He had blood on his fingertips, and yet I still did exactly what he wanted. What is it about something being forbidden that makes it so tempting? My whole life, I’ve played between the lines. I’vebeena good girl—not in the way Bastian meant it, but in the way that the world expects girls to be good. I followed rules and paid my bills and I always waited for the light to change before I crossed the street. I was so busy taking care of Mama and myself that I never even thought about what I’d do if I had another choice.
Now, though, I havetoomany choices. The world is my oyster—and that oyster is in the hands of a man who’s feeding it to me, his eyes shining blueandblack, blood smeared across the tattoos on his knuckles, and he’s saying,Taste this. Taste what you can have. Taste what I can give you.
“You better not be sleeping naked,” I warn as I feel the other side of the mattress dimple beneath Bastian’s weight.
“Boxer briefs, as promised,” he says. “But say the word and I can make those disappear.”
“In your dreams.” Even as I say that, though, my belly clutches in on itself with that damp, prickly heat again.
It’d be so easy to taste what he can give me. One word, like he said, and I’d have it all again. Are my morals really worth all this fighting?
I wish I had an answer.
Bastian slides beneath the covers, reaches out, and pulls me against his chest. His hand settles against the swell of my belly like it belongs there.
“Sleep,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’ve got you.”
37
ELIANA
sugar work /'SHo?og?r w?rk/: noun
1: decorative, delicate confections spun from heated sugar.
2: a fantasy so sweet and elaborate it shatters the moment you open your eyes.
I do sleep.
But when I sleep, I dream.
In the dream, I’m back at Hale Hospitality, pushing through the double doors of the test kitchen. It’s empty at this hour, but as clean as it’s ever been, white and chrome as far as the eye can see.
And it’s?—
Wait.
As the eye can see.
Meaning I see.
My eyescansee.
A teeny-tiny part of me protests that I’m dreaming, that none of this is really real, but the rest of me tells that teeny-tiny part to STFU and GTFO.Just enjoy this while it lasts, you little ingrate.
I let the doors swing closed behind me.Swish, swish—silence.
I run my gaze along the gleaming edge of a stainless steel prep counter. Racks of copper pots hang overhead and rows of brightly-colored vegetables are stacked neatly along the teak cutting boards. Orange and green, purple and russet, red and blue and white and black, so many colors, deep and rich. My eyes are gorging themselves on all the hues I’ve missed so much.
I look down at myself. I’m surprised to find that I’m wearing my old pencil skirt, the charcoal one with the difficult zipper that always snagged halfway up if I wasn’t careful. On top is my favorite shirt, a cream silk button-down with three-quarter sleeves. It’s a flat, sensible outfit with flat, sensible shoes and flat, sensible jewelry, all for a flat, sensible girl.
When I look up again, Bastian is there.
He’s standing at the central island in his chef’s whites, looking anything but flat and sensible. He’s hatless, with shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the dark ink that crawls around his forearms. A towel is slung over one shoulder. His curly hair falls across his forehead and my fingers itch to push it back.
He looks up.
His eyes meet mine.
