Chapter 25 Peter
PETER
That evening, Peter watched Faye collapse on the bed in their suite. “I don’t think I need to eat for a month, but those eclairs were so worth it. I wish we didn’t have to go home tomorrow.”
“We don’t have to,” Peter mused, lying down beside her.
“What? We should just throw our responsibilities to the wind and travel the world together, sleeping and eating?”
Sounded like the perfect plan to him.
“Yes,” he said calmly, his fingers intertwining with hers as they lay side by side. “I’d run away with you and never look back.”
“They’d find us.”
“Eventually, but what a time we’d have.” Peter rolled on his side and stared down at her.
His hand slid up her thigh, and she pressed herself against him. He reached for the tie on her dress, but before it could fall open, she pulled away, surprising him.
“I’m going to take a shower,” she said quickly, fixing her dress as she hopped off the bed.
Peter fell back on the bed and pressed his palms into his eyes.
He hadn’t meant to get caught up in the moment; fuck, he didn’t want to ruin their perfect night.
He stripped off his shirt and tie, opening the balcony doors to get some fresh air as he heard the shower running.
She’d had to lock herself in the bathroom to put some distance between them.
Feeling like an idiot, he leaned on the railing and stared at the lights.
He’d apologise when she came out; he didn’t want her to feel any pressure.
“Peter?” Faye’s voice was barely a whisper.
He turned to face her, and his jaw dropped. She stood in front of him in a silky blue nightie. The lacy edge brushed the tops of her thighs. The matching robe fell off her shoulder, exposing lacy straps that he couldn’t help but think would be very easy to snap.
“Are you coming back to bed?” she asked nervously.
Peter couldn’t find the words to speak. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“Is it too much? I got it in the shop this afternoon. I can take it off,” she said, only to suddenly flush a deep shade of pink. He chuckled as she realised what she’d said.
“Sorry. You look beautiful,” he said, swallowing his worst impulses.
“Really?”
He nodded. “But I don’t think you’re going to get much sleep wearing that. If I wasn’t already dead, that would do it.”
Faye chewed her lip to conceal a smile as she fiddled with her robe.
“I wasn’t planning on doing much sleeping,” she said.
Peter charged towards her and took her face in his hands to kiss her. She stood on her tiptoes to draw him nearer; he slipped the robe from her shoulders, stilling as he saw the silver scars along her shoulders.
“Sorry, I don’t want them to make you feel uncomfortable,” Faye said, pulling up the silky robe.
The last thing he wanted was for her to feel ashamed. Even though they had shared the same bed for months, this was the first time she felt comfortable enough to bare herself to him, scars and all.
“You don’t have to hide them from me,” he promised, easing the silk off her shoulder and pressing his lips to her skin.
“Most of them have faded,” she explained quietly as he gently kissed her collarbone, her neck, showing love to the most vulnerable parts of her body.
He wished he could erase every single scar, every trace of him from her body, but they were part of her, and they deserved to be loved, worshipped and cherished.
Peter left Faye satisfied and sleeping peacefully to stretch his legs.
For hours, they’d lost themselves in desire.
He would never tire of her breathy moans and the sound of his name on her lips as he’d made her his own.
It had taken every ounce of self-control to remind himself that she was still a magless and needed rest.
He didn’t want to turn on the TV in the hotel and disturb her, so he went for a walk around Paris to kill some time.
Back home, he’d wander around the apartment or indulge in one of Faye’s romance novels, which had become his fast favourite pastime.
The nightmares she had experienced were occurring less frequently, and she reached for him less in the night to soothe herself.
Months ago, he wouldn’t have dared to leave her alone in case she needed him, but he was realizing how much he had underestimated her.
She had survived without him before, and she would again.
It wasn’t that he wanted her to ever be without him, but he couldn’t promise her a future. However, tonight was theirs, and it was a memory he would cherish for the rest of his life.
When it began to rain, he decided he had been gone long enough. Unfortunately, when he entered the hotel bedroom, Faye was no longer there.
His stomach dropped, and he hurried down to the front desk, where the night manager was dozing off. Peter rang the bell, and the man jolted upright.
“Yes, Monsieur?” he said, clearing his throat and forcing a smile to try and hide his fatigue.
“I’m looking for the woman I checked in with. Have you seen anyone wandering around down here?” Peter asked, hoping she hadn’t gone out on her own so late. What if she had woken up and gone to look for him? The thought of her out on the streets at this hour worried him.
The receptionist tapped his fingers against the desk in thought. Peter wished he could reach across the counter and delve into the man’s recent memories, but Reapers were forbidden from using their gifts for personal gain.
“Red hair? Chef?” the night manager guessed, saving Peter from making an impulsive decision.
“That’s her.”
“Oui, she was here about an hour or two ago. She asked if she could use our kitchen without disturbing anyone. I shouldn’t have let her, but she bribed me with a box of treats from Maison des Desserts. Please don’t tell anyone; I really need this job,” he said, his smile fading.
“Don’t worry, I just want to find her,” Peter assured him.
“Down the stairs, through ballroom four to the catering kitchen. We only use it for exclusive events and VIPs, and we rarely get such bookings after midnight.”
“Thank you for accommodating her,” Peter said, relieved that she was getting what she needed.
He reached into his black coat and pulled out a stack of hundreds.
The best part about Reaper clothing was that it provided the wearer with whatever they needed.
“This is for you. We’ll clean up afterward, but just in case you need to pay some housekeeping for an extra once-over. ” He winked.
