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“You deserve so much more than the shit life has thrown at you, little ruin,” he rumbles. “You deserve so much more than someone as fucked up asme. But a woman far wiser than I am told me that we’re all broken in some way. There’s nothing we can do to change it. But some of us are lucky enough to find people whose sharp edges match up with our own.

“And I think those jagged pieces that you were so scared to reveal are exactly what makes us a perfect fit. If you didn’t have them, you wouldn’t be you. So own them, angel. Own the scars and the darkness and the rage. You fucking earned them.”

“Stop,” I gasp, emotion thick in my throat. I cover my eyes with my arm to keep him from reading what I’m sure is plainly written on my face.

He tugs my arm free with a sharp pull. “Stop, what?”

“Stop making it so fuckingeasy to love you.”

His fingers twist tighter in my hair. “And why should I do that?”

The truth leaves my lips before I can stop it. “Because I’m terrified that once I do, I’ll never stop.”

His bright eyes flash with what can only be described as pure destruction. “Oh angel, I think we both know it’s a little too late for that now.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

ANGÉLICA

There’s no going back now. Grey knows everything. All the deep, dark secrets I’ve never told anyone. And he doesn’t give a fuck about what I’ve done. His perverse sense of justice even commends that sort of violence. I’ve spent nearly ten years carrying around the shame of what happened. The grief and the loss and the guilt. But in one night, Grey has healed me more than I ever thought was possible.

I’m pretty sure we both committed to forever last night, and I’ve never been so happy to be intertwined with someone until death. There’s enough morbidity tothatromantic sentiment that I don’t feel the need to cringe away. Sayingyou’re stuck with me till you dieis easier than sayingI love you.

Although the sadistic bastard managed to force both confessions out of me yesterday. His little torture session seemed to have its desired effect, and I can’t even rouse the will to be mad about it.

We’re back to our normal routines now, tackling dinner service at Grey’s like nothing filthy is happening after hours. He and I act professional in the kitchen, stealing small touches whenno one is looking. We’re careful for now, but eventually people will start to catch on. And we’ll need to be prepared for it to rain hell when they do.

Grey is out of the kitchen today, meeting with a local supplier to see if they would be a good fit for us. He was misguided enough to leave me in charge of the kitchen again. It’s unorthodox, but everything he does seems crafted to break some set of established rules or hierarchy.

Thankfully, everything has gone well today. The other chefs are more willing to follow my lead with Henley out of the way. And I think they know that, unlike him, I’m willing to put in just as much effort as they are.

We’re an hour away from dinner, and I think we might actually be able to pull it off this time without setting any major fires. Grey should be back soon to take the helm before plates start going out, but I’m proud of what my team and I have been able to accomplish in his absence.

In this moment, I’ve never felt more like areal chef, and I have a sneaking suspicion that Grey intentionally left to give me a chance to find my footing on my own. I’ll have to think up a special way to thank him for it after we close tonight.

The dining room doors swing open, a beautiful blonde sweeping into the kitchen with a young boy at her side. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You’re not allowed in the kitchens,” I tell her with a sigh, used to diners wandering into the kitchen looking for the bathrooms. I told Grey he should make the sign more obvious, but he didn’t want something visible and tacky ruining his decor. It was one of our first fights.

“Grey should be expecting me,” she answers with a bright, chilling smile curling at the corners of her red lips.

I don’t like the way she looks at me as though I’m barely fit to be scrubbing dishes in this kitchen. I don’t like the way she’s painted in red from her blood-colored nails down to herLouboutin heels. And I really don’t fucking like the way she calls himGrey.

“Chef Greyson isn’t here,” I retort to remind her of her fucking place. “And he would have told me if he had an appointment.”

“Oh, I’m sure there are a great many things he hasn’t told you.” Her words drip with venom, amplified by a haughty French accent that reminds me of Collette. And like my former work rival—may she rest in peace—thisputaseems to be begging for a bitchslap.

“Regardless,” I grit out, “chef isn’t here.”

“Oh that’s fine. I can wait for him at my table. You can send me a bottle of red to keep me from getting too bored. Make sure it’sFrench.”

She speaks to the boy beside her, but I’m not fluent enough to understand what she’s saying. I take a moment to study the boy. He looks nothing like his fair mother—his hair, brows, and lashes are nearly black rather than blonde. While she prattles on loudly, he’s all shy quietness with his eyes fixed on the floor. His bright blue eyes carry an ember of the fire I’m used to seeing in a different set of crystalline eyes.

Fuck. The realization smacks me in the face with a violence that takes my breath away. I can’t believe he would keep something like this from me, after everything I’ve shared with him. Such a goddamn important part of his life. I look at the woman again, hating that Grey had that sort of intimacy with her. I have no right to be jealous of his past relationships, but it’s a stab to the heart anyway. Especially because I never fucking knew about her until this moment.

I need her to say it. I need to know. I’ll drive myself crazy until I do.

“His son can wait for him here,” she announces, turningaway from the boy who suddenly looks very uncomfortable and shoving him forward.

I give the boy a condoling smile that screamsI’m sorry your mom is a bitchbefore glaring at the French blonde. “This is a restaurant. We aren’t babysitters.”