Page 8 of Shades of Ruin (Sharp Edges Duet #2)

Chapter Six

GREYSON

M y ruined angel is standing in my goddamn kitchen.

Her pretty, golden eyes are wide with wonder as she takes in the pristine stations, top of the line equipment, and well-stocked pantry and walk-in like she’s viewing the majesty of the Mona Lisa in the Louvre for the first time.

I’d find that long-forgotten sparkle of genuine awe adorable if I wasn’t so fucking furious with her.

I’ve been searching for her like a madman since the night she disappeared on Halloween.

I’m not a stalker—something deeper than shallow obsession sent me scouring every inch of Pandemonium and chasing every trail I could, trying to discover anything about the girl who sent my heart racing for the first time in a decade.

And I found nothing . I was the one in the mask that night, but it seems she was the one who came in disguise.

As can only be expected, Finn was an absolute asshole and refused to give me any information about my mystery girl.

I tried breaking into his office to search guest records from that night because I know he keeps them, and I was forcefully escorted out of the club with an additional two weeks added to my ban at Pandemonium.

So I’ve been unproductive and frustrated with no access to my private room and subs to take the edge off.

Frankly, I hope fucking Finn catches crabs and itches his useless balls till they fall off.

I sound insane, but this is about more than just a gorgeous girl who took my knife like she was made for it.

I’ve been sick with dread and worry for nearly a week because I sliced up a girl without even asking her name and was stupid enough to abandon her afterward.

I’ve never skipped aftercare. Ever. And I didn’t know if she was okay, if she made it home safe, if she cleaned the cuts like she was supposed to. All thirteen of them.

There’s been a gnawing ache in my chest since my destructive angel disappeared.

It’s kept me up every night and wrecked my appetite every day.

And now that I know that she’s just fucking fine, I want to tear her apart for all the suffering she’s caused me by lying to my face and leaving without a goddamn word.

Lucky for me, Angélica Flores has served me the perfect opportunity to make her life a living hell. And I’m going to enjoy every moment of it.

“You have one hour,” I announce, my voice cold and empty to mask the rage threatening to bubble over. I let my anger slip a couple times in my office; I could see the confusion on her face as she tried to avoid the sudden bursts of it with the dexterity of a chef sautéing over an open flame.

It’s obvious she doesn’t recognize me from the frenzied night we shared last weekend.

I’m almost offended that, without the mask, she can’t sense the man who made her come harder than she’s likely ever come in her life.

And I’m tempted to reveal everything just for the sake of seeing the horrified shock in her pretty eyes when she realizes she has to cook for the demon who fucked her with a knife on Halloween.

But it will be even more fun to torment her when she thinks she’s as innocent as the angel she played when she was splayed under me with my cuts etched into her skin.

I can see now why my naughty angel’s feathered wings were broken and burned. Hell is exactly where the lying whore belongs.

“May I begin, chef?” she asks, her smooth voice cutting through my thoughts like a well-sharpened cleaver.

I appraise the unassuming collection of ingredients she’s gathered—figs, cinnamon sticks, sugar, vanilla beans—with an air of disinterest before allowing my eyes to fall on hers.

I drown out the small flare of heat that unfurls below my waistband when I see the warm reverence and determination reflected in her gold-flecked irises.

And I consider being cruel for the sake of stifling that bravery altogether.

But I decide to let it build and allow her the false hope of thinking she can impress me. It will be so much sweeter when I finally rip that fragile optimism from her chest and pulverize it.

“Your time began when you walked into this kitchen, Flores,” I retort with a cross of my arms. “If I were you, I wouldn’t waste it on questions.” My words aren’t kind, but they’re softer than the usual viciousness I’ve been known to unleash in the kitchen.

Uncertainty flashes in her eyes as she shifts from one foot to the other.

Her teeth sink into her bottom lip—a gesture of habit that usually tears open an old wound that never had a chance to heal, but this time, I find that I’m more intrigued than triggered.

I want to know what has my brave girl suddenly so nervous.

“I’m sorry,” she stammers, glancing down at her scuffed, white Chucks.

“I know you said no questions, but do you have something I could wear?” She waves a hand over her white button-up and light-wash jeans.

“I don’t mind getting messy, but I’d rather not serve you with arequipe splattered over my tits if I can help it. ”

My cock jolts in my pants at the stunning little fantasy she’s concocted for me.

Her face messy and her tits splattered and sticky—my cum would be a perfect garnish on her pretty skin.

