Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
AZRAEL
She tastes like lightning and honey.
I’m on my knees in the shower, water cascading over both of us, her back pressed against tile while I worship her with my mouth. Her fingers are twisted in my hair—gripping hard enough to sting—and the sounds she makes are destroying what remains of my composure.
“Azrael—” My name breaks on her lips. “I can’t?—”
“You can.” I use my tongue exactly as the binding tells me she needs. “Let go for me.”
She shatters beautifully.
The binding detonates with her release. I feel her climax through our connection—every tremor, every pulse of pleasure. It crashes through me like a tidal wave, dragging me under until I cannot separate her ecstasy from mine.
When she goes boneless against the wall, I catch her. Hold her steady while aftershocks roll through her body.
“That was—” She can’t finish the sentence. Just pulls me up to kiss me. Tastes herself on my tongue and makes a sound that goes straight to my already aching groin.
“Bed,” I manage. “Before my knees give out.”
She laughs. Breathless. Perfect.
We do not bother drying off. Just stumble to the bedroom, trailing water and steam and tangled shadows. The bed is small—barely big enough for one person, let alone two—but I don’t care.
I lay her down gently. Take my time mapping her body with hands and mouth. She is all lean muscle and soft curves, scars from a separate time spent climbing and stealing and surviving. Each mark tells a story I want to learn.
My shadows want to come out to play, but not tonight. Maybe another time. Tonight, only I get to touch her.
“You’re staring again,” she murmurs.
“I am memorizing.” I trace the line from her hip to her ribs. “Every detail.”
“Why?”
Because in five years she will be gone. Because this binding has an expiration date. Longer than that, and the bond becomes something neither of us survives intact. Because I am terrified of forgetting what she looks like when she smiles.
“Because you are worth memorizing,” I say instead.
She pulls me down. Kisses me slow and deep. Her legs wrap around my hips, aligning us. The head of my cock brushes against her opening, and we both inhale sharply.
“Please,” she whispers. “I need?—”
“I know.” I can feel it through the binding, her need matching mine. “I know what you need.”
I push inside slowly, give her time to adjust. She is tight and wet and perfect, her body accepting me like we were designed to fit together.
Maybe we were.
The binding sings. Our magic flows together seamlessly—shadow meeting shadow, power recognizing power. Aurora lights dance across the ceiling in patterns that should not exist outside polar skies.
“Move.” She gasps. Nails digging into my shoulders. “Azrael, please?—”
I do. Start slow. Controlled. But she wraps her legs tighter, pulls me deeper, and control becomes impossible.
We move together. Finding rhythm. The binding amplifies every sensation until I cannot tell where I end and she begins. I feel what she feels—the stretch, the friction, the building pressure—while she experiences my desperation, my need, my absolute certainty that this woman is going to ruin me.
“Look at me,” I command.
Her eyes open. Storm-grey-green gone silver with magic. Gorgeous. Unguarded.
“There you are,” I breathe. “Stay with me.”
“Always,” she gasps.
The word breaks something in my chest.
I increase the pace. Angle my hips to hit that spot inside her that makes her cry out. The binding spirals higher, pleasure building exponentially with each thrust.
“I’m close—” Her voice is ragged. “So close?—”
“Come for me.” I reach between us. Find the bundle of nerves that sends her flying. “Now.”
She does. Beautifully. Her body clenches around mine, pulling me deeper as she comes apart.
I follow. Can’t help it. The binding will not let me hold back. I drive deep and release with a groan that’s half her name, half prayer.
Our combined magic explodes outward. The aurora lights flash brilliantly, then fade. Shadows dance across every surface before settling.
We lie tangled together. Hearts racing. Breathing hard.
I should move. Probably crushing her.
Her arms tighten around me. “Stay.”
So I stay.
Eventually, I roll to the side. Pull her against my chest. She fits perfectly into the curve of my body.
Her fingers trace patterns on my chest. Following scars absently.
“How old are you, really?” she asks. Voice drowsy. Satisfied.
“Two hundred and forty-seven.”
She laughs. Soft. Warm. “You don’t look a day over two hundred.”
Despite everything, I smile. “Flatterer.”
