Page 38 of Krampus Kruk
I can blame my tough-as-nails Eastern European parents, and I have. But right now? All I can blame is myself.
I didn’t know what to say when she panicked, didn’t know if pulling her in would’ve made it better or worse. I didn’t think my words would do anything but come off as manipulative. I didn’t want to make her spiral more. So, I said nothing, did nothing.
I fucked up.
I need a cigarette.
I stand, walking naked toward my bedroom to grab one. My mind’s too loud. I want to quiet it, to organize my thoughts, make a plan.
I let her leave with nothing but assumptions in her head instead of the truth in mine.
Looking at the rumpled sheets and the handcuffs on the floor, I know she needs to hear it—that everything that happened last night was real, every goddamn second of it. That I meant every word. That I want to see her again. That what happened between us wasn’t just about sex or power—it was connection.
Stronger than the ones that brought my sons into the world. Sorin’s mom was a Playboy bunny at the Lake Geneva club—a cover model, a total knockout. Declan’s mom, though … I was madly in love with her. Gorgeous, brilliant, a force of nature—until addiction took over. I haven’t saidI love youto a woman since.
There’s too much potential here with Morgan to let it go unexplored. I want to know her deeper, see what happens when she stops running—and when I stop holding back. This isn’t something I can fix with silence.
I grab a fresh pair of briefs then the lighter and cigarettes.
Cigarettes and coffee. Merry Christmas to me.
I hear her voice as I think it—sarcastic, biting, amused.
In the kitchen, I tap the button on the coffee machine, bringing it to life. Then, I unlock the window and open it a few inches. Cold air hits my chest as I light the cigarette and take a long drag while the coffee brews.
It’s not helping. My mind keeps replaying the last fourteen hours. Too many thoughts, not enough action.
I’ve spent most of my life knowing exactly what to do in moments of chaos—how to lead, how to negotiate, how to control outcomes. But this morning, I froze, terrified that saying the wrong thing would make it worse.
So, I said nothing, and that’s what ruined it.
I don’t know how she feels, but I’m assuming she thinks I don’t care, that last night wasn’t life changing. Thatsheisn’t life changing.
I need to fight, and if she still says she’s done with me after that—fine. I can live with that. But I can’t live with the regret, the what ifs.
Time and space feel wrong. I’ve already waited too long to make my next move.
I unlock my phone and fire off a text to Jan.
Piotr Kruk
What’s Morgan’s mom’s address?
The seconds stretch on.Is he still sleeping?It’s almost eight in the morning on Christmas Day. Well, he doesn’t have kids at home anymore, but still. I tap his number, and he answers on the first ring.
“Boss, I’m working on it,” he says.
“Good.”
There’s a pause, then, “Are you going to stay on the line until I have it?”
“Yes.”
Another pause. “Okay,” he mutters, irritated but moving.
I know I’m being annoying, but I don’t care. I need to see her.
“Actually, I’m going to shower.” I glance down at myself, just in briefs. I still smell like her, like all the sex we shared. I can’t show up like this. Icould, but I won’t. “I’ll wait for your text,” I say and hang up.
