Page 16 of Shades of Ruin (Sharp Edges Duet #2)

Chapter Thirteen

ANGéLICA

I was an idiot to think the last twenty-four hours would have changed anything between us.

The minute the other chefs started to flood into the kitchen and fucking Collette brought her list of prominent dinner guests for the evening, the Greyson who spanked me and threw me into a wall with his fingers wrapped around my neck disappeared entirely.

And he’s been cold, professional, and merciless ever since.

“Clean up those edges, Flores,” he shouts from behind me as I drizzle raspberry coulis in a pattern that’s meant to look random—and be replicated perfectly one hundred times over. “I’ve never seen such sloppy plating.”

“Yes, chef,” I snap, trying to keep my hands from shaking with anger as I move on to the next plate. Unlike the dish Greyson was critiquing, this one actually does look sloppy. As usual, his little torments crawl into my thoughts like parasites and start to leach away my confidence.

There’s a crash when the chef beside me drops a plate before he reaches the station where Henley is adding little lemon cheesecakes and dollops of rosewater cream to my red splatter.

We all turn to look at the disaster on the floor, the unfortunate chef staring at the white shards of stoneware on the floor in shock.

When I look up to refocus on my work, Greyson’s crystalline eyes ensnare mine.

“Pick up this mess,” he seethes, his intense gaze never leaving me.

“Yes, chef,” the embarrassed chef answers, stooping down to start collecting the broken pieces.

“Not you,” Greyson snaps. “Flores can do it since she can’t figure out how to fling sauce on a plate without making it look like I have a moderately skilled orangutan overseeing my dessert prep.”

I glare at him, my face burning as a few snickers flicker across the room.

And I hate him for making me feel so small.

It takes more effort than usual to fight the angry sting of tears that threatens to fill my eyes.

I’ve not cried since I was fifteen, and I’m not about to let him break me now.

Lowering to my knees, I start to pick up the sharp fragments covered in sticky specks of red.

Maybe one will cut me and let me bleed out some of the painful tension that’s been suffocating me since Greyson decided to play the bully once more.

To my great disappointment, I gather all the pieces without so much as a scratch.

“Liam, why don’t you show us how Le Cordon Bleu teaches their chefs to plate?

” Greyson instructs the other chef, his words laced with arrogant disdain.

I can’t resist an eye roll when he name-drops one of the most prestigious culinary institutes in the world.

“Maybe Flores will learn a thing or two about consistency.”

Everyone in this kitchen knows I have no certified training. I’m the only one here who is self-taught, but I’ve never been ashamed of what sets me apart from my peers until now.

“Yes, chef,” Liam affirms with too much eagerness, a wide, toothy smile filling his broad face .

Sheathing my anger and humiliation, I gather all the dirty pieces of stoneware in my apron and throw the mess in the trash before grabbing the broom and mop from the supply closet.

Ignoring the chaotic cadence of people bustling around the kitchen to finish the last courses of the night, I clean the floor while considering the many different ways I could murder my fucking boss without getting caught.

“Come here, Flores,” Greyson commands when the floor is spotless.

Dragging my feet, I make my way through the kitchen and stand beside him. “Yes, chef?”

“Do you see the plating Liam has been working on?”

I glance over to see all of my splatter has been wiped clean and replaced with the four uniform dots they like to use in the most boring of restaurants. It’s clear whatever the fuck Le Cordon Bleu teaches, it isn’t creativity. “Yes, chef,” I answer as expected, keeping my own critiques to myself.

“I want you to go out there and serve each of those plates to our eager patrons who paid a lot of goddamn money to see and taste perfection. And I want you to thank Liam for fixing your fuck up every time he hands you a dessert. Do you understand?”

“Yes, chef,” I mutter, my fists clenching at my sides.

“I can’t hear you, Flores,” he scolds with a withering glare.

“Yes, chef,” I call out like the obedient little kitchen slave I’m meant to be.

“Good. Now get this service finished so we can clean up and go the fuck home.”

