Azriel watched her from across the room.

She was curled up on the velvet couch, a book open in her lap, looking—as always—perfect. Innocent. Like she belonged in a painting, not in a room full of warriors.

But something was off.

He could feel it—the wrongness. There was a darkness in her, subtle but ancient, like a storm hiding behind clear skies. He couldn’t name it, couldn’t see it, but his shadows stirred restlessly around him, whispering truths in voices only he could hear.

She’s yours. She’s your mate. Touch her. Claim her.

He gritted his teeth.

Everything about this was wrong. She was Rhysand’s sister. The male who’d rip out his spine and grind it into dust if Azriel so much as brushed her hair the wrong way. Rhys was more than protective—he was possessive of her, still mourning the centuries she’d been lost.

And yet now she was here.

Back from the dead, claiming she’d simply woken up in the middle of nowhere, dazed and alone, and somehow found her way to Velaris. Just like that. After five hundred years.

Azriel didn’t buy it.

Her behavior didn’t make sense. One moment, she was soft-spoken, blinking up at them like a confused fawn. The next, she was cold and cutting, playing games with everyone in the room. But of course, the Inner Circle believed her.

They saw the girl they remembered—sweet, gentle, innocent.

He saw a liar in silk.

And she was still so young. Seventeen? Eighteen? A brat with a sharp tongue and too many secrets. Back then, she’d followed him around like a shadow, only to mock him the moment he let his guard down.

She was just the same now. Only prettier. Deadlier.

As if she felt his stare, her gaze lifted from the book. Her eyes met his with infuriating calm.

Then her lips curled. “Stop glaring at me like I murdered your favorite shadow,” she said coolly.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. His shadows hissed behind him, dark tendrils twitching with barely restrained tension. She always knew how to get under his skin.

Azriel stepped forward, just once. Not close enough to touch—but close enough that she felt the weight of him, of what he was.

He spoke low, his voice like flint scraping steel. “Brats like you should be asleep by now.”