CONTENTS

Christmas Obsession

1.  Faith

2.  Vincent

3.  Faith

4.  Vincent

5.  Faith

6.  Vincent

7.  Faith

8.  Vincent

9.  Faith

10.  Vincent

Epilogue

Coming Soon

About the Author

CHRISTMAS OBSESSION

For months Vincent has watched his innocent, young, next-door neighbor.

He knows it’s wrong, but he can’t get enough.

She’s his obsession. Shy, sweet, and incredibly naive. A true temptation.

As a hitman for the mob, his job is something he doesn’t ever want to touch her, so he keeps his distance, forcing himself to ignore the primal need to take her.

All that changes on Christmas Eve when he comes face to face with Faith.

Unable to forget her sweet scent and soft smile, he knows he can’t stay away any longer.

He’s going to get the ultimate Christmas gift this year… his obsession.

1

FAITH

I ’m at my desk, staring out the window of my second-story townhouse. It’s Christmas Eve, and the trees outside are covered with white snow. The sky is full of clouds, and though it’s barely into the evening, the streetlights have come on. Golden circles of light fall on the glimmering snow, and I see the lights on at almost every house in view—all except Vincent’s.

Vincent. Just the thought of him sends a shiver down my spine. Our neighbor, Vincent, is an enigma. A handsome, broody, and unfortunately way too old for me enigma. Simply thinking about him feels wrong and forbidden, so I try not to.

Instead, I’m fantasizing about the day I get out of here, the day I can finally get away. I tap my finger gently against my lips as I daydream about a strong stranger, some man carrying me over the threshold of a new home. A new life, a new future…

I imagine my lover as tall, with close-cropped dark hair. His veins throbbing through his forearms as he touches me, the sharp angle of his jaw as he presses his forehead to mine, the feeling of his fingers pressing into the grooves of my spine.

I wrap a tendril of my brown hair around a finger as my fantasy turns a little darker. Ignoring the novel still open on my desk, waiting to be read, I close my eyes and focus on my daydream. My stranger starts to look more and more familiar, as I realize who I really wish was touching me…

“FAITH!” my mother’s shrill voice rings up the stairwell, making me jump half a foot in the air. My heart rate triples, and I shove the dirty thoughts out of my head.

As if she could read my mind. I know she can’t, but sometimes she gives me a look so judgmental and condescending that I fear she might hear my innermost thoughts. Which are, to be fair, pretty resentful. We don’t exactly get along.

“What is it, Mom?” I call back, turning in my seat but not getting up.

The seam of my jeans is pressing just slightly against my now swollen clit. I cross one leg over the other, trying to ignore the throbbing as my mom appears in the doorway to my bedroom.

Her hair is in curlers, and she has an almost frantic look on her face. She’s pouting slightly, and suddenly, I am reminded of her beauty pageant days. Sometimes, she still has the beauty queen affectations, namely, the megawatt smile on command and perfect graceful wave. It used to embarrass me so much when she would pick me up from middle school and wave at me from the car like she was on a parade float or something.

She tried to get me to do beauty pageants when I was a kid. After I burst into tears onstage three pageants in a row, she gave it up. Even as a child, I preferred to stay home, held up in my room, with my nose stuck in a book. It has always been our biggest point of contention.

“I invited Vincent over for Christmas cookies,” Mom says, sashaying slightly into my room. She’s still wearing her big fluffy leopard-print robe, with the sash tied tight around her middle.

“What?” I retort, my jaw dropping open. “Why would you do that?”

Vincent moved in three months ago, and my mom immediately tried to sink her shellacked claws into him. He drives a Porsche 911, and I swear I could see dollar signs in my mom’s eyes.

I can’t blame her, though. Vincent is mesmerizing. Tall, with broad shoulders and dark eyes. His stare is intense, even from afar. Some mornings, when I leave for community college, I feel his eyes on me, tracking me like a hunter tracks his prey. And I like it. Even though I’ve never been with a man before, all I can think about is what it would be like to touch him. To feel his mouth on mine, to have him hold me with his bulky arms…

Yeah, yeah, I had a silly teenage crush on him. It is stupid. There is no chance he’d ever notice me. Who’s interested in a nineteen-year-old girl who still lives with her overbearing mother? After all, Vincent is an adult; he appears to be in his late thirties at least.

He probably wants to date adult women who already have their life together, not the college student who fantasizes about him instead of doing her homework. Now I would have to watch my mom try and seduce him in my own home. My stomach is in knots, but I bite my tongue, keeping my opinion to myself.

My mom rolls her eyes—hard.

“You think I’m gonna blow the chance to marry a guy with a Porsche?” Her tone is sharp, and I feel a pang in my gut. It’s five-thirty, and my mom never bakes. I already know what’s coming next, but I ask her anyway.

“When did you make cookies, Mom?”

She pauses, pursing her lips at me. She crosses her arms and glares. Even with her blonde hair in curlers, she looks good for her age. Between three divorces, raising me, and kicking a nicotine addiction–twice, she always made time for her skincare routine.

“Don’t talk to me like that. You know what we do, Faith. I’m not even dressed yet!”

I sigh deeply, holding back the urge to roll my eyes. She always does this. Invites someone over, without warning me, and then forces me to cook an impressive meal in less than an hour.

God, I can’t wait to move out.

I close the novel and rub my temple with one hand as I rise from the chair. I cross my room and push past my mother, who is still standing in the doorway.

“Thank you, Faithie. I know I can always depend on you.”

“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” I mutter as I walk down the hall.

“What was that?” my mother calls after me, but I descend the stairs without answering.

Our home is modest and completely decked out in Christmas decorations. Mom dropped out of interior design school when she got pregnant with me, but she took pride in keeping a clean, showroom-worthy home.

We have a huge Christmas tree, covered in baubles and beads and tinsel, but everything is soulless. It’s as if someone took a Pinterest post and brought it to real life. There are no happy memories, no soul to this home. All the tinsel in the world couldn’t make up for a wino mom who only wants to marry rich—for the fourth time.

I tie my hair back in a ponytail as I enter the kitchen. I’ve been growing it out for a few years now, and the light-brown locks are nearly to my waist. I grab the butter, eggs, baking soda, flour, and sugar and arrange them all on the kitchen counter before washing my hands.

Even though I’m pissed that Mom is making me do this on such short notice, I do love to bake. When I was younger, my grandma taught me her secret sugar cookie recipe, and I no longer have to look at a written recipe to make it. This recipe is in my muscle memory, and I lose myself in the meditation of baking cookies.

I hum to myself as I cream the butter and sugar together. Christmas is my favorite time of year. I love the snow, the decorations, the feelings of love and goodwill that surround me. It’s easy to lose myself in Christmas, to devote myself to feeling jolly and finding the perfect presents for my loved ones.

Before I know it, the cookie dough is ready. I roll the dough out on the counter and lean down to get the cookie cutters out when suddenly, I feel as if I’m being watched.

I turn around, noticing the window that faces Vincent’s home. His blinds are shut, and why would he even be looking at me? Watching me through the window…such a stupid thought. He doesn’t even know I exist.

I shake the thought out of my head and resume baking. Before long, the tree and star-shaped cookies are in the oven. I set a timer on my phone and look down at myself. My green Christmas sweater, patterned with little prancing reindeers, and black sweatpants are covered in flour.

Of course, they are.

Quickly, I pull the sweater off and over my head. I walk down the hallway in just my sweatpants and sports bra, taking a moment to hang the green sweater over the coat rack. I’ll grab it and toss it in the laundry before Vincent arrives. I take the stairs two at a time, heading into my room to change into clean clothes.

I shimmy into a clean pair of black leggings. I could put on jeans, but some part of me wants Vincent to stare. To see how tight these pants are against my ass.

Maybe it’ll get him away from my mother…

In only a bra and leggings, I look at myself in the mirror. I try to imagine myself from Vincent’s point of view. Blue eyes, small breasts, long legs. But with my long hair and a trim figure, he probably sees me as a little girl instead of a woman.

Suddenly, I have an idea. Before I can stop myself, I lift my practical sports bra over my head and run to my dresser. I reach way, way back into my underwear drawer and feel around for the soft fabric. I feel the cool air on my breasts as I grab it and pull it out: the lacy black push-up bra that I bought on an impulse on my eighteenth birthday. I don’t know why I did; it isn’t like I have anyone to wear it for.

At least, not until now.

I slip on the bra and marvel at myself in the mirror for another moment. This bra makes me look like I actually have something to show off up here, and I feel sexy. I run a hand over each breast, admiring the small curve of cleavage. I wonder if Vincent will notice or even care.

The timer on my phone begins to beep. Crap, the cookies are ready! I pull on a red sweater patterned with tiny elves and give myself one last glance in the mirror, letting my hair out of its ponytail. As I exit my bedroom and speed-walk down the hall, trying to get to the kitchen before Vincent arrives, my mom squeals from the living room.

“Honey! Vincent’s on his way over. I just saw him through the window,” she calls as I jog down the stairs and quickly head into the kitchen.

My mother is wearing a fitted satin dress in emerald green, and though she’s showing far too much cleavage for my taste, the dress suits her. She has on a velvet Santa hat and bright red lipstick, with false eyelashes an inch and a half long. If it weren’t for the ugly snarl on her face when she sees my outfit, she would almost look beautiful.

“You couldn’t dress up a little?” she hisses, grabbing my forearm.

“Let go, Mom!” I say, pulling away. She pinches the fabric of my sweater between two fingers and grimaces.

“Polyester. I raised you better than polyester Christmas sweaters. Where did you even find this?” She’s speaking to me as if the sweater is an affront to her entire way of life. Which is typical for her.

“Mom, the cookies are going to burn,” I growl right as Vincent knocks at the door.

She whips around, letting out an excited squeal. As if she were a little girl seeing Santa. I roll my eyes and rush to the oven, where I pull the cookies out just in time. Removing them from the pan, I see that they’re a little golden on the bottom, but I got to them just in time. Even a minute more, and they would have been ruined.

I let out a breath as I set up the cooling racks on our kitchen island. I can hear my mother opening the front door and putting on the sickly sweet voice she only uses when she’s trying to sleep with someone. Unfortunately, I know it well.

“Viiiiinceeeeeent!” she drawls, dragging out each vowel impossibly long. “You’re just in time. I just finished making my mother’s famous Christmas cookies. You’ve got to come and try them.”

Anger and jealousy rise in my chest. Not that I expect anything better from my mother, but it still pisses me off. She makes me bake cookies with no notice at all and then passes the work off as her own, all so she can get laid.

My hands are shaking with rage as I arrange the cookies on the cooling racks. I can’t hear what Vincent says in response, but my anger turns to panic as I realize he’s coming inside. My heart races behind my lace bra, and I freeze in place, staring wide-eyed as my mother and my secret crush enter the kitchen.

2

VINCENT

Walking into the kitchen, I allow myself a glance at my obsession. I catch her eyeing me curiously; something about the look in her eyes is strong but wary. The years with her selfish mother have not broken her spirit, but her soul is battered. She is innocent but wise, and she occupies my every thought.

I wish I could make her understand how special, how strong and brave she is. I wish I could do so much for her, have her by my side and give her anything she could ever want or need, but I can’t. I can’t have her.

I had to suppress a scoff when I enter the house to Margaret’s boasting about her Christmas cookies as I hung my leather jacket on a coat rack. Instead of seeking out the girl I am really here for, I concentrated on holding back from calling Margaret out on her lies—that woman doesn’t know how to bake a frozen pizza, let alone make cookies from scratch—and followed her into the kitchen.

Even if I hadn’t already seen Faith making those cookies, I would’ve known Margaret is a liar. No one with hair that perfectly coiffed “just finished” making Christmas cookies. Margaret’s desperation is nearly palpable, and perhaps in a past life, I would’ve humored her. Taken her to bed, then unceremoniously disappeared.

Ghosted, as my boss would say. But not anymore. I see through her lies, and it takes every ounce of control in my body to not scowl at her advances. But I play nice because this is my one chance.

The truth of the matter is that I’m not here for her. I’m here for Faith. Ever since I moved into the house next door, I’ve been watching her. It began with curiosity and ended in knowing every part of her life. I’m obsessed with knowing every little detail about her.

She attends the community college just down the road. She leaves for class at nine every morning and returns at five. Her favorite color is blue; she likes to read romance books and eat cookie dough ice cream. She listens to 70s rock albums in her car, on CD because she drives a fifteen-year-old sedan.

Meanwhile, her mother, Margaret, drives a Lexus and spends all her money on booze and clothes. She has enough money to send Faith to a nice college but chooses to waste her money on material, selfish things. It disgusts me. I want nothing more than to whisk Faith away from this small life and give her everything she deserves.

The more I learn about Faith, the more I know I have to protect her. Watch her, take care of her in any way I can. She is so small and fragile, she needs someone to look out for her, and her mother is doing a shit job.

Tonight is my only chance to see her up close. Then I’ll go back to watching from afar. Back to yearning for the one woman, I can never have.

I live a life that she can never be a part of. Hitmen don’t get to fall in love—especially not ones who work for the mafia. If I let her into my life, she would become collateral, a target, a weakness my enemies would use against me. If I drag her into my darkness, soil her lightness somehow, I would never forgive myself.

Besides, she would probably never go for me anyway. I am much older than her. I’m weathered, body and soul. She is young, full of light, and utterly innocent. We’re the complete opposite, and there is no way she could ever see me for anything other than her neighbor.

I snap back to the moment, my eyes locking on Faith, standing there with a swipe of flour on her cheek. Her eyes are wide as if we’ve caught her in an indecent act.

Oh, if only…

“I just had to ask Faith to get the cookies out of the oven for me. She’s such a great helper, aren’t you, Faith?”

Margaret’s tone is dripping with sugar. To me, it sounds like nails on a chalkboard. She never uses this tone for her daughter, only condescending whispers and harsh snarls.

I know because I haven’t only watched them from my window. One day, while Faith and Margaret were out, I snuck into their house to plant two cameras in Faith’s room. One points at her bed. One overlooks the rest of her room. Every night since then, I’ve watched her.

Yes, I’m a fucking stalker. Yes, it’s wrong and perverted. It’s completely immoral and devious, but I don’t care. I’m going to hell anyway, might as well make it count.

Most of the time, she just reads, does homework, or sleeps. I watch the live feed obsessively, poring over her every movement. But I also watch when she touches herself. Those are my favorite parts.

She doesn’t have any toys, no vibrators or massagers. She even masturbates innocently, with two fingers furiously rubbing at her swollen clit until she’s gasping for air. It’s almost primal. I shouldn’t watch, but nothing else satisfies me. I must see her—all of her. She is my one and only obsession.

I set the cameras to record every time I leave the house, so I can come home and catch up with everything Faith has done that day. She spends most of her time at home in her room, but the windows in my home allow me to see into their living room and kitchen as well. That’s how I’d seen Faith making these cookies before I came over.

I watch everything she does. Everything.

It’s wrong. I know it is. But I’m addicted. She’s a drug I cannot kick. I need her in every way, even though I know I cannot truly have her.

That’s what makes it so surreal to be standing in the same room as her. To smell the cookies, she’d made just for me. To know what she looks like naked, what she sounds like when she comes on her hand, but to have to introduce myself as if are strangers. Which, to her, we are. She has no idea how much I know about her. How much I want to unravel her, to strip her bare and taste her sweetness, to feel her beneath my body, my cock sliding into her, bringing her to the brink of orgasm again and again.

“Hello, Faith,” I greet, my voice low as I fight to keep my heartbeat even.

Oh, sure, I could assassinate enemies of the mob without a second thought, but saying hello to her makes me nervous? Of course, it fucking does. I don’t want her to know about the darkness that lives inside of me. The joy I get from killing people, the warmth of their blood on my hands, listening to their screams, and pleas.

Faith turns to face me, and I watch a blush creep across her cheeks. So fucking beautiful. I want to kiss her, to spread her out right here on the counter, and claim her as mine.

“Hi, Vincent. Merry Christmas,” she replies shyly, her blue eyes flicking away from me almost nervously. It takes everything in me not to step closer.

