He’s enormous. Not just tall, though he must clear six-foot-four easily, but broad-shouldered and powerful, radiating an intensity that instantly chills the cozy air more than the winter storm outside.
He’s dressed head-to-toe in sleek, dark athletic wear that clings to his body. Snow dusts his dark hair. His face is all sharp, unforgiving angles – a blade of a nose, a jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle ticking beneath the skin, high cheekbones flushed from the cold or fury.
But it’s his eyes that freeze me in place. Storm-cloud gray, wide with a panic so raw, so primal, it borders on fury. They scan the room with laser focus, wild and desperate, bypassing the lingering couple, the cozy fireplace, the glittering displays, until they lock onto Tabby.
“Tabitha!” It’s a ragged gasp, torn from his throat, thick with relief and something darker, sharper. Fear. Pure, undiluted terror.
Tabby spins around, her mouth still full of cookie, crumbs dusting her pink coat. “Daddy!” she chirps, her voice muffled but cheerful, utterly oblivious to the hurricane that just entered the room.
He’s across the small space in three strides that shake the floorboards. He drops to his knees in front of her with a thud that makes the nearby tables tremble, his large hands coming up to frame her small face, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the frantic energy pouring off of him.
He scans her from head to toe, his gray eyes searching for injury, his breath coming in short, visible puffs in the suddenly frigid air near the door.
“Are you hurt?” His voice is low, gravelly, strained. And it’s frayed at the edges with panic.
Tabby swallows her cookie, blinking up at him. “I’m okay, Daddy! Look!” She holds up the half-eaten gingerbread man. “Sir Gingerbread! This nice lady gave him to me! He lives in the castle!” She points proudly towards the display.
His gaze flicks from the cookie to Tabby’s face, the panic receding slightly, replaced by a wave of such profound relief it momentarily softens the harsh lines of his face. But then his eyes snap up, past Tabby, and land squarely on me.
The relief vanishes, replaced by an icy blast of accusation that hits me like a physical blow. His eyes, now narrowed and sharp as flint, rake over me – taking in my flour-dusted apron, my messy hair, the smear of gingerbread dough I know is on my cheek.
His expression hardens, the earlier vulnerability completely replaced by a wall of impenetrable, intimidating coldness.
He rises to his full, imposing height in one fluid motion, pulling Tabby protectively against his leg. His gaze never leaves mine. The warmth has been completely sucked out of the bakery. The twinkle lights seem dimmer, the festive music tinny and distant. The lingering couple has fallen silent, watching the scene with wide eyes.
“What,” he grinds out, his voice dangerously low, each word clipped and precise, carrying the chill of the winter storm outside, “are you doing with my daughter?”
Chapter 2
Denton
The precise click of my stopwatch marks the end of Tabby’s allotted five minutes of browsing the holiday market’s trinket stalls. I pivot on the balls of my feet—a practiced move honed by years of anticipating opposing forwards’ breakaways—my gloved hand already extending towards the spot where my daughter should have been.
But she’s not there.
Where the top of her striped knit hat should have been bobbing beside a display of hand-painted ornaments, there’s only swirling snow and the oblivious backs of other shoppers. A cold bolt, sharper than the Chicago wind cutting through my athletic jacket, slams into my chest. My breath stops mid-exhale, frozen like the ice beneath my skates during a sudden whistle.
Not again.
The cheerful cacophony of the market – carolers belting out "Jingle Bell Rock," the tinny chime of a Salvation Army bell, vendors hawking roasted chestnuts – dissolve into a meaningless roar, a white noise backdrop to the frantic drumming of my own heart against my ribs.
"Tabitha!" My voice, usually a low baritone used for barking plays on the ice, rips out raw and too loud, swallowed almostinstantly by the market’s din. I surge forward, my powerful frame cutting through the crowd with none of my usual athletic grace.
My eyes scan frantically – left, right, over shoulders, under vendor tables – searching for a flash of pink coat, a glimpse of dark curls. Nothing. The world tilts, the snowy ground feeling unstable beneath my boots.
Too much open space. Too many people.My mind races through defensive strategies, but this isn’t a game. There’s no playbook for this gut-wrenching situation.
I push past a group laughing over steaming cups of cocoa. My focus is narrowed to a laser point:Find her.Every potential horror – icy pavement, speeding cars hidden by the snow flurries, faceless strangers with ill intent – flash through my mind, each one amplified a thousandfold by the memory of another sudden, devastating loss.
The scent of pine from a nearby wreath stall suddenly smells cloying, sickening, a cruel mockery of festive cheer. I hate Christmas. Hate the forced jolliness, the relentless reminders of a time when joy hadn’t felt like a betrayal.
Another bellow of her name tears from my throat, hoarse this time. I shove my way towards the edge of the market stalls, scanning the snow-covered sidewalk, the busy street beyond slick with gray slush. My gloved hands clench into useless fists at my sides.
Think. Assess the zone.Where would she go? What would catch her eye? The glittering shop windows? The giant inflatable snowman down the block? My gaze sweeps the storefronts lining the street – sleek boutiques, a coffee shop, a bookstore… and then I see it.
A shop that looked like Santa’s workshop has collided head-on with a candy factory. Twinkle lights blaze, garish and excessive. Tinsel drips from every conceivable surface. Andinside, pressed against the glass with wide, wonder-filled eyes, is Tabby. Pink coat. Striped hat.
The relief hits me hard. It steals my breath, buckling my knees for a split second before the surge of adrenaline locks them straight. The vise around my chest loosens just enough to draw a ragged gasp of freezing air.
