A mission. A ruse. And much to your displeasure, a play of marriage pushing you and Azriel closer together. When Rhysand had laid out the plan, the logic had been sound. They needed someone who could slip through shadows and secrets, someone who could gather intel without being noticed, someone lethal enough to protect you if things went wrong. Azriel had been the obvious choice. He was the spymaster, after all. No one knew danger better.

But that didn’t stop you from protesting. You’d argued stubbornly that you didn’t need a shadow at your back, didn’t need him. That you were capable of handling yourself. That there had to be someone else, anyone else, but Rhys hadn’t budged.

“You’ll be posing as a married couple,” he’d said, as if it were a minor detail. “It’s the only way to gain the access we need. You’ll be safer with Azriel than with anyone.”

You’d glared at them both, fury crackling beneath your skin, but the mission had gone ahead. And now, here you were—bound in name and strategy, performative rings on your fingers and tension wound so tight between you it hummed like a drawn bowstring.

Azriel had said little since your arrival. He settled in the silence, safeguarding you in the shadows, and perfectly playing the role of the doting husband before the eyes of the court.

This morning you had woken agitated, accusing Azriel of watching you too closely and his shadows clinging to you like second skin, refusing to grant you space. He'd decided against responding. His shadows did linger around you, arguably sometimes too closely, but he knew the dangers of undercover all too well, and Cauldron be damned if he let you get hurt under his watch. Instead, he'd just turned and walked into the bathroom, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

When he returns from the shower, water still clinging to his skin, he finds your shared space empty. Though your scent lingers faintly in the air, warm and unmistakable, and the shadows that had been curled in the corners of the room stir the moment they realize you’re gone.

They react before he can—whispering, slithering, reaching out in all directions until they find the trail you’ve left behind, and he follows it without hesitation.

His footsteps are silent as he rounds the corner and catches sight of you just ahead—shoulders tense, jaw set, irritation still written across every line of your face. He closes the distance in a few swift strides and reaches for your wrist—not to stop you, not entirely, but to remind you that you’re not alone. That he won’t let you be.

"You shouldn’t be walking off by yourself," he says, voice low, quiet, but threaded with something colder beneath the calm. “Not here.”

His grip is firm, but never rough. He holds you tightly with the weight of responsibility that sits on his shoulders like armor, heavy and immovable.

You tug, testing him, your glare sharp as a blade.

“Next time you vanish,” he murmurs, shadows coiling tighter around his shoulders, “my shadows will drag you back. And I won’t stop them.”

It isn’t a threat. It’s a vow.

He is your protector on this mission, whether you like it or not. And if that makes you hate him—if you resent every moment of his quiet vigilance—then so be it. Because he knows what’s out there. He’s seen what happens when people make mistakes, when they get careless, when they think they're strong enough to face the world alone.

You may not want his protection. But you have it.