Page 22 of Shades of Ruin (Sharp Edges Duet #2)

Chapter Seventeen

ANGéLICA

W e’re halfway through dinner service, and Greyson still isn’t back.

I’ve spent the entire day torn between worrying about him and worrying that the first cock I’ve had inside me in six months belongs to a murderer.

Not that I have much room to judge—my pussy isn’t exactly murder-free either.

To top things off, my ass was on fire for about two hours after I ran to the bathroom to rip the damn ginger out.

All things considered, it’s been a really shit day.

As expected, few people rallied behind me after Greyson left me in charge of the kitchen.

Liam backed me up, but Henley quickly assembled the other chefs beneath him.

I didn’t have the energy to go to battle against the established hierarchy, so I let Henley seize the power he so desperately wanted.

It’s not as though I want to lord over twenty other chefs who hate me.

Greyson may punish me for not enforcing his demands, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.

The kitchen has been in total disarray. Henley may be a very loud presence of authority, but he has little influence over the chefs who were so quick to support him.

Unlike when Greyson is in charge, prep has been lazy, time has been neglected, and our dishes have been mediocre at best. We’re a three Michelin star eatery that’s performed like a trite, shopping mall chain restaurant all day.

Henley even dared to make some last minute changes to the menu—which I’m sure will leave Greyson seething if he manages to escape the cops tonight. I’m not so sure he wouldn’t prefer jail to seeing the mess Henley has made of Grey’s.

The one thing Henley has tried to emulate is Greyson’s usual bully tactics, and he even does that half as well.

“Flores, you’re not being paid to stand around while the rest of us work our asses off.

Get the damn mousse on those plates now.

” See? Not even a pussy flutter. I suppose torment really is an art form. And Greyson mastered it long ago.

The lack of organized chaos has left me feeling on edge.

I’m used to the business of the dinner rush, but with no one competent taking the lead, I have too much pent-up energy and no clear direction of where to apply it.

Berating myself for my own weakness, I pull away from dessert assembly just for a moment to try to center my focus once more.

The first quiet spot I can find is the pantry, and I duck inside, leaving the door open in case someone shouts for me. I glare at a sack of potatoes like it’s done me a personal injury and try to get myself under control. It takes longer than usual for the tension in my bloodstream to fade.

“Hey, you okay?” Liam asks, coming up from behind me. I guess the pantry wasn’t such a good hiding spot after all.

“I’m fine.” I offer him a weak attempt at a smile. “I’m just trying to calm down a bit.”

“Henley is a piece of shit.” He assumes I’m cowering in a food closet trying to soothe my wounded feelings, and his words are a peace offering—an opening to trash talk the insecure little overlord who’s making our lives hell today. “He talks to all of us like that most days.”

It’s sweet of him to care, but he doesn’t realize that I’ve been dealing with people like this my whole life. Words lost the ability to hurt me a long time ago, no matter how razor-edged they are. “Don’t worry, I’m used to it.”

Liam’s friendly smile falters. “Chef does go pretty hard on you.”

It’s not a fucking lie, but Greyson’s tortures have always twisted at me in an unusual way—one that doesn’t always feel as bad as it should.

“I think he just wants me to do my best.” With no justification, I’m defending him, and the words don’t sound as false as I thought they would.

Maybe in his own sadistic way, Greyson does want me to succeed.

“I’m sorry about the other night, by the way,” Liam adds, stumbling over the words. “I shouldn’t have enjoyed that. It just seemed like someone recognized me for the first time in the kitchen, and I rode it like a high.” He looks up at me guiltily. “I felt like shit after it, though.”

“It’s alright, Liam. It wasn’t your fault.” And I have no complaints about what Greyson and I did after, so maybe I should be thanking him.

“It was my fault. I should have stood up for you.”

He closes the distance between us, and suddenly he’s a little too close.

Before I can react, his hands are on my shoulders, his thumbs rubbing soft circles that he must think are comforting—but they feel like knives peeling apart my skin one scrape at a time.

I’m usually better at handling the sudden panic, but it catches me off guard when my inner stability is already thrown off balance to begin with.

My throat feels tight, choking out my ability to tell him to stop. He’s being friendly. I know there’s nothing threatening in the way he’s touching me. But my entire body freezes as my heart starts to pound. And I think I might be sick.

“I like you, Angélica. You’re a great chef. And I don’t want there to be any bad blood between us in the kitchen.”

