Chapter Text
It is foolish to love somebody.
Foolish to let someone in, open up your heart and soul and give someone else the only piece of you that keeps you alive.
It is foolish to give another your heart.
But even more so to give everything you are, ever have been, and ever will be.
Azriel stands by these thoughts, has done so for over five hundred years. He suspects these feelings will follow him to his grave and whatever lies beyond thereafter. But as Azriel lays in bed, the grey ceiling above him his only companion in the otherwise twilight-striken room, a horrendous and disorienting thought appears behind his clouded mind.
The only fool here is you.
Azriel's brows narrow, thinking of Morrigan and Elain and all the others before and in-between that have never felt compelled enough to stay. To feel the same. And how Azriel would wait for the reciprocation; would wait for the companionship and the maybe's and what-if's. Though, they never came. And still, they have not.
Fucking fool. It is all he can think of himself as he growls in frustration, turning on his side to behold the darkened City of Starlight through the floor to ceiling window.
With his eyes affixed to a mountain on the horizon, stars twinkling above, beside and beyond, he realizes he and this mountain have much in common.
Alone. Weathered. Distant. A rock-hard exterior. No pun intended.
He wonders how many have visited the mountain, if it's rocky terrain and sharp edges and steep inclines are too much for people to handle so they defer from ever approaching.
Yeah, he thinks. You and me both.
**
The training ring is quiet this morning, though it is almost two hours pre-dawn, so Azriel suspects the usual inhabitants of the ring are still fast asleep. Just another luxury in which Azriel has yet to earn. But the chill in the brisk morning air has him shivering back to reality, clearning his throat and rolling his head left, right. Scarred hands, though bandaged to protect them - from what, he isn't sure, as they're already damaged, anyway; much like him - come up for a one-two-one-one-two punching combo that lands home in the trunk of the old tree atop the ring. He isn't sure how long he repeats the motions, but a figure in his peripheral snags his focus and on his right hook, his fingers falter and he curses quietly as he draws his hand back from the bark. His pinky finger has snapped, and as he gazes down at the rest of his fingers, his knuckles are bloodied and cut, the skin dry and cracked, opened now for these fresh wounds.
Isn't that ironic.
"What is the point of the bandage wraps, then, brother?" Rhysand asks from the corner, leaning against the far wall with his right leg crossed at the ankle against his left. His arms are crossed along his broad chest, a hint of a smirk on his lips.
Azriel dodges his question, instead asking, "Shouldn't you be asleep with your mate?"
A quirk of Rhys' brow immediately follows. "I could say the same for you, Az."
Azriel just scoffs, "Just the former of that sentence though, right?"
Rhys' brows furrow, "What's going on, brother? What's the matter?"
Azriel clears his throat, then takes the few steps to the water station positioned next to Rhysand. "No matter." He says, pouring himself a cup. Rhys snaps his finger and Az winces as his pinky is remedied; no longer snapped and back to its normal form. His knuckles, however, remain bloodied; the skin still dry and cracked. A reminder that there is always something left to maim.
"Don't make your High Lord order you to divulge, Azriel."
"My High Lord would never order me to speak when I am not ready to do so."
"A-"
"He also knows better."
Rhysand scoffs, a solemn shake of his head his only form of agreement. "It's four in the morning, Az. Why are you up here at this hour fighting a tree that stands no chance despite your bloodied fingers?"
Azriel shrugs, "Couldn't sleep."
"Seems like a common occurrence, especially of late."
"Are you here to order me back to bed or thought you'd start the morning off having a go at me?"
Rhys narrows his brows, but merely clears his throat. "I was here to talk with my brother and understand some semblance of his worries. Though I know now that was ill-advised of me."
"I'm fine."
Lies.
Rhys nods, knowing better than to push. "Alright. See you at the house for lunch later?"
"See you then."
Rhys winnows, presumably back to his mate and their bed, and Az finally lets out the breath he hasn't realized he was holding. His jaw ticks as he retreats back to the tree and continues his sparring, his breaths coming out hot and staggered as his mind swirls and clouds as his shadows do around him.
The hairs on the back of his neck rise instantly, the presence of someone approaching quickly has him focusing again, calming his thundering pulse as the scent hits him before anything else.
Mm, honey. His shadows tell him, though he already knew that. He was truly hoping to be unbothered for at least an hour this morning, but now-
"Oh-" The silky smooth voice greets him. "Good morning. I didn't realize anyone would be up here this early."
Lies. His shadows tell him again.