Her golden hue deepens at her cheeks when she realizes she’s been more informal with her potential boss than is appropriate.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” she gasps, panic written across her face as she covers her mouth with her hand.

I can’t help but laugh. “No need to apologize, but maybe refrain from talking about your tits in the kitchen, especially when it’s just the two of us alone.

” I allow myself to draw a little closer but still far enough that she’s beyond my reach.

I can’t promise to keep my hands off her if I’m within touching distance of the temptation.

And Trisha wouldn’t thank me for the HR nightmare.

“The last thing I need in my kitchen is a scandal.”

“No, of course. I’m sorry, it just slipped out. Won’t happen again, chef.”

“Good,” I respond while hoping for the exact opposite.

I hope she lets it slip enough times that I get to punish her for it.

“Let me find you something to wear.” Feeling her eyes follow me, I walk to the locker room and find a collection of grey aprons that my chefs wear during the week.

I pass those and grab my own apron from the single hook on the back wall.

It is common knowledge that the black apron is mine. No one would dare touch it, so I can’t explain what possesses me to walk out of the storage room and hold it out to my treacherous angel. “Here,” I rasp, my voice suddenly thick and strained. “Can’t have you getting dirty.”

“Thank you,” she answers in a strange tone, and I wonder if she can sense the wicked desire in my words. She accepts the apron, and our fingers brush for a moment so small it should mean nothing at all. So why does it feel like fire grazed my fingertips and left its charred sting behind?

Keenly aware of the time that’s been ticking away, she throws the apron over her head and frees her mass of curls from the band before fumbling with the ties at the back.

“Allow me,” I say, all too aware that the words sound more like a command than chivalry.

She lowers her arms and waits patiently with her back turned.

I hesitate only a moment before striding two steps forward and clutching the apron in my hands.

My eyes flutter shut at the familiar scent of her; it’s still seared into my memory from that single night we shared.

Cinnamon sweetness lulls me into a lustful state as I make quick work of the apron.

She gasps in surprise when I pull the ties a little too tight and secure them in a bow at her lower back.

Unable to resist, I let my fingers linger on her hips, drawing small circles as I remember the softness of her body beneath me.

She pulls away sharply and whips around to face me, something broken in her brown eyes. “Please don’t.” There’s a note of fear in her words that raises the hairs along my neck in warning. I know a trauma response when I see one.

I take a step back, providing her the space she obviously needs. “Don’t what?” I ask, trying to gauge exactly what set her off so I can be more careful in the future.

Her cheeks flush with embarrassment, but she meets my eyes when she answers, “Don’t touch me.”

My brows wrinkle in confusion. She may not recognize me from Halloween, but I have more than fucking touched her, and she never once complained or shied away like she’s doing right now. So what’s different now? “Can I ask why?” I press, still keeping myself at a distance.

“Just—don’t.”

Her evasion makes me bristle. It seems she doesn’t think I deserve the truth.

And I promised myself many years ago that I would never allow a liar into my kitchen again.

“If we’re going to be working together in a crowded kitchen during dinner rush, I think you’ll find it’s incredibly hard to avoid touching each other in some capacity.

So I need to know why if I’m going to consider making a very serious concession for my new pastry chef. ”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I feel like a manipulative bastard. I’m forcing her to be vulnerable by dangling the pastry position in front of her. And judging from the pained twist of her brows, vulnerability is something she avoids at all costs.

She swallows a few times before looking up at me, her dark eyes hard as stainless steel. “Because a younger version of myself was taught that soft touch was the start of something far worse, and I’ve hated it ever since.”

“Soft touch?” I repeat, turning over all the ways her vague explanation masks something terrible and traumatic.

The thought has me ready to sharpen my favorite knife and introduce it to whoever laid their filthy fucking hands on my angel.

Considering my knife reminds me of everything she allowed me to do with it.

She never cowered or pulled away from me that night.

Before I can stop myself, I ask, “What about harsh touch?”

There’s a flash of desire in her gaze that mimics the way she looked up at me when I forced her to her knees—it’s heady and rich, and I want nothing more than to get drunk off the sweetness of it.

But then the fire fades into something soft and submissive.

Something she must assume I want, though that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

“I don’t think you’ll ever know me well enough for that answer.”

Oh, but I already do.

No wonder Halloween night didn’t trigger her. There was nothing soft about the way I treated her. And she loved every minute. We both fucking did.