Page 132 of Venom Sweeter than Honey
Tears of joy stream down my cheeks.
Entirely on impulse, I step forward and press my lips to Azrael’s forehead, lingering briefly.
A thousand words of affection bubble to the surface, but I bury them. I’ve been promised the world on more than one occasion, and it amounted to nothing.
So, ignoring the phantom sensation of where asoulbondshould be—of what I loathe to admit, is a yearning and disappointment for Levi and all that I wished we could have been—I settle for two small but heartfelt words.
“Thank you.”
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 hearhervoice.
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 alachrymatory.
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...thingfor him.”
My chest nearly explodes with that spark of hope.
There’s a pause.
