Somewhere along the way, a lot of us started believing we had to become easier to love before we deserved to be loved at all.
We started believing we had to be calmer. Softer. Less complicated. Less emotional. Less guarded. Less afraid. As if love was a reward for becoming perfect. As if care was something we could only receive after we had done enough work to become convenient.
But that is not healing. That is shame wearing a prettier outfit.
The truth is, you do not have to be fully healed to be worthy of love. You do not have to have every wound closed, every fear conquered, or every painful memory neatly folded away where no one else can see it.
You are not unlovable because some days your heart still flinches. You are not too much because you have needs, history, or scars that still ache when the weather changes inside you.
You are human. And humans do not become worthy after healing. Humans are worthy while healing.
Seeing Wicked Assets officially out in the wild has been an absolute trip. The Starr-Verse has shown up in a massive way, and I am so incredibly grateful for every single read, review, and message you guys have sent.
There is nothing quite as tragic as getting ectoplasm on a pair of limited-edition loafers, yet here I was, ankle-deep in supernatural sludge behind a dumpster in the Meatpacking District.
The rain came down in sheets, that freezing New York drizzle that didn’t wash anything clean—it just made the grime slick and clingy. Neon from nearby bars fractured across the puddles, turning the alley into a distorted carnival of pink and blue. I adjusted the collar of my velvet dinner jacket—royal purple, the kind that hugged my shoulders just right—and tried to step around a suspicious pool of something viscous, maybe blood, maybe worse.
Squelch.
“God dammit,” I muttered under my breath, the word slipping out before I could stop it.
“You missed a spot,” came the purr in my right ear, crystal clear through the sapphire-encrusted earpiece that doubled as a warding charm and my direct line to trouble. “To your left. No, your other left… you know, the one not buried in your pretentious head.”
I tapped the device, feeling the rune etched into it warm against my skin. “Az, if you don’t shut up, I’m… I’m pouring that ’45 Bordeaux down the sink. Starting with the whole bottle.”
“You wouldn’t… dare,” Asmodeus replied, his gravelly rumble carrying that edge, like he was half-laughing, half-daring me back. “I’m the only reason you haven’t stepped right into a ghoul trap. And hey, your heart rate’s up. Out of shape already, or is it the thrill of playing detective in the rain?”
“Annoyed,” I shot back, ducking under the yellow police tape that fluttered in the wind like some sad party streamer. The word felt inadequate—annoyed didn’t cover the knot in my gut, the way the alley’s stink of wet garbage and ozone clawed at my throat. I’d been yanked from a perfectly good dinner, schmoozing a senator’s son about zoning for the new tower, and now this. But cases like these… they tugged at that old scar, the one from my parents’ night. Practice for the real hunt.
Detective Miller was hunched near the fire escape, looking like the rain had personally offended him—cheap raincoat dripping, cigarette soggy between his lips, eyes scanning the shadows as if they might lunge. He’d aged since last month, lines deeper around his mouth, like the job was carving him hollow.
“You got five minutes, Cross,” he hissed, glancing over his shoulder like the Lieutenant might pop out of the dumpster. “If anyone shows up… I don’t know you. You’re just some rich guy taking a wrong turn to the club.”
I flashed him a smile, the one that usually sealed deals or softened blows. “Rich guy? Yeah, that’s me. But I’m the only one here who can explain why your victim looks like… well, like he got vacuumed dry.”
I knelt by the body, careful not to let my jacket brush the filth. The victim had been young, Fae by the faint iridescent sheen lingering on his grayed skin—like cheap glitter refusing to fade. Now he was a husk, skin papery and taut over bones, mouth frozen in a silent gasp, eyes sunk into shadows. It hit too close—reminded me of that wardrobe hiding spot, watching my parents drain away in their own ritual circle. I pushed the memory down, focusing on the details. No blood, no wounds, just… emptiness.
“Fae,” Az confirmed in my ear, his tone shifting from playful to something more focused, almost clinical. “Low court, probably running errands. Smell that? Sulfur under the rain?”
“Trash, Miller’s smoke, and… yeah.” I crouched lower, inhaling deep—the burnt-sugar sting cutting through the damp rot. My palm scars itched, those silvery lines from my first blood magic flaring with memory. The runes under my shirt prickled too, a faint purple-gold glow I hoped the shadows hid. Not now, I thought—not with Miller watching.
