Page 11 of Santa Daddy
I spun. My back hit cold marble.
He was right there.
He moved like he owned the floor. Like gravity bent around him. No wasted motion. No hurry. One moment he was at the island, the next he was in my space, leaning one hand on the counter beside my hip.
Too close.
Up close the pretty got worse. The ink at his throat, black Cyrillic letters, disappeared under his collar.
He smelled like shower steam and whiskey and the ghost of cigarette smoke under expensive cologne. Pine, too. Cold air from outside still clung to his hair, bringing the scent of real Christmas trees in with him.
“Natasha is particular about order,” he said, eyes sliding lazily down my body. “You touch her things, she removes your fingers. She is not as gentle as I am.”
Gentle.
I actually snorted. “Right. Because nothing says gentle like dragging me out of a tree lot at gunpoint.”
His gaze drifted to the bell collar at my throat. The jingle bell charm glinted in the recessed lighting when I swallowed.
“You dress like santa play thing.” His eyes roamed my body.
The words should have burned. They did. Somewhere under my sternum. At the same time, heat licked lower, sharp and electric.
My brain was terrified of him. My vagina had apparently not gotten the memo.
“Well, you dress like a Pinterest board titled ‘Mafia Daddy’,” I shot back. “Very on-brand.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Not quite amusement. Interest, maybe.
“Kotyonok, you are chaos in candy cane wrapping.” He stepped in, the hand not caging me lifting. The back of his knuckles skimmed the edge of my jaw. Light. Possessive. “You smell like mall perfume and minimum wage. You are bleeding disorder all over my apartment.”
I swallowed. Hard. “You’re an asshole.”
“Yes.” He studied my face like he wanted to take it apart and see how it worked. “And you are alive because of this asshole. Remember that.”
“No.” I dug my nails into my palms, needing the sting. “I’m alive because you decided I’d be more useful as your pet than as a corpse.”
“Pet.” His mouth twitched. “You think too small. You are not dog. You are story.”
He pushed away, the heat of him leaving me shivering.
“Come.”
He didn’t look back to see if I obeyed.
I did.
We moved down a long hallway lit by recessed LEDs. The light was soft, expensive, designed to flatter marble and art. Discreet cameras sat in the corners, little red lights blinking like demonic Christmas ornaments, following us.
Halfway down, the cameras stuttered. A narrow slice of wall, maybe two feet, with no blinking red.
A blind spot.
I cataloged it automatically. My brain might have turned into a thirsty traitor around him, but survival circuits still fired.
He opened a door near the end of the hall.
The room beyond looked like the kind of thing luxury hotel brochures tried to promise and never quite delivered. King bed piled high with pillows, all in shades of ivory and gray. Sheets that looked like clouds had a one-night stand with silk. Softamber lighting. The faintest whiff of something floral and dry heat radiating from hidden vents.
