Chapter 25 Ilyra
ILYRA
Bram drones on about imported centerpieces while I smile mechanically, watching Vaelra work the crowd several paces away.
She gestures elegantly, describing silk banners and flower arrangements with practiced modesty. The small cluster of settlers leans in, enthralled by her generosity.
"The musicians alone cost a fortune," Vaelra sighs, hand pressed to her chest. "But nothing is too much for dear Ilyra. After all she's endured, losing her father so suddenly... I simply couldn't bear to see her suffer further."
Mrs. Kaelen clutches Vaelra's arm sympathetically. "Such kindness. Taking her in, caring for her, securing such a prominent match—"
"I only do what any mother would."
My jaw tightens.
Mother.
The word tastes like poison.
She never cared. Never protected. She orchestrated this entire nightmare to elevate herself, using my father's death as leverage and my body as currency.
And now she parades around like some benevolent savior while settlers praise her virtue.
The bug needs squashing before it grows too comfortable.
Azrathiel.
The air shifts immediately—subtle pressure change only I notice. Warmth bleeds through my awareness, familiar and possessive.
Are you there?
"I'm here, flower."
His voice curls against my ear, invisible but unmistakable. The sound sends shivers down my spine despite the midday heat. I feel his satisfaction radiating through our connection, sharp anticipation thrumming beneath it. Bloodlust simmers just below the surface, eager and waiting.
He wants permission to destroy.
But I don't want corpses. Not yet. Just humiliation. Just truth.
Stop them from believing her lies.
Something cold traces my collarbone—phantom touch that raises goosebumps across my skin. I swear I hear him chuckle, dark and pleased, the sound vibrating through my bones.
"As you wish."
The sensation lingers even after his presence recedes slightly, spreading outward toward Vaelra's audience like smoke through cracks.
I turn back to Bram, nodding at whatever he's saying about wine vintages, and wait.
Patience.
Let him work.
Mrs. Kaelen's expression shifts first—smile faltering, brow pinching in confusion.
"Although..." she trails off mid-agreement, head tilting slightly. "I suppose the wedding is rather extravagant considering the household's recent loss."
Mr. Doren nods slowly, stroking his beard. "True. Most families observe mourning periods before celebrations."
Vaelra's hand flutters dismissively. "Grief doesn't pay debts—"
"Speaking of debts," Mrs. Kaelen interrupts gently, "weren't there concerns about the house finances before Edric passed? I remember hearing something about unpaid mining shares."
Vaelra stiffens. "Minor misunderstandings, nothing—"
"And the marriage discussions began awfully quickly after the funeral." Mr. Doren exchanges glances with his wife. "Almost as if arrangements were already underway."
Color drains from Vaelra's face.
She opens her mouth twice without sound emerging, searching desperately for footing on suddenly unstable ground. The settlers watch her now with polite skepticism instead of warm admiration.
No accusations. Just questions.
Perfect.
"I—we simply wanted security for the family—"
"Security for which family?" Mrs. Kaelen asks quietly. "Considering the whole wedding seems to solidify the presence of Dark Elves here."
Vaelra stammers something about duty and responsibility before abruptly smoothing her skirts, recovering a fraction of composure. "Forgive me, but we really must finalize arrangements. So much left to coordinate—"
She turns sharply toward Bram, forcing brightness into her voice. "Lord Hethryn, perhaps we should return home? Several details require immediate attention."
Bram glances between the now-distant settlers and Vaelra's rigid posture, violet eyes narrowing slightly. He nods once.
"Of course."
I lower my gaze demurely, hiding the satisfaction curling through my chest like smoke.
Well done, Azrath.
Warmth pulses through our connection—pleased, possessive, hungry for more.
The house feels suffocating.
Vaelra spreads fabric samples across the table while Mariselle sorts seating charts. Bram sprawls in father's chair—my father's chair—reviewing trade agreements that double as dowry negotiations.
I sit near the window, hands folded, tuning out discussions of flower arrangements and political alliances.
Until cold fingers close around my forearm.
Bram's grip tightens possessively, drawing attention without pulling. "Ilyra will wear the silver collar during introductions. It complements dark elf customs—"
I don't flinch.
Don't pull away.
Just turn my head slowly until our eyes meet.
His luminous violet gaze meets mine—and whatever he sees there makes his smile falter.
I hold perfectly still, expression blank except for the promise burning behind my stare.
Touch me again.
Please.
Give me one more reason.
The discussion wraps up with Bram's final pronouncements about acceptable behavior and public appearances. He rises from my father's chair, brushing imaginary dust from his tailored leathers.
Vaelra escorts him to the door with excessive courtesy.
The moment it closes behind him, she turns toward me. "Ilyra, prepare something light for—"
"Excuse me." I stand smoothly, already moving toward the stairs. "All this hard work securing your and Mariselle's future has exhausted me."
Her mouth opens in protest.
I don't stop walking.
"Ilyra—"
"I'm sure Mariselle can manage." I climb the steps without looking back, ignoring the sharp intake of breath below.
My door clicks shut.
Silence.
I release the breath I've been holding for hours, shoulders sagging against weathered wood.
Then I see him.
Azrathiel sprawls across my bed like he owns every inch of it—one knee bent, arms folded behind his head, gold-flecked eyes tracking my movement with predatory focus. The redness breaking up his obsidian skin pulses faintly in the dim light.
"I hate when he touches me." I shake my head, disgust curling through my stomach. The phantom sensation of Bram's cold fingers still lingers on my forearm.
Azrathiel snorts. "Not as much as I do."
The growl beneath his words sends warmth pooling low in my belly.
I roll my eyes, but can't stop the smile tugging at my lips. "Jealous again, Azrath?"
He doesn't answer.
His gaze follows my movements as I sink into the chair at my desk, fingers working through my braids methodically. Each pin hits the wood with soft clinks. I catch his reflection in the small mirror—expression darker than usual, jaw tight.
Still watching.
Always watching.
I sigh, this time deeper than before. Exhaustion bleeds through the cracks now that I'm alone with him.
Safe.
"What would you like me to do next?" His voice cuts through the quiet, ready. Eager.
I shake loose the final braid, running fingers through tangled waves. "Nothing yet."
"Ilyra—"
"The timing has to be right." I meet his reflection's gaze. "I still have a few days to think it over."
He shifts upright slowly, celestial chain markings glowing faintly along his shoulders. "Time is running out."
"I know."
"The wedding approaches—"
"I know." The words come sharper than intended.
Silence stretches between us.
I turn in my chair, facing him fully. His expression remains unreadable except for the tension coiled through his frame—restrained violence waiting for direction.
For permission. But what I want to give him permission for isn't written in any contract.