Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
TO HATE OR LOVE
Poe
“Valentine’s Day is just the universe’s way of reminding me that I’m better off with my cat and a glass of wine.” – P
I couldn’t sleep. Again.
Ugh.
Sleep never came easily to me. I was lucky if I got five hours a night, but ever since I arrived in this city, my insomnia has only gotten worse. I didn’t know what it was exactly.
Mom used to tell me that I was born for the night and that I was made of moon dust. “As a baby, you would keep me up at night while your brother slept like the dead,” she’d say, smiling like she knew something I didn’t. “Your brother’s the sun, you’re the moon,” she’d joke, her voice loving and playful as she’d point to Vade, the light of the day, and then to me—always the quiet, restless one.
That was what I was then—restless.
This damn book had been keeping me awake. It gnawed at me, demanding attention, refusing to let me sleep. I only ever seemed to feel inspired to write when the moon was out. There’s something about the quiet of the night, when the world is still and the only sounds are the whispers of my own mind, that brings my words to life and feeds my creativity. The day feels too loud, too chaotic. But under the cover of night, I feel alive in ways I can’t explain, as if the darkness unlocks something inside me, a part of me I don’t always understand.
There’s something else, too, that’s been robbing me of sleep.
Gray eyes.
Those damn gray eyes that are like weapons aimed straight at every wall I’ve built around my heart. Even in my sleep, the bastard haunts me. That’s why I’d been tossing and turning in bed for a solid hour, like a dying fish, scrolling through clips of my favorite K-drama and stalking the same man who’s been keeping me awake, before finally giving up. It’s more than clear that there’s no finding sleep tonight, and if I had to stare at my ceiling for one more second, I was going to start over-analyzing every embarrassing thing I’d ever done in my life, and that is not a road I want to go down.
So, I quickly threw off my blankets, revealing my ridiculously goofy black pajamas—an oversized shirt with a cartoon ghost flipping me off, and matching shorts patterned with grinning skeletons. This is an outfit straight out of my mother’s closet.
A total contrast to my usual dark, high-fashion wardrobe. I wasn’t exactly winning any style points that night, but who cared? No one was going to see me at that hour. Plus, no one knew me in that city.
Kind of glad about that, too.
My social battery always ran out quickly, and I’d much rather be left alone than pretend to be the outgoing person I’m not. I wasn’t rude, and yes, I enjoyed spending time with those close to me, but at heart, I was more of an introvert. That was another reason why I preferred the night. It was solitary and peaceful.
When my stomach grumbled, I was reminded I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch—if you could even call that a meal. I had managed to drag myself off the sofa, barely functioning, to grab a bottle of water and a Snickers bar. A gourmet feast, clearly. I do love me a good Snickers bar. I could eat them forever and never get tired of them.
But right now, I am craving something else—something salty.
Without thinking, I had grabbed my keys and stepped outside, only to be greeted by an icy gust of wind that slapped me across the face. Right. February. New York. And, like the genius I am, I had forgotten my coat. In my defense, Prince had been napping next to the coat hanger, looking like a fluffy royal dictator. If I dared disturb his beauty sleep, it would’ve sparked an all-out battle of wills that could drag on for days. And frankly, I wasn’t in the mood to lose to the furry tyrant. I still shiver just thinking about it. Last time I pissed him off, he had turned my shoes into his personal toilet for weeks. Yeah, I didn’t want that to happen again.
Too stubborn to turn back, I had shoved my hands into my pajama pockets and power-walked through the cold streets, hoping movement would keep me from freezing to death. Around me, the city hummed, its neon signs flickering as if they were alive. A lonely taxi whooshed by, headlights slicing through the fog. The streets weren’t exactly empty, but they felt hollow, filled with a silence that pressed in, forcing you to think too much. And I don’t like thinking too much. It always leads me down roads that end with my feelings getting crushed under the weight of it all.
I don’t have time for that. I don’t have time to dwell on the fact that I’m alone. I know I’m a walking contradiction. I’m someone who doesn’t believe in love yet feels the sting of loneliness like a fresh wound when the quiet settles in too deep. I begin to dwell on the “what ifs,” and those thoughts cut deeper than I’d like to admit.