“Yes, chef!” the entire kitchen shouts in unison.

I feel a large, ominous presence at my back, and I don’t have to turn to know Greyson is standing behind me.

The other chefs are so intent on finishing up the rest of their tasks as quickly as possible that no one notices when our executive chef’s rough hands land on my hips.

He fists the ties of my apron and jerks so that it squeezes hard against my stomach, but the stirring in my core has absolutely nothing to do with the sudden pressure.

And I pretend that the instant pounding of my heart is fueled purely by rage and not the way he’s pressing himself against me.

Or the hardness at my back that I’m almost certain is his cock.

Does tormenting me in the kitchen get the sadistic asshole hard?

“Take this dirty thing off,” he growls against my ear, his fingers moving to undo the ties. I know I’m covered in raspberry and sugar and the remnants of broken stoneware, but I don’t know why he’d care. “I don’t want any of those fuckers seeing you when you’re filthy.”

Oh . The way he says it sends fire roiling in my belly.

I can’t be certain if he means he doesn’t want me embarrassing him in front of his patrons, or if his harsh words have a more intimate meaning.

Before I can make up my mind or quell the inconvenient wetness between my thighs, he adds in a smooth whisper that tickles the back of my neck, “No one but me, that is.”

Jesucristo maldito.

The complete change in his behavior leaves me stricken, and I stand frozen as he strips the apron off me and throws it on the floor.

The last act feels a bit aggressive, but I don’t have the bravery to call him out on it right now.

Grabbing my shoulder, he turns me around to face him.

His expression quickly darkens when his eyes roam over me.

“Why the fuck can I see your tits through your shirt?”

Mierda . I immediately cross my arms over my hardened nipples to cover them, hoping no one other than him noticed. “You didn’t bring me a bra when you raided my fucking closet this morning,” I hiss, trying my best to keep my voice down.

The bra I was wearing this morning smelled like sweat and sex after my self-care session with the desk, and I went without it, knowing my apron would conceal enough that no one would know.

Of course, I didn’t bank on Greyson stripping it off in the middle of the damn kitchen.

My tits are so big that there’s no missing them, my dark nipples glaringly noticeable through the see-through material of my white button-up.

“You can’t go into my restaurant looking like that. Any asshole will be able to see those from a mile away,” he snarls, his fierce eyes latched onto the sharp points of my nipples.

“Then let the servers handle dessert like they’re supposed to.

” He’s the idiot forcing me to go out there to prove a point.

I’m just as happy to remain safe in the kitchen and not suffer his latest punishment.

Maybe going without a bra was the best decision I’ve made in a day of very questionable ones.

“No,” he grits out. “You’re going to go out there, serve Liam’s shitty dessert, and take your punishment like the naughty little chef you are because I said so . And you’ll do it with a smile on your pretty fucking lips.”

“Fine,” I spit, making sure to push out my tits so they’re even more obvious. I plaster the most poison-tipped smile on my face and add a spiteful, “Whatever you say, chef.”

“Christ, not like that.” He jerks me back toward him and starts to undo his own black apron.

“Here,” he sighs, throwing the warm material over me.

I try not to fixate on how it smells like him.

“This should at least make you somewhat presentable.” He ties it tight enough around my waist that it almost hurts to breathe.

“Don’t you fucking take it off until everyone in this kitchen has left for the night. ”

Rolling my eyes at how he can be so possessive and yet so detached at the same time, I mutter a “yes, chef” and head to where Liam is waiting for me, looking smug. I pick up two of the desserts and start to make a run for the dining room.

“Ah, ah, ah, you’re forgetting something, Flores,” Greyson calls from the other side of the kitchen .

Groaning internally, I smile viscously at Liam and bite out the words, “Thank you for fixing my fuck up.”

“I better hear that every time you pick up a dessert, Flores. If you forget, you’ll be scrubbing dishes all night.”

Stifling the urge to stab my boss in a major artery, I hold my head up high and head into the dining room.

