Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
MAYBE NOT SO HEARTLESS
Poe
“Even if it ruins me, I’ll always choose you.” – P
M iami.
Out of all the godforsaken places he could’ve taken me, I never expected Miami .
The black van glided through the neon-lit streets, its tinted windows cloaking us from the world outside. A world that was too loud, too bright, too desperate to be seen. Miami didn’t whisper; it screamed. Look at me. I matter. I have money. I own this place.
It reeked of performance. A playground for the rich and famous.
Miami is beautiful. Undoubtedly so. But it didn’t feel real. I didn’t feel like me.
It made sense for him, though. For Azariel. Or at least for the ruthless businessman with the surgically perfect smirk and the tabloids constantly snapping at his heels. It made sense for the version of him the world devoured. The cold-hearted billionaire with sharp suits, sharp words, and a reputation built on lies and fake charisma.
But this city didn’t make sense for the boy I used to know. The one who thrived in the shadows, who vanished into silence like it was his home. That boy didn’t belong here.
So, what were we doing here?
He wouldn’t tell me where we were going at first. Not on the jet. Not even after we landed. Every question I threw his way was met with a cold stare. He sat across from me, focused on his phone like I didn’t exist. Like I wasn’t sitting there reeling from the emotional hand grenade my mother threw at me last week—the one that cracked the vault I’d buried my feelings for him in.
He said nothing, and I tried to ignore how badly I wanted something . A flicker. A word. A crack in that perfect mask. I needed… something.
So I poked the grumpy bear.
“Are you planning on dropping me off on some remote island where I mysteriously disappear forever? If that’s the plan, just say so. I’d like to have one last call.”
His jaw ticked. His fingers paused mid-type.
He finally turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough.
“Miami,” he said, like the word offended him.
I blinked. Miami?
Why would we chase romance in Miami? Out of all the romantic places in the world, Miami doesn’t strike me as one of them.
“If you think Miami is a romantic city then you’re as emotionally constipated as I am.”
Nothing. Just a long, exhausted sigh.
God, he was a Greek statue in a $15,000 coat. Beautiful, untouchable, and infuriating.
That’s when the paranoia started crawling in. This was crazy. I knew Azariel the boy—but the man sitting next to me? He was a walking caution sign. I don’t know him. Not really. I just know him from a distance—through a screen. What if he’d killed me on the plane? What if I vanished, and the only witness was my asshole cat?
Prince wouldn’t tell anyone. That demon was probably thrilled about the idea of ridding himself of me.
I cut a glance at him. He was typing something on his phone. His tattoos seem to come alive when his fingers move rapidly. I found myself in a trance. What was he typing? Probably planning world domination or maybe he’s buying another business just to spite someone. Or he could be texting his hitman to make sure everything’s ready for my arrival.
I quickly shoved those thoughts aside. Maybe I was being dramatic. Or maybe I wasn’t. Either way, it didn’t matter. I got on his jet. I got in his car. Whatever came next, that’s on me.
Way to go, Poe. Dad would be proud to know his daughter willingly chauffeured to her potential demise by the Devil in a tailored coat.
Then he sighed and looked at me. Really looked at me.
And I forgot how to breathe.
Storm in his eyes. Frustration on his face. But beneath that—something else. Something I hadn’t seen in years.
“Are you done with your conspiracy theories?” he asked, his voice low. “I’d never hurt you.”
My heart stumbled over itself.
I’d never hurt you.
That shouldn’t have hit me the way it did. But it did.
I stared at him, mouth suddenly dry. The lines on his face were the same, but softer now, touched by memory. He looked like the boy I used to know. And damn it, I hated that my heart still knew that face. Still ached for it.
He didn’t say anything after that. Neither did I.
Silence fell between us. And it was… almost comfortable.
He went back to his phone. I grabbed my iPad from my bag, flipped to a blank page, and typed one word.
Silence.
That was it. No plan. No idea what I was doing. Just a feeling. A place to start.
I snapped back to the present and glanced at myself in the side mirror, adjusting the blazer that clung to me like a second skin. It was one of his choices—waiting for me in the hotel room he took me to after we landed. A hotel, naturally, that he owned. Because of course he did.
