Life isn’t fair, Noelle, but isn’t Christmas supposed to be?
I should forget what he said. I told him I was going to bed, but I haven’t. Long after he walked up the stairs, heading to take a shower, I sit at the table, torn between wanting to guzzle the last of the champagne from the bottle and hiding out in my rented room again.
I’m being ridiculous. I know I am. It’s just… those were my words. I know they are. The night before I heard about Charles Dutton’s death, I wrote that exact line—excluding my name—in my private journal on my computer. I was thinking about how, if there’s one time of year I should be able to trust and enjoy, it’s Christmas. Those five men ruined that for me… they ruinedme… and all I wanted was something to befair.
Of course, then I saw the news article the next morning, and a jolt of satisfaction had run through me. Finally, I thought. Finally, the worst of them got just what he deserved. This Christmas, things were finally balanced. They were finally fair. I got exactly what I wanted… but how did a stranger from Springfield know that?
With as many coincidences that have piled up since Patrick arrived at the chalet, this could be just one more. That’s what I tell myself. As I get up from my seat at last, drifting into the living room to turn off the switch that controls the electric fireplace, my gaze goes to the Christmas tree in the corner.
The small white lights blink softly, almost mesmerizing me. Between that and the flames, the whole room is cozy. It looks like safety, but all of a sudden, I’m not so sure it is.
My fingers curl around the edges of my phone. I’ve carried it with me all day, part habit and part hope that the service will return. It hasn’t yet, and I don’t bother checking again. What’s the point? Call for help? Text someone? Textwho?
And, honestly, what would I say?
Hey, I’m stranded in a chalet with a stranger who just quoted my private journal at me, but it’s fine because there’sa festive tree to put me in the holiday spirit, and he’s pretty hot?
I slip my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and listen to the distant rush of the shower water over my head. Biting down on my bottom lip, I think about Patrick and his unexpected arrival at the chalet. I think of how perfect it is that he’s a cop in Springfield, and how he was content to spend the whole day listening to me chat while I stuffed my face with cheese, crackers, and cookies.
I think of how I caught him watching me curiously out of the corner of my eye once or twice, and how there was an intensity to his expression whenever he thought that I wasn’t paying attention to him.
Something’s off. I don’t know what, but there’s no way I can go to bed without making some sense of it. Coincidence or not, I have to know what inspired him to make such a comment. Whether he was just bringing it up because it’ll be Christmas the day after tomorrow or… well, I don’t know what theorcould be. Either way, I have to find out.
Because if I don’t know, I’m going to invent answers and scenarios until I go insane.
And if I do know…
At least I won’t be helpless like I once was. True, I’m stuck in this cabin. It’s not like I can get away from him if he turns out to be a threat. I don’t even know why I’m suddenly so certain that there’s somethingfishy going on here this Christmas… but the only way to prove that there isn’t is to ask.
By the time I reach the bathroom, I don’t hear water anymore. I can’t tell if it’s the pounding of my nervous heart drowning it out or if Patrick’s finished his shower. Light seeps under the closed door, so I think he must still be in there, under the shower spray or not.
Guess I’m about to find out.
My hand lifts, prepared to knock. I mean, Ishouldknock. Just like he did last night, I should knock until he lets me in. He was polite, right? I should be, too.
Then again, being polite is how women like me end up being taken advantage of and hurt, and that’s precisely why Idon’tknock. I grab the doorknob instead, this sudden need toknowurging me to turn it quickly and shove in the door.
If he’d locked the door, I probably would’ve lost my nerve. Taking it as a sign that he wanted privacy, I would’ve convinced myself I was being ridiculous and returned to my room. Only Patrick hadn’t locked the door, and though it’s not like I’m taking that as an invitation or anything, I barge into the bathroom before I think better of it.
The shower’s off. It must’ve been a hot one because the steam rushes out of the room as I take a few steps into it. It clears enough that I see Patrick North standing in front of me, one of the chalet’s lush towelsslung low around his hips. Water beads on his shoulders and his sculpted chest, running down his middle, easing toward his dark happy trail.
For a second, my mind does the stupidest thing possible. Completely forgetting my suspicious nature, I gape as I notice just how fucking beautiful a half-naked Patrick is.
He’s not pretty. Not polished, either. His sweater hid how built he really is, and while that is the first thing that catches my attention, that’s not what has me gasping.
Oh, no. It’s when I see the tattoos his clothes concealed that I just about forget how to breathe.
The ones on his right shoulder hit me first. Multiple small green leaves are inked over his muscled flesh, a string of green ivy attaching them in a design that might’ve been delicate on a man much harder than the one I’m seeing with new eyes.
In Springfield, a tattoo like that means something—especially when it’s on a man who has a four-inch black-and-white dragonfly inked on his left forearm.
My stomach drops down to my feet.
A dragonfly… no. ADragonfly.
Patrick North is a Dragonfly, and if rumors about what those leaves mean are true, then he’s a very dangerous one at that.
And that’s because organized crime might’ve slunk into Springfield long before I was old enough tounderstand how crooked the city is, but I grew up with the stories anyway, especially once the Dragonflies and the Sinners Syndicate ran Springfield. For so long, there have been whispers.Warnings. Names like ‘Damien’ and ‘Devil’ that were murmured like prayers and muttered like threats in the very same breath.
