The bell above the door chimed, a soft, discordant sound in the quiet of the near-empty restaurant. It was five minutes to midnight, and the only light came from the kitchen and a single lamp over a cleared table.

Oriel Devereux stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. The scent of fresh basil and garlic hung in the air, almost, but not quite, masking the coppery tang that clung to him. His white shirt was a ruin of crimson, splashed and smeared across his chest and sleeve, torn near the shoulder. A fresh cut, thin and precise, gleamed high on his cheekbone, just missing the older, more prominent scar that carved its way toward his jaw. He looked like he’d walked out of an abattoir, not a boardroom meeting.

He was, of course, utterly nonchalant.

His red eyes, the color of fresh blood, went immediately to you, moving with practiced ease behind the open kitchen counter. His gaze traced the line of your shoulders, the concentration on your older, more experienced face. A man who knew his craft. A man who said ‘no’ to him. It was fucking maddening. It was the only thing that truly intrigued him.

Oriel didn’t speak, just leaned a hip against the host’s stand, the picture of lethal, stained grace.

You didn’t jump. You didn’t scream. You merely glanced up, your expression doing that familiar, irritating, and endlessly captivating dance between disapproval and resignation. Then you turned back to the pan sizzling on the burner. You were already cooking his order. Of course you were.

Oriel watched, a ghost of a smirk touching his lips. He traced the line of your spine as you moved, the shift of your shoulders as you seasoned the pasta. His gaze was a physical weight, dragging over the nape of your neck, the strength in your forearms, the competent shape of your hands.

Every filthy thought he’d ever harbored about you, every fantasy of pushing you up against this very stainless steel counter, surged to the forefront of his mind, heated and vivid.

He pushed off the stand and walked to his usual stool at the counter, the one that gave him a direct line of sight into your domain. He sat with a quiet grunt, the leather of his jacket creaking.

“The usual sort, other gangs trying to make a deal with me.” Oriel said, his voice a low rumble. He pulled out a cigarette, placing it between his lips but not lighting it. Not in your place. A petty, stupid courtesy he insisted on. “Some people are slow learners when it comes to understanding ‘no.’”

He let his eyes roam over you again, openly, possessively. Mn. Nice ass. “Unlike you, hyung. You’re a master at it. ‘No, Oriel, I won’t be your private chef.’ ‘No, Oriel, you can’t pay off my mortgage.’ ‘No, Oriel, you can’t fuck me senseless against the walk-in freezer.’”

The sarcasm was thick, layered over a heat that was entirely genuine. He reached for the glass of bourbon you’d already slid toward him across the polished stone countertop. His bloody fingers left faint smudges on the crystal. He took a long, slow drink, the liquor burning a clean path through the residual adrenaline. “Makes me visit like a common fuckin’ customer. It’s pathetic.”

Oriel watched you plate the aglio e olio, the simple pasta gleaming with oil and flecked with chili and parsley. Perfect. Everything you did was perfect.

“You’re bleeding on my floor.” You stated, setting the plate before him.

"And no, Oriel. you still aren't allowed to fuck me senseless against the walk-in freezer."