Then, as if the universe wanted to rub salt in my open wound, I had spotted a couple cozying up under a streetlamp, sharing a scarf and feeding each other a cookie like they were in a damn romance movie.
I wonder how long they’ll last. Three months? Five? This generation, sadly, is not looking for a love that lasts forever. Most want something fleeting. It’s sad. So, I gave them until summer before one of them—probably the dude with the shady smile—got weirdly distant and started “working late nights” or “forgetting” to text her back. Or maybe the cute girl with hearts in her eyes got tired of him forgetting important dates or got tired of his inability to do chores around the house and dumped him over his inability to help out.
Either way, their tragic love story was already playing out in my head like a predictably bad romance story. I should consider writing about that. Maybe Azariel will like it.
I wandered until the red glow of a small Japanese restaurant caught my eye. Open at midnight? Yess.
I quickly entered the cozy-looking restaurant, inhaling the heavenly steam like it was a life force. Right now? It was. Maybe drowning my self-doubt in delicious noodles would help. Maybe I’d finally come up with an idea so brilliant that even Azariel would have to admit I was a literary genius.
I just… didn’t know what that idea was yet.
With a sigh, I stepped back out into the cold and headed toward my apartment, the wind immediately gnawing at my exposed skin. My fleece pajama pants were doing absolutely nothing to shield me from the cold, and my ghost-print shirt might as well have been a paper napkin. I was about two blocks from home when a sleek blue Maserati screeched to a stop beside me.
The window rolled down, revealing Azariel’s stormy glare.
Oh, great.
What was he doing here in the middle of the night? Was he looking for me? Or was this just the world’s most inconvenient coincidence? I mean, there was no way this could have been a coincidence, right? No. Not when it came to Azariel Solonik. He looked at me without saying anything and for a second I fell under the spell of those stormy gray eyes of his, like every time he looked at me. They were always furious or annoyed, sure, but there was something mesmerizing about them, like they could have swallowed me whole if I had allowed it. My stomach fluttered, a swarm of angry bats having a party in my chest.
But then, of course, he opened his mouth.
“Get in the car,” he growled.
And just like that, the spell broke. Bats gone. My heart rate slowed back to normal. I glared at him instead, wondering how one man could have been so good-looking and so damn infuriating at the same time. I took a deep breath and did what I did best when I was around this man that made my stomach turn in both ways I loved and hated.
“What a charming invitation. Ever considered saying please? Or had you forgotten your manners?”
His jaw flexed, and he completely ignored my sarcastic remarks, his eyes narrowing in that way that made it clear he wasn’t there for my sense of humor. “What were you doing out here alone at this hour? Dressed like that? Were you trying to get hypothermia or fucking mugged?”
Now he cared?
I raised an eyebrow and folded my arms, though the cold made me shiver. Still, I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of admitting he had a point. “Don’t be dramatic. I was perfectly safe.” At least, I hoped I was.
His gray eyes darkened like a storm was brewing, and with an exaggerated sigh, he yanked a black hoodie over his head and shoved it at me. “Put this on before you freeze to death.”
I hesitated, but the wind had zero sympathy for my pride, and my teeth were chattering so hard I was in danger of biting my own tongue. Reluctantly, I pulled the hoodie on. It was warm, smelled like cedar, smoke, and practically swallowed me whole.
I sniffed the hoodie, crinkling my nose at the faint smell of smoke. “You smoked?” I frowned, pulling the hoodie closer to my face. And that was when I saw the blood smeared across his forehead, streaking up to his hairline.
What?
My stomach twisted in sudden worry. “Azariel, what?—”
“Get in the car,” he interrupted, his voice flat, giving nothing away.
I stared at the blood, a knot of unease tightening in my chest. “Not until you tell me whose blood that is. Is it yours? Are you hurt?”
Worry quickly takes over me as I scan him up and down, searching for any sign that he’s hurt. My eyes move over his body, looking for any mark, bruise, or indication that he's been in some kind of fight. The blood on his forehead only deepens my concern. Yeah, sure, I’ve wished him bodily harm once or twice—purely as a fun way to daydream, you know, like imagining a piano falling off the sky and falling on his big head or getting his dick stuck in his zipper. But I wasn’t actually serious. It would probably kill me if something bad ever happened to him.
