Chapter 22
Chapter
Twenty-Two
BLACKTHORN STATE
Poe
“Even in your darkness, I see the light that belongs only to me.” – P
A fter the signing, Azariel and I were back on the jet, leaving behind both the city and one of the sweetest memories I’ve had in a long time. I knew I’d never forget this day.
As the plane climbed into the night sky, the lights of Miami shrinking below us, I leaned into the leather seat. My heart was still racing from everything that had happened. I kept replaying it all—the magical bookstore, the lovely readers, the way their faces lit up holding my books like they meant something to them.
It was surreal. Overwhelming, but in the best way.
And through it all, like a quiet storm I couldn’t shake…there was Azariel.
He hadn’t said much. He rarely did. And yet, somehow, he’d said everything. His actions said everything.
When I agreed to follow him to “chase romance,” I thought it would be a disaster. A cruel joke wrapped in expensive suits and sarcastic remarks. But some part of me—a small, quiet, and stubborn part—whispered that maybe there was something waiting at the end of it.
And today, that whisper turned into truth.
He didn’t just change my life by putting my books into the spotlight—he created something truly beautiful. A moment I’ll carry forever in my heart and memories.
In that cute little bookstore, surrounded by kind faces, stories, and soft-spoken love, the girl I used to be—the one with stars in her eyes and too much fear in her chest—she was brought back to life.
She stood there, nervous but smiling, and finally lived the dream she once thought was too far away. A dream she was too afraid to chase for a long time.
All because of him.
When thoughts of the day, gave me an idea for the romance of my next book, I picked up my iPad and opened the notes app, quickly typing everything that happened today while it was still fresh—every detail, every feeling, every soft spark. I didn’t want to forget. I didn’t want to lose any of it.
When I finished, I set it down gently and turned to look at the man responsible for the kaleidoscope turning in my stomach.
Azariel sat the way he always did—composed, distant, every inch of him wrapped in black. Black shirt, black slacks, black boots. Effortless luxury and beauty that made him look like sin dressed in black silk.
His tattoos peeked out from beneath his sleeves, climbing up his neck, disappearing into the open collar of his shirt. They looked like they were carved into him by something ancient, something powerful—like a curse or a spell etched in ink. He was covered in them, head to toe, and I couldn’t look away. Every line whispered a secret I wanted to write, and every shape left me wanting to trace it with my fingers and learn more of him.
He was beautiful. So achingly beautiful.
Like the moon, the stars, and the night sky all in one. And sometimes, he felt like the sun too—too bright, too much, almost painful to look at. But tonight, he was the moon. Quiet. Distant. Bright.
There was no doubt in my mind that he was the most breathtaking man I had ever seen. But it wasn’t just his beauty that left me shaken. It was the shift. The feeling in the air between us.
The moment he took my hand, something deep inside me stilled. Something clicked into place.
As if whatever had kept us apart finally let go.
With one touch, he steadied me. With one look, he made me believe I belonged. That I wasn’t an impostor like my mind so often made me believe.
As I looked at him, all the little moments we’d shared today played through my mind like quick flashes and like a story moving too fast for me to hold onto.
Then he caught me staring and heat creeped up from my neck to my cheeks.
His face didn’t change. He didn’t even blink. But his gray eyes… they were looking at me differently.
There was no coldness in them. They didn’t look far away. They didn’t look right through me. No.
There was only warmth.
My throat tightened, and I had to swallow to calm my racing heart. The traitor had already done enough flips for one day.
“You know,” I said softly, trying to break the silence, “if I told anyone what you did for me today, they wouldn’t believe it.” Okay, maybe mom would since she’s his biggest fan.
Azariel didn’t answer right away. His tattooed fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the armrest. For a second, I thought maybe he didn’t hear me.
“And what do you believe?” he asked, voice low and calm.
I blinked, caught off guard by the question. “I… I don’t know.”
A pause.
“Liar.”
The word hit hard—too direct, too true. My cheeks warmed.
I frowned. “Liar?”
His eyes met mine. Steady. Dark. All seeing. “You do know. You just don’t want to see it.”
You do know. You just don’t want to see it.
My heart stuttered. I leaned in a little, barely breathing. “See what?”
His expression shifted—just slightly. Then it closed off again.
“What’s in front of you.”
His words landed heavy. Familiar. My mom said the same thing on our last call but hearing it from him felt different.
“And what’s in front of me?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer. Just stared ahead like he hadn’t spoken at all.
I wanted to say a lot of things but I didn’t. So, I said the only thing I could.
“Thank you again,” I murmured, meaning every word. Maybe I couldn’t say the things that my heart was screaming for me to say but at least I can give him that. For now.
“I don’t need thank-yous.”
