Chapter 98: Chapter 98: WE’RE ENEMIES, AZRAEL

VALORIA WILDEROSE

Calliope rises immediately, placing a kiss to my head and giving me an I’ll be back look before she turns around and leaves me alone with him.

The silence between us continues once the door slams shut behind her, stretching between the distance he maintains between us—enough that I can barely make out his expression.

“You had one instruction.” He finally speaks, breaking the curse of silence that has lasted for what felt like eternity. “Don’t stand out in front of her. Don’t make her notice you. Don’t exist when she’s in the room.”

He’s angry.

I sigh, already exhausted.

With as much energy as I can muster, I force myself up, already tired of lying down like some helpless invalid in front of him, ignoring the way my muscles throb in protest.

“If you’re going to nag and call me pathetic as you usually do, I’m not in the mood for it,” I say, attempting to get to my feet.

If he’s not going to get closer to me because he’s angry I let myself get poisoned, I might as well cover the distance myself… is what I think, forcing myself onto my two feet.

The first step without falling leaves me optimistic for the second, but the third confirms I’ve made a big mistake.

My muscles give way, refusing to cooperate with me any longer solely because I’ve refused to listen. I lose control of my legs and fall.

But he’s by my side faster than the speed of light, faster than I can fully register how much it will hurt once I crash into the tiled floors in my current state.

Sturdy large hands grip my small body by my waist and hold me up.

The sweet earthy smell of whatever cologne he’s wearing wafts into my nostrils, sending a thrilling sensation through my entire body.

Time seems to freeze in a moment where nothing else can be felt besides his warmth and my own rapid breathing.

I look up slowly, realizing just how close our faces are.

Close enough to see his painfully gorgeous face up close and every single detail of his features for myself, and feel the heat of his breath brush against my skin.

“You have eye bags,” I comment without thinking, discovering the dark shadow with a red tint below sky-blue eyes. “It’s the first time I’m seeing your face anything but perfect.”

I’m tempted to reach out and touch his face, but that would be too weird. I don’t even want to dwell on why that’s even a thought in the first place.

He lifts me in his arms in one swift motion like a bag of feathers and places me back in bed, securing the blanket over me and tucking me in tightly, triggering a distant memory.

“You almost died.” He finally responds, hiding his face away, focused on pinning me down to my bed with the sheets and blankets.

Then he pauses, caught by something that overwhelms him suddenly.

“I held your cold dying body. I felt life seeping out of you.” He seems shaken, surprised by the fickleness of life for the first time.

“You were scared? Why?”

“Is that what’s important right now? You almost died!”

His hand trembles. He bites his lips, glaring at me like I’ve said something so heartless and horrible. Seeing him make that pained expression feels wrong.

Wrong enough that my hand moves on its own, taking his.

“Look at me. I’m fine now,” I reassure him.

I place his hand on my cheek, rubbing it against my skin.

“I’m not cold.”

I pull his hand and bring it to my face, blowing warm air into his palm.

“I’m breathing.”

Then I take his hand lower, just above my breasts, pressed against where my heart should be—and it chooses now to beat faster, racing more than it should.

“Feel my heart,” I say breathlessly, holding his intense gaze that looks at me still with hints of doubt. “I’m not dead, Azrael. I’m still alive.”

He feels it with furrowed brow, attempting to believe it himself, but he’s still not satisfied. Or rather, he’s desperate for some other deeper form of reassurance.

I’m moved by an invisible force and kiss him all on my own, impulsively. It’s all I can think about—reassuring him. I hate seeing his eyebrows crinkle with worry, hate the fear that stares back at me.

He’s never scared, which leaves me just as terrified as he is. Kissing him is the only way not to think about it.

The second our lips are meshed, nothing else seems to matter—not the pain, not the fact that I almost died again—only the warmth of his body pressed against mine.

He grabs ahold of me the second he can, deepening it with his entire body, sucking on my lips, searching my mouth for sustenance.

Sparks fly through every neuron, igniting parts of me that should hurt but don’t.

Suddenly I’m irrational and desperate for something more.

My fingers dig into his back, wanting to be buried in the maddening warmth of his skin. My body searches for another way I can be closer and intertwined.

But then he pulls away all of a sudden, breathing hard, staring at my face with something weighing on his mind—something more important than kissing.

“What if you become a Lycan?”

“W-What?” I reply, just as breathless as he is, feeling the magic disappear.

He has to be joking, right?

I stare back at him with pure disbelief, expecting the punchline to drop, but he doubles down on it.

“You’re weak. You’re going to fall sick and feel unnecessary amounts of pain. You’re still going to die. But if you were a Lycan—”

“Don’t say it.” I bite my lips, putting more distance between us.

“You already hate werewolves as much as I do.”

I shake my head rapidly before he can continue saying impossible things that don’t make sense in a bid to convince me.

“I don’t hate werewolves. I hate my family. Not everyone is a sadist like they were.”

“Okay, fine, you can be a Lycan-loving wolf. But you’ll be stronger, faster. You won’t lose your life over any kind of poison.”

I can hear the subtle desperation in his voice, but it’s not enough to calm the heat searing in my blood from his suggestion—that I’ll need him to make me into something else I’m not solely to ease him.

“I will not become a Lycan,” I state firmly, so as not to be misunderstood. So he sees there’s no way he can convince me.

He shuts up finally, holding my gaze with betrayal in his until it morphs into realization, anger, and hurt.

“I see what this is about.” He chuckles bitterly, pacing back and forth.

He bites his lips slowly.

“You don’t want to be anything like me, is that it? You don’t want to be like the vile, disgusting Lycans you’ve been taught to hate. You’re generous and hopeful in your perception of werewolves, but when it comes to a Lycan, when it comes to vile monsters like me, it’s always different, isn’t it?” He begins spiraling worse than ever.

“It’s not because of that!” I yell, fully offended by his shallow misunderstanding.

Maybe a month ago I would have thought that way… maybe I still should, but I can’t think that all Lycans are awful anymore.

“We’re enemies, Azrael. We’re going to kill each other. Why would you turn me into a Lycan?”

He runs his hands through his hair and then down his face before exhaling deeply from frustration that seems to eat away at him.

“What if I don’t want to anymore? Will that change anything?”

“Will you change your mind about plunging the world into chaos to fulfill your selfish goals of becoming a god?” I throw back at him.

And he remains silent, his lips pursed tightly together with eyes filled with firm conviction he could never change for anything.

He doesn’t need to answer me. My answer is right in front of me.

I chuckle to myself for humoring him this much and believing a bit of the things he’s said again.

“I don’t believe you. We’re going to remain on opposing ends, Azrael, which means you’re going to kill me if I don’t do it first. I won’t let you deceive me any more than you have.”

He clenches his fist, vibrating with concealed anger he holds back from exploding.

“You’re a fool,” he whispers in a low breath.

“And you’re pathetic,” I reply likewise.

It’s a cold silent war between us, one we can’t ignore anymore with games and few moments of ease between us.

“I will be back. Make sure you rest and don’t get up from your bed unless there’s someone to help you,” he tells me before leaving.

As if I could break out of his perfectly crafted duvet prison if I wanted to.

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