Page 26 of Shades of Ruin (Sharp Edges Duet #2)

Chapter Twenty

GREYSON

M y poor angel looks like she’s going to bolt. I hate to break it to her, but it’s a little late for that now. “Don’t worry,” I purr, dragging her from the elevator when her legs seem to be stuck between fight or flight. “You’re safe tonight. Torture is more of a second date kind of thing.”

“ Estupendo ,” she mutters, sarcasm thick in her voice.

Her dark eyes drift around the room, taking in every little detail of my apartment like it will tell her all the secrets she never dared to ask me.

I’m a private person, so very few people have actually been allowed access to my home.

The fact that she’s standing in my living room right now is a louder declaration of my feelings for her than any empty words I could use to tell her.

“It’s not what I expected,” she comments while doing a three sixty turn in the center of the room.

She studies the black walls and ceilings, the heavy black drapes lining the windows, the twin black chandeliers dangling above a long, black-cherry colored sofa before her eyes fall on the black, marble floors.

“I thought the all black was a work thing. ”

“No, it’s more of a personality thing. Black soul as a lifestyle choice.”

She cracks a smile. “Suits you.”

“It does,” I agree, walking to the built-in bar on the far side of the living room. “So what’s your poison?”

“What?” she asks, her head snapping up in my direction.

“Drink preference,” I answer, waving a bottle of my favorite whisky in the air. “If we cook dinner sober, it’ll just feel like work,” I add with a laugh.

“Oh, umm I’m not sure.” She rubs her palm up and down her right thigh, a nervous tick that I picked up on a couple weeks after she started working at Grey’s. “Margarita?” she answers finally.

“Fuck no, angel. A real drink.”

“Why don’t you surprise me, chef?” There’s an obvious note defiance in her voice, and it makes me want to throw her on the ground and fuck it right out of her.

“Alright.” I run my eyes over her perfect body, thinking of what flavors come to mind.

Something sweet. Acidic. Spiced. Rifling through my bottles of liquor and additives, I pick out Mezcal, cinnamon syrup, fernet and pull a coupe glass from the shelf of various cocktail and whisky glasses.

I grab a whisky glass for myself and pour a triple shot neat.

I swallow a couple deep gulps, loving the smooth warmth of the whisky as it slides down my throat, before turning to her and commanding, “Follow me.” I toss her a shaker, and she just barely manages to catch it against her full tits.

I tuck the delectable image away for later.

Gathering all four bottles in one hand, I slide the stem of the coupe glass between my teeth, grab my whisky glass in the other, and lead her toward the kitchen.

“Wow,” she gasps when we enter my favorite room in the apartment—on this level, anyway. “I would kill for a kitchen like this. ”

“No need to commit murder, angel,” I chuckle after I’ve thrown everything down on the black marble countertops. “I’ll get you a key, and you can come over and cook anytime you want,” I offer before I can hold myself back.

Jesus Christ , I feel like I’ve asked her to move in with me except for the fact that giving her free-use of my goddamn kitchen is even more fucking intimate.

She’s barely stepped into my apartment, and I’m crossing lines already.

I drain half my glass and slam it against the counter, licking away the remnants of liquor from my lips with my tongue.

I catch her staring at my mouth as I do, and my cock makes it obvious that the heat in her eyes gets me hard.

Groaning with the effort it takes not to bend her over the counter and show her exactly what she does to me, I go to the fridge and grab a couple blood oranges and a lime.

I hold out my hand for the shaker, and she slams it against my palm a little harder than she needs to.

Guess she has some pent up tension of her own.

“You’ll feel better in a minute,” I tell her with another long sip from my glass.

“Unless you want to take off your panties and let me fuck all that angst out of you before cocktail hour?”

“Can’t,” she replies, a coy smile tugging on her lips.

“Still just dinner, then?” I huff, wondering why she’s choosing to torture both of us rather than just giving in.

“No, I mean I can’t because I’m not wearing any panties.”

Holy fucking hell. I think I just came a little because my cock is suddenly so wet I can feel the damp material of my boxers chafing against my swollen head.

