In the Shadows

Chapter 7: Morrigan's Warning

Azriel's dreams had always been a mix of shadows and sensation, a place where his mind wandered beyond his control, where the barriers he built in the waking world crumbled. But lately, the dreams had been changing—becoming more vivid, more intense. And tonight was no different.

The darkness enveloped him, familiar and comforting, yet charged with something else. Something primal. His body was pressed against someone soft, someone warm. Their skin glided against his, slick with sweat, their breathing ragged as his hands roamed over curves and lines he couldn't fully place. The sound of his heartbeat echoed in his ears, a rapid, pulsing rhythm that matched the thrum of desire coursing through him.

His fingers dug into flesh, eliciting a moan that sent a jolt straight through him. Lips brushed against his neck, hot breath fanning across his skin, followed by a soft, sensual bite. He groaned, his hand sliding into their hair—long and silky, though he couldn't see the color. Couldn't see the face. But that didn't stop the rush of heat building low in his belly, the sensation of skin on skin, the pressure of a body arching into his.

He whispered their name, but no sound came out. Who was it? He could never see. He could only feel—hot, desperate, the need curling tighter with every thrust, every moan. His own name was murmured in a voice he couldn't place, yet somehow familiar. It sent a shiver down his spine, the pleasure mounting as their bodies tangled in the sheets, lost to the rhythm of need.

But just as he was on the brink—just as the sensation built to an unbearable point, teetering on the edge of release—the dream shifted. Shadows flickered in the periphery of his vision, pulling him back, pulling him away. The faceless figure dissolved into mist, leaving him cold and panting in the dark, his body thrumming with the frustration of the interrupted pleasure.

Azriel's eyes snapped open, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the night sky filtering through the curtains. His body ached with the remnants of the dream, the heat still lingering in his veins, but his mind was already snapping back to reality, to the layers of control he'd carefully honed over centuries.

Another dream. Always the same. Always ending before he could see who it was. He ran a hand through his dark hair, his fingers trembling slightly. The dreams had become more frequent since Skye's arrival, and though he couldn't explain why, he had his suspicions. He pushed the thought aside. He couldn't afford to let his mind linger on things like that—on her.

Not when there was so much else to consider.

He sat up, rubbing his temples in an attempt to dispel the lingering haze of the dream, when he sensed it—someone else's presence in the room. Azriel tensed, his shadows curling protectively around him, ready to strike.

"You're wound up tight tonight."

The voice was low and smooth, and instantly recognizable. Morrigan.

Azriel's heart skipped, and his eyes darted toward the corner of the room where Morrigan stood, leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable. She was bathed in shadow, but the way the moonlight kissed her golden hair made her look almost ethereal. Beautiful in a way that had always struck him, even now, after all these years.

"Morrigan," he said, his voice rougher than intended, still edged with the lingering tension from the dream. "What are you doing here?"

She didn't answer immediately, instead, her gaze swept over him—his bare chest, the sheets tangled around his legs, the faint sheen of sweat that glistened on his skin. A small smirk tugged at her lips, and for a moment, he wondered if she knew exactly what kind of dream he'd just woken from.