Page 12 of My Indecent Valentine

Every night at Ollas Encendidas, I climb the steps to the stage kitchen. I stand under the spotlight and perform for an audience. There’s a trace of familiarity as we step up onto the platform. I’m even wearing my customary white, but it brings me no comfort. Instead, I feel the echo of our most recent failed dinner service, the chaos simmering beneath the surface, the sudden onslaught of nerves that incapacitated me.

Worse still, it’s not my cooking that will be on display tonight. We will be performing a much more intimate act for these strangers. I glance back to the four people watching us, partially hidden in shadow. I can make out the shiny glint of their eyes. It reminds me of the city lights flickering outside our bedroom window before Samite sensed my discomfort and drew the curtain closed. He cannot do that for me tonight.

A chill runs up my spine, and my feet lock in place. Next to me, I catch the flick of Samite’s tongue in my peripheral. “Can we have a few minutes before we begin?” he asks.

“We’ve already begun,” Magleon says. “You must narrate every interaction between you and your wife from this point on. No side conversations, no private thoughts.” Expectations have been clearly documented and signed by both parties, just as Samite requested. And now, there is no question what we must do to fulfill the contract.

Samite steps in front of me.

“Are you with me?” he asks softly.

“Louder!” Magleon barks.

“We’re entitled to your thoughts. Speak them out loud,” a voice with a feminine purr chimes in.

Samite’s jaw clenches, and his mouth twists. I know my husband, and sharing his thoughts will not come easy. It takes him a moment of struggle, but finally, he begins to speak.

“Sofia is nervous,” he says. “I can taste her fear. It’s a natural reaction to our situation, but I’m worried there’s something more.” His brow creases, and he rubs at it with his thumb. “She’s been skittish recently, and I don’t know where that comes from. Things that never bothered her before bother her now, and I’m trying to figure out what caused it. In the back of my mind, I’m also worrying that if I can’t help her move past it, we’re not going to make it through this performance.” He gives me a sheepish look.

My heart clenches at his concern. I haven’t been myself lately. I’d hoped he hadn’t noticed, but of course he did. The look in his eyes tells me he’s worried he’s upset me by noticing, but no. He notices because he loves me. My feet loosen. “I’m here,” I say, and I take my place at his side, facing the audience. I slip my hand into his, and the warmth of his skin steadies me.

“I want to ask her what’s going on in her head,” he says, looking at me but projecting his words out for the benefit of our audience, “but under our contract, she’s not obligated to share her thoughts.” It’s true, and I smile at that. Thanks to his negotiations, my thoughts are protected tonight even if his aren’t. My husband went to great pains to ensure that, and Magleon and his partners are not going to get anything extra or free from me tonight. I clamp my mouth shut, tucking my lips in to show just how tight-lipped I intend to be. Samite winks at me.

“It’s time to undress,” he says, and I feel the prickling of a nervous sweat tingle over my skin. “Would you like me to go first?”

I nod. If he goes first, that gives me just a few moments to mentally prepare. I can do this.

“I’m not shy about undressing in front of people, but Sofia is,” Samite’s voice falters every time he says my name. I think it pains him most to share his private knowledge of me. “If I undress first, it’ll help her relax. She really likes looking at me naked,” he says without a shred of modesty, and I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me. “I like it when she looks at me, too,” he continues. “Her eyes get heated, and her face goes flush, and my ego swells, knowing my wife is so easily turned on by the sight of me.” He’s not wrong.

He’s quick as always to shed his clothes, even with the extra pieces. He folds them, even though they aren’t his, and places them on the chair, and when he’s done and down to nothing, he stretches his arms, inviting my gaze. “Soak it up, wife,” he says with a grin, and again, I can’t help another laugh, though I also feel my pulse react and my face flush as my eyes eat him up. Once again, I’m left in awe of how comfortable he is in his own skin. I want that.

“It’s your turn, Sofia,” he says, approaching me. I ignore my shaky nerves and steel myself. I want to be as unflinching and self-assured as my husband. “I’m going to undress you in front of an audience,” his tongue swipes over his bottom lip, “and, to be completely honest, I’m going to enjoy this part because you are stunning, and I’ve never had the opportunity to show you off like this before.” I didn’t know he wanted to. “I hope you don’t hate it,” he says, and I have only a brief moment to glow at the fact that he thinks I’m worth showing off before he pushes the sleeves past my shoulders, and the weight of the gown does the rest.

I’m down to my underthings. The dress lies pooled at my feet, and the air is cool in here. My skin prickles. I hear faint gasps followed by hushed whispers, and I know they are surprised by my scars. Puckered skin ripples from my neck to my ribs, but the worst of it is on my shoulder. It’s a patchwork of pinkish squares left from skin grafts, and because of the angle of my body, they have a perfect view. I’m not ashamed of my scars. It’s just the open scrutiny that makes me uncomfortable.

Samite’s eyes dance over me, stirring up a heat beneath my skin, and I forget all about the whispers. “Stunning,” he mouths the word again, and my chest puffs. But then he leans in to unsnap my bra, and uncertainty ripples through me. I’ve never been topless in front of an audience before. He feels it or tastes it because he murmurs in my ear. “I’ll take you home right now, just say the word.”

“No whispering!” Magleon shouts.

We’re not going home, I think stubbornly. Not until we’ve conquered this night. But Samite keeps teetering because of me. My nervousness is making this harder on him, and he’s already got the more difficult role in this performance. I consider telling him all this, but no, my thoughts are my own. So, instead, I turn to Magleon and say, “I thought there was going to be fire.” A bit of soothing flame will calm my jumpy nerves, and that’ll help Samite, too.

Magleon calls for fire, and a robed demon with arcane markings painted on his skin carries a torch into the room. He mutters incantations as he lights a series of seven braziers. When he’s done, he leaves. The seven fires are all the same color of piercing blue. They are not joyous like my cooking fire, not sweet and relaxing like my bath fire, not ethereal and tantalizing like our Valentine’s canopy. This flame is still and harsh.

I don’t like it.

Instead of softening the edges of my self-awareness, the blue flame brings it into sharp focus. I am more aware of my body, more aware of my exposed skin, more aware of what we’re about to do. My shoulders fold in, and I have the sudden urge to hide.

Samite’s face clouds. “We’re going,” he announces.

“No!” I grab his arm. “I can do this. I want to do this,” I insist. I can’t explain to him without baring my soul to the audience as well, but this isn’t about the patent or the building, though I’m determined we will leave here with both. This is about me. I would rather tremble my way through this entire performance than let my nerves get the best of me again. I froze during dinner service, and if I walk away now, I’m afraid the pattern will be set. I’ll always fold under pressure, I will always shrink from the critics, and I’ll never be able to break free.

“What are these, Magleon?” Samite asks with a snarl, gesturing at the blue flames.

“Delira’s Gift exposes my deepest and darkest desires to my loved ones. I’ve chosen my fire magic accordingly,” he says, offering no further explanation. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the orc’s hand slip into Magleon’s and squeeze. And it occurs to me that Magleon is vulnerable in this moment, too, but instead of freezing and quaking, he is composed and collected.

Flint strikes inside me. I will not be the only coward in the room. I will fuck my husband on this stage. I will walk out of here with my head held high. And from this day on, I will be bold and fearless. I will live my life and walk out my dreams however I choose.

I will not shrink.

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