You aren’t good enough for her. Too dark. Too dangerous.

Luckily, I don’t have to stop myself because Margaret forces herself between us. She clings to my arm for a moment as she snaps at her daughter.

“Christmas Eve, Faith. It’s not Christmas yet.” She’s trying to sound like she’s playfully teasing, but I hear the edge in her voice.

Margaret turns back to me with a winning smile, pushing up her chest in hopes that I’ll get lost in her vast cleavage. I don’t fall for it, not when the only woman in the room who has my attention is Faith.

“Does it really matter, Mom?” Faith shoots back.

I hate watching the expression of hurt appear on her face and nearly throw Margaret off of me. But instead, I gently lift her hands from my arms and move her to the side. Margaret stands dumbly, unsure how to react to me rejecting her advances, as I step forward.

“Pardon me for wanting to be accurate,” Margaret huffs.

She turns on her black stiletto heels—I wonder what type of woman willingly wears them in her own home—to open up a cabinet on the other side of the room. “Let me grab a serving tray, and we’ll have these cookies.”

While Margaret busies herself, I move closer to Faith. From here, I can smell her, the sugar cookies, and vanilla, all things sweet, wafting from her body. My mouth waters, and all I want to do is take a bite out of her. Her scent is intoxicating, enough to bring me to my knees.

She’s wearing a sweet sweater and tight black leggings. I can see the gentle curve of her ass, and almost stop breathing when she stands on her tiptoes and leans over the counter, giving me a perfect view of her sculpted legs. All I want is to hoist her over my shoulder and take her back to my house, where I can finally make her mine.

Stop! I can’t…

“You’ve made some wonderful cookies,” I whisper under my breath as I grab a sweater-shaped cookie. Faith straightens and looks at me in shock, like she can’t believe I’m complimenting her on the cookies I know she made.

Her blue eyes go as wide as saucers, and being this close to her, I notice that there’s a smattering of freckles across her nose. My stomach tenses, and I feel like an animal. I lock eyes with her as I bite into the cookie, letting the sweetness dance across my tongue.

Damn. It tastes amazing. Faith is an incredible baker, and just when I thought she couldn’t be any more perfect.

“Oh, I uh. No, it’s okay. My mom did—” she stammers.

I understand why she lies for her mom, but it pains me.

“I know the truth, Faith. Don’t worry.” I wink. It’s the only advance I’ll allow myself to make at her. I’ll behave the rest of the night, not because I want to, but because I have to.

Margaret pops between us with a garish plastic serving dish patterned with holly leaves. She pretends to be shocked when she sees that I’ve taken a bite already. It’s overdone, as if she’s an actress on stage, playing to the back row. In close quarters, it’s annoying and insincere.

“Vincent! Tut, tut,” she says, playfully slapping me on the hand. “You just couldn’t wait to help yourself to my baking, could you? Well, I surely don’t blame you. But let’s go start up the fireplace, hmm?”

Margaret struts off toward the living room, and I motion for Faith to go ahead of me.

“After you,” I say with a small wave.

She smiles at me from beneath a strand of hair on her face, and before I can stop myself, I wipe that stripe of flour off of her cheek. She lets out a soft gasp when my thumb makes contact with her face but maintains eye contact while her face turns red-hot.

She smiles again but quickly turns away, following her mother. I keep pace close behind, keeping my eyes on the back of her head. Wouldn’t want Margaret to catch me staring at her daughter’s ass. I must keep some semblance of decorum.

Margaret sits on the couch with one leg crossed over the other. Her green dress has ridden up enough that I can see the lace garter of her pantyhose. Faith must notice too because she gives a hefty eyeroll as she flops into the easy chair facing the couch. Margaret is patting the cushion beside her, but I decline and sit on the opposite arm of the couch, leaving one seat between us.

A friendly evening between neighbors. That’s all this is.

3

FAITH

I  can’t believe he’s here. In our living room, on our couch. His large frame makes the space feel smaller. His body is so muscular, it should have the couch crumbling beneath his weight. I wonder what it would be like to feel that weight against me.

My cheeks heat at the thought, and I force myself to think about something else… anything else.

I could pinch myself. His top lip curls slightly in disgust when he looks at my mother. I can’t believe he sees right through her. No one ever believes me, or maybe no one cared enough to.

Vincent is different in every way. I’ve never met anyone like him, and I don’t think I ever will. He seems so in control of his every move like his body and mind are well trained, but every time he looks at my mom, I can see his disgust. The more I watch him, I realize that he must really dislike her to show so much disdain on his face.

The question is, why did he come over then? Surely, not because of me.

Just thinking about that possibility makes me fall so much harder for him. It makes me believe I might even have a chance.

Up close, he is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. There is just a slight amount of stubble on his face, just enough to shade his cheeks and jaw. His hair is slightly messy but in an artful way. I’ve never known anyone like him before. It still feels insane that he is inside my house right now, that he touched my face, complimented my baking. I keep pinching myself in the same spot on my palm until I realize it’s gone numb.

“So, Vincent,” Mom says, still using the saccharine tone that sends shivers down my spine. “How do you afford that Porsche out front?”

“Mom!” I protest. “That’s so rude.” But so typical of her. All she cares about are nice cars, flashy watches, and rich guys who treat her like shit.

“I’m making conversation,” she snaps. Her megawatt smile turns to bared teeth in a flash, but her mask is back on once she faces Vincent.

“It’s no mind,” he says gently, raising a hand to me. He gives me a lopsided grin, and my stomach does a somersault. “My family and I own a chain of dry cleaners, and I manage the eastern branches.”

“Which cleaners?” I ask.

He seemed too sophisticated to just manage dry cleaners. His gray sweater is lush and tailored perfectly, and he wears jeans that hug his legs, showing off his body. I guess it tracked, but who knew dry cleaners were so lucrative? Something doesn’t add up.

“Fontanas,” he replies, a slight Italian accent creeping into his voice.

Fontanas? That name seems familiar, but I can’t think of where I know it from. I can’t really think of much when Vincent is distracting me with his talking.

His voice is supple, smooth, like worn leather. I want to talk with him all night. I want to fall asleep listening to his voice.

“How is school, Faith?” he asks. My name catapults me back to reality.

His stare is intense as if he wants to devour me. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel really warm inside. I probably should be scared of it, but instead, I simply feel wanted.

“It’s going well. Next semester I’m taking a life drawing class.”

His eyes light up for a moment. “Drawing. Are you very artistic?”

“I used to draw a bit in high school,” my mom interjects. Leaning forward, she puts a hand on Vincent’s knee to bring his attention back to her.

She shoots me a glare, and I know what it means, go away. Mommy’s getting laid.

I purposely ignore her stare. She made me bake cookies; I’m at least spending a few minutes talking to the object of my stupid hormone-fueled crush.

“I am asking Faith,” Vincent says pointedly, removing my mom’s hand from his leg.

Is it wrong that I feel a jolt of happiness in seeing him do that?

“Well, yeah, I think so,” I say in a quiet tone. I love to draw, but I don’t usually show anyone, not that there is anyone to show my stuff to anyway. “I’ve been drawing on my own for a while, and I’m excited to get better at it.”

“I’m sure you’re already wonderful. What else are you studying?” He sounds genuinely interested. It’s as if he actually wants to get to know me more.

He’s leaning toward me and hasn’t taken his eyes off of mine. I’m not even sure he’s blinked. The guy’s more intense than I expected, but it doesn’t scare me. In fact, it only piques my interest. It makes me want to run away with him.

“Literature, mostly,” I reply.

He hums an approval, then takes another bite of his cookie. He finally looks away from me, turning to admire the Christmas tree. I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. God, this man has my mind reeling.

I take the few seconds he is looking away to gather my thoughts. It’s a nice, quiet moment, so of course, my mother has to ruin it.

“Faith, sweetie, I think it’s about time you go upstairs and let us have some grown-up time,” she sneers, speaking slowly as if I’m a toddler.

I open my mouth to protest, but something about the ice in my mother’s stare makes me back down. It’s not worth it to fight her tonight. It’s Christmas Eve, so I might as well just go to my room and try not to hear the sounds of my mom screwing Vincent on the couch. I push to stand up, hanging my head while trying to avoid looking at them.

Ugh, of course, they are sending me away. He was only being nice to me because he wants to be with my mom. I’m an idiot for thinking otherwise. I’m nothing more than a teenager to Vincent, the child of a woman he wants to screw.

“No,” Vincent snaps to attention, his voice demanding and firm. He whirls around on my mom, glaring at her, and for a split second, I see something in his eyes I didn’t expect. Something feral, dark, and possessive. As fast as it appears, it’s gone, and I wonder if it was there at all. “I don’t want Faith to leave. I’m enjoying her company.”

“Vincent, she is a teenager. She would just be bored by the adult conversation.”

I ball my fists at my sides, grinding my teeth to keep from yelling at my mother. Christ, I’m smarter than she’ll ever be.

“Faith is a grown woman, and I do not want her to leave, Margaret.”

His tone is firm, leaving no room for my mother to protest. My stomach flips again, and I feel almost dizzy from the emotional whiplash. What I would give for stable ground.

My mom looks angry and confused, processing what Vincent is saying. The sides of her mouth curl up in a sneer, and she stands up, patting down her dress angrily.

She wobbles a little bit on her heels as she marches forward but is fueled by anger at this point. Nothing will stop her now.

“Well, fine,” she huffs, standing up and shoulder-checking me as she shoves past.

I stand firm against her, refusing to give under her weight, but it sets her off-balance. She tries to catch herself as she loses her footing, but the four-inch-tall spikes on the bottom of her shoes betray her. She throws her arms into the air and gasps, falling onto her back with a shriek. The sound of her body hitting the floor is a dull thud.

All is quiet for a moment. A giggle escapes my lips before I can stop myself.

“Goddammit!” she yells, grimacing on the floor for a moment.

Vincent is half-standing, staring at my mother on the floor in disbelief. His hands are slightly up as if he went to go catch her.

Suddenly, a laugh bubbles out of him, from a deep place in his chest. The laugh builds in him until he’s chuckling with his whole body. My laugh builds, too, blending in with his in the most beautiful way.

Mom tries to roll over on the floor but loses her balance, falling back down again. Vincent and I really start to lose it then, laughing uproariously until we start gasping for air.

“Faith!” my mother screams from the floor. “It’s–you have to take me to the hospital, Faith! I really hurt my back. I think it’s broken. Owwwww.”

If I didn’t know that she was faking, I would feel heartless to continue laughing at her. I simply know her too well, and she is most definitely faking.

“You’re fine, Margaret,” Vincent says between chuckles. “Get up. Don’t make such a fool of yourself.”

In a moment, I brush against Vincent’s arm and feel the entire side of my arm become electrified. Vincent stops laughing and freezes in place, caught off-guard by the sudden wild-eyed stare he gives me.

His nostrils are flared, and for a moment, I think he might pick me up and carry me away.

Just like my fantasy…

He breathes in slightly, and even my mother stops moaning and groaning on the floor, her eyes fully on us now. The tension in the air is so thick, I can barely breathe.

He’s staring at my lips as he takes a shaky breath, and I think he might swoop in to kiss me—like in the movies. That imaginary bubble pops almost instantly when Vincent straightens up and suddenly turns, heading for the door.

He pauses at the entrance to our living room, breathing hard. My mom gives up on the broken back act and pushes herself into a sitting position.

“Vincent? Are you all right?” Her voice cracking slightly at the end.

“I have to go,” he says in a strained voice, and I’m too shocked to say anything.

Did I do something wrong? Did he feel electrified too?

A moment before he turns away, my mom begins moaning on the floor again. I go to help her up, and Vincent leaves.

When my mom grabs my hand, I hear the front door slam. Shame, regret, and shock wash over me all at once. My mom seems about as surprised and embarrassed as I am.

I pull her to her feet, and she wobbles a moment before staying steady. I cross my arms and fight the urge to pout like a kid.

“Well, this calls for some cabernet,” she announces, turning on her stilettos and heading to the kitchen. I roll my eyes and leave for my room, where I can try and figure out what the heck just happened.

4

VINCENT

T  hough it pained me to leave Faith so suddenly, I couldn’t stay a moment longer. The sound of her laughter, the sight of her smile, the feeling of her slender arm against mine, it made me into a beast. The sound of my heart beating reverberated in my ears, and every nerve in my body screamed, grab her, take her, she’s yours! Blood rushed to my cock, and I feared that Faith or Margaret would notice the hard-on raging beneath my zipper.

Though I would have been okay with Faith seeing how much I wanted her…

Instead, I left. I ran away like a fucking coward—not before taking a little…souvenir, though—I’ll never go into her home again, just watch from not-so-afar.

When I reached to grab the leather jacket from the coat rack, I spotted a green and white sweater hanging half beneath it. I checked over my shoulder, making sure Margaret and Faith were not looking at me and pulled the sweater from the rack.

Before I could second-guess myself, I left. Nearly sprinting down their driveway, checking back and forth to make sure that nobody is out on the street. My breath billows into the air in a white cloud, making it clear that I am panting like a dog. I force myself to slow down as I walk the short distance between houses, clutching sweet Faith’s sweater to my chest like a talisman. My cock is still rock-hard, and my pace picks up again the closer I get to my front door.

I fumble for the keys in my pants pocket, my hand brushing against my erection as I pull the keys free. I’ve never unlocked a door faster than I do right now, with the soft, cookie-scented contraband against my chest.

Quickly, I open the front door and close it again behind me. Without even taking off my jacket, I unzip my pants and free my throbbing cock. The tip is swollen and purple, and my balls ache, begging for a release.

I should wait, do this in private, but part of me hopes Faith looks out her window and sees me fucking my hand. I want her to know what she means to me and how badly I want her.

Taking my cock into one hand, I stroke it from tip to base, at first slowly, before furiously pumping the organ, wishing it was Faith’s tight pussy wrapped around it.

With my other hand, I hold the sweater to my face. It smells of cookies, and there are clear stains of flour and butter on it. It makes it all the more perfect. There’s a slight smell of sweat and perfume; I can tell Faith wore this right against her skin.

The thought makes me shiver.

My cock jumps in my hand as I stroke harder, faster. I imagine this cloth against her pert breasts. Her hard nipples rubbing against the fabric. Fuck. I take a piece of the sweater and bite it, wishing I could taste her, too. Wishing my tongue was inside her tight hole. I’d devour her, eating her out until she begged me to stop.

My mind fills with visions of Faith’s slender, naked body, a sight I am already incredibly familiar with. I have seen her naked plenty of times on camera but never been close enough to feel or smell her. Visions of her body, her face, her wide, open smile haunt me.

I bite down on my bottom lip as I grip my erection and pump just a few more times, watching the purple-tinted tip quiver. My heart is thrumming through the muscles of my cock, and I know I’m going to come soon.

Imagining the slight bounce of Faith’s breasts, I wonder what it would be like to put those small, tender nipples inside my mouth. My thoughts swirl, and I think of her hot wet mouth, her ass, and her virgin pussy, how tight it would be around my cock.

Fuck, I want her so badly, want to unwrap her like a gift. I want to take that innocent girl and dirty her up, fuck her holes, make her scream my name and beg for my cock.

With my face buried in the sweater, my knees buckle, and my balls tighten as I release thick webs of cum onto the tile floor. A pleasure I would never, ever know.

As soon as I finish coming, a deep wave of shame overcomes me. I just stole a girl’s sweater and used it to masturbate. What if she asks for it back? What if she tries to insert herself into my life now? Did I just self-sabotage completely to hold a sweater for a few minutes?

Never again, I promise myself and make peace with the fact that what’s done is done.

As I zip up my pants and go to clean up the mess, I think about how my skills as a hitman have, in a way, prepared me for a love like this.

I am adept at making peace with my past sins; I only promise to do better tomorrow. If doing better means sniping a guy who tried to kill Tony Fontana, then so be it.

