A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Chapter 93: The Game

Chapter 93: The Game

Galadriel stared at Azriel's hands. He was sharpening Truth Teller, though he rarely used the dagger enough to warrant the need. He'd come into her and Rhysand's room about twenty minutes ago, her mate having left for an early council meeting. Azriel's hazel eyes flickered from the steel to her face. They were just as she remembered, bright and gold, like the golden hour before the sun set below the city streets. "You're staring," he said, going back to his knife. He sat in front of the small seat before the window, the hazy white curtains diluting the sunlight pouring in, casting him in a soft halo.

"You're in my room," Galadriel said, finally pulling herself away from looking at his hands. Shifting from the middle of the mattress where Rhys had only half-willingly let her take over during the night, she sat on the edge of the bed, letting her toes tease the cool rug beneath. "You don't usually come in here."

Azriel did what he always did whenever he was amused—tilted the corner of his lip but said nothing. Sliding from the bed completely, Galadriel wandered towards him, taking in the still breathtaking sight of his glorious Illyrian wings. He let her come near without response until her chest was practically brushing his wide shoulder. "Do you need something?" he asked.

"You're in my room," she repeated with a bit more mirth. "Do you need something, Shadowsinger?"

He looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head, going back to his dagger. "No."

Huffing lightly, Galadriel angled her head to watch him deftly smoothen the stone across the blade, the metal ringing at a constant pitch. Her eyes traced up along his arm, the hills of muscle clear even beneath the thick leather, to his shoulder all the way up to his wings again. The light made the veins within the membrane glow.

"Cassian told me you learned to fly late," she mused.

Azriel regarded the observation and then nodded. "I did. It took me longer to pick up."

"You have scars," she said, eyeing the white markings that looked like the sharp claws of pissed-off cats had a go at him. Were they always like that? "Do any of them still hurt?"

Azriel put Truth Teller back in its sheath at his leg, the stone balanced on the arm of the chair. "Not anymore."

Slowly, but not hesitantly, Galadriel lifted her hand and reached for the closest one. The wing twitched as she dusted her fingertips over the membrane, and Azriel paused his work on the blade to focus on her. She took stock of his face, the way he set his shoulders low as if to open himself a little more. Placing her palm completely on his wing, she smoothed her hand across its length, right up to the large tendon that even Rhys only let her touch when he was already close to letting himself go.

Like he intended to make the exchange a mutual one, a scarred hand came to rest on her hip. His fingers curled around the fabric of her skirt, slowly rolling it into his palm, edging the hem higher.

Galadriel tore herself away.

"No."

Her hands fisted. She slammed them against the wall next to Azriel's head. "No! No no no!"

He grabbed at her, trying to pull her away but she did not relent thrashing, kicking and punching and biting whatever she could reach. She screamed, ripped at her hair, yanked at his wing—

Galadriel sucked in a lungful of air but did not lift her head. It was dark again, just as she remembered it had been in her last moments of consciousness. Her throat felt like a desert and the emptiness in her stomach...She'd been in there longer than she had before. More than hours.