Meet Me Under the Mistletoe

by M. Robinson

  He was silent, which, of course he was.

  A sob filled her chest. Grief filled her head.

  There it is. The thing I’d been pretending wasn’t real. My love and his lack of it.

  “You don’t have anything to say?” she asked him. Begged him. But he was so far away. It was like touching him minutes ago was a fever dream. One of the millions she’d had about him. “Of course not. You never do.”

  She found her shoes and slipped them on. Finding anger beneath her grief because it was easier. It was always easier. She pushed down her skirt and flipped back her hair knowing when she walked out there, she’d still look like she’d been fucked sideways.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “What I came here to do.”

  “Jesus Christ, the phone?”

  “Yes, the fucking phone, Jacob. That girl came to us and begged us to get the phone. That fucking kid is blackmailing her.”

  “This is the priest all over again.”

  “No, it’s not and you know it. I’m stealing an asshole’s phone. And you know it’s the right thing to do. It’s a small thing and I can do it and it sets one thing right. That girl doesn’t deserve what happened to her or to have that fucking kid blackmail her with the video. So, I’m going to fix it. One tiny thing in a world where almost nothing gets fixed. Almost nothing is made right. You want to stop me?” She shook her head. “Then shame on you, Jacob. Fucking shame on you.”

  “And you’re going to…what? Sneak into his room at a Christmas party? Full of Morellis? What will you do if someone catches you.”

  “Fight them.”

  “Not in that dress.”

  “Fuck them.”

  His jaw went hard and she liked that reaction.

  She smiled at him, cocked her hip, kicked up her foot. “Am I in the wrong room. So silly of me.” She stomped her foot down, dropped the smile. “Should work just fine.”

  Zilla turned, putting him behind her. For good. It had to be for good.

  She pulled open the door revealing the dark hallway and letting in the Christmas carols. Little Drummer Boy, this time. What a sad fucking song. Like all that kid had to offer was himself playing his drum. That he’d been reduced to that?

  She stepped out into the hallway, expecting…no, not expecting, wanting. Wanting Jacob to stop her with every step she took. But he didn’t. Of course, he didn’t.

  She took two steps into the hallway just as someone else was coming up from the staircase. Before she was able to duck back into the bedroom, Jacob was there turning her in his arms, kissing her.

  “Jesus, get a room,” one of the men coming up the stairs laughed and Jacob turned them so the people walking by couldn’t see her. Only his back.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered against his lips once the two men walked by.

  “Things your way,” he said.

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “Come on.” He grabbed her hand. “Let’s go get this damn phone. You know which room?”

  She blinked at him. “You’re doing it with me?”

  “Where’s the room?”

  He’s doing it with me. This felt like something…bigger even than everything he’d said. Bigger than the sex.

  “Third floor.” The boy that videotaped the girl having sex and then blackmailed her for all sorts of petty bullshit or he’d put it all over social media, was a distant Morelli.

  Now he lived in what was practically the servants’ quarters.

  She led the way towards the third-floor staircase, feeling him at her back. He lifted his hand, put it on her ass, as they walked up. She smacked his hand away.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed at him.

  “I don’t know,” he said. She turned and looked at him and nearly stumbled.

  He was smiling. Something she’d only ever seen him do two or three times in their years together. And it changed him completely. All that distance was gone, all that control replaced by joy. It was breathtaking every time.

  How handsome you are, she thought.

  And then she turned around and kept walking.

  He reached up and touched her ass again and she smacked his hand away. Fought the urge to smile.

  The third floor was full of bedrooms. They stood at the end of the hallway of doors.

  “I’ll take the ones on the right. You take the ones on the left.”

  “Why are you helping me?” she asked, opening the first door on the left. A guest room, unused.

  “Because we’ve done everything my way,’ he said and opened a door on the right. “I told you. We’re doing it your way now.”

  She shut the second door and stared at him. “And you think you know what that means?”

  “I’m going to follow your lead,” he said.

  “What if I don’t know what my way means?” she asked. “Most of my life I was told I was a mess.”

  “By people who don’t know you.”

  The implication being that he knew her. He trusted her. Her way could be the right way.

  She turned away again, unsure. Awkward.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “About earlier. When people talk about love, it…it makes me freeze up.”

  She watched him out of the corner of her eye.

  “Did I ever tell you about my dad?” he asked and she stopped at the second door.

  “No.”

  “He was a marine. Served in Vietnam. My grandfather served in Korea. Being a marine was a thing in my family…well, it was the only thing.”

  “That’s why you enlisted.”

  He nodded. The shadows playing across his face in a way she could not look away from. “After the war, he kind of…” Jacob had this one kind of nervous tic, He’d bob his head while he was thinking about something. Just a quick nod, like he was snapping his thoughts back together. Into place. “He was lost. And he was hurting. They didn’t talk about PTSD, but he suffered from it. And he drank to try and make his head right and it only made things worse.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Me too,” he said. “Mostly for my mom. But after Iraq and then Afghanistan and then…all the other places I can’t talk about.” Again that sharp nod. The quick snap of his thoughts. Putting everything back in place. “Well, I was scared of not being at war. Of not being a marine. Of turning into my dad.”

