Page 3 of Santa Daddy
Ink crawled up his neck from his collar. Cyrillic letters spelling words I'd never understand.
Not handsome.
Lethal.
Stop staring at the man who just killed someone.
He pocketed his phone.
Searched the body with clinical precision. Not the pockets—inside the jacket. Pulled out a phone, wallet. Studied the ID. Took photos.
He stood. Brushed snow off his knees like he'd left a meeting.
My bells jingled.
Once.
He went predator-still.
No no no?—
His head turned.
Gaze sweeping the lot.
Landed on me.
Our eyes locked.
Those eyes. Christ.
His mouth curved into something that promised pain.
He moved.
Stalked toward me like I was prey already caught. Each step unhurried. Confident.
I pressed against metal. Nowhere to go.
He stopped three feet away.
Looked down.
Up close, he was worse. That jaw. That mouth. Eyes so pale they looked colorless under the lights.
A scar cut through his left eyebrow. Another across his knuckles where his hand rested loose at his side.
And the scent rolling off him, gunpowder and cedar and expensive whiskey.
Old money. New violence.
"You picked the wrong shortcut, kotyonok."
That voice. Jesus. Russian accent just threading the edges, making the 'w' slightly harder, the rhythm different. Deep and rough like gravel over silk.
My mouth opened. Nothing came out.
He crouched. Eye level now.
