“I haven’t cooked for anyone in...” He pauses, spatula hovering over the pan. “I can’t remember when.”
“Not even Adrian?”
Gabe flips a pancake with an easy flick. “Adrian and I don’t do... this.”
The simplicity of the moment strikes me—morning light streaming through windows, coffee brewing, pancakes cooking. The domesticity feels surreal after everything else.
Gabe slides a plate toward me; pancakes are arranged in a perfect stack. He’s drizzled organic maple syrup in a spiral pattern, topped with fresh blueberries and a dusting of powdered sugar. Even his breakfast presentation is artistic.
“You take your pancakes seriously,” I note, cutting into the fluffy stack.
“I take everything seriously.” He sits beside me with his own plate, our knees touching. “Quality matters in everything—food, music, art...” His eyes meet mine. “Companionship.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment. The pancakes are perfect—light, fluffy, with bursts of blueberry tartness against the sweet maple.
“These are amazing,” I admit, savoring another bite.
Gabe watches me eat with an intense focus. But there’s something else there too—a soft satisfaction at providing something I enjoy.
“So,” I say, licking a drop of syrup from my finger, “do you always make breakfast this good, or am I getting special treatment?”
Gabe’s mouth curves into that half-smile I’m starting to recognize. “I excel at everything I do. But yes, you’re getting special treatment.”
“Lucky me,” I murmur, taking another bite. “First, a man who’s amazing in bed, and now I find out you can cook too. What other talents are you hiding?”
“Besides piano and preservation techniques?” He refills my coffee cup without me asking. “I make my own furniture. That dining table is mine. The bed frame, too.”
I glance at the table—dark wood with intricate inlays, perfectly proportioned to the space. “Seriously? It’s amazing quality.”
“I appreciate beautiful things made with precision.” His eyes hold mine. “It’s why I was drawn to your art. And to you.”
We fall into easy conversation about woodworking techniques and artistic influences. It flows effortlessly between us—this exchange of ideas.
As Gabe describes the process of selecting the right wood for each project, I find myself watching his hands—those capable, dangerous hands that have taken lives, played haunting melodies, and traced every inch of my body.
I could get used to this, I realize. Mornings with pancakes and coffee. Discussions about art and creation. The comfortable way our bodies occupy the same space, how he seems to anticipate my needs before I voice them. The dangerous thrill of knowing what we’re planning together. The way he sees me—truly sees me—and accepts all my jagged edges.
This feeling terrifies me more than his spikey leather mask or his collection of preserved bodies. Because this—this intimacy, this connection—feels more permanent, more binding than any rope he could use to tie me up. I’m not just attracted to the danger or the dominance anymore. I’m attracted to him—to mornings and conversations and the strange comfort I feel in the presence of a killer who treats me with more genuine care than any man ever has.
28
GABE
“Walsh needs to suffer,” I say, spreading floor plans of The Blue Room across the kitchen table in my apartment. We have been back in the city for two days. “But quietly. His screams can’t travel beyond the basement workshop.”
Amelia leans forward, tapping her finger on the blueprint. Her eyes spark with an intensity that makes her even more beautiful to me. Not just a canvas for my desires anymore—a collaborator.
“We could invite him to a private showing,” she suggests, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Something exclusive. Select works not available to the public.”
“He’d come for that?” I ask.
“The chance todiscoverart before anyone else?” Amelia laughs bitterly. “Walsh’s entire reputation is built on claiming he found artists before they were big. He’s pathologically afraid of missing the next big thing.”
I circle the basement area on the blueprint. “Adrian and I have soundproofed this entire section. Originally for jazz recording, ostensibly.”
“And actually for screaming victims,” she adds matter-of-factly.
I study her face, still amazed by how seamlessly she’s accepted this part of me. “Does that bother you?”
