She opens her eyes then, studying my face with an intensity that makes me want to look away. "And now?"
"Now I understand why mortals start wars over single kisses."
The silence lingers between us like a taut wire, her dark eyes searching mine for something I'm not certain I can provide. The hurt remains, but beneath it I catch glimpses of the woman who stood unflinching before my infernal form just hours ago.
"I need to confront Vaelra."
The words emerge steady and resolute, cutting through the fragile peace we've built. I study her face, noting the way her jaw has set with familiar determination.
"I could handle this for you." The offer emerges. "One conversation with me, and she'll never trouble you again."
"No." Her response is immediate, sharp. "This isn't about fear or intimidation. This is about me reclaiming what's mine, Azrath."
The nickname softens the blow, but her point lands. I've been so focused on keeping her safe that I've forgotten she might prefer to fight her own battles.
"You really didn't know," she says finally, and it's not quite a question.
"That you would matter this much?" I brush a strand of hair from her face, marveling at how such a simple touch can ground me. "No. I had no idea."
Her mouth curves into the faintest smile—not forgiveness, exactly, but acknowledgment. "We're both learning, then."
The tension in her shoulders eases fractionally, and she leans into my touch despite the tears still drying on her cheeks. This close, I can see the silver threads in her irises pulse with each heartbeat, a visible reminder of the bond that's changed us both.
Leaning forward, she braces a hand on my chest and presses a gentle kiss to my mouth. "Now," she murmurs, "fetch me something to wear."
37
ILYRA
The dress fits like armor—black silk corseted tight against my ribs, deep crimson threading through the bodice like veins of fire. Azrath's fingers work through my hair with surprising gentleness, weaving the strands into an intricate braid that feels more like a crown than simple styling.
"There." His breath ghosts across my neck as he sweeps the finished braid over my shoulder. The kiss he presses to the curve where my neck meets my collarbone sends heat spiraling down my spine. "Perfect."
I catch my reflection in the distant window of my father's home—no longer the compliant girl who set plates while Vaelra corrected my posture. The woman staring back wears power like jewelry, silver threading through her dark eyes, chin lifted with purpose that won't bend.
I look like his equal.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it fills my chest with something fierce and unbreakable.
I stride forward, my steps sure as I descend the hill toward the house that should have been my sanctuary. The place where my father worked stone with patient hands, where he taught methat dignity mattered more than comfort. Where someone fed him poison while he slept.
The front door bangs against the wall as I push through it.
"Vaelra!"
My voice echoes through the parlor, sharp enough to cut glass. Footsteps scramble from the kitchen—hurried whispers, the scrape of chairs. They emerge together, Vaelra smoothing her skirts with practiced composure while Mariselle trails behind like a nervous shadow.
Vaelra's gaze sweeps over my dress, my bearing, the way I stand planted in the center of the room without apology. Her mouth tightens almost imperceptibly.
"So. You've returned." She clasps her hands before her, the picture of maternal disappointment. "I suppose you expect congratulations for your... theatrical display today."
"I expect answers."
"About what, exactly? Your reckless contract? Your public humiliation of this family?" Vaelra's voice rises with each word. "Do you have any idea what you've cost us? Bram will never?—"
"I know you poisoned my father."
The accusation drops between us. Vaelra goes perfectly still, her face draining of color. Behind her, Mariselle makes a small, choked sound.