Page 9 of Unholy Night
He pauses in his candle-lighting, something shifting in his expression. Like he's remembering what reverence felt like before he learned to be what he is now. "Why that song?"
"I don't know." I move closer to the fireplace, though it is dead. The woodsmoke smell still lingers. "Maybe because everything feels unholy right now. My father died alone in the dark because he tried to do the right thing. To stand up to people with power. People like your family."
"And that's why you became a lawyer." He sits on the floor near the fireplace, close enough that I can feel his body heat radiating toward me. "To fight back."
"To find justice." I sink down beside him, drawn by the warmth and the light despite every warning bell in my head. "Though sometimes I wonder if that's even possible anymore."
"It's not," he says simply. "There's no justice. Just power and the people willing to use it."
"You can't really believe that."
"Can't I?" He turns to look at me, face half in shadow, half in firelight, beautiful and threatening in equal measure. "I've seen what justice looks like in my world. It's bought, sold, traded like any other commodity."
"It…I…" I have to fight not to lean into his warm, solid chest. "How can you say those things and also quote philosophy at me?"
"Disappointed I can read, prosecutor?" There's dark amusement in his voice when I stare at him.
"Surprised you choose to."
"We all have our escapes. Yours is singing. Mine is philosophy." His smile is sharp. "Both equally useless against bullets."
I resume humming "O Holy Night," the notes steadier now. Something changes in his expression when I reach the part about falling on your knees. Raw hunger flashes across his face before he banks it.
"You have training," he says suddenly. "When you hum. It's not random. Opera?"
"I studied it. Before law school. Before Dad…" I trail off, struck by how observant he is, how he notices details about me like they matter.
"Why did you stop?"
"Because beauty doesn't win court cases. It doesn't put criminals behind bars. What did you say? It doesn't stop bullets."
"Yet you still reach for it when you're afraid." The observation is too accurate, too intimate. "Beauty in darkness. Sacred songs while sitting next to someone you consider profane."
We're sitting close on the floor, shoulders almost touching, the firelight casting dancing shadows on the walls. The storm continues its assault outside, but in here, in this circle of candlelight, I feel unexpectedly safe.
"You have a beautiful voice," he says, the words coming out rough, like they're difficult to admit.
I look up to find his face inches from mine. When did we get so close? The candlelight turns his dark eyes to amber, and I can see myself reflected in them. Not the law. Not the enemy. Just a woman who sang in the darkness.
"Tomas," I whisper his name like a prayer, not a plea.
Something breaks in his expression. Control slipping. The careful distance he's maintained crumbling. His hand comes upto cup my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone gently—the same hand that probably holds a gun with deadly precision.
"We shouldn't," he says, but he's leaning closer, and I can see the war in his eyes between what he should do and what he wants.
"No," I agree, but I'm not pulling away. My mind screams warnings while my traitorous body leans toward him.
His mouth finds mine and I am lost. There’s no warning, no prelude, only the rough, urgent crush of lips that shatters any illusion I had of control. The world outside of this moment dissolves—the falling snow, the cabin, my own sharp-edged dignity—gone, replaced by the singularity of his kiss. It is not gentle, not even a little. There’s a violence to it, as if he wants to erase the last hour, the last day, with sheer force of want.
His hand fists in my hair, tugging my head back to bare my throat, and the sound that escapes me is not quite a gasp, not quite a moan, but something raw and animal. I recognize it for what it is: a sound of need. I hate that he hears it, that he grins against my mouth, but I’m already clutching at his shirt, dragging him closer.
He tastes like whiskey and secrets and the metallic tang of violence. It’s a taste I should despise, but instead it pours through me like gasoline on dry tinder. His tongue swipes over my bottom lip, coaxing, demanding, and I part for him without hesitation. He takes advantage, deepening the kiss until I feel the edges of him everywhere: the scrape of stubble against my chin, the bruising grip of his fingers at my temple, the shudder that runs the length of his body and into mine.
For a single, infinite moment I forget who we are. I forget the reason I came to this cabin in the first place. There is only the heat of his mouth, the way his chest presses me against the side of the sofa, and the growing ache inside me that has nothing to do with the law and everything to do with him.
Then he groans, low and guttural, and the sound vibrates through me. It’s a warning and a promise. His free hand—that lethal hand—slides from my cheek to my jaw, tracing the fragile line of my throat down to the hollow at its base. His thumb paints fire over my pulse point, and he breaks the kiss to stare at me, eyes dark as midnight. He’s breathing hard, his forehead pressed to mine, and for a second there’s nothing predatory in his expression—just a bewildered hunger, as if he’s as lost as I am.
“Tell me to stop,” he mutters, his voice wrecked.
