The velvet sheets did nothing to calm Elana's mind.
Three days and three nights since she hit him—three days since his voice, his breath, his presence.
Was Azael really with Eira all this time?
Oh God…Why had she struck him?
The night air was cooler than usual, the faint scent of wisteria drifting through her room—Azael's scent, his arms, his mouth on her. Elana curled her toes and told herself that she only wanted to apologize.
Maybe she could tell a minion she was leaving.
Would he try to stop her?
She sat up; sleep had abandoned her anyway. He was in her mind, and—shamefully, in her body too.
Her feet found the cold floor as she stood up and counted her steps to the entrance.
She traced the door, remembering her first day in this castle…the accidental brush of her hand against his chest…the ice of his skin she had been too stunned to question.
The hallway air bit at her exposed skin before she stepped out. Stepping over the threshold carefully, her heartbeat quickened. One hand gliding along the wall.
Just silence and the thought of Azael.
A presence blocked her path—a minion; she whispered, "Please take me to him."
"He's not in the castle, Lady Elana. Not for the last three days," the minion said in its eerie voice.
Relief and confusion tugged at her. But why would Eira lie about Azael being with her this whole time?
Where was he?
"Can you take me to his room?" she asked softly.
The minion's ethereal hand took hers and led her down a lower corridor. When the door opened she recognized the scent at once—his room, the chamber where he put her to recover after he saved her the first time.
The minion left, the door clicking shut behind it.
His voice slipped into her mind: Come to my voice.
She followed the lane in her memory and bumped the edge of the bed. Her mind recalled the heat of his kiss.
Was this what it meant to miss a lover?
Was Cara feeling the same pull for the king?
Her hand traced the bed canopy, the wall carvings—where he had pinned her against gently, cold hands that guided her toward the shower.
A tear slid down her cheek, her heart ached with the confusion of wanting a man who pitied her.
A violent gust of cold air surged into the room.
She hugged herself, suddenly too aware of her thin nightdress.
Elana turned toward the exit, one hand sliding along the wall for support when a familiar cold breath touched her neck.
She froze.
He didn't need to touch her for her body to recognize him.
"Azael," she whispered.
He didn't speak. Just swallowed hard—close enough that she heard the sound and the tremor in it.
She turned toward him, her hands brushing solid, chilled muscles.
Warmth flooded her cheeks—she had never touched him like this.
His bare chest rose beneath her fingertips, and her knees nearly gave at the quiet rush of heat that swept through her.
Then she explored timidly, tracing the rigid lines of him—his chest, the dip of his collarbone, the strength in his shoulders, silky strands of his hair drifting over her fingers.
His breath shuddered against her face—colder now, unsteady.
Elana lifted her trembling arms and looped them around his neck, pressing herself to him.
Her pulse fluttered wildly, every inch of her body alive to his touch. She rose onto her toes, straining to meet him, to close the space between them.
He inhaled sharply beside her ear.
"You shouldn't be here," he breathed.
The control in his voice wavered. Was he sad?
"I didn't mean to…" Her voice broke. "…to hit you."
His arms slipped around her waist, drawing her against him in a way that felt both protective…and heartbreakingly desperate.
Then he buried his face against her shoulders—almost like he was starved of human touch.
Elana held him, her small frame steadying his.
His tension melted into her, and when her balance faltered, they fell together into the silk-soft sheets of his bed.
He propped himself above her gently, careful not to crush her.
His breath brushed her neck—uneven, tender.
She pressed her thighs together instinctively, overwhelmed by the closeness.
"M-master Azael," she whispered.
"Why did you come to find me, little one?" he said, the sadness in his voice brushing her skin like a bruise.
Goosebumps rose across her breasts, the loose nightdress failing to hide their heightened sensitivity.
"I needed to…" she began as she felt him lift his head, "to apologize."
"Is that all there truly is?" he asked, his cold nose brushing hers.
Elana parted her lips slightly, unsure of the answer herself.
"Tell me, Elana," he whispered.
**
Azael's control faltered, each motion, each sigh from her, drawing him further.
She lay beneath him, her ginger hair fanning across the dark sheets, nightdress slipping, revealing hints of the soft curves he had imagined countless times before now.
He had not expected her in his chambers. After burying Trisha, he had delivered the dandelions himself to her nephew.
The heartbreak in the family's faces had ignited his own grief.
Returning to the castle felt like a burden he couldn't face without Trisha.
He had decided to grant Elana's wish to follow the soldiers, so she could be free of whatever blinding desire and doom fate had for her with him but seeing her here—
in the thin cotton of her nightdress, so tender, so unaware of the effect she had on him was a temptation he had not anticipated.
Her gentle hands traced his chest, her trembling arms holding onto him…the soft weight of her breasts pressed against him. It was a comfort he couldn't resist.
