59. Levi
LEVI
Fuck. I feel like a spear has pierced my skull. The last time I experienced the pain of a concussion, it was during a mission and I’d woken up in a dank cell. For a fleeting moment, my mind thinks that’s exactly where I am. Until I hear her voice.
And Azrael’s.
The newest bane of my existence.
My father’s usurper now lingers only in the recesses of my mind. When it processes Azrael’s words—this over-the-top romantic declaration—it isn’t anger I feel.
It’s fear.
That hateful voice in the back of my mind reminds me of all the reasons why she should be with him. How much better he is than me.
I force my eyes open despite how it inflames the stabbing pain from my concussion. And it isn’t that pain that makes me wish I hadn’t.
She looks so beautiful and perfect, it hurts.
And even a decapitated Azrael is a lot better looking than I am.
They both possess this unearthly, ethereal beauty that I will never have. I’m just a thug. A glorified grunt with no discernible talent or skill beyond killing people and doing my own oil changes.
How could I ever have thought I’d be worthy of her?
“I can sense your hesitation, darling. Tell me what’s wrong.”
The tiniest molecule of hope springs to life inside my chest as, peeking through slits, I watch tears spill from Violette’s eyes.
Goddamn, this woman cries a lot. It further spurs my self-loathing. I’ve made her cry every day since I’ve met her. How fucked is that? If that isn’t proof I don’t deserve her, I don’t know what is.
Still, I’m beyond relieved that she wipes those tears away before Azrael has the chance to. Fucker would probably write her a goddamn sonnet about her tears after collecting them in a lachrymatory.
A tear catcher.
Yes, that’s a thing. Ask me how I know.
It is a bitter realization that I will never be that man. A poet. Charming. Dazzling or whatever the fuck flowery and elegant adjectives could be used to describe Azrael.
“I just... I want to say yes, but…”
My heart riots with a hope I don’t deserve—the spark of which steals my breath.
“But what, precious seraphim?”
“I don’t know what to do about Levi—Salvatore—whatever his name is. I still feel this... thing for him.”
My chest nearly explodes with that spark of hope.
There’s a pause.
“That’s entirely natural, Violette. Would you be receptive to Salvatore courting you as well? It isn’t uncommon among gods for more than one to court the beloved.”
Violette murmurs a disdainful reply, more to herself than anyone else. “Why am I not surprised?”
“I know it’s unheard of in syrith culture, but you are half-goddess... perhaps it’s time to embrace that part of yourself.”
Goddess?
I suppose I should be more surprised to learn such a detail about my soulbound, but I never perceived her as anything less.
For once, I actually want her to listen to this fucking barnacle of a man.
The look on her face is nothing short of dismal, if not tortured.
“You are not your father, Violette. Allowing two males to court you does not make you disloyal to either so long as both are aware of it.”
Her throat works.
“If anything, take this as an opportunity to be shown what you deserve. Regardless of whom you choose, I will treat you as though you are already my queen. Just as Salvatore will. Won’t you, human?”
My response is instantaneous. And far from eloquent.
“Yes. And stop fucking calling me Salvatore.”
Azrael shifts to face me, holding his head like a basketball beneath one arm.
Still naked.
He offers me one hand to help me off the ground, and I have the churlish urge to spit on him.
Ignoring the offer, I roll over to crawl onto my hands and knees. Eventually, I manage to stand even as my stomach roils, and my head spins.
Violette’s brows pinch with concern. “I have a tonic I can give you to help with that concussion. Do you need something for the nausea?”
The back of my mouth waters as I force myself to straighten.
“Yeah, tell this guy to put some fucking clothes on.”
I just barely manage to turn around in time to avoid vomiting all over Violette.
Rock bottom achieved.
Violette curses from behind me, and a moment later, her delicate hand is rubbing soothing circles on my back as I catch my breath and reject the taste of bile.
When I straighten, I’m blessed to witness the admonishing look she gives Azrael, who is—to my surprise—now fully clothed.
Beneath Violette’s tense brow, her gaze softens the moment her eyes return to mine, and I swear to fuck the look she gives feels like the heavens opening up for me. Her hand finds mine to place a petite bulbous vial boasting a gold wax-sealed cork and shimmering blue contents.
“This should help.”
She throws Azrael a guilty look. “I’m afraid we’re going to need help if you want any expedient resolution for... this.”