Chapter 3
Three
AVA
“This is so exciting,” Jessica chatters on, clearly oblivious to the silent showdown happening behind her—where Soren and I are locked in an intense, slow-blinking stare-down.
“The whole team has been talking about this panel for weeks. The social media buzz is incredible. Everyone’s calling it the literary event of the year. ”
The banter war begins the second our gazes collide.
Soren sweeps over me, taking inventory of every curve, curl, and guarded breath I’m pretending not to take. “I can’t believe I’m actually face-to-face with the Queen of Emotional Catharsis.”
His mouth curves, mine tightens. It’s all instinct now—words as armor, wit as weapon.
“Yes, and here he is—the Sultan of Sword Porn, in the flesh.”
A hit of his cologne flies up my nostrils when I step closer. It’s woodsy, clean, hellaciously distracting.
I gesture to the sword on his hip. “Tell me, did you have to check that thing as luggage, or did you register it as a service animal?”
His laugh is genuine, unlike the masterful charm he uses on his fans. “Service animal. I like that. It does provide emotional support. Mostly to the lonely and the curious.”
“Mm. Judging by the crowd, you’re running a full-on support group.”
His eyes darken with amusement. “You sound jealous.”
“Hardly,” I shoot back. “Though I am curious. Does it grant wishes and orgasms on contact, or is that just part of the folklore? It’s been fondled more times today than I care to count.”
Soren’s grin goes pure mischief. “Only one way to find out.”
I scoff. “Right. Let me guess—step into the enchanted realm, hike up my skirt, and moan your name?”
“Only if you want the deluxe package. Includes a sticker pack, a commemorative T-shirt, and the sudden inability to think about anyone else.”
I’m smiling, despite myself. “Wow. Did that line come with a training manual or years of unchecked ego?”
Soren steps closer. The air tightens. “No manual. Only excellent instincts.”
I lift my chin. “Funny. My instincts are telling me to run.”
“Toward or away?”
The moment stretches between us like taffy, sweet and tension-filled, daring someone to make the next move.
Show them fire.
I offer a sugar-laced smile. “This has been fun, Pembry. Truly. But, enough games. I’ve got a panel to carry.”
“Ouch.” Soren presses a hand to his chest in mock pain. “Right in the ego. I see you’re bringing your A-game today.”
“Not even my best stuff. I’m saving that for when the cameras are rolling.”
“Guess I’ll have to step it up, then.” Soren leans down toward my ear, the heat in his words licking across my skin. “Let’s give ’em a show, shall we?”
The volunteer standing next to Soren—Jade, her nametag says—clears her throat pointedly. “If you two are done flirting, we really need to get you mic’d up.”
Heat prickles at the base of my neck, crawling all the way to my scalp. “We weren’t—” I begin, too fast.
“That wasn’t—” Soren says at the same time, far too calmly.
Jade arches a brow. “Mhm.”
Smooth, way too satisfied with himself, Soren laughs. “That’s a new one for us.”
My head tilts.
Light, almost silver, storm-colored eyes slide to mine, lazy and amused. “Though if we were flirting, I’d probably open stronger. Less mutual denial, more meaningful pressure.”
“We weren’t flirting,” I snap with force, hoping it’ll erase the heat lingering in my cheeks along with the flutter in my stomach–the one I’m trying very hard to ignore.
Soren’s grin deepens, full of slow-burning trouble and quiet ego. “Noted. But for the record, if we were–”
“We weren’t,” I cut him off.
Was I?
Was he?
No. No, absolutely not.
Except maybe—
I need to focus. Or get laid. Preferably by anyone but the six-foot-four fantasy menace staring at me like I’m halfway out of this dress.
I wish the floor would open up and eat me.
“Let’s just get this over with.” I square my shoulders like a soldier in formation, ignoring the tremor building inside my chest.
After Jade finishes with our mics, she walks off, shaking her head, muttering on about authors and their unresolved sexual tension.
“Right this way,” Jessica forces us forward.
The buzz of the ballroom dulls behind us as we make our way through a back hallway. We pass several doors before Jessica opens one marked: Event Center.
Slipping into a utilitarian space smelling faintly of dust and stale coffee, the low thrum of backstage chatter, along with the occasional jump scare of a walkie-talkie, drifts through the air.
Exposed pipes line the ceiling. Folding chairs, extension cords, and cardboard boxes labeled SWAG BAGS - PANEL 3 are stacked haphazardly along one wall. A half-eaten muffin sits forgotten on a metal table beside an open laptop looping the event schedule.
Another woman—this one with a headset, and the aura of someone keeping twelve flaming tasks in the air—spots us approaching. She waves enthusiastically.