Then there was the outfit. It was… me. High-waisted mom jeans. A white tank top that was just the right fit. Black heels that probably cost more than my first car. The black blazer was tailored to perfection. The tag inside said Divine . My cousin Roman’s brand. He always sent us previews, but this outfit wasn’t one I’d ever seen before. Custom, maybe? The thought made my pulse jump.
Did Azariel ask for it?
He knew.
He knew what I’d wear. What I’d like.
Yes, that thought made my heart beat faster in ways that made me embarrassed. What was happening?
So when I was getting ready I realized that the outfit— the tank top made my waist look smaller and my breast look big. I had to admit that I looked… hot. I opened the blazer and left it like that so the focus was on the jeans and tank top. That way I looked more casual than business.
From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of him—Azariel. His jaw was tight. His eyes are unreadable. But there was something else this time. A flicker of something beneath the surface. Annoyance. Why is he annoyed? All of this was his idea.
I smirked, leaning back in the passenger seat, arms crossed. “You know, I’ve always wondered how you manage to stay this miserable all the time?” I tossed the question casually, watching him, waiting for some flicker of emotion.
He didn’t take his eyes off the road. Of course, he didn’t. He was always a man in control, always just on the edge of something I couldn’t touch. Always. “I’m not miserable, Poe,” he said, his voice cool, though I could detect a hint of something else. “I’m just not a fan of your fashion choices.”
My fashion choices? Seriously?
I couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. “You’re the one who picked this out for me,” I shot back, raising an eyebrow.
His gaze didn’t flicker, but his fingers tightened slightly on the wheel. “I remember picking a longer shirt.”
I glanced down at the shirt again. It was a little long on me so I bunched up the fabric, pushing it higher to reveal my belly button, my grin turning into something sharper. Is this why he’s more moody than usual?
“Are you jealous?” I asked, a hint of mischief creeping into my voice. I glanced down at my outfit, then back at him.
Azariel’s gaze remained trained on the road, unfazed, but I could see the corner of his lips twitch ever so slightly. He didn’t answer, but I was sure I’d hit a nerve.
I lean back in my seat, feeling like for the first time in mine and Azariel history I had something against him. He’s jealous…
“It’s okay to admit it, you know? I looked from the corner of my eye at him. I watched as his dark brows pulled low as if he was deep in thought. “Jealousy is a human emotion and that means you’re not an alien. Here I thought you were from another planet. You ruin that fantasy kind of fast.” I teased, leaning back smugly. I couldn’t help but enjoy the rare moment of having something over him, even if it was just a tiny bit.
Azariel’s lips twitched just slightly. and my heart trips over itself. Come on… smile but he doesn’t. Instead, he said, “You’re lucky we’re running late,” he muttered.
I laughed. “Oh, so you would make me change?” I asked, almost too eager. “I’d pay to see you try.” He completely ignored my dig about being jealous. That’s fine. I’ll store that in my mind for later.
He didn’t even look at me this time, his grip tightening on the wheel just a little more. He was still so unreadable, and I was so getting under his skin. I like this. I like seeing him rattle even if it’s just a little. “You’re an insufferable brat,” he finally said, but the faintest trace of amusement lingered in his tone.
“Ouch,” I replied, placing my hand dramatically over my chest as though he’d just stabbed me through the heart with his favorite knife. “You wound me, boss.” His gray eyes flickered, following my hand, and I felt a brief, heated moment between us. I could feel my skin on fire. I swore, for a split second, I saw something in his gaze that wasn’t boredom or indifference.
“You’re not as funny as you think you are, Poe.”
I grinned, pushing his buttons. “You’re a lot of things, Azariel, and most of them bad, but not a liar,” I shot back, meeting his gaze with a smirk. I could feel the air in the van thickening between us, like we were both just one breath away from something raw— something real. I think I’m imagining this because it couldn’t be real. Not with us.
We’ve always been like fire and frost. Touch and recoil. Words that cut, and silences that hurt. Two beings orbiting something we couldn’t name, never quite colliding. Like the wolf and her moon.
That’s what he’s always been to me. The moon. Cold. Distant. Blinding and unreachable.
“I am,” he said.
My smile faltered. “What?”
“I’m a liar.”
