(Azrayel's POV)
Her voice wavered for a heartbeat before settling. "I am Metheea."
Metheea.
The name didn't just hit him. It slammed into him like a punch to the ribs. Years of searching, sleepless nights, and battles fought with her face in his mind all came crashing into this single second. It was like the air changed, as if the whole world had paused to listen.
Everything he had carried—hope, anger, and longing—split wide open, spilling into a hollow that felt dangerously close to despair.
He needed to hear it again.
"Say it," he said, his voice low and rough, more plea than command.
Truthfully, he wanted her to deny it. He wanted her to pick any other name, something ordinary, something safe. Not the name that had haunted him for as long as he could remember, not the one everyone whispered about since he was old enough to understand.
"I…" Her breath caught, her gaze flicking away before finding him again. "I'm Metheea."
The second time it came out louder, stronger, as if saying it twice made it real. When the sound of her name left her lips, his lungs finally remembered how to work. It was both a blow and a relief.
In his mind, he tried to deny it, telling himself that maybe this was her way of pushing him away, that if he gave her the chance she would say anything else.
"If this is your way to deny us…"
"No," she interrupted, her voice shaking but firming with each word. "I am Princess Metheea Feylisse of Katarthan and Dythrid, second dragon-born of King Therion IX and Queen Tilde."
"No," he answered, the denial slipping out before he could stop it.
I am your sister, Azrayel." She trembled and fell into the grass, her breath unsteady, as though finally speaking the secret she had guarded had stolen every ounce of her strength.
He whispered another quiet "No," unable to accept the truth she had just spoken.
If she was his sister and not his mate, then he did not know what he was supposed to be anymore. The thought left him dizzy enough that he sank down into the grass beside her before he could stop himself.
Relief should have been the only thing inside him.
Instead, that strange pull toward her wrapped itself around the relief until he couldn't tell one from the other. He hated himself for the way his gaze kept drifting to her mouth when he should have looked at her like a brother.
"We've been searching for you for years," he said, his tone sharp to keep his emotions in check. "If you are Metheea, then why are you here?"
She met his gaze. "You know I am betrothed to Count Verry, and they demanded re-education for me. Mother knew no one could try to find me here in Katarthan."
His hands curled into fists, the urge to punch something rising because deep down he had a feeling she was telling the truth.
His tone sharpened, the words coming out like a blade. He leaned in, eyes locked on hers.
"Why didn't you tell me you are Metheea?" he asked, his voice low but carrying the weight of accusation.
Her eyes flashed. "Because I was scared you were going to kill me."
He gave a short, disbelieving laugh, the sound low and edged. "Why did you kiss me?" His tone cut into her like a challenge.
"You did that!" she shot back. "I did not kiss you."
"Amazing," he said, a sharp laugh breaking out. "So all that time, we kissed, you knew I'm your brother?"
"I did not know, okay?" she shouted, her voice trembling. "I didn't know the first time."
He straightened, eyes narrowing. "And the second time?"
She hesitated, looking away. "You surprised me that time."
He laughed again, this time mocking, the sound bitter in the night air.
For the first time in years, he didn't know what to do. He could still feel the pull, sharp and unrelenting, and yet that pull was for the woman he had believed to be his mate—his sister.
"What do you want?" he asked, the words rough. "What do you want to do?"
She looked at him, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know. I didn't plan to tell you anything but…"
"But the pull," he said finished for her.
"There is no pull," she cried, tears spilling. "There can't be pull between us. We are siblings, Azrayel."
His teeth ground together as he looked away, the tension in his jaw betraying the war inside him.
Was the pull he felt all this time nothing more than the raw gravity of standing this close to another dragon-born and not a mate's bond at all?
Torchlight broke through the dark, cutting across the trees. Faint shouts carried on the wind — the academy patrols making their rounds.
Metheea pushed herself to her feet, wiping at her tears. "The guards are coming, Azrayel. Bring me back..."
"We need to talk more," he said.
"Now," she replied firmly.
He took her into his arms, lifting her with ease. The moment he held her, an almost unbearable mix of emotions flooded him—immense pleasure and happiness at having her close again, yet dread coiled tightly inside him.
He could not tell if he wanted to keep holding her forever or put her down before the confusion swallowed him whole. Without another word, he turned and ran toward the dormitories, his steps silent but his thoughts loud, every one of them tangled in her.
He vaulted up to her window with effortless grace, setting her down as though she weighed nothing.
Her eyes refused to meet his, the redness and puffiness from her tears only making her look more fragile and, under the silver wash of moonlight, achingly beautiful. They lingered there, poised on the window sill, suspended between distance and closeness.
"I'll come back tomorrow, so let's talk by that time," he said.
She did not answer.
"Metheea," he said, his voice cracking as he swallowed hard, gritting his teeth.
For the first time in his life, he spoke that name in pain rather than in longing.
"I'll come back for you."