Page 56 of Santa Daddy
“I should have,” I said.
Would have if she hadn’t been sitting there, if I hadn’t needed witnesses to see exactly where the lines were drawn.
“He barely touched me and you—” She threw a hand toward the windshield. “You turned his face into modern art. In public.”
“He touched you,” I said. Words came out rougher than I intended. “That was enough.”
“Enough for what? A public execution?” she snapped. “You’re like some caveman pissing in the snow to mark his territory.”
I huffed a short, humorless laugh and yanked the car onto the shoulder. Tires bit into snow, the car fishtailed slightly, then settled. I killed the engine. Turned to her.
“You want me to act like you’re mine?” I asked, letting my voice drop. Letting her remember who she’d watched slam a rival’s face into a table like he was nothing. “Then you are mine.”
Silence thickened the air.
Her pulse kicked in her throat, visible under the strap of her dress. Her breathing hitched. The car’s interior shrank to the two of us, the snow, and the way she looked at me like she hated everything I was saying and also wanted me to say more.
She was aroused. She could scream about Medvedov and table violence all she wanted. Her body told the truth.
“You want me to act like your wife?” she whispered, leaning toward me. Her breath ghosted my mouth. “Earn it.”
Dangerous words.
They sparked between us like a match in a gasoline puddle.
I saw the exact moment she realized what she’d said. Her eyes widened, flickering to my mouth, then away. But she didn’t take it back.
Reckless. Perfect.
I reached out slowly, giving her time to recoil.
She didn’t.
My thumb traced the line of her jaw, the soft skin under the edge of her ear. Her breath caught, but she held my gaze.
“Don’t challenge me, ptichka,” I said, letting all the dark promise I was capable of thread my tone. “I always win.”
And when I won this one—when I turned her from kidnapped witness to Christmas Eve wife in front of church candles and bells—there’d be no going back for either of us.
12
SURRENDER IN THE DARK
DANI
The penthouse door clicked shut behind us, sharp as a gunshot in the quiet.
Snow-blurred city light bled through the windows, casting the living room in that strange gray-blue glow December does so well. Somewhere in the main room, the big white-and-silver tree blinked its cold little heart out. Soft instrumental Christmas music drifted from the ceiling speakers—piano and strings trying to make the world sound gentle.
Konstantin’s fingers were still wrapped around my wrist.
Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough that there was no mistaking who was leading and who was being led.
Run. This is your moment. Tell him to go to hell and walk straight out.
My feet didn’t move.
They felt nailed to his marble. To his world. To him.
