Page 63 of My Bloody Valentine

I pull back from our kiss, studying Maya’s face in the dim light. The words I’ve never spoken to anyone rise in my throat, demanding release. I cup her face.

“I love you.” The confession tears from me, raw and honest. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone. You see all of me, and you’re still here.”

Maya’s body tenses against mine, her breath catching. For a moment, terror grips me. I’ve miscalculated and shown too much weakness. But then her fingers trace my jawline, and her eyes fill with tears.

“I love you too,” she whispers. “God help me, I shouldn’t. You’re dangerous and everything I should run from, but I love every piece of you.”

Relief floods through me, and I capture her mouth with mine. This kiss is different from our others, more desperate. Her lips part beneath mine as I pour every unspoken emotion into the kiss. Her tongue dances with mine as she presses closer.

I tangle my fingers in her hair, holding her to me as though she might disappear if I let go. She moans softly, her hands sliding up my chest to grip my shoulders. The kiss grows more intense and passionate, consuming us both in its heat.

27

MAYA

Iobserve my reflection in the bathroom mirror, my hair a tangled mess and my neck marked with fresh bruises from Adrian’s possessive grip. We barely made it back to my apartment before Amelia returned, and the reality of what just happened crashed over me.

“You’re overthinking.” Adrian’s voice drifts from my bedroom.

My hands grip the cold porcelain of the sink. “I let you back in. After everything.”

“You never truly pushed me out.”

He’s right. Even when I ran and hid at Amelia’s, part of me yearned for his touch. For the unhinged pleasure only he could provide. The thought makes my stomach turn, not from disgust but from how right it feels.

I pad back to the bedroom where Adrian lounges against my headboard, his presence transforming my safe space into something dangerous and electric. My body still hums from our encounter on Amelia’s couch. I should be ashamed, but instead, heat flows through my veins.

“I know what you are,” I whisper. “What you do. I should turn you in.”

“But you won’t.” His certainty cuts deep because we both know it’s true.

I sink onto the bed, keeping a distance between us. “What does that make me? An accomplice? A monster?”

“It makes you mine.” Adrian reaches for me, and I let him pull me close despite everything screaming inside me to run.

His words resonate with a truth I’ve been fighting since I first tasted his chocolates. I am drawn to him not because he’s corrupted me but because that darkness already lived inside me. The morality I cling to feels like a thin veil, growing more transparent with each passing moment in his presence.

“I don’t want to be this person,” I say, leaning toward him.

“You already are.”

I trace patterns on Adrian’s chest, gathering the courage to ask the question haunting me: “How do you choose them?”

His fingers halt their path in my hair. “The hollow ones?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Have you ever watched how people treat servers?” Adrian’s tone shifts, carrying an edge I recognize from my righteous critiques. “The ones who snap their fingers, belittle staff, and leave zero tips after running them ragged. Who destroy small restaurants with fake reviews for sport.”

My breath catches. The parallel hits too close to home—my scathing reviews, which have shuttered restaurants and ended careers.

“There was one,” Adrian continues, “who threw hot coffee at a barista’s face because his drink wasn’t made fast enough. The girl had third-degree burns.”

“What did you do to him?”

“I followed him. Learned his routine. Then I invited him to a private tasting.” Adrian’s hand slides down my arm. “His blood added a particular bitterness to that month’s truffles. Justice served in chocolate.”

I should feel horrified, but instead, I think of all the times I’ve witnessed similar cruelty in restaurants. The entitled customers treat staff like servants and destroy livelihoods with gleeful spite.

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