Page 64 of My Bloody Valentine

“My reviews,” I whisper. “I’ve ended careers too. Restaurants that families poured their savings into...”

“The difference is, you punish genuine failure. Bad food and poor service deserve criticism. I punish those who take pleasure in cruelty.”

His words sink in, and I realize we’re both judges in our own way. My pen destroys careers. His knife ends lives. Both of us deliver verdicts on those we deem deserving of them.

“We’re not so different,” I say, the truth settling heavily in my chest.

“No, we’re not.”

I trace my fingers over Adrian’s latest bite mark on my shoulder, letting the sharp sting ground me in reality. “When I started reviewing restaurants, I thought my... ability was a curse. Tasting the chef’s emotions, their intent.”

“And now?” Adrian’s breath tickles my ear.

“Now I understand why your chocolates called to me from the start. That emptiness I criticized wasn’t emptiness at all. It was justice. Vengeance.” I turn to face him.

His eyes darken. “You’re the first to truly understand.”

“Because I taste it all. The fear, the desperation, the final moments.” My voice catches. “In every bite of your creations, I experience their deaths. And God help me, part of me craves it.”

Adrian cups my face. “Your gift makes you perfect. You don’t just taste the chocolate; you taste the artistry behind it, the justice.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” But there’s no bite in my words. I’ve spent years hiding behind professional terminology, using words like “depth” and “complexity” to mask what Iexperienced in each bite. Every chef’s rage, passion, or despair lay bare on my tongue.

“You’ve always known there was something different about you.” Adrian’s thumb brushes my lower lip. “You’re not just a critic. You’re a confessor. Every bite tells you their secrets.”

He’s right. My reviews weren’t just about flavor profiles and technique. They were exposés of the soul. I could taste when a chef had given up or when they were cooking through depression.

“Your gift led you to me,” Adrian murmurs. “Because deep down, you needed someone who understands.”

I press my lips together, accepting the truth I’ve been running from. My ability didn’t make me Adrian’s victim. It made me his perfect match.

I trace my fingers along Adrian’s jawline, my heart racing with anticipation. “Show me how you choose them.”

His eyes light up with dangerous delight. “Are you certain? Once you cross this line...”

“I already have.” I sit up in bed, sheets pooling around my waist. “I want to understand your process. Not just taste the results, but... participate.”

Adrian’s hand slides up my back, his touch electric. “A restaurant critic has been destroying small family businesses with fabricated reviews. Taking bribes from competitors.”

“Marcus Reynolds.” The name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. “I know his work.”

“He’s dining at Le Petit tomorrow night.” Adrian’s fingers trace patterns on my skin. “I’ve been watching him for weeks.”

“How do you do it?”

“First, we observe. Learn their patterns, their weaknesses.” He adopts that instructional tone that makes my pulse quicken. “Then we arrange a private tasting.”

I turn to face him fully. “And I’ll be there? For all of it?”

“Every step.” Adrian cups my face. “Your gift will add a new dimension. You’ll taste his cruelty firsthand.”

“Yes.” The word comes out breathless, eager.

“Tomorrow night, then. We’ll start with surveillance.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “Are you ready to be more than just my taster?”

I kiss him hard, claiming his mouth with newfound confidence. Breaking away, I whisper against his lips, “I want to be your partner. In everything.”

Adrian’s smile carries all the darkness I’ve grown to crave. “Then let’s begin your education, little critic.”

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