I twist to look at him. “Are you actually strategizing about how to defeat a fictional eight-year-old?”
“Just saying, their tactical approach is garbage.”
“You’re telling me John McClane was any better?”
The jerk tries to bite my skull. “He’s a fucking hero.”
I roll my eyes. “You just like him because he's as much of an asshole as you are.”
“Damn straight. Though I gotta say, watching this kid torture these idiots is pretty satisfying.” He tugs me closer, nuzzling into my neck.
Eight months ago, I would've rather eaten glass than cuddle with Jackson Reed. Now his arms feel like home, his chest's steady rise and fall against my back more soothing than any lullaby.
Chapter 4
Jackson
After tying my shoes, I tap my phone screen to check the time—2:03 AM. Perfect. Everyone should be asleep. The house has been quiet for the past few hours while I plotted my revenge.
Killian’s still asleep, completely fucking oblivious to what's coming. He's sprawled on his stomach, golden hair a mess against my red pillowcase, looking way too peaceful for someone who forced me to watch Home Alone.
Time to fix that.
I trail my fingers down his spine, watching goosebumps rise in their wake. “Hey, golden boy. Wake up.”
He groans, burying his face deeper into the pillow. “Fuck off.”
“Come on, Kill.” I lean down, nipping his earlobe. “Time for your Christmas present.”
“What time is it?” He turns his head to glare at me with one honey-brown eye. “What are you—”
The words die in his throat as I press the pistol to his temple. Not a real one, obviously just a high-end Nerf gun that shoots water.
“Welcome to the party, pal.” I affect my best German accent, channeling Alan Rickman. “Consider this your introduction to why Die Hard is the ultimate Christmas movie.”
His eyes widen. “You've got to be fucking kidding me.”
“I never kid about Christmas traditions, Mr. McClane.” I drag the barrel down his cheek. “Now, are you going to be a good boy and play along, or do I need to get . . . creative?”
“You're insane.”
“That's not an answer.” I straddle his hips, keeping the gun pressed to his skin. “What's it going to be?”
He moves so fast that I almost don't see it coming. Almost. I've been planning this for hours, so I'm ready when he bucks, trying to throw me off. I roll with the movement, using his momentum to pin him face-down, twisting his arm behind his back.
“Nice try.” I lean down to whisper in his ear. “But I've got home-field advantage. My house, my rules.”
“Your parents are going to kill us.”
I chuckle, low and dark, releasing his arm but keeping him pinned with my body weight. “Stop worrying. Now, here are the rules: You have five minutes to get out of this room. After that, the game begins. You can use any part of the west wing or the grounds. First one to successfully 'eliminate' the other wins.”
“And what exactly counts as elimination?”
I press my hips down, grinding against his ass. “Get creative, John McClane. Just remember—I've got hostages to motivate you.”
“Hostages?”
“Your clothes. All of them. Hidden somewhere in the house.” I bite the back of his neck. “Better hope you find them before morning, or breakfast with our families could get awkward.”
