Chapter Text
-Chapter 2-
-Gwyn-
“Gwyn? Did you hear me?”
Gwyn blinked back into the present, snapping her gaze to Nesta, who sat across from her at the dining table.
“I’m sorry, Nesta—what did you say?”
Nesta’s frown deepened. “You look terrible. Did you sleep at all?”
She hadn’t. And she knew exactly why.
For the past three days, Azriel had been away on assignment in the Hewn City—official business that kept him from her longer than he’d ever been gone in the last six months.
Usually, when duty called, he’d leave at dawn and return late at night or in the quiet hours before sunrise. Gwyn suspected he arranged his missions that way for her sake—so she wouldn’t have to sleep alone. Perhaps he did it for his own sake too. But she never asked. She didn’t dare.
Instead, she held on tightly to the silent ritual they had created: Azriel slipping into her room when he returned, holding her close as they both sought peace in the dark, even if just for a few hours. He was always gone by morning—before Cassian or Nesta could glimpse him leaving her bed, and usually before Gwyn even woke.
That first morning after he’d stayed, she had braced for awkwardness—for hesitation in his gaze or stiffness in their rhythm. But he had simply offered her a soft smile across the training ring. And in that small gesture, Gwyn found the reassurance she needed: he didn’t regret it.
They never spoke of those nights. The quiet between them felt sacred, like naming it aloud would splinter the fragile sanctuary they had found in one another.
Things had undeniably shifted between them—sleeping in the same bed was only part of it. Over time, they’d uncovered a quiet companionship: trading glances across the ring, sharing smiles that curled in her chest, finding comfort in simple proximity. When they went out with their friends in Velaris—dinners, dance halls—she always ended up beside him. And when Gwyn was invited to dine at the River House with the High Lord and Lady, fear had clawed at her throat. But Azriel had remained at her side, grounding her with calming words and his unshakable presence.
She could call him her best friend. But it wouldn’t be true, not really. Azriel had become more than that. He was her constant—her shelter, her safe place.
With him, the air was easier to breathe.
When he held her, the chaos inside quieted.
And when he looked at her with those golden-green eyes, heat pooled low in her belly, and she had to fight to keep her scent from betraying her. It had been years since she’d felt anything remotely like desire, and she was fairly certain she had never felt longing as strong as this. She savored the feel of his skin under her touch, the warmth of his body and the familiar scent that made her exhale. Only in his arms did she truly rest.
And now that he had been gone, it wasn’t just her bed that felt empty for the past three days—it was her heart, too.
“Gwyn?”
Nesta’s voice snapped her back again, her eyes still watchful.
“I’m sorry—I…you’re right. I haven’t been sleeping well,” Gwyn murmured, fingers curling around her tea. “I guess it’s finally catching up to me.”
Nesta said nothing at first. She simply studied Gwyn with those piercing steel-blue eyes.
Then, quietly, “So, we’re not going to talk about it?”
Gwyn frowned. “Talk about what?”
“Why you haven’t been sleeping well,” Nesta said, leaning back and crossing her arms. “I’m guessing it has something to do with a certain Shadowsinger.”
Gwyn’s heart tripped. “Wh-what? What does Azriel have to do with—”
“You think Cassian and I don’t know he’s been staying in your room at night?”
Gwyn blinked. “How…?”
“We’ve known for a while,” Nesta said simply. “What I want to know is why you never told me there was something going on between you two.”
“There’s not!” Gwyn snapped, heat rushing into her cheeks. “It’s… it’s complicated, Nes. We… we…”
Mother above, how was she supposed to explain this? Anyone else would see it as a very strange arrangement between supposed friends—perhaps even an unhealthy one.
“You…?” Nesta prompted again.
Gwyn wrapped her hands around her mug, letting the warmth sink into her palms and settle her nerves.
“I’d rather leave it at ‘it’s complicated,’” she muttered, voice barely above a whisper.
Nesta’s gaze narrowed, assessing every flicker on Gwyn’s face—every twitch, every flinch.
At last, she sighed. “I’ll respect your privacy. Just know I’m here. Whenever you’re ready.”
Gwyn gave a small nod and rose from her chair. But as she turned to leave the dining room, Nesta’s voice called after her.
“He’ll be back tonight, you know.”
Gwyn froze. She had known that, of course—but hearing Nesta say it, knowing Nesta was aware of what they’d been doing…the knot in her chest loosened, if only a little.
“Cass and I are heading to Windhaven for a couple days,” Nesta continued. Gwyn knew she was rising from the table, hearing her chair scrape softly against the floor. “I imagine Azriel will return late—we’ll be gone by then.”
It was what she didn’t say that fluttered through Gwyn’s stomach.
They would have the House to themselves.
“Be safe,” Gwyn said, just loud enough for Nesta to hear.
