Fermented Desires

A Taste of Revenge

The door slammed shut behind Isabella as she kicked off her shoes, a sigh escaping her lips. Work had been brutal, and the heat outside had done nothing to help. She barely acknowledged the silence in the house before making a beeline for the bathroom.

Cold water rained down on her skin, offering relief but no warning.

Downstairs, the real heat was just beginning to rise.

Ashton stood over the stove, shirtless, muscles flexing with each stir of his wooden spoon. He wasn't really focused on the food—it was just a decoy, something to fill the air with comfort before the chaos. He smirked to himself, knowing exactly how the night would unfold.

At the bar cart, Hudson was mixing drinks, but every movement was calculated, smooth, slow, and deliberate. The kind of pace that hinted at what was to come. Ice clinked in the shaker like a warning bell. His playlist pulsed low in the background, bass-heavy and hypnotic, setting the tempo for seduction.

Cameron moved with purpose, adjusting the lighting to a dim, golden hue and scattering candles around the living room and dining space. Crimson silk draped across the chairs, and a single black rose waited at Isabella's usual seat. The mood was rich, decadent, and charged.

Their earlier plotting was finally taking shape.

No games tonight.

Just slow burns, heavy touches, and revenge served in every glance and whispered word.

They weren't just teasing Isabella back—they were going to make her melt.

And upstairs, fresh from the shower and wrapped in nothing but a towel, she had no idea what kind of night she was walking into.

Isabella padded down the stairs, wrapped in a soft cropped hoodie and barely-there lounge shorts, her hair damp and skin still glowing from the cold shower. She hadn't bothered putting on a bra—why would she, when she was planning to fluster the boys a bit before bed? She had teased them all week; it was only fair to keep the streak going.

But the second her foot hit the bottom step, the air hit different.

The lights were dimmed to a golden hue. The scent of something rich and savory lingered in the air, layered with hints of vanilla and spice. Candles flickered along the hallway console. Her teasing grin faltered.

She stepped slowly into the living room, eyebrows raising as her eyes took in the silk draped across furniture, the black rose on the table, and the deliberate softness of the lighting. It was romantic. Sexy. And definitely not random.

No sign of the guys.

"Okay... what the hell are y'all up to?" she murmured under her breath, fingers trailing the edge of the tablecloth.

Drawn by the smell of whatever was cooking, she made her way to the kitchen. She paused in the doorway, heart skipping.

There they were.

Cameron and Ashton, both shirtless, standing at the stove—Ashton checking something in a pan, Cameron slicing herbs on the counter beside him. Their backs were to her, shoulders broad and glistening slightly under the warm kitchen lights. They looked like a daydream cooked up by her imagination—and clearly, she'd underestimated their plotting.

With a sly smile, she tiptoed up behind them and wrapped her arms around both of their waists.

"Well, hello chefs."

Cameron jumped slightly, laughing as he looked over his shoulder. "Damn, Bells. You can't just sneak up on people like that."

Ashton chuckled low. "Good way to get pinned to a counter."