2. Chapter 2
Iunroll the small piece of paper passed to me by a smiling demoness. I’d noticed her hanging back, waiting until she was the last of our guests. She offered me her hand, and when I took it, she slid her thumb suggestively across my palm and deposited the paper. Then, releasing me, she sauntered out the door.
It’s her hotel room number. Cute. I snap my fingers, and a small flame leaps to my fingertips. The paper is reduced to a fine gray ash by the time it floats to the floor.
I turn off the entryway lights and double-check the bolt on the front door. A quick glance around, and I know I’m alone. I slump. My head drops, and the curves of my horns knock against the heavy wooden door. I let loose the defeated groan that’s been rattling the cage of my stomach for the past half hour. It feels good and awful at the same time.
Ollas Encendidasmight have been Sofia’s dream first, but it’s become mine, too, and tonight, I had to shake hands and smile at guest after guest, carrying off our night’s profits in doggie bags. It’s been one financial hit after another. Almost three years in, and I’m still pouring money into this place. Sofia doesn’t know it yet, but we’re slowly sinking.
I tried to cut our losses by crowding extra tables onto the floor, but that’s caused its own problems. It’s clear now we would have needed a bigger place for that strategy to work. I should have known better. I should have scaled back, not scaled up. Her menu is perfection. Diners rave over her food and return again and again. Everything that’s going wrong is my fault. What good is a demon whose businesses falter? As useful as a match that doesn’t strike. My throat constricts against a knot of self-reproach.
It was always going to fail.It’s a dark thought, and I shake my head, trying to dislodge it. My horns scrape against the wood, and in the rasp, I hear my father’s words. “A passion project is a bad investment. Always.” I’ve already proved him right once, in my early twenties, when I naively attempted to open a pretentious craft cocktail lounge. Failure loomed over it like a cloud from day one. When I finally mustered the courage to tell him my partner and I had gone bankrupt, he sneered in disgust. “I told you.” It took me a decade to earn my fortune back, and after that, I swore off any business endeavor involving art, food, or entertainment. Too risky.
Then I met Sofia.
Our last ray of hope on the horizon is Valentine’s weekend, two days from now. The special menu is triple our usual tasting menu price, available only Friday through Sunday. We extended our hours and still managed to fully book all three nights. We’re even expecting a number of celebrities. Valentine’s will put us back in the black unless, of course, we’re closed, which we definitely will be if we can’t get the halo working.
I pull myself away from the door and go in search of Sofia. If I know my wife, she’ll be channeling her frustration into the clean-up. Greasy surfaces, beware. She’s coming for you.
The stage kitchen is empty, so I head to the back of the house, walking through the banging and clanging of the wash stations, pantries, larders, and prep stations. The kitchen crew is making quick work of the closing procedures. Sofia runs a tight ship, but she’s nowhere to be found. A faint flutter of uncertainty stirs the back of my mind. She wouldn’t have left without me. Would she? My stomach drops at the thought of her walking the Chicago streets alone.
“Hey, boss! Do I trash all this?” I turn to see the legumier chef hefting a bin of fresh produce over a trash can.
“Why?” I ask, shouting over the din of the industrial dishwasher that just kicked on. On quick inspection, it looks good to me, but I’m not the expert. Sofia would know.
“We’ll be closed for a while. ?Verdad? This will all be bad by the end of the week. Might as well chuck it now.” He tips the bin.
“Don’t chuck it,” I say with a growl. The thought of throwing away more of our potential profits churns my already unsettled stomach. “Don’t throw anything out. Not yet. We’re going to figure something out. Do you know where Sofia is?” There’s a buzzing in the back of my brain that I know from experience will grow in urgency until I see her and verify she’s alright. It never happened before we were married, only since.
“I saw Chef talking to a guest on the floor,” he says, then hurries off with the bin of produce, heading toward the walk-in cooler.
I loop around the dining area, squeezing past tables that are too tightly packed, searching for my wife amidst our sinking ship. Where is she? The more empty tables I pass, the louder the buzzing grows, and I have to push away images from my recurrent nightmares. Since our wedding, my nightly dreams have served no other purpose but to remind me that humans are fragile and easily harmed.
There! I finally spot her.
