Azazeal stayed awake that night.
He was seated beside the fire in his study, his jaw set, his eyes flaming red as he glared into the burning furnace.
His time in Elora's chambers earlier remained in his mind, making him restless.
Her fragrance clung to his clothes, a soft floral scent that stung his skin and made his blood flame. He could still sense the curve of her lips, the blush on her cheeks, and how her lashes had dipped when she wouldn't meet his eyes.
His wolf stirred once more, anxious and territorial.
He had attempted to maintain his distance, to give her the space she asked for. He had convinced himself that it was for her benefit — to make her feel safe, to prevent her from resenting the marriage into which she had been caged.
But now, he wasn't so sure.
With each time he glanced at her, the barriers he had constructed around himself crumbled a little further. She made him feel things he didn't want to feel — things he didn't know how to deal with.
