Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
IN THE GARDEN OF LOVE AND WAR
Azariel
“A day to celebrate love… or the inevitable heartache that follows.” – P
T he night was quiet. Too quiet, it was like the night had nothing to say—like it was holding its breath for me. I didn’t mind it. I liked it. I had always enjoyed the silence, I just wished it were quiet in my head too.
It wasn’t. That was why I found myself out there again, in the garden, hiding in the shadows. The smell of earth and roses was heavy in the air, grounding me and replacing the stench of blood I could never rid myself of.
There had been a full moon that night, its pale light spilling through the branches of the trees, casting long, crooked shadows across the garden. Mom’s roses stood tall, their crimson heads gleaming in the moonlight reminding me of blood. Of the life I had left behind and the ghosts that still haunted me.
I hadn’t been able to stop staring at them.
I hadn’t cared about roses before. I hadn’t cared about anything really, not in the way people were supposed to. There had been little to no beauty where I came from. That world had been ugly—filled with violence, loss, and the constant need to survive. But those roses… they were different. Beautiful, even. They stood firm and strong, despite everything. Their thorns were sharp, but they endured.
They reminded me that even in the midst of violence, there was still something worth holding onto. Something beautiful and that refused to die.
I had crouched down, feeling the damp grass beneath my knees, my fingers brushing against the bark of a nearby tree. The garden had been still, almost like it was waiting for something. But nothing had happened. It had always been quiet.
Sometimes Mom had sat out there with me. Sometimes Dad. But not that night. That night, it had just been me, alone, in my cruel thoughts.
The voices of my past had been too loud, and I had to slip out and be on my own. The world before that, before my parents, had been noise. It had been chaos. It had been survival. Ugly memories clawed at my mind, but when I focused on the roses—on their perfect, sharp-edged beauty—they seemed to share a quiet understanding, like they knew what it was like to hurt, to survive. Maybe they were just like me. We had both been through things—painful things—but we kept going.
I had let out a slow breath, the cold November air sharp in my lungs, and just for a moment, everything had felt calm. Like I belonged there. In that space. The garden had been mine as much as it was Mom’s, in a way. Not like anything before. Not like the streets, the cold hunger, the whispers of death that always followed me.
I remembered those nights so clearly. The cold, the loneliness, the fear until I learned to numb it all. I remembered the sting of the wind and the feeling of being invisible, a shadow in the cracks of the world, until Mom found and saved me from ending up back with the bad people.
Her gloved hands—gentle yet firm—had taken me from the harsh streets and brought me here. Brought me to her world where the roses grew like a lovely promise, where I didn’t have to fight for air. Where I didn’t have to fight to survive.
The memory of her face that night, the softness in her golden-brown eyes as she spoke to me, still haunted me. But it wasn’t a bad haunting. Not the way ugly things were. She was different.
She was a crime boss. She was the first female boss in mafia history, and she had lived a harsh and sad life, yet she had found it in her to be gentle and patient with me.
I looked up at the full moon, my mind still swirling with thoughts that hurt me and wouldn’t free me. The roses whispered in the night air, a sound that was both haunting and comforting, and I thought for a moment that maybe this new life wasn’t as broken as I once thought. In the dark, amidst their thorns, I felt safe. For the first time in my life, I felt... safe. With Mom, Dad, Vernon and Crow, the roses and my knives.
I was lost in my head, staring off at the moon when I felt it.
A shift in the air. A subtle change.
I was no longer alone.
I didn’t move at first, not out of fear—never again, I had long since learned to be still—but curiosity, because I knew who it was before I even turned to look.
I turned, and there she was. Poe.
The little girl. The one who had been haunting my thoughts for days.
She stood there, her tiny figure framed by the garden’s edge, like a tiny shadow with form. Her dark, black-as-my-soul hair fell around her delicate face. Those eyes—those strange, otherworldly green eyes—locked with mine, and for a moment, the world stilled and time seemed to freeze.
There was something in those eyes that did something to my chest, something that tugged. Something I hadn’t felt before.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
I looked down and noticed her small hands were clasped around a book, its well-worn cover barely visible beneath her tiny fingers. A book I recognized.
The Little Prince.
The irony hit me in a strange way, but I didn’t let it show.
She looked so small, so fragile looking in that faded blue dress, and those tiny black boots that didn’t seem to fit her at all. But it was her socks that caught my eye—Hulk socks. It was almost funny, in a way that made me feel less cold. My chest ached, but this time, it was different. It wasn’t painful. Not exactly. It felt closer to warmth. A flicker of something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
She stepped forward hesitantly, and I heard her whisper my name. “Azariel.”
I froze. My name. She knew my name. Not a number… but my name.
I blinked, caught off guard by the sweetness in her voice. It was soft, almost tender. I wondered why it made my chest tighten in a way that nothing else ever had. I wondered how she knew my name, but the thought was fleeting—her parents must’ve told her. They were close to Mom, after all.
She didn’t come any closer, though. She just stood there, looking up at me like she wasn’t sure whether I’d bite or shun her.
