The Whispers of Shadows - A&A One Shots

insatiable - azriel's pov

** extra long chapter as an apology for being inactive whilst i edit and put Whisper of Shadows on AO3!

Azriel never thought he'd find a female that plagued his mind in every moment. Aurora was truly the sole bearer of his thoughts, day and night. Even as his mate and beside him every day, she was still infecting his thoughts as if she were a daemati and burrowed into the depths of his mind at her own hand.

Even now, his sword bloodied and splitting the skin of a random lesser fae he didn't know the name of, Azriel was thinking about what she may be doing. Possibly getting ready to join everyone at the Hewn City for court tonight. She will look stunning in one of those black gowns. He bit his lip to suppress the grin threatening to form at the thought of Aurora glamorously dressed.

The splatter of hot blood against his face was a rude awakening from his daydream. Azriel blinked, focusing his eyes back on the victim at hand. The lesser fae's nearly light-less skin was shimmering with sticky blood pouring from the artery in his neck.

"Oh, shit," Azriel hissed, shifting his blade to his left hand and clapping his glove over the spray of blood. He wasn't meant to kill this one yet, only carve him until he spoke the truth of rebellions gathering in abandoned homes in the outskirts of Velaris. The sounds flooded back into his ears, replacing the dulling hum. The male was gasping and whimpering, his large eyes growing dull with each spurt of blood. His comrades were shrieking and sobbing nearby.

Cursing again, Azriel stepped back and let the blood spray. He had two more to work on for answers, but this one seemed to know more than them. The sharp rocks in the wall were dripping with the nearly black crimson, the male drooping in his chains as his muscles grew weak. Crossing his arms, Azriel clicked his tongue in disappointment. This had been his third mistake in the past month; Aurora had been on his mind then, too.

His gloriously compelling mate was a curse upon his work. Azriel couldn't understand how after so many decades, the wicked thing still distracted him. As the blood flow slowed and the male's voice ceased, Azriel gripped his scaly waist and cut down the chains. With a grunt, he marched over to the gaping cavern and sent the male down. Snarls were heard below from the creatures that fought over their fresh meal.

"Alright, who's next?" He asked, wiping the blade on his thigh. The blue-skinned female shrieked again, kicking against the rock wall. Her efforts only ended in the jagged points tearing her skin. The male beside her, a similar species to the one Azriel just disposed of, but his eyes were a milky white. It was a strange sight, with his unblinking eyes tracking every movement Azriel made. Suppressing a shudder under his stare, Azriel lifted his blade and aimed for the female.

"Please, I know nothing!" She wailed, kicking her legs more. Her gown, far too extravagant for her claimed trade of bread making, was torn and dripping with blood. Azriel rolled his eyes and began the sickening work of slicing nonlethal points of her body until she screamed about an address that held most meetings.

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Freshly bathed and dressed in his finest gear, Azriel winnowed to the estate to meet his mate. He found her in Feyre's studio, posed in a suggestive way as Feyre finely added to a portrait. Azriel leaned against the doorway, drinking in the sight of Aurora. The two hadn't noticed him yet, and he was glad for the spare moments to admire her.

Draped over an armchair, a bouquet of deep violet hyacinths held in a lazy grip as her arm dangled from the seat. Her back was arched over the armrest, her knees bent over the opposite. Dressed in mere strips of fabric held together with silver chains on her waist, Aurora was the essence of the deadly beauty Azriel knew her as. Her bare feet were pointed out, a delicate silver chain hanging from one ankle. Azriel particularly enjoyed the sight of her free hand; loosely placed over her throat as if she were grasping for a hand that had once been there.