Chapter 22 Azrathiel
AZRATHIEL
Iwatch her from the shadows between market stalls, unable to suppress the low chuckle that rumbles through my chest.
The way she walked out of that house—head high, shoulders back, not a backward glance—stirs something primal in me. That defiance. That quiet, devastating strength she's been sharpening like a blade.
Gods below, I want to lift those skirts and bury my face between her thighs until she forgets her own name again.
She's changing. Filling out from the nightly gifts of food I've been bringing. The hollow beneath her cheekbones has softened. Her movements carry weight now, purpose instead of hesitation. Even the way she carries that woven basket speaks of ownership rather than servitude.
I did that. My contract. My protection. My touch.
Mine.
She stops at a cloth merchant's stall, fingers trailing over folded linen. The vendor—an older human woman with kind eyes—smiles and offers her a discount. Ilyra shakes her head politely, counting coins from a small purse.
Pride swells unexpectedly. She hasn't asked me for currency, though I'd give it freely. She's making do with what little she has while Vaelra and that worthless daughter hoard the household funds.
Ilyra moves to the vegetable cart next, selecting three carrots and a handful of greens. Nothing extravagant. Nothing frivolous.
I lean against the stone pillar supporting a canopy, arms crossed, content to simply observe her navigate this mundane human ritual. The morning light catches the silver sheen in her irises when she turns her head. My mark. Visible to anyone with eyes to see it, though none here would recognize—
Movement.
Cold violet eyes across the square.
Bram.
Every muscle in my frame goes rigid. The market sounds fade to white noise as fury ignites behind my sternum like a forge stoked too hot.
That pathetic excuse for nobility stands near the central fountain, draped in dark leathers that cost more than most of these humans will see in a lifetime. His silver-blond hair gleams in the sunlight. Those predatory eyes lock onto Ilyra like a hunter spotting wounded prey.
No.
Like a collector spotting a butterfly to pin behind glass.
My hands curl into fists, ember-veins flaring beneath my skin. The celestial chains binding my shoulders pulse with warning heat, but I ignore them.
Ilyra remains oblivious, examining tomatoes with careful attention. She has no idea he's here. No idea he's moving.
Bram starts across the square, movements unnervingly graceful, that thin smile already curving his lips.
Every instinct screams at me to materialize between them. To wrap shadows around his throat and squeeze until those violet eyes go dark.
But the contract. The timing. Her explicit orders to wait for the perfect moment.
My jaw clenches hard enough to ache.
He's twenty paces away now. Fifteen.
Ilyra sets down a tomato and reaches for her coin purse.
Ten paces.
I step closer to the edge of shadow, ready to break every rule if he dares touch her.
"Hello, Ilyra."
She jumps, coin purse nearly slipping from her fingers as she spins around. That peaceful expression—the one I put there yesterday with my mouth between her thighs—morphs into something guarded. Impenetrable walls slamming into place.
Smart girl.
"Lord Hethryn." Her voice carries none of the warmth she reserves for me.
Bram's smile widens, violet eyes gleaming with possessive satisfaction. "I've seen you around this market for many years. Did you know that? Always wanted to bring you home."
I scoff from the shadows, the sound swallowed by market noise. The dumb bastard probably thinks his years of stalking counts as some grand romantic gesture. That watching her, cataloging her movements, fantasizing about ownership somehow flatters rather than revolts.
"I'm surprised you have time for market visits." Ilyra shifts the basket against her hip, angling herself away from him subtly. "Surely trade negotiations keep you occupied."
"Well." He steps closer, that predatory grace making my skin crawl. "I can't resist the view."
His gaze climbs the length of her body—throat to chest to hips—lingering with deliberate assessment.
Rage detonates white-hot behind my ribs.
I manifest directly behind her, shadows condensing into solid form that only she can sense. Her spine goes rigid the instant my presence registers.
"Mine," I whisper against her ear, low enough that only she hears.
Her words stutter mid-sentence. "I was just—the weather has been—"
I touch her hip first, fingers splaying possessively across the curve. Then higher, tracing her waist, counting each individual rib through the fabric. My palm flattens against her spine.
She shivers. Full-body tremor that makes heat pool low in my gut.
Bram keeps talking, oblivious. Something about ceremony preparations and appropriate conduct for dark elf households.
"Excuse yourself from the conversation," I murmur, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
Ilyra straightens immediately, cutting through whatever drivel he's spouting. "I need to get this food back home before it spoils."
"Of course." Bram's smile turns sharp. "Soon enough we'll be going home to the same place. No more rushing around markets alone."
She doesn't answer. Just turns and walks away with measured steps, basket held tight against her body.
I watch her retreat, satisfaction curling through my chest like smoke.
"Good girl." The words drift after her on shadow-wind only she can hear. "I'll see you tonight."
The house settles into quiet as I step through the veil between planes, shadow-form condensing into flesh. Her room materializes around me—simple stone walls, threadbare rug, the lingering scent of lavender.
Ilyra lies curled on her side, dark hair spilling across the pillow. One hand clutches the moonbeam lily I'd brought her, fingers wrapped delicately around the crystalline stem. She's still dressed, hasn't even bothered to change into nightclothes.
Exhausted.
A low chuckle escapes me as I crouch beside the bed. "Long day, flower?"
She doesn't stir. Deep asleep, breathing steady and slow.
I ease the lily from her grasp carefully, setting it back in the open giftbox on the small table. Her fingers curl into the empty space where it was, seeking. I pull the blankets up to her shoulders, tucking them around her frame with more gentleness than I knew I possessed.
"I'm not sure what you've managed to do to me, Ilyra Dain." The confession whispers into the darkness. "But I can't stay away from you."
Ilyra shifts, rolling toward me slightly. Her lips part on a sleepy murmur. "Azrath..."
The chains flare white-hot across my shoulders.
Pain lances through me—sharp, burning, celestial bindings pulsing in rhythm with her voice. But beneath the agony runs something else. Something that feels dangerously like belonging.
I brush the strands of hair that have fallen across her closed eyes, tucking them behind her ear. "I'm here," I murmur against her temple. "Rest well, delicate flower."
Her breathing evens out again, tension melting from her features.
I sink onto the floor beside the bed, back against the wall, studying her sleeping face. Bram's violet eyes flash through my memory—the way he looked at her like inventory. Like something to acquire and display.
Killing him would be simple. Satisfying. I could rip his soul from that arrogant body and leave the corpse arranged in the settlement square as warning. Let every creature in this territory understand what happens to those who touch what belongs to me.
My fingers curl against my thighs.
But she hasn't given the order.
She wants him undone publicly. Wants to remain here in her father's house without suspicion or retribution.
I exhale slowly, banking the murderous rage.
Patience. Discipline. Covenant law.
Dawn creeps closer. I should leave. Return to the infernal courts and attend to other contracts.
Instead I remain exactly where I am, watching moonlight shift across her face, unable to move.