“It’s true, though. You’re—” She props herself on one elbow. Studies my face in the dim light. “How does that work? Do you just stop aging at some point?”
“Elementals age slowly once we reach maturity. After that, time leaves marks more slowly on us than it does on humans.”
I tuck a strand of damp hair behind her ear. “I will live another three or four centuries if nothing kills me first.”
“And I’ll be dead in sixty years. Maybe seventy if I’m lucky.”
Sixty years is nothing. A blink. A breath I won’t even feel pass.
The reminder cuts deeper than it should.
“Yes,” I whisper.
She’s silent for a moment. Thinking. “The binding only lasts five years.”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Then you are free. Return to Earth. Live your life. Forget this ever happened.”
“What if I don’t want to forget?”
The question hangs between us like smoke.
I don’t answer. Can’t. Because wanting her to remember is selfish. She deserves to return to her world without the weight of mine crushing her.
“Tell me how you became king,” she says instead. Changing the subject when I don’t respond.
I consider deflecting. This is not a story I share easily.
But she is lying in my arms. We just?—
She deserves honesty.
“There was a war,” I start. “A hundred and sixty years ago. The Shadow Court was fractured—three noble houses fighting for dominance. Thousands dying. The realm itself beginning to tear from magical instability.”
“And you stopped it?”
“I ended it.” The distinction matters. “I killed everyone who wouldn’t submit. Nobles, warriors, anyone who stood between me and stability. By the time I took the throne, the palace walls were painted red.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just traces another scar. “You did what was necessary.”
“Necessary.” I laugh bitterly. “That’s one word for it. Tyrannical is another. Monstrous works too.”
“Were there other options?”
“Always. I could have negotiated. Found diplomatic solutions. Built coalitions.” I stare at the ceiling. “But diplomacy takes time. More people would have died while we debated. So I chose blood.”
“And you’ve carried that choice for a hundred and sixty years.”
“Every day.” I close my eyes. “Every death. Every face. I remember them all.”
Her hand finds mine. Interlaces our fingers.
“Everyone fears me,” I admit. Words I’ve never spoken aloud. “Even my own people. They bow and scrape and call me lord, but they’re terrified. Waiting for the moment I decide they’re inconvenient and remove them.”
“Kieran doesn’t fear you.”
“Kieran is loyal to the realm, not to me personally. If I became a threat, he’d kill me himself.” I open my eyes. Look at her. “You are the first person in a century who’s challenged me. Defied me. Seen me as something other than a monster.”
“You’re not a monster.”
“I have done monstrous things.”
“So have I.” She shifts closer. “I’ve stolen from people who couldn’t afford to lose what I took. Helped criminals acquire dangerous artifacts. Cared more about the thrill than the consequences.” Her voice drops. “We’re both monsters, Azrael. Maybe that’s why this works.”
I pull her tighter. Press my lips to her forehead.
“Tell me about your family,” I say. “Your childhood.”
She stiffens slightly. “Why?”
“Because I want to know. What made Morgana Bellamy into Raven the thief?”
She’s quiet long enough that I think she won’t answer.
Then: “My parents are wealthy. Like obscenely wealthy. Old money, family estates, the kind of rich where you own senators and judges.” She laughs without humor.
“They gave me everything except themselves. I had nannies, tutors, and the best schools money could buy. But they were always gone. Business trips, galas, everywhere but home.”
“That must have been lonely.”
“It was empty.” Her fingers trace my ribs. “I tried getting their attention. Straight A’s, then failing grades. Perfect behavior, then trouble. Nothing worked. They’d throw money at the problem and disappear again.”
“So you started stealing.”
“Started small. Shoplifting candy. Classmates’ belongings. Then bigger things.” She smiles slightly. “First real heist was sixteen. Broke into a museum after hours and stole a Ming vase. Not because I wanted it. Because I wanted to see if I could.”
“And you could.”
“Easily.” Pride colors her voice. “That’s when I realized—this was the only time I felt alive.
When I was risking everything. When failure meant jail or death.
” She pauses. “I’ve been running my whole life.
From connection. From caring about anyone.
Because everyone leaves eventually. Better to expect it than be surprised when it happens. ”
The vulnerability in those words breaks something in me.
