Page 42 of The Reaper
A single sentence played on a loop in my head:Make them whisper your name.
I wanted the dishes to be poetry. No—not just poetry. A dare. A provocation. Each course a story. Each bite a secret. Something that demanded reverence but didn’t beg for it. Something worthy of myth.
I lit a candle on the counter. Just one. The flicker gave the space a hush of intimacy, like the kitchen itself was holding its breath. My sketchpad was open next to a small stack of culinary journals I’d pulled for reference. I wasn’t copying. I was connecting dots.
Venison with a bone marrow jus. Compressed melon with black olive crumble and elderflower foam. That damn halibut—charcoal-seared, just as I’d imagined it, but served on a ceramic dish warmed to body temperature so it felt alive when it hit the table.
I scribbled downsynesthesia + sex = storyin the margin.
Something about the darkness made it easier to think. There were no distractions. No tickets firing from the expo printer. No voices calling for Chef. No playlist humming over the speakers. Just me. My kitchen. My obsessions.
And one note on my desk that still hadn’t moved.
I glanced toward the office.
It wasn’t threatening, I was sure of that. But it wasn’t innocent either. It had weight. Intent. Something about the handwriting—clean, deliberate, almost elegant—refused to leave me alone. It was the kind of penmanship you only saw on thank-you notes from old-money families or CIA recruitment letters. Both had an air of power.
My stomach fluttered.
Not because I was scared.
Because I wanted it to mean something.
I wanted to be seen.
Not in the influencer way. Not with a ring light or a photo shoot or a stack of gift cards from a sponsorship deal. I wanted to be recognized. I wanted someone to look at what I’d built and say:Yes. This is it. This is what we’ve been waiting for.
I pushed my hair up into a messy knot and paced the length of the kitchen. The tile was cold under my feet, but I liked it that way. Reminded me I was still grounded.
I should’ve felt exhausted. My body had been on its feet since before sunrise. I’d overseen every prep, every plate, every whisper of garnish. And yet—I was vibrating.
Finn would’ve told me to sleep.
Or better yet, poured me a glass of something golden and coaxed me to the porch with a half-smile.
The thought made me pause.
Finn had been quieter lately. Or maybe I’d just been louder, too focused to hear the spaces between his sentences. I’d always loved that about him—his ability to hover at the edge of my world without trying to change it. But lately, he’d been watching me closer. More often. I felt it even when he wasn’t in the room.
And tonight, when he’d met Caleb, I’d caught something in his expression. Something protective.
He was tryingnotto say something.
I wasn’t ready to ask.
Instead, I stared at the candle. The flame shivered slightly, pulling my attention.
I thought about the man near the benches.
What if he was someone?
An inspector. A scout. A critic with a thing for shadows and silence.
Or maybe he was something else entirely.
If I couldn’t sleep, I might as well build.
I opened the fridge and started pulling ingredients. Pickled ramps. Duck fat. Local goat’s milk. The last of the fig preserves. I grabbed a shallow bowl, plated without thinking, moving on instinct.
