Chapter 2
Evasive Measures
The light annoys me, but what annoys me more is an empty bed.
His spot is cool to the touch.
“Ugh, Santo!” I cry into the morning quiet. I toss the covers off my head and look straight into the camera on the ceiling across our room. “I don’t like when you leave me!”
My phone chimes on the night stand.
I grab it and swipe at the screen
Santo
I went to grab your Christmas present. Breakfast is in the kitchen, snackcake included! I’ll be home in twenty.
I sigh and mumble “Okay.”
I smile at the text, still grumpy but placated. Snackcake’s first thing in the morning is an apology, I’ll take it!
A little peace offering, a little love letter in the form of sugar and chocolate.
I stretch, feeling the silk sheets against my skin. December sunlight filters through the curtains, painting golden stripes across our bedroom. Outside, a light dusting of snow covers the grounds of our estate. Our first Christmas season living here full-time.
Last year, we stayed at the penthouse while the estate was renovated.
Padding to the bathroom, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a tangled mess, and there’s a faint mark on my neck from where Santo’s lips were last night. I touch it gently, remembering.
“Twenty minutes,” I mutter to myself. Enough time to shower and make myself presentable. Santo always looks impeccable, even first thing in the morning. It’s unfair, really.
The hot water feels heavenly, and I linger longer than I should, letting it wash away the last vestiges of sleep. By the time I’m dressed in a soft sweater and leggings, my hair still damp around my shoulders, I can smell coffee wafting up from the kitchen.
I follow the scent downstairs, my bare feet silent on the heated floors. I haven’t worn my signature four-inch heels since Santo declared this December our month off!
In the kitchen, a plate of pastries including my snackcake sits beneath a glass dome, a little note propped against it in Santo’s precise handwriting:
“For my Dea.”
My heart flutters. Even after all this time, the little things he does still make me feel like I have a crush on my husband, like some teenager.
I pour myself a cup of coffee, adding a generous amount of cream and sugar.
Santo teases me that I don’t actually like coffee, just coffee-flavored dessert.
He’s not wrong.
I take a bite of a chocolate-filled croissant and close my eyes in bliss. My husband spoils me rotten, and I have no intention of ever complaining about it.
The house is quiet this morning, our security team keeping a respectful distance. I know they’re there—Santo would never leave me truly alone, not after what happened last year, but the illusion of privacy is nice.
I check the time on my phone. Five minutes until he’s back.
Taking my coffee, I wander into the living room where our Christmas tree dominates the corner.
It’s massive, Santo insisted, and dripping with ornaments.
Some are elegant crystal pieces he bought from designers whose names I still can’t pronounce.
Others are handmade, gifts from the children from the boys and girls home we support, who look at Santo with a mixture of fear and adoration.
My favorite is the small clay star Luna helped me make, painted in uneven strokes of gold and blue. It hangs front and center, Santo’s orders.
I run my fingers over a velvet ribbon, remembering how we decorated together last week. Santo lifting me to place the angel on top, his hands strong and sure around my waist.
The front door opens, and I turn, coffee forgotten on the side table as I listen to the familiar cadence of my husband’s footsteps. Heavy. Purposeful. The sound of safety approaching.
“Santo?” I call out, already moving toward the entryway. “Did you really need to get my present this early in the morning?”
He appears in the doorway, snowflakes melting in his dark hair, cheeks flushed from the cold. His eyes warm when they land on me, that particular look that still makes my stomach flip.
“Dea,” he greets, voice rough with that perfect smirk of his. “And yes, it was necessary.”
I cross my arms, trying to look stern despite the smile tugging at my lips. “What was so important?”
I watch as he prowls closer, hand behind his back.
“You. You are always important,” he muses, revealing a mistletoe and hanging it above us.
I roll my eyes but can’t stop my smile. “That’s cheating,” I say, even as I step closer to him. “You don’t need props to get me to kiss you.”
“I like traditions,” he says, his smoky eyes never leaving mine. “Especially ones that give me an excuse to kiss my wife.”
I rise on my tiptoes, meeting him halfway as his free arm circles my waist. His lips are cold from the winter air, but they warm quickly against mine. I taste coffee and something sweet...
“Did you eat without me?” I murmur against his mouth.
“Just a pastry,” he says with a grin. “Nothing compared to what you made yesterday.” His fingers thread through my damp hair. “You showered without me. I’m devastated.”
I laugh, pulling back just enough to see his face. “You left me alone in bed. Consider it payback.”
He groans dramatically, tucking the mistletoe into his pocket before cupping my face with both hands. “Cruel woman. I was getting you a gift.”
“Speaking of which...” I glance around him, searching for packages. “Where is this mysterious present that couldn’t wait?”
Santo’s expression shifts, something unreadable flickering across his face before his smile returns. “It’s a surprise for later. You’ll have to be patient.”
“I hate being patient,” I remind him, pouting slightly.
“I know.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”
I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “You’re being extra charming this morning. What are you up to?”
“Can’t a man be charming to his beautiful wife without ulterior motives?” He takes my hand, leading me back toward the kitchen. “Did you eat already? I brought more pastries.”
“I had half a croissant,” I admit, following him. “Not my snackcake yet. Thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome, Dea,” he murmurs, a pleased look in his eye.
“I’m beginning to think you don’t want me baking, with all the pastries you’re bringing home.
“Nonsense! My wife loves sweets, why not allow you to indulge?” he smirks.
He releases my hand as we enter the kitchen—
My ring.
I look at my hand.
At his.
“Santo… did you just—”
He opens the dome of pastries, taking a small box out of his jacket pocket and placing eclairs inside. “Just what Dea?”
I tuck my hand behind me. “Nothing. The eclairs look good,” I murmur, shoving my bare hand into the sleeve of my sweater.
How the hell did I lose my ring?
When did I lose it?
His mother’s ring…
His dead mother’s ring.
I’m a dead woman.
Santo bites into a pastry and groans. “I think I’m turning into you.”
I chuckle half heartedly as I try and remember where my ring was last.
Did I go sleep with it, did I take it off to shower this morning?
I eye the counter, trying to remember where I last saw it.
Yesterday. I was baking cinnamon rolls. I took it off so it wouldn’t get dough stuck in the setting.
Oh God. The sink. I left it by the sink.
No.
No I slipped it back on.
Didn’t I?
“You know what,” I say, backing toward the doorway, “I just remembered I need to check something upstairs.”
Santo’s eyebrow lifts, his stormy eyes tracking my movement. “What do you need to check, Vasilisa?”
The way he says my full name sends a chill down my spine. He knows something.
“Just… lady things,” I mumble. Usually, that’s enough to scare off most men.
Not Santo.
He sets down his pastry, wipes his hands on a napkin with deliberate slowness.
“Lady things,” he repeats, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Upstairs?”
I nod, taking another step backward. “Yes. Very urgent lady things.”
He shakes his head.
“No. There are no urgent lady things. I know your cycle Vasilisa, we’re planning a baby, if anything; you’re late. So if your lady things is a pregnancy test then by all means, lets go check, but other than that, what is it Dea?”
Wait.
Am I late?
I release my trapped hand and count back the weeks. I’m so deep in concentration, I don’t notice Santo until his shadow falls over my hands.
“Dea,” he says, voice low and lethal. “Where’s your ring?”