Chapter 18 Azrathiel
AZRATHIEL
Ifold myself into shadow and trail Bram to the stone hall where he meets with fellow low-level elven merchants from surrounding settlements.
The conversation drones—trade routes, tribute percentages, political posturing dressed in polite language. I perch in the rafters, unseen, watching his pale fingers drum against the table.
Then the talk shifts.
"The wedding?" One merchant leans forward, his eyes gleaming with the kind of calculating interest that comes from sensing opportunity.
"Securing the Dain household strengthens your position considerably with the regional council.
The family has been here for generations—three, maybe four?
They're very well respected among the humans. Deep roots, established connections."
Another merchant nods approvingly. "Smart politics, Hethryn. Marriage alliances with the settled families always pay dividends in the long term."
Bram waves dismissively, his pale fingers cutting through the air with casual arrogance. "The girl is manageable. Already trained to keep her head down, mind her place. No spirit to break—saves me the effort."
Manageable.
The word settles like molten poison in my chest, spreading outward through every vein. My hands curl into fists so tight the knuckles crack, shadows rippling darker around my frame like living smoke. The temperature in the rafters drops several degrees.
"She's not hideous to look at," Bram continues, reaching for his wine with the lazy confidence of a predator discussing prey.
His voice carries that particular tone of ownership, as if he's already cataloguing her worth in terms of utility and aesthetics.
"Quiet. Obedient enough. Perfect breeding stock, really.
" He pauses to sip, savoring both wine and anticipation.
"I'll probably fuck her like a dog most nights—bent over, face down.
Much easier when I don't have to see her expression.
These human females get so... emotional about it. "
Laughter echoes through the hall. The merchants nod as if he's made some clever observation about livestock quality.
The celestial chains across my shoulders flare white-hot.
I could drop from the rafters now. Tear his throat out before he draws another breath. Watch the light drain from those cold violet eyes while his blood pools across expensive silks.
The contract thrums a warning. Timing.
Ilyra's voice whispers through memory: I need to stay here. This is my father's home.
My jaw clenches so hard something pops.
I force myself still. Watching. Waiting.
The meeting drags on. Eventually the merchants depart, leaving Bram to retire to his borrowed chambers in the settlement's guest hall.
I follow.
He strips down to loose sleeping clothes, slides between fine sheets, settles into comfort he hasn't earned.
I lean close—just beyond the veil between planes—and whisper.
Infernal words that carry no meaning but plant seeds of unease. Dreams twist. His breathing quickens, uneven, restless. Sweat beads across his forehead.
It's petty satisfaction. Inadequate.
But it's all covenant law permits.
For now.
Then—soft as silk, sharp as a blade—her voice cuts through the night.
"Azrathiel."
I step through shadow and materialize in her room.
She sits upright in bed, wrapped in the cloak I'd brought her nights ago. Moonlight spills through the window, catching on dark hair loose around her shoulders.
And on the bruises circling her wrist.
Deep yellow, almost brown fingerprints. Four distinct marks where Bram's grip had closed too tight.
Something primitive and violent surges through me.
"Where were you?"
The question carries an edge I haven't heard from her before—not quite accusation, but close enough to raise my eyebrows. There's something different in her posture tonight, a tension that speaks of time spent waiting, watching the shadows for movement that never came.
I chuckle, pushing off from where I'd been leaning against the stone wall. The sound echoes softly in the small room. "Don't pout at me, flower."
Yet the pouting persists, if anything growing more pronounced.
My gaze inevitably snags on that lower lip, pushed forward in what appears to be genuine displeasure rather than any calculated attempt at manipulation.
It's... endearing, in a way that catches me off guard.
This small show of petulance from someone who spent weeks bending to every harsh word and unreasonable demand.
"You weren't here," she says, and there's something raw beneath the complaint.
Something that sounds almost like hurt. Her voice carries a weight I'm still learning to interpret—full of an attitude that's only grown sharper, more defined since we bound the contract.
As if our agreement gave her permission to actually want things. To expect them.
"I was working, flower," I say, letting an amused edge thread through my voice even as I study her face in the moonlight. The way her jaw sets, stubborn. The way her eyes refuse to drop from mine despite the clear challenge in her tone.
She crosses her arms over her chest—still pouting, still holding that defiant line of her mouth that makes something warm curl in my chest. But the gesture only serves to highlight the evidence of Bram's attention.
The bruises stand out darker against her skin in this light, a brutal constellation of fingerprints that makes my hands clench at my sides.
The sight of them cuts through any amusement I might have found in her display of temper.
"Would a gift make it better?"
A shrug. Deliberately unimpressed.
I materialize two boxes on the bed beside her.
Despite her studied nonchalance, her hands move fast. She pulls the lid off the first box, then stops completely.
Fabric spills across her lap. Deep wine-red, simple cut but fine weave. No lace or frills—nothing that speaks of ownership or decoration. Just quality. The second dress beneath it runs darker, midnight blue threaded with subtle silver.
The jewelry box opens next. A pendant on delicate chain. Earrings that catch moonlight without screaming wealth.
Her fingers hover over everything without touching.
"I've..." She swallows. "My father worked so hard to provide. But I've never owned anything this beautiful."
The words settle heavy in the quiet.
I watch her trace the pendant's edge with one fingertip, reverent. Like it might vanish if she grips too hard.
Something cracks open beneath my ribs.
"They're yours," I say. "No conditions."
She looks up, those dark eyes searching my face for the trick.
There isn't one.
Her throat works. She sets the boxes carefully aside, then shifts over on the narrow bed, creating space.
"Stay."
Not a command. A request.
I should leave. The contract doesn't require my presence through the night. She's made no formal summons.
Instead I settle against the wall beside her bed, close enough to reach if she needs me.
She pulls the cloak tighter around her shoulders—my cloak—and lies back down facing me.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"Sleep, Ilyra."
Her eyes drift shut. Breathing evens out slowly.
I remain through the night without being asked.
The bruises on her wrist darken further as hours pass.
And I make mental note of exactly how Bram Hethryn will answer for each one.