“What are you doing all the way back here?” Sofia is in the corner booth, safe and sound. The buzzing stills. She startles, and her head pops up. When our eyes meet, I flinch at a familiar pain. Sweet Mother Below, the sight of my wife’s face spears me with a sharp and devastating joy every time I see it. I keep thinking the sting will fade, but it doesn’t.
Sofia’s long dark hair is pulled back from the smooth planes of her forehead, cheeks, and jaw. Her large brown eyes are ringed with thick lashes, and her warm brown skin, in certain lights (or with certain stimulation), takes on a delightful reddish tone — she is human but more stubborn, fiery, and resilient than any demon I’ve ever known. And yet, the nightmares persist.
“I was —” she makes a small gesture across the table, but then her brow wrinkles. “I just needed a moment to think. I should go see to closing,” she says and starts to scoot out of the booth.
“They’ve got it covered,” I say as I slip onto the bench beside her, blocking her in. I reach for her hand and fold it gently in mine, cradling it like a hatchling. She shakes it loose and laces our fingers together in a tight grip. I smile until I notice the shiny pink mark on her hand.
“What’s this?” I ask, holding it up for inspection.
“It’s nothing,” she says, tugging her hand from my grip. She hates to be coddled, but if my nightmares have taught me anything, it’s that there’s no such thing as too careful when it comes to my wife. I will not lose her.
“Sofia.”
“It’s minor, and burns don’t scare me, you know that,” she says. Sofia has always liked fire, and when she was a child, one of her many coffee tin fires got out of hand. She still has the scars all along her left side.
She rests her head against my shoulder. “Dinner was a disaster,” she says, and there’s a shaky note in her voice that claws at my chest. I make a noise of agreement. There’s no point in denying it, but it’s not her fault. It’s mine. She shouldn’t have to bear the weight of the disappointment.
“At least your tits looked really good tonight,” I say.
She snorts out a burst of laughter, and the sound of it warms me like the sun thawing snow.
“You managed to appreciate them even beneath my chef’s jacket?” She lifts her head to raise a doubtful eyebrow at me, her mouth curling into a bemused half-smile. Sofia is smiling. Good. I can still see the strain behind her eyes, but putting a smile on her face is a good start.
“I had to use my imagination to mentally undress you in front of our guests and then draw upon my meticulously cataloged memories of every time I’ve seen your naked breasts for comparison, but yes. They earned top marks for bounce and biteability. I’d say they were in exquisite form, quite possibly their best night ever. I propose we celebrate.”
She snorts again, but her smile is wider now, and when I flick my tongue, I catch just the faintest hint of sweetness in the air. Fear is sour or bitter. Excitement and arousal are sweet. The ability to taste the chemistry of others is unique to demons, and I have no qualms about making use of my advantages. She might try to deny it, but my wife likes to be teased. I feel the tightness in her body easing at my side.
Perhaps my carefully laid plans for the evening are still salvageable. A glimmer of hope sparks in my chest. “Do you remember what tonight is?” I ask.
Her brow knits for a moment before her eyes light up. She squeezes in at my side and brushes her lips across my jaw. “It’s our Valentine’s,” she mumbles against my skin.
“You’re a smart woman,” I say, but when I attempt to catch her lips with mine, she pulls back and gives me a curious look.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing.” She shakes her head and plants a quick kiss on my lips. “We should go.”
We bid the crew goodnight. She tells them that we’ll be in touch as soon as we’re able to reopen, and I promise them they’ll be paid for the days we’re closed. It’s a promise the restaurant can’t afford, but I can, for now, at least. My wealth, or rather our wealth now that we’re married, is ample but not endless, and Ollas Encendidas has taken a significant toll.
When we decided to start a restaurant together, one of the sacrifices we knew we’d be making was celebrating holidays on the same calendar as the rest of the world. Sofia grew up like this. Her entire family works in the service industry. It’s new to me, but I’m adjusting. It turns out any day can carry special meaning if you let it.
“We’re home,” Sofia says with a relieved sigh as soon as we step out of the elevator. Our condo is on the top floor of Merihem Tower in the heart of downtown Chicago, only a few blocks from the restaurant.
I follow behind her, and come to a stop when she pauses at our door. She makes no move to open it. “We’re going to be alright, aren’t we? The restaurant, I mean,” she asks, turning around to face me.
