Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
DOMINIC
M iss Marino is the only reason Webber is still breathing. When he patted her shoulder, I had a visceral, violent image flash in my head of him writhing on the floor, his severed hand bleeding beside him. I barely held myself back, but it wasn’t until Miss Marino gave me a chastising glare that I pulled my shit together.
The older witch is lucky to have such a model employee. Not only did she create the branding for my company all by herself, she kept him from losing his hand and possibly his life. He should be giving her a fucking raise, not trying to make it sound as if he’s the one who did the bulk of work on my portfolio.
When I received an invitation to his ridiculous Christmas party several weeks ago, I was tempted to send a refusal. Then I realized it might be the last legitimate opportunity to spend time with Gianna without looking like an obsessed stalker, so I sent in my RSVP, even though I knew I’d have to endure Webber’s bloated speeches and mediocre food.
“It’s such an honor to conclude this project,” Webber is saying. “You’ve been our best client to date, Mr. Koch, and it was such a pleasure working with you.”
I nod, resisting the urge to look at Gianna. Miss Marino. I’ve been this company’s best client because of her . I made up addition after addition to the branding package, requesting multiple versions and iterations for the opportunity to see her more often. I insisted on personal meetings, saying things of this nature couldn’t possibly be discussed over the phone—because I wanted to spend time with her.
I wanted to see that little furrow appear between her dark eyebrows, I wanted to spy on how her soft lips pinched together when she was annoyed with her boss. This was the closest I could get to her without ruining her, and I was a glutton for it. Her fucking scent clung to me after every meeting, and I’d keep the shirts unwashed for days, getting high on the essence of her.
And her thoughts…
I sink my fangs into my tongue to keep from groaning. Gods, I’m an addict. Every single sinful thing she’s thought in my presence has pulled me in. I’ve spent countless hours wondering what she’d feel like if I had her under me, all flushed and panting, asking me to bring her fantasies to life.
Because Miss Marino has the most deliciously filthy mind. The things she has imagined now live in my brain, taking up every waking thought. Under that prim dress is a body made to be worshipped, but I can’t touch her. She’s human, and she has no idea what she’d be getting herself into. Even if she thinks she can handle me, she can’t. So I’ve been watching her from afar, learning everything I can about her. It’s not hard—every time she’s near me, I sense her immediately, like the time she hid behind the car in the street, the delicate perfume of her body mixing with the salty-sweet aroma of the pastries she’d bought at the bakery.
I let her go that day, but every time I see her makes it harder for me to release her. My monstrous self has fixated on her, and having to wrench myself away has become painful lately. If I was a better man, a smarter man, I’d leave this town, hell, I’d leave this fucking country and get away from her.
But I can’t. I won’t.
“And that’s the end of it,” Webber announces in that self-important way of his. “I only need you to sign these,” he adds, sliding some papers over the table, “and we’re done. If you ever need anything else, you’ll contact us, of course. And I hope we’ll see you at the party tonight?”
From the corner of my eye, I see Miss Marino straighten in her chair. Oh, she’s interested in that, is she? I barely hold back a purr of satisfaction.
“Yes, I expect so.” I keep my gaze on the man. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
I scrawl my signature on the papers and hand them back to him. He busies himself with putting everything away, and it’s only then that I allow myself to glance at Gianna again. She’s watching me, her pink lips parted, her cheeks flushed. I don’t even have to extend my powers toward her—she’s projecting the images so strongly, they hit me with perfect clarity.
Naked flesh, rubbing together. Lips on skin, the wet slide of a tongue. Hands, holding down her wrists. A gasp of pleasure at being touched so intimately…
She drops her gaze to her notepad, but she cannot hide from me. The scent of her wafts through the air, and I swallow down a possessive growl. Webber, the oblivious idiot, prattles on about the party and the weather, moving slowly toward the door. He’s in the way—he’s keeping me from claiming the one woman who’s managed to awaken every protective, possessive instinct inside me, and if he doesn’t move his pasty ass out of my sight, I’m going to?—
A phone rings. The sound is jarring, too loud, and I cringe, then blink away the haze of lust and fury.