Once the mess is clean, I pause at the bottom of the staircase and take a breath. Technically, this is a safe house that belongs to the Fontanas’. After I carried out a hit against the head of the Polacks’ uptown, I had to hide away for a bit. It was routine; that is, at least, for hitmen. You got used to the impermanence of everything, including human life.

It is a modern suburban home, more suited for a family of three or four. I can hear my footsteps echo most nights. The kitchen is large and modern and completely wasted on me. Most nights, I order takeout. Too tired to cook.

The house is nicely decorated, in green and brown tones. Very earthy. I’m indifferent to my surroundings, though. I’ve had to stay in much worse places to stay safe.

And hey, this one came with a French press.

I climb the stairs, heading for my bedroom.

Though I could have taken the master bedroom at the other end of the hall, I chose to sleep in the guest room. It’s smaller, and there’s no attached bathroom, but it has a window that looks almost directly into Faith’s bedroom.

If I keep the lights off, my window is far enough away that she won’t see me watching her. Faith is usually pretty good about closing her curtains; most of the moments I see are through the camera. But every now and again, she decides to play or prance around with the shades open.

Maybe Santa Claus came down and gave me a wink. Maybe I’m just a lucky guy. But the moment I step into the guest room, I’m treated with a delicious sight, Faith, with her shades wide open, in the middle of taking off her sweater.

Despite the savage wank I just had downstairs, my cock immediately begins to get hard again. I can see her pale stomach, the gentle curves leading into the hem of her tight pants. But my heart stops when the sweater comes off, and I see the little black lace number she’s wearing.

My god. I never would have dreamed my innocent Faith would own such a thing. But it does the job and makes my blood run hot. She looks so fucking sexy in it. Her breasts are round and nearly spill over the edge of the cups—my obsession.

Faith stands in front of her mirror, admiring herself in the bra. My heart is pounding fast, coursing through my veins with the excitement of watching her. She pinches the waistband of her leggings with both hands and begins to fold them down.

I almost worry she can see me due to how agonizingly slow she peels off the pants. I can just barely see the upper hem of her red underwear when I unbutton my pants and pull them to the floor, standing in the middle of my guest room wearing nothing but a sweater with my throbbing erection hanging loose.

Faith is still oblivious to her open blinds, and though I will lose nothing when she decides to close them—thank you, cameras—I hope with all my being she stands there just a little longer.

She pulls her pants down to her knees, and I appreciate the gentle curve of her ass as she bends over. Her skin looks so smooth, untouched, unmarred.

Her hands are nearly on the ground as she steps out of her leggings, and she is positioned perfectly for me to get a view of her entire ass. I can just barely make out her pussy from here, the one thing I have not yet seen up close, but she straightens up before I can squint harder.

My hand is on my cock as Faith looks herself over in the mirror for another moment, bouncing slightly on her toes. She smiles and puts her hands below her breasts, laughing and bouncing again. I can see the ripple in the mirror.

This is the best Christmas present I’ve ever received.

Suddenly, Faith stops and gasps, turning around to face her window. I step back quietly, sneaking away instinctively as if she could hear me. Realization settles over her face as she turns and crosses her room in a few strides. She has to lean over her desk to close her curtains, and I am treated with a heart-stopping top-down view of her cleavage. My cock jumps in my hand, electrified by the perfect view. I watch her chest heave one last time before she pulls the curtains shut, and I am denied the pleasure of further peeping.

My heart is still rebounding in my chest. I am still feeling some residual shame at my depraved wank session in the foyer, and combined with the fear that she might have caught me, it’s enough to make me dizzy. Taking one more step back, I lean against the doorframe. The painted wood is cool, and I take a series of deep breaths. The effect that Faith has on me is unnatural. No woman has ever occupied my thoughts the way she does. Many have tried. But not have succeeded like sweet, innocent Faith has.

Worst yet, she has no idea, and hopefully, she never will.

Confident that my heart rate is back in a normal zone, I step forward and tug my boxers out of the puddle of my pants. My cock has gone soft now, and I tuck it behind the underwear. It won’t be long until I’m looking at her again, anyway.

I head to my bed and click the spacebar on my laptop a couple times. There’s a nightstand exactly level with my bed, and at night, I set the laptop on it. It helps me to sleep, to look up and see my obsession, almost as if she were sleeping across from me.

Like in an old TV show, the screen glows to life, and I enter a series of passwords that only I know. You can never be too secure. After I type the codes, the live feed of Faith’s room fills the screen. Bliss fills my veins when she enters the frame. She’s wearing a big, baggy T-shirt with those same red panties from earlier. I can see the black bra on the floor, and I feel a pang of regret that I didn’t get to the laptop sooner. I’ve seen Faith naked many times at this point, but to watch her take off that slutty lace number would have been divine.

My stomach twinges slightly with both guilt and hunger. Quickly, I take out my phone and place an order for egg drop soup and General Tso’s online. Some enterprising Millennial gig worker was probably trying to earn a few bucks on Christmas Eve, anyway. It only takes a few taps to complete the payment, then I’m back to watching Faith. The guilt is still there, but I reason that I must simply learn to live with it. I’m not giving up this obsession. If I can’t have her physically, then I’ll have her any way I can.

She’s sitting at the edge of her bed, thumbing through some battered paperback. I can’t make out the title from here, but I can see her quietly mouthing the words to herself as she reads. More than ever, I wish that I could reach out and hold her, comb my fingers through her hair as she reads to herself.

Maybe she would read to me, run her fingers over my skin, wrap her arms around me.

Only in the dark, voyeuristic space of this bedroom can I admit it to myself, I want Faith to take care of me just as much as I want to take care of her.

5

FAITH

I  don’t know how or why, but last night, I had that weird feeling again. Like somebody was watching me. It was just like when I was in the kitchen; there I was, lost in my thoughts when suddenly, I could feel someone’s eyes on my back. It was like my whole spine was on pins and needles. What made it worse was that I had left my curtains open.

When I went to shut them, I noticed that all the windows in Vincent’s house were dark. He wasn’t there. My window faces partway into his backyard and the backyard of the house behind us. Maybe the guy behind us had been watching me? Or maybe…

No, no way. I am just being paranoid. Even though Vincent had seemed so kind at the beginning of his visit, when he ran away, it hurt. He didn’t want to be around me. So why would he be peeping on me? Please.

I told myself as I took off the black lace bra and slipped on an old camp T-shirt. The simplest explanation is most likely the right one. I’m just on-edge and paranoid. No one’s watching me.

Before falling asleep, I read more of the novel I’d been working on earlier today.

I’s a fantasy romance about an Elf King who whisks a peasant fairy girl away to his castle and treats her to splendors she never could have imagined. All she has to do is agree to be, in essence, his sex slave. It’s a filthy read, but books like that are my guilty pleasure. I can experience all sorts of things—things that I would never have the courage to ask for in real life—from the comfort of my bed.

After I read about the way the Elf King dressed the peasant girl in nothing but solid gold chains and paraded her around the town square, I tuck my bookmark back between the pages and put myself to bed. Part of me wants to touch myself before falling asleep, but I nod off before making a decision. After all, it has been a long, exhausting day.

I dream of Vincent all night. Most of the dreams are fuzzy and incomprehensible: shots of his face, his smile, his intense stare. Memories of the way I lit up when we brushed against each other. Fantasies of his strong arms lifting me, pinning me against a wall, dressing me in nothing but gold chains while looking at me as if I were a meal…

When I wake up, I can feel the throbbing between my legs before I even open my eyes. Fantasies of Vincent still dance behind my closed lids, and I want to hold on to them as long as possible. Without rolling over or opening my eyes, I use one hand to slide my white cotton panties all the way off. I’m lying on my side, so I kick both feet over the side of the bed to drop my panties onto the floor. Then I swing my legs wide open, feeling the cool morning air on my already-wet slit.

My room has always been the coldest in the house, and when I look down, I can see my nipples poking through the fabric of my T-shirt. Something about it makes me even hornier, knowing that my body is just as obsessed with the thought of Vincent touching me as my brain is. Every nerve in my body is on edge as I sit up, tossing my T-shirt over my head.

Slowly, I slide my hand down from my neck and over each breast. Bringing both hands to my breasts, I gently pinch my nipples, rolling the tips between my fingers.

I close my eyes and imagine Vincent’s strong hands on me, touching me where I touch myself. In my mind, he takes my breasts into his mouth, pursing his soft lips around me, still gazing at my face while he sucks my hard nipple into his mouth. He nips and bites at them, leaving me panting, gyrating my hips.

I can feel my pussy growing warmer and wetter and can no longer resist the urge to rub my throbbing slit. But, still imagining Vincent, I run my hands down my stomach. I nearly torture myself with the slowness, but the image of Vincent, naked and breathless, taking in every inch of me is exquisite. Even hotter than the idea of sleeping with him is the idea of making him obsess over me. To know that I enchant him as much as he intrigues me.

Once my hands finally reach the wetness between my legs, I lose control. My clit is swollen and overly sensitive, ready to make me come at a moment’s notice. I want to go slow, truly I do, but my fingers move in fast circles. Pressing back into the mattress, I raise my hips to meet my fingers, slowly moving back and forth. The sounds of my wet sex fill the room, and it only heightens my pleasure.

In my mind, Vincent is gripping my hips, pulling me closer and closer to him, burying his cock deep inside me, taking my virginity. I gasp for air, furiously rubbing at my clit as my back arches and my toes curl. I wish the moment would last forever, that I could hold off my orgasm, but I can’t. Racing toward the cliff’s edge, I fly over it. Between heaving gasps, I whisper-yell out into the cold morning air.

“Vincent!”

The crest of my orgasm crashes and washes away, and I feel the muscles of my core clench and tense to their own rhythm. My fingertips move in a few more lazy circles, feeling the wetness being pushed out of me.

My mound is smooth against the palm of my hand; I shaved just yesterday morning. I open my eyes and can see the pink labia just barely peeking out from between my lips. Impulsively, I stick both fingers in my mouth. I’ve never tasted myself before, but my wet fingers against my tongue are sweet and sticky at the same time. It’s not an unpleasant taste, almost like lemons and cream, with a little bit of salt.

Embarrassment washes over me when I sit up and notice the small wet mark I’ve left on the bedsheets. Slut, I think to myself. That’s what my mother would say if she knew I was lusting after the neighbor. What a way to begin my Christmas Day.

I’m sure my mother is still downstairs; I never heard her come up to her room last night. She is probably passed out drunk on the couch, again.

Shaking my head, I strip the sheets from my bed before getting dressed, tugging at each corner in turn. I have to bend over my mattress to free the far half of the sheet and can feel my breasts bounce slightly when I jerk my arms back and forth.

After putting my sheet in the hamper, I gather up the black lace bra and a pair of plain black comfortable underwear and place them on the bare mattress. I head into the bathroom attached to my room and take a hot shower, wanting to wash the shame and confusion off of me. The hot water scalds my skin, and I sing quietly to myself as I wash up.

Once I’m done, I dry off and wrap my hair in a towel and plop it on top of my head. When I go back into my bedroom, I step into the black pair of underwear and fasten the black bra over myself. From my closet, I pick out a red plaid flannel shirt and a pair of fleece-lined yoga pants. Mom probably won’t be lucid for another few hours, so I may as well get cozy. Another Christmas alone with my mother.

I can’t wait to move out.

Once I have my degree, I’ll move far away from here. I’ll write and draw in my spare time and have my own apartment all to myself. I could decorate it and make it my own little space, instead of feeling like I live in a soulless magazine spread.

All dressed, I unleash my wet hair from the towel and quickly arrange it into two French braids on either side of my scalp. The plaits hang to just below my shoulder blades. Taking a breath to prepare for the mess Mom has likely left me downstairs, I open my door and go down the hallway.

I pause when I reach the living room. It seems Mom kicked off her heels at some point last night; they’re laying haphazardly by the tree. She’s snoring on the couch, a mess of hair covering her face. Two empty bottles of wine lay at the bottom of the couch. Scratch that—one empty bottle of wine and one half-empty bottle of wine. I roll my eyes and go into the kitchen.

“Merry Christmas to me,” I mutter as I pour myself a bowl of cereal.

I sit at the kitchen table, looking out the window that peers into the backyard. I’d kept a small garden in the spring, but now the entire yard is covered with untouched snow.

I smile slightly to myself as I eat my cereal. The crotch of my underwear is wet, and I shift in my seat. I’m still a little swollen. My stomach tightens when I remember the way I furiously rubbed myself earlier. I shudder at the dirty, depraved thoughts that have occupied my mind. Was I a bad person for spending my Christmas morning thinking about getting fucked—not having sex, but getting fucked—by my much older neighbor?

I shake the thoughts out of my head. Even though I know it’s normal for a girl my age to touch herself and have sex, I’m still so freaked out by the idea of sleeping with a man.

It’s not like I’ve never done anything with a guy. On the last day of eleventh grade, I agreed to give my then-boyfriend a blowjob in the back of his car. It lasted about five minutes before he finished in my mouth, and I swallowed it because I didn’t know what else to do. It wasn’t necessarily a bad experience, but it didn’t turn me on either.

That guy and I broke up two weeks later, and I haven’t so much as kissed anyone since. Just threw myself into school, graduated valedictorian in hope of a full-ride scholarship. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen, so I go to the community college down the road to save money.

It’s not that I don’t want to lose my virginity, but all the guys my age seem so…shallow. Erotic novels and my fingers are all I need right now. If the right person comes along, I would love to have sex with them. But no one has yet.

My mom stirs in the living room. I hear her groan and the sound of wine bottles clinking against each other. She is the exact opposite of me; Mom has been a party girl all her life. She likes men, expensive clothes, and alcohol, in that order.

I think she really did try her best to be a housewife and good mom when I was born, but then my dad left, and she lost all control. I grew up with a carousel of seedy men coming to see her, and I vowed to myself that I’d never be like that.

I can hear her stepping out of the living room and listen to see whether she’ll head upstairs or toward the kitchen. When I hear the creak of her stepping onto the staircase, I call out, “Merry Christmas, Mom!”

“Don’t yell,” she snaps back at me before heading to her bedroom.

I shrug. Shouldn’t have expected anything better. That’s the thing, Faith, if you keep your expectations dead-low, she’ll never disappoint you.

Thoughtfully, I finish eating my cereal. My mind is elsewhere, thinking about the classes I’ll be taking next semester and looking forward to getting to spend most of the day away from my mother again. Winter break is a godsend to most students, but I wish I had some homework to keep my mind occupied or at least a job.

After I’ve finished eating and placed my bowl in the sink, the doorbell rings. Puzzled, I head toward the front door, unsure who could be visiting us at nine a.m. on Christmas Day. Unless my mom had invited someone over…ugh. I steel myself before opening the door, half-expecting one of my mom’s creepy gentleman callers to be on the other side. But when I swing the door open, the guest standing on our front porch is someone I already know.

“David?” I ask in a confused tone. He’s smiling widely, if a little nervously, and holding a box wrapped in bright green wrapping paper.

David and I have known each other since the seventh grade and have always been competitive. He was the salutatorian of our graduating class, with a GPA only a point below mine. We had some things in common: bookish, impetuous, motivated. But he was a natural extrovert and Prom King while I ate my lunches in the library. Still, he hadn’t left me alone like I’d expected him to—especially after becoming captain of the football team.

He only lived a few blocks away, and we’d study together at least once a week. We were good influences on each other back then; having someone to compete against made me care more about my grades. It wasn’t like Mom cared. I’d always had the sense that David had a slight crush on me, but I never reciprocated or flirted with him beyond light teasing about grades.

But we hadn’t seen each other in almost two years. He’d gone to college out of state, on a football scholarship, and didn’t often come home for breaks. Yet here he is, dark brown hair tucked away in a red knit hat, cheeks pink from the cold.

“Hi, Faith,” he says nervously, flashing me a winning smile. He’d had braces for most of high school but now had the blinding grin of an actor or model.

“What are you doing here?” I ask cautiously. David is nice but has always been…intense. I saw how he treated some of his girlfriends in high school; he could become very pushy, and I know he cheated at least once. It was partly why I didn’t ever consider him romantically. I stood with the door only partially open, barely wide enough to poke my face through.

