Azriel had spent two days traveling, shadowing the mortal queens after rumors surfaced that they were secretly plotting something. In the end, it had all been nothing more than misinformation—another of Beron’s little games, meant solely to provoke Rhysand.

Now, finally, he was home.

He barely made it through the doorway before exhaustion claimed him. He didn’t even bother fully undressing. Instead, he collapsed face-first onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and instinctively wrapped an arm around you.

“Don’t ask,” he muttered, voice rough with fatigue.

Apparently, he’d already felt your questioning gaze long before you could say a word.