Page 52 of Tinsel & Chrome

His eyes darken, a predatory heat flaring in their depths. “Careful, princess. I might not let you leave the bed for days.”

I smirk. “That’s the idea.”

He doesn’t wait for me to say anything else. He grabs my hand, leading me through the clubhouse and out the door. The cold air hits me, sharp and biting, but I don’t feel it.

Not when Tex’s heat wraps around me, pulling me into the kind of chaos I crave.

The kind I know we’ll survive.

Together.

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Chapter Ten

Tex

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Christmas Eve...

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There’s a certain kind of quiet that only comes after a full house settles. Not silence—just peace. The kind you feel more than hear.

Larissa’s tucked under my arm, warm and soft, curled up like she belongs there. Because she does. Every inch of this place has been rebuilt from something broken. And so has she.

Across the room, Johan’s sitting on a throw blanket in front of the fireplace, gently rolling a little wooden car back and forth—one Vamp carved himself with CeCe supervising (read: shouting “again!” every three seconds). CeCe’s in Lena’s lap now, thumb in her mouth, hair full of glitter and tinsel, half-asleep against her mama’s chest.

Lena hums something soft while she rocks her, voice light and low, more breeze than melody. She glows in that quiet way she always does—like she’s lit from the inside. And Vamp’s behind her with a hand resting gently on her shoulder, his other arm loosely around Johan, who’s now dozing upright.

They’re the kind of family you bleed for.

And somehow, we’re part of that now.

Larissa watches the scene with that little half-smile of hers, the one that says she sees everything and lets it crack her open anyway. Her fingers find mine under the blanket.

Her voice is barely a whisper. “This... this feels like the kind of life I didn’t believe I could have.”

I squeeze her hand. “It’s yours now. All of it.”

We slowly stand, hand in hand, and make our way upstairs to our room.

The door clicks shut behind us and Larissa turns, backlit by the soft string of lights hung over the window. She peels off my cut first—slow, deliberate—and lays it over the back of the chair. Her fingers move to the hem of her sweater dress next.

“You sure you don’t want to unwrap me?” she asks, lifting the red knit up inch by inch, revealing bare thighs and that curve of her waist that drives me insane.

“I’m savoring the view,” I rasp, voice gone low and raw.

I step closer, slipping the dress over her head. She’s not wearing a bra—just a tiny scrap of red lace that barely counts as underwear. My breath catches.

“You’re dangerous,” I murmur, letting my hands roam over the warm skin of her waist, her hips, her thighs.

She smiles up at me, sweet and smug. “I’m yours.”

I hook a finger in the waistband of her panties and drag them down slowly, kneeling as I go. I kiss the inside of her thigh, then the soft skin right at her hipbone. She shivers.

“Lie back,” I say, voice rough.

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