Page 5 of Santa Daddy
Oh God. Oh God oh God?—
Two men appeared through the trees.
Both armed.
Both stopped dead when they saw me.
The bigger one—face like someone took a cheese grater to it, eyes like a shark's—spoke sharp Russian. His weapon already rising.
The second man followed suit.
Both guns trained on me.
My bladder nearly gave out.
"Moya nevesta."
The words detonated like grenades.
My fiancée.
The scarred one choked on air. "Huh, Konstantin? Tvoya nevesta?"
He gestured at me with his gun. At the costume. At everything wrong about this.
"Eta?"
This?
Pure contempt.
"Yes." Konstantin's voice could freeze hell. "She's mine. My woman. You question me?"
Silence stretched.
The scarred one—Yakov—didn't lower his gun. "She's a witness."
"She's my fiancée."
"She just appeared at a cleanup?—"
"She followed me. Romantic gesture." Konstantin shrugged like this was obvious. "Sweet."
The lie was smooth as glass.
Yakov wasn't buying it. Neither was the other man.
But Konstantin stepped between me and their guns anyway.
"Last warning. Lower your weapon or lose the hand holding it."
The promise sat in every word.
One second. Two. Three.
Yakov lowered his gun.
Holstered it.