He said it quietly. No venom. No anger. And then he looked at me— really looked at me— and I swore something cracked wide open in his eyes. Like he was holding out a confession I didn’t know how to take.
I blinked. Swallowed hard. My heart pounded like it wanted out of my chest.
So I said the thing I always tell myself. The thing that makes it easier.
“Aren’t we all?”
It was safer that way. Easier to pretend that lying was just part of being human. But the truth was uglier. I’ve been lying to myself for years—telling myself I don’t feel this, that I never have. That Azariel doesn’t reach inside me in a way no one else ever has.
And lately... that lie is starting to fray. One breath, one look, one word from him—and I can feel it unraveling.
I cleared my throat when the air around us turned heavy. “Hey, at least we have one thing in common right?” I huffed, pretending like the thought of us having anything in common repulsed me.
And then it happened.
He smiled.
He fucking smiled .
And just like that, time collapsed around me. The world blurred at the edges, fading into shadows, because at that moment, there was only him.
If I thought the cold version of him—the sharp, untouchable god draped in silence—was beautiful, then this… this was something else entirely. His smile was rare. Dangerous. A sunrise cracking through a decade of storms. It felt like kissing the sun after years of drowning in rain.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
My heart pounded like it didn’t recognize the shape of my own chest anymore. I’d never seen him smile before—not even a hint of it. Not a twitch. Not a flicker. And this tiny, flickering ghost of joy was almost human .
Too human.
It wrecked me.
I tore my gaze away, fumbling for the one distraction that never let me down—my phone. My fingers moved faster than my thoughts, unlocking the screen before I could fully process what the hell was happening inside me.
My chest ached. Just like it used to—on the nights we’d sit in the rose garden and read under the stars. Back when I pretended the sound of his voice didn’t keep me awake long after he was gone.
I focused on the glowing screen, desperate to tether myself back to the world outside of him. Notifications exploded across my phone the second it unlocked.
Messages. Dozens of them.
Artemis: Girl, you’re famous. If I had a heart, it would totally hurt. You didn’t say shit.
Mom: Love bug. Look. (An attachment followed—some kind of post.) Told you.
Vade: Way to go, sis. Your filthy books are blowing up! ;)
Dad: You’re finally getting the recognition you deserve. So proud of you, my heart.
Uncle Enzo: That’s my girl.
My fingers froze. My pulse didn’t slow—it only got louder.
I frowned. What the hell was going on? What are they talking about?
My fingers moved almost on instinct as I scrolled through my social media feed, expecting… I don’t even know what. But definitely not this.
My breath caught.
There it was.
The official Blackthorn Publishing account had tagged me in a post—my name in bold blue letters, impossible to miss.
Please welcome Poe James, our newest author.
I stared at the screen, unmoving.
The caption below included a short bio, a few quotes from my writing— my writing —and a congratulatory message that felt so surreal I half expected it to disappear if I blinked.
But it didn’t.
My name was still there. My words. My face.
And then the rest of it hit me.
The post went on to say I’d officially signed with Blackthorn. That my books—the ones I wrote late at night when I didn’t believe in myself, the ones I’d buried in silence—were being published .
Published.
And they weren’t just being posted quietly or slipped into a dusty catalog. They were everywhere . Social media, reading platforms, forums. People were already talking. Already reading . The comments were flooding in—readers raving about the prose, the characters, the rawness of it all.
My pulse thundered in my ears.
But it didn’t stop there.
Because someone— somehow —had gotten their hands on my old manuscripts.
The ones I never finished.
The ones I was too afraid to share.
The ones I’d buried in the dark corners of my laptop, certain no one would ever want them.
Those stories weren’t shiny or trendy. They weren’t the kind of romances that followed the rules. They were messy. Intimate. Sharp-edged and aching.
I’d convinced myself they weren’t good enough. That I wasn’t good enough.
And now those stories— my book babies were out there. Published. Not just on some random site but on the biggest platforms. Everywhere. They were being shared. Reviewed. Raved about. The comments flooded in: “God, I love her writing so much. I can feel what the characters do.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t know about this author sooner.”
“Best book I’ve read all year.”
“Running to add to my Tbr.”
“I knew she would make it. I’ve followed her for years. I’m glad she’s exploring new things. So excited for more!”
