Page 8 of Wicked Mistletoe

I nod, frantically.

“Then beg for it.”

“Rafael, please.”

“Ah, ha,piccola,” he tuts, voice a low purr. “That’s not begging. You want the pleasure, you play by my rules and?—”

The shrill ring of a phone cuts through the heated atmosphere like a bucket of ice water. Rafael’s phone, to be precise.

“No,” I wail. “Don’t answer it.”

But he’s already peeling away from me, warmth vanishing as he fishes out a sleek smartphone from his pocket. With a final, intense glance at me, he fucking answers it. I melt into the bed in defeat, well aware that this interlude is over.

He thrusts his free hand into his pocket and paces away, speaking low, rapid Italian into the phone. If I strain enough to hear, I could probably make out what he’s saying—thank you, multilingual upbringing—but I can’t summon the energy to eavesdrop.

Not when my traitorous brain finally kicks into gear and decides now is the perfect time for a bout of self-flagellation.

What the hell was that? Are you out of your mind?

Even if it's Rafael, you can’t just throw yourself at someone like that. Slut.

What did you just do? What did you just do? What did?—

“I have to go.” Rafael’s voice cuts through the mental noise, and I’ve never been so grateful for an interruption. Once those nasty little voices start, they don’t stop—they just keep spinning, round and round like a messed-up merry-go-round I can’t get off.

I sit up, frowning as I watch Rafael adjusting his shirt, already moving toward the window he most likely came in through. “You’re leaving? Just like that?”

“Don’t worry,amorina, I’ll be in touch.” And with that cryptic promise, he’s gone.

I scramble out of bed and rush to the window just in time to see him drop from my third-floor balcony. He lands with feline grace and melts into the darkness, while I stand there, freezing as the winter wind bites at my skin.

It’s snowing again.

Fuck.

As I slam the window shut, it hits me—the alarm didn’t go off. Gasping, I stare at the window in disbelief. This is supposedto be a secure agency safe house with top-notch security. Any breach should have triggered ear-splitting alarms.

Some safe house this turned out to be.

Wrapping my arms around myself, I pad downstairs. I need to confirm that I did, in fact, turn the alarm on last night. But when I reach the control panel, my stomach drops.

It’s off… How?

I gape at it, mind racing. I swear I set it, double-checked it even, and that was after locking every single door and window. It’s become a ritual, a nightly routine born of paranoia.

What the hell?

Switching it back on, I feel the tension coil tighter in my chest as I pace the living room, trying to make sense of it all. The oversized Christmas tree next to the fireplace catches my eye, and I can’t help but sigh heavily as I look at it—along with the mistletoe hanging over the doorway. Who decorated this place anyway? What the hell was the point?

I didn’t ask for this shit.

The cheerful baubles and twinkling lights almost feel like they’re mocking me, reminding me that Christmas is only two weeks away, and that once again, I’ll probably be spending it alone, just like every year since I was sixteen.

As I stare at the decorations, Rafael’s visit replays in my mind. The kiss, the touch, the promise of more… and then his abrupt departure. It’s all so confusing.

But with Rafael back in my life, there’s a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this year won’t be as lonely as the others.

The Uber crawls through Manhattan’s crowded streets, and I find myself pressing my forehead against the cool glass of thewindow, watching the world go by. Snowflakes dance in the air, settling on the sidewalks where they’re immediately trampled by the endless parade of holiday shoppers and hurried office workers.

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