Azrathiel stands motionless, watching me with the careful stillness of a predator who doesn't want to spook his prey. His golden eyes track every micro-expression that crosses my face, cataloguing my thoughts like he's reading a book written in a language only he knows.
"You stood unafraid before me when everyone ran." His voice carries that familiar weight, each word deliberate and measured. "You looked at me like I belong to you."
The observation hangs between us, neither question nor accusation but something more dangerous—recognition.
I meet his gaze directly, feeling the silver fire in my irises respond to his presence. "Because I choose you, Azrath. Contract or not. I choose you."
The words surprise even me with their certainty. They rise from somewhere deeper than logic, somewhere that doesn't care about consequences or prices or the inevitable collection that waits at the end of our bargain.
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, perhaps, or something more fragile. The careful composure cracks just enough to reveal the being beneath the demon lord's mask.
"Hold on tight to me," he says, voice softer now but edged with command.
I don't hesitate. My arms wrap around him, feeling the solid warmth of his chest beneath my palms, the play of muscle and shadow that makes up his inhuman form. His skin radiates heat like a banked fire, and I press closer, breathing in the scent of smoke and distant storms.
The world tilts.
Reality fractures around us like shattered glass, shadows warping and stretching into impossible shapes. Sound distorts—the distant crying from the houses becomes a low hum, the wind turns into something that sounds like singing, and my own heartbeat thunders in my ears like war drums.
I clench my eyes shut and squeeze him with all my strength, anchoring myself to his solidity as everything else dissolves into chaos. The sensation is like falling upward while the ground rushes past in the wrong direction, like being turned inside out and reassembled in a different configuration entirely.
Then—peace.
The world settles with an almost audible sigh, and I open my eyes to the sound of birds chirping and wind rustling throughgrass. We stand atop the hill behind my father's house, the sun glowing peacefully overhead like nothing extraordinary has just occurred.
"Ilyra."
His voice draws my attention back to him, away from the scattered remnants of what was supposed to be my wedding day. The torn veil lies forgotten at our feet, and the elaborate dress suddenly feels like a costume I'm eager to shed.
"I feel drawn to you in a way no other being has ever compelled me." The admission comes rough, like he's dragging the words from somewhere deep inside himself. "I can't resist you. I can't tell you no."
His hands hover near my face, not quite touching, as if he's afraid I might disappear.
"It doesn't matter that we're bound by some ridiculous contract—I want you. I burn from the inside out for your touch, for your kiss?—"
I silence him by grabbing his face and kissing him deeply, pouring everything I can't say into the press of my lips against his. His surprise melts into hunger as he responds, arms coming around me like he's trying to memorize the shape of me.
When we break apart, I rest my forehead against his. "I need you too."
The words come out as a whisper, but they might as well be a shout for how they affect him. His eyes darken, pupils dilating until only thin rings of gold remain.
His hands find the intricate lacings at my back, fingers working with deliberate slowness. Each loosened tie feels ceremonial, reverent, as if he's unwrapping something precious rather than simply removing clothing.
"These fastenings are absurd," he murmurs against my ear, voice threaded with amusement and desire. "How many layers does one human require?"
I laugh breathlessly. "Bram insisted on traditional styling."
His hands still for a moment. "Don't say his name. Not here. Not now."
The corset falls away, followed by the heavy skirts that pool around my ankles like spilled cream. Cool air kisses my skin, but Azrathiel's touch burns warmer than any fabric. His lips follow the path of his hands, pressing kisses along my collarbone, down to where my pulse flutters frantically.
Foolishly, stupidly, I imagine this is our wedding night. That the dress I'm stepping out of was meant for him, that the vows spoken today bound us together instead of nearly tearing us apart. The fantasy is dangerous and sweet, and I let myself drown in it for just a moment.
His mouth finds the hollow of my throat, the exact spot where Bram had stared with calculating eyes.
"Azrath," I whimper, my hands tangling in his dark hair.
"Yes, my flower?"