You were never meant to be here.

Never meant to spend your nights wrapped in Azriel's embrace while the male the Cauldron had declared your mate slept only a handful of doors away. Fate had woven its thread with cruel hands, binding your soul to Lucien's against your will. Every whispered mention of the bond felt like another chain tightening around your ribs, another reminder that even the Cauldron could be wrong.

You had never wanted him.

Never accepted him.

And no matter how many times others spoke of destiny with reverence, you could only meet it with quiet resentment.

Yet beneath the silver glow spilling through the arched windows, all thoughts of fate seemed to fade.

Azriel's arms encircled you with a gentleness that never ceased to surprise you. One broad hand rested against the bare curve of your back, his thumb absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy circles across your skin, each touch so featherlight it sent warmth blooming through your body. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek grounded you far more than the bond ever had.

The sheets, impossibly soft against your tangled limbs, still carried the lingering warmth of your bodies. The room was silent save for the crackle of dying embers in the hearth and the distant song of the Sidra beyond the city, its waters whispering through the stillness like an ancient lullaby.

Azriel lowered his head, brushing a lingering kiss against your forehead before letting his lips rest there for a heartbeat longer than necessary. It was such a small gesture—so painfully tender—that your chest ached beneath its weight.

You tilted your head just enough to look at him.

Moonlight slipped through the curtains, silvering the sharp planes of his face and softening the shadows that so often clung to him. His golden eyes, usually veiled behind centuries of restraint, were half-lidded now, their endless vigilance finally quieted. The tension that lived in his shoulders had eased, the hard line of his jaw no longer clenched against unseen burdens.

For perhaps the first time since you'd known him, he looked... peaceful.

Not the infamous Shadowsinger. Not the spymaster who carried the weight of countless secrets behind unreadable eyes.

Just Azriel.

A male who had allowed himself, if only for one fragile moment, to believe he deserved warmth instead of solitude.

The sight stole the breath from your lungs more surely than any declaration ever could.

Because happiness looked unfamiliar on him.

And somehow, impossibly, it looked like home.