Page 55 of Sweet Venom

His cat?His cat!?

Don’t do it, Poe. Violence is not the answer, not right now, at least.

With my blood boiling, I considered hurling some snappy retort back at him, but I decided to be mature about it. Matureand not exactly sane. I straightened my back, took another deep breath, and channeled every ounce of restraint I had left—which wasn’t much, let’s be honest. I swear, this man is going to send me straight to a mental facility. I can feel the padded walls closing in already.

But, you know what? If he sends me there, I’m taking him with me.Hell, I’ll make sure he’scomingwith me. The man does look good in white.

Azariel might be a world-class asshole, but Iwasn’tgoing to let him win this time. This was far from over. Oh no, this was far from over.

Chapter

Eighteen

ROMANCE DARKEST HOUR

Poe

“Nothing says, ‘I’m desperate like a half-price ugly bouquet and some mediocre chocolate.” – A

I’ve watched enough true crime documentaries to know how to kill the demon of all demons and get away with it. I could ask my Uncle Enzo to do it but honestly. That would rob me of the pure joy of doing it myself.

What would your mother say?That obnoxious little voice in my head pipes up like it pays rent.

She’ll understand, I tell myself. She too wanted to kill dad once or twice.

Who am I kidding? My mom has a soft spot for Azariel. She calls him “charming”. He gave her vintage camera equipment for Mother’s Day last year and now he walks on water and can do no wrong.

Lovely traitor.

But hey, maybe I’ll channel all this homicidal energy into something productive. A murder mystery romance. The plot should be about an author who gets tired of her tyrant publisher slash lover, murders him during a “notes meeting,” and scatters his ashes in his mother’s rose garden like she’s hosting a botanical séance.

Not bad.

Kind of poetic.

I still can’t believe he rejected my idea… again.What does he want from me?

I collapse onto the couch like a pathetic mess and start furiously tapping my phone with the urgency of a black hat hacker trying to break into the President’s phone. One ring. Two. Then the loveliest face appears—Mom, in all her chaotic glory.

I almost laughed out loud when I saw what a mess she looked like. Her shiny black hair is thrown into a loose bun, and there’s about half a dozen strands rebelliously sticking out like she’d had a fight with a leaf blower and lost. For a moment, all my frustration faded.

Then my eyes wandered to the background, where my childhood kitchen looked like a war zone. Dirty pans are scattered everywhere like they’ve been tossed by a lunatic chef. Blue ceramic plates teeter on the edge of the large black marble countertop, as if caught in the wake of a tornado. And then, amid the chaos, I spotted dozens of tiny carrot cake cupcakes, each one perfectly decorated with swirls of cream cheese frosting and a delicate edible green leaf on top.

“Hey, Love Bug! How are you doing? Are you eating? Are you getting any sleep? How’s the writing going?” she asked, all sweetness and sunshine, but I could already see the wheels turning in her eyes. She’s suspicious. I could tell. I knew I looked like a dumpster fire who hadn’t seen a shower in days. Nothing new, though but she worries. Shit.

I groaned and let myself sink deeper into the couch, wrapping my trusty Michael Myers blanket around me like a second skin. It was a birthday gift from my twin along with a ton of Halloween merch. “I’m okay, Mom. I’m just tired…” I lied through my teeth. I was not okay. I was a certified unstable mess. I just want to get over this little rock in the road so I can start writing the book and enter my happy place.

“You’re full of it. What’s wrong?” Her green eyes—narrow and sharp, just like mine—narrow even further. She knows I’m lying. “Let me guess... Azariel?”

Yes, yes Azariel. No one else can rile me up like he does.

I let out a sound that’s somewhere between a dramatic sigh and an exasperated whale call. “He rejected my plot. Again.”

She chuckled like this is the most predictable thing on the planet. “Did he now?”

“Yup,” I muttered, my frustration rising like a volcano. “He said there’s no ‘love’ in it. No spark. No reason to root for the main characters. Basically, that their romance is not believable to him.” I’m no expert in relationships but at least I fake till I make it for the sake of my stories. But what does Azariel know about love? Am I missing something here? Is he secretly a sappy, closeted romantic, like my cousin insists? Does he sit in a dimly lit room, scribbling poetry for the one true love he’s definitely going to settle down with someday? Please. I’ve never seen him with the same woman for more than a week. If he’s a hopeless romantic, then I’m the freaking Loch Ness Monster. Mom tilted her head, giving me that look—the one that said she knew I was being a brat but she loved me anyway. “And is he right?”

No.

---