"What the hell are you doing?"
He straightens, and there's something almost like gentle humor in his eyes. "Allow me to introduce myself properly. Something I should have done a long time ago," he says in a rough voice. He places his hand over his heart in the traditional Surhiiran gesture. "I am Azarel Dovar Srayen, second prince of the House of the Ibis, disgraced son of Queen Amaya, disgraced second heir to the throne." He pauses, meeting my eyes. "And completely, utterly, irrevocably yours."
The last part isn't traditional. The last part is pure Azarel, and it pisses me off that his gallant bullshit still tugs at the fucked up threads woven between us.
"Cute," I say flatly. "But a pretty bow and a formal introduction don't erase months of lies."
"I know."
"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, it seems like you think you can just waltz back in, throw around some pretty words, and everything will go back to how it was."
"That's not?—"
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question explodes out of me before I can stop it. "Why didn't you tell me who you were?"
He's quiet for a moment, clearly weighing his words. "I told you everything I felt mattered. Every part of me that wasn't handed to me by someone else, every part I earned, every scar, every victory, every defeat—I shared all of it with you."
"That's bullshit."
"Is it?"
"Yes!" I snap, my hands clenching into fists. "This place, your family, your title—it's all part of you, whether you rejected it or not. We don't get to just pick and choose the pieces of who we are, Azarel. I gave you the whole picture. Every ugly, broken piece of me. And you gave me a carefully edited version that left out anything inconvenient."
He's quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice is grudging. "You're right."
I blink, not expecting that.
Azarel does not admit he's wrong.Ever.
"I should have told you," he continues. "I convinced myself it didn't matter, that the prince of Surhiira wasn't who I really was. But you're right. It's all part of me, whether I want it to be or not." He meets my eyes, and for the first time since he walked into that garden, I see something genuine there. "I'm sorry."
The apology catches me off guard, but I recover quickly. I've never heard Azarel apologize to anyone. Not even my father. "Sorry isn't enough. Not anymore."
"Then what is?"
"I don't know," I admit. "My standards have changed."
His gaze flicks toward the door, back toward where my alphas are waiting. "Clearly. You're roaming the wastes with criminals."
The dismissive tone makes my hackles rise instantly. "Those 'criminals' protected me when you didn't. They were there when I needed someone. They're…" I take a deep breath. "They're mypack."
"Your pack." He says it like the words taste sour.
"Yes," I say firmly. It gets easier every time I make the declaration. Too comfortable. "And if you ever want a chance of earning my trust again, you're going to have to put up with them."
His lip curls in obvious distaste. "Even Vlakov?"
I shrug, fighting the urge to smirk at his obvious jealousy. "He's the only one I'm still on the fence about, honestly."
Something in his expression shifts, and suddenly he's moving, crossing the space between us and the door in three quick strides. He yanks it open hard enough that the person on the other side—who was clearly pressed against it—tumbles through in a graceless heap of golden hair and long limbs.
Raven looks up from his position on the floor, not even having the decency to look embarrassed. "Oh, hi there!" He waves cheerfully, his chin propped on his other hand like this is a perfectly normal way to enter a room. "I was just admiring the Surhiiran wood. The grain is absolutely fascinating. Is this imported? Because the craftsmanship is just?—"
"You were eavesdropping," Azarel growls.
"That's such an ugly way to put it. I prefer…acoustically investigating."
Azarel's eyes narrow to dangerous slits and his right hand clenches around the bandages like he's imagining wrapping them around Raven's throat.
