Page 47 of Santa Daddy
“You’re scared,” he said.
“I’m not scared of you,” I lied automatically.
“No.” His hand pressed a fraction more firmly into my hip. “You’re scared of this.”
“This what?” I asked, even though I already knew.
“What you’re becoming.” He held my gaze. “What you’re willing to become.”
His.
Completely and utterly his.
I opened my mouth to deny it. To tell him he was wrong, that I wasn’t changing, that I could walk out of here the same girl who’d shown up in candy-cane tights and thought the worst thing about Christmas was Mariah Carey.
Nothing came out.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
I was terrified. Not of bullets or bodies or the way he could snap my neck with one hand.
I was terrified of how much I wanted him. How much I’d already given away without signing anything. How easy it would be to let the rest go.
He was my jailer. Yes.
He was also the only shield between me and a table full of men who saw me as a problem to be solved.
And probably, eventually, he’d be my ruin.
The thought threaded through my mind like a prayer and a curse.
This was the real trap. Not the locks. Not the alarms. Not the bulletproof glass.
This.
The way he made me want to stay.
He stepped back finally, like he’d recognized the exact moment I’d gotten to the edge and looked down.
Turned his back on me and walked toward the bedroom, casual, like he hadn’t just dismantled another layer of my defenses with gauze and a few well-placed words.
Don’t follow him.
Don’t prove his point.
My traitorous feet carried me anyway.
I found him at his nightstand, unlocking the drawer I’d rattled earlier. Inside, nestled among watches and documents, was a gun.
Black metal. Sleek. Efficient. Meant to make problems disappear.
Of course he kept one within arm’s reach when he slept. Probably had one in every room. This was who he was. Dangerous, deadly, and without remorse when it came to protecting what he considered his.
Our eyes met over the weapon.
He saw me see it.
Didn’t flinch. Didn’t move to hide it. Just let me look.
