Page 10 of Santa Daddy
I glared at the polished stainless doors. “Sorry my trauma’s inconvenient for your commute.”
He hummed, some dark, amused sound that crawled under my skin.
“You are alive.” He tipped his head, studying my reflection instead of the real thing. “Alive, in my building, in my elevator, in my coat. You think I am villain here. Interesting.”
“You shot a man in the chest three times in front of a Christmas tree lot.” My voice shook. I hated that it did. “You kidnapped me from my job. There is literally zero mystery about who the villain is.”
He finally turned his head. Met my eyes in the metal.
“You say kidnapped.” His mouth curved lazily. “I say rescued.”
The elevator dinged.
The doors opened directly into his apartment.
No hallway. No buffer. Just his world swallowing me whole.
The penthouse unfolded in front of me, big enough to house my entire high school twice over. Everything was white and glassand sharp lines. A morgue designed by an architect who charged extra to remove any evidence people actually lived here.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped the space, dropping off into a glittering cityscape below. Manhattan at Christmas. Every building strung in white and colored lights. Ice rinks glowing like little blue coins in the distance. Somewhere out there, people were drinking peppermint mochas and taking selfies in front of Rockefeller Center.
I was standing in a murderer’s glass box in candy cane tights.
And in the corner, like a personal insult, stood a Christmas tree.
All white branches. All silver ornaments. Lights a cold, corporate white. Every ornament hung at perfect, mathematically calculated intervals. Not a single strand out of place.
It was the most depressing tree I’d ever seen.
Even his holiday cheer had commitment issues.
“Move.”
His voice cut through my observation. Low. Impatient. The kind of command the world usually obeyed without thinking.
He brushed past me, his shoulder grazing mine. It was nothing. A fabric slide. A casual contact.
Lightning.
Heat crawled up my spine, slow and traitorous. My chest hurt against the soft cashmere of the borrowed sweater.
My fight-or-flight reflex had apparently added a third option. Fuck.
You’re sick. Actually sick. He killed a man an hour ago and your body wants to climb him like a Christmas tree.
“Kitchen.” He jerked his chin toward a gleaming expanse of marble and steel. “Living room.”
Each syllable sharp. Efficient. Like he was reading from a brochure. “Welcome to your kidnap suite. Do not touch the art.”
I followed because what else could I do. My bell collar announced my humiliation every step of the way.
The kitchen looked like a surgery center for rich people food. White marble so polished it shimmered. Stainless appliances that still had that untouched, showroom vibe. A coffee machine with more buttons than NASA.
It smelled faintly of citrus and high-end cleaner. No garlic. No onions. No human.
“Don’t touch anything.”
His voice came from behind me. Closer than I expected.
