When Daggerheart came back in the morning, Azriel had been putting on his clothes so he could leave.

"Good morning, spymaster. I hope you slept well." She shook off her boots and discarded her blades on a sofa.

"Good morning." He searched her clothes for any sign of where she had been. "I did, thank you."

She nodded and sucked on her teeth as she made her way around the kitchen, stumbling over things.

Before he could ask her where she had been, she twisted the lid of a container and bit her lip to keep in a hiss of pain. His eyes snapped towards her wrist and there, peeking from the sleeve, was a huge bruise that had turned black. Just behind her ear, where she had tied her hair back, he noticed a spray of blood. The red drops slid down her neck but there was no other wound visible which meant that it was someone else's blood.

"You left after dinner last night." He said, looking away from her.

"Yes. I-" she tied her hair in a tighter bun. "had some work to do."

"Did that involve killing someone by any chance?" He raised his eyebrows and Daggerheart laughed dryly, "You torture people for a living."

He shrugged, "I wasn't accusing you of anything. I was simply interested."

"Well,-" she opened the window to let in some air. "- don't get very interested in my life."

He peered over her shoulder and outside the kitchen window. There were no houses in sight. Only rolling midows spread as far as one could see. Tall grass swayed in the cold wind and the flowers were still wet from the rain that had only stopped a few hours ago. Daggerheart closed her eyes and leaned onto the counter. A blue butterfly flew in and landed on her stack of books and Azriel watched it slowly flap its magnificent wings while Daggerheart splashed her face with water.

Finally, she broke the silence, "Her father wanted to sell her."

He realised with a jolt that she was talking about the little girl who had died.

"Her brother tried to save her but she fell from the roof." Then, she whispered, " She was only seven." Her grip on an empty cup by the sink tightened. She threw it against the wall and it shattered, "What kind of sick and twisted father sells his own child?"

"I don't think he was father at all." Azriel thought and realised he had said it out loud only when he found Daggerheart looking at him. Her chest heaving, she looked outside again, "No. I don't think he was." She agreed.

He fiddled with his fingers, " What kind of sick and twisted person buys a seven year old girl?"

Daggerheart's face was red by now. She said nothing but he could see the promise of a painful death in her eyes.

"I must leave."

"Yes." She nodded with her head down. "Your family would think you're dead if you don't."

"Thank you for letting me stay." He got up from the sofa and backed up towards the door.

He saw her sit heavily on a chair as she whispered, "Thank you for staying." before he turned around and left.

He returned to the house of wind only to see everyone gathered in the hall. Well, everyone except Rhysand.

"He went to the human realm." Feyre said. "He thought something was wrong because neither of you came."

"There was a terrible storm. It rained all night." Azriel explained.

Mor smirked, "So you were at Daggerheart's all night?"

He sighed, " She was out all night."

Then, as he had expected, Cassian joined in, "But if she had been home-"

"We would have slept in separate rooms." He glared at his brother who only grinned at him. "You both know I would never. And she would definitely never."

Feyre leaned against Cassian, "So you're saying that if we convince her...."

"Not you too Feyre." Azriel gave her a look of disbelief.

All three of them snickered and he rolled his eyes. "Someone very close to her passed away yesterday."

They all stopped their chatter to look at him, "Who? That's terrible." Morrigan leaned forward with concern in her eyes.

" It was a little girl. She really loved her." He shrugged.

"That's awful." Feyre placed a hand on her heart. "Was she alright?"

"She seemed fine last night but not today. It will take a while." He continued to sprawl on a couch opposite to them.

"It will. I hope she doesn't feel alone." Morrigan nodded slowly. "Should we go see her? I don't think she would want anyone to see her in that state."

"We should do this mapping thing later. Maybe a month later." Cassian added.

"I don't-" they were all cut off by the sound of something slamming into the floor and a small crack. Most probably the marble of the floor.

They rushed to their feet only to see Rhysand walking in. Azriel's heart leaped to his throat when he saw that he was carrying Daggerheart in his arms.

Before he could get any words out of his throat, he had already put her down on a couch where she lay unconscious.

He heard a few angry words that Rhysand spat out like, "Wall......drunk.....late.....ran away.....didn't follow." 

His main focus was on the marks of three fingers blooming on Daggerheart's right cheek. One such mark was near her chin. Someone had roughly grabbed her face and, because he could smell the alcohol on her breath, he knew she was most probably passed out because of that alcohol.

She was decidedly sober when he had left her house so perhaps she had started drinking after he was gone. He couldn't be too sure. All he knew was that someone had laid a hand on his mate and he was going to kill them.

"Azriel?" Feyre shook his shoulder, pulling him out of his blood splattered visions.

"Who was it?" He growled.

"I didn't see him." Rhysand answered.

"What do you mean you didn't see him? You were there, weren't you?" He almost shouted.

"His face was turned away and she was already unconscious. I saw the back of his head as he ran away but holding her was more important. I don't think she has any injury." He explained.

"Of course, she doesn't. She's drunk out of her mind." Azriel kneeled by her side. He brushed her hair out of her face and inspected the now fading marks on her cheek that made him see red. His ears were ringing and nobody tried to stop him as he scooped her up and marched towards his room.

As soon as he set her down on the bed, she rolled over on her stomach and her petite frame was almost engulfed by the plush bedding and numerous blankets. He thought about covering her with one of them but when she tugged on her turtleneck and frowned, he decided otherwise. To distract himself from the white, hot rage swirling inside his head, he sat down on the bed by her side and pulled off her shoes and folded her sleeves up so she wouldn't feel too hot.

Shortly after, someone knocked on the door. He inhaled deeply to stop himself from shouting and yanked open the door. Feyre peered around the room and her eyes took in Daggerheart as she mumbled something in her half-unconscious and half- sleeping state.

"I thought you might need some help in changing her clothes." She offered.

Azriel nodded briefly and moved out of her way, closing the door behind himself.

He stood outside the door for what seemed like too long but eventually she opened the door. "Tell her she can keep the nightdress for as long as she likes." She told Azriel and as she turned to leave, said over her shoulder, "Azriel?"

He stopped, "Yes?"

"She's on her cycle. She's mortal so it will be eas-" he cut her short.

"She is not. She's older than all of us. Except Amren I think." He shook his head. "I don't know what she is."

With this, he closed the door and leaned heavily against it.

The curtains were shut since nobody had opened them in the morning so the room was barely lit. Generally, he opened them as soon as he woke up to keep the darkness at bay. Sunlight was something he had learnt to cherish after it was withheld from him for so long. Right now, he preferred it that way.

He watched Daggerheart sleeping on her stomach and walked towards the bed. Feyre had left her hair up. Only a few strands had sneaked out of the tight bun. He let them loose and blinked slowly at the smooth strands slipping between his fingers. The softness of them was the most soothing thing for his scars he had ever experienced. The light fell on her dark hair as they travelled down her waist and stopped almost at her thigh. He could feel her soft breath on his hand when he tried to shift her head onto a pillow so she wouldn't wake up with a sore neck on top of all the other things.

She frowned and turned over, resting her cheek in his palm and held onto his arm so he couldn't move it. After a few very long minutes of debating with himself, he made himself comfortable on the bed and cherished the feeling of her plump cheek against his scarred hand. Hours later, when she pressed her face harder against his palm so her lips brushed against it, he thought that maybe she was too pure to be polluted by his scars.