“I—” she started, her voice soft, barely more than a breath. “Can I sit next to you?”
I was caught off guard, but I didn’t say anything at first. I just studied her, watched her approach with careful steps, holding something in her hands. A book. The cover was worn, its edges curling with age, but I knew what it was. The Little Prince.
I didn’t know why, but something twisted in my chest when I saw it. Maybe it was the irony, or maybe it was just the way she held it, so small and fragile, like the book meant something more than just words to her.
I let the silence stretch, wondering why I didn’t feel like pushing her away. Maybe because when she was around, the voices in my head were quiet. Or maybe because, for some reason, I didn’t want her to leave.
She slowly sat next to me, but not too close. There was a careful distance between us, one that somehow felt more intimate than if she had leaned in. And for some strange reason, I was grateful for that.
She flipped open the book in her hands, and I watched her for a moment. She was so small, so young, and yet there she was holding The Little Prince.
I was struck by the absurdity of it. So much so that I did what I didn’t do with anyone else… I took an interest.
“How do you read that? It’s... a literary classic,” I asked before I could stop myself.
She looked up at me, her eyes wide with something I couldn’t quite read, and for a moment, I thought she might not answer. But then she blushed, a delicate flush creeping across her cheeks, and it was the sweetest thing I had ever seen.
She looked down, fingers brushing against the pages nervously. “My father read to me. To me and my twin... since we were in Mommy’s belly,” she said softly.
I felt the words settle around me, like a quiet weight.
I couldn’t explain why but hearing that made my chest ache in a way I didn’t expect. Something in her voice, so innocent, so full of love, made the walls around my heart crack just a little. I had never let anyone close—not even close enough to care—but here she was, this little girl with the rare eyes, and I… cared.
I wondered what it was about her that made it so easy. What was it about her that made it easy to just exist?
It didn’t make sense. She was a child, and I was... Well, I was everything I hated about the world. But in that quiet space between the roses, I felt something shift. Something warm, like sunlight breaking through a relentless storm.
I didn’t say anything more, and neither did she. For a long while, we sat in silence, the book between us. But it wasn’t uncomfortable, not the way silence usually was. It was just... quiet.
I glanced at her again, my eyes lingering on her delicate frame, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to not hide in the shadows, to not be the dark, jagged thing that I was. But that wasn’t who I was, was it?
Still, I wondered, as she flipped a page in the book and read aloud a sentence softly to herself, how such a little thing—such a small, innocent girl—could make my world feel just a little less cold and violent.
A strange tug pulled at my chest, something urgent and raw. It was like I couldn’t breathe without hearing her voice again, that soft whisper that made something shift inside me. I didn’t know what it was, but I couldn’t stop the feeling, so I pushed it away with an order. My voice came out rougher than I intended, sharp, like it had been waiting too long to be heard.
“Read me a page,” I said, the words clipped, cold.
I didn’t look at her at first, but I heard her stillness, felt the way the air shifted between us. I wondered if she was going to hesitate, maybe pull back, but then I heard her soft breath.
“O-okay,” she murmured, barely a sound, as if the words themselves were precious to her.
And then, in that same, quiet voice, she began.
“And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”
Her voice flowed out, soft and steady, and it was like the world paused around me. It wasn’t what I expected but her voice, clear and unshaken, made the words seem... different. I didn’t know how to explain it, but suddenly the story didn’t feel like just words on a page anymore. It felt like something alive, something real. Something…magical.
It was the way she said it—the delicate cadence of her voice, the unforced way she spoke, that drew me in. The words didn’t just land on my ears, they settled deep inside my soul, as if they were meant for me and only me. Her voice pulled me out of the shadows I had hidden in for so long, and for the first time, I wanted to listen. I wanted to stay and listen to her.
She continued reading, her tiny fingers turning the pages with reverence, as though the words belonged to her and not the author. And I sat there, leaning forward just a little, no longer the cold, heartless being I tried to be. Just... Azariel.
It felt... different. She felt different.
When she finished the page, I didn’t speak at first. It was like I didn’t have the words for what I was feeling. The quiet stretched between us, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was like we were both suspended in that moment, her sweet voice still lingering in the air.
“You...” I started, and my voice cracked just a little. I don’t remember the last time I let myself feel anything. “... You read well,” I said, trying to sound unaffected, but the words came out softer than I meant them to.
As soon as the words slipped from my mouth I regretted them, but then she did something that made my chest ache like it never had before. Not in pain or heartache… it was something different. Something beautiful. Tender, even.
She smiled. She smiled so big that two dimples formed on her chubby cheeks and her eyes sparkled like two rare gems.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
What was going on?
I quickly looked away, not wanting her to see the flicker of something in my eyes. But as I sat there, listening to the quiet night around us, I realized it didn’t matter. I might not have shown it, but she had already changed something. Changed me. And it scared the shit out of me.
I didn’t know it then, or maybe I did, but that was the night that Poe Vaeda Nicolasi took my broken and jagged heart and made it her bitch.
I was fucked up, and she was only five years old.
The tragic prince and his little fox.