He could tell what she wanted especially with the quiet aching way her body sought his, her lips parted slightly, waiting.
He wasn't supposed to give her a choice, he was supposed to turn her away, avoid the cruel fate that would come from their bond.
"Why pretend you're ok?" she asked, startling him. "When you're not?"
"I asked first, Elana," he replied with barely a whisper, trying to maintain his composure. Few could pierce the armor he used to hide his emotions.
Her hands cupped his face, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.
The most innocent and yet heart-shattering thing she could do before the weight of his grief pressed down, and he finally gave in, letting her guide him into a vulnerability he rarely allowed.
He turned them around so she could be on top. A small gasp escaped her, but her arms remained around him, head resting in the crook of his neck.
"So stubborn," he whispered, closing his eyes and swallowing hard.
He fought the urge to let his hands wander lower, where her legs straddled him.
Aware of the dress now well above her thighs.
Her soft breath against his neck sent pleasure through him.
"Master Azael!" she murmured, voice barely audible.
"Yes, Elana," he responded, fighting the longing raging in him.
"I want to…" she hesitated, "I want the end of it."
Azael`s eyes flew open. "Elana…"
She lifted her head, sightless eyes meeting his. "Where it leads….the kiss."
His restraint faltered as she came closer, her lavender breath teasing his face.
His gaze fell to her parted lips, feeling the soft press against his own.
Her body moved slightly upward, triggering a surge of desire through him.
Her inexperienced lips, sought him, hesitant, curious.
She noticed his restraint and buried her head against his chest. "I'm so…sorry."
Her innocence was his undoing as he let himself go—his hand sliding over her bare backside, kneading, teasing, tracing the soft curve of her skin down to her inner thighs.
She lifted her head, her breath coming faster, heartbeat loud against him.
He leaned forward, and took her lips again, kissing her with equal intensity to the touch of his hands.
Her breath struggled to catch up even as she was on top.
Gradually turning into soft moans that pulled at the last of his restraint.
The taut points of her nipples pressed through her nightdress, moving against the lines of his bare skin.
Azael searched for reasoning in his head, even as he kissed her. His demon was feral or was it him, the man?
He broke the kiss, both panting for air. "It's late, Elana. You should go to bed." he breathed.
She gently leaned back, to the horror of his restraint she gradually lifted her dress over her body.
Exposing her bare soft curves, the dark nipples that teased his chest stared back at him daring.
A tiny patch of ginger hair just above her core pressed provocatively against his bulge.
"I'm sorry master." she apologized again, as if she didn't realize the temptation her body was offering, as if she hadn't seduced him enough.
Azael flung her into the silk sheets of his bed, positioning himself between her bare thighs. He took the aching tips of her breasts one-at-a-time into his mouth, suckling, drawing shivers from her body, while his hands glided to the wet center of her pleasure.
He had to stop but she gripped his hand, arching her back slightly, pushing her nipples deeper into his mouth. "Please, master Azael. Don't stop." she mewled.
Her body craved the release only he could give to her.
His mouth wandered down her belly, teasing her with his breath, gently kissing till he got to the petal between her legs.
"Azael, I mean…m-ma—."
Azael held her quivering thighs firm, inhaling the musky temptation that pulsed before him.
His mouth watered, and slowly, deliberately, his tongue traced a daring path.
She cried out, hands immediately tangling in his hair.
Her hands gently pushed and pulled, only further increasing his hunger, as he stroked her continuously with his tongue.
Her moans got louder, more urgent, her hips absently thrusting upward into his mouth.
"Please stop," she begged, her voice breaking. "I'm going to die, master. It's too… It's too much."
His strokes got faster, her sounds and body urging him more than what she begged for.
The almost violent shaking of her body followed soon, her fingers raked through his hair aggressively, screaming his name as her climax overcame her.
The evidence of her release dripping from her peak.
Azael raised his face to meet her shut eyes, her shivering body, ready for him, the bulge in his trousers threatened to spring free on its own.
He stood up, realizing the extent he had gone.
He had been careless again—careless, the reason why Trisha was dead.
"Az…Azael," she called softly, her voice still heavy with desire.
Her nipples still taut in attention, the slick, shiny evidence of her climax glistening between her inner thighs.
"When the soldiers are ready to leave, you may join them if that is what you want," he said, his body still heavily contemplating going back to finish what he started.
Elana slowly sat up, her hand gently covering her breasts and pressing her knees together. "You'd rather someone experienced…someone not little, or blind."
"Like I said earlier Elana." he sighed, still holding himself back from proving to her just how much his body ached to bury itself into her tempting comfort. "A man like me is no good for a girl like you."
"I hate you," she whispered.
Azael sighed, knowing she was just as frustrated as he was over the rope of desire fate had tied them with, then he vanished.
Leaving her vulnerable, exposed on his bed, wanting more than the safety his castle had to offer.