36. Azrathiel
AZRATHIEL
The sunset spills across Ilyra's skin like molten copper, painting her in shades I've never seen before—warm amber where the light catches her shoulder, deep bronze along the curve of her hip.
She lies beside me on the ruined silk of what should have been Bram's wedding dress, and the irony tastes sweeter than any victory I've claimed in the courts.
My fingers trace the delicate line of her collarbone, following the path the light takes across her throat. Her pulse flutters beneath my touch, steady and strong. Alive. Mine.
Something fundamental has shifted inside me—not just the obvious physical satisfaction, though that burns through me. This goes deeper. The careful walls I've maintained for centuries feel cracked, letting in sensations I've forgotten how to name.
A breeze rolls across the hillside, carrying the scent of evening grass and distant rain. Ilyra shivers, gooseflesh rising along her arms, and I pull her closer without conscious thought. She melts against me, her body fitting against mine like we were designed for this exact configuration.
She takes a deep breath, her ribs expanding against my chest, then releases it in a long sigh that seems to carry more weight than air should hold.
"What are you thinking about, flower?"
The question emerges rougher than I intended, threaded with an anxiety I refuse to examine. The idea of losing her—of having to collect on our contract, of walking away—sits in my chest like a shard of obsidian, sharp and cold.
She shifts slightly, turning so she can meet my gaze. Those dark eyes hold depths I'm still learning to navigate, and right now they're shadowed with something that makes my jaw tighten.
"My father." Her voice is quiet, thoughtful. "His death. How sudden it was."
I keep my expression neutral, though every muscle in my body coils with tension. "What about it?"
"You suggested it might have been murder." She traces a pattern on my chest with one finger, not quite meeting my eyes. "I keep thinking about that. About whether it's really true. Do you think Vaelra did it? Killed him so he couldn't stop her from selling me to Bram?"
The question hangs between us like a blade waiting to fall. I study her face, noting the way her breathing has grown shallow, the tension gathering in her shoulders.
"What do you think?"
She closes her eyes. "I think she was desperate. I think she saw Bram as the only way to secure Mariselle's future, and my father would never have allowed it." Her laugh is bitter. "He was stubborn about protecting me, even when it wasn't practical."
The careful dance we've been performing around this truth suddenly feels exhausting. I could lie—should lie, perhaps. Let her maintain whatever illusions about her stepmother she needs to function.
But she deserves better than comfortable deceptions.
"Your father was poisoned."
The words fall between us like stones into still water, sending ripples through the careful peace we've built in this stolen afternoon. Her body goes rigid against mine, every muscle tensing as if preparing for a blow.
I watch the play of emotions across her face—the careful hope warring with dread, the way her fingers have stilled against my chest. The moment has arrived where comfortable half-truths must give way to harder realities.
She sits up abruptly, the wedding silk pooling around her waist, her dark eyes wide with shock. "What are you talking about?"
I prop myself up on one elbow, studying her face as the truth settles over her features like a shadow. The golden light catches the silver threads in her irises—a reminder of the power that flows between us now, the bond that makes deception impossible.
"After he died, I examined the house. Your father's organs showed the residue of a slow-acting toxin—something designed to mimic natural illness over weeks.
" I keep my voice steady, clinical. "It's a compound I've encountered many times over the centuries.
Popular among those who prefer their murders to look like misfortune. "
Her breathing grows shallow, rapid. "You knew? All this time, you knew someone murdered him?"
"I suspected. The signs were clear enough to someone who's seen such things before."
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question emerges as barely a whisper, but it carries betrayal, of trust shattered. "Why didn't you—"
"Because you didn't ask." The honesty tastes bitter on my tongue, but she deserves it. "You summoned me to stop a wedding, not to investigate a death. My primary concern was securing your signature on that contract."
She stares at me as if seeing me clearly for the first time—not the protective lover who held her through the night, but the demon who answered her call with his own agenda. The hurt in her eyes cuts deeper than any blade I've faced.
