Page 67 of Santa Daddy
He dabbed at the cut with antiseptic. It stung deep. I hissed despite myself.
“That door stays locked,” he said after a beat.
My spine snapped straight.
“What door?” I asked, trying to sound bored and not like someone who’d just been in that exact room.
“The one in the hall.” His eyes flicked up to mine. Too sharp. Too knowing. “You touched it.”
“Paranoid much?” I snorted. “You think I have some kind of sixth sense for secret murder closets?”
His jaw worked. He went back to wrapping gauze around my hand.
“There are things in my world you don’t see,” he said. “Things you don’t want to see.”
“Oh, you mean like the stainless-steel table and the drain in the floor?” I snapped before I could stop myself. “The hooks? The fun little photo wall?”
He stilled.
For a fraction of a second, the mask slipped.
There it was. The monster from the tree lot. The man who’d stood over a body and looked bored.
My heart climbed into my throat.
Then the expression smoothed away, like I’d imagined it.
“You went inside,” he said softly.
“Door was open,” I lied. “Ever think maybe you shouldn’t leave your little Dexter room on easy mode?”
“That door is not for you,” he said. “What happens in there is not for you.”
“Yeah, got that impression.” I yanked my hand back once he taped the last of the gauze in place. “Looked a lot more like you were protecting yourself than me.”
His eyes flashed. “I am protecting you.”
“By keeping your crime scene prep lab on the same floor as my bedroom?” I shook my head. “Come on. You’re not that selfless. That room is where you do the kind of shit you don’t want on camera. Locking it is about your liability, not my safety.”
Silence stretched.
He didn’t deny it.
Instead, he leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. The dried blood on his knuckles stood out stark against his skin.
“Men I deal with,” he said finally, “they are not afraid of law. Not afraid of pain. They are afraid of what happens when they cross me. That room is reminder.”
“Trophy closet,” I said. “Cute.”
“You are not meant to see it,” he repeated. “You walk into my world and look in every dark corner, you find things you can’t unsee. You think I do not know what that does to a person?”
“I already watched you kill a man,” I shot back. “Pretty sure the unseeing ship has sailed.”
“This is different,” he said. His gaze dropped to my bandaged hand, then flicked to my face. “I thought… maybe I could keep some things away from you.”
Liar.
Or maybe not.
