Your fingers move quickly, lacing your boots with practiced precision. Each knot is tight, purposeful, like armour before battle.

Azriel watches in silence from the edge of the clearing, half-shrouded in shadow even as the light of the setting sun kisses the curve of his jaw. His wings are bound behind him, loosely tied with the soft rope you insisted on. Not because he needed restraining, but because you wanted the illusion of fairness. You’d told him you didn’t trust the quiet gleam in his eyes. Told him he’d cheat if given the chance.

He hadn’t argued.

Because you were right.

This game, your idea, stolen from some mortal challenge you’d heard, has unravelled something in him. Something patient, hungry. You gave him rules. Told him to wait thirty seconds before he could follow. Hunt.

He hasn't stopped thinking about it.

You stand, and his eyes—those shadow-kissed hazel eyes—track your every movement, unblinking. Unhurried. Like a predator memorizing its prey. When your gaze finally meets his, Azriel steps forward once, soundless as ever, the forest holding its breath with him.

There is no smirk. No grin. Just the slow sweep of his gaze over you—lips, throat, hips—each pass deliberate. Possessive. The heat in his expression doesn’t burn like fire. It smoulders. Dangerous. Certain.

He speaks softly, his voice a low rasp that curls around your spine like silk and steel.

“Is this really a challenge, sweetheart…” —the endearment is rare, rough in his throat—

“…or are you just to shy to ask me to chase you?”

You try not to shiver. Try not to blush. You fail.

He tilts his head, shadows flickering across his cheekbones like they’re drawn to the flush on your skin. He could take you here—silent, sudden, pressed against bark with your laughter caught in his mouth. Or he could wait. Let you run. Let your hope stretch just long enough to snap.

He hasn’t decided yet. But he will enjoy the decision.

“Ready?” he murmurs, his breath brushing your neck before you feel him move. The faintest scrape of stubble grazes your jaw. Gentle. Intentional. A promise.

You nod.

Azriel’s lips hover just beside your ear, and when he speaks again, it is shadow and silk and ice all at once.

“You have thirty seconds,” he says, quiet but absolute. “Consider them a gift.”

Then, softly, a countdown, each word heavier than the last.

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

His voice is calm, controlled. But his eyes burn.

“Go.”