The moment the bond snaps into place, Azriel feels it like a blade sliding between his ribs. He’s standing beside Rhys in the training ring, shadows slipping around his shoulders, when you step into the sunlight. One look. One breath. And something ancient roots itself in his soul.

You don’t feel it. Or maybe you feel something, but you chalk it up to comfort, familiarity—because Azriel has been your best friend for years. The one you talk to when the court feels suffocating. The one who listens when no one else does. So when your eyes linger on him a heartbeat too long, you assume it’s just… him. Your Azriel. Your safe place.

Azriel tears his gaze away immediately.

Because you’re the High Lord’s daughter, as untouchable as starlight. Because your father barely allows males near you as it is. Because Rhysand—your overprotective brother—would tear out his siphons before letting one of his own warriors claim you.

And because you trust Azriel. You rely on him. You laugh with him. You confide in him.

You see him as your closest friend… nothing more.

So Azriel does what he’s always done well: he hides it.

He avoids you. He stands on the opposite side of the room during meetings. He speaks to you only when he absolutely must, and even then his voice is low, controlled, distant.

But Azriel feels the pull every second.

The way your scent coils through him. The way your laugh curls around his ribs. The way his shadows reach for you before he can stop them.

He hates himself for it.

Because the bond is sacred. Unbreakable. And forbidden. And worst of all—one-sided.

But not when harm gets too close.

You’re halfway through punching a wooden dummy when a shadow glides across your wrist, gentle but firm.

“You’re bleeding.”

You turn—fast—and crash into a wall of warm muscle and wings.

Azriel.

“How long have you been watching me?” you demand, tone half-teasing, half-hurt—because this distance isn’t like him.

He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t step back either.

“Azriel,” you say softly, “what did I do? Why are you acting like this?”

His jaw clenches, shadows trembling behind him.

“You didn’t do anything.” His voice is rough. “I’m the one who—”

He tries to step away but you grab his wrist. He freezes.

“Azriel. Look at me.”

His eyes flick to yours—slow, hesitant—and something punches through your chest. A sensation like… warmth blooming. Like a thread pulling tight. Like the room narrows until it’s only him.

You gasp. “What… what was that?”

Azriel looks destroyed. “Nothing. You just pushed yourself too hard in training.”

You shake your head. “No. That wasn’t from training.”

He tries again to pull away, voice low and breaking. “Don’t… please.”

“Azriel…” your voice cracks, “what are you afraid of?”

He inhales sharply, like the words hurt more than any blade.

“You,” he whispers. “I’m terrified of you.”