My Bloody Valentine

24. Adrian

24

ADRIAN

T he empty bed jolts me awake. My hand sweeps across the cold sheets where Maya should be. The silence in the suite crashes against my ears like waves.

My fingers curl into fists. The careful control, I maintain splinters, and a raw growl tears from my throat. I grab the nearest object—a crystal water glass—and hurl it against the wall. The sound of shattering glass brings no satisfaction.

“You ungrateful little bitch.” The words come out in a hiss as I pace the room. Each step sends tremors of rage through my body. “After everything I gave you.”

My reflection catches in a mirror—eyes wild, hair disheveled. This isn’t me. This isn’t the composed Adrian Vale who crafts perfect chocolates and seduces food critics. This is something I keep carefully hidden beneath expensive suits and charming smiles.

I need to think clearly, calculate, and plan. But I’m lacking my usual orderly mind as I pick up my phone, and I know I can’t do this alone. Gabe will be insufferable about it, but he’s the only one who understands.

The phone rings three times before he answers.

“She’s gone.” The words taste like ash in my mouth.

“I’ll be there in fifteen.” Gabe’s voice holds no judgment, just resignation.

“Bring the kit.” I end the call before he can respond.

My breathing steadies as I survey the room. Maya’s scent still lingers—jasmine. Sweet. Intoxicating. A smile forms as I imagine her trying to escape, thinking she’s free. But she’s absorbed too much of me now, knows too much.

The monster inside me unfurls, no longer restrained by the need to seduce and play. Now it’s time for the hunt, and I’ve always excelled at that part of the game.

The doorbell chimes. Gabe enters without waiting, carrying a sleek black briefcase.

“You look like shit,” he says, setting up his laptop on my marble counter.

I rake my fingers through my hair. “Save the lecture. Did you bring everything?”

“When have I ever let you down?” He opens the briefcase, revealing an array of surveillance equipment. “Though I should point out?—”

“Don’t.”

“Fine.” He types rapidly, screens reflecting in his glasses. “Smart girl. Credit cards haven’t been used. No movement on her bank accounts.”

I pace behind him, my jaw clenched. “She has to surface eventually. Work, apartment, that little café she loves...”

“Already have alerts set for her usual spots.” Gabe navigates through dark web forums. “My contacts will ping if she shows up anywhere on their radar. But Adrian...” He hesitates. “She’s clearly had help.”

The thought makes my blood boil. Someone is helping her hide.

“That friend she mentioned.” I grip the counter. “The artist.” The woman I texted the day I took Maya, pretending to be her in the texts. “I’ve got her phone number in Maya’s phone. It’s out of battery, but we can get a charger easily enough.” I pass it to him.

“Yeah, the phone will help me find her. I found references to an ‘Amelia’ in her social media, but everything’s locked down tight now. No last name, no address.”

I lean over his shoulder, scanning the screens. Maya’s entire digital footprint is laid bare before me. Work history, reviews, and photos of her at food events. But nothing about this Amelia.

“Keep digging and use the phone.” I straighten, already formulating plans. “She can’t hide forever. And when I find her...”

“Adrian.” Gabe’s voice carries a warning.

“Just find her.” I turn away, unable to look at Maya’s smiling face on the screen any longer. The anger inside me writhes, demanding satisfaction. She thinks she can run from me? I’ve marked her. Claimed her. She carries my taste on her tongue, my darkness in her veins.

“Nothing on the police bands,” Gabe says, fingers flying over his keyboard. “No encrypted reports, no emails between precincts. Radio’s quiet, too.”

My shoulders relax a fraction. At least my little critic hasn’t betrayed me completely. Yet.

“She could be laying low before making a report,” I say, more to myself than Gabe. “Or they’re keeping it off the books.”

“Possible.” Gabe glances up at me. “But unlikely. You know how these things work. Even if they tried to keep it quiet, there’d be chatter. Detectives would be assigned, evidence logged, and witnesses interviewed. Can’t hide all that paperwork, even digitally.”

He’s right. I’ve monitored enough investigations over the years to know the patterns. Law enforcement’s bureaucracy is both its strength and weakness. Nothing moves without leaving digital footprints.

“So she’s running scared.” I trace my finger along the rim of my coffee cup. “But not scared enough to seek protection.”

“Or...” Gabe hesitates.

“What?”

“Or she’s protecting you.”

The thought sends a surge of pleasure through me. Even after fleeing my bed like a thief in the night, Maya keeps my secrets. Perhaps the darkness I sensed in her runs deeper than I imagined.

“Keep monitoring,” I tell Gabe. “If she goes to the police, I want to know immediately.”

I slide into the passenger seat of Gabe’s black Audi, my fingers drumming against my thigh. The leather seats still hold the chill of the morning air.

“Her apartment first,” I say, pulling up the address on my phone. “She’ll need clothes and toiletries. Basic necessities.”

Gabe navigates through early morning traffic, the car purring beneath us. “And if she’s there?”

“Then our hunt ends quickly.” I adjust my cuffs, ensuring my shirt sleeves lay perfectly flat. “Though I doubt we’ll be that fortunate.”

We park across from her building, a modest brownstone with window boxes full of withering winter plants. I know her apartment is on the third floor, second window from the left. I’ve watched her silhouette moving behind those curtains enough times.

“Stay here,” I tell Gabe. “Watch the exits.”

The lobby door opens with a simple credit card trick—amateur security for such an expensive neighborhood. Her apartment door is more challenging, but I didn’t become Chicago’s premier chocolatier without learning useful skills.

The scent of jasmine hits me as I enter—her signature perfume. Everything is neat and organized. A half-empty coffee mug sits in the sink. The bed is still made, untouched. She hasn’t been here.

“Clear,” I tell Gabe over the phone. “Let’s try her office next.”

The food magazine where she works is housed in a sleek downtown high-rise. We park in the underground garage, and I straighten my tie.

“What’s the play here?” Gabe asks.

“I’m a potential advertiser looking to speak with their star food critic about an exclusive spread.” The lie rolls off my tongue smoothly. “Stay in the car. This requires finesse.”

The hunger for her grows with each empty location we check. My girl thinks she can hide from me? She should know better. I’ve tasted her fear, her desire. I know exactly what she craves.

No one escapes Adrian Vale.