"Good morning, Gwyn." Azriel greets, offering a nod of his head and a purse of his lips.
"Good morning." She mirrors, though there is a hint of a drawl on her words. "Is everything alright, Shadowsinger?"
"Yes." But he is not good at hiding anything when it comes to Gwyn. It is almost as if she sees right through him, and the thought of that alone is immensely terrifying.
He winces at the starkness of his answer. So blunt and bland and.. well, not very friendly. And he and Gwyn are friends, and she should be treated with such courtesy. The thought races through his mind and he quickly tries to recoil. "I'm fine, Berdara. How are you today?"
But Gwyn is giving him an incredulous look that seems to say you're being weird, but I'll let it go... for now. Instead, her thin fingers braid her auburn locks that cascade over her left shoulder. Azriel's eyes track the movement, though he remains silent in her wake. Gwyn fastens the end of her braid in a bow with a small piece of white ribbon. And as she tightens it to keep its hold, Az's eyes lock back to hers.
He remembers the day she cut the white ribbon as vividly as seeing her now. He hadn't thought of anything but for the few days that followed. How determined she was, how proud of herself she was, how motivated she was to keep going. It was all Azriel thought about. Especially when Nesta had said that he was the new ribbon. Gwyn's new ribbon.
But what, exactly, did that even mean? Was Nesta trying to imply that he was next on Gwyn's list to conquer? Or to break? Well, he didn't need any help with the latter. But.. Gods, conquer? Conquer how, exactly? In what context, precisely, did Nesta mean? He thinks now he should ask Nesta. Ask her what sh-
"Shadowsinger?"
Gwyn's eyes slightly narrow but it is worry that etches her freckled skin. Concern.
"Sorry, what?"
She licks her bottom lip and he tracks that movement as well, a tick in his jaw his only answer to the sight before him. "I said I'm okay.. and asked if you'd show me that dagger maneuver again from yesterday's session. I haven't gotten it quite right, yet."
"Oh. Sorry." Az clears his throat and forces the faintest of smiles across his tired mouth. "Yes, of course."
Gwyn gives him a nod, just the one, caution enveloping her as she approaches.
She worries. The shadows tell him, and he politely, but silently, tells them to fuck off.
"Alright, show me how you're doing it and I'll correct it."
Gwyn prepares her stance, both knees moderately bent with her dominant leg slightly in front of the other to keep her properly balanced. Az circles her form, nodding his approval. Then, she raises both hands in front of her chest - her left closed in a fist whilst her right grips the hilt of her dagger. Azriel nods again as the brisk air blows Gwyn's braid off her shoulder.
It is in that very instant that Azriel is thinking, yet again, what it would feel like to hold onto that braid, or to tangle his fingers in her hair while he slides his cock in and out of her. Thinks again about how it would feel to gather the auburn strands in his fist as he fucks her from behind-
"Azriel."
"What?"
Azriel? Why, it is usually Shadowsinger or Spymaster that comes off her tongue. And now Azriel is thinking about her tongue, and how it would feel licking up his chest and along the shaft of his coc-
Gwyn's fingers snap twice in front of his hazel orbs. "Hello? Mother above, Shadowsinger. What has gotten into you today?"
Az tries to shake the arousal off of him, Gods spare him if Gwyn scents it. "Get back into formation."
"What?"
"Did I stutter?"
"N- no."
"Good. Show me your stance again."
Gwyn obliges, but doesn't take her eyes off him. Azriel knows he has to focus, has to think of sparring and fighting and daggers and swords and... and Gwyn's bottom lip as she tugs it between her teeth while she practices the maneuver from yesterday's session.
"That's wrong." Azriel says, his voice hoarse and gruff, but quickly clears his throat. Gwyn's eyes dance with something he has seen time and time again, though never from her. He refuses to think twice about it.
Yes. His shadows confirm. Desire. Desire. Desire.
"I need some water. Do it again." He orders, then treads to the water station once more. He fills his cup once, twice, thrice, before crumpling it into his hand and tossing it into the wastebin.
And as Azriel turns, he cannot help his gaze that wanders down her back to her ass, the fighting leathers almost a second skin to her now. He curses silently and pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He huffs out a sigh and walks back to the Valkyrie, finally finding his voice and composure and instructing her on how to properly execute the maneuver.
She gets it on the seventh time and grins widely up at him. He smiles back, almost genuine this time, and nods in confirmation.
"Again." He orders. Gwyn obliges.
And on the eighth, ninth, and tenth plus times, Gwyn gets it right again and again and again.
