Page 28 of My Bloody Valentine

If only she knew. But I hug her back, clinging to her certainty like a lifeline.

12

ADRIAN

Ipace the kitchen of my chocolate boutique, running my fingers through my disheveled hair. The stainless steel surfaces mock my usual pristine appearance. Empty mixing bowls clutter the workspace—evidence of my fourth failed attempt today to recreate the perfect truffle.

“You need to get it together.” Gabe leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “This isn’t like you.”

“She knows, Gabe. She knows everything.” My hand grips the counter. “About the blood. The victims.”

“Christ.” Gabe pushes off the door and approaches cautiously. “And she hasn’t gone to the police?”

A bitter laugh escapes my throat. “No. That’s what makes her perfect. She understands the artistry, the depth it brings to my creations.”

“Listen to yourself. This isn’t about the chocolate anymore.”

“You don’t get it.” I whirl around, sending a bowl clattering to the floor. “She tastes what I taste. The fear, the emptiness—she experiences it all. No one else has ever...”

“Adrian.” Gabe’s voice carries a warning. “You’re spiraling. This is exactly what we can’t afford.”

“I need her.” The words come out raw, desperate. “She completes the work.”

“The work?” Gabe’s eyes narrow. “Or you?”

I sink onto a steel stool, head in my hands. The truth claws its way up my throat. “Both.”

“You’ve never lost control like this before. Not over anyone.”

“Because there’s never been anyone like her.” I look up at my oldest friend, seeing the concern etched on his face. “Help me, Gabe. I don’t know how to let her go.”

“If she’s such a liability...” Gabe tilts his head, eyes cold. “I could take care of her for you. Add her to your collection of ingredients.”

The suggestion hits like a bolt of lightning. My vision turns red. In two strides, I cross the kitchen and slam Gabe against the stainless steel wall, my hand crushing his throat. Despite his height, I tower over him, muscles coiled with rage.

“Don’t you dare.” I press harder, watching his face redden. “If you look at her wrong, I’ll end you myself. Do you understand?”

Gabe claws at my grip, his usual composed demeanor cracking. Even with his broad frame and muscled build, he’s no match for my strength—honed from years of hauling heavy equipment and subduing victims.

“She. Is. Mine.” Each word comes out as a growl. “No one touches her. No one hurts her. Not even you.”

Gabe tries to speak, but I tighten my grip. “I need to hear you say it. Say you understand.”

He manages a weak nod, and I release him. He doubles over, gasping for air, hand rubbing his throat where angry red marks are already forming.

“Jesus Christ, Adrian.” His voice comes out hoarse. “You’ve really lost it over this woman.”

I step back, my hands clenched with anger. The mere thought of Maya’s blood being spilled—her fear being harvested like my other victims—makes me want to tear the world apart.

“She’s different,” I say, the words coming out softer than intended. “She’s not just another ingredient, Gabe. She’s essential. Like air.”

Gabe massages his throat, keeping his distance now. “Fine. I won’t touch her. But you need to think this through.”

“What’s there to think about?” I turn back to my workstation, trying to steady my hands.

“She discovered your secret on her own. That’s different than if you’d told her.” Gabe’s voice remains rough. “She wasn’t ready. You didn’t get to present it your way. Explain the art behind it.”

My movements are still as his words sink in. He’s right. Maya stumbled onto the truth without context, without understanding the deeper meaning behind my work.

---