He ran the pad of his index finger over one nipple, watching with greedy satisfaction as it pebbled under his touch and made her shiver. Then he took both breasts in his hands and murmured, “The perfection of these, of you.”
It wasn’t enough. Not even close. “Show me how much you want me,” she breathed.
The devilish smile he gave her shot excitement straight into her bloodstream.
But then the song changed.
A new melody slipped through the speakers. Older. A Christmas lullaby, one that should have been sweet and cuddly, but in her ears, it twisted just enough to feel off. Slow, syrupy vocals. Dissonant bells that echoed too long. Her body froze, her breath caught in her throat. The hammering of her heart was not want anymore, but warning. Cold sweat broke across her back as the warmth in her blood turned to ice.
“Daphne?” Hunter’s voice was tentative, careful. Far away.
She was already moving, shoving him back hard enough to surprise them both. Her feet hit the floor. She stumbled, reaching for the counter and the knife in the block on it.She didn’t want to, but her body commanded it.
Hunter stepped toward her, slowly, both hands up. “Daphne,” he said softly. “Sweetheart, it’s me.”
And yes, she knew, sheknewit was him, knew he was safe. But there was something, something too big, too dark, too much for her to bear. The hand clutching the knife pressed against her forehead, her eyes shut tight. No sound came out of her mouth, a strangled scream stuck in her throat, thick with panic and nothing she could reach.
“Give me the knife, Daphne,” he demanded. Calm. Even. Closer now.
She opened her eyes and saw him in front of her, steady and maddeningly gentle. Her head shook violently, fast, desperate. No. No. She couldn’t, couldn’t, because it was the only way to... She shook her head again, the hole in her threatening to swallow her whole because she needed that knife, needed something. Something. That music... That horrifying music...
He smiled like they were discussing the weather. “It’s alright. I’ll take it, then, if it’s all the same to you.”
His fingers closed gently around her wrist, warm but unshakable. He didn’t tug or force. Just slowly pulled her handdown from her face. “There you go,” he coaxed, voice smooth and sweet as silk. “See? All good, right?”
With his other hand, he reached for the knife, wrapped his palm around the blade, and twisted just enough to loosen her grip. Her fingers resisted, but he forced the movement, and she relinquished the weapon. A crimson line flashed across his skin, but when he set the blade on the table, there was nothing there. Nothing, like the unbearable quiet standing between them.
Her arm dropped to her sides like it no longer belonged to her. Her entire body was shaking now, cold sweat on her skin, jaw locked, muscles rigid as stone.
“Now,” Hunter said, in that same incredibly reasonable tone, “we’re going to sit on the couch, okay?”
He didn’t wait for an answer but reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers like they were taking a casual stroll down Main Street, then gently pulled. Her legs moved on autopilot. The survival instinct had retreated, and the thinking part, the one that recognized Hunter on a cerebral level, surfaced enough to let her follow.
He led her to the stereo first, turned it off. Then to the couch, where he slid the sweater down over her head.
She sat when he sat. Forced herself to breathe–shallow, but at least she could.
She didn’t cry. Couldn’t. Everything inside her was locked down too tightly. But her hand stayed in his. And he didn’t let go.
“Do you want a sip of water?” he asked. “Or, I don’t know, tequila, if you have it.”
The soft laugh that escaped her surprised them both. Leave it to Hunter to drag her back to the surface through charm and humor. She sighed, feeling the horror slide off slowly. “No tequila. Sorry.”
He looked briefly thoughtful, then nodded like he’d solved an international crisis. “I could make a quick trip and get some. Ten, fifteen minutes, tops.”
“On Christmas? Everything’s closed.”
He shrugged, totally serious. “Yeah, but I might know someone somewhere in Mexico who could hook me up with the good stuff.”
She looked up at him, at the absolute low-key seriousness on his face. “At some point, you’re going to have to tell me more about your demoniac self.”
“And at some point, I will.”
“Not tonight, though.” Her voice was small, almost sad, as she leaned into him, let him pull her close, wrap her up in the promise of safety.
If only she knew what she needed to be safe from.
He leaned back, resting his head on the backrest of the couch, eyes drifting to the window.
