A Court Of Shadow and Blood

☆ A Thorned Rose ☆

Azriel cocked his head to the side with a frown. “Who is it dancing with right now?” Of course he could still sense his magic in use. Even so by a model that looked and smelled like her too.

“My own little friend,” she replied and grinned mischievously. A spark ignited in the male’s hazel eyes as he considered her.

“You’re seeming more and more like yourself every day,” he murmured. The words stilled her. She hadn’t noticed it, but now that she looked over the past few days, she slowly realized she hadn’t quite smiled as much or laughed as she had in forever. She was peeling apart. But the way Azriel said it, it didn’t make her feel weak or wrong or disjointed. 

Just proud. 

After she finished stuffing her face—Azriel as well—they both walked back into the living area to watch their dancing puppets. Her own had developed a swirling velvet of darkness for a dress, which twisted around a body much like her own as Azriel’s led it. Thanks to her ancestry to night magic, hers seemed substantial and real, while the Shadowmaster’s was a fog clinging to morning as tight as possible. They were beautiful to watch, and it was hard to imagine that she and Azriel would be doing that by the next night. She just wasn’t sure if she could do it. 

“I never knew my magic could do that,” the male murmured, watching the pair spiral around as if they were truly at a ball. His head tilted toward her. “Our magic pairs well together.” 

His scent wrapped around her headily, and for once she actually looked straight at his face. Not to scan or read, but just to look. A strong brow and dark lashes framed his hazel eyes, which were so rich and bright that she might’ve thought they were the sweetest candy. His straight, long nose presided over thin lips, and a stubble she hadn’t noticed before had begun to grow along his jaw sharply. There was a scar across his cheekbone, pale and almost invisible. He was breathtaking.

She needed to stop. She needed to get herself away from him and cool down—she wasn’t supposed to be doing this. She wasn’t supposed to be falling in love. 

Her throat tightened, and she turned away, her chin jutting out. There was a line drawn firmly in her mind, in the sand of her mental barriers. And like a coward, she hid behind it. 

***

She sat on her bed as Cerridwen bustled around. She’d already decided to wear the beautiful dress Jaquelin had sewn for her, and after that had been chosen, both the wraiths had found the jewelry they thought would work best with it. And she’d yet to wear any of it.

Eblis had forced herself to eat minutes earlier before returning upstairs, Azriel’s stare a brand on her back. She didn’t know if he’d noticed the distance she’d put between them, but it was about to get a lot shorter for their faux mating to work. Iron already surrounded her heart, prepared for it.

It was the night of the ball.

“Are you sure you don’t want our help getting dressed?” Cerridwen asked, her quieter twin bobbing a head of satin black hair. Her room was warmly lit and still casted in the soothing tones that Elain had set upon it. Outside her windows, the blue had turned a few shades darker with the approaching sunset. Just two nights prior, she’d watched the same view as Azriel touched her wings. 

She shook her head before saying, “I’ll be fine,” with an apologetic smile. She’d already be dealing with a lot more touch than she could probably handle within the hour. The wraiths departed in a flash of gold, and she surveyed the gown. 

She remembered the monochrome black fabric, glittering silver scales, and the flashes of midnight blue like snatches of the ocean were carved into the satin. The white fur that had hemmed the long, translucent sleeves had been removed in favor of a gem-splattered cap. The armored chest, shoulders, and back were beautiful.