Daddy’s Christmas Obsession

Victor

Three Years Ago

The Strickland estate's garden party burns with late summer heat and champagne toasts, but none of it matters.

The business associates who control half of Denver's port operations blur into background noise.

The judges and politicians who owe me favors become mere shadows.

Even the carefully orchestrated celebration of Kyra's twentieth birthday fades to nothing. All I can see is her.

She moves through the crowd like she belongs anywhere but my world—and she doesn't. Not yet.

White sundress clings to every curve, thin fabric outlining her body with each step, a tormenting dance of innocence and temptation.

Honey-blonde hair catches afternoon sun as she laughs at something one of Aaron's college friends says.

The sound hits me like a bullet to the chest, stirring hunger I've kept buried too long.

Twenty years old today. Perfect. Forbidden. Mine.

I should disappear into my study, bury myself in ledgers that track my less legitimate enterprises. Instead, I lean against the stone balustrade, scotch forgotten in my hand, watching my son's girlfriend. Blood runs hot, need building with each sway of her hips, each toss of her hair.

Aaron drapes his arm around her waist with casual ownership that makes my hands clench into fists—hands that have broken bones and ended lives.

At twenty-three, my son moves through life like everything will be handed to him, because I've made it so.

He doesn't see how Kyra's smile dims when he interrupts her conversation with some vapid comment about her "boring science stuff.

" Doesn't notice how she straightens when his hand slides lower than appropriate for a family gathering.

He doesn't deserve her. The thought burns through me with crystalline clarity.

"She's lovely, isn't she?"

Margaret Whitmore appears beside me, widow of a federal judge I used to own. The older woman watches me with knowing eyes, her smile sharp as a blade.

"Aaron seems quite taken with her," I reply carefully, taking a measured sip.

"Oh, I wasn't talking about Aaron's feelings." Margaret's laugh carries dangerous undertones. She knows enough about my business to be respectfully cautious. "That boy doesn't know what he has. But you do, don't you, Victor?"

Before I can respond, she drifts away, leaving me with absolute certainty that my obsession isn't as well-hidden as I thought.

The party winds down as evening approaches, guests filtering out in expensive cars.

I retreat to my study and try focusing on shipping manifests that hide my real cargo.

But numbers blur, replaced by images of green eyes and soft curves and the way she bit her lower lip when someone mentioned medical school.

My cock stirs at the thought of those full lips, parted in pleasure rather than polite conversation.

A soft knock interrupts my brooding. "Come in."

The door opens. Kyra slips inside, looking uncertain.

My study isn't like the rest of the house—here, the mask comes off.

Dark wood paneling covers reinforced walls.

The safe behind my desk contains more than money.

And the books on law enforcement serve a very different purpose than most people would assume.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Strickland. Aaron's on a call with some client of yours about an internship, and I wanted to thank you before we left."

"Victor," I correct, rising from behind my desk. The movement reveals ink beneath my shirt cuff—scripture in Latin that most people assume is inspirational rather than the prayer I said over my first kill. "And there's no need to thank me. It was your birthday."

She steps further into the room, curious eyes taking in my real life. "This is beautiful. It feels like somewhere important decisions get made."

Life and death decisions, I think but don't say. "They are."

"Did you enjoy yourself tonight?" I move around the desk, noting how she doesn't retreat as I approach.

"It was..." She pauses, choosing words carefully. "Overwhelming. Beautiful, but overwhelming. I'm not used to all this." She gestures vaguely at the remnants of luxury visible through the window.

"You'll adjust." The words emerge rougher than intended, carrying implications I shouldn't voice yet.

Her eyes snap to mine. For a moment, air between us crackles with electricity both forbidden and inevitable. She's young, brilliant, full of potential—and completely off-limits. My son's girlfriend. A good girl from a modest family who deserves better than the dark hunger reflected in my own gaze.

"I read your research proposal," I say. "The biomedical engineering project focusing on targeted drug delivery systems."

Her eyes widen, surprise and pleasure warming her features. "You did? But how did you—"

"I make it my business to know everything about the people in my son's life." A half-truth that sounds better than admitting I've been collecting information about her since Aaron first mentioned her name. "Your approach to using nanotechnology for cancer treatment is... innovative."

