My Bloody Valentine

27. Maya

27

MAYA

I observe my reflection in the bathroom mirror, my hair a tangled mess and my neck marked with fresh bruises from Adrian’s possessive grip. We barely made it back to my apartment before Amelia returned, and the reality of what just happened crashed over me.

“You’re overthinking.” Adrian’s voice drifts from my bedroom.

My hands grip the cold porcelain of the sink. “I let you back in. After everything.”

“You never truly pushed me out.”

He’s right. Even when I ran and hid at Amelia’s, part of me yearned for his touch. For the unhinged pleasure only he could provide. The thought makes my stomach turn, not from disgust but from how right it feels.

I pad back to the bedroom where Adrian lounges against my headboard, his presence transforming my safe space into something dangerous and electric. My body still hums from our encounter on Amelia’s couch. I should be ashamed, but instead, heat flows through my veins.

“I know what you are,” I whisper. “What you do. I should turn you in.”

“But you won’t.” His certainty cuts deep because we both know it’s true.

I sink onto the bed, keeping a distance between us. “What does that make me? An accomplice? A monster?”

“It makes you mine.” Adrian reaches for me, and I let him pull me close despite everything screaming inside me to run.

His words resonate with a truth I’ve been fighting since I first tasted his chocolates. I am drawn to him not because he’s corrupted me but because that darkness already lived inside me. The morality I cling to feels like a thin veil, growing more transparent with each passing moment in his presence.

“I don’t want to be this person,” I say, leaning toward him.

“You already are.”

I trace patterns on Adrian’s chest, gathering the courage to ask the question haunting me: “How do you choose them?”

His fingers halt their path in my hair. “The hollow ones?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Have you ever watched how people treat servers?” Adrian’s tone shifts, carrying an edge I recognize from my righteous critiques. “The ones who snap their fingers, belittle staff, and leave zero tips after running them ragged. Who destroy small restaurants with fake reviews for sport.”

My breath catches. The parallel hits too close to home—my scathing reviews, which have shuttered restaurants and ended careers.

“There was one,” Adrian continues, “who threw hot coffee at a barista’s face because his drink wasn’t made fast enough. The girl had third-degree burns.”

“What did you do to him?”

“I followed him. Learned his routine. Then I invited him to a private tasting.” Adrian’s hand slides down my arm. “His blood added a particular bitterness to that month’s truffles. Justice served in chocolate.”

I should feel horrified, but instead, I think of all the times I’ve witnessed similar cruelty in restaurants. The entitled customers treat staff like servants and destroy livelihoods with gleeful spite.

“My reviews,” I whisper. “I’ve ended careers too. Restaurants that families poured their savings into...”

“The difference is, you punish genuine failure. Bad food and poor service deserve criticism. I punish those who take pleasure in cruelty.”

His words sink in, and I realize we’re both judges in our own way. My pen destroys careers. His knife ends lives. Both of us deliver verdicts on those we deem deserving of them.

“We’re not so different,” I say, the truth settling heavily in my chest.

“No, we’re not.”

I trace my fingers over Adrian’s latest bite mark on my shoulder, letting the sharp sting ground me in reality. “When I started reviewing restaurants, I thought my... ability was a curse. Tasting the chef’s emotions, their intent.”

“And now?” Adrian’s breath tickles my ear.

“Now I understand why your chocolates called to me from the start. That emptiness I criticized wasn’t emptiness at all. It was justice. Vengeance.” I turn to face him.

His eyes darken. “You’re the first to truly understand.”

“Because I taste it all. The fear, the desperation, the final moments.” My voice catches. “In every bite of your creations, I experience their deaths. And God help me, part of me craves it.”

Adrian cups my face. “Your gift makes you perfect. You don’t just taste the chocolate; you taste the artistry behind it, the justice.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” But there’s no bite in my words. I’ve spent years hiding behind professional terminology, using words like “depth” and “complexity” to mask what I experienced in each bite. Every chef’s rage, passion, or despair lay bare on my tongue.

“You’ve always known there was something different about you.” Adrian’s thumb brushes my lower lip. “You’re not just a critic. You’re a confessor. Every bite tells you their secrets.”

He’s right. My reviews weren’t just about flavor profiles and technique. They were exposés of the soul. I could taste when a chef had given up or when they were cooking through depression.

“Your gift led you to me,” Adrian murmurs. “Because deep down, you needed someone who understands.”

I press my lips together, accepting the truth I’ve been running from. My ability didn’t make me Adrian’s victim. It made me his perfect match.

I trace my fingers along Adrian’s jawline, my heart racing with anticipation. “Show me how you choose them.”

His eyes light up with dangerous delight. “Are you certain? Once you cross this line...”

“I already have.” I sit up in bed, sheets pooling around my waist. “I want to understand your process. Not just taste the results, but... participate.”

Adrian’s hand slides up my back, his touch electric. “A restaurant critic has been destroying small family businesses with fabricated reviews. Taking bribes from competitors.”

“Marcus Reynolds.” The name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. “I know his work.”

“He’s dining at Le Petit tomorrow night.” Adrian’s fingers trace patterns on my skin. “I’ve been watching him for weeks.”

“How do you do it?”

“First, we observe. Learn their patterns, their weaknesses.” He adopts that instructional tone that makes my pulse quicken. “Then we arrange a private tasting.”

I turn to face him fully. “And I’ll be there? For all of it?”

“Every step.” Adrian cups my face. “Your gift will add a new dimension. You’ll taste his cruelty firsthand.”

“Yes.” The word comes out breathless, eager.

“Tomorrow night, then. We’ll start with surveillance.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “Are you ready to be more than just my taster?”

I kiss him hard, claiming his mouth with newfound confidence. Breaking away, I whisper against his lips, “I want to be your partner. In everything.”

Adrian’s smile carries all the darkness I’ve grown to crave. “Then let’s begin your education, little critic.”