Chapter 151: Hello.
I know publishing the same Chapter sometime may break your trust in me, but please trust in me.
Something is bothering me that why I’m sorry.
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?"
He let out a shaky breath, leaning his forehead against hers for a moment before pulling back just enough to look at her clearly.
His eyes were burning, moist at the edges, unspoken storms gathering in them.
"I’ve done things," Azazel said, his voice ragged, raw with honesty. "Things I can’t ever take back. Things I don’t want you to carry with me. And yet—here I am, holding you, kissing you like I have the right. But Ava, I don’t."
Her lips parted, trembling as she took in the weight of his words. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
"I’ve stolen, hacked, destroyed lives behind a screen. I’ve worked in shadows where men kill without blinking, where loyalty costs blood.
That world—" he broke off, clenching his jaw, his hand falling from her face to fist in his lap.
"That world has dirtied me. And you—you’re too pure, too good, too soft for someone like me."
His voice cracked on the last word. He turned away briefly, his eyes closing, as though ashamed to let her see the grief he carried in his chest.
But Ava wouldn’t let him hide. She reached for his chin, gently pulling his face back toward hers. Her fingers trembled, but her touch was steady.
"Azazel," she whispered, tears spilling again. "Don’t you dare tell me who I should or shouldn’t love."
He flinched at her intensity, his dark brows furrowing, his breath stuttering.
"You don’t understand," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I’ve been feared all my life. By enemies. By allies. Even by the people I called family. I thought that was strength. But then—then you came."
His eyes glistened now, the unshed tears refusing to stay hidden. His voice rose, sharp but trembling.
"And you looked at me like I wasn’t a monster. Like I was just... a man. Do you know what that did to me?"
Ava’s lips trembled, her body pressed closer to his instinctively, as if to steady him.
"I’m sorry," Azazel burst out suddenly, his voice breaking. His hand shot to cover his face, dragging down slowly, as if ashamed.
"I’m sorry for every time I doubted you, every time I held back, every time I stood there pretending to be stone while inside I was breaking. I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, for making you wait, for being too afraid."
He dropped his hand and looked at her—truly looked. His eyes were wet, shining with raw honesty. His lips trembled as he spoke.
"I love you, Ava. God, I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in this cruel world. And I’m terrified because I don’t know how to do this right.
" But I swear to you—" his voice cracked, his chest heaving as he leaned closer, "—I would burn down every shadow I’ve ever lived in if it meant keeping you safe. If it meant earning the right to stay by your side."
The words rushed out of him like a dam breaking, unstoppable.
His whole body shook with the weight of it, his face open and raw in a way it had never been before.
Ava couldn’t hold back anymore. She pressed her palms against his cheeks, forcing him to see only her.
Her eyes burned with tears, but her lips curved into a trembling smile.
"You don’t have to earn it, Azazel," she whispered fiercely. "You already have it. You already have me."
His breath hitched audibly. His lips parted as if to argue, but no sound came. Instead, a single tear slid down his cheek, unbidden, unchecked.
Ava caught it with her thumb, her own tears falling freely now. She leaned closer, pressing her forehead to his once more, her lips grazing his.
"You don’t have to apologize for loving me," she whispered, her voice thick but steady. "You only have to stay."
For a long moment, silence filled the room.
Their breathing tangled, their hearts hammered, and the night wrapped them in a cocoon of warmth.
Finally, Azazel let out a trembling laugh—broken, soft, disbelieving.
He pulled her into his chest, burying his face in her hair, inhaling deeply as if memorizing the very scent of her.
"I’ll stay," he whispered, his voice muffled against her. "For as long as you’ll have me."
And Ava, with her head pressed to his chest, whispered back: "Forever."
---
The hours that followed melted in quiet intimacy. They didn’t sleep right away. Instead, they lay together, talking in low murmurs, confessing small pieces of themselves.
Azazel’s arm stayed around her, protective, and Ava’s head rested against his shoulder, her hand resting lightly over his heart.
Eventually, silence took them. But it wasn’t the silence of distance—it was the silence of peace.
The night waned. The lamp dimmed. Their breaths synced.
And when morning light spilled faintly into the room, painting it with soft gold, they were still there.
Azazel sat upright, his back against the headrest, his dark hair slightly mussed, his expression calm in sleep.
