“Mock if you must.” She waves me off. “You’ll be addicted soon enough. It’s like if porn had a prudish sister.”
Before I can parse that out, Mercy elaborates. “Same script. Think a wide-eyed girl in the big city or a work-obsessed CEO who finds ways to relax with a lumberjack.” She delivers that with a syrupy Marilyn Monroe–inspired breathiness before expounding on the prudish part. “But in Hallmark movies, no one thinks about sex. They can be staying in the same house, but the only notion for anything racy is that maybe, just maybe, there will be a chaste kiss under the mistletoe.”
“Only after one of them saves the town and runs through the streets, chasing down the other.” Tessa taps the sheets they have resting on the coffee table, uncharacteristically giddy. “Mistletoe is the free space.”
The table is brimming with every Christmas treat imaginable, sent via the Noires’ personal chefs.
I arrived late because Bernard had detained me, but then he walked me to Maddox and Tessa’s apartment—which has a secret stairwell that leads up here. If anyone were to search for me on the security cameras, they wouldn’t know I was in the penthouse. Bernard hugged me and told me I was safe in a grandfatherly way that melted my heart. That tender affection made the bracelet he locked on my wrist seem more like a loving safety net than a new restriction. Then he handed me over to Mercy and Tessa.
They’d waited to eat dinner until I got here. It was an enormous spread of various options because they wanted to be sure there was something I liked. Afterward, we played hide-and-seek with Remy, and my professional skills gave me an edge. He was so impressed that he asked if I could help tuck him in. I did, and the smart little man read me a bedtime story.
When I left his room, Tessa smirked and said, “He’s their secret weapon. We all fall for Remy first.”
I just bobbed my head in agreement because there was an oppressive lump in my throat.
Helping myself to a cookie, I sit back with my snack and try to let their joy wash away the heaviness of the last few days while Bernard—the dog—snores on my lap. “And why do the queens of the underworld invite this prudish Hallmark sister to hang out with them?”
“It’s cathartic, for one,” Mercy begins. “So many things are on Tessa’s list.” She notices my confusion and tacks on, “Herlist about things that piss her off. So, it’s kind of like immersion therapy. You’d be surprised how well it alleviates stress.”
That comes with an astute expression from both of them, their nonchalant way of alerting me that they’re aware I’m buried in stress.
“I could make one hell of athings that piss me offlist,” is all I offer.
They laugh with a shade of empathy, but they don’t harp on that admission or make me talk about it. We watch the clean-fingernail-pickup-line film and laugh until we cry, drinking spiked cocoa and eggnog whenever someone on screen does. This is the most carefree day I’ve had since I was nine, and it began with me killing someone. If that isn’t a wake-up call, I don’t know what is.
Mercy insists that I sleep in Axel’s room, even though I argue and plead for another bed or even the couch. “This is where he wants you. Let him come home and find you there. Safe.”
I’m not sure what to make of it because he asked me to stay away, but his brothers told me to spend the night here, and he was so understanding on the phone, even though I’d broken his rules. I believe that he was only at Magie Noire for professional reasons, so that isn’t an issue. But it’s his vast library that convinces me. He has so many books. Mostly classics. I saw them last time, but I wasn’t afforded a chance to peruse them. This is the essence of Axel Noire shelved. I can’t resist.
“Okay,” I finally agree. I nearly ask where the guys went, but I don’t want her or anyone else to think I’m digging for information, not when they’re welcoming me into their fold like this. “Thank you for tonight.”
She wraps her arms around me in a hug so cozy that it feels maternal or sisterly, like something I’ve been lacking. “No need to thank me. Axel takes time to process things. That’s just howhe is. He carries so much. But the rest of us already see it. We’re happy you’re here.”
She leaves me in Axel’s room with permission to make myself at home. I take a shower, dousing myself in his soap and shampoo so it feels like he’s with me. Then I borrow a T-shirt from his drawer, throw it over the extra pair of panties I had in my purse, and select a book. I climb beneath the softest sheets ever created with the cityscape twinkling as a night-light and his reading lamp shining on the prose. And even though I know I don’t belong here, for just a while, I let myself imagine that I do.
My cheeks are wet. I’m sprinting and shooting and doing my damnedest to dodge the dark silhouette with the realization that I’m the mark. Thick palm leaves brush against the drops of anguish, rough and cool as they slow my escape. There’s a cocktail of terror and comfort swelling in my chest that I can’t quite explain. My feet scramble for purchase, but then serenity finds me. I melt into what appears to be a cloud—but on some other level, I know it’s a pillow—allowing it to mold to me so I don’t feel like I’m falling.
Gradually, my pulse steadies, and my consciousness reminds me that I’m not on a mission. I’m not being hunted. I’m not jumping. I’m safe. Until something else ensnares me.
I’m in the penthouse, swaddled by Egyptian cotton and the scent of crisp snow.
Before my eyes open, I feel him. His presence, his anxiety, his conflict.
When I finally lift my heavy lids, I find Axel perched on the end of the bed, his back to me. The room is bathed in violetand quietude. His hair is wet from a shower, even though he’s already dressed, his button-up stretched taut from shoulder to shoulder. But there’s something else. Something in the way he’s breathing. He’s not really here.
Slowly, with the same agile stealthiness I use in missions, I extricate myself from beneath the covers and crawl up behind him, spreading my flat palms over his rigid back muscles. He doesn’t fully react, not beyond a subtle shift in his breathing, which is shallower than I realized.
I loop my arms around his waist and rest my cheek against his shoulder blade. “You’re okay, Axel. Wherever you are, it’s okay to come back.”
He doesn’t respond, but his breathing steadies slightly, so I keep assuring him.
“I’m here. I want to be here.” As the admission leaves my lips, I realize how much I mean it, how much power this man has over me because all I want is him.
In the subtlest of subconscious answers, he lays his hand over my arm and squeezes. I don’t utter a sound then. For the next several minutes, I just nuzzle against him and hope it’s enough for him to say good night to his demons.
“You were having a nightmare when I got home,” he begins. “I put my hand on your cheek, and you pressed into me. After a minute, you settled down.”
“And that made you … upset?”
