46. Chapter Forty-Six
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
EMERIC
A zazel lies on the bed, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. I sit next to him, elbows braced against my knees, eyes tracing the piercings on his face. The room wraps us in its quiet, and the fae lights dance on the bedside, bringing warmth across the metallic walls. My heart thunders—relief, confusion, a cocktail of emotions I can't unravel. He looks like Az, but he's different. Something lingers around him now, something quieter, heavier, as if the shadows that clung to him before have deepened, almost sentient in their silence. Even in unconsciousness, his jaw holds tension, like he’s fighting battles we can’t see.
He almost slipped away from us. Almost slipped away from me.
"Stubborn bastard," I murmur, giving his arm a gentle shove, my fingers pressing into his skin. He doesn't move, but it's not enough to keep my frustration at bay. I rise, pacing the room, hands rubbing against my thighs. The longer he sleeps, the longer I stew.
How could he have hidden who he is from me? His past, his true nature. How could he think I wouldn’t help him? That I'd leave him to shoulder this alone?
I pace towards the window. I’ve failed him. Spectacularly .
The gentle scrape of fabric draws my attention. I freeze and turn back to him. Az's fingers twitch, barely there, but enough to send my heart hammering against my ribs. I rush back, dropping to my knees beside the bed, my hand grasping his. His lashes flutter, a shuddering breath leaving his lips before his eyes crack open, revealing that same deep blue pools, hazy but present.
"Ricky ..." His voice comes out cracked, barely audible, and the way it pulls at my heart nearly has me weeping.
“I told you not to call me that.” I shake my head, tightening my hold on his hand, leaning closer until my forehead nearly touches his. "You fucking asshole," I whisper, anger threading my words. "Why didn’t you tell me? All these years, Az. All the secrets ... You knew I'd have your back, no matter what. You didn't need to fight this alone."
Azazel blinks, his eyes still unfocused, but his fingers squeeze mine, barely perceptible, just enough to make something crack in my chest. "Didn’t... want you..." His words break off, his breath labored. He swallows hard, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before reopening. "Dragged down, too," he manages.
A sharp exhale leaves me, my jaw clenching, a desperate kind of helplessness curling in my stomach. I drag a hand through my curls, tugging at the strands, before leaning in, my eyes boring into his. "Too late for that," I say, my voice breaking. "You've been dragging me down and into things for millennia. We fight together, or not at all. You get that?"
His lips pull into a weak smile, something so familiar it makes my whole being ache. "Sorry," he whispers, the apology raw, genuine. “You’re too good for this realm.”
I grin down at him. “Mmm,” I hum. “Perhaps not. I mated your girl while you were dead.”
He cracks a smile. “Was bound to happen, anyway.”
I huff out a laugh, leaning my forehead against his, letting the warmth of his skin seep into mine. "You’re an idiot," I murmur, my words softening, the tension starting to slip from my shoulders. "But you’re my idiot. And we need you back. All of us do." I hesitate, then my lips curve, another smile breaking free. "She’s going to kick my ass if I don’t let her know you’ve woken."
Azazel’s eyes soften. "Does she hate me?"
I pull back slightly, my eyes searching his face. The vulnerability in his stare catches me off guard—it's so unlike the cocky, self-assured Az I've known for most of my life. But then again, death has a way of stripping away our masks.
“Hate you?” I shake my head, squeezing his hand. “She got Aggonid to give up his parents’ soul for you.”
His eyes widen, surprise crossing his features. “She … what?” he rasps.
I nod, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Hasn’t left your side in weeks. Aggonid’s with her in the living room—he had to use a sleeping spell to get her to take a nap.”
“I want to see her.” Az struggles to push himself up, his arms shaking with the effort. I quickly move to support him, sliding an arm behind his back. “Please, I need to see her.”
"Easy there," I murmur, helping him into a sitting position. "You've been out for weeks. Take it slow."
“Healing magic, please?—”
“You want me to lick you?” I freeze. My saliva is how I heal, not like most fae. Part of being a hellhound born of the underworld, I guess.
“Fuck, never mind.” He swings his legs over the bed. “Help me out there.”
“Heavy fucking bastard,” I grunt as I slip my arm around Azazel's waist, supporting most of his weight as we make our slow way out of the bedroom. His breathing labors, each step seemingly draining what little energy he has.
He stumbles, bumping into the coffee table, and that rouses Morte from her sleep. Before she’s even left the comfort of his lap, Aggonid looses his shadows, sending them to wrap around Azazel to help support him.
For a moment, our mate freezes, disbelief etched across her features. Then she's moving, launching herself off the couch and towards us.
“Az!” she cries.
His body tenses against mine, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, I think he might collapse, but Aggonid's shadows curl tighter, supporting him as Morte reaches us.
“Firefly,” he whispers.