Page 7 of Unholy Night
"The bed is huge," she says, standing in the bedroom doorway wearing a pair of my sweatpants and another borrowed shirt. "We can share without it being… anything."
This violates every rule I've made for myself. Sharing a bed with the enemy. Leo would put a bullet in my head if he knew. Dom would handle it more quietly, but the result would be the same. The Rosettis don't forgive betrayal, even from blood. Especially from blood.
"That's a terrible idea."
"As opposed to you destroying your back again on that couch? I'm definitely not sleeping on it." She's already pulling back the covers on one side. "Look, separate sides, separate blankets if necessary. I promise not to steal all the covers."
When she slides under the blankets, claiming her territory, something primitive in me refuses to retreat to the couch. Like my body recognizes what my mind won't admit.
"Stay on your side," she says firmly, building a wall of pillows down the middle of the bed.
"Same to you."
We lie rigid as boards, two people determinedly not touching in a bed built for intimacy. The wind continues its assault on the windows, and somewhere in the darkness, I hear the crack of a tree branch breaking under the weight of snow.
"For the record," she says to the ceiling, "this doesn't mean I'm accepting this situation."
"Noted for the record."
"And tomorrow, I'm finding a way out."
"You're welcome to try."
"Stop being so smug about it."
"Stop being so predictable about it."
She huffs, turns on her side facing away from me. "Goodnight, kidnapper."
"Goodnight, prosecutor."
Hours pass. I track her breathing as it gradually deepens into sleep. She shifts, makes small sounds, turns toward the center of the bed despite her earlier declarations about boundaries. The pillow wall she built crumbles as she moves.
Then she whispers my name.
"Tomas."
Not Rosetti. Not kidnapper. My actual name, soft and unconscious in her sleep.
I stay perfectly still, but something cracks in my chest. She murmurs it again, her hand sliding across the sheets as if searching for something. For someone.
For me.
Dom and Leo already think she knows too much. That's why Leo wanted her dead. If they knew she was here, alive in my bed, they'd expect me to handle it. One call to confirm the roads are clear, then silence. That's what family loyalty demands. Instead, I'm lying here memorizing her breathing, planning ways to keep her longer. The Santoses want blood. Mine, specifically. And here I am, harboring the one person who could destroy us all.
Her hand finds mine in the darkness, fingers curling around my palm like she's anchoring herself. Still asleep, still unconscious, but holding on like I'm the only solid thing in a storm.
Three more days of this. Three more days of her defiance and arguments about Christmas movies. Three more days of wanting what I shouldn't want. Three more days before I have to choose between family and… No, there is no choice. I will always choose family.
Tomorrow I'll reassert control. Tomorrow I'll remember she's the enemy.
Tonight, I listen to her whisper my name and accept that I'm completely, irrevocably fucked.
3 - Natalie
The generator dies with a mechanical wheeze at exactly 6:20 PM, plunging us into the kind of absolute darkness that makes my chest seize with panic.
My hands reach out blindly, finding nothing but frigid air. The darkness is complete, suffocating, pressing in from all sides like the walls of a cell. Like the visiting room at Greenhaven where Dad spent his last days. Where the lights would flicker and fail during storms, leaving us in darkness with only the sound of his labored breathing between us.