Thankfully, the diners don’t even notice the change in staff.

We’re all faceless to them, less worthy of attention than the plates their dessert is served on.

I make my rounds quickly, trying to get the menial servitude over with quickly.

I tell Liam thank you every time, dying a little on the inside each time I do.

But I suppose the humiliation is better than staying late and doing clean up on my own.

On my very last round, I’m unfortunate enough to catch the attention of the only person in the room who does notice I exist. And I really fucking wish she hadn’t.

“What are you doing out here, Flores?” Collette asks, sauntering over in her too-tall stilettos to corner me before I can reach my last table.

“Shouldn’t you be sweating over a hot stove or scrubbing grease stains off pots?

Greyson likes to keep the front-facing areas of the restaurant pretty and presentable.

I’m sure you can understand. Scurry to the back with the rest of the staff before someone sees you. ”

Her uppity French accent and feline features would set my teeth on edge even if she didn’t have a toxic as fuck attitude.

As it is, she’s Grey’s resident bitch and my least favorite person to run into.

She’s Greyson’s oldest employee and friend from Paris, so he won’t hear a bad word about her.

When I told him about her trying to sabotage my interview, he brushed it aside as a misunderstanding.

Which it definitely was not . Collette has had it out for me since day one.

I know how to handle a bully, but she’s a little more dangerous than most .

“Chef’s orders,” I snap, trying to sidestep her and get to my table.

“Oh, did someone get in trouble with Chef again?” she tuts, mock sympathy in her voice.

“I hear you’ve been receiving lots of extra discipline lately.

” The way she says it makes my skin crawl.

Before I can slip away, she has me cornered against the wall.

“Grey certainly likes to dole out punishment, but he’s usually more discerning about who receives his attention.

What’s so special about a muddy little piece of trash like you? ”

“Piss off, Collette.” I try to push her to the side, but she stabs the razor end of her stiletto into my foot and uses her few extra inches of height to keep me trapped. “If you don’t get your goddamn shoe off me right now, I’ll break off the heel and use it to fuck up your pretty face.”

“Ugh, you’re feral,” she hisses as she takes a step back. “It’s a wonder you haven’t given us all a disease yet.”

“Just let me serve this dessert, and you won’t have to look at me for much longer.” I almost think she’s ready to give up and let me suffer in peace, but then her eye catches what I’m wearing.

“Your apron is black,” she gasps, the words laced with horror.

“Yes, and?” I ask, not understanding the fear-edged fury flashing in her dark eyes.

“Only Grey wears black in the kitchen.”

Oh, so that’s her problem. She thinks she has her claws sunk so deep that our executive chef would never notice another girl. I wonder how she’d feel if she knew what Grey did with me last night.

“I know,” I answer, flashing her a shit-eating grin. It crumples when my back slams into the wall without warning, and her sharp, red nails dig into my arms.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself, pute ,” she hisses. “When he’s sick of your used-up cunt, he’ll come running back to me like he always does. ”

“You must have me confused with someone else,” I retort, my tone pure sweetness.

“Only one of us is enough of a desperate whore to fuck their boss, and it certainly isn’t me.

But I’ll be sure to let everyone know you’ve been using your used-up cunt to keep Greyson on your side.

We’ve all wondered why he didn’t leave your bitch ass in Paris where it belongs. ”

“You little piece of shit,” she shrieks loud enough that a few heads turn in our direction, and she lunges for me.

I duck out of the way, but not before her hand catches my wrist and throws the plate I’m holding off balance.

I try to catch it, but the dessert smashes into Collette’s chest, spattering cheesecake, jam, and cream all over her perfect, black sheath dress.

“I’m going to kill you,” she hisses through a smile, putting on a show like the perfect actress for all the people who have suddenly turned to watch the spectacle.

Yeah, she’ll probably have to beat Greyson to it when he hears what happened. I can only hope he’ll listen to my side before he starts raining hell.