Chapter 115: Chapter 115: WAS I THAT BAD?

VALORIA WILDEROSE

Chirping birds and the piercing sting of sunlight stir me up from my deep slumber, and no matter how much I cling to the warmth and comfort I’m engulfed in, consciousness finds me still.

Laying on soft, comfy sheets, splayed out on a large massive bed that smells heavenly of earthy spring — a sultry scent that has too many wild and dramatic memories tied to it, drawing a faint smile from my lips as I snuggle deeper.

I bury my nose into it, giving into this primal urge to bathe myself in it.

It smells just like him and I want to bathe in it a little more.

That singular thought is like a wake-up call that plunges my sanity back into my partially groggy mind, propelling me upwards.

Merely thinking of Azrael has me remembering the insane plan Yara had come up with, convincing me to finally give him what he’s been asking for for weeks in an attempt to finally get rid of my supposed sexual frustration.

I was supposed to sleep with him and get over my new obsession, yet I don’t remember getting through it last night.

I don’t remember most of last night, only patches and the wine…

Goddess, the wine…

Maybe I should avoid it for a while. Maybe forever.

The sound of rustling paper not so far off has me sitting upright and staring towards the direction of the light where Azrael sits behind a desk going through papers and documents silently, wrapped up in his own world of business by himself. Completely unbothered. Like I’m not even here, like last night was nothing worth carrying into the morning.

For a split second I’m enamored by the view in front of me, like a painting brought to life with the way his messy bed hair sits slightly tousled yet perfectly over his head and the light hits his hair and lashes, making them shimmer along with his fair skin.

A bit of it making contact with the side of his bright blue eyes, making them shine like crystals.

His silent, serious countenance adds to the lure of mysterious aura about him.

I suck in air, breathless and stunned silent, caught in a wicked trance until finally something clicks and he looks up at me and our eyes meet in a single, never-ending second.

Something loud begins drumming in my ears before I can quickly look away from him.

“You’re awake.” He acknowledges in a tired, detached tone, pulling his chair back and getting up.

I hear him walking closer, feel the bed tip down as his body weight presses into the spot right next to me, but for some reason I can’t look at him long enough this morning.

“U-Uhm… di-did we—?”

“Fuck?” he cuts me off before I can finish. “Not even close.”

“Oh.”

My heart is beating out of control knowing our bodies are merely inches apart. I could lean in closer and my arm would be grazing his.

It’s never felt like this before, so why?

He says we didn’t do it. I don’t know how to feel about it.

Rather, I summon as much courage as I can muster and I peek at him, watching his distant face that stares ahead as if lost in thought.

Something feels off with him, like he isn’t present. Like whatever he is carrying this morning is heavier than whatever happened between us last night, and that bothers me more than it should.

“Are you mad?”

He chuckles.

“Why would I be, my little pet? I mean, you not only broke into my room, made an absurd request of me, but right after getting me worked up you puke in a very expensive antique vase. Do you think that’s enough reason to be mad at you?” His voice is dripping with sarcasm.

“Okay, I get it.” I groan, hit with a wave of embarrassment.

So that’s what happened last night. I feel more awful not being able to recall the extent of how much I embarrassed myself.

“I can make it up to you. I will.”

I sit up on my knees facing him more directly, and then I take his hand — twice the size of mine — placing it directly on my chest, making contact with one of my boobs without thinking twice.

The mere contact sends a string of static down my spine.

“We can still go at it again. Just pretend last night never happened and give me a second to…”

“Forget it.” He cuts me off again, gently pulling his hand away from mine.

Something sharp guts me.

“I’m serious. I don’t mind anymore. I can do it right now without the alcohol.”

“I’m not in the mood.” He repeats again, gutting me twice in a single second.

I bite my lips, swallowing down his rejection like needles down my belly.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Was I that bad?”

I hate that my voice cracks at the end of the statement, or that I seem affected by his lack of interest.

I hate that I feel unseen, and for the first time, self-conscious of every flat surface and bony bump on my body.

He frowns all of a sudden.

“Do I seem like that much of a sexual fiend that only something horrible would make me not want to have sex with you?”

“Yes.” I respond plainly.

It isn’t a lie. I’ve seen him with women and heard of his escapades. Sleeping with a woman is like breathing to him, and it didn’t matter what kind as long as they were available.

He sighs from frustration, fighting something silently.

“You weren’t horrible. You can’t be horrible.” He bites his lips, holding more back.

The words hang in the air between us, unfinished, weighted with everything he isn’t saying. I want to pull them out of him. I want to shake him until the rest of it falls loose.

For a moment his gaze flickers to my lips, lingering longer. A static pull draws me an inch closer.

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