Chapter 8
tovek
Three days after the kiss and I can’t stop thinking about the exact shade of pink that spread across Mei’s cheeks when our lips met.
I’ve been giving her space, keeping things strictly professional, but every time she brushes past me in the kitchen or says “Yes, Chef” in that voice that does things to my chest, my brain replays those seconds in the closet.
Her body pressed against mine, her hand fisted in my shirt, the sound she made when I cradled the back of her head.
It’s torture and bliss and exactly why I haven’t been sleeping.
The bar is packed tonight. Another Friday, another record-breaking crowd.
People line up three deep at the bar, tables are full, and the kitchen is in that state of organized chaos that means everything is going exactly according to plan.
I should be happy. We’re trending up, the food is getting noticed, and the gambling addict who writes for the food blog was in last night taking photos of the dumplings.
Instead, I’m a mess of want and restraint, watching Mei move through the dining room with the confidence she brings to service.
Laughing with a table of dwarves, checking on the vampires in the corner, pausing to explain the heat levels to a nervous-looking human couple.
She’s wearing her hair up tonight, a few strands falling loose to curl against her neck.
From across the room, I can see the flush on her cheeks, the pleased set of her mouth as she watches a table dig into a plate of wings.
It’s the first real smile I’ve seen from her in three days.
We’ve been careful with each other. Respectful, professional, painfully aware of the line we’re not crossing.
I’ve kept my distance, kept my hands to myself, kept my voice neutral when I ask her to taste a new drink or check the marinade.
It’s the right thing to do. It’s the only thing to do, given our arrangement.
It’s also killing me.
I’m wiping down the bar, trying to focus on the task instead of the memory of Mei’s mouth against mine, when the front door opens with authority.
Not the casual push of a regular patron but the deliberate motion of someone who expects doors to open for them.
I glance up, a greeting already forming on my lips, and feel my stomach drop.
Grishnak.
Not Vex, his usual enforcer, but the goblin himself.
Six feet of deliberate menace wrapped in a snakeskin suit that probably cost more than my monthly liquor order.
He’s broad through the shoulders, with deep moss-green skin and the calculated patience of a man who has lawyers on retainer.
Gold chains catch the light as he moves.
Three of them, layered over a silk shirt that’s unbuttoned one button too many.
His cufflinks are shaped like dollar signs, studded with what might be actual diamonds.
A platinum watch the size of a small plate gleams on his wrist.
He pauses in the doorway, taking in the crowd with the assessment of someone evaluating competition, before making his way to the bar with unhurried confidence.
The smell hits me before he does. Cologne.
Expensive cologne applied with absolutely no restraint, a cloying mix of leather and something that might be sandalwood but smells more like a department store exploded.
He looks nothing like the caricature. No warty nose, no hunched back.
But he’s rough-cut in a way elves never are.
His features are sharp, angular, with a slight yellowish tinge to his eyes and subtle points to his teeth that show when he smiles.
Everything about him screams money and power and absolutely no taste in how to display either.
“Tovek,” he says, his voice smooth with the polish of expensive education. “It’s been a while.”
“Grishnak.” I keep my tone neutral, professional. “What can I get you?”
He smiles, the expression not reaching his eyes. “I’m not here for a drink. I’m here for your chef.” He glances toward the kitchen, where Mei is visible through the pass window, focused on the ticket rail. “The famous Noodle Queen. I’ve heard remarkable things about her revival.”
Every instinct I have is screaming danger. Grishnak doesn’t visit competitors out of professional courtesy. He doesn’t compliment talent he doesn’t plan to acquire or destroy. If he’s here, it’s because he’s spotted an opportunity or a threat.
“She’s busy,” I say, keeping my voice level. “We’re in service.”
“I’ll wait.” He takes a seat at the bar, his movements deliberate. Those gold chains clink softly as he settles onto the stool. “And I’ll have a whiskey. Neat. The good stuff, not the well.”
I pour two fingers of our top-shelf bourbon, setting it in front of him without comment. My skin prickles with awareness. Not threatened, exactly, but assessed, evaluated for weakness. Grishnak doesn’t make empty gestures. If he’s here, he’s already three moves ahead.