“Well, you’re getting them anyway,” I said with a small smile. “My mom raised me right. If someone does something kind, you say thank you. It’s called basic human decency, Azariel.”
He made a sound—half grunt, half breath. Almost a laugh.
Almost.
Come on, you not so soulless demon… let me hear your laugh.
The silence returned, but it didn’t bother me. It never has with him.
I sneaked another glance. His face was still turned toward the window, unreadable, ink and shadow all over his skin.
Still grumpy.
Still him.
“Can I ask you one thing?” I said quietly, keeping my eyes on him.
His gaze didn’t shift. “Depends.”
“Why’d you do it?” I hesitated, then added, “Why give me the publishing deal?” My voice trailed off in embarrassment. “Did… Did Aunt Kadra ask you to?”
He turned his face and his eyes snapped to mine, his black brow lifting like I’d just asked something stupid. Ugh, I did.
I winced. “Forget it. I don’t want to know.”
“I did it because I could,” he muttered firmly.
The simplicity of it hit me. As if that sweet gesture hadn’t changed everything. As if he hadn’t just rewritten our story with one decision. As if he hadn’t just handed me my dream.
Before I could speak, his voice softened. Almost… sweet.
“You don’t have to thank me, little fox. I don’t need your gratitude.” He paused, then added, “I need you to believe in yourself more.”
Little fox.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
And just like that, my breath caught. My heart stopped for a moment.
I opened my mouth, but no words came. Nothing.
He had no idea what those words meant to me. What that nickname meant to me. Or maybe he did. Maybe that was the most frightening part. What is happening? Why this sudden change? Why now after so many years?
I leaned back into my seat, feeling suddenly more exposed than ever. This wasn’t just about books or success. It wasn’t about Miami or even the chase of a better story to publish. Not anymore. It didn’t feel like that. One day changed everything.
This was about him.
And me.
And something that felt like the beginning of something I wasn’t sure I was ready for but had secretly always hoped and dreamed for.
“So,” I said, forcing a small smile to hide the rush of emotions taking over my defenses. “Are we done chasing romance now?”
His jaw clenched. His eyes locked onto mine, sharper now.
“We haven’t even begun,” he said, voice low, rough, and sure.
My heart skipped many beats. Or maybe stopped.
Because whatever was happening between us—this tension, this pull—it wasn’t in my head.
It was real.
And from what he just said it wasn’t over.
It had just begun.
The 1955 Mercedes-Benz 300 SLR Uhlenhaut Coupé we were riding in was a masterpiece. The kind of car you only see in glossy magazines, old Hollywood films… or parked in the garage of your favorite crime boss uncle.
Yes, that kind of car.
Uncle Enzo owns two. According to him, they’re the only ones in the country— though something tells me he won’t be thrilled to know his longtime rival-slash-enemy’s son, Azariel, has one too.
The Mercedes’ sleek black exterior shimmered under the night sky, catching the light in a way that made it look like it was made of liquid coal. The car didn’t drive—it glided, like a predator slipping through the veins of New York.
And I couldn’t stop staring at it. I was in awe.
My obsession with vintage and fast cars should probably be studied. Most women my age are into makeup, fitness, and self-care. And although I try my best to keep up with all of that, I’m not obsessive. I’m more of a fashion, poetry, and cars kind of gal.
Every curve of this old-time machine was perfection—from the sculpted fenders to the narrow headlights that glowed faintly, like the eyes of something wild and watching. It felt like the car had a soul. Like it was born from a different time, a time when things were built to last—when beauty had weight, and elegance had sharp teeth.
The blue Maserati and this one? Total opposites. And yet, somehow, both felt like Azariel.
Powerful.
Sharp.
Mysterious.
I stole a glance at Azariel as he steered us smoothly through the streets— one hand on the wheel, the other on the gearshift. Effortless. In control.
The way he drove did things to my body and sent my imagination running wild into dirty, filthy places. I made a mental note to add this to the book for the spice part.
He looked like the dark, handsome models I use as muses to create the villain in my stories. He looked dangerous and sexy doing something as mundane as driving.
Even with the lack of sleep from the nonstop travel, he looked steady, unshaken and alert. His sharp jawline, his dark, tousled black hair, and the way his harsh gaze remained focused ahead, unflinching—only added to his appeal.
Something had definitely changed. Maybe in him. Or maybe I was finally seeing what was always there. What I’d been too stubborn or too afraid to see.
Azariel looked handsome in the light, sure. But in the quiet dark? He was dangerous levels of beautiful. That usual steel wall of cold indifference was still there, but now it felt thinner, like the edges had softened and cracked just enough for the real him to peek through.
I touched my chest when I felt a sharp pain take over. It always happens when I look at him too long.
