Milo
I watch her move around the kitchen and smirk to myself.
She’s ridiculous.
Beautiful.
And fucking mine.
Standing there in Christmas pyjamas, baking M&M’s cookies as if she isn’t one of the most dangerous women I know.
The cookies, though, look… wrong.
I take the first bite, against my better judgment.
Fuck.
I nearly choke.
For a split second, I consider spitting it straight back onto the counter, but I make myself swallow like my life depends on it.
It’s sweet and salty at the same time, how the fuck does someone even achieve that? It shouldn’t be possible, yet here we are.
It’s cooked on the outside, oddly dry and sticky at the same time, while the inside is still raw.
I take another bite anyway.
And another.
Because she made it.
My throat is on fire, desperate for water, for anything that will help me swallow. I spot her taking two glasses from the cupboard and exhale relieved.
Then she pours milk.
Fucking milk.
I haven’t touched milk since I was a baby, but I’d drink cement right now if it did the job.
I force down the rest of the cookie and immediately reach for another.
Beside me, Adriano watches with visible scepticism, his own cookie still untouched in his hand.
After a moment, he gives in and takes a bite.
He coughs.
My blade is under the table in an instant, pressed into his side.
“Eat it,” I murmur. “All of it. And like it.”
He freezes.
Octavia glances over, her brows tighten as her attention shifts between us. A wary edge enter her eyes, but she doesn’t see the blade.
I shove half the cookie into my mouth and talk around it. “This is so fucking good.”
She narrows her eyes.
I grab another cookie and shove it straight into Adreno’s open mouth before he can think better of it.
He chokes, but I press the blade a little harder, smiling.
He chews.
I chew.
We chew like obedient fucking idiots.
She relaxes as she sets the glasses of milk in front of us, then turns back to the counter.
I keep eating. Cookie after cookie.
My jaw hurts.
My soul suffers.
I would rather take a bullet than go through this again, but my woman made them…
She finally turns back toward us and reaches for the plate.
“Leave one for me,” she says.
“Fuck no,” I snap. “Sorry,” I add around a mouthful, “too good to share.”
I shove the last bite from my hand into my mouth before she can even blink, then grab the plate with three cookies still on it. One goes straight into my mouth. One remains clenched in my fist.
The third I push into Adriano’s mouth before he has time to object.
He closes his eyes with a defeated grunt as he chews, very likely reconsidering every poor decision that led him here.
He doesn’t say a word, so it’s safe to ease the blade away from his side.
I slide the empty plate back to her and reach for the milk again, taking long gulps.
When I notice Adriano still struggling, his throat working like he’s on the verge of being sick, I shove the glass into his hand.
“Drink,” I mutter. “It helps. Slightly.”
Across the island, she watches us, her head slightly tilted, suspicion plain on her face.
“Why did you eat them all?” she asks.
“Because they were so good,” I reply smoothly. “Couldn’t leave a crumb.”
“But I wanted some.”
“Too bad.” I shrug.
I wasn’t about to let her taste them and crush that hopeful look on her face. I would have eaten ten more before I ever let her realise how catastrophic they were.
She studies me for a long moment, searching for the lie.
She exhales, then shrugs. “Okay. If they were that good, I can make another batch.”
Adriano slowly shakes his head. “Fuck no. I’m out.”
I elbow him in the side without looking.
Hard.
He grumbles under his breath, pushes to his feet, and leaves, still muttering to himself as he goes.
“What are you doing here on Christmas Day?” she asks suddenly, looking straight at me. “Don’t you have family to celebrate with?”
For a moment, the kitchen disappears.
“Do it.”
The voice is vile. “Do it now, you useless piece of shit, good for nothing.”
“Kill her. Or fuck her!”
There’s laughter somewhere, but it barely registers.
The gunshot goes off.
A touch pulls me back into the present. It takes a moment for my focus to return before I register Octavia’s fingers brushing against my knuckles.
I go still.
I glance down at our hands before lifting my eyes to hers.
I can’t believe this just happened.
Right now.
Here.
She’s watching me with concern on her face.
Concern… for me.
That earns a smirk.
Fuck yes.
I knew she’d accept us. That she’d start caring about me. That, in time, she would love me too.
I give her the simplest answer to the question she asked, the smile slipping from my face as I do.
“My family’s old school,” I say. “Most people in Russia celebrate Christmas on the seventh of January.”
She accepts it without pressing, and I don’t tell her the rest.
That I’ve spent most of my life away from my homeland. That being here, where people celebrate Christmas on the twenty-fifth, made me do the same.
And that for me, celebrating has always meant being alone in a room, whether at boarding school or the academy, with a microwaved Christmas dessert from the canteen.
I turn my attention back to her, pushing the darkness aside.
It doesn’t matter.
Now I have her.
I’m not alone in the world anymore.
I smirk, putting the mask back in place. “Show me your room.”
A hint of suspicion appears on her face. “Why would I do that?”
I stand from the island and close the distance between us, stopping just short of touching.
“I just want to see your space,” I finish, before pressing a hard kiss against her lips.
“And maybe feel your tight pussy wrapped around my cock. Make up for lost time.”
My hand closes around the back of her neck and I kiss her with abandon.