Page 78 of Santa Daddy
I couldn’t tell if I wanted to escape it.
Or see how interesting a death it turned out to be.
15
MERRY CHRISTMAS
DANI
Christmas morning.
The words alone used to make me think of cinnamon rolls on Instagram and other people’s happy family photos. Not… this.
My body pleasantly sore in all the ways that reminded me exactly how I’d spent my first night as Mrs. Zverev. I slipped out of bed, grabbing one of his shirts from the floor. It hung to mid-thigh on me, smelling like him—dark and clean and dangerous. My bare feet hit cold marble as I padded toward the living room.
The big white-and-silver tree glowed softly in the corner, lights on a timer. There were a few boxes under it now that hadn’t been there before. Perfectly wrapped, of course. White paper, black ribbon, a stark, minimal massacre of whatever chaotic joy Christmas was supposed to have.
The smell of coffee drifted in from the kitchen, rich and dark and infinitely more appealing than standing here psychoanalyzing my life choices.
At least the coffee was consistent.
Unlike the man who made it.
He stood at the counter in dark pajama pants and a black T-shirt, bare feet, mug in hand, reading something on his phone. The domesticity of it almost made my brain short-circuit.
“Morning,” he said without looking up.
“Is it?” I muttered, heading straight for the other mug he’d set out. Hot coffee.
I poured, trying to ignore the way my hands shook just enough to make the liquid slosh. “So. Merry Christmas or whatever.”
One corner of his mouth twitched. “Very festive, kotyonok.”
He nodded toward the tree. “There are things for you there.”
For a second, I honestly thought he was kidding. Then I realized he’d never bother.
I walked over slowly, like the boxes might explode.
There were three.
One small, one medium, one not for me—addressed in Cyrillic and tucked slightly back, like it had forgotten who it belonged to.
I avoided that one.
The smallest box had my name on it in his sharp handwriting.Dani.
Inside: a simple silver pendant on a chain. No tracker this time, just a tiny charm in the shape of a snowflake, delicate and intricate.
“It’s…pretty,” I said, because my vocabulary apparently went out for cigarettes when my emotions got complicated.
He’d noticed that the Christmas season mattered to me. Or that I’d been staring at the snow more than I realized. Or both.
The medium box was heavier. Inside: a set of professional-grade pencils and sketchbooks. The expensive kind I used to lust over and never buy because rent existed.
“You draw,” he said from behind me. Not a question.
“You stalk,” I shot back, fingers running over the smooth paper.
