Chapter 11
mei
Tovek’s hand is warm in mine as we walk through Old Chinatown, the morning light catching the steam rising from food stalls and the colorful awnings stretched overhead.
My stomach is full from the noodles, but my chest feels hollow. There’s something still unsaid between us. Something I’ve been carrying for so long that putting it down makes me dizzy.
I’ve made my decision. No more running, no more hiding. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to show all my cards. Not yet.
We turn down a narrow alley between a fish market and a shop selling elaborately carved jade. The noise of the main market fades, replaced by the soft clicking of wind chimes and the occasional muffled conversation from behind closed doors.
It’s like walking into a different world here. Hell, with the Otherkin, it very well might be.
“I want to show you something,” Tovek says, his voice low. “If you have time.”
I squeeze his hand, aware of how easily we’ve moved through the world as a unit. “I’ve got time.”
We stop in front of an unassuming storefront. Simple wooden door with a faded red sign hanging above it. There’s no name, just a character for “tea” painted in careful strokes.
Tovek knocks three times, pauses, then two more in rapid succession. The door swings open almost immediately.
The woman who answers is tiny. Barely five feet tall, with silver hair pulled back in a severe bun and hands gnarled with age. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, move from Tovek to me, then back to Tovek. A question in her expression.
“This is Mei,” he says, his voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “The chef I told you about.”
Something changes in her expression before she nods. “Come in,” she says, her accent thick but her English perfect. “I have the tea ready.”
Inside the tea house, five small tables are arranged around a central space, each with its own pot of tea and set of delicate cups. The walls are lined with shelves holding hundreds of different teas in labeled tins, the air thick with competing scents.
It’s like nothing that should belong in New Vegas. A sliver of time that’s existed exactly like this for centuries.
“Your usual table?” she asks Tovek, already moving toward the far corner.
He nods. “Please. And the oolong, if you have it.”
She disappears through a curtained doorway, leaving us alone in the quiet space. “You have a usual table,” I say, unable to keep the surprise from my voice. “You come here. Often.”
He shrugs, but there’s a pleased set to his shoulders. “Once or twice a week. When things get...” He gestures vaguely.
“Complicated,” I supply, thinking of my own escape to the noodle stall.
He nods. “Complicated. Mrs. Lin’s been here since before I was born.
Probably before New Vegas became what it is.
She knows everyone, sees everything, says almost nothing.
” His smile is quick, a flash of teeth and the subtle gleam of a tusk.
“It’s good to have a place like that. Somewhere outside the bar, outside the kitchen. ”
It is good. It’s also a revelation to have this glimpse of Tovek’s life outside The Drunken Dragon.
I’ve spent four months working beside him, but I’ve never thought about what he does when he’s not there. Who he is when he’s not being a bar owner or a boss or the man who makes my stomach do things it has no business doing.
It matters.
Mrs. Lin returns with a pot of tea and two delicate cups, setting them on the table. “The spring oolong,” she says, her voice matter-of-fact. “Your favorite.”
“Thank you,” Tovek says, with a formality I’ve never heard from him. “It looks perfect.”
She nods and disappears back through the curtained doorway. Leaving us alone with the fragrant tea and the tension that’s been building since the moment I left his bed this morning.
Tovek pours. The pot held just so, the stream of tea thin and controlled. It’s fascinating to watch this massive orc with all of his strength, doing something so delicately. He’s clearly used to it.
“I used to come here after my shifts,” he says, setting the pot down.
“When I was still muscle for some local outfit. It was the only place in the city where no one knew who I was. Where I was just Tovek, not the orc enforcer fighting someone else’s battles.
” He shrugs, a movement that doesn’t quite hide the tension in his shoulders.
“It was restful. To be just a person for a while.”
Tovek never speaks of his past, so I nod rather than ask questions. Maybe one day, he’ll tell me more.
For now it’s enough to understand the weight of expectation, of being known for something outside yourself. It’s a kind of pressure that builds slowly until you’re not sure where it ends and you begin.
Finally, as the silence stretches between us, I find myself speaking. “That’s why I left this morning. It was getting real. And real is...” I gesture vaguely.
“Terrifying,” he supplies, his voice gentle. “I know.”