I swallowed hard. I’m so confused. What was going on? How? How is this happening?
I turned to Azariel, but he didn’t seem fazed. He was still staring ahead, looking as uninterested as ever.
“D-Did you do all this?” I asked, my voice shaking slightly as reality started to hit me. “Did you... publish my books?”
He glanced at me, that same bored expression still there. “Yes,” he said simply like it was nothing.
I blinked, still trying to process all that was happening. “You did all this?” I hold up my phone and let him hear all the notification sounds popping up like crazy.
“Yes,” he repeated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. He—Azariel—had somehow found and taken my unpublished, forgotten manuscripts and turned them into a viral sensation. And now, somehow, I am growing everywhere. More people were following me on all my author platforms. In a day he turned me into a sensation with a real deal. A traditional publishing deal.
My heart pounded fast in my chest like it was struggling to be free from its confines and be with its owner.
I shook my head, still confused. “You just... decided to do this?” I asked, trying to process it. “You just decided to make me a popular and known author. Just like that?”
He didn’t even look at me. “I didn’t decide anything. I made it happen.”
It took a moment for everything to click. Azariel had the kind of power that could take something from nothing and turn it into something huge. That’s what he did with every single one of his companies. From something small he built something great. He did that in a matter of what? Days? Hours? How haven’t I noticed?
My unpublished manuscripts that I was too much of a coward to publish were now... big .
And somehow, I didn’t feel mad.
Confused? Absolutely . How the hell had he gotten his hands on my manuscripts? Had he hacked my files? I didn’t know. What I did know was that he’d done this without asking, without even giving me a choice. My mind screamed that it was an invasion— he had no right . He’d crossed a line by doing something so personal, so mine without my permission.
But as much as I fought it, as much as I tried to push it all down, there was this small, quiet part of me that couldn’t help but wonder… maybe, just maybe, he had done something sweet for me.
Had he? Or was this just another one of his power plays?
Azariel didn’t need the fame. He didn’t need the money. So why had he done this? Why did he give me a chance when I was too terrified to take it myself?
A sinking realization hit me: he hadn’t done this for himself. This was all for me.
All for me.
My books were out there. People were reading them. They were actually enjoying them. They were talking about them, praising them in the comments. This wasn’t some small thing. This was huge . The dream I had buried for so long was finally coming true, and I could hardly believe it. All of it was because of him. Everything.
I stole a glance at him, my chest tight with so many emotions I could barely keep them straight. Before I could stop myself, the words just tumbled out, almost shyly. “You didn’t even ask me. You didn’t tell me you were doing this.”
Azariel finally turned to me. His face was unreadable, as usual—but his eyes… there was something there now that I hadn’t seen before. A softness, a rare flicker that unsettled me. It was like a side of him he never let anyone see, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to run from it or lean into it.
“Why would I?” His voice was steady, but there was something else—something quieter in his tone. “You were never going to publish them yourself.”
The sting of his words hit harder than I expected. I wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong. But the truth was, he wasn’t.
I had hidden those stories away. I kept them locked up like secrets that could never see the light of day. I hadn’t even trusted my father, the one person I gave everything I wrote to, with them. I kept them buried because I was terrified of failing. Of not being good enough. Of no one ever caring.
And now, Azariel had taken that choice from me. He hadn’t just put my work out there—he’d made something of it.
“Why?” I whispered, the question barely escaping my lips. Why publish my old work when he had offered me a deal for something new?
His gaze softened even more. He gave a brief, almost imperceptible shrug. “Your work is too good to stay in the shadows. You’re too good for that.”
I should have been mad. I should have screamed at him for making decisions about my life without consulting me. I should have felt betrayed. But I didn’t.
Because deep down, beneath the layers of confusion and frustration, I realized something: In his own messed-up way, Azariel had given me everything I’d ever wanted.
Well, almost everything.
A shaky breath escaped me, and my chest swelled with a mix of joy, disbelief, and a warmth I didn’t know how to handle. “Thank you…” The words didn’t seem like enough, but it was all I had.
I glanced down at my phone, still buzzing with notifications, but when I looked back at Azariel, something inside me snapped. Without thinking, I did something I hadn’t done in years—not with him, anyway.
