Chapter 12
Twelve
SOREN
The suite is too damn quiet.
Ava’s holed up in her room, typing away like the world depends on it, the faint clack of her keyboard drifting under the door.
I’m sprawled across the couch, long legs hanging off the end, thumbing through the spoils of our staged “bookstore stroll.”
The book in question? The Dragon Slayer’s Secret.
Yeah. That’s what Renata and Camille staged us “playfully” fighting over in the Romantasy aisle while a dozen onlookers live-streamed it for ShelfSpace.
A single copy left, two fake enemies turned lovers reaching for it simultaneously.
A setup so on-the-nose, it should’ve come with a laugh track.
I “won” the book. Technically, Ava let go first, which is hilarious, because she’s the one who could kill a man with her death glare and a witty line.
Now here I am, flipping through the pages for a distraction. Not gonna lie—some of these spicy scenes are hotter than they have any right to be. And reading them is safer than replaying the words she stabbed me with earlier. It isn’t real. It’s fake.
She’s not wrong. That’s what we agreed to. Fake. For content. For optics. For The Bell and the Blade ship.
But fuck, I want the opposite.
She looked so beautiful tonight. That little silk dress clinging—no, sculpting—to every curve. Her hair caught the light like flames. When I wrapped my scarf around her neck, her pulse jumped beneath my fingers.
I wanted to lean down and kiss her right there. See if the heat in my chest matched the heat in hers.
Instead, I settled for hoping the scent of my cologne in the fabric would loosen her up. It didn’t. Ava Bell is one tough egg to crack. But that’s what I like about her.
I toss the book onto the coffee table, drag a hand down my face, and grab my phone to text the one person who won’t feed me a line of fluff in their advice.
You awake?
It takes thirty seconds before my screen lights up.
Unfortunately.
I know you said fake dating Ava is basically the same as psychological torture….but…
I want to make it not-so-fake.
How do I do that?
Simple. You don’t.
Encouraging as always.
I’m serious, man. That girl hates you.
Yeah. Except she doesn’t. Not completely.
As your agent, I can’t support this.
I’m not asking my agent right now. I’m asking my best friend.
There’s a pause. So long, I think he bailed on me, until the dots appear again.
Best friend says… it’s risky. It’s not a good idea.
Yeah. I know.
And yet here you are, texting me at one in the morning.
…you complete me.
What’s the plan? Hope she trips and falls into your arms, instantly falling in love with you?
Also, caught the carriage video on ShelfSpace. Didn’t know you moonlighted as Prince Charming.
Only on the weekends.
The plan is… I don’t know. Figure out how to show her I’m more than the asshole she thinks I am.
Be careful.
I won’t get many chances with a woman like her.
Which is why I can’t waste a single one.
Then my advice changes. Best friend says: stop bullshitting her. Show her you’re more than “The Blade.”
That’s the only chance you’ve got.
How?
Easy. Start by not trying so damn hard.
That’s your big advice? Don’t try?
No. DON’T PERFORM. According to her scary as fuck agent, Ava’s got a bullshit detector so sensitive, it probably goes off when you tie your boots. You want her to see you? Then actually let her.
You make it sound simple.
It is simple. It’s just not easy. Stop hiding behind your quips and sword jokes. Show her the guy who reads her books and still has eighth-grade poems memorized. Show her the guy who’d rather carry her bags than carry his ego.
…Jesus. Who writes your stuff? That was almost romantic.
Shut up. I’m not your ghostwriter. I’m your best friend telling you the obvious: if you want Ava Bell, then give her the one thing nobody else has—you.
And if she still hates me?
Then you’ll hurt. But at least you can walk away knowing you didn’t fake it.
AND YOU TRIED.
I leave my phone on the coffee table and head to Ava’s room, hovering outside her door for too long, fist half-raised like an idiot.
Finally, I knock.
There’s a faint shuffle of movement. When the door cracks open, Ava blinks at me through her glasses, hair piled on her head in the world’s most chaotic bun.
