Page 26 of Burned By Sin
Chapter Sixteen
Opening my eyes, I lie in bed, waiting for the excitement to set in. It never does, but I’ve heard people are supposed to be excited on Christmas Day. Every year, I follow this ritual, my own tradition if you will, hoping that for one day a year, a giddy thrill might bubble in my blackened soul. Even demons should get a day off from torment, right?
Usually, I spend Christmas morning in a cold mansion where the walls are too white and there are furnished rooms just for show, pretending not to notice that my father’s already gone to some resort or meeting that apparently couldn’t wait for his son. It’s always been that way, as if he’s ran from any situation that might require some nurturing.
Even with the customary feeling of emptiness, I know this year is going to be different. There’s warmth here, a lazy kind of peace that creeps beneath my skin. The air smells faintly of cinnamon and burnt wood from the fireplace downstairs. There’s a faint murmur of voices, Harper’s soft laugh and Clay’s deeper one blending together. Any other day, the sound would have grated on my last nerve, but I suppose that’s the magic of today. For the first time in years, I’m not surrounded by empty gestures or silver platters. I’m surrounded by people who have experienced life.
I roll onto my back, staring up at the timber ceiling, its panels uneven and imperfect. My father would’ve sent builders to replace them immediately. My chest tightens in a way I don’t like, an ache that isn’t anger or jealousy, just something softer I haven’t named yet. I hate that Harper’s probably responsible for it.
Dragging myself out of bed, I pull on a shirt and wander down the hall, the scent of coffee and something sweet hitting me halfway down the stairs. Harper’s in the kitchen wearing a pair of fluffy socks with one of my hoodies, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows as she flips pancakes on an ancient stovetop. Clay’s beside her, arguing over whether syrup counts as a food group. The sight is so absurdly domestic, it makes me freeze at the bottom step, unsure if I belong in the frame or if I’m just intruding on something perfect.
“Morning, Scrooge,” Harper teases when she finally notices me, her smile curving her perfect lips. Clay doesn’t look up, but I catch the smirk tugging at his lips. “You hungry?” she adds, and I shrug, wandering closer just for an excuse to be near her warmth. She doesn’t realize how effortlessly she exudes the humble gratification that some people spend lifetimes chasing.
Uncaring of the bodyguard looming beside her, I step in behind and wrap my arms around Harper’s body. She leans back into me as I steal a hug and move on just as quickly. The pair must have been awake for a while, considering how the table is pre-laid with plates, cutlery, and a little stack of mismatched mugs that look like they came straight from someone’s grandmother’s attic. There’s even a candle flickering in the middle, red and white striped and shaped like a candy cane.
At Harper’s instruction, Clayton carries over a mug and plants it in front of me. Whipped cream floats over the hot cocoa, and when I sip the rim, I get a straight shot of spirit. I almost choke, the taste catching me off guard until Harper winks and giggles. Hot cocoa and whiskey. I’m going to marry this girl.
Stacking the pancakes high on a plate, the pair of them join me with their own drinks, a peaceful calm falling over the table. It’sstrange, but I endure it, listening to a quiet Christmas playlist in the background. Maybe this is what’s normal. We eat, drink and settle until the stack is gone and the mugs are empty.
“What’s Merry Christmas in sign language?” Clayton asks, wiping his mouth on a napkin with gold trim. Harper beams as if he’s just given her some incredible gift, brushing her flattened palm twice against her chest and making an arched C shape with her hand. Clayton copies it back, much to Harper’s delight and I roll my eyes.Suck up. Harper stands to clear up but Clayton rushes to stop her.
“You go relax. We’ll handle this,” he gestures from himself to me.
“Will we?” I ask, my voice loaded with a challenge. This asshole is becoming far too comfortable in my company these days. Harper’s already shrugged and walked away, her fingers stroking the line of my shoulders as she goes. Huffing, I collect up the plates, making sure to clatter them noisily the entire time. Dumping them on the side, I go to turn away when Clayton slaps a hand towel against my chest.
“I’ll wash, you dry,” he grunts, pushing his hands into the soapy water filling the basin. He’s lucky I don’t shove his head in it. Call it the Christmas spirit but I stand there, drying fucking dishes like the maid. As Harper puts on a cheesy festive movie, Clayton leans in.
“You’ve got her a present, I presume.” I freeze in place, water dripping from the plate in my hand.
“A present?” I parrot back, my brows pulled tightly together. Clayton looks at me like I’m some kind of idiot.
