The Raven and the Songbird

Chapter 9

Azriel tugged at the neck of the linen shirt, only vaguely aware that there was nothing constricting about the light fabric and loosely laced notch that revealed peeks of the tanned chest underneath.

Cauldron, he was nervous.

He had faced Illyrian training camps and wars and armies, and yet nothing had prepared him for this kind of anxiety. The feared spymaster, powerful Illyrian, was in no way prepared for romance, for dinner alone with a close friend at the precipice of being more. What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to be?

"I assumed there was going to be food." He spun toward the door, finding that copper hair and teasing grin. Shadows flitted over his shoulders.

"Wh... What?" Azriel furrowed his brows. Gwyn's giggle was enchanting, and she gestured into the room.

"You said dinner in the library, but from what I can tell there's no food in sight." Her eyes sparkled with mirth as she stepped in. The shadowsinger blinked once... twice. Then comprehension dawned. He reached up, fingertips brushing the back of his neck. He must sound like an idiot.

"Oh! Well, I'd originally planned for the library. But after training the idea came to me... I thought we could eat on the balcony? I know how much you enjoy seeing the stars." Azriel's heart stuttered at her smile, made of pure sunshine. But he took in the rest of her, then, too. And he thought he might fall to pieces.

He had rarely seen Gwyneth Berdara wearing anything other than Illyrian leathers or priestess robes - maybe once or twice - but Mother he knew now that he wanted to see it more. The chunky sweater was the color of evergreen trees, and while it seemed out of place in the heat of the summer it highlighted the warmth in her cheeks and lit her hair aflame.

"Gwyn, you look beautiful." The priestess looked down, her fingers fiddling with too-long woolen sleeves. Azriel's lips tugged upward, watching the heat paint her cheeks. And he couldn't imagine many things could look lovelier or feel more satisfying than making the confident, irreverent warrior blush.

"I thought about asking what I should wear," she laughed quietly. "But then I realized it wouldn't have mattered much. I've never had need for much more than leathers or my robes. So this was my only other option, really." The priestess opened her arms and shrugged. Azriel hoped his grin was encouraging, He hadn't really thought about that – how she had only left the premises twice of her own volition and likely wouldn't have a wardrobe overflowing with dresses like the High Lady and her sisters.

"Well, we shall have to remedy that – both the lack of clothing options and the lack of occasion to wear them. Although," the Illyrian mused as he crossed the room to meet his ocean-eyed priestess, offering his arm, "you would look lovely no matter what you wear." He tilted his head as he waited for her hand, deeply satisfied as her freckled face once again turned pink. He chuckled when she narrowed her eyes, catching his teasing gaze. He absolutely loved making her blush.

"Are you making fun of me, Shadowsinger?" Gwyn accused, folding her arms across her chest.

"I wouldn't dare, Berdara." He grinned at the stubborn Valkyrie. But he dropped his arm when she scowled.

"Then what in the name of the Mother is that smug look?"

The shadowsinger dipped his chin, taking in her scent and the lavender shampoo as he whispered in her ear. "What can I say? I enjoy making you blush." He felt silken strands brush his cheeks as she pulled back with the smallest intake of breath, and when his eyes found her she had lifted elegant speckled fingers to her face.