Her frown deepened, guilt prickling her conscience. It hurt to see him in such anguish. She had been very inconsiderate. Wrapped up in her own frustrations, she never really stopped to consider how their separation had affected him. Azazel had always seemed fine on the outside, enduring their forced estrangement in silence, hiding his wounds as she did, burying the ache they both felt from being torn apart. The pain of not being able to see her twin or even talk to him, though he was down the hall, was maddening. A full year of cold distance, of avoiding even the briefest glance across the dining hall, was etched into their hearts, all because of her outburst over Dante and Father sending their closest friend to Russia.

It was all her fault. She’d thrown the first punch at Dante, and they both suffered for it. And now, she was trying to drag him along again in another one of her tantrums. A tantrum that would only result in another year or more of separation and another few weeks in a cold stone cell shackled to a silver chain and a slave crest on her chest. She couldn’t bear for Azazel to face the same.

Suddenly, Azazel’s newfound assertiveness seemed to make more sense now.

She knew now for a fact she couldn’t tell her twin about Lucius or what happened in China. It wasn’t fair to him for her to be so selfish, but she wouldn’t make him shoulder her burdens and suffer punishment for something only she did. If anyone should feel Father’s wrath, she wanted it only to be her. She felt she deserved nothing less.

Azalie tried to hide her exhaustion as she looked at Azazel’s bowed head. Reaching out, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close and brushing her fingers gently through his disheveled silver hair.

“I’m sorry, frate,” she murmured against his tousled head, her voice as soft as a sigh. “I promise I’ll obey Father’s orders. I will not investigate the blood issue any further.” It stung deeply, surrendering that control. But she’d do it for him. She wouldn’t let them be torn apart again. Silently, she vowed to work extra hard to make sure Lucius didn’t become discovered.

Azazel relaxed, his arms tightening around her waist as he leaned into her shoulder.  “Zalie, will you please feed from me?” he asked again, his voice soft against her skin. “I know it’ll do little in the way of nutrients, but at least you’ll have some strength. Just for now.” He lifted his head up, meeting her golden-yellow gaze. “Do it for me. . . please?”

She closed her eyes, knowing he wouldn’t relent. Azazel, in all his protectiveness, wouldn’t take no for an answer. Refusing him even more, when he knew she had no other blood to drink, would just make him more insistent. And now, realizing what had shaped his persistence, she couldn’t help but feel…a strange warmth. This version of her brother, this clingy, almost desperate loyalty—it was somehow endearing and she was always weak to her twins’ charms. But this, she had to remain firm on. She steeled herself, trying to regain her sense of control, even if she found it secretly comforting to have him hovering.

Azalie pulled away, standing up from the bed with a feigned air of authority like she used to as she smoothed down her worn outfit, her back towards her twin to hide her hesitation. She needed to say something, anything, to convince him she didn’t need his blood or this special treatment.

“Zel—”

The door to her bedroom flew open, and there stood Dante, his expression as sour as ever, dressed in his customary shadow-black attire.

“Of course. I should have known I would find you both in here,” Dante sneered, his tone dripping with disdain.

Azalie’s muscles tensed at the sight of him, but she forced herself to remain calm, holding herself absolutely still without looking too obvious that she was struggling for her inner self-control. For Nyx’s sake and for the sake of Azazel and Lucius, do not lose your temper.

“Good evening, Dantalion,” she managed with an icy politeness.

Azazel stood and muttered a respectful greeting of his own, but Dante ignored them entirely. “Azalie,” he said, his tone clipped, “Lord Molch wishes to speak with you.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Now?”

Dante’s eyes narrowed. “Of course now! You would make the Lord wait on you?” His voice was laced with impatience, and he gestured sharply for her to follow.

She was nowhere near presentable for a meeting. Her skin was still red and raw, her hair was finger combed, and she was still in her training garb from the other day. But there was no room for protest.

Dante snapped impatiently and gestured towards the hall again. She bit her lip and started to move. Azazel followed. Dante halted him with his hand. “Azalie only. You may remain here, Azazel.”

She turned to Azazel, masking her concern. “Azazel, stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Azazel gave her a reluctant nod, lingering in the doorway a moment before he disappeared back into her room.

Dante escorted her briskly down the narrow stone corridors toward her father’s study. The passage was cold and quiet, save for the sharp click of Dante’s boots echoing off the walls. He opened the door to the Lord’s study and practically shoved her inside, shutting the door silently behind her.