Page 48 of Shades of Ruin

She reaches up and covers her face with her hand, and I hate that she’s hiding herself from me. “What the fuck are you doing to me, Greyson? You keep twisting and pulling, taking me farther than I’ve ever thought about going. And I don’t even hate it. I’m sick enough that I love every fucking minute of it.”

The tightness in my chest transforms into an ache that’s warm and full. I showed her the darkness that always lingers at the edge of my desires—the need for pain, destruction, and complete surrender—and against all odds, she enjoyed it. Maybe my darker side has finally found its other half.

I roll onto my back beside her, memorizing every fleck of gold in her warm brown eyes. “You never cease to amaze me, angel,” I whisper in awe, not sure what I could have done to deserve someone so perfectly crafted to be everythingI need. The truth is that I don’t deserve her—and I’m selfish enough to hope I can keep her anyway.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she murmurs sleepily, her heavy eyes starting to close.

I smack her lightly on the cheek, and her eyes startle open. “No sleeping,” I command. “You still have a whisk inside you. And you need to get up and pack.”

A furrow forms between her brows, and she stares at me suspiciously. “Why?”

“Because we’re going to Paris.”

It’s time to take my angel to the city that’s held my heart for more than a decade.

Chapter Twenty-Five

GREYSON

Angélica has a very uncomfortable overnight flight on a sore, bruised ass that has her tossing and turning in her seat the whole way there. If I was kind, I would have gone a little easier on her, knowing that she’d be forced to sit for eight straight hours. Instead, the thought of her having to sit on that pretty ass for our whole flight to Paris made me hit her just a little bit harder. And yes, I know I’m a dick.

Since I’m a firm believer in staying awake to avoid jet lag, we drop off our bags at the small hotel in the 1st arrondissement that I always stay at when I’m in the city and immediately head out for a day of playing tourist. I take Angélica to a little boulangerie tucked in a string of alley shops and cafes to try my second favorite croissants in Paris. Of course, Sophie’s were my first favorite. I try to shove down the sadness of knowing I’ll never be able to taste them again.

Sophie left me her boulangerie, Le Fournil—the first kitchen I ever called home. She wrote me into her goddamn will like I was the son she never had. Her exact words, according to the solicitor, were that she wanted to “keep it in the family.” That’sanother reason why her death has ripped me apart. It’s a reminder that she was the first family who thought I was worth anything. She kept me close and taught me and cared for me even when she had no obligation to give a fuck about some orphaned kid from Chicago. Even though she’d never admit it, she had the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever known.

I’m not prepared to face Le Fournil without the woman who made it everything, so I take Angélica to all the special spots I’ve discovered over years of living in the best city in the world. We rent bikes and cycle to the Place de la République. We sit along the square across from the statue of Marianne and people watch, creating little stories for the ones who interest us as they pass.

I imagine each of mine as serial killers in hiding who all have absurd weapons of choice. The older lady walking her Pomeranian around the square likes to asphyxiate her victims with a vintage Chanel scarf, Chanel N°5 the last thing they smell before they die. The twenty-something kid with green hair skating circles around the statue likes to stalk his online gaming partners and strangle them with a computer charging cable. The middle-aged business man wearing a full suit likes to use office scissors to impale the asses of men who’ve fucked him over in the corporate world until they bleed out.

It’s dark, but when am I ever not?

Angélica’s stories have more of a romantic melancholy to them—destined soulmates who pass each other every day without ever meeting, lovers who have grown to live as strangers, broken hearts that will never heal. The City of Love has left my angel with the urge to play hopeless matchmaker, apparently.

When it starts to get too hot beneath the full sun, I take Angélica to a small cafe terrace with a few outdoor tables and chairs that are shaded beneath a black and white striped awning. This cafe happens to have some of the best crêpes and galettes on this side of the city. I order my usual ham, egg, and cheesegalette. Unsurprisingly, Angélica goes sweet with a chocolate and strawberry crêpe topped with vanilla ice cream.

I love feeding my angel delicious food and watching her brown eyes spark with pleasure as the flavors set her taste buds alight. It’s an orgasmic experience watching her pink tongue swipe over her lips and lick away dribbles of ice cream. My stiff cock is showing its appreciation beneath the table, and I’m going to have to find some way to get this damn erection down before we get up to leave.

“I love it here,” Angélica sighs when she’s finally licked her plate clean of every crumb.

“I thought you might.” I tug my napkin from my lap and set it on my empty plate. “There’s nothing quite like Paris in early summer before it gets too hot.”

“I didn’t think that it would live up to the way it’s portrayed in films and postcards, but it really is perfect. I could stay here forever.” She takes a sip from her after-lunch espresso, and I wish I could lick the coffee from her lips.

“What do you say, angel? Should we tell everyone and everything back in Chicago to fuck off and make this our new home?”

If she says yes, I’ll do it in an instant.

“Sounds heavenly,” she hums. “But we probably shouldn’t leave Grey’s without its culinary genius.”

I ignore the flare of disappointment in my chest when she reminds me of my real-world responsibilities. “Probably not,” I muse. I drain the last of my espresso and wave down the waiter for the bill. “How would you like to see the place that made me want to become a chef?” I ask, bracing myself for the vulnerability of showing her such an important piece of my past.

“Yes, please,” she answers with a soft smile. “Let’s see where Chef Greyson was born.”

There’s nowa hollow emptiness in the closed boulangerie that never saw a day when it wasn’t crowded with people lined up to eat Sophie du Maurier’s freshly made pastries and baguettes. Le Fournil de Sophie is nothing without her. I run my fingers across the wooden counter where she showed me how to roll croissants for the first time.

I was a broken kid looking for a home and a purpose, and she gave me both. She let me stay in her second bedroom until I could afford my own place, she paid me for my work even though I had no experience at all, and she kept me fed, busy, and happy.

“It’s smaller than I expected,” Angélica says as she trails her fingers across the counter behind me. “Learning culinary in Paris always sounded so posh, but you were back here in this tiny kitchen covered in flour and butter while you laminated dough every day.”

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