“I will not leave,” I say before I can stop myself.
“You’ll have to. In five years, the binding ends, and I go back to my world.” Her voice is steady, but I feel her pain through the connection. “That’s the deal.”
“Deals can be renegotiated.”
“Can they?” She looks up at me. Hope and fear warring in her expression. “You’d want that? Me staying?”
I should say no. Should maintain distance. This was always supposed to be temporary—a means to an end.
But lying to her feels impossible.
“Yes,” I say simply. “Maybe I would want that.”
She kisses me. Soft and sweet and devastating.
We don’t talk after that. Just hold each other while night fades toward dawn.
I doze. Light sleep. The kind where I’m aware of her breathing, her heartbeat, the way she curls into me seeking warmth.
The sun hasn’t risen yet when my phone shatters the peace.
For one irrational second, I consider ignoring it.
Staying here. Keeping her in this moment just a little longer.
“What?” I answer with a voice rough from sleep and other activities.
“My lord.” His tone makes me sit up. “We have a problem.”
Morgana stirs beside me. Sensing my tension through the binding.
“Speak,” I say.
“News reports. Shadow creature attacks in six cities simultaneously. London, Tokyo, Sydney, S?o Paulo, Lagos, Mumbai.” He pauses. “Coordinated. Someone’s opening rifts deliberately.”
My blood goes cold. “Casualties?”
“Hundreds. Maybe thousands. It is still developing.” Another pause. “And my lord—while we were occupied, they moved.”
I go still.
“If they’re coordinating attacks on this scale, they’re not after New York anymore.” His voice hardens. “They’re going for London.”
I already know what he’s going to say next.
“The mirror piece?”
“Still secure as of thirty minutes ago. But if they know about New York, they know about London.”
I glance at Morgana. She is sitting up now, sheet clutched to her chest, watching me with growing alarm.
“Traitor?” I ask Kieran.
“Possible. Or someone with access to Shadow Court intelligence.” His voice hardens. “Either way, we are compromised. And they are staying ahead of us.”
“We leave in one hour. Assemble a strike team. Tell Chella?—”
“Already done, my lord. We will be ready.”
I end the call and stare at the phone.
For one breath, the room is too quiet. Her warmth is still in the sheets. Her scent is still on my skin. And the world is already taking her from me again.
“How bad?” Morgana asks quietly.
“Bad.” I stand and start pulling on clothes. “Six simultaneous attacks. Coordinated. London is next, and if we do not move now, we lose the last piece.”
“While we were here.” She finishes the thought I do not want to say aloud. Guilt flashes across her face. “While we were occupied.”
“This is not your fault.”
“Isn’t it? If we’d been focused instead of?—”
“We needed rest. Recovery.” I cross over to touch her face gently. “Do not do this. Don’t blame yourself for being human.”
“I’m not fully human anymore.” She touches the binding marks on her wrists. “I’m whatever this made me. And I should have been thinking about the mission instead of?—”
“Instead of what? Wanting me?” My thumb traces her cheekbone. “I wanted you too. That is on both of us.”
She leans into my touch. “What do we do now?”
“London. The last piece is there, and we are getting it before whoever’s sabotaging us does.”
“And if we’re too late again?”
“We won’t be.” I make my voice certain. Confident, even though doubt coils in my gut. “Get dressed. We leave in an hour.”
She nods. Starts gathering her scattered clothes.
I should move. Should start preparing.
Instead, I watch her. This woman who climbed into my life and refused to leave quietly. Who fights beside me and argues with me and just spent the night in my arms like she belongs there.
In five years she’ll be gone. And I am already memorizing how to lose her.
The thought tastes like ash.
“What?” she asks. Catching me staring.
“Nothing,” I lie.
But she can feel through the binding that something’s wrong. I see the question in her eyes.
I turn away before she can ask it.
Because the truth is poisonous: I am falling for a woman I’ll lose. And every moment with her is just counting down to inevitable heartbreak.
I should end this. Maintain distance. Protect both of us from the pain of separation.
But watching her pull on her tactical gear, seeing the determination set into her features, feeling her readiness through the binding?—
I can’t.
I am too far gone already.
We are out of time. And I am out of ways to guard my heart against her.