Page 85 of Sweet Venom

But maybe, just maybe, I could be worthy of that love one day.

Later that night, I sat in my room while we quietly glued Poe’s card back together.

Mom didn’t say another word. She didn’t have to.

I felt it.

I felt her love and support in every movement.

When we finished, she kissed me goodnight and tucked me in like I was a little boy, before quietly leaving the room.

All I could think about before I drifted to sleep was Poe’s pretty face with those sad eyes.

It hurt.

It hurt a lot.

I dreamt of her that night and every night that followed.

If only she knew… That card with her sweet words is still the most valuable thing I own.

Later on…

So was her love.

The moonlight pouredinto the room in a steady stream, casting long shadows across the floor like fingers reaching through the dark. I stood by the window, staring out over the grounds of Blackthorn Manor, still thinking about blue hair and curious emerald eyes.

I had followed her in silence. Poe didn’t know I was there—didn’t see me watching as she wandered the quiet halls, trailing her fingers along the spines of old books in the library, pausing to study portraits that hadn’t moved in decades. She looked beautiful.

Like she’d always belonged.

There was something almost lyrical about the way she moved through my home. Unafraid. Wide-eyed. As if she saw something worth loving in all the shadows. And in some strange way, it gave me hope—hope that she might see me the same way. Not as someone who vanished into the dark, but someone worth finding there.

The moonlight spilled through the tall windows, casting soft silver across the cold stone floor. I stood at the glass, looking down at the rose garden. The petals gleamed, still wet from the storm. The air outside held that charged silence that always comes after rain.

My hand moved on its own. I slipped my phone from my coat pocket and found her name.

I didn’t call her often. Not this late. But sometimes the past keeps her up too—just like it does me.

I pressed the screen and lifted the phone to my ear. It rang once.

“Azariel,” my mother answered, her voice low and scratchy but clear. There was always an edge to it, even with her children. “Ghosts again?”

How does she always know?

“I could ask you the same,” I murmured, eyes still on the shifting shadows in the garden.

A pause.

“Some nights, yes.”

We never talked about them—our ghosts—but we didn’t need to. Hers were older. Sharper. But I knew they still visited her in the quiet, when the world slowed down and memory got too loud. Even after she found love.

“You still see them?” I asked.

I thought maybe love had chased them away.

She let out a short breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “Not like before. Not since Vitali. Not since you kids. But they still come. You never really get rid of ghosts, sun. You just learn to live with the bastards.”

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