As the morning continues, the remaining Valkyries and priestesses emerge from the stairs of the House of Wind to begin training. Cassian is heading toward them now, Azriel feels, and takes one last glimpse at the redhead before him.
"Thanks, Az." She says sheepishly, a dust of pink blooming across her cheeks before she takes off in the other direction toward Nesta and Emerie.
Az. She has called him Az.
And as Azriel pivots, looking toward the same mountain as the night - or mere hours - before, he thinks now that perhaps they have one thing not in common.
Hope.
**
"Don't you think I know that?" Azriel snaps at Nesta, instantly recoiling from the shocked expression on her face.
"Alright, then why did you do it?" She counters, with a cock of her brow.
"I.. I d- I don't even know." He admits defeat with a languid breath as he shuts his eyes. He leans back in the chair at the House of Wind dining table, pinching the bridge of his nose. His glass of amber liquid fits snug in his grasp, as if he cannot let it go. Perhaps it is because he is afraid of what he may do with two free hands.
Nesta knocks out a breath as well. "She's upset, Azriel. What are you going to do about it?"
Az cracks open his eyes, thumb and forefinger still pinching the skin between. "I don't know, Nesta." He grits out. Truthfully, Azriel has never spoken to Nesta in such a way. He had always remained polite and courteous, even despite her struggles before and during her exile to the House of Wind. But he had always felt a sense of relation to the eldest Archeron sister. Battered and bruised, alone and triggered. He had seen a lot of himself within her brokenness after Hybern. Sometimes, too often than not, he still does. He's realized that Nesta feels the same, which is how this blossomed friendship has come to be.
Most days, he is thankful for her friendship - today, however, may not be one of those days.
She glares at him, not because of how he is speaking to her, but because of his prior actions that have led them to this situation. Then, she points a finger at him.
His jaw clenches, though he doesn't balk. She merely says, "You fucked up, Azriel. Own it and apologize to her. To both of them."
He remains silent for a moment, then brings the glass to his lips and downs the rest of his whisky. He grimaces and slams it back down atop the table.
"How did she find out?"
Nesta rolls her eyes. "Gwyn found out because the godsdamn necklace smelled like Elain, and then you, you idiot."
Azriel groans, apparently louder than intended because despite Nesta being furious with him, she allows a snort.
"First, you give my sister the necklace and then when she rejects it," Az winces at the words, "you think the logical thing to do is re-gift it to someone else?"
"I already t-"
"Good Gods, Azriel. For someone so smart ninety-eight percent of the time, you sure can be as dumb as a pile of rocks."
Azriel opens his mouth to speak, but truthfully, no words come about, so he closes it almost immediately.
Nesta leans back in her chair, arms crossing over her chest. "Well?"
"Well, what?" He asks timidly. Gods, he feels like a youngin again.
Nesta all but grits out the words between clenched teeth: "What are you going to do about this situation."
Azriel finally leans forward, arms resting across the tabletop as he whispers to his brother's mate, "Did she really know it was me by the scent of it? She.. she knows my scent?"
The female's gaze narrows, "Considering she trains wit-" then, her eyes go wide. "Oh, gods."
Azriel sits up straight, looking around in confusion at Nesta's change in demeanor. "What?"
But Nesta whispers her reply, "You like Gwyn. You like Gwyn." Azriel breaths heavily but deigns to speak. His newfound friend before him may not be so much of that once this conversation is over. "I've had my suspicions for a while, but there was something about the look on your face just now when you asked if she knew your scent. It was almost.."
Azriel feels the anger and embarrassment bubbling up inside of him. "Almost what." He says flatly.
Nesta cocks her head ever so slightly as she answers: "Hopeful."
Az falls forward, his arms crossed on the table again as his forehead rests atop them. Nesta all but snickers but he's mumbling onto his skin, "I'm a fucking idiot."
"I could've told you that." Nesta croons. "Oh, wait. I already did."
Azriel groans again, louder this time, but still muffled. "Alright," the female starts, "I'll help you dig yourself out of the grave you've just dug."
He lifts his head, chin resting on top of a scarred hand. "You will?"
"Yes. But only because you've only ever been.. kind to me."
"I thought that's what friends do, Nesta."
She nods in agreement, "They do, Azriel. They do."
Nesta and Azriel sit at the table for gods knows how many hours, chatting, venting, drinking. It is nice, Azriel thinks, to have companionship with someone like Nesta, someone so similar to him that he feels less.. disastrous. Of course, his companionship with Feyre is just as nice, but.. often times, he finds himself unrelating to his High Lady.