“It’s Christmas, and I wanted to come celebrate with you. Just for a few minutes,” he says, flashing that wide grin again. He’s stepping from foot to foot, breath puffing slightly into the air. “Can I come in?”

The last thing—the very last thing—I want is for him to come inside and see my hungover mom. She’d probably try to hit on him anyway. This Christmas was already disappointing; I didn’t want it to become full-on depressing.

“Uh—” I lean back to grab my gray wool coat from the coat rack. “Hang on, um, my mom is still asleep. I’ll come outside.”

I shut the door again before David can respond and slip on a pair of slippers I keep by the door. Buttoning up my coat and pushing my hair back off of my head, I open the door again and step out to see David. My feet crunch in the snow as we face each other, and David holds out the wrapped box. He’s smiling with all the excitement and innocence of a Golden Retriever, and his brown eyes are barely blinking.

“Merry Christmas, Faith,” he says, giving the box a little shake. It isn’t large, probably six inches long and three inches deep. It looks like a box for a necklace, or a bracelet, or something. Over David’s shoulder, I can see the window into Vincent’s living room. Am I imagining it, or do I see his curtain open then suddenly close?

“What is this?” I gingerly take the present in my hands. It’s very light, and there’s a small white sticker with “TO FAITH :)” written on it in blue ink.

“A present,” he quips, voice dripping with sarcasm. He jams his hands back into the pockets of his leather jacket, emblazoned with his college’s mascot on the chest. “Open it!”

“David, we’ve barely talked since graduation—” I say, trying to give the present back to him. “Whatever this is, it’s really too much.”

He pushes the present away, shaking his head without breaking eye contact. David is a good six inches taller than me, and I feel like I can’t really say no.

“I insist, Faith. Plus, I’ve been keeping up with you online. It’s not like we’re strangers.”

I don’t like the cajoling tone of his voice, but I figure I may as well see what’s inside. I undo the ribbon tied around the box, a nice touch, I must admit, and slip my finger gently under the seam of the wrapping paper. David is breathing a little too hard, and I see the plumes of vapor going down.

Under the wrapping paper is a small cardboard box. I lift the top off of it, and lying inside is a delicate silver necklace and two plane tickets. My jaw drops when I look closer; it’s a first-class trip to the Bahamas this May.

“What the…?” I say softly. David doesn’t hear me, and he leans forward excitedly.

“My buddies and I are going to the Bahamas for spring break. A bunch of the guys are bringing their girlfriends, and I’m perpetually single, so I figured I’d take a chance on the girl who always captured my heart. You!”

It almost sounds as if he scripted this or read it off a hallmark card. Like he’s giving me a sales pitch. It’s not sweet or romantic; it’s…slimy.

Something turns in my stomach. I don’t want to go on a long trip with someone I barely know and a bunch of strangers. We haven’t so much as Snapchatted in years. What if he’s just trying to harvest my organs? This is incredibly suspicious.

“David, no,” I say, looking at him with a pleading expression. “I’m really uncomfortable with this.”

“Why? Don’t you think I’ll keep you safe?” He crosses his arms over his chest, and I step back, rotating, so my back is to my front door.

“It’s not that, David, but this is way too extravagant, and I barely know you anymore.”

“Come on, Faith, if you think you don’t know me well, then this is the perfect opportunity to get to know each other.” He steps closer to me while he speaks, glowering slightly. He’s barely blinking, and the effect is eerie.

“David, please, take this back.”

“No.” He takes another step toward me, towering over me at this point, arms crossed. I’m pinned against my front door. My heart is pounding in my chest; David is bigger and stronger than me, and my front door is unlocked. I have no idea what he might do.

“You’re scaring me. Stop it!”

With my pulse ringing in my ears, I think I hear a door slam, but I can’t be sure. He’s got me pinned in the small alcove of my door, where I’m trapped on two sides by brick columns. David puts his arm on either column, leaning forward until his breath visibly pants into my face. He’s almost spitting now, mouth curling into an ugly frown.

“Christ, Faith, I’ve wanted you since I was twelve! I’ve spent years being nice to you. Trying to get in your pants, and you can’t swing me one favor?”

“I’ll do you a favor, buddy,” a voice says behind David.

He jumps and turns around, only to be greeted by a left hook to the face. I yelp as David reels to the side, jumping back before laying eyes on the assailant.

It’s Vincent, in nothing but jeans and a white T-shirt, with a wild look in his eyes. A look that makes me think he might just kill David.

6

VINCENT

I t was pure luck that I caught the college boy heading up Faith’s driveway. I had been sitting at my living room window, admiring the snowfall, nursing my first cup of coffee of the day. Getting ready to head out for my next assignment. Then I saw him.

He couldn’t have looked more like a John Hughes movie character if he tried. Slicked-back hair, expensive jeans, school-colors letterman jacket, for Christ’s sake. When I saw Faith step onto the porch, I left the window and made a beeline to the front door, opening it just enough to listen in on their conversation.

I simply wanted to listen, not intervene, but the moment I heard Faith say she was scared, I saw red. I wasn’t human in that moment, merely a tower of rage and jealousy. My mind turns to its animal instincts as the blood courses white-hot in my veins. I push the front door open and slam it behind me without a thought, almost grunting as I sprint from my door to hers.

I cut across my front lawn, hopping over the low fence that separates our driveways. The boy—that asshole—is yelling at her. Yelling that he deserves her. That she owes him. That my obsession, my woman, my Faith owes him something just because he whacked off thinking about her in high school.

“…you can’t swing me one favor?” he yells, and I take the last few strides to get behind him. The guy’s around my height and looming over Faith in her doorway. I don’t know who the fuck he thinks he is crowding her and raising his voice, but he’s about to be in a world of hurt.

“I’ll do you a favor, buddy.” The words come out in a hoarse growl, scratching my throat. He jumps at the sound of my voice, and I waste no time in winding up my left fist.

There’s a satisfying thwack as skin meets skin.

The moment moves in slow motion—fist meets face, his face registers shock, surprise, then pain. He reels backward, clutching his nose. I draw my arm back to my side and see my lovely Faith, mouth open in a tight O. Her hair is in braided pigtails, and her face is fresh and dewy. But even the sight of my love could not pull me out of this fitful rage I’m in.

“The hell, bro?” the college boy says, kneeling half-over on the porch.

I’m breathing hard and can feel my chest rising up and down.

“I’m not your bro,” I snarl as I take a step closer. The boy tries to step back but stumbles on his feet. I grab the collar of his jacket and pull him toward me. He loses his balance stepping off of the small porch and stumbles even closer to me. With the fabric of his cliche jacket wrapped around my hand, I bring my face level to his.

“Hey, c’mon, this is just a misunderstanding,” he pleads, his face burning red. He’s scared shitless. I can smell it on him. This isn’t my first time shaking somebody down.

“I don’t think so. She told you to back off. You didn’t listen. What is it that I’m misunderstanding?” I keep my tone even, but the rage bubbles beneath.

The boy gulps, realizing what deep shit he’s in. This guy better be glad we’re out in the open because if we were alone, he’d already be dead.

“You’re going to leave,” I say in a low voice, hoping Faith will not hear, “and you are not going to come back. If you do, I’ll deal with you, and not so gently next time. She wants you to leave her alone. Are you going to listen? Or do I need to teach you another lesson?”

“I’ll go. I’ll go.” His voice is laced with panic, almost like he knows what I am thinking. Because in my mind, I’m already killing him. I’m going to make him suffer for touching her.

His eyes are wide, and he tries to raise his hands to surrender. Our faces are close enough that I can feel his breath, but I stare into his eyes, unblinking, for a long moment before letting go of his collar and turning away. The boy stumbles again, trying to regain his balance.

Once he’s back on his feet, I cross my arms over my chest and stare him down. Faith is still standing silently on the porch, one hand clapped over her mouth in shock. The boy adjusts his jacket, trying to save face in front of his high school crush.

It’s funny, in a way. He thinks he’s so smooth and grown-up, but I turned him back into a sniveling schoolboy in seconds. I resist the urge to puff out my chest as I turn to watch him walk down the snowy driveway.

It’s not until he is back behind the wheel of his car that I realize how cold the skin feels on my arms. My blood has begun to cool, and I no longer wear a warm coat of rage.

I turn back to Faith. Her hand is no longer clapped over her mouth, but she looks at me with a mystified expression. I can read her eyes like a book: she’s scared, thankful, nervous, and happy all at the same time.

God, she has no idea how to mask her feelings. It makes my heart ache, the way every emotion plays clearly across her face. I watch worry overtake all the other feelings. Oh, no. She doesn’t see me as a protector; she sees me as a beast. I have to show her that there’s nothing to be scared of when it comes to us.

“Um… thank you,” she whispers. I notice she’s in slippers and pajama pants and want nothing more than to take her inside, warm her up by the fire, electrify every inch of her skin…

“Don’t mention it,” I say in a blasé tone, trying not to betray how wild I still feel on the inside. “You deserve to be treated with respect.”

Faith smiles shyly at that, looking down at her feet. My brain is screaming at me to go to her, to take her in my arms, pinch her dimpled chin between a thumb and forefinger and turn her up to face me. Look deeply into her eyes and reassure her everything will be okay, to kiss away her fears, but no. That would be too much. I jumped into her lawn to protect her from a sociopathic teenager, not to take her as my own.

“Let me see your cell phone.” I step closer, extending my hand out to her. I don’t give her the room to say no. She meets my eyes again and pulls the phone from her coat pocket, unlocking it quickly before handing it to me. There isn’t fear in her eyes anymore, which makes me feel a little better.

I quickly tap over to her contacts, enter my name, and type in my number. I tap the little green ‘save’ button and hand it back to her. She’s still breathing with shuttered breaths, trying to process what’s going on. But I also notice a deep pink flush creeping up her neck and know that she is open to my advances.

“You call me if you need anything, Faith. And I do mean anything,” I say, staring into her eyes deeply for a moment.

“Will do, Vincent. Thank you again.” She sounds so timid, but I still melt, hearing my name on her lips. It’s smoother and sweeter than honey. “Merry Christmas, too.”

“Merry Christmas,” I say with a nod, abruptly turning on my heel in the snow. I measure my paces as I walk down her driveway, giving her one last wave before I turn to head down the sidewalk that leads to my yard—no sense in jumping fences again. Don’t want to scare her away.

Faith waves back, and I feel such a pull to her. As if there is an invisible rope between us, one that has always been there, just waiting for us to finally tie ourselves together.

She turns around and opens the door to her house, shooting me a shy smile over her shoulder before going back inside. The door closes behind her, and I watch the plastic wreath swing back and forth for a moment before heading back to my home.

Once inside, I check my watch. Dammit. If I was going to do this hit right, I needed to leave right now. The target lives in the next town over, and I will have to hop on the interstate to get there. I can’t afford to bet on low traffic, even on Christmas Day. Luckily, I keep all of my equipment in my car already—hidden in the hollow backseat as to never arouse suspicion.

I take a deep breath, leaning against the staircase railing, trying to get my head screwed back on straight for the job. If this doesn’t go through, Tony will never forgive me. The guy I am supposed to snipe today, Dave Sobaski, had cheated Tony out of a lot of money in a shady business deal. He isn’t affiliated with any other mob or gang, just an enterprising scam artist that fell in with the wrong men. Single, lives alone, it will be an easy hit.

Without moving, I think about the job—and Faith. I really don’t want to leave her, but I have my phone and can watch the cameras in her room. All I needed now was to bundle up.

In a rush, I pull on my leather jacket and wrap a scarf around my neck. It will help to hide my face as I stake out the guy.

My mind is on Faith as I drive downtown, listening to oldies music on the radio. Carole King sings about standing by your man as I think about what it would be like to taste my teenage neighbor. I’m so lost in thought that I almost drive past the building I’m supposed to go to.

Shit, I’m never this distracted.

I park on the top floor of a parking garage, close to a ladder leading onto the roof, and across from Dave’s studio apartment. Deciding that I won’t need to use my camo jacket to stay concealed on a roof, I lean into the backseat and pack all of my equipment into an unassuming duffel bag. After locking my car and wrapping my scarf over my mouth and nose, I start up the ladder leading to a simple trap door onto the roof. There’s a thick layer of snow, and the wind whips fiercely around my face. I tuck the ends of my scarf into the jacket to keep them from blowing about.

Luckily, there’s a small radiator right along the wall that gives me a view of Dave’s apartment. He’ll be in unit 406, fourth floor, second window from the left. I settle myself on the radiator and unzip my bag, thankful for the sound of wind and traffic to cover up the clatter of a gun and tripod being put together. This process is muscle memory for me now; after all, this is what I’ve been doing for the last twelve years of my life.

Once my sniper and scope are set up with a dead shot into Dave’s window, I relax into my seat and let my mind wander. As I often do, I remember how I found work as an assassin in the first place.

It’s a tragic story, really. But I suppose I’m living the happy ending.

When I was sixteen, my parents died in a car crash. They were heading home after grabbing some takeout for the family. Tony’s nephew, Frederico, was cruising around town with a couple hookers and a head full of blow. He ran a red light, crashed head-on into my parents, killing them on impact. He and his hookers survived with less than a scratch.

The next day, Tony arrived at my door. He was a squat, intimidating man, wearing a pinstriped suit even though it was August at the time. I had been up all night, fretting about where my parents could be. I’d called the police several times, but they were no help. Tony informed me that my parents were dead, but he would make me a deal. If I never went public with who killed them and agreed not to sue, he would make sure I was protected and provided for the rest of my life.

“It’s my nephew, you see,” he had said, waving his hands as if to dismiss the fact. “He is a good kid who makes some bad choices. But the Fontanas protect their family, no matter what. We’ll protect you too, Vincent.”

He told me to sleep on it and handed me a full bottle of Ambiens.

“I survived off those when my ma passed away,” he had said with a sympathetic glint in his eye. Even at sixteen, I had no illusions about what Tony was asking me to do. He was giving me a lifetime of financial security to forgive and forget his nephew killed my parents.

I ended up taking the deal, but I never forgave nor forgot. Frederico still died at my hand. Sometimes, I think Tony knows, even though I made it look like an accident.

For the first four years, until I turned twenty, Tony had me working small jobs. It didn’t make the big bucks, but it was enough to get by and allowed me to prove my loyalty and trustworthiness.

One day, he told me he had something fun for me to do. He took me to the shooting range the same day. That short hour at the shooting range changed my life entirely. I hit every target perfectly.

The next day, I carried out my first hit.

Twelve years have gone by since then, and I couldn’t imagine myself doing anything else. Yes, I’ve had men and women try to kill me. I’ve had near scrapes with death and moments I wasn’t sure I could pull through. But I did, every time. Lately, I’ve been thinking that maybe the reason I stayed alive was to find Faith. To save her.

I shake the thoughts out of my head and snap back to the present. Dave Sobaski has apparently returned home as a warm light glows from behind his curtains. I can see the shadow of him moving inside his apartment, but it’s not nearly enough to get a clear shot. I’ll have to wait for him to open his curtains. Goddammit.

Without taking my eyes off of the window of his apartment, I pull my phone from my coat pocket. I position the screen so I can still see Dave’s window and pull up the feed of Faith in her bedroom.

She’s asleep on her bed. Facing me—well, the camera I installed in a picture frame facing her bed. Her hair falls slightly into her face. I watch her breathe up and down and wish I could curl my body around her.

Suddenly, the screen freezes as a call comes through.

It’s Tony.

Confident that no one below will hear me, I answer the call, putting the phone to my ear. The wind is still howling around me, so I cup my hand over my mouth and the speaker to block the sound.

“Well, Merry Christmas, Tony.”

“You, too. Now, Vincent. Is it done yet?” he growls, getting straight to the point.

“Not yet,” I respond, gritting my teeth. Tony gets in moods like this lately, where he believes that everything could be done better, even if you’re already the best at the job.

Suddenly, Dave opens his window curtains.

