Chapter 13: Trust No-one

I’m stumped.

Completely, utterly stumped.

Because I cannot understand why Azriel has my name scribbled through his diary.

Not just written.

Scratched in.

The pen strokes are aggressive, pressed deep into the page like whatever he was feeling refused to stay contained.

Frustration.

Anger.

Obsession.

And that’s what unsettles me the most.

Because there is no logical explanation for this.

He didn’t have time to write it after I told him my name.

Which means—

My stomach twists.

I need to get out.

Now.

I rush toward the door, grabbing the handle and twisting it frantically.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

Five long, dreadful minutes pass before—

Click.

The lock releases.

The door swings open.

Relief floods me—

—and I slam straight into a solid chest.

Of course.

I don’t even need to look up.

At this point, I’d recognise him anywhere. By scent. By presence. By the sheer inconvenience of him.

“Going somewhere?” he taunts.

I try to brush past him, but he’s quicker.

His hand wraps around my wrist, pulling me straight into his chest.

Too close.

Way too close.

And just like that—

I’m back inside his apartment.

Again.

I freeze.

A flicker of panic rises in my chest.

Is this man trying to kill me?

“I want to go home,” I plead.

His grip tightens just slightly before loosening again.

“I’m not letting you go until you’ve had some nourishment. Eat with me,” he demands.

“I’m not hungry,” I mutter under my breath.

“You don’t have to be,” he replies coolly. “That’s not how this works.”

I bow my head and obey, avoiding eye contact as I take a seat across from him at the dining table.

“You okay? Is this another one of your mood changes?” he asks.

“I’m okay. Just tired,” I lie.

“Liar. You’ve just had a nap. And if you don’t eat now, you’ll likely faint again. The fatigue you’re feeling is from lack of food,” he says bluntly.

“Do you always boss around strangers in your home?” I mumble.

“Only the ones who collapse in restricted areas,” he shoots back without missing a beat.

I don’t respond.

Instead, I watch as he opens the containers in front of us, revealing a carefully prepared charcuterie spread — cheeses, cured meats, grapes, figs, pâté.

Then more containers.

He pours broth into bowls, adds ingredients with quiet precision, and places cilantro and lime between us.

“The cilantro and lime add brightness to the pho. It also complements the charcuterie,” he says smoothly.

“I didn’t realise I’d signed up for a fine dining experience,” I mutter.

“You didn’t,” he replies. “This is me being merciful.”

I nod slightly.

Still silent.

He exhales, patience thinning.

“Okay, out with it. What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

I stand abruptly and walk away.

“Where are you—” he starts.

But I’m already heading back to his room.

Back to the diary.

I stop in front of it, staring down at the pages.

My name.

Over and over.

I hear his footsteps behind me.

Then—

silence.

He’s seen it.

“Explain this,” I accuse, pointing at the page.

He doesn’t respond.

Doesn’t move.

“Well?” I press.

A beat passes.

Then another.

His expression hardens.

“Do you know the trouble you could get into for invading my privacy?” he snaps, stepping forward and snatching it from my hands.

I scoff.

“If you hadn’t locked me in here—”

“You would’ve been on your way to prison,” he cuts in flatly.

My mouth slackens.

Excuse me?

“Oi, Az-hole, are you going to explain yourself or not?” I snap.

His eyes narrow slightly at the nickname.

“No,” he says coldly. “You wouldn’t believe me anyway. It seems you’ve already made up a reason in that intriguing head of yours.”

I pause.

A slow smile creeps onto my face.

“You think I’m intriguing?” I tease.

His jaw tightens.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I don’t need to,” I shoot back. “You’re doing that just fine on your own.”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face.

“Oh good grief,” he mutters.

Then louder—

“You’re impossible. Leave. Now. I’ll send you a postcard once you’ve landed yourself a room in prison.”

I let out a small, disbelieving laugh as I step past him.

“Make sure it’s handwritten,” I toss over my shoulder. “Wouldn’t want to miss that charming personality of yours.”

His voice follows me, low and edged with something darker now—

“I’m not joking.”

I pause.

Just for a second.

Not turning around.

“Neither am I,” I reply lightly.

I walk.

Fast.

Too fast.

Like if I stay any longer, I might start asking questions I’m not ready to hear the answers to.

Or worse—

He might actually answer them.

My chest feels tight as I step into the hallway, his words clinging to me like a second skin.

I’m not joking.

It replays in my head.

Over and over.

Annoying.

Unsettling.

Because it didn’t sound like a threat.

It sounded like a warning.

And for some reason—

That bothers me more.

I reach the elevator and jab the button harder than necessary.

My foot taps impatiently against the floor.

My mind doesn’t stop.

The diary.

My name.

The vitamins.

The paint.

The moaning.

The lies.

Everything crashes together at once.

“Get it together, Charlotte,” I mutter under my breath.

The elevator dings.

The doors slide open.

And I step in—

Only to slam straight into someone.

Again.

What is it with me and walking into people today?

Strong hands grab my arms to steady me.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

My stomach drops before I even look up.

Slowly—

I do.

Vance.

And beside him—

Anya.

Her face pales the second our eyes meet.

Vance’s grip tightens.

Just slightly.

Too tight.

Too controlled.

Too deliberate.

Silence fills the elevator.

Heavy.

Suffocating.

No one speaks.

No one moves.

And for the first time—

I don’t feel like I’m standing in an elevator.

I feel like I’ve just walked straight into a trap.