Chapter 3 #2
She slips through the curtain, strides up to a podium, and taps the mic. “Welcome, readers and guests, to our most anticipated event of the evening—The Genre Feud: Romance vs Fantasy! Featuring the reigning queen and king of controversy themselves: Ava Bell and Soren ‘The Blade’ Pembry!”
The crowd goes feral.
Soren and I exchange glances. Mine, a mix of dread and painfully rehearsed professionalism. His full of cocky charisma and a smolder dialed so high it might violate a fire code.
I pretend my heart isn’t trying to do jump squats inside my chest and walk out onto the stage.
Soren, of course, is pure showmanship and ease, tossing out waves like he’s stepping onto a red carpet instead of into a literary lion’s den.
Once seated, I survey the contents on the table in front of me. Three bottles of water. A notepad. Pen with hotel logo. A metal tin of mints. Thank you, Fisher.
On an exhale, I paste on my best fake-it-’til-you-make-it grin and lift the pen with a shaky hand to give myself something to fidget with.
I look out at the crowd.
“Thank you for having us—” Soren says at the same time as I do. We both halt mid-sentence, then scramble our words.
“Sorry—” I start.
“Go ahead—”
“No, you—”
“We’ll be here all day.” Half-smiling, he gestures to me with a sweep of his hand. “After you, Ava.”
My lady parts flutter at the sound of my name on his lips.
Ignoring it, I start again. “I’m so excited to be here with all of you today. And… with you, Soren.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then another, stretching long enough to make my armpits second-guess my deodorant.
Apparently, I’m supposed to keep talking.
So… I do.
“I love how you’ve captured everything about fall here at The Great Booksgiving. The warmth, the coziness, that feeling you get when you cocoon yourself in a soft blanket with a good book and a steaming mug filled to the brim with a cinnamon-spiced drink.”
I should stop there. That’s a perfectly fine continuation. Warm. Professional.
My mouth has other plans.
“And the lighting in here? Stunning. Yet eclectic. Comforting.”
Shirley nods. Smiles. She’s clearly thrilled.
The audience? Dead silent.
Soren delivers the save. “Honestly, I think it looks like Thanksgiving and Christmas got drunk, picked a fight, and they both redecorated with their last dying breaths.”
“But, in a festive way,” I add quickly, not wanting to offend Shirley or the staff. “Not a crime scene kind of way. More of a ‘let’s bake cinnamon rolls and work through our trust issues’ vibe. Know what I mean?”
What am I saying?
More silence. One long, dangling moment where I seriously consider flinging myself off the stage and into the Dagger Daddy Fan Club.
Shirley clears her throat with the energy of a kindergarten teacher redirecting a class. “Let’s jump in with our first question from the audience. Ready?”
Soren and I nod.
Shirley reads off a card. “What’s your favorite trope to write, and why? Soren, you first.”
“Enemies to lovers. It’s timeless. The tension.
The banter. The delicious descent into obsession.
” He side-eyes me. “Especially when one character pretends to hate the other, but secretly wants to strangle them and make out with them. You know the type—morally gray with a tragic backstory and hands you definitely shouldn’t trust… but want all over you.”
“Interesting,” My mouth says before my brain can stop it. “You sure you’re a writer, Pembry? Or just fanservice with a sword?”
Fucking hell. He’s going to make me regret every ounce of confidence I just faked.
Soren’s grin falters. He turns toward me in his seat, eyes white-hot. Here we go.
That easy smile of his snaps back into place, this time with a little more edge to it. It’s when stormy grays spark like steel on flint that I know I hit somewhere I wasn’t supposed to.
“Oh, we’re doing that today?” His voice is velvet and venom. “So, tell us then, what’s the Queen of Pumpkin Spice and Flannel-Wrapped Feelings favorite trope?”
I try to swallow. Forget how.
“Second chance romance,” I manage.
“Why?”
“Sometimes the one who hurt you the most is the only one who can help you heal.”
Soren’s brow lifts, intrigued. “How so?”
“It’s messy and rooted in forgiveness. When done right,” I let my tone smooth out. “It shatters you… yet somehow makes you whole again.”
A hush settles over the room. Soren suddenly appears flustered.
Point: Bell.
“I love that.” Shirley plucks the next card from the stack, reads it to herself. “Oooh, this one’s fun.” She wiggles in place. “If your co-panelist were a romance trope, what would they be… and why?”
The crowd hums.
“Oh, that’s easy.” Soren’s grin is that of a wolf locked inside a henhouse. “Ava’s the grumpy sunshine with a gooey center trope.”
“Excuse me?” I chuckle. “I don’t have a gooey center.”
