I shake my head, overwhelmed. “You don’t have to do this?—”
“Iwantto.” His tone deepens, earnest. “And I want to make sure you get to chase yours, too. The gallery, the installations, whatever you want to build next—I’ll make the time. I’m done putting my world ahead of yours.”
He cups my face in his hands, thumbs tracing softly along my jaw. “I love you, Willow. For what you’ve survived, for what you’ve given, for how you still find beauty in everything—even in me.”
The words hit somewhere deep, somewhere I’ve kept guarded for too long. I lean forward, pressing my forehead against his chest, breathing in the familiar warmth of cedar and smoke. His arms fold around me instantly, strong and sure.
The cold air seeps around us, but it doesn’t matter. The lights glow gold, the papers flutter faintly in my hand, and for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel like a ghost in my own life.
I tilt my head back to look at him, smiling through the tears. “You realize this means I have to get you something equally impossible next year.”
He laughs, low and rough, pressing a kiss to my temple where the bruise has begun to fade. “Good luck topping a scholarship fund, Mrs. Beaumont.”
I let out a quiet laugh and shake my head, the corner of my mouth tugging despite myself. He’s still smiling—that small, certain smile that always gets to me—and before I can stop it, I grab his shirt and pull him in. Our mouths meet, slow and sure. His hand settles at my waist, the warmth of his skin cutting through the chill. For a few seconds, there’s nothing else—just the solid press of him, the faint taste of sugar on his lips, and the steady pulse that reminds me I’m home.
20
WILLOW
It’sclose to midnight by the time we finish setting up the living room for Christmas morning. Every surface looks like the aftermath of some cheerful holiday disaster—cookie crumbs scattered across the floor, powdered sugar tracks trailing from the fireplace, bits of glitter clinging to the curtains, and piles of wrapping paper crowding every corner. Boxes of presents are stacked under the tree, some neatly arranged, others clearly a last-minute scramble. But the centerpiece—the part that makes all of it worth it—is the child-sized, fully functioning train Damien spent the last three hours assembling. Its little engine light flickers softly beneath the glow of the tree, the tracks curling around the base like a secret world waiting to wake. In the morning, I’m supposed to fill the back car with sweet treats and silver bells, a surprise for the girls to discover when they run down the stairs.
Cast leans against the counter, surveying the scene with a smug sort of satisfaction. “Perfect,” he declares, brushing a streak of powdered sugar from his sleeve. “Looks authentic.”
Vincent groans. “Authentic? The man left a trail through the kitchen. Apparently Santa doesn’t believe in cleaning—or in parent clean-up duty.”
“No one told you to pull the short straw,” I tease, bumping my hip against his as I walk by.
Damien laughs, his arms crossed, eyes soft and amused. “The girls are going to lose their minds when they see it.”
“Good,” Cast says, stretching and glancing toward the stairs. “Because I’m officially done playing elf. I’m going to bed before I fall asleep on this floor.”
Vincent nods, yawning. “Seconded. If I see another ribbon tonight, I might burn it.”
I watch them start to gather their things, half-turning toward the stairs—and then the thought hits me, warm and a little mischievous.
I tilt my head, letting my voice drop just enough to make them look back. “I don’t know,” I say slowly, smiling. “I would’ve thought my Santas might want their Christmas a little early.”
Three pairs of eyes land on me.
“What did you get us, Trouble?” Damien’s voice is low enough to make my pulse skip. His hands slide against my waist, steady and warm, the faint scrape of his calluses catching on the edge of my sweater. I look up at him through my lashes, the corner of my mouth tugging into a slow, knowing smile.
“You’ll have to come upstairs to find out.”
Behind him, Vincent straightens, fatigue replaced with quiet interest. “Upstairs, huh?” His tone drips skepticism, but his eyes drip with intrigue.
Cast’s mouth curves into that dangerous half-smirk that always precedes trouble. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”
I slip out of Damien’s hold and start toward the stairs, glancing back just once to make sure they’re following. They do, of course—three wolves drawn by a scent they can’t ignore.
The garland along the banister glows gold and green, brushing against my fingertips as I trail my hand along it. I canfeel their presence behind me—their steps measured, the weight of their eyes tracing the line of my back.
When we reach the top landing, I pause beside Cast’s door and glance over my shoulder. “In here.”
Cast arches a brow. “My room?”
“It’s the biggest,” I remind him, resting my hand on the doorknob. “And the bed’s already made. You can thank me later.”
Vincent huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re up to something, Princess.”
