“Even then.”The words are quiet, resigned, and I realize what it cost him to say them.What it’s costing him to stand here and lay himself bare while I hold all the power.
I take a step toward him, closing the distance between us.My boots crunch in the snow.“And if I say yes?What does it mean?”
For the first time, he looks off balance.Lost.“Whatever you wish.Whatever you want.”
I reach up and pull my scarf from around my neck, the blue fabric soft against my cold fingers.Then I loop it around his instead, the movement unhurried.The blue fabric looks good against his beige coat, festive and warm.Using it as leverage, I pull him down toward me.
“Olivia—” His eyes widen, surprise flickering across his face for just a moment before I close the distance.
I kiss him, deep and thorough, pouring everything I can’t say into it.The fear, the hope, the tentative belief that maybe—maybe—this could work.That maybe I can be brave enough to trust again.To love again.His lips are cold at first, but they warm quickly under mine, and I taste snow and coffee and something uniquely him.
When I pull back, we’re both breathing hard, our breath mingling in clouds between us.His hands have come up to frame my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks, and I lean into the touch.
“That,” I whisper against his lips, my voice shaking but sure, “is my answer.”
His arms come around me immediately, crushing me against him with a desperation that steals my breath.I can feel his heart pounding against my chest, matching the rhythm of my own.Feel the tremor in his hands as he holds me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
Above us, the Christmas tree sparkles with a thousand lights, and somewhere nearby, church bells begin to chime.The snow falls heavier now, blanketing the world in white, and I close my eyes and let myself feel this moment.This impossible, perfect, terrifying moment.
Everything about this feels like falling and flying at the same time.
But I’m saying yes anyway.
It’s two in the morning, and I’m wrapped around Alexander like he’s the only solid thing in the universe.
We’re both naked under the blankets, my back pressed to his chest, his warmth bleeding into my skin.Snow falls outside the window in soft, relentless drifts, the kind that turn Silverbell Hollow into a Christmas card.The room is dark except for the faint glow from the neighbor's Christmas lights outside filtering through the curtains, just enough light to make out our reflection in the mirror across from the bed—and the pillow on the floor, the one I’d screamed into for the past three hours because my parents are asleep down the hall.
His fingers play with mine—threading through, separating, tracing the lines of my palm in idle patterns that should be soothing but somehow aren’t.There’s something deliberate about the touch, something possessive in the way he holds my hand like he’s memorizing the shape of it.
I’ve noticed this about him.When he’s idle, he touches me.A hand on my waist when we’re standing together.Fingers brushing my hair back.His thumb stroking circles on my hip while he reads.Like he can’t help himself.Like he needs the contact to breathe.
I like it more than I should.
My eyes drift to the mirror, and I catch sight of us—his body curled protectively around mine, his dark hair falling across his forehead, my skin flushed—And the marks.God, the marks.They’re everywhere.My neck, my shoulders, the curve of my breast visible above the blanket.
“You need to stop leaving marks on me,” I say, my voice rough from screaming his name.
His fingers still themselves on mine.“I can’t promise that.”The words are grave, weighted with something that makes my stomach flip.It’s not playful.It’s absolute.
I tilt my head back to look at him, demanding answers even though the angle is awkward.“And why not?”
His gray eyes meet mine, dark and intense even in the dim light.“Because I like marking you as mine.”
Before I can respond—before I can even process the possessive rasp in his voice—his hand moves to one of the marks on my shoulder, touching it with his thumb in a gesture that’s both tender and claiming.Then his fingers slide to my jaw, gripping firmly, angling my face up as his mouth descends on mine.
The kiss is immediately demanding.His tongue sweeps into my mouth with the confidence of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing, and I arch back into him, my hand coming up to grip his hair.His other hand starts traveling south from underneath me, fingers skating over my ribs, my hip?—
I catch his wrist, breaking the kiss with a gasp.“No.”
He freezes.“Olivia?—”
“If you touch me again,” I say, my voice shaking slightly, “I will actually kill you.You haven’t let me rest for three hours, Alexander.Three.Hours.”
He makes a rueful face, something almost boyish in the way his mouth quirks.“Fine.”
“You have some audacity,” I say, twisting in his arms so I can glare at him properly, “looking upset when you’ve had your way with me nonstop.”
“It’s not my fault you’re so addictive.”His hand moves to my hip, holding me in place.“And I have six years of making up to do.”
