Page 62 of My Bloody Valentine

Maya nods slowly. “The artistry behind the madness. I understand it now, and that’s what scares me most.”

Maya shifts in my arms, her fingers trailing along my chest. “Tell me how it started. What made you... this way?”

The question stabs deeper than any blade. The moment my eyes shut, memories flood back. “My mother was a pastry chef. She’d let me help in the kitchen, teaching me about chocolate. But my father...”

“What did he do?”

“He’d bring women home. Take them to the basement.” My jaw clenches. “I’d hear their screams while mother baked, drowning out the sounds with her mixer. She knew what was happening but did nothing. Just kept making her perfect little pastries.”

Maya’s hand freezes on my skin. “Did he kill them?”

“Yes. But first, he’d make me watch.” The words taste like ash. “Said it would make me a man. Mother would serve her dessert after, her famous chocolate mousse. The contrast was striking. Beauty and horror served on the same plate.”

“How old were you?”

“Eight when it started. Lasted until I was twelve.” I stroke Maya’s hair, anchoring myself in the present. “One day, mother snapped. Poisoned his dessert. I watched him die, choking on her creation. That’s when I understood—chocolate could be both art and a weapon.”

“What happened to your mother?”

“She killed herself two days later. Left me a note saying she was sorry she couldn’t protect me sooner.” I meet Maya’s gaze. “The hollow ones remind me of him. Empty inside, taking pleasure in others’ pain. When I use their blood in my chocolates, I transform their wickedness into something meaningful.”

Maya touches my face, her eyes full of tears. “You make beauty from horror.”

“Yes.” I press my forehead to hers. “Just like mother taught me. But you’re the first one to understand.”

I brush my lips against Maya’s temple, savoring her warmth. “Tell me about your gift. When did you first realize you could taste emotions?”

Maya nestles closer, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest. “I was six. My grandmother made these incredible cookies. One day, she baked them while fighting with my grandfather. When I took a bite...” She shivers. “All I tasted was anger and sadness. The recipe was the same, but they were completely different.”

“My father called it attention-seeking behavior when I tried to explain.” Her voice hardens. “He was always too busy with business meetings to notice me anyway. Mother just smiled that tight smile of hers and suggested therapy.”

I capture her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. “But your grandmother understood?”

“She was the only one. She’d let me help in her kitchen, teaching me to understand what I was tasting.” Maya’s voicecatches. “After she died, I was so alone with it. No one else ever tried to understand until I met Amelia.”

“How did you cope?”

“I learned to hide it until. Started writing about food and tempered down my mention of emotions. People respected a refined palate, even if they didn’t know what made mine special.” Her fingers tighten on my chest. “But living like that, tasting everyone’s hidden feelings while pretending I couldn’t... it changes you. Makes you see the darkness in people whether you want to or not.”

She tilts her head up, meeting my gaze. “Until you. You’re the first to understand what it means to see beneath the surface.”

The vulnerability in her eyes strikes something deep within me. I lean down, kissing her with a gentleness I didn’t know I possessed. Her lips part beneath mine, soft and yielding.

“I used to hate this gift,” she whispers against my mouth. “Every meal was a minefield of emotions. My father’s indifference, my mother’s quiet desperation, strangers’ secret rage... But with your chocolates...” She pauses, kissing me again. “Even the murder feels pure. Honest. You don’t hide what you are, and that’s more precious than any acceptance I’ve ever known.”

“You make me want to be honest.” I trail kisses down her neck, feeling her pulse flutter. “I’ve never shared my past with anyone before.”

Maya’s fingers thread through my hair. “I want to know everything about you.”

“Even the weak parts?”

“Especially those.” She pulls back, cupping my face. “Being vulnerable isn’t weakness, Adrian.”

Her acceptance wraps around me like a warm blanket, filling spaces I thought would stay cold forever. When I open themagain, Maya watches me with such tenderness that it makes my chest ache.

“You’re the first person who’s seen all of me,” I murmur, drawing her into another kiss. This one is slower, deeper, and full of unspoken understanding.

Maya sighs against my lips. “And you’re the first person who’s understood my gift isn’t just about food. It’s about connection.”

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