Poe
I sit cross-legged on my bed, my laptop resting on my knees, the soft glow of the screen illuminating my face. I should be working. I know I should be working. After I RSVP’d to the new meeting with my heartless boss, I was asked to prepare a proposal for the first book in the series I’ve been hired to write.
And that’s what I’ve been focused on and not our shared past, not our bitter encounters. I’ve been hired to write a book for him, for his publishing house, and this is my chance. My one shot to prove I can do this. I know I can. I just… have a lot on my mind right now. This is all so bizarre, so unexpected. Never in a million years would I have thought he’d be the one to lead the publishing house that offered me a traditional publishing deal after so many rejections.
But instead of focusing on preparing myself for the inevitable battle tomorrow, my fingers hover over the keys, and I’m pulled back to a place I know I shouldn’t go. The Devil’s social media account.
I’ve been following him for years. Long before the deal. I know it’s stupid. I know it’s borderline stalkerish . But there's something about Azariel that makes me… lose all rational thought. He’s like a dangerous obsession that I can’t quit. Every picture, every post, every little detail he shares from his carefully curated online life pulls me in—like I’m drowning in something I can’t explain.
No. That’s a lie. I can explain it. I’m drowning in him. Have been for longer than I care to admit.
What would he think if he knew? He probably thinks I’m as insane as he is.
I bit my lips, trying to focus. But here I am, scrolling through his page again. I know I’ve seen these photos before, but my eyes still linger. The last one—he’s in a black tie, looking almost otherworldly handsome. The bastard. He stares straight at the camera, his expression a cold detachment, like he’s seen everything the world has to offer and found it all wanting. And I hate myself for the way my heart stutters every time I see him in those photos. How he’s so… untouchable. Unreachable. He’s always been like that.
I’m such a fool forever thinking he was different.
Ugh.
I should be preparing my ideas for the book. I should be thinking about the story, about my second meeting with him. But instead, my mind keeps circling back to that cold gaze. That sharp, calculating mind. That unfeeling heart.
I’m hopeless. I’m starting to think there’s no cure for this unhealthy, pathetic obsession.
I scrolled further, my pulse quickening when I noticed a message pop up from an anonymous account. I get those a lot—fans, trolls, you name it—but something about this one feels… different. Raw.
“I have loved you with a dark madness of a thousand storms, each one more violent than the last, tearing through my broken soul, yet I would not cease, for to cease would be to let you slip from my grasp, and I could no more release you than I could tear the moon from the sky.”
My breath caught in my throat. My heart stopped dead in my chest as I re-read the message.
It was beautiful. Poetic. So hauntingly raw, it felt like it was written just for me. But the words were unfamiliar. I didn’t recognize them from any novel, any literary work. It wasn’t a quote from a classic. It wasn’t even from some modern romance. I tried searching for it online, but nothing came up.
I stared at the screen, my fingers frozen above the keyboard, unsure whether to respond. Before, I used to reply to every message I received, innocently thinking they came from a good place. But that was before the messages started getting ugly—insults about my books, my writing style, my appearance. Because who the hell needed to comment on that?
This one was different. It felt different. The message could have been from anyone. A fan of my writing. A random admirer. Or maybe someone who had crossed the line between admiration and obsession. I tried to tell myself not to overthink it, but something about it… stuck. The intensity of those words felt personal. Raw. As if it was written by someone who knew me or at least knew how to reach into the darkest corners of my soul.
How… odd. Because no one had gotten that close to know me.
Unsure of what to do, I glanced at my reflection in the window. My eyes were wide, a mix of confusion and wonder swirling beneath the surface. I wasn’t sure who it was. I didn’t even know why it was affecting me so much.
I thought of typing out a response. But I hesitated. It probably wasn’t the smartest move. There were too many sick people in the world, and one innocent reply could be misinterpreted in ways I didn’t want to imagine. After a second thought, I closed the chat. It was better to leave it be.
I glanced back at the blank document on my laptop, trying to force myself to focus. But it was impossible. All I could think about were those poetic words. Yes, it was strange. Creepy, even. But… I couldn’t help but feel flattered, too.
After a few minutes of overthinking, I shut the laptop, feeling an overwhelming need to breathe. To clear my head. I needed to focus on my work, but when I closed my eyes, his face was still there, burned into my mind. That emotionless expression. That mysterious, superior air he carried with him, always keeping everyone at arm’s length like he was some unreachable dream.
He was. He had always been an impossible dream.
I didn’t know why I was so drawn to him. It didn’t make sense. He was unfeeling. Cruel. Just... cold. And yet, my heart had never cared.
I don’t believe in coincidences. Not at all. Me ending up in New York with Azariel as my boss? It’s no coincidence. There’s more to it. I know it. But even as my brain tells me to run, my heart... my heart tells me to stay. It’s always told me to stay. Until he told me to go. And when he did, I had no choice .
Exhausted from thinking too much, I lay back in bed, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow, I’ll see him again. We’ll talk about the deal. And maybe—just maybe—it won’t be the complete shit show I’m expecting, with the Devil himself.