Page 15 of Unholy Night
"Tell me," I whisper, turning in his arms. "Please."
The words come out like they're being torn from him. "Christmas was my mother crying in her bedroom while my father destroyed anything that looked like joy. It was learning to hide the presents relatives sent because he'd burn them to teach us that happiness was weakness."
My hands find his chest, feeling his heart race under my palm.
"It was fear," he continues, voice dropping to something lethal. "Every holiday, every celebration, just another excuse for him to remind us who held the power. Until I got big enough to fight back."
"How old were you?"
He turns away, but I catch his arm. He could break free easily, I've seen his strength, but he lets me hold him.
"How old, Tomas?"
"Sixteen." The word comes out sharp, brittle. "I was sixteen when I killed him."
The confession hangs between us like a loaded gun. Everything I was trained to believe wars inside me. The law says he's a murderer, guilty of patricide, first-degree murder. But my heart sees a boy who had no choice. How many cases did I prosecute where I ignored this kind of context?
"Tell me," I say softly.
"He had his hands around my mother's throat. Again. But that time…" His fists clench. "That time I could see he wasn't going to stop. So I got his gun. Three bullets to the chest. I watched him bleed out on our kitchen floor while my mother screamed."
The weight of his confession settles over us. Pine scent from yesterday's branch-gathering mixes with coffee and the promise of pancakes, such normal smells for such an abnormal moment.
"Your mother?"
"Alive. Safe. She lives in Italy now, far from all of this." His hands come up to cup my face, grip just tight enough to remind me of his strength. "She sends me Christmas cards every year. I never respond."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm the son who killed her husband. Who chose blood over fear. What kind of Christmas greeting covers that?"
My hands slide up to cover his, holding them against my face. "You were just a child. A child who did what he had to do to save his mother."
"I was a killer." His thumb traces my cheekbone with treacherous gentleness.
"You were a boy who deserved better. Who deserved Christmas mornings and pancake recipes and love that didn't come with bruises." My voice breaks on the words. "You're allowed to grieve the father you should have had, Tomas. The childhood that was stolen from you."
Something cracks in his expression, a fault line straight through his careful control. "Natalie…"
I press my palm against the scar on his chest—the one that runs closest to his heart. He covers my hand with his, and I feel his pulse racing beneath the old wound.
He kisses me then, different from last night's desperate hunger. This is gentle at first, almost reverent, like I'm something holy he doesn't deserve to touch. Then his hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back, and the kiss turns possessive, claiming.
"Say it," he demands against my lips. "Say you choose this. Choose me, knowing what I am."
"I choose you," I gasp. "Not the story they tell about you, not the reputation or the violence. You. The man who quotes philosophy and does crosswords and saved my life even though I was hunting your family."
"You can't mean that."
"Watch me."
I take his hand, lead him to the living room where last night's fire has died to embers. Morning light streams through the windows, painting everything golden and soft. I pull him down onto the thick rug, the same one where I nearly died, where he brought me back to life. His gun clatters to the floor beside us, forgotten for once.
This time when we come together, it's with complete devotion. Every touch is a promise, every kiss a vow. He moves over me with heartbreaking gentleness at first, like he's afraid I'll shatter, like I'm the first good thing he's ever been allowed to keep.
When he enters me, we both gasp. Not from the physical sensation, though that's overwhelming, but from the emotional weight of it. This isn't just sex. This is communion, two damaged people finding grace in each other's arms.
"I…" He stops himself, jaw clenching, fighting something internal.
