Dark Light

19. Prying Eyes

When you woke up a few hours later, the sun was setting. You forgot where you were until you pushed up and felt that unfamiliar weight on your back: your Illyrian wings.

You recalled your accidental winnowing, the Cauldron, and then, to top it all off, your . . . fun with Azriel.

Butterflies took off in your stomach as you pictured his face between your wings, watching you writhe, and his hand on your hip. How your fingers had wrapped around his wrist in desperation, at first, and then ecstasy.

When your belly pooled with warmth at the memory, you did your best to stop your imagination before it could run wild. The last thing you needed was for Azriel to think that you lusted after him.

Because really, all you'd done was enjoy his company — nothing more, nothing less.

You nodded to yourself as you sat up, stretching. You rolled your shoulders as you stood, getting used to the new muscles in your back when you heard flapping. Confused, you turned to face the balcony — and then someone landed on it, hidden by tall, potted plants.

You shrieked, grabbing the bedsheets to yourself.

When the person startled, almost more scared than you were, his wing knocked over a pot. The male swore as dark soil splattered everywhere.

When you realized that it was just Azriel, you heaved a sigh of relief.

"It's just me, (Y/n)," Azriel called out. He tucked in his left wing as he glanced back at you. "Ah. I see I came back at a bad time."

You wrapped one of the sheets around yourself. "Came back? Why would you come back? This is, after all, my room."

Azriel huffed as he returned the plant to its pot. "I was getting you clothes, Lofty One. Relax."

Your nose scrunched at the nickname he'd given you, but then— "Oh . . . Thank you."

Once Azriel had sufficiently repotted the plant, he rose. He must've left right after you'd passed out because he was still only wearing those baggy black pants. In the light, they looked a bit sheer, and as your mind started to wander, you remembered something.

"Oh, your robe," you said, glancing down. It was currently trapped under the bedsheet you'd wrapped around yourself. "I can return it in a second."

"Huh?" Azriel wiped at the sweat on his face as he strode in, carrying a large canvas bag. "Oh. You can return it whenever." He kept moving until he got to the end of your bed. "Here. Your clothes."

"Thank you again," you said, watching as he put the bag on the mattress.

A few muscles in your back twitched, making your wings rustle. You twisted left and right, examining them.

"You should try holding them up," he said, gesturing to them. "Letting them droop like that is considered . . . lazy, to put it nicely."

You raised a brow at him but tried to lift your wings.

You weren't even sure what muscles to use, but after a few seconds of concentration, you got your wings to cooperate. You lifted them to mimic Azriel's, but it took a lot of effort to keep them there.

When the muscles in your back gave up, your wings dropped, trembling.

You only felt a little humiliated.

"It's okay," Azriel said gently. "You only just got them. When Feyre realized that she could give herself Illyrian wings, it took her about a year to learn how to fly. And to be honest, she's still working on it."