“Hang on, Tony. Clear shot,” I say into the phone before setting it on the ground and resuming my position with the rifle. Dave Sobaski is shirtless, leaning against his window, one cheek pressed right to the glass. Admiring the snow, no doubt.

Dumb motherfucker.

Trigger. Pull. Pssssh. A small crack.

“Happy goddamned holiday,” I mutter under my breath as the bullet whizzes through the window.

With a newfound hole in his forehead, Dave falls backward onto the floor of his rented room. I pick my phone back up.

“All right, Tony. Done.”

“Good. I need to talk to you about something.”

I stop, not even asking what. I know Tony will continue on with or without my acknowledgment.

“You’ve been distracted lately, Vincent. Not yourself. Is there something wrong?” He’s not asking me out of concern. The edge to his voice belays a threat. He doesn’t mean, tell me your troubles; he means stay in line.

“I’m fine. I got the job done, didn’t I?”

“You sure did. Just trying to watch out for you. Make sure there is no problem, you know.”

“There is no problem,” I assure him, getting really pissed by how personal he is getting with me.

“Good.” He hangs up without saying goodbye.

An uneasy feeling is gnawing on me. Tony is acting off, and my mind immediately goes to Faith. If someone finds out about my obsession with her, she will be in danger, and that includes my boss. He would see her as my weakness, and that would be a weakness to him by default.

Before I begin to pack up my rifle, I decide to delete the live feed app from my phone. On the drive home, I vow that I will delete it from my computer as soon as I arrive home.

It pains me to give that up, but I will not put her in any danger.

Time to quit. For Faith’s sake.

7

FAITH

A fter that disaster with David and Vincent, I’m too exhausted to function, so I go upstairs and into my room, where I flop down onto the bed. I lie looking up at my ceiling for a few minutes, reliving the bizarre front porch showdown again and again. It was shameful, but watching Vincent breathing hard, veins popping out of his neck, glaring at David like he wanted to kill him…well, it was terrifying. But it was also really, really hot. Part of me hoped that he would lose control, lift me over his shoulder, and take me across the street and into his house.

I don’t know how he got into my yard so fast.

Was he listening? Was he paying attention to me? No way. There’s no way he’s been looking at me just like I’ve been looking at him.

Unless…he has been. Between how friendly he was last night and the way he spurned my mother…oh my god, those times I swore somebody was watching me.

Was that him? Was I possibly not crazy?

The thoughts swirl around in my head until they melt together, and I eventually nod off. I dream of the way Vincent glared at David, speaking to him as if he were no more than a bug on the bottom of his shoe. Vincent swooped in to protect me.

No one’s ever protected me like that before.

When I wake up, the house is empty, and Mom’s car is gone. I roll my eyes, figuring she’s gone out to find her own Santa Claus to get drunk with. Maybe this will be one of her longer benders, and I can have the house to myself for a while. A girl can dream, right?

Sitting up in my bed and stretching, I remember that I have Vincent’s phone number now. Anytime I want to, I could call or text him. Just to hear his voice. Not that I would, though. That would make me look like a clingy girlfriend. God, we’re not even dating.

I shake the last bits of sleep out of my head before standing up, grabbing my romance novel, and heading downstairs. I put on a pair of fuzzy snowman socks, pad down the stairs, and curl up on the couch in front of the Christmas tree.

With the snow outside, the setting sun, and warm glow of Christmas lights, I feel cozy for once. This, honestly, is my ideal Christmas. Reading on the couch, no one to bother me, a beautiful tree to look at. I take a deep breath and relax, reading voraciously. Before I know it, I’m losing myself in the story.

I’m nearly done with the Elf King novel but read slowly to take in every bit of depravity the king puts his peasant princess through. In the scene I begin with, he treats her to a full day of rejuvenating magical spa treatments, but she is forced to make love with every servant and Mage that applies the treatments on her. All while the Elf King watches.

Even though the Elf King is described as wiry and blonde, I imagine Vincent’s bulging shoulders and dark eyes as I read. I imagine myself as the peasant girl, unmoored in a new world and discovering her blossoming sexuality. All for the viewing pleasure of a mighty, all-powerful king. Knowing that if she refuses, he will send her and her family back into poverty. Knowing that in order to survive, she must give in to his every whim.

The idea of being submissive appeals to me. Maybe for no other reason than I would have no idea what to do in bed once I got there, but I think it is more than that. All my life, I’ve had to take care of myself.

When I find a man to deflower me, I want to be taken care of. Maybe it’s weird, but I just really want a man to take control, to tell me what to do and when to do it. It seems so… freeing. Not to have to worry about anything because someone is taking care of you in every way.

I slam the book shut and hide the cover under my thigh when I hear a key in the door. Ugh, Mom’s home. I can hear her drunken giggles as soon as she swings the door open, letting a beam of weak light into the hallway.

“Fa-aa-ith!” she calls in a drunken singsong voice.

I roll my eyes, confident that she can’t see me until she stumbles into view with a strange man on her arm. She’s still wearing the emerald green dress from last night, but now it’s so wrinkled and stained that it looks like she found it in the gutter. Or maybe laid in the gutter herself. The guy on her arm has his eyes half-open.

I don’t know what it is about the guy. But the moment he walks in the room, my blood runs cold. He’s squat, with a good amount of bloating around his jaw. He leers at me drunkenly, but his eyes are too sharp—dark and cold. I don’t think he’s as drunk as Mom is. He might not be drunk at all.

“Faithie, honey,” my mother slurs, one eye drooping half shut. She pats the guy’s face, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of me. “This is Franco. He’s Italian.”

“Rico,” he says to me, lightly flipping the R sound.

“Faith, this is Rico,” she says, stumbling to one side. “Rico, I’m gonna go get us some more wine, be riiiight back.”

Mom pats his face and chest again before stumbling off. Rico stays standing in the entrance to the living room, leering at me with those cold eyes. With my mom out of sight, he apparently drops the drunkard act.

“You’re very beautiful, Faith,” he says, and something about the cool tone in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. Every nerve ending screams get out of here, NOW!

I stand quickly and decide to make a break for it, trying to walk as far around him as possible. He watches me the whole time, and I try to duck my head, but the moment I’m within his reach, he lunges forward and grabs me by the wrist. I yelp, but he puts another finger to his lips.

“Wouldn’t want to alarm Margaret now, would you?” he croons, spittle flying onto my face. I try to jerk away from his grip, but he holds me tighter. Suddenly, his eyes land on my novel.

“Please, let go of me,” I say, pulling away. He grabs my novel with one hand, and he inspects the cover, a painting of the half-naked peasant girl clinging to her king. His bushy eyebrows rise halfway up his face as he takes in the sultry cover.

“The Making of a Princess,” he reads sarcastically. “You’re very naughty.”

“Just let me leave, okay? You and my mom can do whatever you want. Just leave me out of it.”

“No, no, no, sweetheart,” Rico purrs, tutting slightly. He brushes the book against my cheek, and I startle away, but he still has that grip on my wrist.

“You see, sweetheart, your mother owes me a lot of money. I mean a lot. She will do anything to pay me back. Give me anything.”

The way he’s growling sends shivers down my spine. His lips are shiny with spit, and though he’s no longer acting drunk, his breath is heavy with whiskey. Every possible warning bell is going off in my head as I realize I’m in serious trouble. My stomach twists into knots, and my pulse begins to race in my ears.

“Okay, sure, great, please, let go of me,” I whimper. I want to gather up all my inner strength, but I’m just scared. There’s no strength to pull from. The past twenty-four hours have been such a rollercoaster, and I’m too exhausted to feel anything but fear. But I am shaking in my fuzzy socks, trying to get away from this man.

“I’m afraid you don’t understand,” he says in an almost jovial tone, tilting his head forward to glare at me from beneath his brow. He’s not much taller than me but significantly stronger. He’s older, maybe in his mid-forties. The wrinkles on his face hint at heavy drug use. Or a hard life. Either way, I need to get away from him right now. But he doesn’t let go and continues lecturing me while my mom putters around in the kitchen.

“You see, cara mia, I have a rather large appetite. So your mom made a deal with me. Once she and I have finished, I am going to make my way to you, and if you want to keep your home, you will satisfy me.”

My blood runs cold when I realize what’s happening. My mom, possibly intentionally, has whored me out.

“If you lock your door, princesa, I will ruin your mother’s life. And yours. I am very well connected. Understand?”

“Yoohoo, Rico!” my mother calls from the kitchen. He does not let go or stop staring at me.

“Be right there, cara mia!” he calls back, bringing the drunken tone back into his voice. At long last, he releases his grip on my wrist, and I run instinctively to the stairs. It was fight or flight, and I had chosen flight. Hot tears stream down my face as I take the stairs two at a time, only wanting to get away from that bloated creep.

Once in my room, I slam the door behind me and sink to the ground, back against the door. Could he be bluffing? Maybe he only wanted to scare me, all bark and no bite.

But as much as I tried to convince myself, I knew that wasn’t true. When I looked into his eyes, there was no empathy. No humanity. He had the blank, soulless stare of a shark. In my soul, I knew he wasn’t bluffing.

A full-on sob racks my body as I realize just how awful this situation is. My mother pimped me out to pay her debts. At best, she’s brought home somebody incredibly dangerous. If I don’t let this man take me like a piece of meat, we’ll lose everything. Everything! I’m crying into my hands, trying to stay quiet and unnoticed. I can hear my mom and Rico laughing drunkenly downstairs, and it chills me to the bone. How he’s fooled her. Or she sees through him and doesn’t care. What did I do to deserve such a loveless life?

But what do I do?

I feel trapped. I could leave the house while Rico is distracted with my mother. Run down the hall, out the door, drive far, far away. But where would I go? How would I pay my way? My only job experience was a semester of work-study in the dining hall.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” I mutter under my breath, feeling panic rise and take over. I’ve never been good with fear. I can’t keep my head. Thoughts race through my mind too fast for me to even understand, and the sound of Franco’s laughter downstairs.

Suddenly, I remember something. Something I have now.

A protector.

I pull out my phone and dial.

8

VINCENT

M y cock has been hard for hours, and even though I keep jerking off, it doesn’t seem to go down. I keep replaying this morning in my mind; when I watched Faith make herself come. Hearing her sweet voice moaning my name when she climaxed has the same effect on me as half a bottle of Viagra. Only there is no hotline for me to call for the erection that lasts more than four hours.

I’m about half an hour away from home when my phone rings, interrupting my train of thought. I’m thankful for the distraction, as I had been mired in self-pity at having to give up on Faith.

Tony’s voice reverberates through my skull, telling me over and over that I’ve been acting distracted. Not doing my work as well. Not hiding my obsession. Christ, it probably meant that Faith had already seen through me, too. She wasn’t stupid. All our interactions so far had only seemed good because I was wearing rose-colored glasses. She knew. She knew I was a creep.

I don’t recognize the number flashing on my car’s LCD display, but the area code is local. My cell line is incredibly secure, so this person must know me. I reach out and tap my phone screen to answer the call. As soon as it connects, the sound of heavy, panicked breathing plays from my car speakers.

“Hello?” I ask, turning the volume knob down slightly.

“Vincent?”

My heart leaps into my throat, and I almost brake in the middle of the highway. It’s Faith. She sounds terrified. Panic has taken over her whole voice, her breath, her mind. Immediately, I put more pressure on the gas, pushing seventy.

Just when I swore off her for good…

“Faith?” I say in a low voice, not sure that my phone even picks it up.

“Vincent, I need your help,” she whimpers. “You said to call you if I need anything, and I didn’t know who else to call.”

“Of course. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“There’s a man here. My mom—” she chokes on the words, letting out a hushed sob. My whole chest lights with fire as I realize she’s in danger. That whore Margaret has put her in danger.

“I’m scared…” Her words hit me like a semi-truck leaving behind a deep ache in my chest.

All I want to do is wrap her in my arms and keep her sheltered from everything that could ever scare her. I have to save her. Then I’ll let go. This is the last time, I swear. Faith lets out another keening cry, and my jaw clamps shut.

“I’m on my way, Faith. I promise. It’ll be okay.”

She sniffles, taking in a sharp breath. I can hear raucous laughter behind her, and my blood boils. How dare Margaret laugh when her own daughter is scared out of her mind. How dare she. I nearly stomp on the brakes as my speedometer passes seventy-five, eighty, eighty-two…

“My mom owes him a lot of money, and he said he’s going to…he’s gonna come into my room—” her voice breaks, and she sobs again, then shushes me. “They’re upstairs, don’t talk,” she whispers.

I can hear a knock at her door, and Faith takes a breath to steady herself. She hiccups slightly. Every single muscle in my body is as tight as a stretched rubber band. I have tunnel vision now, I only see enough to know that I don’t hit anyone, and no cops chase me. As I listen in, I am overcome with primal, beastly rage. Only God knows how fast I’m driving.

“Faith,” Margaret’s voice calls, faint on the call. But rage has made my hearing supernatural, and every syllable is clear to me. “Are there any more cookies?”

She’s slurring. Drunk as hell. My inner narrative alights.

Whore bitch cunt asshole deviant washed-up prom queen slut.

“I don’t know, Mom,” Faith calls back, just barely holding her voice level. I’m almost to the exit. I’m almost there. I flash my eyes down to the speedometer and realize I’m nearly at a hundred MPH. I take a deep breath and release the gas, letting myself fall back to seventy. Thankfully, the roads are mostly clear today. Most people are staying home.

Margaret mutters something indistinct, then there’s a few moments of silence. I hear rustling as I make it back into town, and Faith picks the phone up.

“Please, help me, Vincent. He’s going to hurt me.”

“Don’t worry, Faith. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

She sniffles again, and through the rage, I feel a soft tendril of love. The instinct to protect and nurture. Maybe the best way to protect Faith is by keeping her with me.

“Thank you, Vincent,” she says. “Are you almost here?”

“Five minutes, darling. Then I’ll take you somewhere safe. Pack anything you desperately need right now. I’ll buy you everything else.”

“Do you mean it?” Her voice sounds so hopeful, almost like this is exactly what she wanted, me taking her away.

“Of course, I mean it, just stay in your room until I get there, okay?”

“Okay. I–I can do that.”

Faith lets out a steady exhale, and I smile. I blast through a red light, knowing I’ll be with my love in mere seconds. Almost home. Almost there.

“I’m going to hang up now,” she says in a steadier voice. Her breath sounds less panicked. I smile softly as I pull into our neighborhood, dropping to a slower speed to make it through the snow.

“I’ll be there in sixty seconds,” I say softly. Then she hangs up.

In forty seconds, I make it into my driveway, park, turn off the car, and run to Faith’s home. The front door isn’t even latched. That wino bitch couldn’t even close her own front door.

I kick it in. I’m greeted with the sight of an obliterated Margaret’s jaw dropping open. She screams wordlessly, falling back into the arms of her lover.

Who I recognize immediately.

You gotta be fucking kidding me?

Rico. My boss’s brother. Frederico’s father. Fuck. I got away with killing his son, but will I get away with this one? Tony was never fond of his nephew, which is probably why he never looked into his death, but Rico is a different matter. This is worse than I expected.

“Vincent!” he says in a false-jovial tone.

“Rico,” I growl. My fists are curled at my side. His smug, bloated face is especially worn today. He’s in his forties, but the years of partying and no consequences have taken a toll. He doesn’t sound drunk, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t. “What a delightful surprise. Would you like to share?”

“Huh…?” Margaret says, looking between the two of us. She stumbles again to the side and looks me up and down. “Well, I wouldn’t mind.”

“You shut your mouth,” I snap, jabbing a finger toward her. “I’m not here for you.”

Rico’s mouth falls open with realization. He’s a mean bastard, but he’s far from stupid.

“I thought that house next door looked familiar.” He grins, tapping a finger against his flabby face. “You have a thing for that little vixen upstairs, don’t you?”

I don’t say a word. Margaret sways in place, trying desperately to make sense of things, but gives up after a moment and turns, walking into the living room. With a sigh, she flops onto the couch and promptly begins to snore.

Mother of the goddamned year.

