Hells Kitchen Black Jacket Novels & Stories

Mads and I followed. We ate a hearty meal of steak. The ingredient local, but the cuisine excellent. “Are ye the Hellhounds daughter?” Aisling asked me. “No, I’m too old for that. I’m his sister,” I answered. We were sipping wine, all but Mads of course. He would never dare drink on the job. “Why exactly does the Hellhound wants to get into Fae business?” Killian finally asked me after we finished our plates. “He doesn’t want to get involved in any Fae business. I believe his words were they will give no answers that you don’t know and ensnare you in bargains you can’t escape.”

A small smile tugged at my lips when I finally found it. The kitchen too was painted black. Everything was black. The cupboards, the utensils, the counter… even the tiles. He's really a demon. Excited and hopeful, I quickly rushed to the cooker and lifted the lid of the pot, expecting to see the food he had mentioned. But instead… A dead rat stared back at me. A loud scream burst out of my throat as I jumped back in shock. "What the hell?!" I screamed. What kind of sick joke was this?

I want to appear rigid and unmoved, so, yeah, I find myself plopping down into the empty chair. Richard stalks across the kitchen a few seconds later. He pulls out the chair beside me and sits down heavily. I keep my head up and gaze straight, but I can still see the smirks around the table. “How are your biscuits this morning?” one of the new guys asks. They’re all wearing various shades of black. I mean, black, but different kinds of it. Anyway, this guy looks tough. He has his hair cut into that up-cut style that makes people appear gangster-like, but this guy truly looks the part. He has a long scar that runs from his forehead, zigzags across the bridge of his nose, and down over his chi

It should be illegal to look this nerve wrecking. The first three buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a patch of clear slightly tanned skin. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, showing off the prominent veins that ran up his back hand. I felt the breath hitch in my wind pipes as our eyes met, his mesmerizing green stare made my cheeks flush and my knees go weak, it was like I was paralyzed as I stood there while his eyes still roamed me. "I don't think I've introduced myself. Damon Blackwood" his husky voice made my heart rate pick up. A smirk crawled unto his features as he stretched out a hand for me and I just stared in awe, his words sinking in.

He’s holding me so close to him! “Tsk, the delusional duo” Zorien tusks aside, turning to leave with Ashton and a seething Kitra who walks up to join them. I don’t think he’s ever dressed in bright colors at all. Decked in an all-black outfit with an expensive black leather jacket on top, it’s like he’s living up to his dark nature. “Should we go?” I hear Ciel ask and turn my neck to the side, meeting gazes with him.

Wearing only black gym shorts, low on his hips, and a goddamn apron. Black. Leather. Apron. The kitchen is chaos. Eggshells on the floor. A pan bubbling with something tomato-based. An open cookbook that’s already stained with sauce. Knives everywhere but somehow organized like he’s done this a million times. And Dante is stirring pasta like he’s auditioning for MasterChef: Murder Edition. My jaw unhinges like a dropped puppet. He looks over his shoulder and smirks. “Good morning, wife.” I stutter. As in, visibly malfunction. My mouth opens and closes like a glitchy bot. “I—what the actual—what is this?”

He has dark grey and black marbled countertops and stainless steel everything with black and gray marbled handles. "Mr. Black this kitchen is very modern. Are you sure you're a cabin man?" I tease. From the fridge he takes out two bottles of alkaline water and hands me one answering, "Call me Tristan. Please sit down." He pulls out a chair from under his kitchen table. We sit down as he removes his hat and shades. Head down, he plays in his buzz cut then he looks up. His eyes are a bright teal blue. For a moment, I sit stunned.

They held a cold, calculating glint, a testament to his unwavering determination. Dressed in dark colors, he blended seamlessly into the room's dimly lit surroundings. He wore a form-fitting, black leather jacket that accentuated his lean and muscular build. Beneath the jacket, he donned a black shirt, its fabric clinging to his torso, highlighting his well-defined physique. His pants were also black, made of a durable material that allowed for ease of movement, a crucial feature for his line of work. His boots, polished and practical, suitable for both stealth and combat. He radiated an air of confidence and quiet dominance, the kind that only someone with a history of clandestine missions

The Hale Fortress. Main Kitchen. 02:00 AM. The kitchen was a gleaming expanse of stainless steel and black marble, usually reserved for the personal chefs. But at this hour, the chefs were asleep. The Fortress was locked down. The perimeter sensors were active. The threat level was Green. Oryn stood at the center island. He was wearing his standard tactical pants, combat boots, and a black compression shirt that highlighted the roadmap of scars on his arms. Over this ensemble, he wore a frilly, pastel pink apron that said "Kiss the Cook."

There is something mysterious about the colour, black, that made it more appropriate for a night like this, a night that I would be dining with the actual devil. “Your car is waiting outside.” My housekeeper came to inform me. “I’ll be there in a minute.” Bringing the glass to my lips, I downed the remaining contents of the wine glass in one gulp before I set the glass down on the table. I reached for my jacket and threw it over the strapless dress I had on. A black jacket over a black dress, I looked like the perfect villain, especially with the dark red lipstick I had on—the darkest shade of red I could find in my collection.