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.
26
AZRATHIEL
Iwatch her fingers work through the remaining tangles with practiced ease, thick waves cascading over her shoulder like dark water tumbling down stone. The simple motion mesmerizes me completely—each strand catching the warm lamplight only to release it again in ripples of amber and bronze, then catching it once more as her hand moves through the silken mass.
There's something hypnotic about the rhythm she creates, the gentle tug and release as stubborn knots yield to her patient ministrations. The candlelight transforms her hair into liquid shadow, shot through with threads of gold where the flames dance highest. I find myself cataloguing each movement: the slight tilt of her head as she encounters resistance, the way her lips part in concentration, the graceful arch of her wrist as she works the brush through particularly troublesome sections.
My ember-veins pulse steadier now, no longer racing with the frantic energy of before, but maintaining that low, constant burn that speaks of banked fires rather than extinguished ones. She seems utterly unaware of my scrutiny, lost in the simpleritual of preparing for sleep, and perhaps that unconscious ease is what captivates me most.
She stands abruptly, smoothing wrinkles from her skirts.
"I should change into my nightgown."
The fabric pools around her feet without ceremony. No hesitation. No false modesty.
Just Ilyra, standing before me in nothing but candlelight and confidence.
My throat goes dry.
Every curve, every freckle, every inch of warm tan skin demands attention I shouldn't give. The ember-veins beneath my obsidian flesh pulse faster, responding to proximity and want.
She doesn't flinch under my stare. Doesn't cover herself or turn away.
"Could you fetch my nightgown? It's in the wardrobe."
I rise slowly, movements deliberate to mask the hunger clawing through my chest. The simple white cotton feels impossibly soft between my fingers—innocent fabric that will touch her skin where I cannot.
Yet.
She accepts it without thanks, pulling the garment over her head with ease. The cotton settles against her body, outlining what it pretends to conceal.
I memorize every detail.
The way her hair spills over one shoulder. How the neckline frames her collarbone. The subtle silver sheen in her dark eyes when she looks at me directly.
"Come here."
She steps forward without question, bare feet silent against wooden floors. When she stops within arm's reach, her gaze lifts openly—no walls, no pretense.
Trust.
Complete, devastating trust.
The realization hits like a physical blow. She stands here, vulnerable and unguarded, because she believes I will protect her.
Because Iwillprotect her.
"I must collect another contract before the wedding."
Her expression doesn't change, but something flickers behind her eyes. "Another one?"
"A debt came due in the eastern territories. Covenant law requires personal collection within three days."
"How long?"