"I just... I need to do something," she whispers, looking at the floor. "I can't just exist."
"We will find you plenty to do," I promise, lifting a brow and cupping her bottom. Roses bloom on her satiny cheek, a reaction I intend to provoke as often as possible. "But today belongs to us."
Walking down the hall to the west wing feels different. I keep a hand on the small of her back, a constant reminder of where she belongs. She walks stiffly, her body tense under my touch. Galina is by the window. She turns as we enter, her eyes sharp, scanning us with the precision of a hawk. She lands on my hand against Aria’s back, and a satisfied smirk curls her lips.
"So," she crows. "The deed is done. Properly this time."
Aria’s shoulders tighten. "Good morning, Galina. Elena said that you ate?"
"Elena is boring," Galina dismisses. "She doesn't know how I like my tea. But she will do." She reaches out, grabbing Aria’s left hand. She stares at the ring—her ring, the one she wore for fifty years—circling Aria’s finger.
"It fits," Galina decides, nodding. "It looks better on young skin. Strong. Aslanov." She looks at me. "You told her she is done with the nursing?"
"I did," I say. "She is stubborn."
"Good. You need stubborn. A compliant woman would bore you to death in a week." She gestures to the snowy grounds outside. "Now, make yourself useful. Look at this place. December, and it looks like a funeral home. For God’s sake, I’m not dead yet."
"The staff puts the decorations up next week," I say.
"Staff," she scoffs. "Cold. I want a real Christmas. I want a tree that smells like pine. I want lights. Aria, take him." She points a gnarled finger. "Go. Get a tree. A big one."
"I'll make sure thathegoes," Aria says quickly, stepping back toward a chair. "I can stay and read to you while—"
"No." I cut her off. Aria freezes, looking at me. "If I am dragging a dead tree through the snow, you are coming with me," I say.
"But—"
"Get your coat, Aria."
She hesitates, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. Her gaze darts to the door, a trapped look in her eyes.
"Go," Galina commands. "And don't come back until you have the spirit of Christmas in the trunk."
The tree lot is a frozen purgatory. A muscle in my jaw ticks. This is ridiculous. My wool coat is meant for boardrooms, not for dodging families dragging timber through the slush. Aria stays close to me, but not out of affection. She’s using my large frame as a shield against the crowd, her eyes darting around, flinching when a child screams in delight nearby.
I point to a Fraser fir. Thick. Symmetrical. Expensive. "This one," I say. "We buy it. We leave."
Aria shakes her head. "No. It’s too... perfect."
"Itisperfect."
"It has no soul." She walks deeper into the lot, wrapping her coat tighter around her full figure.
She stops in the back row. She points to a pathetic thing. It’s tall, but there’s a bald patch near the top, and the branches swoop low like a depressed willow.
"That," I say flatly, "is not a tree. That is kindling."
"It just needs a chance," she murmurs. She reaches out to touch a needle. She leans in, inhaling the scent. And she stops.Her shoulders hunch. Her breath hitches. Fear. She goes utterly still.
I step up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist, pulling her back against my chest. I expect her to lean into me. Instead, she’s rigid as a board. "Aria?" I murmur in her ear. "What is it?"
She pulls away gently, creating space. "Nothing. Just... cold."
"Liar." I turn her around. Her eyes are wide, staring at the tree like it’s a threat. "Tell me."
"My house didn't do Christmas," she admits, her voice tight. "My mother was a waitress. Bitter. Tired. And my father..." She swallows. "He was an alcoholic. A mean one."
The desire to kill a dead man flares hot in my gut.
