★ELOWEN★
The morning sunrays resting upon my face were evidence that I had survived yet another day in the Valeric Castle. I groaned and sat up, noticing immediately that my husband was not in bed with me.
I rested my head against the headboard, a smile gracing my lips as I recalled our conversation from the previous night.
*'You're gorgeous.'*
I squealed, then recollected myself. Azrael was proof that one ought never judge a person by their countenance alone. He looked mean and ruthless with his angular jaw and sharp eyes, like someone who would not spare a soul any late-night conversation. And yet, there we had been last night.
I sighed and climbed out of bed, my first stop being the window. I looked down and noticed neither Azrael nor his assistant were present. He must have skipped his morning exercises. I turned around, and a small sticky note lying on the bedside table caught my attention. I walked to it and picked it up. The note, rendered in scruffy masculine handwriting, read:
*"You shouldn't spend all your time in the library today — the garden is awaiting you."*
I smiled brightly, rereading the note again and again. Wasn't my husband rather endearing?
I undressed, threw my clothes into the laundry basket, and stepped into the ensuite. I brushed my teeth and bathed, stepping out to dress myself in another modest day gown.
After attending to my morning routine, I sat at the vanity to arrange my hair. I gathered it into a loose, careless bun, freeing a few strands to fall about my face. After confirming I was presentable enough for the day, I stepped out of the room.
On my way outside, I came across two maidservants who were making their way toward my husband's chambers. They came to a stop and bowed in courtesy.
"Luna Queen," one of them greeted.
"We were coming to help you prepare for the day," the second added.
I very nearly snorted. They were not only a day late but several hours besides.
"It is quite alright. I have already dressed for the day. Perhaps you might endeavour to come earlier on the days to come."
They bowed again and excused themselves. Though as they turned away, their whispers reached me plainly:
"She survived another day."
"Interesting."
I held back a sigh and continued on my way.
★
I went to the garden after breakfast. I had not encountered Azrael nor his grandmother at the dining table.
The garden had a gate — not entirely surprising — and I liked the fact that it was separated from the main grounds, a small world unto itself. Stepping inside, I breathed in the Romanian air, fragrant with the mingled scent of soil and blooms, and released it slowly with a sigh. I walked further in to find Grandmother Isolde in the herb section, seated upon a small wooden stool. When I approached, she lifted her head and regarded me warmly.
"Mira, dear," she said. "Come, come." She patted the stool beside her. I sat without hesitation. "He had an early start. Goodness knows what it was — he even skipped breakfast. That boy! I do wonder when he shall learn to attend to himself before all else."
I chuckled softly. Grandparents and their remarkable talent for reducing grown adults to children. "Perhaps it was important."
I watched as she plucked green leaves and packed them into a bowl. "That was how his father was," she said, shaking her head. "Never had time for his mother or his wife." Her brows furrowed and a shadow of sadness passed over her face. "He made Azrael what he is today, though I confess I am uncertain whether that is cause for gratitude or lament."
Her words stirred my curiosity considerably. Who was Azrael's father? What manner of people were his parents? But I chose not to give voice to it.
The air between us had grown rather heavy, and in my effort to dispel it, I said, "The library is quite magnificent. I had not imagined so many books could occupy a single space. It puts me in mind of *Beauty and the Beast*."
I laughed, and Grandmother Isolde joined me readily. "Oh yes. There are a great many books — some forbidden ones among them."
I was fairly certain she had not intended to say that last part.
"You ought to explore it further," she added.
"I shall endeavour to." I smiled. My gaze drifted to the purple-rose flower growing at the border of the herb bed. "What manner of flower is this? I do not believe I have seen its like before."
"I wonder myself," she admitted. "I cannot say with certainty whether it is growing from the herbs or arrived here of its own accord."
I reached out and rested my finger against one of the petals. A sharp, tingling sensation shot through me — I felt it travel from my fingertips all the way through my form. I withdrew my hand immediately.
*What on earth was that?*
I attempted to touch it once more, but felt nothing at all. Had I imagined the whole thing?
★
I made my way to the library once Grandmother Isolde had finished with her herbs. My mind had fastened itself quite firmly on the forbidden section. Though she had not spoken of it explicitly, I felt instinctively that such books would not be shelved alongside the ordinary ones.
I found it readily enough.
The shelf stood at the far end of the room. I ran my fingers along the spines — pack history, werewolf lore, ancient territories and bloodlines. My hand came to rest on a particular volume bound in worn brown leather. I drew it out and narrowed my eyes at the title.
"*Werewolf-Vampire Hybrids?*" I murmured aloud. Azrael's mismatched eyes crossed my mind at once. I swallowed and returned the book to its place.
---
"Grandmother said you would be in here."
I turned sharply toward the voice, my heart giving a small leap at the sight of my husband. "Though I did not particularly need her to tell me that," he added, settling himself comfortably onto the couch beside me.
Dusk had descended, but the library was well-lit and warm.
"Welcome back," I greeted him, wondering why my voice came out rather more breathless than I had intended.
"Mm." Our gazes held one another. "Do you object to having dinner in here this evening? I have already spoken with the cook."
"Not in the slightest," I said.
Azrael nodded, and his gaze fell upon the book in my hands. "A romance?" A faint twitch played at the corner of his lips.
"Could it be anything else?" I laughed.
"Tell me about it."
And so I did. I told him about the book, about my morning with Grandmother Isolde in the garden. He listened attentively and offered a quiet compliment on my fondness for reading. We had dinner there among the shelves, unhurried and easy, and when we at last retired to our room and lay down for the night — hands barely touching — my thoughts wandered back to the strange sensation from the flower, and to the equally strange and rather inconvenient feelings I was beginning to harbour for my husband.