“Ah, that’s Mrs. Webber calling.” Gianna’s boss chuckles, pressing the phone to his chest. “It’ll be another catering emergency, I’m sure. I’m sorry, I have to take this. You can see Mr. Koch out, can’t you, Gianna?”
With that, he ducks out of the conference room, answering the phone. The door slowly closes behind him. Gianna is watching it avidly, her gaze riveted on it, and when it clicks shut, she blinks.
Suddenly, we’re alone in a room together. The door is unlocked, yes, and made of frosted glass, the same as the entire wall of this room, but we’re hidden from the prying eyes of her coworkers, suspended in time.
I study her like I’ve never allowed myself before. The curves of her body, the flow of her wavy dark hair, the soft plane of her cheek, still tinged pink. She’s exquisite, and that’s just her looks. What interests me so much more is that inquisitive, quick, dirty mind of hers that I keep getting glimpses of.
I could watch her for hours. For days, if she’d let me.
The silence between us stretches, and I realize Gianna is studying me just as closely. I know my human glamour is up because she’s not screaming in horror, but I still touch the heavy golden ring on my thumb that holds the charm in place.
Then I sit back in my chair and let her look. I want her to be comfortable with me, not skittish and trying to escape every time I come closer.
Her gaze skips from my eyes to my lips, then down to my chest. I have all my suits tailored because the regular sizes in human shops don’t fit, but I’ve never been too conscious of how I appear to people—it’s a glamour, after all. Now, I find myself wondering what Gianna thinks when she sees me in this form.
Not the lustful thoughts—those are clear as day—but the rest. She wants me, I know it, but does she want more than a dirty fuck? Or do her fantasies all end with the sunrise, a thing to be kept in the dark and forgotten after it’s done?
I will never forget her.
It’s a terrible thing to know that. I’m still in my prime at forty-four, for Krampus live a little longer than humans, which means I have more than half a century of loneliness ahead of me. I can indulge in this flirtation with Gianna for a while, but I will have to let her go eventually. Soon.
But not before I learn whether she’s coming to that party tonight.
“Happy birthday,” she blurts out suddenly.
I raise my eyebrows, surprised at her train of thought.
She flushes a bright pink and stammers, “I-I saw some paperwork. The tax stuff. I’m sorry for prying, but I saw your birthday was the twenty-first. That’s the solstice, right? I mean, I know it is. Do you celebrate Yule or Christmas?”
She says all this very fast, as if she’s been holding the questions back and they managed to burst free despite her best attempts.
I can’t help but smile. “I celebrate both. Yule with my friends, if we’re all around, but Christmas is my favorite holiday.” I lean forward, my elbows on the table, and add, “This is my time of the year.”
It’s a simple enough statement, but she doesn’t know it carries more meaning. I’m at my most powerful when the nights grow long. My ancestors spent the deepest part of winter terrorizing the wicked, and I do feel the urge sometimes, though we’ve evolved enough for the most part that we don’t go maiming those who have sinned over the last year.
Usually, I’ll satisfy my urges by asking a tech witch friend to empty the bank accounts of some certified assholes and donate large sums of their money to charitable organizations and the local pet shelter. This year, I’ll need to be careful, especially around Gianna. Webber is walking on thin ice when it comes to her, and I’ll need to curb my instincts or risk accidentally hurting the man.
Gianna fidgets in place, and if I didn’t know she was human, I’d think she was picking up on my impulses. But she doesn’t know what I am, and it’s better that way.
“Was there anything you wanted to tell me?” I ask.
My voice comes out lower than before, the tone gravelly, so I clear my throat and curl my fist around the ring on my thumb. If the glamour spell is glitching, I’ll have to visit the witch who crafted it for me.
Gianna reaches into her handbag and pulls out a small red box. It’s tied with a green ribbon, and I can’t believe I didn’t scent it until now. The aroma of almonds and sugar wafts from it even from across the conference table.
“I got you a gift,” she whispers and nudges the box across the polished wood. “It’s just a small thing. I’m sorry if it’s inappropriate, I didn’t know?—”
“Gianna,” I say quietly, cutting off her apology. “Thank you.”