The night manager’s eyes widened. “Monsieur, this is too much! We try our best to accommodate all our guests, and the owner said we should take extra special care of Suite 2,” he confessed, attempting to slide the money back to Peter.
Peter wasn’t exactly certain how much he had given him, but Faye’s happiness was priceless.
He should have guessed that Alexandre had spoken with his staff.
Reapers and hotels were common acquaintances, but this connection ran deeper; Benedict and Alexandre had gone to college together, and like Benedict, Alexandre had inherited the hotel from his parents.
If Peter thought Benedict was a perfectionist, a fae running a hotel meant that even perfection wasn’t good enough.
Fae liked everything to be clean, plush, and expensive.
The family had been in Paris since before the revolution and had turned their home into a hotel to adapt to the changing climate.
Fae always had a talent for self-preservation, like most magical folk.
“Keep the money. Mr Beaumont is kind to ensure we’re taken care of, but it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be rewarded.” Peter smiled, leaving the money on the counter when he walked away.
“I should have guessed this is where I would find you,” he said in the kitchen, watching Faye step from the walk-in fridge with a tray of fresh fruits.
“Thought I ran away, did you?” she asked, putting down the tray. She gave him a kiss before whirling around to remove a pie tray from the oven.
“Maybe.”
“Never,” she promised, whipping some cream in a bowl.
He never got over how deftly she moved about the kitchen, let alone one she had never been in before.
Then again, it was her second home, regardless of what time of day it was or what country she was in.
She had her hair in two small pigtails again, and she looked adorable, but he wasn’t going to behave like a caveman and toss her over his shoulder to bring her back to bed before she had finished whatever it was she was baking.
“Can I ask what you’re creating?” Peter asked, sitting up on a counter out of her way.
She beamed. “My masterpiece.”
He waited for her to elaborate.
“I found the perfect solution to my problem! The mermaid in the shop sparked my imagination.”
“Here I thought it was my loving that inspired you.”
She reached up on her tiptoes and kissed him again. “That was wonderful, but sorry, you can’t take credit for this.”
“Explain.”
She launched into a ramble, and it took him a moment to understand that she was talking about their trip to the sanctuary in the 4th arrondissement.
“The mermaid was beautiful, enchanting, inviting. You couldn’t help but want to reach out to her, to get close. Then, bam! The second you got too close, the shock of reality hit – the fear, her harsh, frightening, but mesmerising features.”
“And how did this help with a recipe?” he asked, trying to keep up.
She added the filling to the pastry and tossed it back in the oven. “You were right.”
“I was?”
“When you said I was overcomplicating things, you were right. I was trying too hard, trying to reinvent the wheel. When we were in the café this afternoon, and the pastry chef was talking about the perfect simplicity of the éclair…”
“You said it was perfect.”
“Yes, exactly. The chefs have perfected their craft. They weren’t focused on creating or obsessing over the new and grand, but on creating the perfect bite,” she explained.
He loved seeing her so excited, but he was still a little lost.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” he said, wishing she wouldn’t put so much pressure on herself.
She shook her head, and hurried over to stand between his legs.
“That’s kind of you – gods, you’re so cute when you’re supportive,” she said, and he tried not to blush.
“But not what I meant. I don’t have to be perfect, but my pies are what everyone knows me for.
What they love most, and they were what saved me during the hardest days.
If I’m going to compete, then they deserve to be served.
Win or lose, it’s what I love to bake. Where I started. ”
He recognised the pie when it came out of the oven as her signature pumpkin.
“I’m going to start round one with Benedict’s favourite, because he was the one who helped me get the job in Stoker’s,” Faye told him.
It was a relief to see her excited instead of nervous about the competition. “Technically, that was me,” Peter mused, not wanting his brother to get the credit. He’d never considered himself jealous, until her.
“I know, but you pretended to be him, and it was my pumpkin pie that sealed the deal. And for the final round, this was inspired by the mermaid,” she said, removing a pie from the fridge. “Bitter chocolate with a sweet cream centre, and a cherry-liquor-infused base.”
“I think that’s a great idea, but what does that have to do with the mermaid we saw?”
“Simple, clean, chic, looks harmless, inviting. You wouldn’t think twice about taking a bite, right?” Faye said as he lifted a forkful to his mouth.
His eyes widened. His bite packed a punch; the bitter chocolate was softened by the sweetness of the cream, but then the hint of cherry liquor brought it all together.
“It’s almost too much, right? Almost too rich, too powerful, but so enticing—”
“I can’t help but want another bite,” Peter finished for her.
“Exactly. Like the mermaid, you know it’s powerful, but you can’t help but reach out,” she agreed, taking a bite herself.
“So good – I can’t wait for everyone back home to try it.
I’m going to serve it on Monday and get feedback from all my regulars for any little tweaks, but I think these are the two I’m most proud of. ”
“They’re perfect. The judges won’t stand a chance,” Peter said, sliding the pie towards himself.
“Hey, share.”
“Uh-uh, too good. You can have the pumpkin,” he laughed, taking another big bite.
He didn’t know what she had done to the cream in the centre to make it so light and fluffy but still sweet and thick enough to soothe the taste buds after the harsh bitterness of the chocolate.
“We should celebrate your breakthrough.”
“Let’s.”
Peter put down the pie. Before she could reach for it, he swept her up in his arms. She dropped her fork.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking you back to bed, to celebrate.”
“I have to clean up the kitchen,” she squealed.
“You’ve made enough pies to bribe them, and I already gave the concierge a major tip for letting you use the kitchen. They won’t mind.”
“At least bring the pie,” she chuckled, and he grabbed it with his free hand.