.
My hands twist in my lap. "I sleep better when you're in the room."
The confession hangs between us, vulnerable and raw.
Azrathiel turns back slowly. Something shifts in his expression—something I can't name.
"Then I stay."
"I need to change." The words come out shakier than intended. "Turn around."
Azrathiel pivots without argument, facing the window with his hands clasped behind his back. The moonlight silhouettes his frame—tall, impossibly still.
I unlace my dress with fumbling fingers, hyperaware of every rustle of fabric in the quiet room. The worn material slides down my shoulders, pools at my feet. Cool air prickles across my skin.
Stop thinking about it. He's not even looking.
I reach for my nightgown, pulling the soft linen up over my hips, my waist. The fabric catches slightly and I tug it higher, working it over my breasts—
And catch sight of the window.
The glass reflects everything. The dim room. My bed. Me, half-naked, illuminated by candlelight.
And Azrathiel's eyes in the reflection, gold-flecked and locked directly on me.
My face ignites.
"H-Hey!"
A low, dark chuckle rumbles from his chest. Not mocking—something richer. More satisfied.
I scramble to yank the nightgown down, nearly tripping over my discarded dress in my haste. The linen twists around my arms and I wrestle with it desperately, mortification burning through every nerve.
"You said—you were supposed to—"
"I turned around." His voice carries too much amusement. "As commanded."
My legs tangle in the bedsheet as I dive onto the mattress, burrowing under the blanket and pulling it up to my chin. The fabric does nothing to cool the scorching heat in my cheeks.
"That's cheating," I hiss into the pillow.
"I fulfilled the letter of your instruction precisely." He still faces the window, shoulders relaxed. "You should be more specific with demons, Ilyra."
The way he says my name—low and deliberate—sends an entirely different kind of warmth curling through my stomach.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pray for the earth to open up and swallow me whole.
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
The certainty in those three words makes my breath catch.
"I can leave," he offers again, still with a hint of amusement in his voice.
Silence settles. My heartbeat gradually slows from its frantic gallop. The embarrassment begins to fade into something softer, stranger. Almost like...
I peek out from under the blanket.
"Stay. Please."
Azrathiel has moved to the far corner, settling into the shadows like he belongs there. His eyes catch the candlelight—watching, always watching.
But not threatening. Not cruel.
Just... present.
He nods, and I feel my body relax, sinking into the old mattress. I pull the new cloak, which only could have been left by him last night, up to my cheeks and fall asleep with the scent of Azrathiel wrapped around me.