I can barely hear anything over the blood roaring in my ears. My skin is prickly and cold, and my vision fades into fuzzy little flickers of light.

“Liam,” a voice calls. I don’t think it’s mine, but I can’t be certain.

“Liam, get your fucking hands off her. She can’t breathe.” The deep voice is clearer now, familiar. I blink open my eyes to find crystalline blue ones staring down at me. Liam’s hands are gone. Strong, harsh fingers are biting into my shoulders and shaking me back into my body.

“There you are, angel,” he rumbles, his voice so low that Liam can’t hear. “Lost you for a minute.”

“I’m sorry,” I gasp as embarrassment floods my body. I’ve not blacked out like that in years. I thought I’d gotten past it, but I suppose my brokenness still follows me around like a shadow.

“Don’t apologize,” Greyson chides, his tone turning stern. His eyes flash up to Liam, and that’s when I realize we’re both on the floor, Greyson’s arms wrapped around me. I wish I could tuck my head against his shoulder and disappear altogether.

“Not that I should have to explain this to you, but you shouldn’t be touching your coworkers. Ever,” Greyson snarls, hammering Liam with a glare.

“I didn’t mean?—”

“I don’t give a fuck what you did or didn’t mean. It has nothing to do with you , so keep your hands to your fucking self.”

I blink up at Greyson, reeling from his unexpected defense.

I’ve always borne the blame for my personal weaknesses.

If I panic when someone touches me, it’s my fault for being damaged.

It never even occurred to me to think of touch as something being done to me, rather than something I brought upon myself.

And he’s the first one to make me feel some version of normal in spite of being wired differently from most people.

Of course, the hypocrisy of Greyson’s lecture doesn’t escape me. He touches me without permission too—he just does it the way I like.

“I’m sorry, chef.” Liam looks crestfallen, his eyes fixed on the floor as Greyson helps me get to my feet.

“You can apologize to Flores for being grossly unprofessional,” Greyson snaps, the intensity of his expression unfaded.

“Sorry, Flores.” Even though his apology is essentially being forced at knifepoint, I can tell that he means it.

“It’s okay. No harm done.” I shoot him a smile that probably looks a little flimsy, but it’s the best I can muster at the moment.

“Back to the kitchen, Liam. We’ll be there in a minute.”

“Yes, chef.” With an apologetic glance over his shoulder, Liam leaves.

Greyson turns his full attention on me, his eyes blazing with an intensity that promises destruction—his or mine, I can’t tell yet. “I leave you unattended for a few hours and return to find you in a closet with an underling’s hands all over you,” he growls.

“That’s not what happened, and you know it,” I retort, flashing him a half-hearted glare.

“Yes, I know,” he admits before clenching his jaw. “Still doesn't mean I liked it.”

I didn’t either, but I don’t want to focus on what happened. Eager to remove the spotlight from myself, I divert to the upheaval that drew him away from me in the first place. “So, are you a murderer now?” I ask, my words more casual than I actually feel.

Just like this morning, his expression gives away nothing. “Not this time, much to the disappointment of Chicago PD.”

I turn over his response in my head, considering all the ways it doesn’t sound like a confession of innocence. “And—the other times?” I hazard.

The smallest of smiles cracks at the corners of his mouth. “Hmm, someone’s feeling brave tonight.”

“I lost a lot of oxygen to the brain,” I offer in my own defense, not sure I’m willing to risk a punishment from him at the moment. “I’m basically high right now.”

His smile grows wider. “I suppose I won’t hold it against you then.”

“Well?” I ask, not willing to drop the matter until he gives me an answer. A real answer.

“If you want to have that discussion, it’ll have to be somewhere a little more private than an open hall in a crowded restaurant.”

“What did you have in mind?” I ask, anxiety suddenly flooding through me. If I was smart, I wouldn’t be considering going anywhere private with a man who may or may not be a murderer. It will be a fun experiment to see if my curiosity outweighs my sense.

“Tomorrow is Sunday, and I happen to know you have the night off.”

“My boss is a real ass, so I have to make the most of my very limited time off,” I tease, the comment earning me a sharp smack on my ass when no one is looking. “Ow,” I hiss as I rub away the sting. “What happened to not touching your coworkers ?”

“This coworker was being a bad girl, and she deserved it,” he quips with a smirk.