Page 37 of Krampus Kruk
“Morgan,” he says, stepping toward me.
“I’m done with you,” I say again, firmer.
He runs a hand through his hair, still silent.
Why isn’t he saying anything?I mean, I’mgladhe’s not, but ...whatever.
I sling my purse over my shoulder and head for the front door. I look back, expecting him to fight more, to fight for me, for us.
Fucking say something, anything, to make this better!
“Take care of yourself, baby girl,” he says somberly.
So he’s done with me now too.
Fuck him!
I slam the door behind me, march to my car, and dive inside. The second the door closes, I scream, “Fuck this snow!”
My windshield is covered in white powder, so I jam the start button and turn on my windshield wipers. The snow brushes off, but the ice remains. I blast my heater, too frustrated to scrape the ice off. I can see well enough. I slam my car into reverse and back out of the driveway. I’ll turn my GPS on in a few blocks.
That’s what I get for catching the fucking feels.I was just a fuck to him. He was just a fuck. That’s the story. That’s therealstory, not whatever fantasy all those orgasms tried to sell me.
“Ugh!” I scream again, gripping the steering wheel as trees blur past me.
I flip the visor down andlaugh, a short, broken sound. I look like I’ve been in a bar fight. My mascara has smeared, making my under eyes dark. My hair is an actual rat’s nest. My neck—oh my God.My neck is covered in hickeys and bruises.
Talk about a walk of shame. My stepbrothers were likely gaming all night and sleeping, and my stepdad doesn’t leave bed until eight sharp.Please, Mom, still be sleeping when I get home.I turn on my phone. Multiple missed calls and texts from her. It’s almost seven in the morning. Yeah, no way I’m that lucky. She probably has been up all night, waiting to yell at me.
30
Isit on my couch, elbows on my knees, head in my hands, replaying everything that just happened.
It would be easier to let her go. She’s half my age—bright, free, untethered. Sheshouldwalk away from me and never look back.
I could pretend none of it mattered, pretendshedidn’t matter. But she does.
She got under my skin—inside me. And now, I want her to be with me. Fuck, maybe that’s the problem. I don’t do want. I take. I control. I hold the line and make the rules.
But she made me want—and I didn’t know what to do with that.
Last night, she was mine, calling me Daddy, letting me in deeper than I expected, and I let her walk away without a fight.
Coward.
I’ve handled violence, betrayal, loss. I’ve faced death. I’ve put bullets in bodies and cleaned up the mess myself. I always knew what to do in those moments.
But this? Being soft when it matters? I’ve never been good at that.
I glance at the cushion—the stain reminds me of how she let go, how she gave herself to me. And now? Who knows if she ever will again.
I reach for it, only to stop myself.
Don’t be fucking pathetic.
Still, my mind replays the moment the spark died behind her eyes, the second her name left my lips and I just froze.
Sixty-four fucking years old, and I still revert to stoic silence the second I feel vulnerable.
