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18. The Wonders of Illyrian Wings

After Feyre explained that everyone would be staying the night, because winnowing to Cretea from Prythian took a lot out of someone, she and the others left you alone.

Well, not entirely alone.

Azriel had yet to move from his spot at the end of your bed, gaze lowered.

You leaned against the pillows, waiting patiently, unwilling to prompt him.

Finally, after a long silence, Azriel inhaled and then said, "Rhysand told me about what happened. At the steppes." He lifted his head, looking you over, but paid special attention to your wings.

The sheets covered you, but barely.

Not like it mattered, though.

You'd tried to kill him naked last night.

The right side of Azriel's mouth curled up, but he almost seemed guilty about it. "Sorry," he said, clearing his throat and gesturing to his head. "Now that you're High Fae, the bond . . . It feels different. Clearer."

What? You furrowed your brow but decided to try it out.

Surprisingly, it only took a second of concentration to feel the bond — that live wire between the two of you. You didn't know how Azriel perceived it, but he hadn't been lying; it was bright, clear as day.

A little too bright for your liking.

So all you said in response was, "It is."

Unaffected by your foul mood, Azriel moved so he could sit by your feet. "We need to talk."

Heat shot up your spine. "I'm a little naked, Azriel. And by a little, I mean a lot." You hugged your knees, glaring at him.

Azriel gave you a dubious look but eventually stood. You thought he was leaving, but when you tried to lie down again, you got a faceful of his robe.

"What the f—?"

Azriel gestured to the robe. "Put it on." He sat back down.

You felt like your face was on fire. "You could just fetch me something to wear. Like a normal person."

He gave you a weird look. "This is much more practical, not to mention efficient."

"Whatever." You examined the robe, trying to buy yourself some time, but with every passing second, you felt yourself getting more and more embarrassed. Finally, you said, voice thin and weak, "I don't . . . I don't know how to put it on . . . My wings . . . How did you even . . ?"

"Oh, right," Azriel said, sounding a bit sheepish. "Just put it on backward for now."

You slipped your arms through the holes, pressing the back to your front. You dropped the sheet to your waist, now that you were decently covered, and then asked, "But how did you even . . . take it off that fast?"

"Practice," Azriel said with a shrug. "I've had wings for a couple centuries."

Your stomach dropped when you realized—

"Oh. I guess I'm immortal now." You looked down at your palms; they were completely healed, but you didn't know if it'd been the doing of the cauldron or—

"The Cauldron," Azriel corrected you softly. "It's a — thing here, so it's proper. A proper noun."

You curled your fingers. "I thought we agreed to stay out of each other's heads."

"The chances of that happening flew out the window as soon as you were Made." Azriel raised his brows for emphasis. "Also capitalized."

"Fine, whatever," you mumbled. "But what did you want to talk about? You're acting awfully calm for someone I almost killed last night."