The Summoning Spoon

The circle was drawn in Himalayan salt and crushed pomegranate seeds, the air thick with the scent of burnt honey and Ava's desperation. She wasn't praying; she was bargaining. Her knife, usually an extension of her will, felt heavy and dull in her hand. The critics' words echoed, derivative, lacking fire, safe, carved deeper wounds than any blade. Michelin stars felt like distant, dying embers. Inspiration had deserted her like a fickle lover. So, she turned to the unconventional section of her grandmother's grimoire, the one bound in suspiciously soft, warm leather. Incubus Minor: For Creative Ignition. Price: Nights of Service.

Service. A deliciously ambiguous word.

Ava knew exactly what kind of service was implied.

Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the silence. She wasn't scared. She was ravenous for the spark.

She spoke the final guttural syllable.

The air in her sleek, stainless-steel kitchen warped. Not with smoke or sulfur, but with a sudden, oppressive heat that smelled of sun-baked stone and something wild, like ozone after a lightning strike. The salt circle flared, then dissolved. Standing where the centre had been was not a monster.

He was lean, perhaps an inch taller than her, clad in impossibly dark, soft-looking trousers that clung to powerful thighs and a simple, open black shirt revealing a smooth, sculpted chest the colour of rich espresso. His skin seemed to absorb the under-cabinet lighting.

Dark, silky hair fell just above eyes that held the universe, deep pools of obsidian shot through with flecks of molten gold that swirled lazily. High cheekbones, a sharp jaw, and lips that curved in a knowing, predatory smile. His presence wasn't terrifying; it was magnetic, a physical pull low in Ava's belly. He stretched languidly, the movement pure, contained power.

"Chef Ava Laurent," his voice was a velvet purr, resonating in her bones.

"Starving for inspiration? How predictable." He took a step, barefoot and silent on the cool tile. His gaze swept her immaculate kitchen, lingering on her chef's whites, then settling back on her face with unnerving intensity. "Silas. At your service."

He gave a mock bow, the amusement in his eyes deepening.

Ava forced her spine straight, meeting that swirling gaze. Fear was a luxury she couldn't afford. Desire, however, that was a currency she understood.

"The terms are clear, Silas. Inspiration.

Genius. The kind that burns." She gestured vaguely towards her recipe notebooks, filled with safe, uninspired scribbles. "In exchange, nights of service." She held his gaze, refusing to flinch.

"Define 'service'"

Silas chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated through the space between them. He drifted closer, stopping just outside her personal space, yet she felt the heat radiating from him. "Oh, Chef.

Don't pretend ignorance. Your grandmother's book was quite explicit in the footnotes." He reached out, not touching her, but trailing a fingertip through the air an inch from her collarbone. A shiver, wholly electric, raced down her spine. "I require sustenance. Not blood, not soul essence. Passion. Desire. The peak of human pleasure." His golden-flecked eyes locked onto hers. "I will ignite your culinary fire. You will ignite mine. One night per dish of true brilliance I inspire. Transactional.

Efficient." His smile widened, revealing perfectly white, slightly sharp canines.

"Do we have an accord?"

The air crackled.

The thought wasn't repulsive; it was terrifyingly arousing.

The critics' voices faded, replaced by the roaring pulse in her ears and the magnetic pull of those dark eyes. She needed this. She wanted this.

"Accord," she breathed, the word tasting smoky and illicit.

The first dish came that very night.

Silas didn't whisper recipes; he provoked. He watched her struggle with a bland duck breast, his presence a constant, heated pressure against her back. "Predictable," he murmured, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. His gaze felt like a physical caress. "Safe. Where's the bite, Chef?

Where's the danger?" Frustrated, Ava grabbed a jar of Szechuan peppercorns, scattering them recklessly. Silas's hand shot out, catching her wrist.

His touch was electric, searing. "Yes," he hissed, his breath warm against her ear. "But not like that. Feel it." He didn't guide her hand; he simply held it, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse point on her inner wrist. Heat flooded her, pooling low and heavy. Under his incendiary gaze, the dish transformed, the duck became lacquered in a glaze of blood orange and star anise, sharpened by the numbing pepper, balanced on a bed of forbidden black rice that seemed to shimmer. It tasted like sin and revelation.

After the last plate was sent out to rave murmurs from the few late guests, Ava turned, breathless with triumph and residual adrenaline. Silas was there, leaning against the pass, his eyes glowing faintly. "My payment, Chef." His voice was low, commanding.

The transaction was efficient.

Clinical, almost. In her small office, the door locked, he guided her with detached expertise. His touch was skillful, undeniable, drawing sharp gasps and shudders as he mapped her body. He knew exactly where to press, to stroke, to tease. He took his pleasure from her reactions, her gasps, the way her back arched off the desk as his clever fingers and mouth found every sensitive point. When she shattered, crying out his name, it was intense, overwhelming, but impersonal. He consumed her climax like a connoisseur savoring a rare vintage, a faint, satisfied hum vibrating in his chest. Afterward, he vanished without a word, leaving her trembling, sticky, and achingly hollow despite the physical release. Brilliance had a price.

She felt used. And yet, the memory of his touch burned.

Nights blurred. Silas's provocations grew more intimate, his presence shifting from detached observer to something else. He'd stand close behind her as she worked, his heat seeping through her whites. He'd comment on the flush of her skin when a sauce reduced perfectly, his voice dropping to that velvet purr. "Beautiful reaction, Chef. Almost as beautiful as when you cum." He'd brush a stray curl from her forehead with a knuckle, the touch lingering just a fraction too long. The dishes became legendary, a dessert of frozen rose petal mousse that burned with hidden chili, a savory custard infused with smoky lapsang souchong that tasted like whispered secrets. Each success meant another night of service.

