Page 25 of My Bloody Valentine

The question hangs between us. I cup her face, studying the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. The thought of those eyes going dull, of never again watching her come undone beneath my touch...

"No." I press my forehead to hers. "You're mine. The only one who truly sees me."

"You're insane." Maya stumbles backward, her hands trembling. "Those chocolates... you made me eat..." She claps her hand over her mouth, face turning green.

I reach for her arm, but she yanks away. "It's art, Maya. The ultimate expression of emotion. Out of everyone, you ought to understand?—"

"Understand?" Her voice rises to a shriek as she bolts for the bedroom. "You're a murderer!"

I follow her, watching her frantically grab her clothes from the floor. "The world is full of worthless people, Maya. I give their deaths meaning through my creations."

"Stay back." She holds up her hand and shimmies into her skirt, not bothering with underwear. "Don't touch me."

I grab her wrist anyway, pulling her against my chest. "You felt it. The power, the depth in those chocolates. That's what drew you to me."

"Let go!" She struggles in my grip, tears streaming down her face. "You're sick. You made me eat—" She gags, unable to finish the sentence.

"We're the same, little critic." I tighten my hold as she thrashes. "You taste emotions like I do. You understand the emptiness."

Maya's knee connects with my groin. Pain explodes through my body, and I double over, losing my grip. She snatches her purse and runs for the door, still wearing my shirt with her skirt.

"Maya!" I stumble after her, fighting through the agony. "Don't leave. Please."

But she's already racing down the hallway. The front door slams so hard that the walls shake. I watch through the window as she sprints down the street, hailing a cab.

I sink to my knees, the cold floor biting into my skin. I feel something crack inside my chest for the first time in years. Something that feels a lot like a loss.

11

MAYA

Icurl deeper into my couch, wrapped in a thick blanket despite the warmth of my apartment. My phone buzzes again. Another text from Adrian. I don’t need to look to know it’s him. He’s sent dozens over the past few days.

The thought of him using human blood in his chocolates makes my stomach turn. Those people he called “hollow ones.” How many has he killed? And I ate those chocolates. I participated in his sick ritual without knowing.

I press my face into a throw pillow to block the memories. But they flood back anyway—Adrian’s hands on my skin, his mouth on my pussy, the way he made me beg. My body heats at the memory, and I hate myself for it.

“You’re disgusting,” I whisper to myself. “He’s a murderer.”

But God, the sex. The way he touched me was like he could read every signal my body gave. The perfect pressure, the exact moment to push me over the edge. No one has ever made me feel like that before.

My phone buzzes again, and this time, I glance at it.

I miss tasting you, little critic.

A shiver runs through me and it has nothing to do with fear. I throw the phone across the room, but it’s too late. My skin tingles with phantom touches.

I grab my laptop, trying to distract myself with work. Three reviews are due this week, and I haven’t started them. But the words blur together on the screen as memories of the private tasting at Adrian’s chocolate boutique intrude—the rich scent of melted chocolate, the warmth of his breath on my neck, his fingers feeding me truffles...

“Stop it,” I command myself, slamming the laptop shut. But I can’t stop. Every time I close my eyes, I see Adrian. Feel him. Taste him.

The scariest part isn’t that he’s a murderer. It’s that some part of me still wants him anyway.

My phone’s ringtone pierces through my thoughts. Amelia’s name flashes on the screen where it lies across the room. Shit. Our weekly coffee date.

I scramble off the couch, nearly tripping over the blanket. “Hey, Amelia.”

“Where are you? I’ve been waiting twenty minutes.”

---