Page 4 of Santa Daddy
Close enough I could see snowflakes melting in his hair.
Close enough his breath ghosted across my face. Peppermint.
He'd been eating candy canes while committing murder.
"You saw." Statement. Not question.
I still couldn't speak.
His gaze raked over me. Clinical. Assessing.
The costume. The bells. The terror I couldn't hide. My hands shaking so hard I was leaving crescents in my palms.
He reached out.
I flinched.
His fingers found my jaw anyway. Warm. Callused. Tilting my face up with enough force to make my neck ache.
"Dressed like whore for children." His grip tightened. "Very American."
Fuck you.
The words stuck.
"You saw me kill him." Matter-of-fact. Like he was commenting on the weather. "That means you die too. Is simple."
My breath stopped.
"Unless..." He tilted his head. Considering. "Unless you are useful."
Useful? Useful how?
His thumb pressed against my pulse. Hard. "Heart racing. You are terrified."
Yes. Yes, I was fucking terrified.
"Good. Fear is smart." His eyes tracked over my face. "But you don't scream. Don't beg. Just shake."
He leaned closer.
Too close.
"Why?"
Because I can't. Because my voice is gone. Because?—
Heavy footsteps crunched through snow.
Voices. Russian. Getting closer.
His hand dropped.
He stood in one fluid motion, hauling me up with him by my arm. The grip was iron. Bruising.
My legs didn't work but he didn't care. Just dragged me up until I was standing, my bells exploding with sound.
"Don't scream," he said against my ear, breath hot on frozen skin. "Don't run. You try either, I break your legs before I kill you."
