Chapter 2 #2
My sparring changed, too. It became something else entirely. My comebacks stopped being defensive. They turned smokier, more intimate, charged with an energy even I didn’t recognize. Her razor-blade insults started landing differently, no longer feeling like attacks, but invitations to dance.
Ava Crowley Bell became the highlight of my week. As we traded barbs across the digital divide, I felt good. I was me. I wasn’t “The Blade,” or the fantasy thirst trap—just Soren. Unfiltered, vulnerable, alive in a way I’d forgotten was possible.
She made me want to be wittier. Also, deeper, more honest. That stopped me from viewing her as my enemy. In return, I saw her as the woman who could, and did, cut through all my bullshit with a single, perfectly crafted comment like the one she wrote in my “Brooding Heroes Need Love Too” post:
Soren, your heroes don’t need love. They need therapy, a personality transplant, and maybe a dictionary so they can learn words other than ‘mine,’ ‘claim,’ and ‘destiny.’ But sure, let’s call it romance.
Yep, I was in trouble.
With all her fire and brains, Ava drags on my tropes as though it’s her civic duty to educate the masses on everything wrong with a dark fantasy. She loathes my genre, my face, and the fact that I once called her “adorably demented” during a live.
I meant it as a compliment, by the way.
For months, I’ve kept up playing the fantasy author slash book boyfriend role, flashing the grin that’s becoming more of a grimace each day, spinning the sword that’s become more prop than passion, and feeding the fandom the version of me they crave while quietly wondering: what if I dropped the mask for once, and let people see the man drowning beneath all this leather and manufactured mystique?
Between you, me, and the smirking devil on my shoulder, Ava Bell is the only person I want to witness that drowning. Which is, of course, peak irony, considering she’s also the one who keeps handing me the metaphorical bricks.
She hates me—publicly, enthusiastically, and with just enough lingering eye contact to make me think she’s either plotting my murder or imagining hate-fucking me with the lights on.
Which I’m all for.
And know this, if she ever gave me the chance to, I’d destroy that pussy of hers with every ounce of pent-up hunger she’s stuffed into me since the day we started exchanging verbal daggers.
Captain Pembry twitches. Down, boy. Nope, not today.
Ava’s watching me, so I send her a wink to see what she’ll do. Predictably, she pivots back to the guy beside her, suddenly riveted by whatever brilliance he’s pretending to offer.
She laughs easily, the sound hitting me square in the chest. His hand grazes her arm, and a territorial burn courses through me. He’s too close. Too familiar. I’m building a list of reasons to hate him—none of them rational, all of them mine.
Ava’s rattled, though. She won’t look back at me. That small tell makes my morning. Because it’s all mine.
I continue watching her a moment longer.
The soft amber in her eyes has gone watery at the edges, speaking louder than the smile she’s forcing.
Her shoulders stay tight even when she laughs, like she’s bracing for impact.
Her fingers worry at her sides, flexing in and out, again and again, as if stillness might make her unravel.
My focus returns to Ava’s whiskey-colored eyes. Much like her stories, they hold multitudes—grief tucked beneath the beauty, ache threaded through every line, a quiet pain hiding even in her happily ever afters.
If that wasn’t enough of a clue, the guarded flame in her gaze is. That wary, wounded kind of look comes from surviving, and never quite believing you’re safe.
Someone shattered her faith in love, and she’s been writing her way through it ever since.
It’s evident that Ava Bell is a fortress—mentally, emotionally… maybe even physically. I respect that. I understand caution. How it wraps around your heart like barbed wire, and doesn’t let go. She’s rebuilt herself with walls no one gets past.
Bet she can spot a threat from miles away. Which, for her, is me. Except I’m not a threat. Not even close.
While whispering in her ear, the guy next to her demolishes a cookie with the dedication of a man on death row. A blush creeps across her skin, from her throat to her ears, almost like spilled wine.
I’d sell my soul to know what caused it. Hell, I’d kill to be the reason for it.
But alas, Ava Bell is immune to my swagger and smirks, too intelligent for surface charm, too scarred to trust a stranger.
“Mr. Pembry?” A clipboard-wielding volunteer suddenly materializes, headset askew, chest heaving, cheeks flushed. Has she been running?
I nod, point to her nametag. “Jade, right?”
“We’re ready for the Genre Feud panel with you and Ms. Bell.”
My heart kicks against my ribs at the sound of her name. I cap my Sharpie with a soft click, letting the persona slide back into place with one last practiced grin for the girl still waiting in line.
Drawn by that same magnetic pull that’s been torturing me for over a year, I turn to see Ava striding toward me. That sweater dress hugs her tight little body like a love letter, clinging to curves I’ve tried very hard not to imagine touching, but failed miserably.
Her curls bounce with every determined step, glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose until she pushes them back up with the same fingers I wouldn’t mind curled around something far less innocent.
My lips twist at that thought. Ava looks straight at me. A pull tightens deep in my chest, uninvited, undeniable.
She moves with purpose, light catching her hair, defiance in her stride. Ava’s fierce, and she’s not going to spar with my words up on that stage today. She’s going to aim for my soul.
And the sickest part?
I very much want her to hit her mark.