Chapter 20
WILLOW
It’s close to midnight by the time we finish setting up the living room for Christmas morning.
Every surface looks like the aftermath of some cheerful holiday disaster—cookie crumbs scattered across the floor, powdered sugar tracks trailing from the fireplace, bits of glitter clinging to the curtains, and piles of wrapping paper crowding every corner.
Boxes of presents are stacked under the tree, some neatly arranged, others clearly a last-minute scramble.
But the centerpiece—the part that makes all of it worth it—is the child-sized, fully functioning train Damien spent the last three hours assembling.
Its little engine light flickers softly beneath the glow of the tree, the tracks curling around the base like a secret world waiting to wake.
In the morning, I’m supposed to fill the back car with sweet treats and silver bells, a surprise for the girls to discover when they run down the stairs.
Cast leans against the counter, surveying the scene with a smug sort of satisfaction. “Perfect,” he declares, brushing a streak of powdered sugar from his sleeve. “Looks authentic.”
Vincent groans. “Authentic? The man left a trail through the kitchen. Apparently Santa doesn’t believe in cleaning—or in parent clean-up duty.”
“No one told you to pull the short straw,” I tease, bumping my hip against his as I walk by.
Damien laughs, his arms crossed, eyes soft and amused. “The girls are going to lose their minds when they see it.”
“Good,” Cast says, stretching and glancing toward the stairs. “Because I’m officially done playing elf. I’m going to bed before I fall asleep on this floor.”
Vincent nods, yawning. “Seconded. If I see another ribbon tonight, I might burn it.”
I watch them start to gather their things, half-turning toward the stairs—and then the thought hits me, warm and a little mischievous.
I tilt my head, letting my voice drop just enough to make them look back. “I don’t know,” I say slowly, smiling. “I would’ve thought my Santas might want their Christmas a little early.”
Three pairs of eyes land on me.
“What did you get us, Trouble?” Damien’s voice is low enough to make my pulse skip. His hands slide against my waist, steady and warm, the faint scrape of his calluses catching on the edge of my sweater. I look up at him through my lashes, the corner of my mouth tugging into a slow, knowing smile.
“You’ll have to come upstairs to find out.”
Behind him, Vincent straightens, fatigue replaced with quiet interest. “Upstairs, huh?” His tone drips skepticism, but his eyes drip with intrigue.
Cast’s mouth curves into that dangerous half-smirk that always precedes trouble. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”
I slip out of Damien’s hold and start toward the stairs, glancing back just once to make sure they’re following. They do, of course—three wolves drawn by a scent they can’t ignore.
The garland along the banister glows gold and green, brushing against my fingertips as I trail my hand along it. I can feel their presence behind me—their steps measured, the weight of their eyes tracing the line of my back.
When we reach the top landing, I pause beside Cast’s door and glance over my shoulder. “In here.”
Cast arches a brow. “My room?”
“It’s the biggest,” I remind him, resting my hand on the doorknob. “And the bed’s already made. You can thank me later.”
Vincent huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re up to something, Princess.”
“Maybe.” I push the door open and let the warm amber light spill across the floor. “But it’s Christmas. You can’t say no to me on Christmas.”
Damien leans close as he passes, his breath skimming my ear. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
They file into the room one by one, and I try to keep my stomach from doing backflips, a feeling I can’t help but feel whenever I’m around them.
There’s something about the way they move, trailing behind me like I’m a siren dragging them happily to their doom that makes the air feel thicker, warmer.
I can feel the heat crawling up the back of my neck, my breath just slightly uneven.
I close the door behind us, the sound soft but final, and rest my back against it for a heartbeat before meeting their eyes. “Now,” I say, letting my smile deepen, “wait here. No peeking. Just sit back and relax. I’ll be right back.”
Cast folds his arms, feigning impatience. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Of course I am,” I reply, stepping past him toward the adjoining hall. My voice trails lighter, playful, as I glance back at them. “You taught me to love torture.”
I slip into the ensuite, closing the door behind me before my resolve can falter.
The soft light spilling from the sconces paints the marble in gold, catching on the small box waiting by the sink.