A silence followed, deliberate and full.
She felt Nesta step behind her, then arms wrap around her in a rare but comforting embrace.
“You too, Gwyn,” Nesta whispered.
***
Gwyn was a storm of restless energy. There was no hope of peace, not with the ever-looming promise of Azriel’s return hanging in the air. Midnight had come and gone, and still—no sign of him.
The House had done its best to comfort her. A roast chicken dinner with buttery potatoes. An indulgent slab of chocolate cake. The newest Sellyn Drake novel. Even a visit from the miniature Pegasus. She appreciated the House’s efforts, truly—but none of it could distract her from the ache growing in her chest.
Nesta’s parting words had replayed in her mind all evening: You too, Gwyn.
Nesta’s goodbye had felt layered, weighted. Gwyn had meant hers in the most literal sense—wishing safety in the face of Windhaven’s dangers. But Nesta’s words had been different, wrapped in quiet intuition, laced with something deeper.
A warning, maybe, that if Gwyn were not careful, she would get hurt.
Could Azriel hurt her? Yes, but not physically and never intentionally.
Could he break her heart? Only if she were falling for him.
No, Gwyn thought. Not falling—I've already fallen.
The realization hit her like a gust of wind, nearly knocking her off the couch and startling the miniature Pegasus.
She was in love with Azriel.
The truth had always been there, she admitted to herself at last—curled beneath layers of denial and fear. Confronting it now sent a shiver through her—thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. She didn’t know how he felt, couldn’t read more than friendship and comfort in their shared nights. But, Gods, she wanted—no, needed to tell him.
If something ever happened to him, she reasoned, I’d regret staying silent.
Butterflies danced wildly in her stomach at the thought of saying those words aloud—to bare her soul and risk it all.
If he felt the same, perhaps they could explore a relationship with one another.
If he didn’t, then she could lose him forever—and that absolutely petrified her.
Too anxious to lie down, she instead propped herself against the headboard and stared out the window, watching moonlight ripple across the clouds until exhaustion finally tugged at her eyes.
***
Gwyn startled awake sometime later, heart racing in confused anticipation.
And then she sensed it—him. His quiet presence. Calming. Familiar. Close.
Azriel was home.
She slid down quickly under the covers, not wanting to look like she’d been waiting—wanting to look like she did every night when he came. Her breath stilled as she waited, every heartbeat crashing like thunder in her ears. She listened for the soft creak of her door, for the sound of him slipping into her room to hold her through the night.
But—nothing happened.
Gwyn heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps stopping outside her door—she glanced over, seeing the faint flicker of shadows under the door as he lingered.
Then—he moved away.
She froze, disbelieving at first—ready to convince herself that he was coming any moment. That was, until the sound of his own bedroom door opening—and closing—cut through the silence.
Her heart plummeted.
Why?
He’d seemed so solemn before leaving, like the distance and time away from her was unbearable. But had it all been in her head? Had something changed while he was gone?
No, she thought savagely. No—there was no way this was all one-sided.
He doesn’t get to do this.
Azriel hadn’t promised anything—not really. They’d never spoken of their nights together, never labeled what lay between them. But Gods, he had to know what it meant—what he meant to her.
Heat flared in her cheeks—frustration, humiliation, longing, all tangled together. She climbed out of bed, yanked on her robe over her nightdress, and shoved her feet into slippers.
She kept quiet, her rage simmering beneath each silent step as she slipped into the hallway and stopped in front of Azriel’s door.
Her hand hovered in indecision.
Knock—or barge in?
Just as Gwyn had settled on the latter option and reached for the knob, the door swung open.
Azriel stood there—tired, haggard, unsmiling. He didn’t look surprised to find her on his threshold, as if he’d known she would come.
Her breath caught. Even in exhaustion, he was beautiful—those high cheekbones and golden eyes dimmed beneath bruised shadows, his skin pale and dulled from travel, weariness written into every line of his face.
“A-Azriel?” she stammered.
He scrubbed a hand over his face with a long, jaded sigh, dragging fingers through the shadows clinging to his shoulders. They didn’t stir. They simply watched.
“What is it, Berdara?” he said, voice flat, tinged with irritation.
The words sliced through her like shattered glass.
What is it, Berdara?
So casual. So dismissive. Like she was an annoying fly buzzing around his dinner plate.
“I…uh, you’re back,” she said, painfully aware of how pathetic she sounded.
His eyes fluttered shut for a moment as he pinched the bridge of his nose, as though her presence was just one more burden.
“Yes,” he said, his words hollow. “Do you need something?”
Tears surged behind her eyes, but she blinked fast to hold them at bay. “I just… I thought you would come and see me when you got back,” she said, each word carefully measured to keep her voice steady.
