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“Delicious,” she responds with a satisfied hum before wiping the back of her hand over her mouth. “Wouldn’t change a thing.”

“Neither would I.” My words have more than one meaning as I stare her down, a battle of wills waging silently in my head. In the end, my better half surrenders to my sadistic side as it always does. It appears my angel and I should both brace ourselves for chaos.

“Turn in your apron and be here at seven Monday morning.”

“I’ve got the job?” she asks, excitement and shock intertwined in her voice.

“It appears so.” Against all my better judgment.

“Thank you so much!” She clearly doesn’t know that this is going to be very, very bad for her. It would have been kind to lether escape unscathed. Instead she’ll be trapped with a demon and no way out.

“Don’t thank me yet,” I snarl. “This kitchen has a way of ruining those who can’t withstand the heat.”

“Nothing scares me, Chef Greyson,” she snaps with the determination of someone who’s never really been broken. Not yet, anyway. “Not even you.”

Her words are an echo of the ones she spoke at Pandemonium last week. And this time, I almost believe her. “Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of.” I hold out my hand for the apron, and she removes it without assistance this time and drapes it over my open palm. “Enjoy your weekend, Chef Flores. Monday is going to be hell.”

She shoots me an infuriating look that’s all fire and self-destructive confidence. It’s like she’s just begging me to try breaking her while knowing that I can’t. “Hell is an old friend of mine,” she answers with a smile before turning away. “See you Monday, chef.”

I grasp the apron in my fist knowing it’s going to be covered in my cum in exactly two minutes.

Chapter Eight

ANGÉLICA

Chef Greyson wasn’t lying. Hell would be an underwhelming description for the kind of hazing I’ve endured the past six months while living under his iron-fisted rule. I was so excited he wanted me in his kitchen that I didn’t think to ask what position he’d deigned to give me. And when I arrived extra early the following Monday, I wasn’t the only new chef in attendance.

Chef Henley, a rigid, completely unimaginative, French-trainedmanwas Grey’s new pastry chef. And I was merely a commis chef hired at a far lower wage to cook and learn under his “vast experience.”

I nearly threw my apron on the fucking floor and walked out the door when Greyson told me the crushing news. I thought someone had finally believed in me, but I was passed over for a chef who fit the cookie-cutter mould just like every other time. This job was supposed to save me. Instead, I feel more trapped than ever. I work long, rigorous days at a pay rate that hasn’t even allowed me to escape my terrible roommate. Every hour of my life is either spent cooking, practicing, or suffering under themany little insults Chef Greyson likes to pay me when he remembers I even exist.

That small spark ofsomethingbetween us during my interview has fermented into bitterness and acid. I don’t know what I ever did to draw Greyson’s hatred, but he acts like I’m the bane of his existence anytime we happen to breathe the same air. It’s almost enough for me to forget the good manners Mamá taught me and sayvete a la mierdato his stupid, gorgeous face.

To be honest, it’s more of a need for a job than virtue that keeps me from dishing back exactly what our arrogant executive chef deserves. I just regularly think about stabbing him or slipping arsenic into his morning café crème to get me through the day.

No one ever said the kitchen was made for the sane and sensible. We play with knives and fire for a reason.

Greyson is overseeing the kitchen today, and my nerves feel like they’re balancing on the edge of a blade. It doesn’t help that my shitty roommate locked me out of the apartment last night. I spent half the night asleep by the front door before her dealer boyfriend had to make a drug run and left the door open. My eyes will barely stay open, and I’ve had to pinch myself to stay awake since getting here at six in the morning.

My extra hour in the morning is one of Greyson’s newest torments. One day, he studied me as I prepped a batch of crème brulée and decided that my technique wasn’t perfect enough to suit his standards. Since then, I’ve been ordered into the kitchen an hour before anyone else to train. Every morning, there’s a handwritten note detailing what I should work on during my hour of penalty practice. It’s not always torture, but after being sleep deprived for several days this week, coming in early is just another strain on my already limited focus.

“Pull it together, Flores,” comes a searing hiss from behind me when I sway a little too out of balance with a large tray ofpuff pastry in my hands. “This is a Michelin star restaurant, not a fucking trade school. At leastactlike you know how to handle yourself in my kitchen.”

I turn back to find a pair of brilliant blue eyes boring into mine. And I can tell that Greyson is in a particularly bad mood today. “Yes, chef.” I’m just barely able to refrain from rolling my eyes. It used to bother me when he would tear me apart in public, but now, I’m so used to it that it barely stings more than a bit of lemon grazing an open cut. He’s right, though; if I want to keep my job, I’m going to have to find a way to push past my three hours of sleep and deliver on this dinner service.

“Flores, get that in the oven and come work on this piping,” Henley orders. In the order of people in the kitchen who drive me crazy, Henley ranks right after Greyson. He doesn’t have the flair for cruelty that our executive chef has, but he’s stoic and unfeeling and generally a pain in my ass.

“Yes, chef.” I swear sometimes those two fucking words are the only thing I speak all day. I’m on repeat like amaldito periquito.

I manage to slide the tray into the oven without any mishaps and rush over to help Henley with plating. The recipes are all his—boring and dull—but I handle most of the plating. It’s the one small thing I’m allowed to control in this kitchen, and I love it more than anything else. I get lost in my work, creating perfect, buttercream swirls with a repetitious flick of my wrist.

“Flores—pastry. Now!”

I glance up from my work to see that the oven went off a couple minutes earlier. The delicate pastry may have burned already. “Yes, chef,” I answer Henley, running straight to the hot oven. Of course,hecouldn’t be bothered to take the damn things out. There’s a heavily male-dominated hierarchy in this kitchen, and that means Henley doesn’t do grunt work.

I’m so frantic to remove the puff pastry that I forget to put on heat-resistant mitts, reaching for the burning metal tray with mybare hand and sliding it from the oven rack. Instinct has me pulling away a second too late, and the pan, along with everything on it, clatters to the floor with a loudcrash.

“Mierda,” I shriek, clutching my burned hand to my chest. It’s not a terrible injury; I’ve had far worse. But looking down at the crumpled mess of pastry remains, I think I might have made the most detrimental mistake of my entire career. Greyson has found little things to torture me for in the past, but I’ve never thrown an entire batch of a main dessert component on the floor. And I just know he’s actually going to kill me this time.