“Do you need something?” she asks, confused.
“No,” I say swiftly, then realize how weird and somewhat creepy I sound. “I mean…do you need anything?”
Her brows lift. “No.”
Silence swells between us for too long. I clear my throat. “Uh…how’s the manuscript coming along?”
She leans her shoulder against the doorframe, like she’s guarding the entrance. “Fine.”
Fine. Nothing more. Nothing less. The verbal equivalent of a locked gate.
Pursing my lips, I nod several times. “Cool, cool. That’s great. Okay, I don’t want to interrupt your flow.” I step back, hands shoving into the pockets of my gray sweatpants. “But I wanted to say thanks. For tonight. I had fun with you.”
Sparks flash in her eyes, quick and unreadable.
I push a little further. “I’ve been enjoying getting to know you, from behind the screen.”
That earns me a furrowed brow. But she doesn’t speak. So I retreat.
“Sleep well, Bells.”
I start down the hall before she can respond, leaving the words—and the weird, awkward weight of them—hanging in the air between us.
Real smooth, Pembry.
That’s all I can think as I stalk down the hall, hands jammed into my pockets as though that’ll keep them from trembling.
Who knocks on a woman’s door at almost two a.m. to ask if she needs anything?
A butler? A psychopath? Definitely not the guy trying to prove he’s more than a Dagger Daddy meme in leather pants.
She looked…soft, glasses slipping down her nose, hair a mess, sweater swallowing her frame. I caught her off guard, and instead of saying something worth remembering, I babbled on like I was asking about the weather. And, Sleep well, Bells? Really? That’s my closer? Weak. Limp. Verbal lukewarm tea.
By the time I get back to my room, I’m chewing on every word I didn’t say. All the lines I wanted to, but couldn’t push past my own tongue. My chest feels tight, restless. If I don’t get this out, it’ll rip me apart from the inside.
So, I do the only thing that has ever worked for me. I grab my leather messenger bag, yank out a piece of letterhead, and uncap a pen. Blank paper stares back at me, daring me to screw it up.
I don’t.
Not when it’s her.
The words pour out the way they never do when she’s standing in front of me.
On paper, I’m brave. On paper, I don’t choke.
On paper, I can tell her that today didn’t feel fake—not for me.
I liked watching her roll her eyes at the carriage, hearing her laugh, and seeing her reflection in the glass of the boat when she forgot to guard her smile.
On paper, I can tell her the truth.
That I’m falling for Ava Bell, and I don’t know how to stop.
I need to get these words out of my head before I lose my mind.
Tonight was supposed to be a performance. That’s what Renata and Camille wanted, right? Slow pans, fake laughs for the camera.
The thing is: you make it impossible to separate the act from the truth. We laughed together. We gazed at each other. I liked it. All of it.
Too much, maybe.
That’s the part I can’t say out loud. If I did, you’d run. Which is the last thing I want.
You’re different from what the internet thinks of me. You don’t buy “The Blade.” You don’t bow to the persona. You call me out. You see me. And that terrifies the hell out of me, because I want you to keep looking.
Today wasn’t fake for me, Bells. Not a single second of it.
So…
Sleep well. Dream better. And if I’m lucky, maybe one day you’ll believe me when I say this isn’t a game.
In the meantime, here are some words, inspired by you. Enjoy.
Love,
S
A Poem For You, Ava Bell:
At the carriage,
you were laughter spilling through the cold night air,
a sound that made me want to believe in things I’d given up on.
At the table,
you glared at your plate like it deserved the blame
for every scar the world ever handed you,
and I loved you for fighting even then.
On the water,
the lights crowned you in silver,
the marble envied your stillness,
your strength, your flame.
And when the wind stole your breath,
I wrapped you in warmth,
but you—
you gave me in something I’ve never known before.
Hope.
A glimpse of a home I’ve been aching for my entire life.