Page 67 of My Bloody Valentine

The leather creaks as Reynolds strains against his bonds, fully comprehending his fate as Maya picks up a second mask—a perfect match to mine.

29

MAYA

Istand in Adrian’s temperature-controlled tasting room, watching him transform before my eyes. The skeletal mask changes his entire presence—he is no longer the refined chocolatier but something more elemental, something that makes my breath catch.

“The key is precision,” Adrian explains, his voice steady as he positions Reynolds on the stainless steel table. A muffled cry escapes his lips as his eyes fill with panic. “Like tempering chocolate, every step must be exact.”

I nod, trying to slow my racing heart as Adrian makes the first careful incision. His movements are graceful and measured—nothing like the violent chaos I’d imagined. The bone saw glides with surgical accuracy.

“Notice the angle,” he instructs, adjusting Reynolds’ arm. “We want optimal flow into the collection vessels. Temperature and timing are crucial.”

The clinical nature of it all strikes me. This isn’t rage—it’s science and craft. Adrian could be demonstrating how to create a perfect ganache.

“The preservative ratios must be precise,” he continues, checking the levels in each sterile container. “Too much ruinsthe subtle notes. Too little...” He shrugs. “Well, we can’t have that.”

I watch him work, mesmerized by his expertise. Each cut, measurement, and careful extraction follows a refined methodology developed over years of practice. The room remains spotless—no splatter or mess, just clean, efficient collection.

“This is how we capture the essence,” Adrian explains, his gloved hands steady as he manages the flow. “Pure emotion, distilled to its basic elements. Like reducing a sauce to concentrate the flavors.”

The parallel to his chocolate work is impossible to miss. This is his kitchen, recipe, and technique, perfected through countless repetitions. I see now why his creations carry such profound emotional weight. The process itself is an art form.

I watch Reynolds’ eyes flutter, his struggles weakening. My heart pounds, but not from fear. Each labored breath draws me deeper into this forbidden dance. His final gasp feels like a crescendo—beautiful, terrible, perfect.

Adrian’s movements never falter as he collects the last of the blood. His precision entrances me. No splashed blood, no messy revenge—just pure, controlled power. Something about his clinical efficiency makes my skin prickle.

“Help me with the sanitization,” Adrian instructs, his voice steady behind the skull mask.

Adrian wraps Reynold’s lifeless body and takes it to the backroom—apparently, disposal is Gabe’s forte. A man I’m yet to meet but terrified of because he kills people like Adrian. I move through the motions, wiping down surfaces with industrial cleaner and disposing of materials in their designated containers. My hands should be shaking. I should be retching, crying, and running. Instead, heat pools in my core as I watch Adrian’s careful movements.

The moral voice screams that I’ve crossed an unforgivable line. I’ve witnessed—no, participated in—a murder. But all I can focus on is the graceful way Adrian’s hands moved and how he transformed violence into art. The same hands that craft exquisite chocolates just orchestrated death with equal mastery.

“You’re quiet,” Adrian observes, removing his mask.

“I should be horrified,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “But I’m not. What does that make me?”

My body betrays me, responding to his proximity as he steps closer. The controlled power he displayed has awakened something innate in me. I’m aroused by his expertise, precision, his absolute command over life and death. The realization should disturb me more than it does.

“It makes you mine,” he answers.

I pull Adrian to me, my fingers gripping the fabric of his pristine shirt. His mask creates an otherworldly barrier between us, but I need to see his face. My touch is possessive as I lift the mask away, revealing piercing eyes that see straight through to my soul.

“You’re not running,” he breathes, still wearing his gloves. “You watched. You helped.”

“I couldn’t look away. The precision, the control...” My voice catches. “It was beautiful.”

Adrian’s lips crash into mine, and I taste mint and dark chocolate—pure him, no trace of Reynolds’ blood. He hasn’t sampled our work yet. This kiss is about us, about this moment of complete understanding.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for someone who could truly see? Who could appreciate the artistry?”

His gloved palm cradles my cheek, the latex cool against my flushed skin. “I never dared hope you’d embrace it so completely.”

“Show me everything,” I whisper. “I want to learn all of it—the collection, the preparation, how you blend it into your creations. Make me your true partner.”

Adrian’s eyes shine with unshed tears. “My Maya,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “My perfect, wicked angel. You’ve exceeded every dream I had for us.”

I press closer, feeling his heart thundering against mine. This should be wrong—we just ended a life together. But I feel whole, like I’ve finally found my true purpose. In Adrian’s arms, in his world of exquisite craftsmanship, I am home.

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