Azriel didn’t trust easily.

Not strangers, not allies, and certainly not the newest member of the Inner Circle—no matter how competent she was. No matter how gracefully she carried herself or how often Rhysand assured him of her loyalty.

He had watched her, silently, for weeks. His shadows had too. And though they whispered nothing damning, it only made him more wary. It was a void. A quiet so complete it didn’t feel natural.

It felt like a secret.

So when he caught sight of her slipping out of the House of Wind just past midnight, boots soft on stone, a brown paper bag clutched in her arms like it held her heart, he followed.

His shadows curled at his shoulders like smoke. Not even the wind dared to betray him.

She didn’t sense him. Or maybe she did. Maybe she had expected this all along.

She moved fast—too fast for a casual errand—and Azriel’s stomach knotted as he saw her pause under a low-hanging archway to fumble with the bag. Her shoulders curled in, arms around it like a shield.

And that was enough.

He stepped out of the darkness, quiet as death.

“What’s in the bag?”

She jolted.

The voice of the shadowsinger didn’t need to rise to be sharp. It didn’t need force to be heard.

She turned slowly. Her face pale, but her chin lifted.

“It’s nothing,” she said.

He said nothing in return, only tilted his head slightly, and in that small movement, the shadows at his feet thickened.

Her throat bobbed. “Azriel—please. It’s just… supplies.”

“Then you won’t mind showing me.”

A beat of silence. Two.

Then, slowly, she opened the top of the bag.

Inside were two bottles. Small, dark glass. One labeled in tight script with the kind of handwriting a healer might use. Cycle suppressant. The other, scent blocker.

Azriel’s brows knit.

And he realized what he should have seen long before.

She was in the beginning stages. Hiding it. Hiding herself. From them. From him.

“You’re in heat,” he said quietly.

And then the air shifted.

It wasn’t a breeze or a gust—it was her.

Her scent.

It hit him like a blow. No—worse. Like a fever that sank beneath his skin and ignited.

Rich and heady and undeniable.

His knees nearly buckled.

Spice and honey, fire and sin—heat threaded with power that made something ancient and male in him go very, very still.

His shadows recoiled.

Because they knew.

This wasn’t a hint of desire. This wasn’t passing temptation.

It was need.

Azriel's fists clenched at his sides, the scent of her wrapping around him like a noose, sinking sharp into his lungs, his blood. It clouded every thought, every shred of reason.

He had spent centuries honing control—perfecting it until even Helion himself called it frightening.

But this—

She was flushed. Glowing. Her mouth slightly parted, breath uneven, chest rising with quick, shallow pulls that made his fingers twitch with the need to touch.

She didn’t know what she was doing to him.

Or maybe she did.

Azriel took one step forward—and it felt like stepping into fire.

His voice, when it came, was wrecked.

“Do you need help?”

But he didn’t mean aid.

He meant do you want me to ruin you?

He meant do you want me on my knees with my mouth between your thighs, with my teeth on your neck, with my name buried in your skin so deep it becomes part of your blood?

He meant give me permission to stop pretending I don’t want you.

And Cauldron damn him—he did.

Her scent dragged him deeper, stripping away the shadows, the control, the logic.

Every protective instinct screamed at him to walk away. But his body… his body was hers.

If she said yes, he would break every vow he’d ever made to himself.

If she said yes, he’d have her against the wall, the door, the floor—any surface that could take the weight of what he was going to do to her.

His wings flexed behind him, taut and trembling. He was going to lose it.

Because her heat was like wildfire in his blood, and the only thing that could save him now… was her saying no.