Page 92 of Aftertaste

A sea of ghosts.

Maura swallowed.

She was to blame for how out of hand this had gotten. She’d played it fast and loose with Konstantin. Had been negligent, willfully so. Had swallowed down every objection and hesitation and warning, for her own reasons at first, yes, but then because she was in love with him. And now it had caught up with her.

There was no other choice, not if she wanted to stop what was coming.

She had to tell him everything. Tonight.

It might already be too late.

“DON’T MOVE,” KONSTANTIN’Svoice drifted through the dark. “I want to remember exactly how you look, standing in my restaurant.”

She felt the warm weight of his gaze and turned.

He was watching from a doorway. His white shirt glowed against the black velvet behind him. His eyes were wide, taking her in, his dark hair disheveled. He was in his element here. It was beautiful.

He beamed, and she felt her stomach flip, momentary relief from the Hunger clawing through her. The way he looked at her—it felt like things might wind up okay.

“So?” he said. “What do you think?”

“Stan, this place”—she spun around, gesturing—“is unreal.”

“I was planning on being humble tonight, but fuck it. It’s pretty sick, right?” He walked toward her, his giddy laugh echoing off the walls. “Welcome to DUH.”

“Oh,” she teased, “you pronounce theH?”

“Take it up with Viktor.”

“I’d like to air my grievances directly to the chef, actually.”

She scooted up in her heels and wrapped her arms around him, a tremor scaling her spine. When she kissed him, relief coursed through her, right down to her toes. The shiver in her hands, her arms, receded. Like antivenin.

The Hunger loved Konstantin.

His fingers curled around her waist. “You hungry?”

She put on her brightest voice to drown out the ache of pulling away, the stomach-sinking knowledge of what she was about to tell him.

“Always.”

HE LED HERthrough the cocktail lounge and dining room, the clean, dark, Afterlife–meets–Apple Store aesthetic in full swing in each of the private dining chambers they passed. She was expecting something similar when he guided her down a flight of steps to the kitchen, but seeing it, she gasped.

“It’s like going back in time.” Her gaze swept the arched ceiling, the etched glass, the wall of antique windows.

“I know! I still can’t believe it’s mine. Did you catch my name on the door? Here—sit at this station.”

He led her to a barstool at a stainless-steel prep counter, two slender glasses awaiting them, bubbles rising in bright champagne.

“To you, being here,” he said, handing her one.

“To us.” Maura raised her glass. “To being together.”

They clinked. Sipped. Then began to speak at the exact same time.

“Speaking of being together—”

“I have to tell you something—”

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