The kiss lingered like fire and silence, and when Ava finally pulled back, her forehead brushing against his, Azazel's breath refused to steady.
Her words—I love you, Azazel—hung in the air, trembling, alive, like a match that had just been struck.
Azazel swallowed hard, his throat aching with a burn he couldn't quite place.
His jaw tightened, then loosened, and when he opened his mouth, the sound that came out was almost a gasp.
"Ava…" he said, his voice low, uneven, nearly breaking.
His hand, still cupping her cheek, trembled. He tried to hide it, but the truth of it betrayed him.
His thumb brushed over her skin as though memorizing it, as though afraid it would disappear if he let go.
"I don't deserve this," he whispered, his dark eyes locking on hers. His chest rose and fell heavily, each breath sharp as if it cut him from the inside.
Ava blinked, confusion softening her expression. "What do you mean?"
