Chapter 17 Ilyra
ILYRA
The door crashes against the frame hard enough to rattle the hinges. I storm inside, chest heaving, fury crackling beneath my skin like lightning trapped in a jar.
Azrathiel lounges across my bed—my bed—like he owns the damn thing. One arm draped behind his head, obsidian skin glowing faintly in the dimming light. Gold-flecked eyes track my movement with infuriating calm.
"Did you see?" I snap, whirling on him. "You were there, weren't you? I know you were there."
His expression doesn't shift. Doesn't need to. The answer's in the way those ember-veins pulse beneath his skin.
"Of course you were." I pace across the narrow space, boots scuffing against worn floorboards. "You're always there now. Watching. Lurking."
He waits.
I hate that he waits. Hate that he doesn't interrupt or correct or dismiss me like everyone else does. If he did, this would all be easier.
"That entire farce today—" My hands fly up, gesturing wildly.
"Dragged all the way to his estate. And I use that term generously because calling that crumbling port hovel an estate is an insult to actual estates!
But no, Bram couldn't possibly be bothered to come here.
I had to be carted out there like livestock being transported to market. "
Azrathiel shifts slightly, sitting up just enough to rest his forearms on his knees. The movement draws my eye—too fluid, too predatory.
"And then—" My voice pitches higher. "Then he insists on watching the fitting himself.
Circling around me like I'm some prize mare while that terrified seamstress tried to pin fabric with her hands shaking.
He wouldn't stop looking at me, Azrathiel.
His eyes crawling over every inch like he already owned me. "
The air temperature drops.
I barely notice.
"And that comment he made—" Disgust curls through me in waves, hot and nauseating. "Did you hear it?!"
"I heard."
His voice cuts through my tirade. Low. Controlled.
Lethal.
"'You'll kneel so well,'" I spit the words out like poison. "As if! As if I would ever—" My hands clench into fists. "I will never kneel for him. Never! I don't care what contract Vaelra signs or what pressure he applies. That creature doesn't deserve—"
"Ilyra."
I stop pacing.
Turn.
Azrathiel watches me with eyes that burn.
"Next time?" His voice drops lower, something dark threading through it. "Summon me. Do not wait until you're trembling with rage in your own room."
I swallow hard.
"This could be over in an instant." He leans forward slightly, the motion deliberate. Controlled. "One command. One gesture. You could watch me end it all."
My heart hammers against my ribs. The air thickens between us—charged, heavy, pressing against my skin like a physical weight. Heat floods my cheeks despite the chill radiating from him.
He sits at the edge of my bed now, elbows braced on his knees, hands dangling loose between them. Everything about his posture reads relaxed. Casual.
But the pulsing chains, like physical manifestations of his binding to his contract, flare bright enough to leave afterimages.
"You can't." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Not yet."
Azrathiel holds my gaze. Doesn't blink. Doesn't look away.
"I grow tired of his continued breathing."
Something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest. Almost makes me smile—almost.
I shake my head, reaching up to tuck loose strands of hair behind my ear. "The timing needs to be perfect. If you strike now, Vaelra will claim I orchestrated his death. She'll spin it to the settlement council, have me exiled or worse. I need to stay here. This is my father's home. Mine by right."
He rises in one smooth motion. Crosses the space between us faster than I can track.
Stands closer than he ever has before.
Close enough that I feel the heat rolling off him despite the shadows clinging to his frame. Close enough to see the gold flecks in his eyes catch the lamplight.
"Every moment we wait—" His jaw tightens. "—is another moment I watch you suffer."
My breath catches.
But this time I do smile. Small. Grim.
"I'm strong, Azrathiel." I tilt my chin up to meet his eyes properly. "I can handle suffering."
His tension hovers in the space between us for a heartbeat. Two. Then he steps back, breaking the charged silence with movement that feels almost reluctant.
"Perhaps—" He gestures toward my desk. "—this might improve your evening."
I blink. Turn.
A small wooden box sits where I'd thrown my cloak earlier. Carved dark wood, intricate patterns winding across the lid. I hadn't noticed it through the haze of fury when I'd stormed in.
My fingers brush the latch. The lid opens with a soft click.
Inside, nestled against midnight-blue silk, rests a single flower.
"A moonbeam lily?"
The gasp tears from my throat unbidden. I lift the delicate bloom with trembling hands—petals like spun glass, edges glowing soft silver-white in the lamplight. The stem pulses faintly with luminescence, as if holding captured starlight beneath translucent skin.
Azrathiel's voice drifts over my shoulder, warmer than before. "It blooms only in the night. Only when the sun has set."
I turn the flower carefully, watching light dance across the petals. Understanding clicks into place. "Only when you come to see me."
"Yes."
My chest tightens. "It's the most beautiful flower I've ever seen."
He moves closer again—back into that dangerous space where the air feels thin and my pulse thunders in my ears.
"Something you have in common, then." The words roll low and deliberate. "A rare beauty. Only in bloom under the right conditions."
Heat floods my face. My lips part as I draw breath, suddenly aware of how shallow each inhale has become. The flower trembles slightly in my grip.
"And what are the right conditions—" I force myself to meet his eyes. "—for a flower like me?"
Azrathiel reaches up.
Time slows. Crystallizes.
I think he might touch my face. Trace the curve of my jaw. Press his palm against my cheek the way I've started dreaming about in those quiet hours before dawn when he's left and the room feels emptier than it should.
But he doesn't.
Instead his fingers catch a loose strand of hair that's escaped my braid. He twirls it slowly around his finger, the gesture intimate and possessive all at once. The backs of his knuckles brush my temple—barely contact, barely anything at all.
It burns anyway.
"I think you may be discovering that for yourself."