A low, masculine chuckle. “I took care of your problem for you.”
Stretching, I let out a satisfied groan, snuggling further into the bed. I’d told him about the gang I’d pissed off, albeit reluctantly, because he’s saved me far too many times since we met. “I already had.”
“Not according to my kill list. You’re safe. Just watch who you kill next time, Little Fox.”
I smile at the nickname. “Don’t worry, I will.” I have no desire to run from any man, especially when their only advantage was numbers.
“I have an early Christmas gift for you.”
My brows raise. “Is it Prada?”
“Better. Seth Sinclair.”
Goose bumps shiver across my skin at the mention of the name, and I open my eyes. For a moment, I can’t breathe, my chest tight, like someone has my lungs in a vise.
“Are you fucking with me?” I whisper.
“No. My sources picked up on him flying in from the UK last night. And guess what? He’s in sunny San Francisco.”
The words seem to float all around me.
Years.
Years I’ve searched for a Sinclair, waited for any kind of sign, and now one has dropped in my lap. It feels perfect. Too perfect.
“You’re sure?”
“Yep. I’ll send you the details. Be careful, okay? Merry Christmas, little fox.”
“Merry Christmas, Alistair,” I whisper, and he hangs up.
Yanking the covers off my head, I stare at the ceiling.
When I was little, Christmas Eve evening was just as exciting as Christmas Day. My mother would sneak into our room, whispering excitedly to my sister and I about snowy footsteps left in the hallway. We were given one presenteach, our Christmas Eve gift, and we’d open it in bed, tearing off gleaming wrapping paper and pretty bows. It was pajamas, always, and we’d put them on in anticipation for the big day.
The next morning, we’d jump out of bed excitedly and wait, holding hands, at our bedroom door until my father said we could come out.
True to my mother’s word, footsteps led down the red running carpet in the massive hallways of our stately home. The wide staircase was littered with pieces of carrot—left behind by hungry reindeer, my father would say—and when we’d reach the largest living room, the two couches would be covered in seemingly endless piles of wrapped gifts. The cookies we left out for Santa were gone, the milk finished, and the magic of it was just wonderful.
And then they were dead, and the traditions were gone.
Now, I spend Christmases alone or working. I don’t have a permanent residence, so the twenty-fifth of December is usually spent in fancy hotels with room service and employees working when they’d prefer to be at home with their families.
Today, though, I’m in a home. A proper home with hand-picked bedding, walls painted lovingly, the smell of coffee.
And now, a purpose.
Dressing in jeans and a fluffy white jumper, I examine my reflection. My hair looks a little wild, so I settle with tying it back in a low bun and applying a small amount of makeup. My mother always said never to let a man see you bare-faced, and sometimes I wonder how much make up she was wearing when the bullet tore through her skull.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I stop and watchGuy. He’s making breakfast in the kitchen where I killed two men last night.
His broad, muscular back rippling as he scrambles eggs, his biceps flexing against the arms of his T-shirt. I’ve never met a man as big as him, tall and powerful, with large, calloused hands and a solid chest. His dark hair is sprinkled with gray, and so is his beard, and those sapphire eyes caught my attention the first time I met him.
He’d interviewed me after Asher’s death, and I’d played the part of a clueless bystander. I’d noted how handsome he was but hadn’t thought much of it until our second meeting.
I’d watched with rapt attention when he was willing to give up everything for Ella, and for the first time in too long, my heart thumped a little faster for a reason other than the thrill of the kill or sex.
He’s a good man. A decent man.