And he does know. That’s the thing. Has known since the moment I followed him to his bar four months ago, desperate and debt-ridden.
He’s seen me at my worst. Sleep-deprived and sauce-spattered, arguing with a delivery driver about the quality of the chilies, breaking down in the walk-in when the marinade wouldn’t set.
And he’s still here. Still watching me with those unusual green eyes, still saying my name like it means something.
It’s too much and not enough and exactly why I’m sitting in a tea house at seven in the morning, my hand still warm from his.
I take a sip of the oolong. Floral and slightly astringent, with honey underneath. The kind of tea that makes you close your eyes without meaning to, that makes your brain go quiet.
“It’s good,” I say, setting the cup down. “Really good.”
He nods. “Mrs. Lin has a source in the mountains. Gets it directly, no middleman.” He takes a sip of his own tea. “Mei, about this morning—”
“I want to tell you,” I say, the words coming out more forcefully than I intended. “Everything. The debt, why I ended up on the Strip that night. All of it.”
He’s quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “You don’t have to. Not if you’re not ready.”
“I know.” I take another sip of tea, letting the warmth steady me. “But I want to. I need to. If we’re doing this, you should know what you’re getting into.”
He doesn’t correct me. Just nods, his eyes steady on mine, and waits.
So I tell him.
“Someone faked an email from my account. Made it look like I’d complained to Modern Culinary about the other chefs in their special issue.
The one I was supposed to be the cover story for.
Specific complaints about how they were only using me for my ‘look’ and my ‘platform’ rather than my cooking.
References to private conversations I’d supposedly had with my agent.
” I take a breath, forcing myself to meet his eyes.
“By the time we figured out it was fake, the magazine had already pulled me from the cover. Replaced me with Dax Merrick and his fucking avocado toast.”
Tovek’s expression doesn’t change, but I can see the calculation happening behind his eyes. Piecing together the timeline, the implications, the way careers end in our industry.
“The Vegas Restaurant Alliance was waiting for something like this. They released a statement the same day. About ‘standards of professional conduct’ and ‘respecting our culinary traditions.’ Within a week, I’d lost the book deal, the production kitchen lease, and half my sponsors.
By the end of the month, I was officially unemployable.
At least in any kitchen that mattered to the Alliance. ”
I take another sip of tea, letting the bitterness cut through the remembered humiliation.
“I had contracts. A lot of them. The book advance, the production deal, the consulting work for Crimson Spice. All of them with cancellation clauses that required me to return the money if I breached ‘professional standards’ or caused ‘reputational harm’ to the brand. Two hundred and fifteen thousand credits, all told. Plus interest, plus penalties, plus the ‘convenience fees’ that appeared once I missed the first payment.”
“Grishnak’s Crimson Financing,” Tovek says quietly.
I nod. “The thirty thousand to Vex is just the most immediately dangerous portion. The kind with kneecaps attached. But the whole thing is a cliff. And I’m running out of time to climb back up.”
It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. The full amount, the complete picture of the disaster that is my financial life. I’ve been carrying it alone for so long that putting it down makes something in my chest loosen.
“I’m sorry,” Tovek says finally. “That you’ve been carrying it alone. That you’ve been afraid to tell me.”
The words hit hard. This is what I’ve been afraid of—the way he sees me, really sees me, in all my failure.
“It’s not your problem,” I say, the deflection automatic after months of careful editing. “It’s mine. I got into it, I’ll get out of it. Somehow.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, his eyes on my face. Then he says, “You could have lied.”
The statement is so unexpected that I actually laugh. A short, surprised sound that has nothing to do with humor. “What?”
“You could have lied. When it happened. Could have claimed the email was real, that you were frustrated, that the pressure got to you. Could have apologized, made a donation to culinary education, done a special episode on ‘handling criticism with grace.’” His expression is thoughtful, almost wondering.
“It would have been the easy way out. But you didn’t.
You told the truth, even when it cost you everything. ”
He’s right. I could have lied. Could have taken the easy way out, saved my career with nothing more than a carefully crafted apology and a promise to do better. But I didn’t. The lie would have eaten me alive.
“I’m not that good a liar,” I say, which is both true and a complete evasion.