This is a complete surprise. I didn’t sense this in her thoughts at all—after all, gift-giving isn’t wicked. For the first time in my life, I wish I had the power to see all her thoughts, to know what she means by gifting this to me.
She blinks at me with wide brown eyes, then breathes, “Will you open it?”
I reach for the present and untie the bow, anticipation rising inside me. I know it’s sweets, but what kind? What did Gianna choose for me?
“They’re called amaretti,” she blurts before I can even lift the lid. “Oh God, I should have asked, you’re not allergic to nuts, are you?”
I grin up at her. “No nut allergy. No others, either. Are you allergic?”
She pushes back her hair, which has frizzed up a little, as if it’s reacting to her nervous state of mind. “Shellfish,” she admits. “I get sick if I eat them.”
I make a mental note of it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She flushes a deeper red, and I realize what I implied—that we’d be spending more time together, time where it’ll be important for me to know her food preferences.
Or perhaps I’m reading into things and she’s simply overheated because of her thick cashmere sweater. It’s pale blue and hugs her body perfectly, and I?—
I should be opening the present.
Fuck. I never get distracted like this. Frowning, I focus my attention back on the small box. I carefully lift the top off, and the scent of amaretti biscuits wafts up to me, potent and inviting.
“They’re the soft kind,” she explains, leaning forward. Her hair slips past her shoulders in rich waves, and she tucks it behind her ears, animated now. “In shops, you usually get the hard, crunchy ones, but I’ve always preferred these.”
I glance up at her eyes. “Did you bake these?”
She gives me a tiny smile and nods. “My nonna’s recipe. They’re the real deal.”
“Thank you,” I repeat. “This is the best gift I got this year.”
Then I take one of the pale biscuits out of the box and pop it in my mouth.
Taste explodes over my tongue, rich and sweet, and I barely hold back a groan. Gianna made these? As if I needed another reason to be obsessed with her.
“These are amazing,” I exclaim and eat another, then force myself to put the lid back on. I want to eat them slowly, savor them one by one, not gobble them all at once. They’re a thing to be enjoyed with time.
Like her.
I give myself a firm mental smack to get my mind away from the picture of her spread thighs, an offering for me to savor and taste.
Gianna’s smile grows. “Thank you. That’s a relief. Not everyone likes them.”
I tuck the box into the pocket of my coat. “Now you’ll have to tell me when your birthday is so I can return the favor.”
She sends me a naughty look, batting her eyelashes. “You’ll bake me cookies?”
I laugh. “Brat. But yes, if you wish, I’ll bake you cookies, Gianna.”
Her sweet scent intensifies, mixing deliciously with the aroma of the amaretti. “It’s not until spring,” she says. “April twenty-sixth.”
It fits. Whenever I think of her, I’m reminded of flowers, of warmth. She’s bursting with life and so beautiful. She thrives in the sun, as I saw over the last year of working with her. In the summer, her tan skin got a golden sheen to it from all the time she’d spent outside.
I would ruin her. I’m a creature of winter, of cold, and I prefer the dark part of the year. I’m happiest when holed away in my workshop, crafting my pieces by the light of the fire.
I stand, mourning the fact that our time together is over.
“Are you really coming to the party?” she asks.
I should say no. It’s Christmas Eve, the night when my powers will be the most volatile, so I should spend it alone in my house, on a phone call with my witchy friend, planning on taking down all the assholes on my list with a few careful clicks of her keyboard.
Perhaps if Gianna had asked me this question on any other day of the year, I would have had the strength, the will to say no. But I’m weak. And selfish beyond compare.
“I am,” I say, then amend, “If you will be there as well.”
Her eyes widen, and I wait, holding my breath. I didn’t simply ask her if she was attending—I essentially told her I would be going just to see her. I cannot say more, so I hope she understands. I hope she takes the step toward me, meeting me halfway, because I cannot in good conscience press her for more.
It has to be her own decision to join me in the dark.
But she gives me that beautiful smile, dimples popping in her cheeks. “I’ll see you there.”