“Azariel,” I started again, my voice softer, but still filled with worry. “Seriously, are you hurt?”
He sighed, flexing his tattooed fingers like he was testing their mobility, his face a mask of indifference.
“Just get in the car, Poe.”
Poe. Oh, how I hate my name on his lips.
It feels… wrong.
I scoffed, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “You know… it’s not normal to find my boss-editor-slash-nemesis lurking around at midnight with blood on his skin and clothes that smell like a morgue.” Okay, maybe it is normal. At least for us.
His jaw tightened, and his gaze darkened. “Get. In. The. Car.”
“No.” I bit back, crossing my arms over my chest.
His jaw twitched, and before I could react, he grabbed me and threw me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing.
Oh, no, he didn’t.
“Put me down! What the hell was wrong with you? This was kidnapping, you know!” I growled in frustration, trying to ignore the rapid beat of my heart and the way my skin seemed to spark with electricity when he looked or touched me. He said nothing as I tried to free myself from his tight hold. Damn, this man was as strong as he looked. Then, without warning, he slapped my ass, a quick, sharp motion that made heat rushed between my legs. My breath caught, and I stiffened in his arms, blinking like an idiot. “What the hell was that for?”
“You’ll survive,” he said, his voice bored, as though he didn’t just send a jolt of heat straight through my vagina.
Nope. Nope. Body do not— and I repeat— do not fall for this tyrannical psycho. Absolutely not.
Knowing full well that I’m not as strong as him and that I’ll lose this battle—I gave in. He effortlessly carried me to the passenger side of his car, dumping me unceremoniously into the seat like I was an embarrassing sack of potatoes. I watched, fuming, as he stalked around the car, slid into the driver’s seat, and peeled away from the curb. The engine growled to life like a beast, and—damn it—more heat rushed through me.
“Oh, how original of you,” I sassed back, rolling my eyes.
He fell silent after that, and I glared out the window as we sped toward my apartment complex, my mind still spinning over the blood on his hands. Whatever he’d done tonight, I had a feeling it wasn’t just some spontaneous act of violence. Azariel had always looked so comfortable with blood on his skin, and for some reason, that never unsettled me.
He wasn’t raised in privilege like the rest of us. Not for the first nine years of his life, at least. He was raised in hell, mothered by darkness and chaos. That kind of upbringing had molded him into someone who craves chaos. We all know this about him, even though on the surface, he appears to be the calmest of us all.
Over the years, I've come to understand his calmness. It’s just a mask.
My boss is as ruthless as his parents, and I was willing to bet he was even worse.
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, trying to assess if there are any visible wounds that I missed before, but he looked perfectly fine. It looked like he ran his bloody hands through his hair. I wondered if that’s what happened? But whose blood? Something my mom said once flashes through my mind, and for a second, I almost let myself linger on it. That boy is a survivor, Poe. And sometimes survival isn’t so pretty.
I learned early on that sometimes violence was the only option to survive. My family had drilled it into me. They always said, “You don’t want your blood on their hands, you make sure they don’t see you as prey.” My Uncle Enzo, in particular, had always reminded us how hard the world could be, especially if you didn’t have the stomach for it. I look at Azariel again, my gut telling me that the blood on him belongs to the poor soul who ended up at the other end of his wrath. Azariel doesn’t say a word. Instead, he reaches for the radio, his fingers brushing the dial effortlessly, and then the soft, familiar notes of Nat King Cole’s L-O-V-E fill the car. My heart rate slows almost immediately as the smooth melody wraps around us, and for a moment, it feels like the world outside has stopped—like it’s just me and him in this bubble.
I glanced at him, really looked at him for the first time since he picked me up. His usual sharp business attire is gone, replaced by a black tee that stretches across his chest, revealing his fully inked arms, hands, and fingers. Tattoos spiral around his thick neck, and a silver chain rests on the dark skin there, glinting under the dim light. He doesn’t look like the cold, business-minded Azariel I know. At this moment, he’s something else entirely. He looks like the kind of gorgeous, tattooed street thug you see in those Pinterest boards where readers—hell, even I—used to imagine our book MCs. A sexy, dangerous guy, wrapped in ink and mystery.