It is easy to be with one who shares so much with you, his shadows confirm in gentle whisps.
As he looks at Nesta, after their umpteenth glass of whisky, he smiles. To call someone like her a friend, is an honour in itself. And he is so very happy for the love that she and his brother now have. Gods, he thinks to himself. So sappy when you drink.
"So you gave the necklace to Elain first because you wanted to get her something nice for Solstice." Nesta confirms with a slight hiccup. Azriel nods. "And when she rej-returned it, you.."
"Didn't know what else to do with it."
"No! Azriel, dear Gods." It's Nesta's turn to pinch the bridge of her nose. "No. We've been over this - the necklace was meant to be adorned by someone as exquisite as it, thus you found yourself knowing that Gwyn was meant to be in possession of it."
Azriel is well and truly fucked.
He knows it, Nesta knows it, and Gods, all of Prythian probably knows it by now, too. He's also too drunk to care about how his words come across next, so he says to Nesta in answer, "She hates me, you know."
"Who?"
"Gwyn, of course"
"She doesn't hate you. She's just upset, she thinks.."
This catches Azriel's attention, the sobering words of what Gwyn might think of him has him itching for Nesta to continue. She obliges, "she thinks she's just.. second best."
He is sure, in this moment, his heart has cleaved in two. It is the exact opposite of how he feels for her, of how he wants her to feel, and he isn't entirely sure that he can fix this. Even with Nesta's help.
He replays the moments in his head: Elain returning the necklace, the jewelry feeling all too heavy and dull in his hands as his fingers clenched around it. Then giving it to Clotho to give to Gwyn, adamant that Clotho not tell her it was from him. He knew it then, too, what would've come of it. He had just hoped terribly, foolishly, that it wouldn't.
"Az?"
"She's not second best." He mutters lowly, eyes downcast as his now scabbing knuckles. "I just.. I saw her on the training ring after Solstice and I just wanted her to have something nice. I wanted to give her something, a gift. It was wrong, Nesta, I know that. So wrong to gift her something that was intended for someone else. I think I was.. hurt, as well. That your sister refused it. I.. I couldn't bear to keep it. It would've been a constant, nagging reminder that someone else hadn't felt compelled to return.." He sighs, unable to bring himself to even finish the thought aloud.
But Nesta knows, understands all too well, and looks at him with such sadness and near pity that it has him recoiling and sobering in an instant.
"I'm going to bed. Goodnight." Before Nesta can even blink, he has up and left, vanishing down the hallway to his chambers. His misting shadows the only remnant that he was ever even there.
And this, he thinks, is exactly why he doesn't fucking speak when he is not ready to.
**
It has been thirteen days, and still, Gwyn has not uttered one single word to Azriel.
He does not blame her, of course. Not at all. Though he wishes so terribly she would. It is agony, he thinks, to be completely void of Gwyn's attention. He has tried, countless times, to speak to her privately, quietly. Asking softly and politely if she would so kindly have a moment to spare to hear him out. He doesn't even get a simple no, only the view of her back as she walks away from him.
And that first time he had asked, and she had walked away, was the first time that he did not look down her back, at her ass and think of anything other than please talk to me. He deserves, it though, he thinks. To be such a fool, letting his stupid fucking heart and stupid fucking feelings cluster around his mind and body and soul to have acted so recklessly, so thoughtlessly, that now the one person he thought.. He will not even finish the thought.
During training, Gwyn stays close to Nesta and Emerie, retreating to her old habits when he first joined their sessions and she was still slightly hesitant to be close. But it is when she goes to Cassian instead of him that has Azriel's heart pinching. Like now, when she is showing Cassian the dagger maneuver she perfected with him, less than two weeks ago, the maneuver that he taught her, and ordered for her to do over and over and over again.
And now, Gwyn is giving Cassian that same grin when he applauds her execution.
It is sorrow that fills Azriel's lungs next, so heedy and aching that he is sure the feeling has replaced air itself and he is grasping, grappling for breath. It does not come, and all Azriel can think of, is what a fucking fool he is.
And when Rhysand appears - however longer later - to return Emerie to Windhaven, and their gazes clash, Azriel feels the tightness in his chest, the lump in his throat, the gnawing in his mind, and he feels so stupid, so stupid, so stupid-
Suddenly he is a child again, locked in the cell with no light, no windows; dank air and stale breaths.
