Page 29 of Shades of Ruin

When Greyson finally looks at me, he wears the expression of a man who’s already been condemned. What the fuck did he do, and how did I get myself tangled up in it?

“Flores, you’re in charge until I return,” he orders, his tone militant.

“That’s not how this kitchen works, chef. I’m just a commis. Henley should take over. Or Kendrick. They both have seniority.”

“It’s my fucking kitchen, andIdecide how it works,” he hisses, anger bleeding into his tone. Or maybe it’s fear. “Keepthings from going to shit, or there will be hell to pay when I get back.” Without another word, he strides into the dining room to face whatever fate awaits him.

Fuck. Now I get to spend my twelve hour shift wondering if a psychotic murderer just convinced me to shove a piece of ginger up my ass.

Chapter Sixteen

GREYSON

The air is stale, rife with the mingled scents of every deadbeat, sleazebag, and criminal who’s ever sat in this grossly uncomfortable chair. Fear-tinged sweat lingers in the sparse padding along the arms and seat of the metal frame. I’m careful not to add my own to the mix as I shift in the hopes of finding an agreeable position. After three hours of waiting, I suspect my endeavor will prove just as useless as it was twenty minutes earlier.

This chair has held a great many guilty people. And perhaps a few innocent as well. As I stare at the gruesome photo wordlessly tossed across the desk by Detective Dickhead when he threw me in this room and locked the door on his way out, I decide I’m somewhere in the middle.

I’ve been in this situation before, alone and trapped in an interrogation room. I was just a kid then, the consequences of getting caught a little less severe but all the more daunting. I ignore the memories that start to resurface. That version of myself is dead and buried now. Let’s hope the past stays buried with it.

I rub my hand over my tired eyes and try not to focus on the familiar face left charred and bloody in the crime scene photo. Try not to replay our last, bittersweet moments together the weekend before. I wasn’t kind to her. She bared her heart, and I threw it back in her face. I’m man enough to admit she didn’t deserve my cruelty, but I’m bastard enough to withhold my remorse. Everyone I play with knows what treatment to expect at my hands. It’s not my fault she was naive enough to expect tenderness when all I’ve ever given her is pain.

Sadists like myself really only know how to show their affection in a way that stings—at the end of a whip, the slap of a hand, the sharpened edge of a comment meant to burrow beneath the skin. Satine was my favorite sub, and that meant I whipped her the hardest.

Now, how exactly do I explainthatto the ever so reasonable and understanding Chicago law enforcement? Given that one of my subs has turned up dead, I’m sure this is going to be quite the cluster fuck. Fuck, evenIcan say I look guilty.

Angélica must be cursing the fucking day she walked into my kitchen for the first time. I tried my goddamn hardest to keep her out of my toxic orbit because everything I touch turns to shit. I’ve given her hell, I’ve probably made her want to turn in her apron more times than she can count, and she’s survived it all. I’d admire her strength if it didn’t make it so much harder for me to walk away.

And like the weak bastard I am, this week I just stoppedtryingto resist. And now I’ve dragged her into this fucking mayhem. I may not have killed Satine, but I tortured and fucked her a week ago. Like the cops, Angélica might decide that’s enough evidence to condemn me anyway. But I have no intention of losing her again. Not after I’ve waited so long. Now that she’s mine, I’m going to do everything in my power to keep her. Just as soon as I get out of this fucking room.

When I’m about to start yelling at the two way mirror like a madman in the hopes that someone in this goddamn building remembers I exist, the door creaks open and in walks Detective Dickhead and his trusty sidekick with tits.

“About fucking time,” I scoff as I cross my arms and lean back in the terrible chair. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting? You’re lucky it’s not dinner at Grey’s yet, or I’d be sending you a bill to cover reimbursing every single customer deprived of my valuable time and expertise.” I take a long, scathing look around the room, noting the detectives’ cheap suits. “I doubt the department could afford it.”

Detective Asshat glares at me. “This really how you want to start out a murder investigation, Mr. Greyson? I gotta tell you, things aren’t looking too pretty for you as it is. You wanna add obstruction to the heap of shit you’re already in?”

“I’ve got nothing to worry about, Detective—I’m sorry, what was your name again?” I ask, genuinely failing to remember the rushed introductions for the muscle-head and his quiet, female counterpart.

“Dickson,” he grits with a gesture toward himself before waving at the younger woman beside him. “Howard.”

I stifle a smirk at his answer. I guess Detective Dickhead wasn’t too far off. “Right, well as I was saying, Detective Dick’s-in, I have no involvement in this case. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Sure I do,” he retorts with a belittling nod. “That’s what they all say. But I have a gut feeling about sickos like you. And you know what it’s saying?”

I lean forward and rest my elbows on the table. “I’m on the edge of my seat, hanging on your every word, detective.”

“You did this.” He slides a grotesque crime scene photo in front of me. “And this.” Another picture scratches across the tabletop. “And fuckingthis.” He throws the rest of the gruesome photographs into the pile.

By the time the bastard is done, the entire table is covered in pictures portraying Satine’s mangled corpse at every angle. I have a strong stomach, but I feel the acidic bile rising up my throat at the sight. Whoever did this is far, far more depraved than I am. I’ve done some terrible things in my life, but I know those people got what they deserved. Satine was an innocent, and I draw the line at innocents being harmed.

“How do you know Sarah Daubert, Mr. Greyson?” the detective asks, ripping my thoughts away from how terrible the end must have been for her.

“Sarah?” I ask, a puzzled crease forming between my brows.

“You may know her as Satine Daubert. That was the name she used for her nighttime clients, wasn’t it?”

I grit my teeth, the detective’s insinuation riling my sense of justice for the dead. “Satine wasn’t a whore.”

“Course she wasn’t,” he answers, his dull eyes taking on an unkind gleam. “I’ll ask again: how did you know her?”

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