Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
SOREN
My phone buzzes with a notification, and the name flashing across the screen makes my stomach knot.
Lena.
This is your last chance to respond, Soren. One day you’re kissing me, the next you’re parading around with Ava Bell?
With Ava fucking Bell?
Do you have any idea how insane this looks?
I rub a hand over my scruff, biting back the immediate curse snaking up my throat.
My thumbs fly before I can second-guess:
You kissed me. Not the other way around.
You’re unhinged. Not to mention, delusional, if you think otherwise. The fantasy you’ve built up in your head doesn’t exist.
Three dots appear. Vanish. Reappear.
Unhinged, huh? I’ll show you unhinged.
Just know, you brought this on yourself. You have only yourself to blame.
I don’t even bother drafting a response this time. Instead, I forward the whole thread to Matthew. He needs a heads-up before this blows up into something bigger.
It takes less than a minute for his reply to come through:
Fucking great.
That’s it. No lecture. No strategy. Only two words that feel like both a warning and a promise of the headache to come later.
Of all the people you had to piss off after sticking your dick in them, it had to be the one with nearly two million followers?
Spoke too soon.
You’re not wrong, but I don’t appreciate the tone you’re using. I don’t need a lecture.
And I need you to stop handing me grenades with the pins already pulled.
Please tell me how to prevent this one from blowing up.
I’m working on that. Keep this between us.
You hear me?
Do not tell anyone, especially not Ava.
I stare at the screen, my stomach tightening. Keep it from Ava? Turn this into a secret? A lie?
After everything we’ve been through, she’s finally started to trust me, and now this?
It’s like pulling a thread that could unravel everything.
This won’t stay buried forever.
Let me handle it. You’ve done enough.
Focus on keeping the chemistry alive and your mouth shut.
Chest tight, I pocket the phone. Matthew’s trying to protect me. Possibly even Ava. But all I can think is, if she finds out I kept this from her, it won’t be a scandal I’m managing, it’ll be the end of us before we ever really began.
My insides are burning with rage as I walk into the ballroom of the Snowflake Gala.
The place pulses with elegance. Ice-blue uplighting washes the walls in a winter glow, cascading snowflakes project shadows on the walls, while crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling like frozen icicles.
The tables are shimmering with mirrored runners, silver place cards, and candles flickering beside fluted champagne glasses.
A string quartet is playing a dramatic orchestral rendition of Taylor Swift’s “Cruel Summer,” and somehow it works even though it’s winter.
Everyone is dressed in tuxes, sequined gowns, and custom accessories that scream, “I read dark academia and I have opinions.”
Earlier, before my text exchange from hell, I was stopped twice by execs in bowties who “love the sword content” and want to “talk TV rights,” which is code for “let’s change your book completely with a streaming deal.”
Camille and Renata scurry around like caffeinated elves trying to keep the itinerary on track, but their stressed energy is no match for the anxiety brewing behind Ava Bell’s eyes.
The one bright spot is that Ava’s book hit the bestseller list this week. Thanks to this PR circus and a couple of well-timed thirst traps—by yours truly, reading her book—the hype train’s still rolling.
Her publisher—bless their opportunistic hearts—is sponsoring this event, which means the moment she steps off this parquet floor, someone will corner her about her work in progress.
Her editor has sent three “Circling back!” texts to her today.
She’s currently hovering near the bar like a hawk in heels, wearing a floor-length black gown that fits like it was cut directly from her ambition.
Diamond studs wink at her ears every time she swivels her head, scanning the room for her author with laser precision.
Even in sequins and silk, she radiates deadlines—poised, polished, and ready to shred a manuscript with one raised brow.
And to add fuel to Ava’s fire, Fisher is filming every damn moment, prepping a holiday documentary, apparently.
Ava’s talking with Victoria. I can tell she’s about to freak the fuck out. If she does, at least she’ll look amazing while doing it, wearing a fitted red, floor-length, off-the-shoulder, sultry gown.
Her curls are pinned back with delicate silver clips that sparkle every time she turns her head, and her lips match the dress. Bold. Daring. Hot as fuck. I love it.
She doesn’t know she’s a fire hazard, but every pair of eyes is staring at her. My caveman instincts kick in, and I cross the floor without thinking. There’s zero hesitation in my steps. No pause, only sheer instinct and need.
Ava’s face lights up when she sees me. I don’t let her speak. I lean in and kiss her, ravenous.
