Page 12 of Silent Night With Adrian

He leans closer, and I can feel his breath on my skin. “Interesting.” His gaze turns more intense. “But tell me... just how untouched are you?”

My heart stumbles. “That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, but I think it is,” he murmurs, voice dark and thick with intrigue. “Do you... touch yourself, Mia?” His question hits me like a shot of heat, and I can barely hold his gaze.

“Adrian...”

His hand tilts my chin up, making me face him fully. “Has any man ever touched you? Kissed you... there?” The words are a tease, a low, intimate whisper. “Do you even know what it feels like to be completely... undone?”

I swallow hard, barely able to breathe. “I don’t think you need to know.”

He smirks, his thumb brushing my jaw. “I think you just answered my question. My mind is blown. And I can’t help wondering... what it’d be like to show you. To touch you. To taste you.”

The words hang heavy between us, and for a moment, I forget why I’m here too. I forget everything except for him—how his gaze holds me captive, how the very air between us feels like it’s pulsing with something wild, something dangerous. And the worst part is… I want it.

Chapter 10 Adrian

It’s late. The snowstorm outside has thickened, and through the window, I can see flakes falling fast and heavy, already blanketing everything in sight. We’re trapped here, that much is clear. The fire crackles low in the hearth, the warmth of it casting flickering shadows on Mia’s face as she watches me, lips slightly parted, eyes dark and unreadable.

I keep my gaze on her, watching the way she shifts around, trying to find a comfortable position with her wrists still cuffed behind her. I notice a hint of discomfort creeping in, a nervous energy I hadn’t seen before. She’s let down her guard, maybe even unintentionally, and now she’s not sure what to do with herself.

“Feeling uncomfortable, princess?” I ask, my voice low and edged with a challenge.

She scoffs, but there’s a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes. “No,” she says, a little too quickly, the defiance in her voice faltering just slightly. “But… it’s late.”

I stand, moving toward her, and she tenses. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the key to her cuffs, and I can feel her pulseracing, even though she holds her chin high. “I’m going to take these off,” I say, keeping my voice even. “But don’t get any ideas about escaping. That snow’s not going to stop until there’s two to three feet out there, and your shoes… well, let’s just say I took the liberty of making sure you won’t find them.”

Her gaze drops to her bare feet for a moment before she looks back up at me, resignation in her eyes. She knows she’s stuck here, and she knows I’m not bluffing.

I reach down, unlocking the cuffs with a decisive click, and she rubs her wrists, wincing slightly. “You can wash up in the bathroom if you want. There’s a shirt in there you can change into for the night,” I say, stepping back and gesturing down the hall.

She glances toward the bathroom, then back at me, a flicker of suspicion in her eyes. “Thank you,” she murmurs, the words almost hesitant, like she’s not sure she should be thanking me for something so simple.

“Don’t mention it,” I reply, my gaze steady on hers. “I don’t bite. Not unless you ask me to.”

A faint blush rises in her cheeks, and she gives me one last wary glance before slipping away into the bathroom. I hear the soft click of the lock behind her, and I smirk to myself. She’s in there, alone, probably realizing that once she comes back out, we’ll be sharing the bed—whether she likes it or not. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to sleep on the floor.

Minutes tick by, and I wait, wondering what’s going through that mind of hers. Finally, the door opens, and she steps out, her damp hair falling in waves over her shoulders. She’s wearing the oversized shirt I packed—a black T-shirt that falls to mid-thigh. Her bare legs are slim, pale, and somehow look even more vulnerable out of that red dress she was wearing before.

She avoids my gaze as she walks back to the bed, and I notice she’s carrying the dress in her hand, her fingers clenched tightlyaround the fabric. When she meets my eyes, there’s a flash of something—resentment, anger, maybe shame.

“What’s wrong with the dress?” I ask, curious. “You’ve been giving it death stares since we got here.”

She hesitates, her fingers twisting the fabric. “It’s not the dress itself,” she says quietly, her voice almost a whisper. “It’s… what it represents.”

I cross my arms, leaning against the wall, waiting for her to continue. She swallows, her gaze flickering to the floor. “Dante makes me wear things like this to… influence the men in the meetings. To keep their attention where he wants it. I’m just a pawn to him, something to flash in front of them when he thinks it’ll get him what he wants.”

My jaw clenches, and I feel a surge of anger—more than I should, maybe, but I can’t help it. I didn’t think I’d care this much about her being used but hearing it from her mouth stirs something in me, something primal and protective. “He uses you like bait,” I say, my voice flat.

She looks away, biting her lip. “It’s just the way things are.”

“The hell it is.” Before I can think better of it, I reach out and take the dress from her hands, crossing to the fireplace. Without a word, I toss it into the flames, watching as it catches fire, the red fabric curling and blackening, reduced to ash in seconds.

Mia watches, her expression softening, something raw flickering in her eyes. “You didn’t have to do that,” she whispers, but there’s gratitude in her voice.

“Good riddance,” I murmur, my voice rough, feeling a surge of satisfaction at defying her brother’s hold on her in this small, symbolic way. I glance back at her, and for a moment, we’re not enemies. We’re not captor and captive. We’re just two people trapped by circumstances we didn’t choose.

“Thank you,” she says, so quietly I almost miss it. Her eyes meet mine, and in the dim firelight, they look almost vulnerable, like she’s seeing me differently for the first time.

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