“Well, we seem to be here for the same thing, Vincent. Since you saw her first, I’ll let you have a go at her.” No amount of drugs, alcohol, or money could ease that cruel look behind his eyes. A look that I want to snuff out.

I lunge forward and clamp a hand around Rico’s fat neck. I’m younger, taller, and stronger than him, and he barely puts up a fight. Cheap whiskey is on his breath, and I resist the urge to gag. I slam him against a wall and tighten my grip. He starts to spit and gasp, and I watch a red flush creep up his face.

“If you touch her, you die. I don’t care who your brother is. Nobody harms her.”

Rico coughs again, tries to mouth the words at me. I respond with a squeeze. Red begins to turn purple, and his eyes start to bulge.

“If I find you downstairs after I get her, your life is over.”

I let go. He slumps to the floor, taking a deep wheezing breath, and I head to the stairwell.

“You’ll…regret…this…” he says through gasps. I ignore him and leap up the stairs, heading to my love.

Even if I hadn’t already known which door is hers, my soul would have found her. I knock in a rush.

“Faith. It’s me. I’m here,” I call out, desperation creeping into my voice. From downstairs, I hear the front door slam. He’s gone.

The door swings open, and Faith leaps into my arms. I shudder, overstimulated by the sudden onslaught of her. I smell her. I feel her. Her face is buried in my chest. It’s like a dream. She has a small backpack on, and her hair is starting to come out of its braids.

She looks up at me, tears in her eyes. I can tell she’s been crying for a long time, but the red rims around her eyes make them look even bluer. I wipe a tear from beneath her eye and smile gently.

“Please, take me away,” she whispers, her bottom lip trembling.

I swoop down, lifting her by her legs. I carry her like my bride, heading down the stairs on steady feet. She wraps her arms around my neck, burying her forehead against me.

“As you wish, princesa,” I whisper as I carry out of her former home and over to mine.

9

FAITH

When Vincent carries me over the threshold of his home, I pinch the palm of my hand to make sure that this is real. Was it only yesterday that he was in my home, speaking to me for the first time? That I watched him taste my cookies and heard him compliment me?

I cannot believe that he saved me. Two minutes ago, I zipped on my old puffy coat, packed a bag, and Vincent saved me from my mother’s evil lover. I don’t know what happened to Rico, but he was gone by the time he carried me downstairs. My mother was sleeping off the alcohol, but I don’t care. I’m ready to leave her behind for good.

Vincent lifted me like I weighed no more than a feather and didn’t stumble or misstep once on the walk from my room to his home. But I could hear his heartbeat thumping in his chest. It was wild, fast. Despite his cool, steady demeanor, he was nervous. Excited, even.

Once we are safe indoors, Vincent sets me down gently. He flicks on the lights, and I stand in place, taking everything in. For the first time all day, I feel like I can take a steady breath.

“Your shoes, darling,” he says, nodding toward my feet.

“Oh.” I quickly kick them off, shrug off my backpack, and set it next to them. When I stand up, I bump into Vincent. He’s close behind me and places a hand gently on my shoulder. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, and I ease my spine into him.

“Are you okay?” he asks, whispering into my ear. I can barely feel the movement of his mouth against my skin, and I shudder. It feels too good, and I can’t stop and think about whether or not I should be doing this. All I know is that it feels right.

All at once, blood rushes between my legs, and I feel my pussy pulse and swell. Is it just me, or do I feel something stiff against my lower back? No…surely, he only sees me as a child, the girl next door.

“Yes,” I whisper back. Vincent’s right hand moves slowly on my shoulder, along my collarbone, until he pinches the zipper of my coat between his fingers. He puts his other hand just on the top of my hip, barely touching me with his fingertips. Agonizingly slowly, he pulls the zipper down, one tooth at a time, until my coat is completely open.

I’m breathing shallow, shuddering breaths already. He moves his hands to the top of my coat and slides it off in one smooth motion. Even though I’m still fully clothed, I feel completely naked in front of him. I shiver in my fuzzy socks.

“I’m going to take you away from this place. Far away where we’ll be safe, and you’ll be happy, but first—”

Without thinking, I turn around, tipping my face up toward his. Vincent’s eyes are wide, and he’s half-biting his bottom lip. I wrap my arms around his neck, and he doesn’t hesitate to pull me close to him. His eyes dart back and forth as if he cannot decide which part of my face to look at. I feel safe in his arms. Protected. Away from any danger, even though I hardly know this man. It shouldn’t make sense, it shouldn’t feel right, but it does. I feel right.

I don’t know who leans in first, him or me. All I know is that our lips meet and instinctively move together and that he tastes of cold air and peppermint. I can feel every part of my body in hyper-reality; it’s as if I could feel each individual blood cell coursing through my veins. My hips are against his, and I rise slightly on my toes to get closer to him. Vincent’s kiss sets me alight from head to toe, and I wouldn’t be surprised to pull away and find my hair standing up on end.

His tongue pokes against mine, warm and wet on my lips. One hand raises to cup the back of my head, pulling me impossibly closer. Pushing ourselves closer together.

But suddenly, he freezes, his arms tensing. Pulling his face away from mine, he lets go of me, trying to turn away.

“Faith, I—”

I cannot stand to hear what he has to say next. I lunge toward him, taking his face between my hands. Apparently, I caught him by surprise because he freezes at my touch. He stops speaking, staring at me with a slightly open mouth and wide eyes.

“Vincent, I have something to tell you,” I say, voice still shaking. I’m turned on, electrified, and I’m not about to let him say no to me. I’m a grown woman. I know what I want. I take a deep breath and continue on.

“I’ve been…watching you ever since you moved in. I think about you all the time. For months, I’ve fantasized about you. About…” I look away, blinking rapidly.

I hesitate to admit something more to him for fear that he’ll reject me outright. What if it’s too much for him? If he’s creeped out by this? But I steel myself, look into his eyes, and find the confidence I never knew I had.

“I want you, and I want to share my first time with you, Vincent. I mean, if you would want that,” I say in a hoarse whisper, leaving my mouth slightly open. Acting like the women I’ve read about—the submissive princesses and desperate peasant girls. His face is still between my hands, but he’s staring at my lips with an almost crazed look in his eyes. As if he is mad with lust.

“Oh, Faith,” he growls, reaching out and gripping me by the hips with surprising force. “It would be my highest honor.”

I smile, but before I can fully process that he’s agreed, Vincent reaches below my ass and lifts me up. He hoists me up over his hips with ease, and I wrap my legs around his waist, crossing at the ankles. Though Vincent’s shoulders and arms are bulky, his waist is trim and slender, the perfect size to wrap around.

I move my hands to the back of his head and pull his face to mine as he takes three swift steps forward and pins me against the front door. I yelp as the back of my head hits the door but take a deep sigh when Vincent breaks the kiss and moves his mouth to my neck.

“Princesa,” he moans against me before biting the skin behind my ear. Instinctively, I arch my back, pressing my hips against his solid abs. Both his hands are on my ass, fingers sinking in so hard it almost hurts. Gently, slowly, he sucks and nibbles on the side of my neck, occasionally taking shuddering breaths.

“You have no idea how I’ve dreamt of this,” he whispers, pressing his cheek to mine. “Of course, I will be gentle.”

“I don’t want you to be gentle,” I whisper back, shocked that I’m saying it. But the moment the words leave my lips, I know they are true. I don’t want him to go easy on me. I want to see his power. I want to be his.

Vincent pulls back, one eyebrow raised.

“Oh, is that so? I don’t know if you can handle that yet.”

“Why don’t we find out?” I reply, biting my lip and grinning.

Vincent grins in return with a wild-eyed look on his face. Pressing his hips into mine to keep me pressed into the wall, he takes a hand to my neck and forces my jaw upward. He starts to increase pressure on the sides of my neck, watching my eyes begin to flutter. I can still mostly breathe, but I’m starting to get lightheaded, and a few black spots swim before my eyes before he releases all the pressure.

I gasp for breath but grin at him, licking my lips to show I liked it. He smirks back, apparently satisfied with my reaction. He then steps back, setting me gently on the floor. Vincent grabs my wrist, yanking me slightly toward the stairs.

“Come on. Follow me,” he says, giving me a wink before walking ahead. I stumble to keep up but love the feeling of being taken.

Vincent leads me up to the stairs and all the way down the hallway to what is presumably the master bedroom. It’s decorated lushly, with a four-post king bed in the center of a dark green carpet. The sheets are brown with gold embroidery, and I marvel at Vincent’s good taste.

He drops my wrist and wraps his arms around me, immediately tugging the hem of my sweater upward. Wordlessly, he lifts the top over my head and throws it behind me, shamelessly gazing at my breasts. I am so glad I chose to wear the lacy black bra today.

Vincent moves his hands to either side of my breasts and caresses me softly, bringing his face to my cleavage. I arch my back slightly to bring my breasts to his face, wanting to feel his skin against mine. A deep moan comes from his chest as he kisses the tops of my breasts in turn, then moves his hands to the waistband of my pants. In one movement, Vincent pulls my pants to the floor, and I am standing in front of him in nothing but my bra and panties.

“Get on the bed,” he says, and I know I could never disobey him. Quickly, feeling my breasts bounce inside the racy bra, I walk to the bed and climb atop. Scooting back on the bed, I turn to face Vincent, and I’m greeted with the sight of him peeling off his sweater and shirt in one go. He bends down and untangles the white T-shirt from the sweater, twisting it between each hand until it’s like a rope.

He puts two hands on the bed and leans forward, kissing me softly. It’s no more than a peck before he pulls away and brings the rolled-up T-shirt to my mouth.

“Open,” he commands, and I comply. Staring deeply into my eyes, he places the T-shirt in my mouth, then puts a thumb and forefinger on my chin to make me bite down. “Don’t let this fall out, or I’ll have to punish you, Faith.”

I nod, humming behind the gag. My mind immediately conjures up all kinds of things he could do to punish me, and for a moment I, think about letting the gag slip, simply so I can find out what he would do.

“Put your hands above your head and leave them there.” He has barely spoken his order before my arms fly up, and I obey.

“Good girl,” he says with a smirk reaching behind my back and undoing the clasp of my bra. I gasp as my breasts fall free, bouncing slightly. My nipples turn pert as they feel the cold air, and Vincent immediately closes his mouth around my left breast. He takes the opposite nipple in his fingers, and I arch my back while moaning into the T-shirt. His tongue swirls roughly around my nipple, sucking and biting in turn. He switches to the other side, and his hands press roughly into my spine.

Feeling the cold air against my wet nipples was torture as Vincent pulled away and slid his hands down to my hips.

“Lie back.” He fingers my black cotton panties, and I do as he says, interlacing my fingers above my head to show how obedient I can be. He smirks back and yanks off my underwear in a single pull.

I taste sweat on his T-shirt, and it turns me on even more. I tilt my head down and watch Vincent step back off the bed and unbutton his pants. His fingers move slowly. He knows how badly I want him; after all, he was staring directly at the throbbing opening between my legs.

But then he pushes off his pants and boxers all at once, and I’m greeted with the sight of his massive erection springing free.

My eyes go wide as I take in the length and girth of it. For a moment, I genuinely don’t know if I’ll be able to take it. It’s not just long, but wide, and he’s going to stretch me to my limits. Vincent chuckles when he sees my expression and steps forward. He runs one finger up the length of my slit, prying the lips apart. When he feels the wetness at my opening, he slides his finger in as far as it will go without so much as a warning.

I yelp as he hooks it inside me, hitting a pleasure spot I didn’t know existed. Warmth emanates from his finger inside me as my hips buck to meet his hand. He fucks me with his finger, adding a second digit as I grow wetter, and my moans louder.

I’m teetering on the edge of insanity, ready to explode when he pulls out all at once and steps back, bringing the two fingers to his lips before sucking my juices off of them.

“Don’t worry,” he says as he climbs onto the bed, his body blanketing mine. I lift my legs to wrap them around his hips, showing him right where I need him. “Your pussy can take it.”

I’m wet and so needy. I could beg him to fuck me right now. He kisses my forehead and strokes the tip of his cock against my entrance, sliding from my opening to my clit and back again. I moan behind the gag and close my eyes, invigorated by the feeling of being touched by him, finally.

“I’d ask if you want me to use a condom, but I don’t give a fuck. I want you pregnant, swollen with my kids,” he growls. His possessive tone and need to make me his only adds fuel to the raging inferno building between my legs. I need him to fuck me now, or I might die.

My eyes roll back into my head as he begins to slowly slide himself into me, his hands on either side of my head, his body doing a balancing act that causes his muscles to strain.

I spread my legs further apart, giving him ample room while digging my heels into his ass to urge him to go faster as he slowly sinks himself deep inside of me.

When I’m sure I don’t think I can take another inch, the walls and muscles of my pussy stretch to accommodate him. He’s so big, and I’m so tiny. I’m sure it wouldn’t take much for him to break me in two.

In no time, his hips are flush with mine, and I look down to see myself stretched tight around his cock. Staring down at me, he pulls all the way out and then slams back into me, letting out a strained groan as his hips press against me.

“Your cunt is so tight, so fucking perfect. I want to cum in you right now,” he grits through his teeth, “but I’m going to give you the fuck of a lifetime first.”

Without warning, he pulls out completely.

“Get on your hands and knees,” he commands, and I do, raising my ass in the air.

With no hesitation, he slides himself inside me, pushing his full length into me faster than before. His member pulses and throbs inside me, and I arch my back to take even more of him. He begins to thrust in a steady rhythm, moving faster and faster in time with me. I’m panting, my hands fist the sheets, and a scream builds in my throat.

It doesn’t take long before he’s slamming into me and sending shockwaves of pleasure through my body. He’s so warm and big inside me, I feel full and stretched. It’s amazing. I could get addicted to the feeling of getting fucked like this.

Out of nowhere, he slaps my ass with a firm hand. A sting ripples across my cheek but is replaced by a searing heat that works its way through my pussy. I yelp but follow it immediately with a moan to show him I want more.

Still rapidly thrusting into me, he slaps the other cheek with even more strength. I moan louder, feeling the skin burn where he’s spanked me. Vincent grabs a handful of my hair and pulls, forcing my head back. I arch, and he hits deeper, so deep there is a bit of pain mixed with the pleasure.

Then he lets go and smashes my face back into the mattress with his hand.

As if to reward me, Vincent reaches one hand around my hips, burying his erection fully inside me. He ceases thrusting and fucking, instead making me feel the full might of his cock inside of me. With two fingers, he begins to stroke small circles around my swollen clit.

I lean forward, clenching my ass to bring my hips closer to his fingertips. He presses harder against me, and between the fullness inside me and the pressure on my clit, I moan loudly into the fabric of his shirt. I feel the walls of my womb tighten and release in rapid succession as my hips move and my toes curl.

I scream into the gag as the orgasm races through me, filling me with pleasure. Vincent doesn’t let up on my clit, rubbing me until I think I can’t take it anymore.

I come for longer than I’ve ever come before and feel Vincent’s cock jump and throb inside me. My pussy fills with his hot cum, and I feel his semen escape my opening and drip down my clit. Vincent moans in a low voice and starts to let up the pressure on my clit, giving it a few little rubs before pulling out and collapsing beside me.

“Let me get you a towel,” he says in a low voice and rolls off the bed before plodding to the bathroom. I fall to one side, feeling his hot cum leaking between my legs and spreading onto my thighs. I’m sweating and breathing hard.

Holy shit, did that really just happen?

I’m not a virgin anymore. I just lost my virginity to my hot as sin, much older neighbor. And it was fucking amazing.

Vincent returns from the bathroom, his erection still bobbing hard in front of him. I’m sure he’s going to just hand me the towel and walk away, but he doesn’t. He pushes my legs apart and gently cleans my thighs and sensitive pussy.

“Vincent, I really—” I begin but am interrupted by the sound of glass breaking downstairs.

I scramble off the bed and to my feet. We both turn toward the door. Vincent’s gaze darts between me and the door, his eyes brim with worry, and I know something’s very wrong.

He drops the towel and turns to me. He cups my cheek, gently stroking it with his thumb, and then his mouth is over mine. His firm lips are warm and consume me. Fire spreads across every nerve ending on my body.