But the service, it changed. The clinical detachment cracked. One night, after a particularly grueling service culminating in a dish of seared scallops on a bed of saffron-infused pearl couscous with a foam that crackled with pop rocks (inspired by Silas casually dissolving a sugar cube on his tongue, the tiny explosions making Ava's breath catch), he claimed his payment. He pushed her against the cold stainless steel of the walk-in fridge door. His kiss wasn't efficient; it was devouring. Possessive. His hands weren't just skillful; they were demanding, mapping her body with a new kind of hunger, pulling her closer until not an inch separated them. Ava, emboldened by the shared triumph, by the simmering tension, kissed him back with equal ferocity.

She tangled her fingers in his impossibly soft hair, pulling his head down, tasting the faint, wild ozone on his lips. He groaned, a raw, ragged sound she'd never heard before, and his control slipped.

"Ava," he rasped against her mouth, her name sounding like a prayer on his lips. It was the first time he'd used it since the summoning. The sound shattered something between them.

He didn't guide her to the desk. He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he pinned her harder against the cold metal. His erection, thick and hard, pressed against the seam of her trousers, a blatant demand through the layers of fabric. The cold steel against her back, the heat of him against her front was dizzying.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough. His eyes, usually swirling with detached amusement, burned with pure, molten gold. The demon was gone; only raw, masculine hunger remained. "Tell me you want this."

Ava's breath hitched. This wasn't just payment. This was want. Deep, primal, terrifying want. "Yes," she gasped, arching against him. "Silas."

His growl vibrated through her. He yanked her trousers and underwear down just enough, freeing her. His own dark trousers were shoved past his hips in one impatient movement. There was no finesse now, only desperate need. The broad head of his cock pressed against her slick entrance. He paused, his eyes locked on hers, chest heaving. The question hung in the air, charged and heavy.

"Please," Ava begged, the word torn from her.

He drove into her in one powerful thrust, seating himself to the hilt. Ava cried out, the stretch, the fullness, the sheer rightness of it overwhelming. He was hot velvet over steel inside her, perfectly filling the hollow ache that had persisted since the first transaction.

"Mine," Silas growled, the word possessive, final. He withdrew almost completely, then slammed back in, setting a relentless, deep rhythm that knocked the breath from her lungs.

Each thrust was a claim, driving her higher. The cold steel bit into her back, his heat seared her front, and the delicious friction there threatened to unravel her completely.

He braced one hand beside her head, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise, holding her exactly where he wanted her as he pistoned into her.

"So tight," he rasped, his breath hot on her neck. "So perfect. Burning for me, Chef?" He nipped at her earlobe. "I can feel it. Your fire. Give it to me."

Ava was beyond words. Sensation owned her, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the cold room, the guttural sounds tearing from Silas's throat, the incredible stretch and drag as he moved, hitting a spot deep inside that made her see stars. She raked her nails down his back, feeling the powerful muscles flexing beneath impossibly smooth skin. He hissed, his rhythm faltering for a second before becoming even more punishing.

"Cum for me, Ava," he demanded, his voice thick. "Now. Let me feel you shatter."

The command, the sheer intensity in his eyes, the relentless pressure deep within her detonated the coil of tension in her core. Her climax ripped through her, violent and all-consuming.

She screamed his name, her inner muscles clamping down on him in rhythmic pulses, pulling him deeper still.

Her convulsions shattered his control.

With a roar that sounded more beast than demon, Silas buried himself to the root, his body locking as his own release tore through him. She felt the hot, liquid pulse deep inside, the primal claim making her whimper as aftershocks rocked her.

He slumped against her, forehead pressed to the cold steel beside her head, his breath

coming in ragged gasps against her neck. His weight pinned her, a comforting, possessive anchor in the trembling aftermath.

Minutes passed, marked only by their slowing breaths and the hum of the fridge. Silas finally lifted his head. The molten gold in his eyes had softened, replaced by something far more dangerous: vulnerability. He gently disentangled himself, helping her stand on shaky legs. He didn't vanish.

Instead, he reached out, his thumb tracing the curve of her kiss-swollen bottom lip with a tenderness that stole her breath. The gesture was infinitely more intimate than anything that had come before.

"The account," he murmured, his voice rough but devoid of its earlier command," ...is settled. For tonight."

He didn't specify which dish he'd inspired, the scallops, or the devastating intimacy they'd just shared. His gaze held hers, the unspoken question hanging between them: Was this still just a transaction?

Ava looked at him, the demon who demanded her body, who ignited her art, whose touch now sparked something terrifyingly close to tenderness. The hunger in her wasn't just for inspiration anymore. It was for him. The next payment wasn't a debt; it was a promise. She touched his cheek, the skin warm and real beneath her fingers. "Tomorrow night," she whispered, her voice thick with a need that went far beyond the kitchen, "I need inspiration for the amuse-bouche."

A slow, genuine smile, devoid of its former predatory edge, touched Silas's lips. He leaned down, brushing his mouth against hers in a kiss that was startlingly soft, a silent renegotiation of their contract. "Consider it summoned, Chef," he breathed against her lips, before vanishing, leaving behind the scent of ozone, passion, and the lingering warmth of something that felt dangerously like the beginning. Ava leaned back against the cold steel, trembling, utterly spent, and utterly claimed by a fire far more potent than any Michelin star.

The transaction had become something else entirely. The service had just begun.