I wanted to say something—anything—to distract myself from the ache. To break the silence. But I didn’t want to ruin whatever strange peace existed between us. I knew it wouldn’t last. Peace between us never did.
Still, my curiosity won.
“So,” I asked softly, “where are we going now? You’re taking me home, right?”
He said we weren’t done chasing romance, but we’re back in New York now, so what kind of romance was he planning to find back here?
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the road, hands steady on the wheel. Then he glanced at me, but I couldn’t read his expression.
“Not quite,” he said.
“Not quite?” I raised an eyebrow. “Then where are we going?”
His red lips twitched—just a little. Maybe a smirk. Maybe not. I couldn’t tell. It was faint.
“Somewhere more... fitting. For the story.”
Somewhere more fitting for the story?
I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. And somehow, I knew I wasn’t going to get more details about the location out of him.
It was obvious this was just another one of those moments where I was meant to follow along in silence, like a passenger on this strange yet exciting journey.
The more he drove, the more the city lights faded behind us. Skyscrapers faded into nothing and gave way to trees. Concrete turned into winding back roads. The deeper we went, the darker the world became around us, and yet it felt almost... peaceful. It felt… familiar.
I rolled down the window just a crack, needing to feel the night for some reason. The cool air rushed in, caressing my face like soft fingers. It’s odd. Goosebumps ran through me just like it did when Azariel’s cold fingers brushed my skin.
The steady purr of the engine filled the quiet, the sound almost soothing. Wherever we were headed, it was clear it was a world away from the noisy city.
my breath caught in my throat and my heart slowed.
It all unfolded in slow motion.
There, tucked beneath the heavy cloak of night and framed by towering trees like a hidden treasure, stood a manor. It rose from the shadows like something out of a dark fairy tale. Not the bright, cheerful kind. The other kind—the stories whispered under blankets, filled with broken souls and haunting secrets and old magic.
My kind of story.
It was beautiful in a way that hurt. I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to. Because somehow, impossibly, it felt like I was staring straight into Azariel’s soul.
And I was utterly, helplessly enthralled.
Twinkling lights hung high in the trees, like fallen stars trapped in the branches. They shimmered softly, casting a golden glow over the path ahead of us. The cold wind rustled through the leaves, carrying a hush that felt both sacred and haunted. The manor itself was grand and quiet, with tall windows that reflected the moonlight and ivy crawling like veins over the gray stone walls. It was odd. The manor didn’t just sit there—it waited for us. Watched us.
And I felt it. I felt this place deep in my bones. Like a sense of déjà vu and belonging which is strange since I’ve never been here. It’s the same feeling I felt earlier with Azariel. Something was pulling at the edge of my chest. Something familiar and strange.
“It’s…,” I breathed. “It’s… beautiful.”
Azariel said nothing.
But I saw the way his hands slowed on the wheel. The way his eyes stayed fixed on the glowing and magical path ahead.
Whatever this place was... it wasn’t just a stop on the road.
It was him.
I leaned forward, unable to look away.
The manor kept rising out of the night like a secret whispered into the dark. Twisting ivy curled up its stone walls like veins, and soft golden lights shimmered high in the trees, suspended like fallen stars caught mid-descent. It was breathtaking, yes, but not in a soft, gentle way.
No.
It was the kind of beauty that made your chest ache. The kind that felt like it had teeth and could bite if you got too close. Like him.
The manor looked alive in a way that made your heart slow and your breath catch. It felt like stepping into the pages of a story where you weren’t sure if the ending was happy… or tragic but there was no doubt that it would be beautiful.
The black iron gates groaned close behind us with a deep, echoing clang. Azariel didn’t flinch as if he had heard it a thousand times before. He simply drove forward, following the driveway that led us deeper into the dark. The world beyond vanished. There were no more city lights. No sound but the low hum of the engine and the soft sigh of wind through the trees.
“Is this your home?” I asked before I could stop myself, my voice just above a whisper.
Azariel didn’t answer right away. For a long moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer at all.
Then, finally, his voice came. Low. So soft.
“It is.”
That was it. Nothing more.
I didn’t need anything else.
It was the way he said it—the quiet awe—that made my heart pound like crazy. As if this dark gothic, soul-stirring magical place meant something special to him. It wasn’t just another home. It wasn’t another haunted castle in its long, quiet story. No. It was his home.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
I know, heart.
Will he ever stop surprising me? I don’t think so. I don’t want him to stop.
I stared at him, half in shock and half in wonder. He looked like a heartless prince from a forgotten tale… the kind you’re warned about. The one you’re afraid to fall for yet you can’t help but do it anyway.
The car rolled to a slow stop before the entrance.
