26. Adrian
26
ADRIAN
I hold Maya close, her heart racing against my chest from our passionate encounter. Her breath comes in short gasps, and I trace the marks I left on her skin. The scent of jasmine and chocolate fills the air around us.
“You’re trembling,” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
Maya shifts in my arms, her eyes meeting mine with a mix of fear and understanding. “The blood in your chocolates... I should run screaming to the police.”
“But you won’t.” I tighten my grip slightly, reminding her of who she belongs to now.
“No.” She traces a finger along my collarbone. “I won’t. Because I see it now—what you create. It’s more than just confections. Each piece tells a story, carries an emotion.”
I pause, studying her face. This is the first time anyone has truly understood my vision. “The hollow ones contribute nothing to the world. But in my creations, they finally serve a purpose.”
“The depth of flavor...” Maya’s voice catches. “When I first tasted them, I sensed something hollow. You capture pure emotion in each bite. It’s terrifying but also beautiful in its own morbid way.”
“Like us,” I murmur against her temple.
“Yes.” She shudders. “I never thought I’d understand someone like you. But your chocolates are a form of art. You take something brutal like murder and transform it into something exquisite.”
Her words fill the void inside me, the empty space I’ve carried for so long. She sees me and doesn’t turn away. I cup her face in my hands, making her look at me.
“You’re the only one who could ever appreciate the depth of what I create. Your gift lets you taste the truth in each piece.”
Maya nods slowly. “The artistry behind the madness. I understand it now, and that’s what scares me most.”
Maya shifts in my arms, her fingers trailing along my chest. “Tell me how it started. What made you... this way?”
The question stabs deeper than any blade. The moment my eyes shut, memories flood back. “My mother was a pastry chef. She’d let me help in the kitchen, teaching me about chocolate. But my father...”
“What did he do?”
“He’d bring women home. Take them to the basement.” My jaw clenches. “I’d hear their screams while mother baked, drowning out the sounds with her mixer. She knew what was happening but did nothing. Just kept making her perfect little pastries.”
Maya’s hand freezes on my skin. “Did he kill them?”
“Yes. But first, he’d make me watch.” The words taste like ash. “Said it would make me a man. Mother would serve her dessert after, her famous chocolate mousse. The contrast was striking. Beauty and horror served on the same plate.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight when it started. Lasted until I was twelve.” I stroke Maya’s hair, anchoring myself in the present. “One day, mother snapped. Poisoned his dessert. I watched him die, choking on her creation. That’s when I understood—chocolate could be both art and a weapon.”
“What happened to your mother?”
“She killed herself two days later. Left me a note saying she was sorry she couldn’t protect me sooner.” I meet Maya’s gaze. “The hollow ones remind me of him. Empty inside, taking pleasure in others’ pain. When I use their blood in my chocolates, I transform their wickedness into something meaningful.”
Maya touches my face, her eyes full of tears. “You make beauty from horror.”
“Yes.” I press my forehead to hers. “Just like mother taught me. But you’re the first one to understand.”
I brush my lips against Maya’s temple, savoring her warmth. “Tell me about your gift. When did you first realize you could taste emotions?”
Maya nestles closer, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest. “I was six. My grandmother made these incredible cookies. One day, she baked them while fighting with my grandfather. When I took a bite...” She shivers. “All I tasted was anger and sadness. The recipe was the same, but they were completely different.”
“My father called it attention-seeking behavior when I tried to explain.” Her voice hardens. “He was always too busy with business meetings to notice me anyway. Mother just smiled that tight smile of hers and suggested therapy.”
I capture her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. “But your grandmother understood?”
“She was the only one. She’d let me help in her kitchen, teaching me to understand what I was tasting.” Maya’s voice catches. “After she died, I was so alone with it. No one else ever tried to understand until I met Amelia.”
“How did you cope?”
“I learned to hide it until. Started writing about food and tempered down my mention of emotions. People respected a refined palate, even if they didn’t know what made mine special.” Her fingers tighten on my chest. “But living like that, tasting everyone’s hidden feelings while pretending I couldn’t... it changes you. Makes you see the darkness in people whether you want to or not.”
She tilts her head up, meeting my gaze. “Until you. You’re the first to understand what it means to see beneath the surface.”
The vulnerability in her eyes strikes something deep within me. I lean down, kissing her with a gentleness I didn’t know I possessed. Her lips part beneath mine, soft and yielding.
“I used to hate this gift,” she whispers against my mouth. “Every meal was a minefield of emotions. My father’s indifference, my mother’s quiet desperation, strangers’ secret rage... But with your chocolates...” She pauses, kissing me again. “Even the murder feels pure. Honest. You don’t hide what you are, and that’s more precious than any acceptance I’ve ever known.”
“You make me want to be honest.” I trail kisses down her neck, feeling her pulse flutter. “I’ve never shared my past with anyone before.”
Maya’s fingers thread through my hair. “I want to know everything about you.”
“Even the weak parts?”
“Especially those.” She pulls back, cupping my face. “Being vulnerable isn’t weakness, Adrian.”
Her acceptance wraps around me like a warm blanket, filling spaces I thought would stay cold forever. When I open them again, Maya watches me with such tenderness that it makes my chest ache.
“You’re the first person who’s seen all of me,” I murmur, drawing her into another kiss. This one is slower, deeper, and full of unspoken understanding.
Maya sighs against my lips. “And you’re the first person who’s understood my gift isn’t just about food. It’s about connection.”
I pull back from our kiss, studying Maya’s face in the dim light. The words I’ve never spoken to anyone rise in my throat, demanding release. I cup her face.
“I love you.” The confession tears from me, raw and honest. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone. You see all of me, and you’re still here.”
Maya’s body tenses against mine, her breath catching. For a moment, terror grips me. I’ve miscalculated and shown too much weakness. But then her fingers trace my jawline, and her eyes fill with tears.
“I love you too,” she whispers. “God help me, I shouldn’t. You’re dangerous and everything I should run from, but I love every piece of you.”
Relief floods through me, and I capture her mouth with mine. This kiss is different from our others, more desperate. Her lips part beneath mine as I pour every unspoken emotion into the kiss. Her tongue dances with mine as she presses closer.
I tangle my fingers in her hair, holding her to me as though she might disappear if I let go. She moans softly, her hands sliding up my chest to grip my shoulders. The kiss grows more intense and passionate, consuming us both in its heat.