Elise gasps and claps her mittened hands together. “It has sparkles!”
“They’re ice crystals,” Damien laughs, crouching to her level. “But sure—sparkles.”
Vincent joins them, his breath visible in the cold, his gloved hand resting briefly on Damien’s shoulder as they test the branches for fullness. For a heartbeat, the two of them share that rare, easy camaraderie that only happens when no one’s trying too hard.
I’m smiling before I even realize it, a warmth blooming low in my chest.
“This one,” Vincent decides at last, stepping back to look at the tree from another angle. “It’s balanced, full. Classic.”
“Balanced,” Cast echoes dryly behind me. “How very Vincent of you.”
I turn, surprised—I hadn’t even heard him approach. He’s wearing his dark wool coat, collar turned up, black gloves dusted with frost. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes—the kind of green that always looks like trouble—is fixed on me, not the tree.
“What?” I ask, smiling despite myself. “Don’t like his choice?”
He takes a slow step closer, then another, until he’s beside me, the scent of leather and smoke and pine folding around us. “Oh, the tree’s fine,” he says. “I’m just trying to figure out when we started letting Vincent pickeverything.”
“Because he’s efficient?” I tease.
“Because he’s bossy,” Cast corrects, and that smirk, the dangerous one that always makes my pulse stumble, curls the corner of his mouth.
Before I can answer, Damien calls out, “All right, troops! Help me lift this one—Vincent, you tie it down. Rose, you’re the supervisor.”
Vincent gives a mock salute, and even he laughs, the sound short but genuine. The kids cheer and rush to help, their laughter scattering through the trees like windbells.
Cast touches my elbow gently, drawing my attention back to him. “Walk with me for a second.”
I blink, caught off guard. “What? Why?”
He just nods once toward the others—Vincent and Damien now wrangling the tree onto the cart, kids buzzing around them in a blur of scarves and mittens. “They’ve got it handled,” he whispers in the curve of my ear. “Come on.”
I hesitate for half a second before he takes my hand—firm, certain—and leads me between the trees, away from the laughter and the clatter of saws. The ground crunches under our boots, snow giving way to packed earth. The cold air bites my cheeks, but his hand is warm through his glove, his grip steady and unhurried.
When we stop, it’s quiet—just the whisper of wind through branches, the faint creak of twine as someone ties another tree behind us. The noise of our family is distant now, blurred into background music.
“What’s going on?” I ask, searching his face. “You’re acting strange.”
He looks down at me, eyes sharp and soft all at once. “I’m not acting strange,” he says. “I’m just tired.”
“Of what?” I ask carefully, though my voice comes out softer than I mean it to.
Cast leans in slightly, close enough that his breath clouds between us. “Of not getting you alone,” he murmurs.
My pulse skips. The words hang there, curling like smoke in the cold.
“Cast—”
He gives a small, lopsided grin. “That I’m not sharing you all day.”
“But we have to?—”
He tilts his head, his mouth curving in that familiar, dangerous half-smile. “Relax, Angel. I’m just going to do what you love.” His tone is teasing, but there’s a thread beneath it—low, real, a kind of hunger makes my stomach flip, especially since Vincent left me needy this morning. “I just wanted five minutes with you.”
I swallow hard. “Five minutes to do what I love?”
He reaches up, his gloved fingers brushing the edge of my scarf where it meets my throat, and he yanks on it rough, the fabric choking me lightly as I stumble into his chest. “You still like to be my naughty little slut in public, don’t you?”
His voice is a low growl against my ear, the grip on my scarf firm, forcing me up onto my toes. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.Yes.The word is a silent scream in my head, but all I can manage is a choked gasp, a desperate nod.
