Page 83 of Santa Daddy
Heavier. Like something had shifted in the space between sleeping and waking, between dreaming up normal and accepting I was never going to see it again.
My body ached. Not just from the sex—though that was definitely part of it. It was a restless, buzzing frustration that had nothing to do with being trapped and everything to do with the man who’d whispered things in the dark last night he had no right to say.
I never wanted this life… Some of us are born into hell… Until you.
He never wanted this life. Neither did I.
So what the hell were we doing to each other?
The penthouse was quiet, that late-night hush where even the city below sounded like it had dialed itself down. I could hearfaint traffic under the double glazing, the occasional distant horn, the soft whoosh of the HVAC.
I found him in the living room.
He stood by the windows in nothing but dark pajama pants, city lights and snow halos painting his bare back in silver. A tumbler of amber sat loose in his hand, half-full. The Christmas tree in the corner glowed softly, white lights blinking on a timer. In the street below, I heard the faint echo of a carol—someone leaving a bar singing badly, or a TV left on in another apartment.
“Drinking alone at midnight,” I said, padding across the cold marble. “Very on-brand.”
He didn’t turn right away, but his shoulders tightened at the sound of my voice.
“Sleep is a luxury I can’t afford,” he said.
Always the cryptic answers. Always the walls.
I moved closer, drawn by something I didn’t want to name. The way the moonlight on the snow outside bounced back up through the glass, cutting across the scars on his back. Little white lines and puckered marks. Not accidents. Not clumsy childhood disasters.
Violence survived.
“What happened to you?” The question slipped out before I could drag it back.
This time, he turned.
Ice water eyes met mine. Raw. Unguarded. Like he’d forgotten to put on his armor tonight and only remembered when I walked in.
“The same thing that’s happening to you,” he said quietly. “I’m being destroyed by something I can’t control.”
By me.
Is he meaning me?
I should’ve stepped back. Wrapped myself in sarcasm, put the walls up, gone back to bed and pretended nothing was changing.
Instead, I stepped closer. Close enough to see the pulse kicking at his throat. Close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath and the clean scent of his skin underneath.
“Maybe we’re destroying each other,” I whispered.
His laugh was short and bitter. “Maybe that’s the point.”
Maybe it was. Maybe we were both too broken to do anything but draw blood from ourselves and call it love.
He set his glass down with deliberate care on the table. Like one wrong move would shatter whatever fragile thing was trying to grow between us.
When he looked at me again, I saw something in his expression I’d never seen before.
Uncertainty.
“Dani.” My name on his lips sounded like a prayer and a curse twisted together. “You should go back to bed.”
Because you’re dangerous, that tone said. Because I’m dangerous. Because this is.
