Page 20 of Unholy Night
Not a question. Not an accusation. Just a fact.
"They would have killed you." I set my gun on the table, check the windows. "Tortured you first, probably. Made you scream so I'd hear it."
She moves toward me, and I expect her to stop, to maintain that distance. Instead, she takes my hand, turns it palm up, examining the blood on the snow-soaked ground visible through our shattered window.
"You're hurt."
I look down. There's a graze along my forearm I hadn't noticed, blood seeping through my shirt. "It's nothing."
"Sit," she orders, already heading for the bathroom.
She returns with the first aid kit, expression unreadable. I should be disposing of bodies, setting defensive positions, preparing for what comes next. Instead, I sit still while she tends my wounds, her touch gentle but efficient.
She applies antibiotic cream, starts wrapping gauze. Her hands shake as she ties off the bandage, but she doesn't pull away. I watch her choose me over her principles, and something breaks in my chest. Her pupils are dilated, breath coming faster. Not from fear. Christ, watching me kill turned her on. My perfect angel is getting wet from my violence.
"Three men are dead in our yard."
"Three men who came here to kill us."
"To kill you. Because they think you murdered someone." She sits back on her heels. "But you didn't. You're just wearing the blood for someone else's crime."
"That's what family does."
"Your family." She looks toward the window, where dawn is starting to lighten the sky. Through the broken glass, we can see the bodies, dark shapes against white snow. "This is the price of loyalty to them."
"Yes."
She straddles my lap, and I claim her mouth, tasting her acceptance of my darkness. The kiss is desperate, possessive, marking her as surely as any brand.
Her fingers thread through my hair. "I should be running from you."
"But you're not." My hands grip her hips, holding her against me where she can feel how much I need her, how hard my cock is despite the violence, because of it.
"No," she breathes against my mouth. "I can't."
She stands, moves to the window. I watch her study the scene: the tactical positions, the blood patterns. Her prosecutor's mind recording evidence even now. But when she turns back to me, there's acceptance in her eyes. Not approval, not forgiveness, just acceptance of what I am.
"It's gone," she says softly, gesturing at her paper snowflakes now fluttering and broken in the frigid breeze from the broken windows. "Our Christmas bubble, this perfect isolation. It's gone, isn't it?"
"The moment Leo called, it was over."
She crosses to me, cups my face in her hands. "You would have died for him. Taken the Santos' revenge even though you're innocent."
"He's family."
"And what am I?"
The question hangs between us. Everything. The reason I'll burn the world if they touch you. But I can't say that. Not when more killers are coming. Not when loving me paints a target on her back.
"You're the woman who just watched me kill three men and made the choice to tend my wounds instead of running." I pull her against me, feeling her heart race against my chest. "That makes you either very brave or very stupid."
"Or very owned," she whispers against my shoulder.
The words hit me hard, punching through my chest. I should send her away, make me protect her from myself. Instead, I pull her closer, selfish bastard that I am. I grip her tighter, breathing in vanilla and gun smoke, Christmas pine and blood.
“I don’t know who I am anymore," she continues, voice muffled against my shirt.
"You don’t need to know who you are. Just what you are."