I pulled the silver device from my pocket—sleek like a stylus, quartz tip glowing soft blue. Swept it over the chest. The light snapped red near the heart.
“There,” Az said. “Lapel. Lean in closer.”
I did, spotting the dust caught in the hoodie’s fabric: gold powder that seemed to swallow the light, shimmering with its own cold hunger. Gloved up, I pinched a sample—it sizzled faintly against the leather.
“Hellfire,” I whispered.
“Mammon Gold,” Az corrected, his voice dropping a notch. “Refined stuff. Not just residue—this is currency. Someone didn’t kill him… they spent him. Like he was nothing.”
The chill hit then, unrelated to the rain—sliding down my spine like ice water. Mammon. Greed. The same rot that had choked my parents’ last breaths, their silk sheets soaked red while masked figures chanted about eternal wealth. I’d been ten, hidden, helpless. Now? This could be a thread back to them. Thin, but real.
I stood, wiping the glove on the brick wall. “Miller… you need to bury this file. Deep.”
“What? Come on, no—this is a homicide, Cross.”
“It’s a transaction,” I said, meeting his eyes. “File it, and the ones behind this? They’ll know. And you’ll end up… like him.” I nodded at the husk, the word hanging heavy.
Miller stared at the body, then back at me, swallowing hard. “You owe me… big time.”
“A case of Macallan 1926 on your desk by morning. The kind you tell yourself you don’t deserve.” I turned, tapping the earpiece. “Az, get the containment unit ready. Sample’s coming home.”
“Pizza’s waiting,” he shot back, lighter now. “And don’t think I missed you checking out the detective’s holster. Terrible taste, darling. Stick to demons—you’ve got one on retainer.”
“I hate you,” I muttered, ducking under the tape toward the waiting Maybach.
“You love me. I’m the only one who… fits your chaos.”
I paused under a flickering streetlamp, the gold dust on my glove catching the light like some cursed promise. My reflection rippled in a puddle—hair plastered, freckles sharp against pale skin, eyes too tired for twenty-nine. The runes under my shirt flickered once more, a reminder of the power I’d chased to fill the void. This wasn’t just a case. It was a step closer.
I slid into the Maybach’s back seat, the soundproofed interior cutting the city noise like a blade. Leather warmed to my touch, a small comfort. The smear of gold on my glove shimmered, hungry.
“Home, Parker,” I told the driver. “And make it quick. I’ve got… a headache brewing, and it feels like trouble.”
The car pulled away, tires hissing on wet pavement. Az’s voice dropped softer in my ear. “Careful with that sample, Sterling. Greed sticks… like bad memories.”
I closed my fist around it. “Let it try.”
The Maybach glided through Midtown, rain streaking the windows in silver trails, city lights blurring into abstract art. I shrugged off the damp jacket, draping it across the seat—the silk shirt beneath clinging in places, cool against my skin. The runes prickled still, a faint reminder of the alley’s taint, and my scarred palms warmed as if echoing the gold’s heat.
My phone buzzed—Victoria Hale. I answered on speaker, keeping it casual. “Victoria… this better be fast.”
“Mr. Cross.” Her voice was all professional calm, the kind she’d honed through boardroom battles. “The Q3 projections are in. The board’s… not thrilled. That dip in liquid assets from ‘unallocated R&D’? They want a briefing. Tomorrow, noon. And your presence, preferably.”
I leaned back, head against the leather, watching the streets slide by. “Tell them it’s temporary. We’re shifting funds to… opportunities with better returns. The Tower zoning closes soon—that’ll offset it.”
A pause on her end, like she was choosing words. “Opportunities isn’t cutting it when they’re staring at red. And the rumors… they’re back. Occult consulting, a body in the Meatpacking. You vanishing for days.”
“Rumors are just noise,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Handle the board. The Tower’s my focus—variance by end of day.”
“And the senator’s son? He’s… asking why you left the dinner early. Sounded a bit put out.”
“Tell him family emergency. And that the variance is still on if he plays nice.”
She sighed, almost inaudible. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“Effective,” I corrected, ending the call.
Silence settled, broken only by the hum of the engine.
Then Az: “You sound so… commanding when you’re spinning lies to mortals. It’s almost sexy.”
“Almost?” I replied, a half-smile tugging despite myself.
“Very close. That damp shirt’s helping—transparent in spots. I can see the runes… the freckles. Delicious.”
“Eyes off, demon. You’re not here.”
