Page 9 of Shades of Ruin

“So cook—me?” I clarify stupidly, the words coming out wrong and muddled.Mierda.

He laughs at my misstep, the sound of it more harsh than humorous. “Cannibalism isn’t really my thing. And it’s a terrible mess to clean up.” I stare at him like he’s crazy—and maybe he is.

“You know what I mean.”

“Let me rephrase so there’s no confusion.” He leans forward until his face is a few inches from mine. I can feel the closeness of his mouth because I haven’t been able to tear my gaze away since he reached up to tempt me with his thumb pressed into the pronounced divot in the center of his bottom lip. “I want you to lay yourself bare and let me taste every inch of you. Do you think you can handle that, chef?”

Dios mío. I swallow against the sudden thickness in my throat and try desperately to ignore the barrage of filthy fantasies assaulting my thoughts. His tongue flicking over my clit as hetastesme in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with food. “Y-yes, chef,” I stammer, certain my imagination must have concocted the sound of pure sex dripping from his words. This is about cooking. About a job that I desperately need. And I need to pull myself the hell together.

“Good g—chef.” I can’t decide whether he wants me to succeed or go down in flames, but I have every intention of impressing the shit out of him either way.

When he pulls away and crosses his arms over his toned chest, I notice a large bandage on his right palm. I don’t knowhow I didn’t see it before, but I suppose I was too distracted by his pretty face to take note of much else. “What happened to your hand?” I blurt without even thinking.

He smiles at me, a sinister curve to the tight stretch of his perfect lips. “Knife accident. I was being reckless.”

There’s a cryptic undertone to his answer, and it leaves me feeling like I’ve missed something important. “Accidents happen in the kitchen,” I offer with an uneasy smile when the intensity of his gaze doesn’t falter. I suppose it’s comforting to know that even a professional chef like him still bleeds every now and then.

“I’m afraid that’s true, chef.” His expression darkens, and his voice deepens so low that his next words rumble like a growl within his chest. “I hope you’re more careful with knives than I am.”

It’s a blatant warning, and I can’t suppress the shiver that flutters through me. Heat blooms in my cheeks as I try not to think about what I did on Halloween last weekend with a masked demon and his own knife. Chef Greyson doesn’t need to know where that blade ended up and how much I enjoyed coming with it buried deep inside me. “I-I try my best,” I stammer.

“Yes, I’m sure you do.” The smoldering condemnation in his eyes makes me feel like he’s witnessed every dark thing I’ve ever done in my life. And the harsh set of his sharpened jaw as he towers over me hints that he’d love to punish me for every one.

Chef Greyson might be a little more dangerous than I expected, but he’ll find that things with sharp edges have never scared me.

Chapter Six

GREYSON

My ruined angel is standing in my goddamn kitchen. Her pretty, golden eyes are wide with wonder as she takes in the pristine stations, top of the line equipment, and well-stocked pantry and walk-in like she’s viewing the majesty of the Mona Lisa in the Louvre for the first time. I’d find that long-forgotten sparkle of genuine awe adorable if I wasn’t so fucking furious with her.

I’ve been searching for her like a madman since the night she disappeared on Halloween. I’m not a stalker—something deeper than shallow obsession sent me scouring every inch of Pandemonium and chasing every trail I could, trying to discover anything about the girl who sent my heart racing for the first time in a decade. And I foundnothing. I was the one in the mask that night, but it seems she was the one who came in disguise.

As can only be expected, Finn was an absolute asshole and refused to give me any information about my mystery girl. I tried breaking into his office to search guest records from that night because Iknowhe keeps them, and I was forcefully escorted out of the club with an additional two weeks added to my ban atPandemonium. So I’ve been unproductive and frustrated with no access to my private room and subs to take the edge off. Frankly, I hope fucking Finn catches crabs and itches his useless balls till they fall off.

I sound insane, but this is about more than just a gorgeous girl who took my knife like she was made for it. I’ve been sick with dread and worry for nearly a week because I sliced up a girl without even asking her name and was stupid enough to abandon her afterward. I’ve never skipped aftercare. Ever. And I didn’t know if she was okay, if she made it home safe, if she cleaned the cuts like she was supposed to. Allthirteenof them.

There’s been a gnawing ache in my chest since my destructive angel disappeared. It’s kept me up every night and wrecked my appetite every day. And now that I know that she’s just fucking fine, I want to tear her apart for all the suffering she’s caused me by lying to my face and leaving without a goddamn word.

Lucky for me, Angélica Flores has served me the perfect opportunity to make her life a living hell. And I’m going to enjoy every moment of it.

“You have one hour,” I announce, my voice cold and empty to mask the rage threatening to bubble over. I let my anger slip a couple times in my office; I could see the confusion on her face as she tried to avoid the sudden bursts of it with the dexterity of a chef sautéing over an open flame.

It’s obvious she doesn’t recognize me from the frenzied night we shared last weekend. I’m almost offended that, without the mask, she can’t sense the man who made her come harder than she’s likely ever come in her life. And I’m tempted to reveal everything just for the sake of seeing the horrified shock in her pretty eyes when she realizes she has to cook for the demon who fucked her with a knife on Halloween. But it will be even more fun to torment her when she thinks she’s as innocent as the angelshe played when she was splayed under me with my cuts etched into her skin.

I can see now why my naughty angel’s feathered wings were broken and burned. Hell is exactly where the lying whore belongs.

“May I begin, chef?” she asks, her smooth voice cutting through my thoughts like a well-sharpened cleaver.

I appraise the unassuming collection of ingredients she’s gathered—figs, cinnamon sticks, sugar, vanilla beans—with an air of disinterest before allowing my eyes to fall on hers. I drown out the small flare of heat that unfurls below my waistband when I see the warm reverence and determination reflected in her gold-flecked irises. And I consider being cruel for the sake of stifling that bravery altogether.

But I decide to let it build and allow her the false hope of thinking she can impress me. It will be so much sweeter when I finally rip that fragile optimism from her chest and pulverize it.

“Your time began when you walked into this kitchen, Flores,” I retort with a cross of my arms. “If I were you, I wouldn’t waste it on questions.” My words aren’t kind, but they’re softer than the usual viciousness I’ve been known to unleash in the kitchen.

Uncertainty flashes in her eyes as she shifts from one foot to the other. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip—a gesture of habit that usually tears open an old wound that never had a chance to heal, but this time, I find that I’m more intrigued than triggered. I want to know what has my brave girl suddenly so nervous.

“I’m sorry,” she stammers, glancing down at her scuffed, white Chucks. “I know you said no questions, but do you have something I could wear?” She waves a hand over her white button-up and light-wash jeans. “I don’t mind getting messy, but I’d rather not serve you with arequipe splattered over my tits if I can help it.”

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