Only now, it is his body that is the cell. And he has shut the windows and closed the curtains in on himself.
When Azriel's eyes open next, he is on his hands and knees atop the training ring, his face held between Rhysand's hands. And Rhysand looks worried, too worried, pissed almost - and at first, Az does not register the words his brother is saying. No, ordering.
"Azriel. Breathe."
Breathe? Is he not doing that?
He supposes he isn't - not properly, anyway. The sorrow is still deep in his lungs, sparring with the air that is now begging, though the latter loses the battle. Right.
"Not to be inconsiderate, brother," Cassian starts with furrowed brows, crouching down beside Rhysand with a hand clasping Az's shoulder, "but you're terrifying the priestesses. Can you pull yourself together?"
Az thinks of Gwyn, wonders what her face might look like. Wonders if there will be concern and worry etched across each splattered freckle as she had looked at him two weeks ago when he was thinking about her hair, and fucki-
He startles, and pulls back out of both his brothers' grasps until he has toppled backward onto his ass and squeezes his eyes shut. Though they open remarkably fast, fast enough to spot the troubling look shared between his brothers. Azriel clenches his jaw, both his fists, before getting to his feet. He thinks he hears Nesta call his name but he ignores it, instead, looking down at his boots as they turn him the opposite direction to the stairs into the House of Wind.
And when he looks up, he sees Gwyn. And, indeed, that is worry on her face and concern swimming in her her teal orbs and he curses silently at it because he doesn't deserve it. Her lips part ever so slightly, as if she is to say something, and the idea of her finally speaking to him causes him to lose his balance and he nearly trips over his own two feet. He finally reaches the archway of the stairs and reaches out a hand on the cool, hard stone. It centres him, and though he distinctly hears Rhysand call his name again, the sound of his brother's voice dies within the stairwell as Azriel descends the steps.
If he is being honest, a little part of him dies too.
I will not fall in love. Azriel chastises himself, dunking his head under the water in his bathing pool.
I will not fall in love and I will not love her.
Beneath the watery blanket, he opens his eyes, the burning a welcoming feeling as he holds his breath and looks above at the grey ceiling.
I will not open up.
I will not let her in.
She will not have my heart.
The thought dies in his mind as quickly as it came because now he is rising above the water, gasping for air as it soaks his onyx hair, droplets clinging to every inch of his bare skin. He leans against the stone and rakes a hand down his face, then through his hair to get it off his forehead. He breathes, kind of, and spits out the bit of water that managed to somehow creep in.
His pulse steadies, calming himself as he thinks of the million-and-one things he's been tasked to do by Rhysand. But all other thoughts eddy out of his mind because they all come back to her.
To Gwyn.
He's frustrated now - not that he wasn't always - with his stupidity of the necklace, the hope that Gwyn would speak to him, whatever the fuck that was when he fell to his hands and knees atop the training ring. He shakes his head and dips lower into the bath until the water reaches just under his chin. He has to let this go, he knows it. This.. whatever this feeling is for Gwyn. The faster he lets it go, the faster he can get over it and get over these stupid fucking feelings that are distracting him from his work, his tasks, his duties. Perhaps then, he thinks, he will be able to be near her and think clearly. To be around her and smile at her in a friendly manner, and continue about his day. To train alongside her, still giving her tips and tricks, without thinking of her beneath her leathers.
But, for now..
Yes, his shadows edge on, just for now.
He blinks the guilt away and thinks of Gwyn's face. Thinks of her perfectly rounded eyes the very colour of the seas in Adriata. Thinks of her pink, pouted lips and the shine of her auburn hair. Thinks of the freckles that loiter her face, her neck, her arms.. how they must follow along every nook, cranny and crevice of her beautiful, supple, body. It does not take long at all for Azriel's arousal to stir, his cock to harden.
And Gods, he shouldn't - he know this, but perhaps just this one time, since he knows he will never have her, perhaps.. perhaps it wouldn't hurt.
So he swallows hard and lets his eyes flutter shut. He grips his cock beneath the lukewarm water and tugs, breathing shallow at the images of her playing across his mind. He pumps himself, careful to quiet his groans as he thinks of her fingers braiding her hair, thinks of that grin that encompasses her whole entire face.
He thinks of Gwyn cutting the ribbon. Shit, he forgot to ask Nesta what she meant by-
He hisses, pumping his cock harder and faster and he bites his lip so hard it bleeds as he finds release soon after and finishes all over his hand.
At least the water will rid it away.
He wishes it would do the same to him.