Mei appears at my elbow, two plates balanced on her forearm with the skill of someone who’s been doing it for years. “Order for table twelve,” she says, not quite meeting my eyes. “The house special and extra wings.”
“I’ll take it,” I offer, reaching for the plates.
She shakes her head. “I’ve got it.” She turns to go, then freezes when she spots Grishnak.
The change is immediate. Her shoulders go rigid, her grip on the tray tightens until her knuckles go white.
Recognition flashes across her face, followed by something that looks like dread before she smooths it into professional neutrality.
She knows him. And whatever their history is, it’s not good.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, her voice carefully controlled, and disappears into the dining room.
Grishnak watches her go, his expression thoughtful. “She looks even better in person,” he says. “The camera doesn’t do her justice.”
My hand tightens on the bar rag. “You know her?”
“We’ve had dealings.” He takes a sip of his whiskey, considering.
“The Noodle Queen is something of a legend in certain circles. Her fall from grace was quite spectacular. As is her recovery.” He gestures to the packed dining room with one ring-laden hand.
“You’ve done well with her. The place has potential. ”
It’s not a compliment. It’s a claim. The assessment of someone who sees value they might want to own.
Mei returns to the bar, her movements careful, deliberate.
She’s changed something. Tucked her hair more securely, straightened her apron, adjusted her expression to something more neutral.
She’s nervous, I realize. Not the professional tension she brings to service but real fear, carefully controlled.
“Mr. Grishnak,” she says, her voice steady despite the white knuckles where she’s gripping the edge of the bar. “This is a surprise.”
“Not at all.” He smiles, revealing more of those pointed teeth. “I’ve been meaning to congratulate you on your comeback. The Drunken Dragon’s renaissance is quite the topic of conversation.”
She nods, not quite meeting his eyes. “Thank you. We’ve been fortunate.”
“Indeed.” He reaches into his jacket, pulling out a business card that he slides across the bar. The card itself is gaudy. Embossed gold lettering, too thick, with what looks like actual gold leaf around the edges. “I have a proposition for you, Chef Tan. One I think you’ll find very attractive.”
Mei picks up the card, her movements careful. “I’m listening.”
“I’m expanding my restaurant portfolio,” Grishnak says, leaning forward slightly. That cologne intensifies, making my eyes water. “Three new flagship locations opening in the next six months. High-end, celebrity clientele, unlimited budgets. I want you to run the kitchens.”
He pauses, letting that sink in. Mei’s expression doesn’t change, but I can see the tension in her shoulders.
“Full creative control,” he continues. “No committee oversight, no corporate menu restrictions. You design the dishes, you hire your own staff, you source from the best suppliers in the city. My suppliers, which means you’ll have access to ingredients most chefs only dream about.
” Another smile, wider this time. “And of course, I’d forgive your debt.
All two hundred thousand credits. Wiped clean the day you sign the contract. ”
The offer hangs in the air between them. It’s good. Better than good. It’s exactly the kind of opportunity that could rebuild a career, that could take someone from viral sensation to legitimate culinary force. Full creative control, unlimited resources, debt forgiveness.
It’s also a trap.
“That’s generous,” Mei says, her voice carefully neutral. “Very generous.”
“I recognize talent when I see it,” Grishnak says. “And I’m willing to invest in the right people.” He takes another sip of his whiskey. “Of course, I’d need an answer soon. These positions won’t stay open forever, and I have other candidates interested.”
I should stay quiet. Let Mei handle this. But the words are out before I can stop them. “Her debt is already being handled. Crimson Financing gets paid every month from the bar’s profits. On time, in full.”
Grishnak’s eyes flick to me, mild amusement crossing his face.
“I’m aware. But surely Chef Tan would prefer to be free of the obligation entirely?
To not have her success tied to someone else’s business?
” He turns back to Mei. “This is a chance to build something that’s entirely yours.
No partnerships, no shared profits, no dependence on anyone else’s success or failure. ”
The words are calculated. Designed to appeal to exactly what Mei wants. Independence, control, freedom from debt. And the worst part is, I can see her considering it. Not seriously, maybe, but the offer is tempting enough that she’s actually thinking about it.
“I appreciate the offer,” Mei says finally. “But I’ll need time to think about it.”