Page 51 of Sweet Venom

Always.

Chapter

Sixteen

BITTER SWEETS

Poe

“Here’s to love: the thing I’ll be avoiding today, like my ex at a party.” – A

One minute I was gleefully badmouthing my publisher with my pack of piranha cousins like we were plotting his House of the Dragon-style execution, and the next I was elbow-deep in cookie dough, baking Valentine’s Day treats for that same morally bankrupt demon in a nice designer suit. My master plan to weaponize joy, love, and aggressively passive-aggressive baked goods all over Azariel’s pristine hellscape of an office? Still very much alive. Still petty. Still so satisfying.

That’s why, before the sun was up, I was already in the kitchen, looking like a sleep-deprived raccoon in a Betty Crocker cosplay. There was flour in my hair, cat fur stuck to my pajamas, and “The Way You Look Tonight”playing softly in the background like this was Satan’s idea of a rom-com. Clearly, I’ve entered my villain arc as a deranged valentine’s fairy, becausenothing brings me more unhinged glee than crafting heart-shaped cookies with enough sugar to induce cardiac arrest—just to piss off Azariel.Sure, Jan,said the smug little voice in my head— who’s apparently now the self-appointed president of the Azariel Flan Club and running unopposed.You’re definitely doing this just to annoy him. Not because you’ve developed a tragic, slow-burn obsession with his evil jawline, cloudy gray eyes, or anything.

I ignored it. I was not about to get into a full-blown mental fistfight with my own brain before sunrise. Not today. Not before my morning glass of wine. And no, I’m not going to dwell on the fact that I might be a bona fide alcoholic, given how many glasses of wine I’ve been knocking back since I showed up in this city— well, hisworld, to be exact.

Prince sat at the counter, inspecting my every move with the kind of condescension that only he could perfect. He looked like he’d just woken up on the wrong side of the couch, his white fur sticking up in places that made him look like a tiny, pissed-off lion. But, as always, the condescending royal pain in my ass stuck around for the free food—whether it was dough scraps or my emotional breakdowns. I grabbed the cookie cutters—heart-shaped, of course— and started pressing them into the dough. It’s no secret I loathe the damn holiday. I mean, candy hearts with their insipid little messages. The pink overload that assaults my eyeballs? And the nauseating idea of commercialized love shoved down our throats for an entire month? Yeah, no, thanks. But the idea of injecting some joy into Azariel’s frigid workplace makes this tedious task worth it.

And hey, I wasn’t making these cookies for him. I’m making them for thepoor souls at Blackthorn Publishing. I could only imagine how miserable it must be to work for someone like Azariel. Hell, I still couldn’t quite wrap my head around the factthatheowns a publishing house now and that he wants me to work for him.

Okay, okay— maybe I was talking out of my ass here. Sure, the Azariel I know is a cold-hearted, smarmy ass, and yes, some of his staff are rude and condescending— but on the flip side, others are genuinely kind even though they work for a demon straight out of a corporate nightmare. Aside from that, his publishing house has signs of life. Hell, he even allowed it to be decorated. That has to mean something, right? Maybe he’s not a total ass to his employees… maybe he’s just saving all the delightful meanness for me.

Howsweet.

I wonder how he’ll greet me today when we meet to discuss the plot for the series, especially after that weird moment we had in his car. You know, the one when he suddenly appeared like Satan in the desert—out of the blue and totally unwelcome.

I’m not gonna lie, I’m nervous. I spent hours crafting what I think is a pretty damn solid plot for the series, and the thought that it might get shut down again? Yeah, that’s enough to tie my stomach in knots. That’s why today, I woke up determined to bake some cookies before my third meeting with Azariel. I know every encounter with him will feel like a battlefield—it’s just the way we are around each other. It didn’t use to be like this, but he set the tone of our “relationship,” or whatever this bizarre, antagonistic thing that we’ve got going on.

These cookies? My weapon.

My mother always said to “kill them with kindness,” and in this case, it’s sugar-laden treats that’ll annoy him early in the day. The cheery, red heart-shaped cookies might make the vein in his temple pulse so hard it could power the entire city—but they’ll also brighten his employees’ miserable work lives. So, you know, it’s a win-win.

Yes, I’m absolutely doing this to piss him off, but I’m also helping others. It’s all about balancing the scales of passive-aggressive justice. I also could practically hear Azariel’s voice in my head, mocking me for such a‘corny’gesture, but whatever, ruining his day it’s always a win.

Prince jumped down from the counter, his tail flicking as he scurried across the kitchen, clearly unimpressed with the whole ordeal. If he could talk, he’d probably start making snarky comments, but instead, he contented himself by batting at the flour bag that I left unattended on the floor. “Don’t even think about it, demon,” I warned, but he was already halfway into his sabotage mode. I sighed and went back to my task, rolling out the dough, cutting out heart shapes, and lining them up on the baking sheets.

After a few minutes of hard labor, I popped the first batch into the oven and wiped my hands on my apron, which, of course, was black and hadPoe’s Messwritten on it in red script. I was nothing if not painfully self-aware of how bad I was in the kitchen, but hey this time I followed some big-time social media baker, so I’m sure these won’t turn out so bad.

I hope so for everyone’s health.

“Keep the judgment to yourself,” I muttered to Prince, who had now found a comfortable spot on the windowsill and was staring at me like he was ashamed of me, “would it kill you to be on my side for once?”

It probably would kill him to be nice to me. His ass has been a menace to my ego since mom got him for me for my fifteenth birthday. Prince blinked slowly, the feline equivalent of a smug smirk.

The timer on the oven buzzed, and I pulled the first batch of cookies out. They smelled like sugar and regret. Typical. I set them on a cooling rack, took a deep breath, and let my hands get to work. I might not like it, but I could at least decorate themdecently. Red frosting, white sprinkles, little hearts. It wasn’t what I would have wanted to make, but it was what they needed.

“You should be proud of me instead of acting all high and mighty. I’m doing something nice for my boss and his employees,” I muttered as I dipped a spatula into the frosting. “If they can’t escape his icy grip, at least I can offer them some sugary relief on this fine holiday.”

Bullshit. My inner voice retorted.

Shhh. I shushed her before she ruined my morning.

I went on with baking and once I had a batch of standard, sugary love messages ready— corny stuff like “Be Mine” and “XOXO” and all the other nonsense that made my stomach turn—I took a deep breath after my body shivered with how much it pained me. How I’m able to write romances is beyond me, with this aversion I feel towards anything that has to do with love.

Liar…the annoying voice teased, but I refuse to acknowledge it.

Now, it was time for him. The man who hates Valentine’s Day and romance as much as me, or perhaps maybe more than me. Mostly more than me. The second batch of cookies was for the only person at the publishing house and world who could turn my stomach while also making my pulse race. Azariel. The man who owned the place, who made my blood boil and, somehow, made me feel alive with every flicker of his cold gaze.

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