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27. Divine Intervention

The storm still raged on.

You walked briskly through the House of Wind with only Devlon by your side. You'd wanted to grab some things from your room before leaving, so he'd ordered the rest of the warriors away to Rippa Harbor to "figure out" your "living arrangements." You didn't know where that was, but as long as a bath and bed awaited you, you didn't care.

As you reached the third floor, Azriel winnowed in front of you.

"You're in my way," you said, fingers curling around the railing in thought. They occasionally stuck because of the blood. "What do you want?"

The sky groaned with thunder as Azriel looked you over carefully. He moved to the side as he said, "I think you're making a mistake."

"Really?" You started down the hall, Devlon a quiet presence at your back. "And why is that, Azriel?"

The shadowsinger twisted his body so he could face you as he walked. "They could have ulterior motives."

You raised a brow at him, unamused. "Like you didn't?"

Azriel's brow furrowed as his frustration flared. "(Y/n), please. Have you ever stopped to consider the fact that you'll be alone in Illyria, surrounded by males who'd rather kill you or themselves than be ruled by a female High Lord?"

You came to an abrupt stop in front of your room. "Kill themselves?" As you grabbed the door handle, you said, "Good. It saves me the work."

Devlon laughed through his nose behind you, barely audible.

You made a reminder to yourself to ask about his change of heart — later, that is. And if you accepted his answer, then you'd ensure his unconditional loyalty however which way possible. You weren't about to have a repeat of this nonsense.

"I'll only be a second," you said, pushing into your room. You kicked off your heels and then padded over to your vanity, unclasping your necklace.

As you lowered the bloody silver, you lifted your head — and locked eyes with Azriel in the mirror.

He looked like a god of war in your bedroom, covered head to toe in blood as if he'd just stumbled off a battlefield. It coated the right side of his face, brow, and matted his hair. At one point, you would've been enthralled by his disheveled appearance and quiet kinds of intensity and power; you'd always seen them and wondered if you could live up to them, match them.

But now, after tonight, you could only think of Azriel as . . . beneath you. Less than. That his otherworldliness and tempestuousness had always been for you, for what you'd become.

It'd never been the other way around — and never would be.

And that realization was frightful. It was heart-rending.

Because Azriel had so obviously been made for you, and yet—

You wished he'd never been born.

. . .

You furrowed your brow. Dropped your gaze.

Born.

. . .

Birth . . .

When you finally realized why the word perturbed you, you turned around. You didn't mince your words. "Are you actually on birth control? Or did you lie about that too?"

"What?" Azriel's voice rose a few octaves. For someone who barely emoted, his eyes were comically large. "No, (Y/n), I— No. Just no. I'd never lie about that."

Your relief was palpable, but you didn't say anything.

How would you even respond to that?

Thank him?