No one has ever asked me for anything. Orders, demands, bargains struck in desperation—those I understand. But this quiet request, spoken without expectation of obedience...
I sink to my knees before her, the motion as involuntary as breathing.
29
ILYRA
My breath catches in my throat at the sight of him kneeling before me. Even on his knees, Azrathiel's face reaches my chest, his broad shoulders spanning wider than my entire torso. The difference in our sizes strikes me anew—how someone so powerful, so commanding, can fold himself down to meet me at my level.
"Azrath..." The nickname slips out unbidden, soft as a prayer.
My fingers find the curve of his horn without conscious thought, tracing the ridged surface from base to tip. The bone feels warm beneath my touch, smoother than polished marble yet somehow alive with thrumming energy.
He leans into the contact like a cat seeking affection, those gold-flecked eyes drifting closed as a sound almost like a purr rumbles in his chest. Butterflies explode in my stomach at his response—this ancient, terrifying being melting under such a simple touch.
"I'm sorry, my flower." His voice is heavy with genuine remorse, each word carefully measured. "I should have been here. I should have protected you."
The apology feels wrong, sparking irritation in my chest. I step back abruptly, my hand falling away from his horn.
"It's not your fault that I'm weak," I mutter, wrapping my arms around myself.
He surges to his feet with fluid grace, towering over me once more. The movement sends shadows dancing across the walls, his presence filling the small room like storm clouds gathering before lightning strikes.
"Weak?" The word cracks like a whip, sharp with disbelief. "You call yourself weak?"
I shrink back slightly at the intensity in his voice, but he follows, closing the distance between us with deliberate steps.
"You endured their cruelty without breaking. You refused to beg even while they beat you. You protected what matters to you through sheer force of will." His hands hover near my shoulders, not quite touching but close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his skin. "That is not weakness, Ilyra. That is strength beyond what most possess."
"I don't feel strong." The admission scrapes out of me like broken glass. "In that house, with them... I feel so small. Like I'm nothing. Like Vaelra has always been right about me."
The confession hangs between us, raw and vulnerable. I expect him to offer empty platitudes, meaningless reassurances that ring hollow in the face of reality.
Instead, he cups my chin with infinite gentleness, tilting my face up until I meet his burning gaze.
"You are not small."
Four simple words, spoken with the authority of absolute conviction. As if he's stating an immutable law of the universe rather than offering comfort.
"You are not small," he repeats, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "You are fierce and brilliant and brave enough to bind a demon to your will. You are everything they fearto become—someone who refuses to be broken by their petty cruelties."
I stare into his eyes, searching for something I can't name. The gold flecks seem to pulse with inner fire, and in their depths I see not pity or condescension, but something fiercer. Something that sees me as I want to be seen.
Without thinking, I rise onto my toes, reaching for him. The distance stretches impossibly far—he's too tall, I'm too small—but he doesn't hesitate. His head dips down, closing the gap, and his lips capture mine with devastating gentleness.
The kiss unfolds slowly, deliberately. His mouth moves against mine like he's memorizing the shape of my lips, the taste of my breath. Heat spreads through my chest, pooling low in my belly as his hands frame my face.
Step by step, he guides me backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed. The new silks he conjured earlier catch me as I sink down, their softness a stark contrast to the rough wool I'm accustomed to. He follows, settling between my legs as they part instinctively to accommodate his larger frame.
"You faced them without flinching," he murmurs against my throat, his voice like honey poured over gravel. "Even when they tried to break you."
His fingers trace the curve of my thigh, bunching the fabric of my nightgown higher. The material whispers across my skin as he lifts it past my hip, my waist, until his palms cup my breasts through the thin cotton.
"Azrath..." His name escapes as a gasp, uncertainty flooding my chest even as pleasure sparks beneath his touch. My back arches toward him without permission, seeking more contact.
"It's alright," he soothes, thumbs brushing across the peaks of my breasts. "I want to show you something new. Something beyond what we shared before."
Heat rushes to my cheeks as understanding dawns. "You want to fuck me?"