"And what are the right conditions—" I force myself to meet his eyes. "—for a flower like me?"
Azrathiel reaches up.
Time slows. Crystallizes.
I think he might touch my face. Trace the curve of my jaw. Press his palm against my cheek the way I've started dreaming about in those quiet hours before dawn when he's left and the room feels emptier than it should.
But he doesn't.
Instead his fingers catch a loose strand of hair that's escaped my braid. He twirls it slowly around his finger, the gesture intimate and possessive all at once. The backs of his knuckles brush my temple—barely contact, barely anything at all.
It burns anyway.
"I think you may be discovering that for yourself."
18
AZRATHIEL
Ifold myself into shadow and trail Bram to the stone hall where he meets with fellow low-level elven merchants from surrounding settlements.
The conversation drones—trade routes, tribute percentages, political posturing dressed in polite language. I perch in the rafters, unseen, watching his pale fingers drum against the table.
Then the talk shifts.
"The wedding?" One merchant leans forward, his eyes gleaming with the kind of calculating interest that comes from sensing opportunity. "Securing the Dain household strengthens your position considerably with the regional council. The family has been here for generations—three, maybe four? They're very well respected among the humans. Deep roots, established connections."
Another merchant nods approvingly. "Smart politics, Hethryn. Marriage alliances with the settled families always pay dividends in the long term."
Bram waves dismissively, his pale fingers cutting through the air with casual arrogance. "The girl is manageable. Alreadytrained to keep her head down, mind her place. No spirit to break—saves me the effort."
Manageable.
The word settles like molten poison in my chest, spreading outward through every vein. My hands curl into fists so tight the knuckles crack, shadows rippling darker around my frame like living smoke. The temperature in the rafters drops several degrees.
"She's not hideous to look at," Bram continues, reaching for his wine with the lazy confidence of a predator discussing prey. His voice carries that particular tone of ownership, as if he's already cataloguing her worth in terms of utility and aesthetics. "Quiet. Obedient enough. Perfect breeding stock, really." He pauses to sip, savoring both wine and anticipation. "I'll probably fuck her like a dog most nights—bent over, face down. Much easier when I don't have to see her expression. These human females get so... emotional about it."
Laughter echoes through the hall. The merchants nod as if he's made some clever observation about livestock quality.
The celestial chains across my shoulders flare white-hot.
I could drop from the rafters now. Tear his throat out before he draws another breath. Watch the light drain from those cold violet eyes while his blood pools across expensive silks.
The contract thrums a warning.Timing.
Ilyra's voice whispers through memory:I need to stay here. This is my father's home.
My jaw clenches so hard something pops.
I force myself still. Watching. Waiting.
The meeting drags on. Eventually the merchants depart, leaving Bram to retire to his borrowed chambers in the settlement's guest hall.
I follow.
He strips down to loose sleeping clothes, slides between fine sheets, settles into comfort he hasn't earned.
I lean close—just beyond the veil between planes—and whisper.