I smiled—truly smiled—with all my heart. And when the laughter bubbled up, I couldn’t stop it. It felt strange at first, like the sound was foreign to me. But it was real. It was raw. It was mine .
Azariel’s gaze flickered to me. His eyes lingered, studying my face as if trying to figure out what had just happened.
And then, to my surprise, he spoke.
“Do that more.”
I frowned, confused. “Do what?”
“Smile. Laugh.” His voice was almost awkward, as if the words didn’t come easily to him. He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. And then, just when I thought he might say something else, a soft, pink hue dusted his cheeks.
I blinked, stunned. Did he?—?
Azariel blushed .
I stared at him for a moment, almost too shocked to breathe. The cool, calculated man I knew was suddenly… vulnerable. And it was at that small, barely perceptible moment that I saw him— really saw him.
“ I like it, ” he muttered, looking away, the pink still staining his cheeks.
My heart did something strange, something uncontrollable.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Shit. My heart.
I pressed my palm to my chest, as if trying to steady it, but the truth was… nothing would ever feel steady again. Not when Azariel was here, breaking down every defense I’d spent years building.
As I tried to process everything that had happened, the van came to a smooth stop with a soft hum, and before I could even blink, Azariel was already opening the door for me. I took his hand, letting him guide me out of the vehicle. But as I stepped onto the ground, I couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes flickered down to where my blazer hung open, a faint tension in his jaw. A flash of something crossed his face—something that looked like desire .
My skin prickled under his gaze, a heat spreading over me that I couldn’t quite explain.
“We’re here,” he mumbled, his voice as low and steady as always.
I glanced around, expecting to find ourselves in a bustling part of the city—somewhere loud and filled with neon lights, maybe. But this… this was different.
Instead of fast-moving crowds and flashing billboards, we were at the entrance of a small, antique bookstore nestled between two buildings that seemed straight out of a painting. It looked like something from a fairytale, with its dark, aged wood and vintage windows adorned with delicate displays. A large, golden-pink sign above the door read, “Once Upon a Book” in elegant script.
I froze.
There was a line outside, people standing behind a pink banner, their excited murmurs filling the air. I watched in a daze as their faces lit up, talking animatedly and holding books with my name on the cover. My books . The ones I had published independently, the ones I never thought anyone would care about.
My heart started to race—wildly—like it always did when Azariel got too close. My eyes scanned the small crowd, and it hit me. They’re here for me . These readers, their eager smiles, the way they held my work with reverence—it was all for me .
But before I could process that, I turned to Azariel, my voice shaky. “Azariel... what is this?”
He stood beside me, his posture as still and imposing as ever, but this time, his voice was softer. “It’s a book signing.” He glanced down at me with a rare hint of something… almost gentle. “For you.”
I blinked, the words not quite making sense. For me?
The knot in my stomach twisted, tightening. I felt panic rise up, unbidden. “Wait. No, no, no. I wasn’t invited to this,” I blurted, turning to face him, my voice rising. “Azariel… I wasn’t even told about it. I shouldn’t be here. These people are waiting for their favorite authors—not me. I didn’t sign up for any of this.”
He didn’t say anything right away. I could see the irritation flash across his face, his eyes narrowing and his lips pressing into a thin line. He looked like he might argue—like he was getting ready to shut me down—but then, with a resigned sigh, he spoke again, his voice softer but firm.
“That’s because it’s all for you,” he said, his tone almost gruff as though it didn’t matter. “Look at their books. You’re the author they’re here to see.”
My throat went dry.
All for me?
It didn’t make sense. Sure, I had loyal readers—sweet people who appreciated my work—but not enough for a crowd like this. Not enough to have a line of people waiting for a book signing.
I blinked, trying to grasp what he was saying, and it finally hit me like a brick to the chest. This wasn’t some random event. This wasn’t just a coincidence.
Azariel had orchestrated all of this. From getting my books out on every platform to bringing me here, to this old, magical bookstore, where readers had gathered just to see me .
I wiped a tear from my eye, hastily brushing it away before it could fall. Nope. Not going to cry .
I looked back at the line of readers stretching down the block, their faces lit up with happiness and I felt a rush of excitement but also dread through me. I was suddenly overwhelmed by the idea of standing in front of all these people who knew my name. Who knew me.
