Page 14 of Unholy Night
"How do you know I'm thinking?"
"Your breathing changes. Gets shallow when your mind races." His hand slides up my spine, fingertips tracing each vertebra with possessive precision. "What's the verdict, counselor? Guilty or innocent?"
"Of what?"
"Whatever crime you're charging yourself with in that relentless head of yours."
I prop myself up on an elbow to look at him properly. His black eyes are already sharp despite just waking, already tracking the door, the window, scanning for threats even while holding me. "It's Christmas morning."
"So?"
"So… what does Christmas look like for you? Normally, I mean."
Something shutters in his expression, a wall slamming down. "It doesn't."
"Everyone has some kind of Christmas tradition. Even criminals."
His laugh is bitter. "Especially criminals. But not the kind you'd recognize."
I sit up, pulling the sheet with me though modesty seems pointless after last night. After the way he claimed every inch of me. "Well, we're changing that. Today you're getting a real Christmas morning. Starting with my grandmother's pancake recipe."
"Pancakes." He says it like a foreign word.
"Don't tell me the terrifying Tomas Rosetti doesn't know how to make pancakes."
"The terrifying Tomas Rosetti knows how to make people disappear. Pancakes weren't in the curriculum." But there's something vulnerable in his eyes, almost curious.
I slide out of bed, noting how his eyes track my movement, how his body tenses like he's fighting not to pull me back. I grab his shirt from the floor. "Lucky for you, I'm an excellent teacher."
In the kitchen, I pull flour from the pantry, eggs from the refrigerator, arranging ingredients on the marble counter like evidence for trial. He watches from the doorway, wearing only low-slung sweatpants, that gun tucked at his waist even for breakfast. The juxtaposition of deadly weapon and domestic scene just feels like him. Like us.
Every few minutes, his gaze shifts to the windows, checking sightlines, watching for movement in the snow. Even in paradise, he's ready for war.
"First," I say, measuring flour into a bowl, "you need the dry ingredients. My grandmother always said the secret was in the ratios."
He moves behind me, arms bracketing me against the counter, his chest solid and warm against my back. "Show me."
I guide his hands through the measurements, trying to ignore how natural this feels, how right. His chin rests on my shoulder, but I can feel the tension in his body, the readiness for violence that never fully leaves him.
"Now you whisk the eggs," I say, cracking them into a separate bowl.
"I know how to handle eggs," he retorts.
"Oh really? Show me your technique then."
He reaches around me for the whisk, and I catch his wrist. There's a small scar there too, circular, like an old cigarette burn. The kind parents give children when they're angry. The kind that makes me want to hunt down everyone who ever hurt him.
"Tomas…"
"Don't." He pulls his hand back, but gently. "It's Christmas, remember? Your rules."
But I can't let it go. These scars are a map of violence I'm only beginning to read. "What was Christmas like? When you were young?"
His whole body goes rigid behind me. For a moment, I think he'll walk away, retreat into that cold distance he wears like armor. His hand moves to his gun, an unconscious tell when he's agitated.
"You want to know? Really?" His eyes turn dark, menacing. "Christmas was broken glass and blood."
He stops himself, jaw clenching. The muscle in his cheek ticks. I watch him fight with himself, watch him calculate whether to trust me with this. Snow slides off the roof with a soft whoosh, breaking the silence.