“Such a naughty angel, teasing me with your bare cunt,” I growl, reaching down to adjust myself.

“I’ll add it to your list of punishments for tonight. ”

“So many threats, chef,” she purrs, the golden flecks in her warm eyes sparking with mischief. “At this point, we won’t have any time for dinner. ”

“There’s always time for dinner. You just won’t be getting much sleep tonight.”

“We’ll see,” she replies in a sing-song tone that sounds distinctly like she’s taunting me.

I fist my hands at my sides, ignoring the impulse to make the little tease scream rather than sing. “Let’s get you a drink. Can’t have you taking advantage of me in my weakened state.” I throw back the rest of my whisky, refill my glass, and start slicing the fruit in half to juice.

“Can I help?” she asks, coming up behind me until she’s so close I can smell the cinnamon sweetness clinging to her skin. I want to suck that warm sweetness right from her veins.

“Here, squeeze these.” I slide a bowl and the blood oranges across the counter so that she’s forced to put some distance between us.

I have a citrus press, but I want to see her wring them dry with her bare hands.

She gets to work while I add ice to the shaker and pour in several shots of Mezcal.

I squeeze in half a lime, a splash of fernet, and a heaping helping of cinnamon syrup, knowing she’ll prefer it sweeter.

When I look back at her, she’s pressing her third piece of orange, juice dripping down her arm like blood.

Without thinking, I reach across the counter and grab her wrist, tilting her arm toward my lips and lapping at the juice until she’s licked clean.

She moans as I take each of her fingers into my mouth and suck them until every last drop of sweetness is gone.

The decadent sound of her arousal makes my cock swell so much I feel like it might burst.

“Don’t want you ruining that pretty white dress,” I offer in defense of my sudden attack as I tear myself away from her. My control is slipping fast. “That’s enough juice.” I take the bowl from her and dump the contents into the shaker before slamming on the top.

I release my aggression on the shaker, the deafening sound of hard ice ricocheting against cold metal obliterating any mounting sexual tension in the room.

When I finish, I double strain the liquid and fill her glass to the brim.

I pull out a knife and cut a single slice of blood orange as a garnish, using the tip of the knife to lower it into the center of the glass.

I slide the drink across the counter toward her. “Sangre dulce,” I announce.

“Sweet blood,” she translates with an amused smile as she picks up the cocktail and brings it to her nose. “Smells good. Did you add cinnamon?”

“Reminded me of you,” I answer with a shrug.

“Well, salud .” She lifts her glass toward me, and I clink mine against the edge.

“ Salud ,” I add before tipping back my glass and gulping it down until I can’t breathe. “How is it?”

“It’s good.” She licks her lips, and I couldn’t take my eyes away from her wet tongue if I tried. “The cinnamon and blood orange is a perfect balance.”

“Yeah, I thought so too.”

Keeping her dark eyes locked on mine, she puts her glass to her lips and drains the entire thing before slamming it down so hard on the counter it’s a wonder the delicate crystal doesn’t shatter into pieces. “Another?”

“Slow down, angel,” I laugh while reaching for the shaker and topping up her glass. “You don’t want to be sick.”

“I can handle my liquor,” she bites back, taking on her second drink almost as quickly. She holds out the empty glass with a pleading pucker to her pretty lips. “More?”

“I’m cutting you off after this, so you better fucking savor it,” I grit as I drain what’s left into her glass. I frown down at her, wondering what exactly it is she needs all this liquid courage for. Is my girl really that scared of me?

She swirls the red-tinted liquid in her glass, her eyes fixated on the way the blood orange rotates along the edge. “Tell me,” she whispers after a long stretch of silence.

Ahh, so that’s the reason she’s suddenly turned into a binge drinker.

I thought maybe she’d forgotten about our little deal, but I should have known better than to underestimate her morbid curiosity.

I could lie to save myself from looking like a villain, but I promised her honesty, and she deserves nothing less.

“About my darker side?” I answer, refusing to shy away from the harsh realities of my past. “About the version of myself that decided certain lives were worth taking?”

