A Court of Cold and Quiet

Prologue

He knew he was being watched. He knew what that meant, that the Night Court had most likely been compromised. He knew, and yet. . . he made no move to root out the source of of the gaze that locked in on him one day to never look away. He was careful, but not wary. It was as if he knew that if he were to whisper the darkest, most dangerous secrets of the inner circle, the information would be tucked away into that little pocket in your brain where you store the things you wouldn't dare to repeat. And that was why she loved him. 

She loved the way he knew and did not worry that she watched him attentively. She loved the way he trusted her when he hadn't even seen her face before. And she loved the way he tensed when she got too close, though it made her sad as well. The night court's shadowsinger was not to be touched, only looked upon.

It almost broke her. 

Almost. 

She wanted, needed to touch him. She yearned to feel his chest against her smooth palms, to run her fingers through his silky looking hair. She wished to hold his scarred hands against her cheek and caress his dark wings with just the tip of a single slender finger. She needed to. But she couldn't. 

And so, she didn't.

She only watched and wished from her grey in-between that only the most skilled of Fae could access for brief intervals as they winnowed across the folds of the world. He visited her sometimes, catching his eyes on a flash of leg or a strand of hair or a dainty and pale hand. But not her face, no. Never that. The pull of the destination he was traveling to always tugged him away before he could fully see her and she was okay with that.

The girl had nothing better to do so she thought back to the very first time she shadowed him, looking in on his life. He had embarrassed himself in front of that dreadful bitch, Mor, who took all his attention and admiration without having to try. He'd slung his blade out, chest heaving with every panicked breath as he tried and failed to root out the source of his uneasiness. The blonde beauty had cast her eyes upon Azriel, worry etched in every disgustingly perfect line on her High Fae face. 

She remembered when he had winnowed so suddenly and almost caught a glimpse of her face. He had tried to come to her, truth teller in hand but already, his preordained destination was sucking him away from her realm of quiet and cold. She had been so shocked that she had spun around as quickly as possible, slapping her hands over her large ears and cowering with her back towards him.

She watched him more closely after that and while he seemed apprehensive at first, he warmed to her watchful presence. She watched as he slept, so close he would feel her breath on his cheek should he wake up. His shadows swirling comfortably around him, tickling the air in curiosity when she watched and she wished to touch them but knew that they'd show her face to their master and she just could not allow that. She looked on as he ate and interacted with other Fae. He seemed particularly fond of the Morrigan and it frustrated her to no end that he didn't know better than to keep vying for her attention. 

As it was the only thing she could do, she watched him all the time. She never watched him when he was in various states of undress though she wanted to, every once in a while. And she definitely never watched him when he bed a woman. She couldn't bear to watch that. 

For months, she watched and longed and hoped. But one day. . . she acted.