Page 4 of Unholy Night
He heads toward a hallway, pauses. "Your clothes will be dry by morning. There's food in the kitchen, books in the study. Make yourself comfortable. You're going to be here awhile."
He disappears into the shadows, leaving me alone with the fire and the storm raging outside. I pull his blanket tighter around my naked body, still feeling the ghost of his hands on my skin, touches that somehow branded me more thoroughly than any passionate caress could have.
I've found exactly what I was hunting: a Rosetti safe house, one of their enforcers, proof of their operations. Months of obsessive work, and I've succeeded beyond my wildestexpectations. The evidence is all around me, from the luxurious furnishings to the security cameras to the man himself.
And the most terrifying part isn't that I'm trapped here, dependent on his mercy, naked under his blankets while a blizzard seals us in together.
It's that when he said "mine," something ancient and traitorous in my body answered "yes."
2 - Tomas
The kitchen knife disappears from the block at 6:45 AM.
I watch from the doorway as she slides it behind her back, bare feet silent on the hardwood. My shirt hangs to her mid-thigh, the white cotton making her look deceptively innocent. Like she's not currently stealing my cutlery.
"Planning to stab me, prosecutor?" I keep my voice conversational, but my body's already calculating distances, angles, the three different ways I could disarm her before she could scream.
She spins, the knife clattering to the floor between us. Even caught, her chin lifts in defiance. "I was making breakfast."
"With the knife hidden behind your back?" I step into the kitchen, noting how she shifts her weight to her back foot. Ready to run. Smart. Useless, but smart. "That's an interesting cooking technique."
"I needed it for the bacon."
"The bacon that's still in the freezer?" I move past her to the coffee maker, deliberately giving her my back. Let her think I'm not threatened. Let her think she has options. "Two sugars, splash of cream, hint of cinnamon."
Her sharp intake of breath is worth the risk. "What?"
I pour her coffee exactly how she likes it, then turn to hand it to her. "Your coffee order. I noticed it yesterday."
She stares at the mug like it might bite her. "You were watching me."
"I watch everyone." I lean against the counter, maintaining distance. Give her space to process what this means. "It's a professional habit. In my line of work, the smallest detail can mean the difference between walking away or bleeding out."
"Your line of work." She takes the coffee with trembling fingers, and I catch the way her pulse flutters at her throat. "You mean being a criminal."
"I mean surviving in a world where everyone wants you dead." The words come out harder than intended, carrying the weight of the Santos threat hanging over my head. If they knew she was here, they'd use her to get to me. Another reason to keep her close.
She sets down the coffee without drinking it. "I need to leave."
"No, you don't."
"You can't keep me here." The blanket she'd wrapped around herself drops as she stands straighter. My shirt rides up, revealing more of those long, pale legs. I force my gaze to stay on her face. "This is kidnapping."
"This is survival." I don't move from my position, let her have the illusion of freedom. "The storm's getting worse. Won't break for days, like I told you. You leave now, you die. Simple math."
She crosses to the window, stares out at the white wall of snow still falling. Her reflection catches in the glass: lost and beautiful. The thought comes unbidden, unwanted. I push it down.
"I have a life," she says quietly. "A job. People will notice I'm missing."
"Will they?" I move closer but not too close. "You came here alone, told no one where you were going. Your car's buried under ten feet of snow. Cell towers are down." Each word closes another door. "Right now, counselor, you don't exist outside these walls."
She turns to face me, and there's fire in her eyes now. The vulnerability of sleep has burned away, leaving the woman who's been relentlessly hunting my family. "Your radio then. You must have one."
"In the study." I gesture toward the hallway, knowing exactly what she'll find.
She practically runs, bare feet silent on the hardwood. I follow at a leisurely pace, counting the seconds until…
"It's gutted." She's standing at my desk, holding the old radio, wires hanging like entrails. Behind her, my philosophy books line the shelf: Aurelius, Seneca, Machiavelli. Tools for understanding power, control, survival. "You bastard. The radio's completely gutted."