“Ava Bell! Oh my goodness, I’m Shirley Whitemire—” her badge says Chaos Coordinator “—I’m such a huge fan! I’ve read The Boyfriend Deadline three times and teared up at the puppy yoga scene each re-read.”
Despite my nerves, I instantly love this overly vibrant woman wearing a burnt-orange blazer with a pilgrim hat pin. Her excitement is infectious. And the fact that she read and liked my bomb book makes my anxiety dial down a notch.
“Thank you so much, Shirley.” I beam back at her. “That means the world to me.”
“And Soren Pembry!” She bounces on her toes. “The Blade!”
“A pleasure to meet you.” Soren holds his hand out for her to shake, which she vigorously does.
“Oh, the pleasure is all mine.” Shirley is still shaking his hand. “You know, I have to admit, I’m more of a contemporary romance girl. However, my book club devoured the Court of Thirst and Thorns. We spent two hours debating whether Kael was a green flag or a red flag in leather pants.”
“What was the verdict?” he asks.
“Unanimous red flag,” Shirley giggles. “But we’d all still climb him like a tree.”
I snort-laugh before I can stop myself, a full-on, inelegant, traitorous laugh.
Soren’s eyes immediately shift to me. “Don’t knock it till you try it, Ava.”
“Oh, I’ve tried red flags,” I retort. “But I don’t usually line up for the sequel.”
“Usually, huh?” His growly tone slips under my skin as if it’s received clearance. “Never know. A walking red flag could ruin all the green ones for you.”
“Ruin? Cute. You write brooding weapon racks with abandonment issues. Let’s not.”
Soren’s gaze is a caress on my skin. He’s every bit the smoldering anti-hero he writes.
To my utter horror, he moves closer, his proximity sending a shiver skittering up my spine.
“I could rewrite how you burn, Ava.”
My jaw falls to the floor at the same time my vagina throws confetti. What the fuck did he just say?
Before I can ask that question out loud, I snap my mouth shut and tilt my chin, refusing to let him see how my pulse is trying to breakdance.
I know what Soren’s doing, turning the heat up on purpose, tossing out loaded lines and sinful smirks, hoping I’ll lose my footing before we even reach the stage.
Let them see fire.
“Not today, Blade Boy. I’ve faced worse than some cocky fantasy author with a fandom that probably sells scented candles in your honor.”
“They do, actually. Body mist too. Storm-Kissed Leather and Brooding in the Sheets—both sold out in under an hour when they launched.” His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. “If you want a sample, I’m wearing both.”
My eyes narrow at him.
“Oh, you two are going to kill it out there,” Shirley gushes.
“That’s the plan,” Soren says, eyes still on me.
“This is the biggest crowd we’ve ever had for a panel.” Shirley peels back the curtain.
My stomach drops.
The energy vibrates with anticipation. Every chair is filled, and the rest is standing room only, with people lined up against the walls three deep. Phones are already recording from the back rows.
“That’s way more than a hundred people,” I whisper.
“Two hundred fifty,” Shirley says. “To be exact.”
I close my eyes for half a second. Breathe in. Try to remember my own name. Breathe out.
Camera flashes, excited voices, overhead lights. They’re all making my skin feel too tight. The world is loud and bright and pressing in from all sides. I can’t find enough air to suck in.
Deep breaths. One. Two. Three.
It’s not working. Anxiety and ambition are locked in a bare-knuckle brawl behind my ribcage. Both are losing.
Soren’s voice pulls me back. “Ava, you okay?”
Breathe in.
I reopen my eyes to find him watching me with the tiniest crease between his brows.
Breathe out.
Refusing to let him see me crumble, I smooth my dress, flash a smile sharp enough to slice through my own panic, and reply with a light tone, “Of course.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. This is me, mentally preparing for our classic death match.”
“Classic death match,” he parrots.
“Yeah. We’re about to go up there and do some real Clash of the Titans stuff, you know, debating over men who show their emotions vs. sword-wielding angst machines.”
With a chuckle, Soren’s head drops for a half-second.
“Some might argue that those sword-wielding angst machines are showing their emotions. Only, they do it with bloodshed and battle cries. In my books, war isn’t just war—it’s foreplay with a body count.
Because let’s be honest, most of those epic clashes start with a woman.
Or end with one. Or a kingdom burned down in her name. ”
“So you're telling me your warlords are romantics with rage issues? That all this sword-swinging and kingdom-toppling is their way of writing love letters in blood?”
“Exactly.”
Pulse tripping over itself, I manage to roll my eyes. “Fantastic. Murder with emotional depth. Be still, my heart.”
His gorgeous lips twitch. “See, you get it.”
“Yep. Nothing says love like a little light decapitation.”
“Ready?” Shirley asks.
We nod.