Something flickered in his gaze—softness, regret? It passed too quickly, and she thought that perhaps she’d only imagined it.
Gwyn twisted her fingers nervously in the fabric of her robe. “I just… I guess I assumed—”
“You assumed what?” His voice cut her short, low and razor-sharp, his eyes cold. “That I’d come see you in the middle of the fucking night because… why, Gwyn?”
Azriel’s words were like a physical slap, and she reeled back. Even his shadows recoiled slightly.
Anger, sorrow and mortification all surged within her, and she had to bite her bottom lip to keep from shrieking at him like some unhinged, jilted lover.
Because she wasn’t—and it was now clear that she never would be.
It was also clear that whatever it was they had been, they no longer were anymore.
As Gwyn’s vision blurred with tears, she slammed her palms against his hard chest, shoving him back with every ounce of her strength. He stumbled backward into his room, a stunned expression on his face.
“Fuck you,” she half-snarled, half-sobbed.
Then she turned, storming down the hall, her robe fluttering with each furious step. She threw open her door and slammed it shut, the bang echoing like a final blow.
Her knees gave out as she collapsed face-first onto her bed, sobs already wracking her body. The pillows still smelled faintly of him—night-chilled mist and cedar—and it shredded what was left of the heart that Azriel had just stomped on.
She cried until the ache in her chest dulled to numbness—until, in the quiet dark of her room, grief and exhaustion finally pulled her under.
***
Gwyn stirred awake, her eyelids fluttering open, momentarily disoriented—until she remembered what had happened earlier with Azriel. Why her head was pounding, why her eyes were swollen and lashes were gritty with dried tears, why her limbs were heavy with heartbreak.
At first, she wasn’t sure what had awoken her—until she felt the mattress dipping behind her.
Azriel’s familiar warmth settled in, radiating against her back, and her breath hitched. The tears welled up again instantly, her face crumpling before she swallowed the sob down, muffling it in silence.
His large, warm hand rested tentatively on her trembling shoulder. She fought the urge to flinch, emotions raw and tangled—but then his nose brushed into her hair, and he inhaled deeply, like he was desperate to breathe in her pain and take it away from her.
“Gwyn,” Azriel murmured, voice low and frayed, the crack undeniable.
She didn’t respond, just shook her head softly. What was there to say? His words, his cold dismissal—it had broken something in her. And all the more deeply because she’d been ready to give him her heart that night.
“I’m sorry, Gwyn,” he whispered into her hair, voice drenched in regret.
She squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to forgive him. Wanted to fold into him and forget. But the hurt still pulsed beneath her skin.
Gently, he coaxed her to turn—first onto her back, then toward him. She didn’t resist, though she kept her eyes closed.
His forehead pressed against hers, rough knuckles brushing her cheek, fingers slipping into her hair like he couldn't bear to let go. He gripped the strands softly, holding her as he whispered her name again.
When she opened her eyes, Azriel was already watching her. Gold and green, glistening with unshed tears, his gaze was a mirror of sorrow and longing. His wings were tucked up tightly against his back, his shadows dancing sorrowfully on his shoulders.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he rasped.
The endearment undid something in her. Her eyes fluttered shut again, and she felt the delicate press of his lips to her forehead—a kiss so tender, yet it sent electricity through her veins.
She opened her eyes, startled by how perfect his lips felt against her skin, how reverent he looked in the quiet that followed.
When she didn’t pull away, he leaned in, kissing the space between her eyebrows. Gwyn inhaled shakily, still frozen, afraid to shatter whatever spell had wrapped around them.
His lips found her eyelids, one by one, then the tip of her nose, the softness just beneath each eye, and finally her cheeks. Each kiss a balm.
Each one a plea—please forgive me.
Each one a promise—I won’t hurt you again.
Gwyn opened her eyes again. Turmoil painted across Azriel’s face, as if he were fighting some unseen war inside himself. She didn’t care—she wanted more—needed more.
Reaching up, she ghosted her fingertips along his cheek before laying her palm there, hoping he’d understand her unspoken request.
Please don’t stop.
He understood.
Azriel leaned forward, placing the gentlest kiss on the corner of her mouth. Her heart stilled as his breath fanned across her lips. Then he kissed the other corner, his nose brushing hers, gaze locked to hers with a look that nearly broke her—raw, aching, unspoken.
Then, slowly, reverently, his lips brushed hers in a barely-there kiss. It was a question and, also, a vow.
He lingered, pulling back just enough to study her face again as they shared breath.
“Azriel,” she whispered, her voice breathy, trembling, full of everything she hadn’t yet said.
A single tear slid down his cheek.
She caught it with her thumb.
“Azriel, I—”
But the words vanished as his lips captured hers in a kiss so mind-shattering, it stole the breath from her lungs and lit her heart aflame.