My fingers work at the ribbon, and the lace inside unfurls like a secret—red and soft, whisper-thin against my skin as I pull it on.
The fabric hugs close, tracing every line of me, and for a moment I just stand there, watching the reflection in the mirror.
My pulse beats in my throat, my hands steadying against the counter as I breathe in.
I smooth the sheer robe over the lingerie, leaving it untied, and let my hair fall loose around my shoulders.
One last glance in the mirror, one steady breath, and then I reach for the handle.
The faint hum of anticipation follows me as I step back toward the room where three men are waiting, unaware of just what kind of Christmas surprise they’re about to unwrap.
I poke my head out pointing to Cast. “Turn on Santa Baby, please!”
Damien whistles low, and Cast chuckles crossing the room, as he slides out his phone and turns on the song. Thank God, for sound proofing and the baby monitors we have in every single room.
“Work it baby,” Vincent chuckles.
I take a deep breath, the scent of Cast’s expensive sandalwood soap clinging to the air. My pulse is a frantic drum against my ribs, a stark contrast to the slow, sultry jazz standard now whispering from the bedroom speakers. Santa Baby. Perfect.
I push the door open.
My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a wild drum solo only I can hear. I take a slow, deliberate step into the center of the room, the plush carpet soft under my bare feet.
“My only rule is that you don’t get to touch,” I say, to a chorus of boos, but I hold up my hand. “Until the dance is done!”
A slow, wicked smile spreads across my lips as my body begins to move. It’s just a sway of the hips at first, a subtle shift of weight from one foot to the other. The sheer robe floats around me, a crimson cloud offering fleeting glimpses of the lace beneath.
I catch Damien’s gaze first. His usual cool composure is cracking, a muscle in his jaw ticking as his eyes darken, tracking the path of my hands as they slide down my own sides.
He’s always the quiet one, the one who watches everything.
I make a point of holding his stare, my fingers teasing the tie of the robe. I want to see him break first.
“Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree, for me…”
I hum along, my voice a soft whisper as I turn my attention to Vincent.
He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his drink dangling from his fingers.
There’s a raw, hungry appreciation in his look that sends a fresh wave of heat through me.
My hands travel up, fingers threading through my own hair, arching my back just so.
The robe gapes open, and I see his breath catch.
A low, appreciative groan rumbles in his chest, and the sound is better than any applause.
“Maybe I should say no noises either,” I tease, my tone sugar-coated and sharp.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he responds, narrowing his eyes at me.
I point a finger at him, then bring it to my lips in a shushing motion. His eyes flash with a promise of delicious retribution, but he stays silent, obedient.
Finally, I turn to Cast. My tutor in torture.
His arms are still crossed, but the impatience is no longer feigned.
It’s real, a live wire of tension in the set of his shoulders.
His gaze is intense, analytical, missing nothing.
He’s not just watching the show; he’s studying it, cataloging every reaction, every hitch in my breath.
I dance for him.
I move closer, until the scent of him—spice and smoke—fills my senses. I trail a single fingertip along the arm of his chair, my hips swaying in time with the music, so close he could reach out and grab me. But he won’t. I taught him the rules of this game, and he’s too competitive to forfeit now.
“Think of all the fun I’ve missed,” I purr the lyrics directly to him, leaning down so my hair brushes his knee. “Think of all the fellas that I haven’t kissed.”
His eyes drop to my mouth, and his knuckles are white where he grips his own biceps. The control he wears like a second skin is straining, fraying at the edges. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I push away, spinning slowly, letting the robe flutter open completely. The red lace corset gleams in the low light, a stark contrast against my skin. I run my hands over the curves it creates, a performance of self-appreciation meant to wound them with want.
The song is building, climbing toward its climax. I slowly roll my shoulders, dipping my head back, a glance over my shoulder that holds a challenge for all three of them. The air is electric, charged with a hunger so palpable I can taste it—metallic and sweet.
I back up toward the large four-poster bed, the music swelling. With one last, lingering hip circle, I slowly, so slowly, lower myself onto the edge of the mattress. I recline back on my elbows, one leg stretching out, the other bending, my foot planted on the floor.
The last note of the song hangs in the air and then fades into a ringing silence.