My stomach clenched with the thought.
I had always dreamed of writing and creating magical worlds for readers. Something that would make them feel seen, make them laugh, cry, fall in love. But the idea of being seen in return? Of stepping out from the shadows and into the spotlight? That part scared me.
What if they don’t like me? What if I’m not what they expect of me?
Those questions circled my like vultures, picking away at the confidence I’d barely stitched together. That old familiar ache clawed up my throat and I found it hard to breathe.
Y ou’re not supposed to be here. You don’t deserve this.
“Stop it,” Azariel’s voice broke through my mind like the sun through a storm. He stepped closer to me, until we were almost chest to chest. I swore I could hear the beat of his heart. I glanced at him, surprised. His unfeeling expression didn’t change, but I saw the way his brow had tightened. Just a fraction.
“Get over your insecurities,” he muttered. “You belong here.”
You belong here.
How did he know? How did he know what I was thinking?
I opened my mouth to argue, but the words died in my throat. There was something in his eyes—something softer than I’d ever seen. More tender than before. My heart thudded in my chest. Maybe it was the way he stood in front of me, not pushing, not demanding. Just... being there— like a shield. My heart pounded so hard that I had to touch my chest and tap it three times to make it settle down.
In his cold, quiet way, he was offering me a space to breathe, to feel like I actually belonged in this sweet world he had built for me.
He built this for me. He took my talent and my stories and gave me my dream. Why?
I took a deep breath, feeling the tension ease just a little. “Okay,” I said, my voice a bit shaky, but I was determined. “I’ll try.”
Azariel’s eyes flickered to mine for a second, a brief, almost unnoticeable flicker of something that looked a lot like pride or maybe that was just wishful thinking. “You’ll be fine. Now let’s go. They’re waiting for you.”
Before I could let my anxiety win, he placed his hand at the small of my back, firm and grounding, and guided me forward. The contact was barely there but I felt it all the way down to my bones.
Oh, God. This is it. This is really happening.
And weirdly, all I could think of at that moment was my dad. Quiet, reserved, the kind of man who despised being the center of attention. I felt like him. And yet, somehow, I was here. A spotlight I was afraid of, a dream I still barely believed in, and a grumpy, at times emotionally constipated man at my side who apparently believed in me harder than I ever had.
And that? That might’ve been the real magic.
We stepped across the threshold of the bookstore, and it was like walking into a dream carved from warm light and quiet magic. It felt like stepping into another realm far from the one I’m stuck in. Another world filled with quiet corners and countless books written by dreamers.
The small bookstore felt timeless with rose-gold sconces glowing softly on the brick walls, casting a honeyed hue over rows of antique shelves. My favorite scent—old paper, leather-bound spines, and something floral—maybe jasmine—lingered in the air. I inhaled, filling my lungs with the sweet air around me. Somehow, it wrapped around me like a familiar memory, even though I’d never been here before. The hardwood creaked gently beneath my steps.
Then the crowd of smiling readers ahead of us parted making room for us to move toward the signing table. My heart swelled with joy as I took in the faces of every reader here. Their eyes were wide and their smiles were warm and excited. Once we reached the table I noticed it was located beneath a canopy of twinkle lights and trailing vines.
My heart beat loud enough to echo in my ears.
My nerves hit me all at once.
Still, I held my head high, spine straight, shoulders back. I refused to let the anxiety clawing up my throat take this dream from me. Not today. Not ever.
I focused on the way the light danced against the dust in the air. I tried not to think about all the eyes on me, the expectations. The pressure to have it all figured out— to be perfect.
When I felt like it might become too much, I felt the quiet and strong presence of Azariel at my back and like magic it made me feel not only brave but seen in a way that doesn’t scare me. I know at times I’m strong but other times I’m flawed. I’m quiet. The real me–the one not everyone gets— is here with him. He brought her out.
Ironic that the coldhearted, emotionally distant man at my back was keeping me grounded. I never saw that coming. What a rare but…beautiful plot twist.
“Azariel,” I said softly, my voice barely above a breath, but enough for him to hear. The words slipped out before I could stop them. “We’re not friends. We’re not even cordial. Why did you do all this? This is so much more than a book deal. This is—just why?”