The moment is over before it even gets the chance to start, then he breaks the kiss, and I’m left with nothing but my heart thundering in my chest.

“Get dressed, stay quiet, and let me take care of them,” he says before pulling away.

The moment his hands leave my face, his whole demeanor changes. His eyes turn from molted chocolate to the darkest black. A shiver runs down my spine, and fear has a grip on my throat as I watch him get dressed in a hurry.

He runs to the dresser across from the bed and pulls out two handguns, a gasp bubbles in my throat. He pushes one into his belt and holds the other in his right hand.

“Get dressed,” he orders in a voice I don’t recognize.

In a daze, I go to pull on my underwear, still feeling his cum inside me.

Who the hell did I just sleep with?

10

VINCENT

F uck! This is exactly what I wanted to protect her from. How dare they? It’s too soon. They couldn’t even give me a few minutes of joy. A few minutes with my obsession. How quickly I’ve gone from the greatest moment of my life to the worst.

Faith was terrified when she saw me pull out the guns. My heart sinks. It’s over now. We fucked once, that’s it. I can’t hide my life from her any longer.

I step from foot to foot as Faith gets dressed, silent as she pulls her sweater over her head.

“I have to tell you something, Faith,” I say once she’s fully dressed.

I stuff my second gun into my waistband and grab her hands. “When I open that door, you need to stay behind me. That guy your mom brought home is my boss’s brother. He’s a bad, bad man. I don’t want to frighten you, but he will kill us if he gets the chance. I’m only telling you this so you’ll listen to me. No one will ever, ever hurt you. I will protect you. Do you hear me, Faith?”

She gulps, then nods. Her eyes are still wary, and I’m sure she doesn’t know what to think, but her doubt has to be put on hold. All I need her to do right now is listen.

Steeled and certain that this may work yet, I open the door.

Two of Rico’s cronies are already in the hall, advancing on me, they reach for their guns at the same time as me, but I’m faster. I have my gun drawn in the time it takes me to take two steps forward. Lifting the barrel, I fire twice, hitting both men square in the forehead.

Blood explodes against the wall behind them, and they fall to the ground. I glance back at Faith and wince when I see the expression on her face—pure terror.

Swallowing that guilt, I tell Faith to wait here. I step around the two dead bodies, and I don’t dare to look up at her face again, too worried about what I might see.

I’m nearly at the end of the hall when Rico crosses in front of me. I grip my gun a little harder.

“Well, Vincent,” he sneers, a smug expression on his face. “I told you you’d regret crossing me.”

“I haven’t and won’t. It’s just us now. Your other men are dead, as you can see.” I motion behind me to the floor.

“Did you bring the girl here, Vincent? If you give her to me now, I might let you live.”

My blood runs cold at the thought of him getting his hands on Faith.

“Take me,” Faith interludes like a meek mouse. “Just, please… don’t hurt him.”

“Shut up, Faith. You’re not going anywhere with him,” I snarl.

“Aww, your first lovers quarrel? Too bad you won’t have a chance for angry makeup sex,” he chuckles, “don’t worry, Vincent. I’ll make sure to give her a good fuck after I put a bullet in your skull. I’ll bet she’s tight as fuck.”

I take a deep, shuddering breath. My mind has no more thoughts. I’m fueled by rage and rage alone.

I leap forward with a primal yell, right hand poised to clock Rico square in the nose. I pin him against the wall and punch him repeatedly. He tries weakly to raise his hands against me but is too fat and weak to actually make a hit.

I wrap one hand around the back of Rico’s head and twist his neck. He never stood a chance, not against me. In one swift motion, I break his spine and toss him down the stairwell. A few blood spatters are left behind as he rolls down the stairs.

Standing at the top of the staircase, I steady my breathing. The fog in my mind begins to clear as I realize that I have just subjected my love to this sort of violence. I’ve already failed.

I look back down the hall. Faith is illuminated in the doorway to the master bedroom, and the distance between us seems like miles. The bodies of Rico’s cronies lie between us.

“Y-you killed them.” Her bottom lip trembles, and something like confusion flickers in her blue eyes.

I sigh and let my shoulders sag.

“Yes, Faith. I killed them, and I would do it again. That’s what they deserve for trying to hurt you.

“You look like you’ve done this before. Almost like you do this all the time.”

“Yes, I’ve killed a lot of people. It’s my job,” I explain, not wanting to hold anything back. There is no point in hiding who I am now. “There is more…”

“More than you being a hitman? What else could there be?”

“Let me show you.” I walk back into my bedroom and grab the laptop from the dresser. I open it and type in all the codes to get to the live feed of her room.

I hear her gasp behind me, and all I can do is hang my head in defeat. She is never going to forgive me for this. She is going to hate me.

“I have been…obsessed with you ever since I moved in. I never wanted you to be exposed to any of this. So…I watched you from afar. I was never planning to do anything. I swore off you for good.”

I silently beg her to forgive me. She is quiet for a long moment, and I still don’t have the courage to look at her.

“I understand if you hate me now. If you want me to leave you alone. I’ll carry you out of this house and leave you alone forever. I promise you that if that’s what you want, I’ll do it. It might be impossibly hard, but I’ll do it for you—”

“Did you…hear me call out your name this morning?” Her question catches me off guard.

I turn around so I can see her face. I expect to find fear, disgust, and maybe even hate there. Instead, she looks… relieved.

“You’re not mad at me?”

“I know I should be, but for some reason, I’m not.” At her words, I feel like a thousand-pound boulder has been lifted off my chest. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes.” I grin slightly. “I loved when you called out for me while you were rubbing your little clit furiously.”

We stare at each other for a long moment, and for the first time, I let my mind run wild. I imagine a future with the tiny woman in front of me. She just saw me, the real me, all the dark and dirty corners, and she is still here. Still looking at me with her fuck me eyes.

“I want you so bad it hurts.”

I barely get the words out before she throws her arms around my neck and buries her face in my chest. I wrap my arms around her in return, burying my face in her brown locks. The smell of her. Cookies, lavender, and happiness.

My god. She doesn’t think I’m a monster.

She pulls back and tilts her face up to look at me, and I gaze into her wide blue eyes with love. I fucking love her. I love her.

“I never want you to leave me alone, Vincent. I love you.”

She stands on her tiptoes and presses her pert mouth to mine, and I kiss my obsession back.

At long last, she is mine.

EPILOGUE

VINCENT

One Year Later

A fter that night a year ago, I took Faith and got out of the city.

I had enough money saved up to sustain us for a long time. Now she was going to a school she wanted to go to, and we were living the best life. To protect her, I thought I would have to stop working as a hitman. I didn’t want anyone from my past to interfere with our future, but I hooked up with the local mob here, and I’ve been working for the Valentinos for the past six months, and my worries have lessened with each week. The family is led by Ace Valentino, who is the oldest out of six brothers but still younger than me. Their father died right before I moved here.

Unlike Tony, they believe in family values. They might be ruthless on the streets, killing their enemies without mercy, but they respect women. They don’t see them as a weakness. Instead of using Faith against me, Ace assured me that she will be protected, and I believe him.

With that knowledge on my mind, I’m ready to make Faith mine forever. The ring feels like a thousand pounds in my pocket. I sit on the couch in our living room, my stomach a nervous knot.

Looking up at the Christmas tree we had just put up the night before, I smile. Christmas is Faith’s favorite holiday and now mine as well. The sound of a key in the door pulls me from my thoughts. She’s home. The soft glow of the Christmas tree is the only light in the room.

The door opens, and she walks in. I swear I can smell her across the room, her sweet intoxicating scent that makes my mouth water. My cock stiffens in my jeans, wanting to be inside of her.

“Why are you sitting in the dark all alone?” she says, flipping the light switch on.

The bright light forces me to squint. “Come here. I want to talk to you.” My voice is thick and rougher due to the nervousness I’m feeling.

Placing her purse on the table, she kicks off her shoes and sashays over to me, her hips sway in a way that draws my attention. Forget the ring. I need to be inside of her right now.

Standing, I shove off the couch and meet her halfway. Like every time she sees me, she jumps into my arms, and I haul her against my chest, burying my nose in her hair. She is everything to me.

When she pulls back and looks up at me, I press my lips to hers. Her hands fist at my shirt, and I can feel her breasts rubbing at my chest. Fuck, my cock is so hard I’m worried I might blow my load. Her lips part on a soft little gasp when I land a slap against her jean-clad ass. I slip my tongue into her mouth and swallow up her moans of pleasure as I guide us back toward the couch.

Reaching the sectional, I separate our bodies and ease her back against the cushion. Her big blue eyes swim with love and adoration as she peers up at me. I undo the button on my jeans and shove them down my legs, my cock springing free and standing at attention.

Faith’s gaze drops down to my cock, and her pink tongue darts out over her bottom lip. She’s hungry, and so am I. Reaching for the waistband of her yoga pants, I pull them down her legs and toss them over my shoulder.

“Did you miss me?” Her tone is sultry; she already knows the answer.

“What do you think?” I growl, pinching one of her hardened nipples through the fabric of her shirt. “Take this off,” I order, unable to hold myself back any longer.

It didn’t take long for us to realize Faith liked being submissive and having me in control of her pleasure. In fact, it turned her on more.

“Are you going to fuck me?” she purrs, reaching for my cock.

“I’m not just going to fuck you. I’m going to show you how much I love you. Now, up on your hands and knees.”

At my order, she moves into place. Her hands grip the back of the couch, and she peers at me over her shoulder while her brown hair falls in soft waves down her back.

“I thought you wanted to talk,” she taunts, shaking her ass at me. Her creamy white cheeks bounce, and I slap each of them, enjoying the soft sigh Faith makes.

“Oh, I want to talk… to your pussy. Now, let me do what I’ve wanted to do all day.” Trailing a hand down her spine, I massage her ass cheeks before moving lower until I reach her tight pussy. Sinking two fingers into her hole, I find her soaking wet.

“Already fucking wet.” I chuckle. “I’m not even surprised. You used to be so naive, virginal. What happened?”

“You. You happened.” She pushes back against my fingers, and I let her fuck herself on my hand for a while until her arousal starts to coat my palm.

Withdrawing my fingers, I take my cock into my hand, guiding the head to her entrance before sinking into her with one swift thrust.

“Fuck.” Euphoric pleasure ripples down my spine, and I take her by the hips and start to fuck her, hard and fast. The sound of our skin slapping against each other fills my ears.

“Oh, god! Vincent.” Faith starts to pant almost immediately.

I grin and slap one of her ass cheeks while continuing to thrust. “You want my cum inside your tight little hole?”

“Yes! Fill my tight hole,” Faith screams and tips her head back.

Her entire body shudders when I stop thrusting, and press my hips to her ass and grind my cock inside her just like I know she loves. Snaking a hand between our bodies, I find her swollen clit, and start rubbing the nub faster and faster until I feel her clenching around me, squeezing my cock so hard I feel faint.

My name falls from her lips on a scream, “Vincent!”

I pull out and push back into her a couple times, enjoying the way her womb continues to convulse around me.

“Tell me you want it,” I grit out, feeling my orgasm on the horizon.

“I want it. I want you to come inside of me. Please… please, Vincent.” Her soft little pleas push me over the edge, and with a roar, I explode. Sticky jets of my warm cum fill her tight channel. There is so much cum it starts to drip out of her and down my cock.

Fuck, there is no sight quite like the one right before my eyes. After a few moments, I ease out of her and take her into my arms and collapse on the couch. She lies with her head against my chest, my fingers running through her soft locks for what seems like an eternity before she interrupts the silence.

“What did you want to talk to me about earlier?” she whispers, her blue eyes twinkling with joy.

The nervous knots from earlier returns. Shit. “Oh, yeah…” I trail off and sit up, forcing her to move. Her brows pucker, and she seems confused now.

I reach for my jeans and pull out the velvet box inside the pocket. I’m partially naked, and Faith is completely naked, but the moment for this has never felt righter.

Taking her hand in mine, I say, “Faith, when we got together a year ago, I thought it was a dream. I thought you would forever remain my obsession, the one thing I wanted most but could never have.”

“Oh, Vincent… I love you.” Tears fill her eyes, and my heartbeat rings in my ears.

“You’re the best thing to happen to me, and I want you to be mine forever. Be my wife, Faith.” I open the box and hand it to her.

Her eyes go real wide, and her mouth pops open. For a long second, the longest in the world, she says nothing. She just stares at the three-carat princess cut diamond ring like it’s a trap.

“Is this… is this real?” she whispers, her eyes darting between the ring and me.

I nod. “It’s real, baby. Be my wife. Make me the happiest fucking man in the world.”

It must finally hit her because she starts to nod her head, yes. Her hands tremble as I take the ring from the box and place it on her finger.

I take her by the cheeks and drag her face toward mine. “I need your words. Will you be my wife?”

“Yes, yes, I will be your wife. I love you so much.” She starts to cry, and I know I’m the luckiest man in the world. I got the best gift, not one year, but two years in a row.

Her lips find mine, and we fall back onto the couch, our bodies becoming tangled all over again. There’s no one I would rather spend the rest of my life with.

Thank You so much for reading Christmas Obsession! Sign up for my Newsletter Here to receive freebies, sales, and new release info.

His Ballerina is coming soon!

Keep reading for a sneak peek.

COMING SOON

HIS BALLERINA

Madison is trying her best to escape a life of poverty. Young, innocent, and guarded. She’s finally getting ahead when she witnesses a murder outside the dance studio and finds herself in deep with a dark and dangerous criminal.

Archer is smitten by Madison, from the moment they meet. The protocol says to leave no witness behind but he can’t imagine hurting her. Against his best judgement he lets her go, but he can’t seem to get her out of his head. Like a stalker he follows her, making certain she doesn’t spill about what she’s seen.

Then one night he watches her through the window of the studio as she dances, she’s so beautiful, and angelic. Archer decides then that no matter the cost, or blood spilled she will be his… his ballerina.

***Standalone novella with a HEA***

Chapter One

Madison

You would think the sort of people who go to the gym on a regular basis would care as much about their surroundings as they do about the condition of their bodies. You’d think they would, if not go out of their way to clean up after themselves, at least be bothered to toss their empty water bottles into the trashcan rather than letting them sit on the floor by the equipment.

Though considering some of the messes I sometimes find in the bathrooms, a few stray water bottles are nothing. It’s shocking what people will do in a bathroom they know they don’t have to clean.

I pick up the last of the litter before emptying the last can, tying up the end of the bag and lifting it out with a grunt. “You want to take care of your body? Try cleaning up the gym after hours.” Who am I talking to? Myself, since the last gym member left half an hour ago along with the owner.

Is it the best idea to be all alone in the gym after hours? Probably not, all things considered. It’s not in the best neighborhood, though compared to the block where my apartment sits it’s perfectly safe. But that’s how it is when comparing any other place to the embarrassment where I live, the only apartment in town that I can actually afford.

I’ve never been even a little bit afraid, though. Does that make me naïve? I don’t think so. I know how things go. I know what I’m risking staying here so late, by myself.

What other choice do I have? It’s the only chance I get to do the one thing I love more than anything else in life. A girl makes sacrifices when the stakes are that high.

And what’s at stake now is whether or not I get to dance. I can’t clean this gym up fast enough, every second being one less second that I get to spend doing what I love.

Which is why it’s such a relief when the last can is empty. I’ve wiped down and mopped up the bathrooms, tossed the soiled towels into the wash before replacing them with fresh stacks, wiped down all the equipment, swept the floors and taken out the trash. The fridge at the front desk is stocked with protein shakes and water for tomorrow’s early clients. There’s nothing else to do.

It’s part of the agreement I reached with the gym’s owner back when I started working here. Joe can’t afford to pay me very much—this isn’t exactly a high-end facility—but I get free use of the space in the back, where fitness classes are held throughout the week. It’s empty in here now, of course, without the blaring of some nameless, upbeat song to keep students moving.

