Page 6 of Unholy Night
The eggs sizzle as I pour them into the pan, giving me an excuse not to look at her. She's not wrong. But she's not entirely right either. She doesn't know Leo's temper got someone killed, about the Santos son who drew a gun first, about the blood I'm wearing to protect my hot-headed cousin.
"You think you understand my world," I say, focusing on the breakfast because if I look at her now, I might do something stupid. Like tell her the whole truth. Or pin her against the counter until she stops talking. "You think your law degree and your righteousness give you insight into how things really work."
"I understand enough. Your family destroys everything it touches. You enable them."
"Enable them." I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Is that what you call it?"
"What would you call it?"
I flip the eggs with unnecessary force. "Survival."
"That's an excuse."
"That's reality." I grip the counter's edge, knuckles going white, because the alternative is crossing to her, backing her against the wall, showing her exactly how thin the line is between violence and something else entirely. My mouth actually aches with the need to shut her up, to taste that defiance, to swallow her accusations.
But I won't. I have more restraint than that. The same restraint that keeps me from making certain calls. The same restraint that will get me killed if my family finds out she's still breathing.
"Your reality," she says, and her voice is softer now, almost sad. "You choose to stay with them. You choose to be their weapon."
I plate the eggs, add bacon, slide it across to her with enough force to make the porcelain ring. "Eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"I wasn't asking." I lean across the counter, close enough to see her breath catch. "You're under my roof. That means you follow my rules. First rule: you eat when I tell you to eat."
She picks up the fork, but her eyes stay on me, defiant even in compliance. "Why did you save me?"
The question catches me off guard. I could lie, give her some story about family honor or practical concerns. Instead, I tell her something closer to truth. "Maybe I'm tired of watching people die."
Something flickers in her expression. For just a moment, she looks at me like I'm a person instead of a problem to solve. Like she sees past the Rosetti name to something else. Something that might be worth saving.
Then she takes a bite of eggs and the moment passes.
We settle into an uncomfortable rhythm at the breakfast bar, the wind howling outside, shaking the windows with each gust. She hums while she eats. "Silent Night" again, the melody threading through the tension between us. Every time she hums that particular carol, something shifts in my chest. Like remembering what innocence felt like, before I learned to load a gun at twelve.
"Got any films in this giant cabin? Something to pass the time?" she asks.
I hold back my smirk. That question sounds a lot like her giving in. "Sure. Put on a Christmas movie, get in the mood. We've got Elf, The Santa Clause, Die Hard—"
"'Die Hard' is not a Christmas movie," she says.
I glance at her, scowling. "It takes place on Christmas Eve."
"That doesn't make it a Christmas movie." Her voice rises with passionate conviction. "By that logic, any movie that happens near a holiday is a holiday movie."
"A man fights impossible odds to reunite with family. Sounds like Christmas to me." I let my gaze travel over her deliberately. "Though McClane had it easy. His wife actually wanted saving."
Color floods her cheeks. "I don't need saving."
"No?" I move around the counter, stop just outside her personal space. "You broke into a safe house in a blizzard. You're trapped here with someone you consider a dangerous criminal. Your car's buried, phone's dead, and the only person who knows you exist right now is me." I lean in, close enough to feel her breath on my face. "Sounds like you need all kinds of saving, prosecutor."
"From you or by you?" The question escapes before she can stop it, and we both freeze.
The air between us crackles with something that has nothing to do with danger and everything to do with the way her lips part, the way she's looking at me right now like she can't decide if she wants to run or reach for me.
I step back first, needing distance before I do something irreversibly stupid. "Finish your breakfast."
That night, after a day of careful avoidance and verbal sparring, we face the bedroom situation. The others are under construction, plastic sheeting and exposed drywall making them uninhabitable. The couch is a narrow torture device designed by someone who hated comfort, although that didn't stop me frominsisting on sleeping there last night. Not a mistake I’ll make again.
