The Raven and the Songbird

Chapter 21

Azriel worked the towel over his damp hair as he made his way back to his room, flaring his wings to flick off any stubborn moisture that remained after he washed. He'd left the priestess in his room, insisting - and meeting no small amount of resistance - that she should use his bathing chamber and he could use one of the guest rooms. She had huffed when he had assured her that she was his guest and she would not be going out of her way to find a room to prepare for bed. So that left him, the feared spymaster and one of the most powerful males in all of Prythian, grinning like an idiot in the hallway outside his door.

Knowing his teal-eyed songbird was on the other side.

He cursed the thin material of his sleep pants, knowing there would be no hiding if - when - his body reacted to her. Thank the Cauldron for her innocence. Maybe she wouldn't notice. He rolled his eyes. Not fucking likely. She was by no means a child, and she devoured the smutty novels that Nesta had exposed her to.

He pushed up the sleeves of the tight undershirt. He usually slept shirtless, but he'd had a moment of clarity and grabbed the soft garment to cover himself for the sake of Gwyn's comfort.

Not that it left much to the imagination.

She'd seen him bare-chested before, on particularly hot days in the training ring and on the cooler, tension-filled nights. He didn't often envy Rhysand's daemati talents, but he very selfishly wanted to know what she thought when she saw his body. But he wasn't going to pry for that reaction tonight. She'd had a long evening.

He knocked on the door. "Gwyn?"

"You can come in, Azriel," her muffled voice answered and he pushed the door open, looking for that incredible halo of red hair. His brows furrowed as he looked around the room.

"Is this what people wear in Velaris?"

Ah. She was still in the bathing chamber. He paced to the threshold, intrigued by her question.

"What are you talking ab-" His tongue stopped working when he saw her, scrutinizing herself in the mirror.

Sweet fucking Mother.

Her skin seemed to glow like the moon against the deepest blue of the traditional, comfortable clothing of the Night Court. Billowy pants that revealed pale shins and ankles, wide neckline giving a delicious peek at her collarbones and the base of her neck, loose sheer sleeves that gave a glimpse of long, graceful arms toned from rigorous training.

The cropped hem of the top put her lean stomach and lower back on display. Gods, what would that skin feel like in his hands, against his mouth...

"Where... where did you get those?" he choked out, meeting her gaze in the mirror.

"The House," she shrugged, returning her attention to her reflection. "I didn't want to sleep in my robes."

The House . This fucking house was trying to kill him.

"Well, Shadowsinger?" His head snapped back up. He could barely control his wandering eyes. "I asked you a question."

"Yes... when the weather permits, this style is... common. And even more so at home, due to comfort, I'm assuming."

"It is comfortable. There's just... so much skin." She turned her hips from side to side, examining herself from all angles. Azriel took a moment to gather himself and stalked toward her and the mirror, stopping just before his body brushed her back.

"Are you self-conscious, Berdara?" he teased.

"No." Her response was too instantaneous, and he spied the way her eyes flickered to the swath of revealed flesh above the band of her pants before returning to him. For how observant he was supposed to be, he had somehow missed the criss-crossed silver threads shining against the softness of her skin. Standing this close to her they were much easier to see, his focus narrowing as he recalled that night in the training ring. When he'd come undone. When she told him her story. When she sang to him.