I advance on her, my steps slow and heavy as I turn the corner of the counter that was protecting her from me.

If she demands to hear this, she’ll look me in the eyes while she does.

I reach up and catch her jaw between my fingers, making sure to keep my touch harsh enough that she doesn’t panic.

I jerk her head up to look at me, and I find warm brown eyes that are rimmed with anything but fear. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes.” Her answer is pure certainty and bravery, and I find myself wanting to kiss her for both.

“I killed my father when I was seventeen. He spent his entire life beating the shit out of people he considered to be weaker than him. He was so violent that my mother left before I turned one, so scared that he would come after her that she left her infant son behind. I was four the first time I went to the hospital with a broken arm. The breaks and bruises came more frequently after that. He was worse with my step-mother—taking out the majority of his rage on her until he finally pushed her down a flight of stairs. She never got back up.”

I take a long drink before continuing. “The cops couldn’t prove it was anything other than an accident, not that they really tried.

My sister saw him push her, but the testimony of a scared seven year old didn’t mean shit back then.

I told my dad I was the one who snitched to the cops, and I got the worst beating of my life that night.

I had to skip two weeks of school just for the majority of the bruises, cuts, and swelling to heal.

I eventually covered the scars on my back with tattoos, but sometimes I can still feel them, like the sick bastard etched them into my bones. ”

Angélica holds my gaze, her eyes flickering with flames of fury for that little boy who couldn’t save himself. I’ll never regret being the one to put a knife in that little boy’s hand and teach him vengeance is better than fear.

“I didn’t mind the beatings so much. After a while, you just became numb to the pain.

But when my sister turned twelve, something changed.

Suddenly punishment didn’t mean the harsh fists we were all used to.

The attention daddy dearest gave her was different and much fucking worse.

The first night I found him lying in her bed, I didn’t even need to think about it.

I walked into the kitchen and found the sharpest knife we had.

Then I walked back into that fucking room and shoved the blade inside him so many times he looked like minced meat by the time I was done. ”

I feel Angélica flinch in my hold, her body instinctively repelled by the detached callousness of my tone as I tell how I massacred my own father.

But even as her body pulls away, there’s no disgust or fear in her gaze.

No, her warm brown eyes are telling me that sick fuck deserved every damn stab he got.

“Naturally we had to call the cops at some point. I may have known how to kill a man, but I sure as fuck didn’t know how to hide a body.

My sister and I claimed self-defense. The cops believed her this time because her blood was on the goddamn sheets.

I was forced into therapy, but I didn’t serve time.

I spent the last few months before I turned eighteen in the system, and my sister was adopted by a family who ended up being the best thing she ever had.

She’s now ridiculously well-adjusted, and you’d never guess she was born and raised in hell. ”

“What about you?” It’s the first question she’s asked since I started, and the normality of it throws me off balance.

“Me? I carried my fucked-up issues around on the inside, self-destructing whenever the noise in my head became too much. I escaped to Paris the first chance I got—desperate to leave behind that broken, helpless version of myself who waited too damn long to save himself. I had an old Parisian named Sophie take pity on me and teach me how to bake croissants at her boulangerie. I took every opportunity I had to learn and progress. I became sous at one of the most renowned restaurants in Paris. I stayed there until I learned everything I thought I could. Then I moved back to Chicago to start my own restaurant. I’ve done pretty well for myself since then. ”

“But did you ever heal?” There’s a sad crease between her brows, and I get the feeling my answer means more to her than it should.

I swallow down the urge to lie, offering her the truth as much as it strips me bare.

“I heal every time you trust me to touch you. Every time you take my bullshit in the kitchen without breaking down. Every time you let me hurt you and beg me for more. Every time you look at me like you want me more than oxygen. Every time I feel your sweet cunt cling to me like you never want to let me go.”

I drag my thumb across her bottom lip, forcing the soft skin against her teeth.

I press until her skin breaks for me, just like it did the very first night we met.

Blood trickles down her lip, but she never pulls away or asks me to stop.

If anything, she leans into my touch even more.

“Christ, angel. You heal me more than years of bloodshed and vengeance ever could.”