“Not physically,” he murmured, voice dropping. “But the bond… it’s humming. You’re still buzzing from the alley, aren’t you? Or is it the gold?”
I flexed my palm, the vial in my pocket warmer than it should be. “Contained. Fine.”
“Is it?” Az pressed, that smoky edge creeping in. “I can taste the greed on you from here—sharp, addictive. Like bad whiskey and worse decisions. You’re bringing it home like a trophy.”
“Evidence,” I said. “Not a trophy.”
A soft laugh. “Keep telling yourself that. Your heart says different. And your skin… mm. Flush from here. Wound tight tonight, darling?”
I shifted, silk sticking to my back. “Projecting.”
“Am I?” His tone turned velvet. “Or are you admitting the earpiece twenty-four-seven has… side effects? You get sharp, reckless… needy.”
“Annoyed,” I repeated. “Big difference.”
“Is there?” He paused, like he was savoring it. “Hurry home. Containment’s primed. ’82 Latour breathing. Robe on the bed—black velvet, open front. Easy access.”
I closed my eyes a second, bond blooming warm in my chest, chasing the chill. Hated how it felt… good. Hated more that he knew.
“Keep pushing,” I said, “and I’ll mute you for a week.”
“You’d miss me. Besides…” A deliberate beat. “I’d whisper through the bond. And you’d like that even less. Or more. Depending on how honest we’re getting.”
I opened my eyes. Sterling Tower rose ahead—glass and steel reaching for the sky, my empire in concrete form. The private garage swallowed the car, lights flickering on.
“Enough. Work awaits.”
“Of course,” Az said, mock-serious. “But when it’s done… don’t pretend you won’t seek me out. You always do.”
No answer from me.
The elevator doors opened at my approach.
Az followed inside, soft now. “Welcome home, Sterling. Let’s see what this souvenir’s worth.”
The elevator ascended, first security layer kicking in: retinal scan, beams dancing across my eyes. Green flash. Easy. Then the wards—soul-tendrils brushing my aura, tasting like chilled mint and iron. They probed for lies, possessions, threats. If you weren’t keyed, they’d lock you in—a binding circle disguised as steel. Tested it once on a warlock. He begged by the end.
Tonight, they parted smooth. The bond with Az wove through my signature now, like ink in water—inescapable.
“Home sweet prison,” Az murmured as the doors opened.
The foyer greeted me: black marble floors, walnut panels hiding wards. Skyline views glittered, city lights like distant fires. I tossed the jacket over an armchair, vial into the hidden safe behind the Rothko—thumbprint and whispered incantation. Sealed with a click.
“I missed the quiet,” I said, loosening my shirt, damp fabric peeling away. “But you’re… marginally better than silence.”
Az’s laugh echoed through the speakers, earpiece syncing home. “Flattery. The unit’s ready in the lab. Pizza too—hellfire peppers. Your spice.”
I paused at the living room edge, final ward settling over me like a cloak. Secure. Trapping. No in, no out without command. Including Az, sigil-bound.
But as the shirt hit the floor, runes cooling in the air, I wondered—if the trap was for him… or me.
Hey everyone! I’m excited to share this concept cover for STARBOUND, my upcoming sci-fi horror romance novel.
This story is a thrilling mix of deep-space survival, eerie psychological horror, and a love that transcends the unknown. Quinn and Jon face mind-bending terrors, unexplained ship malfunctions, and an alien presence that threatens their very existence.
What do you think of this cover? Does it capture the suspense, mystery, and intensity of STARBOUND? Let me know your thoughts in the comments! Would you pick this up in a bookstore?
“In a world where magic weaves through the whispers of courtly intrigue, Prince Coriander has always lived by the expectations of tradition and duty. But when an encounter sparks a forbidden yearning, he finds himself drawn into a love story he never could have imagined. Torn between his responsibilities to the kingdom and the pull of a secret desire, Coriander must face the shadows of his past and the mysteries that linger just beyond reach.
The Fairy Tale is a heartfelt journey of love, loss, and self-discovery in a world of royalty and magic. As Coriander navigates the complexities of forbidden love and the healing power of connection, he must ultimately choose between duty and the hope of a future filled with magic and unspoken promises.
For fans of LGBTQ+ fantasy romance, this epic story of yearning and heartache explores the bonds that transcend time and tradition, inviting readers to believe in the extraordinary power of love.”
Find my spicy m/m romance novel The Fairy Tale in the books section of my blog. Available on Amazon!