He didn’t answer immediately and that made me turn. His eyes scanned the room as if he was looking for some invisible threat. But when I looked at him, I caught the shift in his expression again, like a crack in the ice. A glimmer of something… softer. Protective and tender.
I swallowed hard, because that look brought back memories that made my heart race and ache all at once. It was the look I’d always wanted. The one I used to dream about. And now that it was real, it hurt in a whole new way.
“You’re right. We’re not friends.” He paused. “And we never will be.”
I tried not to think of how much that hurts. It takes me back to that night so long ago when I wasn’t good enough for him.
But before I could swallow the pain or build a wall in response, he added, “I did it because I knew you wouldn’t do it yourself. You would rather stay in the shadows than bask in the light of your dreams. And you, little fox, were not made for the shadows. So, I did it for you.”
My breath caught in my chest.
And you, little fox, were not made for the shadows.
And just like that, something in me shifted as I looked in his eyes. The cold, anxious fog I’d been swimming in for years was slowly disappearing. All that remained was warmth. Gentle, quiet warmth, like a flame catching in the dark. Him.
All there was… was him.
I couldn’t help but think as our eyes held that maybe he wasn’t as heartless as I forced myself to believe.
Maybe, just maybe, he was capable of doing something sweet for others— for me. Even if he never showed it, even if he never asked for thanks.
“Now, no more questions,” Azariel muttered, his tone harsh as ever. “I hate explaining myself, so move.” He scowled, the corners of his mouth pulled down and it made him look like a grumpy bear instead of the usual demon with a razor tongue.
I bit my lips to hide a smile. I couldn’t believe how adorable he looked trying to pretend he hadn’t just let a sliver of sweetness slip through. He could pretend all he wanted but I’m never forgetting that he slipped and let me see a side not many get to see.
Yes, he was cold and sometimes a detached bastard with the emotional intelligence of a rock. When he wanted to be, he was the cruel gatekeeper of hell, a puppet master pulling strings just to watch his enemies squirm. He wasn’t perfect—God, not even close. He was stubborn, and infuriatingly unreadable most days.
But he was here.
He did all of this for me. Not because he had to. Not because he wanted something in return. But because he knew I wouldn’t have done it for myself. And that made me believe that beneath the steel, the silence, and the edges he used to keep people out… there was a heart. A big, aching, beautiful black heart that was broken long before its owner knew what love was.
“Thank you. I still don’t know why me but thank you.” I whispered just loud enough for him to hear and before he had a chance to open his mouth and ruin the moment, I turned my back to him.
With a small smile on my face, I took my place at the signing table, smiling at the readers who approached with their books for me to sign, feeling a little more like I belonged than I had believed. And as I looked over at Azariel, who had moved behind the table, watching me with his arms crossed and his signature indifference and coldness.
His gray eyes were scanning the room, but they kept flicking back to me. Not in a controlling or angry way. He was just… watching. Quietly. As if making sure I was okay without ever needing to ask.
And something in me softened even more than before.
Yeah. I’m in trouble.
Deep, soul-shaking trouble.
Because now I wasn’t so sure this was the kind of battle I knew how to win. This wasn’t a war I was even prepared to fight like I convinced myself all these years.
“Chase romance.”
I’d initially thought he meant it for my books. For the stories he needed me to write.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
I looked around the bookstore— the space he carved out for me, the sweet world with readers smiling at me he helped build in a matter of days when I was too afraid to do it myself. This magical moment… it was the kind of thing that could make a woman fall to her knees and offer him her heart.
I couldn’t risk giving him mine.
But I will remember this day. I’ll remember the way it felt when I sat down and believed in myself because he did. I’d pour it into my manuscript, into every word I wrote. Because I wanted to keep this feeling alive forever written in the pages that will never die.
And as I looked back at him, still standing there like nothing could touch him—I saw past the armor.
For the first time since we were kids, I saw him. I saw him because in him I see myself.
And it scared me.
It terrified me.
Because as the world around us faded into the background, my heart kept beating faster, louder, like it knew I was fucked.
I wasn’t falling for Azariel. No. I fell when I was just five years old and I’ve been falling ever since.
And I didn’t think I knew how to stop. I didn’t know if I even wanted to stop falling.
Yes, I’m so fucked.