"Most people's eyes glaze over when I start talking about it," she admits, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. "Aaron calls it my 'boring science stuff.'"

"My son can be remarkably shortsighted." I move to the bookshelf, extracting a recent medical journal. "Have you read Dr. Nakamura's research on similar applications? There might be some overlap with your work."

The way her face lights up at intellectual engagement stirs something in me that's even more dangerous than mere desire. This isn't just about possessing her body—I want her mind, her brilliance, her passion. I want to own every part of her, to mark her as mine in ways that go beyond the physical.

"I've been trying to get access to his research for months," she admits, stepping closer to examine the journal I'm holding. "The university library doesn't subscribe to this publication."

"Take it," I offer, extending the journal. "I have digital access."

Our fingers brush as she accepts the gift. I know with absolute certainty that this innocent touch has damned us both.

The thought should cross a line I'd never consider with anyone else. But it merely adds fuel to my desire, making it burn hotter, darker. The forbidden nature makes it irresistible.

"Kyra." Her name tastes like sin and salvation on my tongue.

"Yes?" The breathless quality of her voice suggests she feels it too—this pull between us that defies logic and blood relations.

I should send her away. Should step back and maintain proper distance between a man my age and a woman hers.

Instead, I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering against soft skin of her neck.

The contact sends heat straight to my core, my cock hardening at the mere touch of her.

Her breath stutters. Her pupils dilate. And I know with absolute certainty that this innocent touch has damned us both.

"Happy birthday," I murmur, voice low and intimate.

"Thank you," she whispers. Neither of us moves to break the connection.

"Kyra? You in there?" Aaron's voice echoes from the hallway, shattering the moment.

She jerks back as if burned, cheeks flushing pink. "I should... he's waiting."

"Yes, you should go." But I don't step away, don't make it easier for her to leave.

She backs toward the door, journal clutched to her chest like a shield, eyes never leaving mine. "Thank you again for tonight. For everything."

And then she's gone, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of her perfume and absolute knowledge that I'll never be satisfied with just watching from the shadows again.

I wait thirty minutes—long enough for them to leave the estate grounds. Then I make a call to the one man in Denver who understands the permanence of ink and intention.

"Hiroshi, it's Victor. I need you to open the shop tonight. Special appointment."

"At this hour, boss? Must be important."

"The most important work you'll ever do for me."

Two hours later, I'm seated in Hiroshi's chair, my right hand extended on the padded armrest while his needle burns permanent possession into my skin.

The rose takes shape—delicate petals emerging from thorns, beautiful and dangerous in equal measure.

Every line is agony, every shade of red a promise I'm making to myself. And to her.

"Beautiful work," Hiroshi murmurs as he adds final details. "But roses are dangerous flowers, no? Beautiful enough to make men do stupid things."

"Not stupid," I correct, watching blood and ink merge on my skin. "Necessary."

When it's finished, I sit in my car outside the shop and stare at my wrapped hand.

Beneath the gauze and medical tape is my commitment made flesh—a permanent reminder that Kyra Sinclair is mine.

I imagine tracing the rose's outline across her naked skin, feeling her tremble beneath my touch as I mark her as mine in more intimate ways.

She just doesn't know it yet.

I drive home through empty streets, already planning. Patience has always been my greatest asset in business, but this is different. This is personal. This is everything.

My son has no idea he's just become an obstacle to be removed.

***

Six Months Ago

Summer heat blankets Denver like a fever, air thick with jasmine and the scent of rain that refuses to fall.

From my position on the shadowed veranda, I watch Kyra move through another of Aaron's mindless parties, white sundress catching golden light of sunset.

My son is already three drinks deep, holding court with his fraternity brothers, barely noticing when she slips away from the crowd.

I know where she's going—to change for the pool. Aaron mentioned the swimming portion of his party earlier, though in typical thoughtless fashion, he'd forgotten to tell Kyra until the last minute. I saw her arrive with a small tote bag, unprepared but adaptable. Always trying to please him.