I looked away from Azariel and then up.
Blackthorn Manor.
The name carved across an old iron sign above the towering wooden doors. The letters were delicate and elegant—but something in their shape hinted at cruel thorns beneath the timeless beauty.
I sat there for a heartbeat, trying to absorb it all. This place looks just like something out of my dreams. I can’t help but blink repeatedly to see if I’m dreaming it all but I’m not.
The flickering warm lights in the high trees. The peaceful silence. The way the wind seemed to hum through the branches. It was magic—but not the kind of magic most people hope for. It wasn’t bright and soft. No. It was dark magic.
Quiet. Lingering. Beautiful in a way that made you feel both found and lost.
I wasn’t sure where Azariel would take me next but I’m certain I wasn’t expecting this.
He said he was taking me somewhere fitting for the story he wanted me to write and know I think why it was so fitting for him. This felt like the place where epic love stories begin. The dangerous kind. The unforgettable kind.
The car rolled to a final stop on the circular stone driveway, where a beautiful gothic water fountain sat, just beneath the looming shadow of the manor.
Azariel shifted in his seat and moved to open his door—then paused, glancing toward mine. I could see it out of the corner of my eye—he was about to walk around and open it for me. But I was already pushing it open, too eager to wait for him. I had to see more. Feel more.
The cool winter air swept in as I stepped out, my heels crunching softly on the gravel. For a second, our eyes met across the roof of the car, something like amusement flickering in his. But it was gone before I could catch it.
I didn’t say anything. Neither did he.
We just stood there, side by side, facing the manor.
His home.
Blackthorn Manor.
Up close, it was even more stunning—like something pulled from a wild dream dipped in velvet and shadows. The towering black wooden doors were carved with twisting vines. Above them, a wrought-iron sign creaked in the breeze, whispering something I couldn’t quite hear. Something old. Something sweet.
Azariel moved a step ahead of me, tall and sharp in the dark, commanding the shadows. The black clothes, the tattoos climbing up his neck and crawling down his arms, the way he held still like a Greek statue—all of it made sense here. He looked like part of the manor itself. Like he’d been carved from the same silence and dark beauty.
My heart was beating up a storm as I looked at him, quietly observing the beauty in front of us.
I moved closer, the scent of roses brushing against my skin. Something about it felt like a memory from our past. We’ve been here before. Two quiet souls surrounded by the cold night and the scent of roses.
“This feels…” I whispered, breath fogging in the cool night air. “It feels like you. Like your family.”
It did. It’s almost sweet that even now that he’s a grown man he still gravitated to this kind of beauty. The same beauty that raced him. His family.
Azariel grunted. No words, just that low sound in his throat that always said everything and nothing at the same time.
The silence stretched, wrapped in the rustle of trees and the soft flicker of lights above. When impatience got the best of me, I broke the silence.
“Are you going to show me around,” I asked softly, “or just stand there looking all dark and broody? Not gonna lie, you’re kind of giving Bram Stoker’s Dracula vibe.”
My favorite blood sucking prince.
His amused eyes flicked to mine. “Stay close.”
Huh. Well, I’ll be damned. He didn’t hide the emotion. I got to see it. My heart raced even more at that.
I saluted him like a soldier.
I swear his eyes soften but maybe I’m hallucinating it all. It has been a long day after all.
Gravel crunched softly beneath my shoes as I stood before the towering front doors of the manor. I followed Azariel up the steps, my heart fluttering with something between nerves and wonder. With every step, it felt like the air thickened and charged with something unseen.
The manor loomed above us. Its windows glowed faintly with golden light. More vines curled along the stone like enchanted veins, and even more soft lights blinked in the high trees.
Azariel didn’t say a word as he led the way, his long, steady strides echoing against the stone beneath us.
There was something about the way he moved—like the night bent around him, like the shadows followed him home and did whatever he asked of them.
And as I stared at the beauty in front of me— him — a small part of me wondered if I was in over my head. If I was walking into something I didn’t fully understand.
But then I remembered his hand in mine earlier. The way his touch burned but didn’t hurt. How he’d held my hand without hesitation—quiet and steady, like he’d done it a hundred times before. Like he knew exactly when I needed it.
It hadn’t been dramatic.
It had been grounding and sweet.
And it had meant more than I could put into words.
It reminded me that there was more to Azariel Solonik than his sharp edges and cold exterior. It made me think that maybe behind the powerful and cold-hearted mask and all that quiet and ink, was someone soft. Someone waiting for someone to see beyond it all.
It scared me but I didn’t need all the answers tonight.
I just knew in my heart that I wanted to follow him.
Even into the dark and the unknown.
Because wherever he was going…
I wanted to be there, too.