We drift and knot and drift again. The fire drops to a red bed of heat. The dog lifts his head once as if to ask if we need anything, then resettles with a grumble that sounds like approval. Time gets elastic; the edges of me go petal-soft.
“Bed,” I say at last, because if I stay here I will end up asleep with my cheek against Cast’s thigh and wake with the imprint of his buttons on my face. “Before the gremlins wake up.”
“They’re only gremlins after sugar,” Cast snorts.
I stand, smoothing the jersey down over my hips. Cast’s eyes follow the movement like he’s cataloging a museum piece he’s been given private access to. I extend a hand to him without thinking; he takes it and rises in that unfussy way he does everything difficult—like gravity consulted him before making a plan. His palm is warm and a little rough with travel, the nick across his knuckle a question I’ll ask tomorrow.
We only make it two steps before Damien wraps an arm around my waist from behind. The move is easy and practiced; he pulls me back, lifts, and I startle a laugh that hits the ceiling and comes back down like confetti. He settles me over his shoulder as if I weigh nothing.
“Damien,” I gasp, thumping his back with the side of my fist, mostly for form. My view is now the back of the couch, the fireplace, then the floor sliding by and Cast’s boots stalking next to us. “This is undignified.”
“Tonight,” he announces, cheerful and unbothered, “she’s mine.”
Cast groans—a deep, theatrical, put-upon sound that tries and fails to cover how pleased he is. He rakes a hand through his hair and glares at the fireplace like it personally scheduled the season. “I can’t wait for hockey to be over.”
“Liar,” Damien says over his shoulder, and pats the back of my thigh, scandalously fond. “You love me dramatic.”
“Tragic,” Cast corrects, but his mouth won’t stay in the shape of the word.
I lift my head enough to meet his eyes upside down. The room flips in my vision; he doesn’t. He reaches out and, very gently, with two fingers, tucks the hem of the jersey closer to mylegs so the cold air doesn’t find skin. It’s the kind of tenderness that undoes me faster than heat.
“Mercy,” I tease.
His gaze warms like a door opening. “Always.”
Damien carries me down the hall, shoulder steady under my ribs, laughter ringing easy in the quiet house. Behind us, Cast kills the lights and follows, a shadow and a star, both falling to my mercy.
4
VINCENT
The car turnsthrough the gate. The house glows ahead, soft light spilling through the windows, the warmth of it visible even from the drive. The wreath the kids picked is too large, slightly crooked, its bow slipping to one side. The snow has started to fall again, flakes clinging to the windshield before melting into water.
Through the front window, the pulse of multicolored Christmas lights flickers like a steady heartbeat. I count them without meaning to—red, green, gold, blue—until the car eases to a stop in front of the house we bought three years ago.
The driver, Marcus, steps out and opens my door. “Have a good evening, Mr. Beaumont.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, taking the offered hand as I climb out. “Merry Christmas, Marcus. I’ll see you in the new year.”
“See you in the new year, Mr. Beaumont.” He dips his cap as I pass, and the sound of the car pulling away follows and fades into the hush of falling snow.
The cold hits immediately—sharp and bracing—but the sight of the house dulls the edge of it. Light spills from every window like warmth made visible. Somewhere inside, I can almost hear them: the shriek of a laugh, a scolding whisper, the dog’s tailthumping the floor. I’ve missed it—the noise, the mess, the sense of being wanted.
By the time I step up the front path, the snow has started to settle along my coat, melting against the wool. I pause at the door, hand on the handle, just to breathe it in—sugar, pine, the faint metallic hum of the garland’s tiny bells in the wind.
When I push the door open, warmth rushes up to meet me. The scent hits first: cinnamon, pine, and something faintly smoky, like the aftertaste of cocoa on the stove. Laughter clings to the walls, soft and ghostlike.
I set my bag down by the door, hang my coat, and let my eyes adjust to the gold-lit calm of the kitchen. It looks lived-in in the best way: powdered sugar dusting the floor like snow, cookie crumbs scattered across the counter, a mug still steaming faintly beside the sink. The icing on the cake is theElf on the Shelftaped in dramatic disgrace against the espresso machine, surrounded by the wreckage of some elaborate game.
The scene is absurd and perfect. My stomach twists for missing the madness.
Cast stands at the counter, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a towel slung over his shoulder as he dries a glass. The overhead lights catch the silver in his hair, turning it to frost. For a heartbeat, it feels like years have folded neatly back into this one instant. He looks up when he senses me there.
“The kids left you a case file by the espresso machine,” Cast murmurs, not even looking up at me.
“Are they tired of the elf already?” I smirk.
“Nope, they just want justice.” Cast glances up, words dying on his tongue as he looks me over. “Shit,” he says, mouth quivering.