I change into my leotard before sitting on the floor to lace up my baby pink pointe shoes. Sure, they’re from Goodwill, and it would be better to have a pair of my own that I can break in to my liking, but I’ll take what I can get. Brand-new point shoes cost a hell of a lot more than I can afford right now, more than I’ve ever been able to afford.

None of that matters once the music is playing, once I warm up my muscles and allow myself to fly. That’s how it feels when I’m dancing, the way it’s always felt, ever since I was a little girl watching an old recording of the Nutcracker until I knew every movement, every gesture. It found the tape in one of my foster homes and watched it every chance I got. When I found out I’d be going to a new home, that tape was the first thing I ever stole, and the last.

I didn’t think of it as theft. That recording, that ballet was my lifeline. It was the door to a whole new world full of beauty and glory I could never have imagined on my own.

And it was all I had to tie me to the world of ballet, since I sure as heck wasn’t taking lessons while bouncing from one foster home to another. I couldn’t even stay in one school long enough to make friends, much less find a ballet program. And then would come the fees, the costumes, the shoes…

Impossible, in other words. That was for other girls, girls who had a permanent home and at least one parent who gave a crap about them. Girls whose moms and dads made enough money to pay for lessons, to send them on trips to New York and Chicago and Philadelphia to watch the ballet companies perform.

Girls like me, on the other hand, had to make due with what was available. Just like I still do to this day.

No one would ever mistake me for a trained ballerina, but I found a way to keep dancing. I’ve spent hours studying videos breaking down technique, training tips, even how to eat properly so my body is at its peak. So I can soar.

It feels like I am, moving back and forth across the room, working on my traveling pirouettes with one eye in the mirror to check out my form. I would like to be able to afford a phone with a decent camera so I can record myself, then look at the footage afterward, but that’s not happening anytime soon. Still, it’s something to aspire for.

As usual, it’s not until my feet hurt that I realize how late it is. A check of the time tells me it’s past midnight—and I have the early shift tomorrow at the grocery store where I work as a stocker. I need to be at the store by six, which doesn’t leave me much time to get home, get a decent night’s sleep and be out the door again.

Still, even with the sore feet, I hate having to turn off the music and call it a night. My cooldown takes fifteen minutes or so, and I’m in a hurry by the time I slide into my sneakers and pack up the shoes. As always, it stings a little to turn out the lights and turn my back on my dream until tomorrow.

I’m being an idiot, and I know it. I can even laugh at myself a little while turning out the rest of the lights in the building. My footsteps echo alarmingly in the otherwise empty space and send a shiver up my spine. This is when I inevitably regret being here so late, alone. Having to walk home by myself in a sketchy neighborhood.

What’s the alternative? Not being able to dance? No chance. It’s worth having my heart pound the whole way home. A day without dancing would be like a day without oxygen.

As usual, I cut out through the back, taking a shortcut through a series of alleys. They’re usually empty except for maybe one or two homeless people who make up beds behind hole-in-the-wall take-out restaurants and dry cleaners. Sometimes, if I have an extra bottle of water or a snack, I’ll leave it for them in passing.

Most people would avert their eyes, shake their heads and click their tongues before hurrying past. Not me. I can’t ignore these people. I mean, I could easily be one of them. I know how close I’ve come to poverty—how close I always am, really—to ignore people who’ve had a run of bad luck.

I don’t have water or snacks tonight. Just sore feet to go along with the fatigue spreading to the rest of my body. But it’s a good kind of fatigue, the kind that comes after a hard workout. Sometimes I wonder why the people who come to the gym work out so hard and look so miserable while they’re doing it, or like they’re struggling through something terrible. I look forward to working out. Maybe they haven’t found something they enjoy yet.

My feet crunch on broken glass, and what sounds like a whisper on the evening breeze reminds me of where I am and how dangerous this part of town happens to be. There are a lot of desperate people around here, people in worse positions than me, and desperate people do desperate, violent things.

I need to get home, fast. Now I’m thinking it was probably stupid of me to hang around as long as I did—and even stupider considering I’m not carrying so much as a can of Mace to defend myself with.

It stinks back here, in these alleys, with overflowing dumpsters creating a nauseating stench even on a cool night like this. In the summer it’s brutal, enough to turn my stomach, and those are the nights when I choose to walk on the sidewalk rather than taking a shortcut.

I wonder as I walk with my head down and my shoulders up around my ears whether there will ever be a time when I finally make it. Will I ever be comfortable? Will I ever be able to fall asleep without worrying where this month’s rent is coming from? It seems like an eighteen-year-old shouldn’t have this much stress. I should be starting college, making new friends in the dorm, meeting guys. Not working three jobs, living in an apartment where my only roommates are roaches.

It’s the roaches I’m thinking of as I turn the corner, planning to cut down one last alley before taking the remaining three blocks on the sidewalk.

And what I find stops me in my tracks.

There’s a man up ahead—no, two men. One of them is wearing a tracksuit, kneeling on the ground, his hands in the air. He’s babbling, weeping. I’m not close enough to hear what he’s saying but I can hear the cadence of his voice, the desperation as he begs.

Begs for what? Mercy? Did his gambling debts get to be too much? Maybe he robbed the wrong person and it’s coming back to bite him. Either way, looking at him, it’s clear he regrets whatever he did.

It doesn’t take long before I figure out what he’s begging for: his life.

Because in the next instant, the man standing in front of him pulls a gun from his waistband. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, wearing black pants and a leather jacket. And he is absolutely not screwing around as he takes aim, positioning the gun’s muzzle between the crying man’s eyes.

My stomach clenches, and my blood goes cold. I open my mouth, prepared to scream, to beg him to stop. Anything. But nothing comes out. I can’t even draw breath. I might as well not be here, might as well be a ghost witnessing this.

If I don’t get out of here, I might end up being a ghost before long. I know this, and my instincts are screaming, begging me to run. My skin feels itchy, my muscles are jumping. Run, you idiot, get out of here! Something tells me a man willing to blow another man’s brains out in an alley isn’t beyond pulling the trigger on an innocent bystander.

Still, I can’t move. I’m in shock, with part of me trying to believe this is just a dream. A nightmare. Things like this don’t happen in real life.

Only when a shot rings out and the man falls on his side do I know this is very, very real.

And when I gasp, finally able to make a sound, the dark eyes of a cold-blooded killer land on me.

Chapter Two

Archer

Fuck. Fuck a million times over.

This was supposed to be easy. Uncomplicated, at least. The kind of thing I’ve done more times than I can count.

Tonight, something’s different.

There’s a witness.

Fuck again. But I knew I shouldn’t have done this out in the open, didn’t I? I knew it before I ever suggested the weak, whimpering and now dead man in front of me join me outside for a little discussion. Just a talk, a way to straighten a few things out.

People will believe anything when they’re desperate enough. I’ve seen it time and again. They have that fear in their eyes, that stone-cold terror that comes from knowing their time on Earth is about to come to an end. It’s when the memory of every stupid thing they’ve ever done comes rushing back. Every poor decision.

Including the fatal decision to stab a member of my family in the back.

You’d think they’d know better by now. Who do they think they’re trying to kid, these morons who believe they’ve found a way to get around us, to steal from us, to pull the wool over our eyes? We might be young, my brothers and me, but we learned while sitting at the feet of none other than Paul Valentino. A man who once held this entire city by the balls.

Our father. Late father.

These assholes think that just because he’s dead, his sons will let bygones be bygones while the so-called tenuous hold we have over the city’s underworld commands all of our attention. Like we can’t multitask. Like we can’t clean house while solidifying control over the family’s interests, no matter what the media likes to report.

So sure, when I walked into the bar and found this track suit-wearing, sniveling little piece of shit, Trent wanted to believe there was nothing to it but a quick chat away from prying eyes and ears. People will believe anything when their life is at stake and they don’t want to come to terms with it.

Well, I didn’t put it at stake. I didn’t double-cross us. He did. I only settled the score.

But now there’s this girl standing not thirty feet away and I know she saw the whole damn thing. Why didn’t I notice her? Or at least hear her come up on us? I’m better than this. I’m smarter than this.

Obviously not, dumbass, or else you wouldn’t be staring at a witness to the murder you just fucking committed.

“Don’t move.” It’s a bark, a command, and nobody who’s ever heard that tone in my voice has ever dared disobey. She’s no different. Frozen solid, not even shaking, though her eyes are bulging out and her face is about as pale as milk.

A nice face. Angelic, even. The glow of an overhead lamp adds to that effect, I guess, making a halo around her golden hair. It’s pulled back in a messy ponytail but I can tell it would be soft to the touch, flowing around her face like a cloud, framing those delicate features and those big, shining blue eyes.

Snap out of it, you dumb shit. I’m fast, but she’s small and toned and she has the benefit of adrenaline on her side. The second she snaps out of whatever shock she’s going through, she’ll take off like a rabbit in her beat-up sneakers. I won’t stand a chance.

I’ve gotta get through to her. Or else I’ll have to kill her.

My entire body stiffens at the thought, but what other option is there? She’s a fucking witness and I can’t leave fucking witnesses behind. She’s gotten a good, long look at me, too. No way she wouldn’t be able to identify me.

Focus. One thing at a time. I can practically hear my father’s voice in my ear. You can’t look at the entire problem at once or else it’ll overwhelm you and you’ll end up making stupid mistakes. Look at one thing at a time.

Okay. First thing: getting her away from the scene while being in control.

I take a step toward her, then another, careful to conceal the gun in my right hand. While sliding it into my waistband, I hold my left hand up, palm facing out. “I’m not gonna shoot you. Okay?” Even though I should. “Stay put. Don’t move a muscle.”

She lets out a tiny little whimper. Pitiful, the sound, and something inside me hurts when I hear it. What’s that about?

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I swear.” With the gun tucked away, I approach with both hands up. “Just take it easy. Okay?”

Her eyes shift away from my face, over my shoulder. I take a step to the left to block the view of the dead man. “Don’t worry about him. He got what he had coming to him. So long as you play by the rules and do as I say, the same thing won’t happen to you. Got it?”

Her head bobs up and down. “Cat got your tongue?” I ask. Now that I’m standing closer, the stench of the alley is replaced with something sweeter. Her shampoo, I guess, though there’s something else coming from her skin in waves. Sweat. It’s not even that bad. In fact, it makes me wonder what she’d smell like once I got her good and heated up.

She shakes her head. “No.” Her voice is soft. Sweet. Just the way I would’ve imagined it. Nobody as angelic and fragile-looking as the girl in front of me would have a harsh, raspy voice. It wouldn’t fit.

“So you understand what I’m saying? Tell me you understand.”

“I understand. Only please, please don’t—”

“Spare me.” I’ve heard it enough to make me sick. Please, don’t hurt me. Please, I’ll do anything. I have a wife and kids. My mom needs me. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong, I swear. Please, don’t make me pay for my stupid choices.

Her eyes go a fraction wider. “It’s just that I didn’t see anything. You know? Nothing at all. I’ll just go home and forget this ever happened.”

Right. Like that would be possible. I stop short of rolling my eyes at her, but just barely, before yanking the backpack from her shoulder before she has the chance to stop me. Not like she could if she tried, considering the size of her. “What’s your name, huh?” I make it a point to sound as menacing as I can because this girl needs to be afraid. Very afraid. It’s the only thing that’ll shut her up.

“M—Madison.” She wraps her arms around herself and trembles. So it looks like her body is finally waking up to what she witnessed. She’s starting to understand the trouble she’s in.

“Madison, huh?” Sure enough, the wallet I pull out of the front pocket of the bag confirms this. Madison Miller, age eighteen. She lives a few blocks from here.

“What are you doing?” It’s barely a whisper through chattering teeth.

“I’m learning what I can about you, Madison Miller.” I thrust the bag at her, wallet included. “And now I know where you live. You know what that means, right?” When she nods, I push harder. “Tell me what it means.”

Her brow furrows. “You’ll come to my place if you find out I told on you.”

I could laugh, I really could. She sounds like a little kid tattling in the schoolyard. Is she really that innocent? Or is shock turning her into this scared, whispering little girl?

Whatever it is, I have to take it and use it. “That’s right. I’ll come to your place—or, if you’re really unlucky, I’ll send somebody less merciful than me. You realize I could’ve blown you away by now, right? They won’t make it that easy, I promise.”

“I get it.” And oh, look here, there’s an edge to her voice. Not as sharp as it could be, but I hear it. And damned if I don’t respect her a little more now. She’s not as fragile as she looks.

Though she’s still a tiny little thing and this is a shithole of a neighborhood. I wouldn’t normally come here except to straighten somebody out. I look to the right, then the left. “You out here all alone?”

“Yes!” she gasps. “There’s nobody here with me.”

“What are you, stupid or something? For fuck’s sake. Who walks around out here on their own at this time of night? You’re practically begging to walk in on something like this.” I wave a hand in the direction of the dead man, his body half-hidden behind a row of trash cans, while I pull out my phone.

“What are you doing now?”

“Just shut up and stay where you are. Don’t forget what’s tucked in my pants. Got it?” She nods, trembling harder, as the call picks up.

“Talk to me. Is it done?” My brother, Ace, oldest of all of us. Now that Dad’s gone he thinks he’s hot shit, the unofficial father figure, but it’s not easy to forget all the dumb shit a person pulled when they were a kid. I know him too well.

“It is, but there’s been a complication.” I glance at her, meeting her gaze. God, she’s got gorgeous eyes. I could fall into those eyes and drown. What would they look like if she was happy? If I made her happy?

“Like what?”

“Like I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. But I’m gonna need you to send somebody down here for clean-up.” I give him the location while watching Madison for any sign that she’s about to flee. While I doubt anybody would think twice about the double-crossing bookie turning up dead in an alley a few blocks down from where he was last seen, it’s not like we want the cops breathing down our necks. Especially when I was seen leaving the bar with him.

Though I don’t think anybody in there would be stupid enough to rat me out. Still, no taking chances.

“On it. You sure you’ve got this covered?”

Sometimes he forgets I’m twenty-three, not thirteen. “Got it.” After that I end the call before he finds some other way to insult me or otherwise insinuate I might not have things under control.

Like this is my first hit, for Christ’s sake.

Once that’s taken care of, I take hold of Madison’s elbow. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“Oh, my God…” Tears fill her eyes and spill onto her cheeks. I don’t know whether to slap some sense into her or comfort her, and the fact that there’s even a choice to be made terrifies me deep down inside. It’s like there’s something inside me that’s never been there before. Pity? Sympathy? Either way, I don’t like it.

“Shut up, for God’s sake. Stop blubbering. I’m walking you home, is all.” I pull her a few steps further away from the alley and the body there.

“Walking me home?”

“Are you a parrot? And stop crying, would you? There’s nothing to cry about. So long as you’re smart and remember what I told you. Think you can do that?”

She drags the back of her hand under both eyes and squares her shoulders. Something about that tiny gesture hits me hard. The girl has no reason to believe me after witnessing what I did a few minutes ago, but she’s willing to play along. She’s that brave.

And a fucking idiot. “Don’t you know how dangerous it is to be walking around out here in the middle of the night? All alone? It’s amazing this is the first hit you ever walked in on.”

“Who says it’s the first?”

She surprises me into stopping dead in my tracks just before reaching the sidewalk. “It’s not?”

“No, of course it is. I don’t even know why I said that.” She looks at the ground, where broken glass glitters like diamonds between weed-choked cracks in the concrete.

Something tells me I’m not going to be able to get this girl out of my head for a long time, and that’s a real problem. But it doesn’t stop me from continuing on with her, one hand on her arm in case she decides to do anything stupid.

His Ballerina is coming soon!

Sign up for my Newsletter Here to receive freebies, sales, and new release info.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

If you like your stories short, taboo and kinky, then a Darcy Rose book is perfect for you. She writes about shy and innocent heroines, to match them up with dark and intense heroes who have only eyes for one girl.

Table of Contents

Full Page Image

Contents

Christmas Obsession

1. Faith

2. Vincent

3. Faith

4. Vincent

5. Faith

6. Vincent

7. Faith

8. Vincent

9. Faith

10. Vincent

Epilogue

Coming Soon

About the Author