His arm was still wrapped loosely around Ava, who had curled into him, her head resting on his shoulder, her face serene.
The door creaked.
Ava’s parents stepped into the room quietly.
Her mother froze, her hand instinctively flying to her mouth. Her father’s brows shot up, his jaw tightening, but his eyes softened at the sight before him.
There was nothing scandalous about it—no mess of passion, no impropriety.
Only two young souls, resting in the aftermath of confessions too heavy for one night.
Azazel stirred slightly, his lashes fluttering, his arm instinctively tightening around Ava as though protecting her even in sleep.
The sight rooted her parents in place: their daughter, who had fought through shadows of her own, finally resting peacefully—safe, loved, guarded.
And though words were not spoken, something shifted in that doorway.
Because love, in its truest form, was undeniable.
---
Morning light had a softness to it, the kind that slipped through curtains like a secret.
It painted the room in muted golds and pale whites, touching the edges of the bed and lingering on the quiet figures nestled there.
Azazel sat against the headrest, his head tilted slightly to one side.
Stray strands of his dark hair brushed his forehead, and though his eyes were closed, the faint crease in his brow betrayed a light, restless dreaming.
His arm remained curved around Ava, loose but instinctive, the kind of hold that came from instinct rather than thought.
Ava was curled into him, her cheek against his shoulder. Her lips were parted slightly, breath steady, lashes still.
Her hand rested over his chest, fingers curled as though she’d fallen asleep mid-clutch, unwilling to let him go even in dreams.
The faint sound of the door opening broke the stillness.
Ava’s mother stepped in first, her hand brushing against the wooden frame to steady herself.
The sight before her struck her with such force she stopped in her tracks.
She pressed her fingers to her mouth, eyes widening, not in outrage but in stunned stillness.
Behind her, Ava’s father entered. His frame filled the doorway, tall and solid, a quiet authority.
His brows furrowed, his jaw tightening as his gaze swept over the scene—his daughter’s head resting on the shoulder of a man he didn’t yet fully trust.
Yet his eyes lingered longer than expected, softening as he noticed the details.
Not disheveled clothes. Not a bed tangled in chaos. Not the flushed faces of recklessness.
No.
There was reverence in the way Azazel’s arm rested around Ava, careful even in sleep, his hand placed low at her side but not wandering. Protective, not possessive.
There was peace in the way Ava leaned against him, her breathing untroubled, her lips faintly curved as though even in dreams she found safety there.
The father’s breath caught, but he remained silent.
A floorboard creaked beneath his weight, and Azazel stirred. His lashes fluttered, his jaw tightening as though bracing for some unseen fight.
His arm tightened reflexively around Ava, his hand flexing against her waist in silent defense.
When his eyes opened, they met the figures in the doorway.
For the briefest second, a flash of alarm crossed his face.
His muscles stiffened, shoulders squaring, his dark gaze sharp.
But then it shifted—first to Ava sleeping against him, then back to her parents.
Something softened.
He did not jerk away, did not scramble to explain.
He simply sat still, his back straight against the headrest, his eyes steady though edged with wariness.
Ava stirred at his movement, her lips brushing against his shoulder as she sighed softly.
She nuzzled closer, her face peaceful, unknowing of the watchful eyes in the doorway.
Her mother’s hand slipped lower from her mouth to her chest, fingers curling over her heart.
Tears welled in her eyes—not of anger, but of something she could not name. Relief, perhaps. Fear mingled with tenderness.
Her daughter—who had carried wounds she couldn’t always protect her from—looked, in this moment, deeply safe.
The father’s jaw worked as though grinding words he wouldn’t yet say. His arms crossed loosely, but his gaze never left the pair.
He noticed the faint redness at the edges of Azazel’s eyes, the way his hand was calloused yet careful, the way he held still so as not to disturb Ava.
The silence thickened, stretching until the air felt weighted.
Azazel, meeting the father’s gaze, gave the smallest nod. Barely there, but deliberate. A silent promise: I mean no harm. I will protect her.
The father’s eyes narrowed, measuring him. He didn’t return the nod, but his silence held less anger now. Less suspicion.
Ava shifted again, murmuring something faint against Azazel’s shirt, her voice blurred by sleep.
His head tilted, his eyes lowering, and for a second he allowed his lips to brush the top of her hair.
Not a kiss of desire, but of reverence—gentle, fleeting.