Page 99 of Santa Daddy
He did it again, finger pressing into the hollow at the base of my throat. “Touch.”
I slapped his hand away. “Don’t.”
He smiled, slow and delighted, like a cat discovering a new toy.
His hand snapped up, closing around my neck. Thumb along my jaw, fingers on the side of my throat. Not crushing, but firm enough that my next breath had to work harder than the last.
“Touch,” he repeated. “See? Easy. No lightning. No hell opening under my feet.”
My skin went ice cold. My vision went sharp.
This wasn’t complicated attraction or fucked-up chemistry. This was violation. Possession. Power games.
“Stop,” I ground out, clawing at his wrist. “Let. Go.”
He ignored me. “He tells council you are untouchable,” he murmured near my ear. “He forgets—men like us, we hear challenge. We like to… test.”
His thumb scraped over my lips.
Rage followed.
My knee came up, as hard as I could make it.
I hit exactly where I meant to.
He made a strangled noise and doubled over, grip on my throat loosening.
Air rushed back into my lungs in a ragged gulp.
I grabbed the nearest weapon: the Bordeaux still sitting on the edge of the counter.
I swung.
The bottle exploded against the side of his head with a crack that went all the way up my arm. Glass, wine, and blood sprayed across marble, his suit, my stolen shirt.
He grunted, slammed sideways into the island. One knee hit the floor. His hand went to his temple, fingers coming away slick and red.
“Don’t ever fucking touch me!” I spat.
I turned to run.
I got halfway down the length of the island before fabric yanked tight around my ribs, jerking me backward.
He’d grabbed the hem of my shirt, fist locked in the cotton.
“Not finished,” he gasped, voice rough and mean. He hauled hard.
The shirt tore up the side seam with an ugly rip. Cold air hit my stomach. I stumbled backward, almost falling.
He surged up, momentum weird with one knee not quite steady, and slammed me forward into the counter. Marble dug into my hip. One arm snaked around my waist, dragging me against him; the other shoved the ruined shirt higher, fingers digging into exposed skin.
I got one hand flat on the countertop, the other trapped against my own chest, trying to keep the torn fabric from baring everything to him.
“Let go!” I twisted, elbow driving back blindly. I caught his ribs. He grunted but held on.
“You really think he can keep you safe?” he hissed into my ear. “From me? From them? Doors open when they want. Cameras go dark when they want.” His hand slid up again, closing over my breast, harder this time. “He is not god, devushka. He is dog. They keep leash. You are just?—”
The front lock chimed.
