Page 11 of Unholy Night
"Tomorrow," he agrees, his mouth hovering over mine, close enough that I feel his words more than hear them. "I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."
The promise—dark, possessive, absolutely certain—makes my knees weak. His grip tightens in my hair, tilting my head back further, exposing my throat to him. For a moment, I think he's going to kiss me again, claim my mouth until I can't remember my own name.
Instead, he releases me and walks toward the bedroom, each step measured and controlled, leaving me trembling by the dying fire. My lips still burn from his kiss, my scalp tingles where he gripped my hair, and my whole body aches with unfulfilled want.
I watch him disappear into the shadows of the hallway, already counting the hours until dawn, already knowing that tomorrow I'll let him keep his promise. That tomorrow I'll beg him to.
God help me, I want him to ruin me. I want to forget every reason I came here. I want to let him corrupt me in ways that would horrify the righteous woman I was just days ago.
The candles flicker around me, casting dancing shadows. But maybe this isn't weakness at all. Maybe choosing to want him—choosing to stay instead of fighting, choosing to let tomorrow come with all its dark promises—is the strongest thing I've ever done.
Or maybe I'm just telling myself that because I can still taste him on my lips, still feel the ghost of his hands in my hair, and I already know that tomorrow won't come fast enough.
4 - Tomas
She’s folding my shirts like she belongs here, and I’m three seconds from making that delusion a reality.
Two nights. That's all it's been since she stumbled onto my porch, half-frozen and desperate. I kissed her by the dying fire last night while the generator sat dead and useless. This morning I managed to get it running again, barely, giving us back lights and heat, though who knows for how long. Now she moves through my space with dangerous familiarity, as if those two nights have given her claim to it.
Paper snowflakes cut from my old files hang from the ceiling, catching firelight like frozen stars. A wreath made from pine branches she gathered this morning sits on the mantle like she's trying to make this feel normal. Like Christmas Eve in a killer's cabin could ever be normal.
I watch from my chair by the fire, whiskey burning in my throat, tracking every unconscious gesture she makes. The way she smooths each shirt before folding it. The domestic intimacy of it all makes something feral prowl beneath my skin.
She's wearing my sweater again, the black cashmere one, paired with leggings that outline legs I've been dreaming about wrapping around my waist. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun, exposing the elegant line of her neck. A neck I imagined marking with my teeth all of last night after her hand found mine in the darkness, that ridiculous pillow wall she built crumbling between us like it could stop what's building here.
"I never learned to fold shirts properly," she mentions casually, shaking out another of my button-downs. "Used to drive my colleagues crazy at the DA's office. Everything always ended up wrinkled."
She glances over with a self-deprecating smile. "There was this one ADA who tried to teach me his perfect folding method. Very particular about everything. His desk was like a museum exhibit."
ADA. Colleague. The words echo in my skull while something hot and possessive floods my veins. She's talking about her old life, mentioning some asshole from her office while wearing my clothes, standing in my cabin, folding my fucking shirts like this is normal. Like bringing up her past doesn't make me want to erase every memory she has that doesn't include me.
I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving. Three strides and I'm behind her, close enough to feel her warmth, smell the vanilla of her shampoo mixed with my soap from her shower this morning.
"Your colleague," I repeat, the words burning on my tongue.
She stills, the shirt forgotten in her hands. "It's not… he was just someone from work."
"I don't care if he was the Pope." My hand closes around her wrist, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to feel her pulse rocket under my fingers. "You don't talk about other men. Not here. Not wearing my clothes. Not ever."
She turns slowly in my grip, and instead of the fear I expect, her eyes are bright with something else. Challenge. Heat. Recognition.
"Jealous, Tomas?" The question is soft, but there's steel underneath. Two nights ago, she was terrified. Now she's deliberately provoking me, and fuck if that doesn't make me harder than I already was.
"You're folding my laundry." I pull her closer, until she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "Decorating my space. Tell me, prosecutor. What exactly do you think is happening here?"
Her free hand comes up to rest on my chest, right over my racing heart. "I don't know. Why don't you tell me?"
The whiskey, her proximity, the memory of her lips on mine last night all crash together into something inevitable. "You're mine. That's what's happening."
"Prove it."
Two words. That's all it takes to snap the last thread of my control.
I lift her onto the kitchen counter in one motion, stepping between her legs before she can close them. Her gasp echoes through the cabin, but she doesn't push me away. Instead, her thighs part wider, making room for me like her body knows what her mind is still fighting.
"Dangerous game." My hands grip her thighs, thumbs stroking over the thin fabric of her leggings. "Provoking a man like me."
"Maybe I'm tired of games." Her fingers curl into my shirt, pulling me closer. "Maybe I want something real."