“Yeah…like a gift. Where do you think Christmas presents come from?”
“Personal assistants,” I answer honestly. Clayton’s expression grows concerned, but I shrug off his unease. When I was young, my father’s personal assistant would pick up and wrap presents, leaving them at the end of my bed like a prim version of Santa in heels. A few years later, I walked in on him screwing her in a Santa Claus suit and any innocence I had left quickly died. Clayton groans, fighting with himself to keep his voice low and level.
“Youneed to give Harper something.”
“Like what?” I ask, annoyed with myself for needing the bastard’s help with something so simple. I’ve never given a present in my life. I wouldn’t even know where to start. Wiping the towel out of my hands, where it’s been held in suspension, Clayton finishes the drying himself.
“You’re supposed to put thought into a gift and consider who you’re gifting it to. What they will like, something they’ve been wanting and won’t get for themselves.” Finishing the chore, Clayton pulls open a drawer and retrieves a rectangular package, wrapped in greaseproof paper or similar. He’s far too self-assured, his shoulders pulled back as he approaches Harper. I stalk after him on silent feet, watching the display with keen interest.
Clearing his throat, Clayton lowers onto the rug to where Harper has slunk down to be closer to the fire. Redirecting her eyes from craning her neck to see the TV, her hair catches the glow like spun copper and candy floss. She blinks at Clayton, a smile already forming. I hate how easily she gives it to him. How he doesn’t even have to work for it. He holds out the small parcel, suddenly awkward in the way he shifts and angles his head away from her direct stare. Harper takes it gently, her brows lifting as she peels away the paper to reveal an old, leather-bound notebook, the edges frayed and the corners softened by time.
“I found it on the bookshelf,” Clay mutters, scratching the back of his neck. “Figured you could fill it with all those thoughts you keep to yourself.” I snort to myself. What a fucking loser, she won’t care for that.
Except I’m eating my words as Harper’s mouth parts, her hands cradling the notebook as if it’s a precious piece of treasure. Then her hands fly up to her mouth, and I swear her eyes glimmer brighter than the goddamn Christmas tree behind her. She whispers something I can’t catch before throwing her arms around Clay’s shoulders, the notebook pressed between them as she giggles into his chest. He stiffens at first, then melts, actually freaking melts like his limbs have liquefied, hishand hovering uncertainly before landing at her back. A punch slams into me, right in the center of my ribs.
I’ve never seen her look like that. Not even with me. The sound she makes, a soft, breathless, and unguarded noise, rips through me worse than any fight we’ve ever had. Clayton doesn’t even notice I’m watching, too wrapped up in her quiet joy, and for a split second I envy him. I’ve never envied anyone in my life, but then again, no one has ever had something I wanted. I want her to look at me like that. To see something I’ve done, something I’ve given, and think it’s enough. My fists clench at my sides before I can stop them, nails biting into my palms. When Harper finally pulls back, she’s still smiling, thumb tracing the notebook’s cover.
“It’s perfect,” she signs and speaks. Clay’s answering grin is small but genuine, the kind of smile that makes him seem years younger, erasing years of trauma in a flash. I hate that it suits him. I hate that it works, this stupid gift giving sentiment. Harper looks down at her notebook again, clutching it to her chest, and I can’t take my eyes off her. I should be happy that she’s happy, but all I can think about is how badly I want to be the one who makes her light up like that.
I storm back upstairs, two steps at a time, muttering every curse I know under my breath. The door slams behind me, the echo bouncing off the wooden beams like a reprimand, but I don’t care. My jaw aches from clenching it too long, my pulse caught somewhere between anger and desperation. An old notebook is all it took. I can do better than that.
I tear through drawers, rifling through half-empty cupboards and shelves of useless trinkets, refusing to admit that the real problem isn’t that I don’t have anything to give her, it’s that I don’t know what she likes. Aside from my dick, but I can’t even find a ribbon to tie around that.
My frustration hits a wall of despair as I backhand a row of miniature bottles across the bathroom counter and onto the floor. My reflection in the mirror looks deranged, driven mad with the need to impress thegirl downstairs and improve the man staring back at me. The bottles roll, one tapping my foot. Slowly looking down at the offensive object, a lightbulb pings to life in my head.
Retrieving the complimentary toiletries, I hold the lotion, moisturiser, and body oil in my hands, the cogs in my mind turning and a smile carving across my face. I’ve got it.