“Of course,” I say. She”s looking me right in the eye and I can”t help but glance away to hide my uncertainty. I’ve asked her to leave the books and operations to me, and she’s agreed.
“Because, if not… I had someone approach me with an offer.”
“We’ll be fine,” I say, and reaching past her, I key in my ten-digit code, carefully obscuring the keypad with my other hand.
“Who are you hiding it from? I know your code,” she laughs and starts to recite it aloud. She does it to get a rise out of me, and it works. Every time. My skin prickles with the need to stop her. I flatten her against the door and seal her mouth with mine. She responds quickly and hungrily.
“Keep my secrets, wife,” I grumble against her lips. She laughs. It’s a wicked little giggle, and I like it.
I scan my thumbprint and push the door open, catching Sofia before she can stumble. I give her a little spin, and she enters ahead of me. I delight at the sound of her startled gasp. My plans for tonight have always been to seduce this woman out of every last aching orgasm she can muster, and given the night we’ve just had, I think zero adjustments are in order.
The entryway is overflowing with fresh-cut flowers in staggered vases: roses, peonies, camellias, buttercups, and gardenias. The floor is strewn with petals, and, of course, they create a path she is meant to follow. It leads to the first bathroom just off the hallway. She stops in the doorway and her mouth falls open in a way that captures my full attention, arousing some of my best memories in exquisite detail. Those full lips and that hungry mouth have completely undone me on so many occasions. My cock twitches against the seam of my pants, but it’s not time for that yet.
“Do you like it?” I ask, watching her face for every flicker of reaction. I want her to be pleased. I don’t have to look inside to know the clawfoot tub is steaming. A few clicks on the app on my phone, and it started filling the moment we left the restaurant. Circulating jets will keep the temperature constant. There are petals floating on the surface. One of the gilded side tables is set with champagne and a tray of assorted glass bottles of oils and scented creams. The other is full of confections: chocolates, petit fours, and sugar-dusted fruits. The classics are classics for a reason.
“The wall,” she whispers on a wondrous breath. Ah yes, that. For my beloved pyrophiliac, I had a gas fireplace installed this afternoon, the largest I could find. A flame for her to lose herself in until I come to reclaim her in an hour or so. It’s only a warmup before the main attraction, but I hoped she’d like it, and my chest inflates with pride to see that she does.
“It looks expensive,” she says, the glow in her eye dimming as her brow creases.
I bristle. If and when Ollas Encendidas bleeds us dry, I will cut off every single one of my personal expenses. I have lived on next to nothing before, and I can do it again. But Sofia will have every luxury I can give her for as long as I can give it to her.
“I will heap pleasures and comforts upon you until the day I die. I took a vow.”
She snorts, turning to me to cock an eyebrow. “You keep saying that, but our wedding was recorded. Those aren’t your vows.”
“It was implied.”
“How convenient that your vaguely worded vows now give you implicit permission to be as over-the-top extravagant as you want.” She crosses her arms. She’s mostly teasing, but there’s some real irritation below the surface. She disapproves of my spending habits. She forgets that I’m an excellent bargainer. I paid a fraction of the asking price.
“Would you prefer I surprise you with a lukewarm stock tub, no frills?”
“I might enjoy that,” she replies with a stubborn lift of her chin.
“Liar. You will enjoy this bath, wife. You will soak and preen, and rub yourself down with all of my favorite scented oils. I will come fetch your relaxed and pliant body when I’m ready to ravish it.” I nip at the side of her neck and give her a little shove over the threshold. I leave her and continue down the hall toward our bedroom.
Before meeting Sofia, I never intended to marry. I didn’t think it would suit me, too invasive a prospect. Joint accounts, shared phone plans? The mere thought of it had me double checking my privacy settings. But as it turned out, when it came time to defile the sanctity of our private lives in favor of a shared one, I was ready before she was. And when the woman you’re desperately in love with repeatedly turns down your offers of marriage, claiming it’ll complicate your business relationship, it gives you a lot of time to imagine how you’d do things given the chance.
For example, I’ve been dreaming up tonight for years: our first Valentine’s as a married couple. If she thinks a luxurious bath is extravagant, just wait until she sees what I’ve done in our bedroom. The gas fireplace is a trifle, a mere taste of what’s to come. I lengthen my stride and hurry down the hall to finish my setup.