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5. To Know No Death

When you woke up the next day, it was to the sound of chirping birds and buzzing insects — and to a splitting headache.

You groaned softly before rolling on your back, blinking down at your body, a little confused. You frowned, wondering why you hadn't just stripped before getting into bed — but then it all came rushing back to you.

You closed your eyes as your stomach twisted itself in knots. "Fuck."

You'd planned on getting deliciously, mind-numbingly drunk last night, but you sure as hell hadn't expected the tears.

Drunk tears, you thought, groaning internally.

Pushing up, you narrowed your eyes at the glass doors that led to your balcony. Neither Feyre nor you had closed the curtains last night, so the afternoon sun was blinding you; it was probably the only time you'd hate sunlight.

"Fuck's sake," you muttered as you stretched.

You mewled as a few joints popped and then, rolling out of bed, decided to get ready. The mansion — the house, whatever — was quiet, so you didn't waste time trying to find someone to help you. The bathtub was pretty intuitive, so you turned it on and then sat on the edge, simply waiting.

As your head throbbed, you stared at your reflection that just barely cleared the counter.

Your mind wandered to last night when Azriel had nodded, expression tight and uncertain, lips pursed, and shoulders tense. He'd been the definition of reluctance, and it'd bothered you more than you cared to admit — it still did. You didn't know Azriel, but his disinterest was a little more than insulting . . . and a whole lot of embarrassing.

Grumbling to yourself, you stripped and then slid into the bath, turning it off. The water was hot but not too hot, not when the weather was this nice.

You lathered yourself up with some soap, scrubbing, and then paused when you got to your stomach. Your throat bobbed as your fingers trailed lower and lower, just above the apex of your thighs.

Even though your hangover felt like utter death, and your purpose in this world was still unknown, you figured you could allow yourself this small pleasure. And quite literally, too.

You smirked at your own double entendre and then hissed as your fingers slid between your folds. Your eyes fluttered shut as you started out slow; rubbed and stroked your clit with the pads of your fingers.

The water sloshed as you switched positions, sitting on your heels. Leaning against the left side of the bath, you squeezed your eyes shut as warmth rushed to your gut, and then the kiss of pain behind your temples became a lick of white-hot flame, shooting down your spine. You stuttered out a breathy curse, switched angles — nearly cried out in distress when your legs tried to clamp around your fingers.

"Fuck," you breathed into the back of your left hand. You knew your orgasm would be weak, all rushed and nervous with too much on your mind, but you couldn't stop, not now. "Come on . . !"

For a second, so quick you almost missed it, it felt like someone was watching you. But instead of stopping or feeling mortified, an unbearable, new pleasure razed through your ribcage, whirling in your breasts. You were cresting, oh-so-close, but you checked — no one was there, just you and the bath and the now lukewarm water. Your eyes fluttered shut again, and you groaned, the sound guttural, not at all like you were used to.

Your heady mind flipped through scenarios, desperate for that one final push over the edge, so you glanced down, imagining a head between your thighs—

You sucked in a shallow breath as your body locked up.

It was such a concentrated effort to keep your hand moving between your thighs that you didn't even realize you'd cried out, the sound bouncing off the tiles.