Page 5 of Unholy Night
"Has been for months, actually." I lean against the doorframe, watching her process this. "This place is meant for disappearing, not communicating."
"Then how do you—"
"Burner phones when needed. All dead now with the towers down." I let my gaze travel over her deliberately, possessively. "Seems fate has a sense of humor. Delivering my enemy to my door, gift-wrapped in a blizzard."
The gutted radio drops from her hands. "The landline then."
"Cut. Trees took down the lines yesterday."
"Your car keys. I'll take my chances with the roads."
"Missing. Funny thing about keys—they tend to disappear when they're not needed." I push off from the doorframe, move into the room. She backs up instinctively, but there's nowhere to go. The desk presses against her thighs. "You're out of options, prosecutor."
The sound she makes is pure frustration. She tries to dart around me, but I shift, blocking her path. We're close now, close enough that I can smell the lingering warmth of sleep on her skin, see the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath my shirt.
"Move," she demands.
"No."
She tries to push past me. I catch her wrists, gentle but firm, and suddenly we're pressed together, her back against the desk, my body caging her in. Her pulse hammers against my fingers, rabbit-quick and telling.
"Let me go," she whispers, but her body tells a different story. She's not pulling away. If anything, she's leaning in, drawn by the same gravity I'm fighting.
"You heard me last night. At least three days before the roads clear." My voice drops, rough with restraint. "Maybe longer. You want to survive? You stay here. You want to die? Keep fighting me."
"You can't—"
"I can." I release her wrists but don't step back. Let her feel the cage of my presence without the excuse of physical restraint. "You walked into my territory. That makes you my responsibility until those roads clear. My rules. My protection."
Her chin lifts, defiance in every line of her body despite being trapped between me and the desk. "I'm not your anything."
"Wrong." The word comes out like a growl. "Until this storm passes, you're mine to keep alive. Whether you like it or not."
She holds my gaze for three heartbeats, then ducks under my arm with surprising agility, heading for the front door. I let her go, curious to see how far she'll take this. She yanks it open, and arctic wind slams into the cabin. Snow swirls inside, immediately coating the floor. The bleak chill is violent, invasive, stealing breath and thought.
She stands there, my shirt whipping around her thighs, staring into the white nothing beyond my porch. One step. That's all she manages before I'm behind her, my body surrounding hers against the doorframe, chest pressed to her back, arms braced on either side.
"You'll die in twenty minutes," I say against her ear, noting how she shivers, and not from the cold. "Fifteen if you're lucky. Is that what you want? To freeze to death rather than accept my hospitality?"
I reach around her, pull the door closed with enough force to rattle the frame. The sudden silence is deafening. She's still pinned between my body and the door, my heat seeping into her frozen skin. I can feel her heart racing, smell the mix of fear and something else, something that makes my cock stir against my will.
She turns in the cage of my arms, back pressed against the door. We're close, too close. I can see her pupils dilating despite her defiance, watch the way her lips part slightly, unconsciously.
"I'll find a way out," she says, but her voice lacks conviction.
"You're welcome to try." I step back, gesture toward the kitchen. "But first, breakfast. Can't have you dying of starvation before hypothermia gets a chance."
Back in the kitchen, she retrieves the knife from the floor, sets it on the counter with deliberate calm. I pull eggs from the refrigerator, bacon from the freezer. The knife moves through the bacon in clean, efficient strokes. She doesn't know the blade in my hand has tasted blood, that these domestic gestures are a thin veneer over a lifetime of violence.
"This is insane," she mutters, perching on a barstool. "I'm having breakfast with a Rosetti criminal."
"An alleged criminal." I crack eggs into a bowl with more force than necessary. "Innocent until proven guilty, right? Isn't that your whole thing?"
"Don't." Her voice turns sharp. "Don't pretend you're anything other than what you are. An enabler. A thug who helps your cousins destroy lives."
My hands still on the whisk. The satellite phone in my pocket buzzes. Probably checking in. I ignore it. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I? I've been tracking your family's crimes. Money laundering, extortion, murder." She leans forward, pressing her point. "You're the one who cleans up their messes, aren't you? The enforcer. The one who makes problems disappear. You already told me Dom found my investigation amusing. That Leonardo wanted me dead."