He stays in the bath for another fifteen minutes, reeling over the fact he just touched himself to mental imagery of her, the guilt and shame now prickling his skin in tiny goosebumps as the water cools. He steps out and blows out a long, hard breath.
He doesn't quite recognize himself in the mirror as he passes by it, but perhaps that's a good thing. He doesn't feel very good about himself right now, and he thinks that maybe if he doesn't look like himself, either, then it's not really him. One can hope.
That fucking word again. Hope.
Sleep is beckoning him like the sweetest hymm he's heard Gwyn sing, and reaches for the black towel hung over the railing, dabbing it over his chest, arms and calves. He brings it to his head next, rubbing it vigorously across his hair to rid it of the dampness as he retreats from the bathing room into his bedroom.
"A- oh, my gods!" Gwyn shrieks.
"Oh, fuck- shit!" Az curses as he frantically wraps the towel around his waist to cover himself.
"I.. I am so sorry." Gwyn mutters, back turned to him but still sitting on his bed.
Wait, what? What the hell?
Azriel doesn't even have the words, but somehow, someway, manages to say, "I'm sorry-" But what does he have to be sorry for? This is his room, after all. It's not like he had any idea Gwyneth fucking Berdara would be sitting on his bed at midnight in nothing but-
Gwyn turns slowly, shyly, just in case Azriel's cock is still out on full display, and his cheeks flush knowing that Gwyn has just seen him naked. Fucking great. He rubs the back of his neck and offers her a short smile.
"I'm so sorry." She says again, "I should have knocked or waited outside or.. really anything other than this. I obviously knew you were in there, because well, you weren't in here." She says, gesturing to the bedroom. Azriel wonders if she's rambling, and he arches a brow. She continues, "are you alright?"
She has totally disengaged from the fact he just walked out of his bathing room stark naked with a half hard cock that was caused by images of her. Thank the Cauldron, he thinks. What a blessing.
He clears his throat, "I'm alright. Sorry you saw.. Ah, are you, well, alright?"
He is so godsdamn flustered. Not just because he's still half hard, but perhaps it's not so much half anymore rather than fully, since Gwyn is here in his bedroom wearing a teal night gown and nothing-fucking-else. She quickly shakes her head as if it's nothing, and it has him painfully wondering if she's been seeing a lot of nude males in her spare time and thus why she can act as if seeing his cock is no big deal. But no, she wouldn't.. would she? It shouldn't matter - no, it doesn't matter. Because Gwyn is a fully grown, adult female capable of making her own decisions and doing whatever she wants, with whomever she wants. His pulse thunders at the latter thought.
Perhaps it's best he forget about that entirely.
"I'm quite alright."
Alright. Splendid.
Gwyn moves off the bed and Az's eyes follow the movement after his eyes snag on the muss of silk her body made on his sheets.
They both begin to speak at the same time and she chuckles, her cheeks flushing. Az tries to will his heart rate back to normal until the thin strap of her night gown slips off her shoulder. She puts it back like it never happened but now all Az can see are all the freckles that he godsdamn knew would be splattered all across her beautiful, porcelain skin. He tries desperately to will his cock to settle down, but it's as relentless as her concern for him.
"Gwyn," he starts, and her eyes latch to his. He has never seen a colour so beautiful before. But then he moves toward her, two steps, and it's one too many because his towel unravels from his waist since it wasn't properly tied, and it all just happens so fucking fast, but it feels like time is slowing all the same.
The black fabric pools to the ground before he can even register what is happening, and his heart is thundering so loudly that he can hear the blood rushing in his head from the adrenaline. Gwyn's eyes track the movement and she inhales sharply as she sees him again, wholly naked with a fully erect cock and it is entirely at her mercy. He scrambles to gather the towel and holds it up in front of him, but Gwyn has already seen, twice, and there is no denying his arousal now. Certainly not from the sight nor the scent.
"Gwyn-" He starts again, panicked and desperate because this is a total fucking disaster, and none of these past few mintues were ever, ever supposed to have happened and he doesn't know whether the necklace incident or this incident is worse.
He smells it, though. Almost immediately. And it is not just his arousal now. His eyes heat and he swallows hard.
"I should go." She all but squeaks, and vanishes as quickly from his bedroom as does his dignity.
Well, fuck.
He sits at the edge of his bed, and places his palm on the sheets where Gwyn had just sat. He can still smell her honeyed scent.
She will not have my heart, he thought less than thirty minutes ago.
Yeah, fucking right.