Chapter 2
LUKE
She runs like her life depends on it.
I watch from the shadows between two massive evergreens, tracking the flash of pink tulle as Seraphina bolts into the maze of Christmas trees.
The rhinestones on her dress catch the light with every frantic step, turning her into a living constellation.
Snowflakes cling to her red hair and her bare shoulders, melting against her flushed skin.
Beautiful.
She's absolutely goddamn beautiful.
I count to thirty in my head, giving her the head start I promised myself. It's only fair—I designed this place, know every twist and turn, every dead end. The least I can do is give my sugarplum a fighting chance.
In the end it doesn’t matter. She won't escape me or what I have planned for her.
At thirty, I step out and follow. My boots crackle on the freshly fallen powder. My black tactical gear blends into the shadows between strings of lights.
Dark Santa, come to check if she's been naughty or nice.
Definitely naughty. The thoughts running through her head right now—terror mixed with that confusing arousal she's trying so hard to ignore—those are deliciously naughty.
The tree farm spreads out before me like a kingdom I've built with my own hands.
Three months of planning, two months of construction, weeks of fine-tuning every detail.
The lights had to be perfect—not too bright, creating just enough shadow and illusion.
The candy cane pathways seem random but actually funnel her exactly where I want her.
The structures provide temporary shelter that ultimately leads to my endgame.
Every element serves a purpose.
Every choice was made with her in mind.
I follow her tracks in the snow, the delicate imprints of her feet.
Her slippers soaked through faster than I had anticipated, offering zero protection.
Her feet must be freezing. The thought sends a dark thrill through me—not because I want her to suffer, but because I know that cold heightens every other sensation.
How it will make her hyperaware of every heated touch when I finally get my hands on her.
She’ll be begging for my warmth to consume her.
The prints veer left toward the candy cane archway. Smart girl. She's trying to vary her path. But she doesn't know what I know—that archway leads to a section with fewer exits, boxing her in without her realizing it.
I take my time following, letting anticipation build. Rushing would ruin the game. This is about the hunt as much as the capture. I want her to tremble with anticipation.
The distorted Christmas music drifts through speakers I've hidden throughout the farm. "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy" slowed down until it's almost unrecognizable stuck on repeat was the perfect final touch to this scene.
I move through the trees with ease, scanning ahead for pink in the darkness. There—a flash of movement near the oversized lollipop sculptures. She's cutting through the candy clearing, heading toward the workshop prop.
I circle wide, keeping to the shadows. She can't see me, but I can see her perfectly. The way her chest heaves with each breath. The way she keeps glancing over her shoulder, fear bright in her eyes. The way her bound hands clutch at her torn dress.
She's a mess. Disheveled and desperate and absolutely perfect.
I reach into the pack strapped to my thigh and pull out the string of Christmas lights I've been saving. I test them, letting them spark to life in my gloved hands. Red and white bulbs glow, casting crimson shadows.
These are going to look stunning wrapped around her.
Seraphina disappears into the candy workshop, and I pause, giving her a moment to catch her breath and think she's found safety. She needs a little time to think there’s hope. It makes the eventual realization so much sweeter.
I know she's watching through the window when I walk past. I can feel her gaze tracking my movement. Height. Build. The way I move.
She's analyzing her predator.
Good. Use that sharp mind, sugarplum. It won't save you, but I love that you’re trying.
I deliberately slow my pace, letting her see me in profile. Perhaps she’ll think maybe, just maybe, I've lost her trail and kept walking past the warehouse.
Then I turn and head straight for the door.
The workshop is small, cluttered with props I had made specifically for this set. She's in the back corner, pressed behind the cauldron, holding her breath. Her dress gives off a faint glow from the rhinestones, making her position obvious.
Does she know I can see her? Does she understand how useless hiding is?
I let the moment stretch, savoring her fear. Then I speak, keeping my voice low and intimate.
"Found you."
The split second of frozen terror before she moves is exquisite. Then she's grabbing a prop candy cane and hurling it at me—spirit and fight even when cornered. I admire that about her. She wants to make me work for it.
The prop bounces off my chest harmlessly as she lunges for the tiny, child-sized door I had installed. Fast. Agile. But not fast enough.
I'm at the door in three strides, hand closing around her ankle as she tumbles through. The fabric of her fishnets tears in my grip. She kicks hard with her other foot, catching my wrist with enough force that I grunt and release her.
Letting her go is calculated. If I caught her now, here, it would end too quickly. She needs to run more. Needs to exhaust herself and feel the full weight of being hunted before I finally bring her down.
She scrambles away, abandoning her ruined slippers, and runs barefoot through the snow.
Perfect.
Now she's leaving tracks I can follow even more easily in the dark. Small footprints, toes digging in for grip, the pattern showing how tired she's getting. The snow must be agony on her bare feet—freezing, burning, making every step a test of will.