For a second, I forget to breathe.
I felt my heart trip over itself, threatening to fall for him in ways I’d rather not think too much about. My gaze lingered on him for a beat too long before I snapped it away, trying to regain some control. To distract myself, I start singing along to L-O-V-E , the familiar lyrics flowing easily. Mom used to play it for us a lot when we were kids. It’s one of my favorite songs, and it has helped me write many love scenes when I need inspiration. I don’t have the best voice—hell, I know I’m a horrible singer—but I sang with everything I’ve got, letting the melody take over. It made me happy until I heard a slight noise from Azariel, and when I glanced at him, his face was frozen in an odd expression, his eyes focused on the road ahead, jaw clenched. It’s the kind of look that made me wonder if I’ll end up like the person he dealt with tonight for annoying him with my disastrous voice.
I chuckled when his scowl deepened. “Fine, I’ll stop. I won’t bless you with my talent,” I joked, crossing my arms and turning to look out the window. But then, his voice cut through the air, low and unexpected.
“Don’t stop singing.”
I blinked, my breath hitched. He sounded so sincere, so… soft. It was a side of him I hadn’t heard in years. That quiet, unguarded tone. The one that, when I was younger, would’ve made my heart trip over itself many times.
It still did…
I swallowed hard, trying to shake the memory of us in Aunt Kadra’s garden—reading and just…existing together, but it clung to me like his cologne on this damn hoodie. I nodded, fighting the sudden lump in my throat, and let the song carry me again, my voice barely above a whisper this time, careful not to break whatever fragile shift has just happened between us.
“Love is all that I can give to you. Love is more than just a game for two. Take my heart and, please, don’t break it. Love was made for me and youuuuuu.” I sang for a moment longer, but the air felt lighter now. It felt warmer and softer. And I can feel it, the pull of something old and familiar between us. Something sort of sweet.
Ten minutes later, we pulled up to my building. Azariel got out without a word, his movements smooth, his presence still commanding. He walked around to open my door, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. I shrugged off his hoodie, offering it back, but he ignored it. His gaze is fixed on me, unreadable, and the heat from the moment dissipates as quickly as it arrives.
I shifted uncomfortably. “Here. Thanks,” I said, trying to sound normal, trying to push back the emotions that are suddenly swarming me. But he didn’t take the hoodie. His eyes stayed locked on mine, and I realized it’s not the hoodie he’s focused on. It’s me. That’s when it hit me…how different he looked right now. Not the hard, distant man I’ve learned to deal with over the years. But the boy I knew? The one who used to make me feel things I couldn’t explain, even when he never seemed to care? His face is less cold now. Less distant. It reminds me of why I fell for him all those years ago. Back when, I thought he was more than just this messed-up, untouchable man.
I turned away, desperate to break the tension. But just as I took a step, his voice stopped me. “Never wander the streets at night alone,” he said darkly, and I felt the moment slip back into its old pattern—his icy walls coming up again. “You never know when you’ll get swallowed by the dark.” I turned back to face him, meeting his intense stare head-on. My chin lifted in defiance.
“I’ve never been afraid of the dark.”
The moment stretched between us, thick with something dangerous. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it vanished. His expression hardens. “Go inside.”
I hesitated before turning toward the entrance, but just as I reached the door, I glanced back. “How did you know where to find me?” I asked again what I’ve been wanting to know since he threw me over his shoulder and shoved me in his car, but he avoided answering. His lips quirk slightly, but the smile is faint—so faint I almost think I imagined it.
“Goodnight, little fox ,” he said, the words sliding out as if he was done with whatever was happening between us.
And then, without another word, he climbed back into his car, the door shutting with finality. But he didn’t drive away. Not yet. He waited until I’m safely inside the building before pulling away. As I walked up the stairs, the question still lingered in the air, unanswered. But I didn’t ask again. I didn’t need to. Somehow, him ending up here is no coincidence. I felt it down in my bones. And while I reached my apartment door and entered safely inside, the scent of his cologne clung to his hoodie, faint but maddening. And for the first time in a long while, I felt my heart start to flutter— like it did when we were two kids hidden in darkness reading our favorite book.
When I still believed in love and the boy with a thousand icebergs around his heart.