“I need to be inside you right now.” The words tumble out before I can cage them. A smirk follows—masking the truth behind why I said them and the weight of what they actually mean.
Her eyes go wide, her lips parting, caught between outrage and desire.
I don’t let myself linger on it because it isn’t about sex.
Not really. Yeah, my body’s wound tight, my blood’s been pounding since the second I closed those text messages.
But what I want—what I can’t say—is more dangerous than that, which is, I love you, and I don’t want anything to fuck this up.
I don’t just want to be inside her body. I want to be everywhere. Her laugh. Her walls. Her heart.
Keeping the smirk plastered on, I hide behind it, like I have for so long as The Blade. Because if I let her see the raw need underneath, she might bolt. Even though she told me she would try. It’s too early for those three words, and I can’t risk her running.
After that, we schmooze. We pose. We mingle with industry types and flirt with several bookstore owners. Ava plays her part, but I recognize the tightness in her shoulders, the same as my own.
Her fingers twitch at her sides, and there’s a false brightness in her laugh. She’s about five seconds away from melting down in formalwear.
Fisher—saint that he is—keeps her hands full with cocktails, one or two clearly laced with enough Alani to jumpstart a generator. Her smile is glossy. Her voice is fine-tuned. But I know Ava now. I know the signs. And beneath the lipstick and jokes, she’s hanging on by a thread.
“If you don’t slow those down, your heart’s going to explode—or I’m going to have to carry you out of here.”
She sighs. “I’m just... so tense.”
Understatement of the year.
Ava’s breaths quicken, her chest rising and falling in rapid gasps. She’s two fake smiles away from either vomiting or sobbing.
Turning to face her, my hands brace either side of her waist. “You need to breathe, Bells.”
She tries.
Fails.
An idea strikes.
“Come with me.” I don’t wait for permission. I grab her hand and guide her out of the ballroom. Down a side hallway. Past the champagne tower and a tray of chocolate mousse. Around a corner and through a narrow door. It’s the wine cellar.
Inside is cool, air thick with oak and earth, dim light pooling across racks of bottles stacked like soldiers. We barely make it past the door before my hand is on her back, guiding Ava forward until her hips hit the rounded edge of a wine barrel.
“Right here, baby,” I murmur, voice husky, like a secret slipping out. I lift the hem of her gloriously sexy red dress.
Her hand clutches my wrist. “Soren—”
“Ava, you need to trust me,” I assure her, voice even. “I’m going to take the edge off. Let me. Okay?”
She doesn’t stop me again. I drop to my knees. Ava gasps when my hands skim up the outside of her thighs. I tug her underwear down her legs. Silk. Cherry red. Fucking hell.
Ava’s palms flatten against the wood, breath hitching when her body presses flush to mine. The barrels creak beneath us, aged oak and metal groaning as though they know exactly what’s about to happen.
I bend her over the barrel and lean forward, my chest pressing to her back, my lips skating across her ear. “Look at you. Spread out like some rare vintage to be savored. You have no idea what you do to me, Bells.”
Then my hands are everywhere—gripping, stroking, worshipping, filthy with need, tender with the way I pepper kisses on every inch I touch.
“Spread your legs wider, baby,” I command, nudging my cock into her backside.
She obeys like the good girl she is. Her breath shudders, her stance opens, instinct guiding her somewhere her mind hasn’t caught up to yet.
Ava looks back over her shoulder. Her eyes meet mine, wide and wet and wild. Bent over the curve of the wine barrel, she braces herself, knuckles white against the oak.
I sink to my knees behind her, grip her thighs, and drag her open for me. My mouth finds her clit, hot and greedy, and my tongue carves circles, flicks, slows, speeds up—every stroke a torment of precision.
Ava gasps, arches, presses harder into the wood, and I tighten my hold to keep her right where I want her.
Her taste floods me, intoxicating and sweeter than any bottle in this cellar. Reverence drives me as much as lust—I lap her up, coaxing every shiver and desperate moan, until she’s trembling over oak and iron and begging me not to stop.
She moans my name once—half-formed and breathless—and I groan into her, letting the sound vibrate against her wet heat. Ava’s thighs tense, then she opens them wider for me. She’s giving in. Giving up. Giving me everything.
And I take it.
The whole world outside this room fades. My mouth and tongue are confident in unison as I lick, suck. And savor. The swirl of my tongue is undoing her. Each breath she takes is a countdown.
Ava nearly screams as she comes, but I don’t stop until she melts, utterly boneless and completely unwound.