Hells Kitchen Black Jacket Novels & Stories

He raised his hands in defeat. ~~~~~~~~~~~ I left school after soccer practice back home, I raced to my room flipping my cupboard open, I pulled out my black biker outfit which consisted of: A pair of black booth A pair of black skinny jeans A black T-shirt A black leather jacket A pair of black cyclist glove And my favourite sunglasses. I took a quick shower, and trip on my outfit, I stood in front of the mirror brushing my hair. "Yo bro you look like hell!" Jack plop on my bed.

Angelo did. And then I noticed it…The sleeves. “They’re wrong,” I said. He frowned. “What?” “The uniform.” I pointed at the screen. “Look at the cuffs.” All the kitchen staff wore short sleeves. This person didn’t. He wore long sleeves that were pulled down and tight at the wrists, therefore covering the skin completely. Angelo’s expression shifted. “He’s wearing gloves too. Thin black gloves that would go unnoticed against his shadow.” This person was not a cook. The cooks of this estate didn’t dress like that.

“Are you all right? Are you hurt?” “I am not.” I take another step in his direction, but alarm bells ping through my skull. I squint into the darkness, trying to get a better look at him, checking for blood. He’s perfect. As stupidly handsome as always. “Are you positive?” His gaze meets mine, and it’s… bone chilling. “What a smart black cloak you wear. You know, the witches of KiloKilo have a longstanding reputation of falling on the wrong side of history.” He flashy me a toothy smile. My stomach drops to my toes.

I queried, pointing at the kitchens exit. “Okay, okay. I’ll leave if you give me some more meat and stew to head home with,” he said with a warm smile. He had dark blue marble eyes and black silky hair. He wore a black leather jacket and black leather pants. As I got more and more absorbed into his features, emotions I never knew existed started to well up inside me. “No, I can’t let you have any of these; I would get in serious trouble. Please, you have to leave now."I replied, turning away from him. I couldn’t let myself be absorbed by his charms.

That went a long way in helping me feel confident in what we were about to do. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but our house had been up for almost an hour. When Jack and Tuck had come over to get the trunks from Atlas the night before, they’d brought more clothes with them, including black pants that were supposed to be “teeth” resistant, per Jack’s explanation. When I put them on, they felt more like supple leather, and I was headed to test them with one of the kitchen knives when Atlas stopped me. “Where are you going?” he asked.

Harper hissed, trying to pull away. Kael released his bite, smirking in satisfaction at the purplish-red mark now clearly imprinted on Harper’s pale skin. Kael then reached for a black box on the nightstand and tossed it into Harper’s arms. "Throw away that trash uniform. Wear what’s in there." Harper opened the box with trembling hands. Inside was a new, premium white chef's jacket, complete with gold-threaded embroidery of the initials H.E. But the problem was, the size was much smaller than a standard uniform.

But, his ghost continued to haunt me. Viktor was like a demon, a devil, a monster. He was pure evil. And how he had survived that was beyond me I got out of the shower, and started getting ready. I dressed in a black dress, and a black jacket. I put on a black hat, and black sun glasses.

Her leather jacket was gone, leaving her in her red tank top, the fabric torn at the shoulder, and her auburn hair hung in her face, the silver streaks catching the torchlight. Zane Blackthorn sat on his throne, his lean frame coiled with menace, his amber eyes glinting like a predator’s in the dim light. His shaved head gleamed, the claw-mark tattoos snaking up his arms a stark contrast to his pale skin, and he wore a sleeveless black tunic, the fabric stained with blood. His fingers drummed a slow rhythm on the armrest, each tap echoing like a heartbeat in the cavern’s stillness. Around him, his pack lingered, their eyes averted, their postures tense, but Rhea stood at his side, her cruel

I turned to her, my voice colder than the room. “Get me a dress. Now.” She blinked. “Y-Yes, ma’am. Which one?” “Something dark. Something sharp. I’m going out.” She disappeared into the closet without another word, hands fumbling over hangers. I didn’t wait for her. I stood, crossed the room, yanked my black trench coat from its hook and slid it over my shoulders like armor. Black stilettos. No phone. No makeup. No smile. If the world wanted a villain, they’d get one.

And in the center of it all was Killian Blackwood. He was leaning against his bike, his long legs crossed at the ankles. He wore his heavy leather motorcycle jacket, the collar popped against the chill. He was rolling a lighter across his knuckles, click, flash, click, flash. The flame illuminated his sharp jawline and the predatory gleam in his dark eyes. "Look who decided to be a good girl," Jason mocked, slamming his beer bottle down on the workbench. "I told you she'd show, Killian. She's terrified of you."