“I’d be willing to fact-check that,” he says, wicked and amused. “And if you ever need help locating it—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
Soren’s voice goes syrupy-smooth. “Ava, I’d be willing to bet that you have a spreadsheet for your feelings, and a planner to schedule when you’ll actually deal with them.
Color-coded, of course. Deep down, though…
” He looks straight into my soul. “You’re just a knife-wielding cupcake…
sugar and spice stuffed inside a very stabby exterior. ”
Point: Pembry.
My cheeks burn. I open my mouth to respond, but my brain is buffering. It lost signal somewhere around “knife-wielding cupcake.”
“However,” he adds, lifting a finger, “she’s also the ‘falling for the enemy’ trope. Which is definitely one of my favs.” Soren winks.
Shirley’s attention bounces between the two of us. I glance at the exit, calculating my odds of escape. Then to Soren, who’s very clearly enjoying himself. Asshole.
“Fine.” My chin lifts defiantly. “If we’re assigning romance tropes, then you’re the cocky fantasy anti-hero who’s secretly one soft touch away from crumbling.”
The audience gives a collective ooh. Soren hides his smile behind a closed fist.
“And the heroine doesn’t fall at his feet?” My voice is sugar-dipped steel. “She makes him work for it.”
Gasps. Laughter. Applause.
“Is that an invitation?”
“Only if you beg.”
Oh, shit. Of all the things I could’ve said, I basically handed him a loaded innuendo and dared him to pull the trigger.
My words linger between us, dripping with temptation, and I know Soren’s preparing his response. Sure enough, his eyes light up, and that mischievous grin unfurls as though it’s been waiting all day for this exact setup.
“Do you beg, Ava?”
The question coils around my throat, silk and smoke and heat, pulling tighter with every heartbeat until I can’t breathe, let alone answer.
“Chances are, you’d fight it,” Soren continues. “Pretend you’re above it. But when you finally break beneath my touch…” His eyes drag over me like he’s watching it happen.
I swipe a strand of hair from my eyes, then flatten my palms against the table.
“You’d be poetry,” his voice darkens, “breathless, un-fucking-forgettable.”
Someone in the crowd gasps. Might’ve been me.
“Imagine it, Ava… or better yet, let me show you.”
Momentarily stunned, I stop breathing. Who says shit like that?
His smirk deepens. Case in point. Soren Whoren Pembry, that’s who.
“If you really want to see what fanservice with a sword can do, I’d happily tie you to that four-poster bed you love to write about. Strip you slow. Kiss you slower. Then worship your moans as gospel. You won’t be able to walk once I’m done.”
The silence is deafening. People in the audience are live-streaming my internal meltdown. My uterus side-eyed me, then whispered, You brought this on yourself. And Soren leans back and sips his water like he didn’t just verbally fuck everyone within a five-mile radius.
Set.
“I—Y—You can’t say that on a live panel.”
Unapologetic, he shrugs. “You started it with the name-calling. I just finished it. Besides, the conference asked for a panty-melting experience. I deliver.”
“Not my panties, Pembry,” I blurt, immediately regretting it.
Soren pauses, the pounces. “Are you admitting I’ve got your attention… where it counts?”
Match.
In that exact second, my brain decides to betray me with a mental highlight reel of Soren Pembry on his knees, murmuring filth against my clit while my thighs practically levitate. Tongue, fingers, that deep, growly voice of his, telling me to stay still while he ruins me in chapters.
Abort. Abort mission.
My core clenches so hard I nearly black out. Nope. No. Bad brain. Naughty vagina. We are not envisioning oral fixation in front of hundreds of people. Pull it together, Ava.
I’m overheating—no thanks to that visual.
Shifting in my seat, I press my knees together like that’ll stop the traitorous flare building beneath my skin. My palms are useless—clammy, restless—so I drag them down my dress to give them something to do.
When I risk a glance up, Soren’s looking right at me, the corners of his mouth tilted like he’s enjoying the show.
In no rush to stop, he studies every fidget, breath, and flutter of my lashes. It’s making me severely uncomfortable, but I cannot let him see that I’m falling apart inside.
“Soren, I’ll say this…” My tone is slightly higher than usual. “...some of us prefer our fiction with a functioning moral compass and pants that aren’t vacuum-sealed.”
“Vacuum-sealed?” He twists the cap off a water bottle and takes a swig. “More like battle-ready. Every blade needs a sheath, after all.”
Laughter erupts, along with a few scattered cheers.
I clear my throat. “Can we get back to the task at hand here?”
That smirk of his turns complete villain. “Sure. I’ve got very talented hands.”
More laughter. Audible wheezing. Shirley appears seconds away from imploding.
I glower at Soren. His brows raise, pompous as hell, and it’s a huge reminder of why we fight. Because he’s the worst!
“I’d be happy to demonstrate,” he adds. “Purely for research purposes, of course.”