I take my time coiling the Christmas lights around my hand, watching her pink form disappear into the rows of evergreens. She's heading back toward the gingerbread house, probably hoping to lose me in the structures.
The hunt is about control—not just of her, but of myself. Every instinct screams to chase her down immediately, to tackle her into the snow and claim what's mine. But that would be crude. Inelegant.
She deserves better.
So I walk. Boots crunching through snow, deliberate and unhurried. Letting her hear me coming. Letting anticipation build until her nerves are razor-sharp.
The tree farm is a masterpiece at night. Lights strung through thousands of branches create layers of illumination—bright spots that blind, dark patches that hide. The gingerbread houses loom like fairy tale cottages, promising shelter that doesn't exist.
I built this labyrinth for one person.
For her.
I round the corner of a gingerbread house and spot her pressed against the far side, chest heaving, bare feet buried in snow. She hasn't seen me yet. She hasn’t realized I've circled around to cut off her escape route.
I could take her now. Step out and end the chase.
But where's the fun in that?
Instead, I speak into the darkness, letting my voice carry.
"You look so pretty when you run from me."
She goes rigid, trying to pinpoint my location, but she can’t find me.
"The way that dress bounces with each step. The way your breath comes in those desperate little gasps."
I'm close enough now to see the flush spreading across her skin despite the cold. Close enough to watch her pulse hammer at her throat. Close enough to scent the complex mixture of emotions rolling off her in waves.
Fear. Adrenaline. Arousal.
Fuck, I need her.
"I wonder how long you'll last before those pretty legs give out."
She makes a run for it—as I knew she would—bolting around the corner straight into my trap. I let her think she's escaped again, tracking her through the candy clearing. She's slower now, stumbling, her body hitting its limits.
Almost time.
But not quite yet.
I follow her to another structure. She slips inside, and I give her exactly sixty seconds before I open the door.
Her eyes, when she sees me silhouetted in the doorway, are wild with fear and excitement. Hunger and desperation that she's fighting not to acknowledge.
She throws another prop and dashes through the doorway again, taking off into the frigid night.
I stand in the doorway after she's gone, smiling and listening to the sound of her barefoot steps growing distant. The Christmas lights in my hand glow softly, red and white casting patterns across the snow. I imagine how they'll look wrapped around her wrists, her throat, her trembling thighs.
Soon.
So fucking soon, Sera.
I pocket the lights and resume the hunt, my shadow long against the illuminated snow. She's running out of energy, out of options, out of places to hide. The farm is mine. The night is mine.
She's mine.
I track her footprints—the stride shortened, signs of exhaustion in every step. She's circled back to the gingerbread house again, probably disoriented in the maze of lights. I can hear her ragged breathing from here, the desperate sounds she's making.
I step around a cluster of evergreens, positioning myself so I'll intersect her path no matter which direction she runs. The lights strung through the trees cast my shadow in multiple directions, making me seem to be everywhere at once.
She presses against the gingerbread house wall, and I watch her from the shadows. I love the way she struggles to control her breathing. And the way she shifts her weight from one frozen foot to the other. And fuck, even the way her bound hands tremble.
I let the moment hang, heavy yet buzzing with energy, before I step forward just enough that I catch her attention.
Her head snaps up.
I see the instant she spots me—eyes going wide, pupils dilated, lips parting in a gasp. The rhinestones on her dress catch the light as her chest rises and falls rapidly. Her legs are scratched from branches, her fishnets in tatters, her costume torn and wet with snow.
She's never looked more beautiful.
I take another step forward, and she presses harder against the wall like she could somehow melt through it. Trapped. Cornered. Exactly where I want her.
The Christmas lights pulse gently in my hand, red then white then red again.
"Nowhere left to run, sugarplum," I say, my voice low and throaty.
She's shaking now—fine tremors running through her whole body. I can see her mind working, calculating the odds, looking for an escape that doesn't exist.
I designed this game to have only one ending.
The snow falls heavier now, thick flakes that muffle the sound coming from the speakers and blur the Christmas lights.
She shifts her weight, preparing to run again, and I let a wicked smile curve my lips.
"You can run again if you want," I tell her, taking another slow step forward. "I do love watching you try."
Something flashes in her eyes—defiance mixed with fear and that traitorous heat she can't quite hide. Her bound hands clench into fists, velvet rope digging into her wrists.
She's gorgeous like this. Wild and desperate and fighting against every instinct that's telling her to surrender.
I inhale deeply, scenting the cold night air. Pine and peppermint and snow and her. It all makes my blood run hot with need.
"I can smell your fear, sugarplum," I say quietly, letting each word hang in the frozen air between us.
I take one more step forward, closing the distance until I'm nearly close enough to touch her. Until I can see the way her pupils have swallowed her irises and I can count every rapid breath.
"And the sweet scent of your need for me.”