"If you had commanded me to look into your father's murder, I would have done so. But instead, you wanted the marriage stopped." I reach for her hand, but she pulls away. "I gave you exactly what you asked for, nothing more."
"Nothing more," she repeats, her voice hollow. "My father was murdered, and you said nothing because it wasn't part of our deal."
The weight of her accusation settles into my chest like molten lead. I stare at her profile—the elegant line of her jaw, the way her dark hair falls across her shoulder—and feel something inside me crack open.
"No." The word emerges rougher than intended. "That's not... no."
She doesn't turn back to me, but I see her shoulders tense.
"I became too enthralled by you." The admission is shameful.
"I forgot about the investigation altogether because I was too busy watching you, too consumed with the way you say my name in your sleep.
" My hand clenches against the silk beneath us.
"I lost sight of everything except keeping you safe and wanting you to choose me. "
A sound escapes her—half laugh, half sob—bitter and broken.
"So you admit it. You were distracted from your duties by a pretty mortal." She finally turns to face me, and the tears tracking down her cheeks catch the dying sunlight like liquid gold. "How very... human of you."
The barb hits its mark. I've spent centuries priding myself on my control, my precision, my ability to remain detached from the mortals who summon me. And she's right—I failed spectacularly at all of it.
"I should have told you immediately. Should have prioritized finding his killer over—"
"Over what? Over seducing me?" Her voice rises, sharp with hurt. "Over making sure I was too dizzy with want to ask the right questions?"
"That's not what happened."
"Isn't it?" She wipes at her cheeks with the back of her hand, smearing the tears across her skin. "You gave me gifts and touched me until I couldn't think straight, and all the while you knew someone in my own house had murdered my father."
I sit up fully, reaching for her again. This time she doesn't pull away, but her body remains rigid under my touch.
"I understand now. You were being practical. Strategic." Her voice drops to a whisper, hollow and defeated. "Just like Vaelra was when she tried to sell me off to secure her future. Everyone has their priorities, their calculations. I was naive to think you were different."
The comparison to her stepmother is bitter and harsh. I've seen how Vaelra looks at Ilyra—like a commodity to be traded, a problem to be solved. The idea that I might appear the same jolts me.
"Practicality is often the enemy of love."
"Is that why you've never had anyone choose you willingly? Too practical for sentiment?"
The observation cuts deeper than it should. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply never met anyone worth the risk of being chosen."
She opens her eyes then, studying my face with an intensity that makes me want to look away. "And now?"
"Now I understand why mortals start wars over single kisses."
The silence lingers between us like a taut wire, her dark eyes searching mine for something I'm not certain I can provide. The hurt remains, but beneath it I catch glimpses of the woman who stood unflinching before my infernal form just hours ago.
"I need to confront Vaelra."
The words emerge steady and resolute, cutting through the fragile peace we've built. I study her face, noting the way her jaw has set with familiar determination.
"I could handle this for you." The offer emerges. "One conversation with me, and she'll never trouble you again."
"No." Her response is immediate, sharp. "This isn't about fear or intimidation. This is about me reclaiming what's mine, Azrath."
The nickname softens the blow, but her point lands. I've been so focused on keeping her safe that I've forgotten she might prefer to fight her own battles.
"You really didn't know," she says finally, and it's not quite a question.
"That you would matter this much?" I brush a strand of hair from her face, marveling at how such a simple touch can ground me. "No. I had no idea."
Her mouth curves into the faintest smile—not forgiveness, exactly, but acknowledgment. "We're both learning, then."
The tension in her shoulders eases fractionally, and she leans into my touch despite the tears still drying on her cheeks. This close, I can see the silver threads in her irises pulse with each heartbeat, a visible reminder of the bond that's changed us both.
Leaning forward, she braces a hand on my chest and presses a gentle kiss to my mouth. "Now," she murmurs, "fetch me something to wear."