Page 21 of Property of Azrael

“This.” he holds up his phone, and on it is the front cover of the second book in my biker series, Ride Hard. If he’s reading the second book, then… Oh, no. That means he read the first one. A pit churns inside my stomach. My confessions about MMM were only meant as a warning of what they can expect when dropping me off. I never meant for him to read my freaking books.

“You didn’t,” I gasp, reaching for his phone to delete it, but he’s quicker.

“Ah, ah, ah, I paid good money for this book. I have to say, for someone who’s never straddled a bike until yesterday, you sure have a creative way of fucking around on one.”

The scene he’s alluding to is in the bonus epilogue, where my two main characters finally admit they love each other and fuck on the side of the road. If there’s any way to be an entirely new shade of red, I’m sure I’ve just invented it.

Azrael reaches over and grabs my head. “You okay over there? You look like you just blew your entire fuse box.”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” Frowning, I ask, “Did you really read my book?”

He beams at me. “I did. And I have to say, it’s not bad.”

“It’s not?”

“No,” he assures me. “There are some things about your club’s dynamic that are a little off, but for someone who doesn’t live the lifestyle, it’s not bad at all. I can tell you did your research.” He pauses, thumbing through the pages on his phone. “Though, between us, the Harley the club president rides wouldn’t have ape hangers. For as much as they’re on the run, they would only be a hindrance. You want to be lean for speed, and that would cut down on the ground velocity. Not to mention, it makes it harder to steer.”

“Anything else?” I tamp down my irritation as best as I can. To hear him so openly mock my book hurts. I know it’s not perfect, but my soul is in those stories. Pieces of my life that I’d buried deep down, and he’s mocking it.

“Nope,” he offers with a knowing grin.

“Tell me,” I demand. “I need to know, according to you, if I’ve bastardized your lifestyle.”

“You didn’t bastardize anything. Truly, I liked your book, especially with… what did the heroine call it? Her burning pit of molten ardent desire? Makes it hard for us mere mortal men to compete with these book guys.”

“Stop it,” I groan, smacking him on the chest. “You’re making fun of a book that took me over a year to research and write, asshole.”

“I’m not making fun of it. Though now, I’m intrigued about which parts of this book you researched, how thoroughly—” he winks “—and with who.”

Of course, he’d focus on the sex scenes. Not the underlying themes of the book, or the journey the broken female lead had to take to find herself worthy of love. How the lead male character had to temper his need to scorch the earth for her when her past came home to roost. There’s so much emotion in that story. It’s an ode to finding hope and second chances, but to him, it’s just a story with some sex and the wrong handlebars.

Exasperated with him, I slide from the bed and go straight into the bathroom. It’s not until the door closes I let the first tear fall. Sitting on the vanity top, I pull my legs against my chest and cry. I cry over Azrael’s teasing of my book, but I cry more because I’m upset his words upset me. It’s silly to be crying over someone who doesn’t read romance critique, but it matters to me. It matters because he’s making fun of it.

A few moments pass before there’s a knock on the door. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Open the door, please.”

I hesitate. Hiding in here until it’s time to leave seems much more ideal, but hiding will solve nothing. It won’t heal the crack in my armor, and it won’t make what he said hurt less. All it will do is keep him on the other side of that door until he breaks it down.

Wiping away the tears, I reach over from my spot on the vanity and open the door. He steps inside, remorse heavy in his eyes as he pulls me into a hug.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly against the top of my head. “I didn’t mean to keep pushing you like that. I crossed a line.”

“You did,” I sob against his chest. “I worked hard on that book, and to hear you talking about it like it was mindless drivel—”

“Hallie,” he admonishes, “that’s not what I was doing.” With his thumb and finger, he tips my head up by my chin. “Look at me, sweetheart. Does this look like I felt that way about your book?” His dark blue eyes bore into mine. “I did like it.”

“You’re just saying that because you feel sorry for making me cry.”

“I’m apologizing because I sometimes forget that I can be an asshole.”

“At least you admit it,” I huff, a grin gripping my lips. “That’s the first step to recovery, I’ve heard.”

His angular jaw is no longer set in a hard line. “Just ask the guys or my brother. It’s a part of who I am. I cross lines when I don’t intend to, and for that, I am sorry. I’ll know better next time.”

“Next time? You think I’m going to let you read the next book? I’ll tell Amazon to ban you.”

“You’d do that to me before I can find out if the broody biker meets a woman who can help him heal his soul?”

I smack him on the chest again. “Your asshole is showing.”

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