  “I don’t think you’re like your dad.”

  “I’m not,” he said. “I’m not because I made sure I wasn’t like my dad. I created these rules about how I live my life. I did jobs I didn’t care about. I worked for people I didn’t care about. And I never cared about someone who I would end up hurting.”

  The blood stilled in her chest. In her brain. It pounded in her wrists. Between her legs.

  “I really tried with you,” he said. “I tried not to care and I really tried to keep you from caring.”

  “Kissing me and then leaving for three days?”

  He nodded.

  “Breaking into my apartment and teaching me how to fight?”

  “I just wanted you to be safe when I wasn’t around.”

  “Because you never meant to be around.”

  “I didn’t know how to be around,” he said. But then he stepped forward on the rug. “I couldn’t have you and have my rules.”

  Downstairs Little Drummer Boy was coming to an end. Jacob was a living version of that song. Reduced to the way he could keep people safe by killing other people. By being sharp and cold and staying as far from love as he could.

  She was suddenly breathless. Weak. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you are more powerful than my rules. You are stronger than my will. The way I feel about you is more real to me than anything I’ve ever known. And I only want what you want.”

  “What I want?”

  His eyebrows furrowed. “Did I fuck you into a parrot.”

  Her jaw fell open and a laugh exploded out of her. Breathless and unbelievi
ng. “Are you…making a joke?”

  He lifted his arms from his side and she saw right into him. Past all his strength and distance and rules. Past everything he used to keep himself safe. He let her see everything. All the way into him.

  “Jacob,” she breathed. Another step across the rug and he was there to meet her. She put her hands on him. Against his face. Holding him still and looking her fill. She could feel his resistance. The way he wanted to pull himself away and keep himself safe. But he resisted the urge and held himself still.

  “I’m not good with soft things,” he said. “With soft sweet things who like to dance and drink cocktails and want to hug and watch cooking shows.”

  “I hate cooking shows.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m not a soft sweet thing,” she said.

  “Softer and sweeter than me,” he said.

  “You made me strong,” she whispered. “You made me believe in myself. All I want is a chance to be with you.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her and it was a kiss she never would have expected from him. A kiss she never would have thought possible. It was gentle and careful. A promise offered and kept.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” someone said and she and Jacob turned to find two young men standing in the entrance to the hallway. They wore prep school jackets and red ties and the smug expressions of slightly drunk rich kids.

  But one of them. The dark-haired boy was the Morelli bastard she was looking for—Paul.

  “We’re just looking for a party,” Zilla said, staggering a little and letting Jacob take her weight. “You guys want to party?”

  “With you, baby, sure,” the blond-haired kid said. Jacob stiffened but didn’t put a stop to the game.

  “Come on,” Paul said. “I’ve got coke in my room.”

  “I love coke!” she cried.

  “Pouring it on a little thick,” Jacob whispered in her ear.

  They followed the boys to the room at the end of the hallway and Paul opened the door to a giant guest suite that looked unlived in.

  “This is your room?” Zilla asked.

  “I’m only here for a month for the holidays and then I’m back at school.”

  Jacob closed the door behind them with a snap and Zilla dropped the act. Turning on the boys with a wicked smile.

  “Paul, let me tell you what’s going to happen.”

  “What?” Paul asked, he and his friend looked at each other. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “A friend of Angela’s. You remember Angela? Sweet girl. You videotaped her being raped at a party and now you’re threatening to release it on social media.”

  “How do you know Angela?”

  “Missing the point, Paul. You’re going to give me the phone.”

  “Fuck this bullshit.” The blond-haired boy stepped towards the door, but Jacob was there. An immoveable object. “What are you doing, man?”

  “Give us the phone,” Jacob said in his calm, quiet don’t-fuck-with-us voice.

  “I’m not giving you shit,” Paul said. “Now get the hell out of my room.”

  Paul stepped forward but Zilla was there, grabbing Paul’s wrist in hers and turning him around, holding his arm at an angle that made him whimper and stagger to his knees. Paul’s friend jumped in, but Jacob pushed him back against the wall with one shove, putting him on his ass.

  “Give us the phone and we don’t need to hurt anyone.”

  “Do you know who I am?” Paul asked.

  “Do you know who I am?” Zilla whispered in his ear. She was thinking of Ronan, her brother-in-law, former fixer and assassin, general all-around badass. But then it occurred to her that she was her own kind of badass, thanks to Jacob.

  She looked over at him only to find him smiling at her. Right. They were doing things her way and her way meant he got to smile. Her way meant these idiots stopped hurting a good kid. Her way meant them…together, maybe. Trying, maybe.

  “Just give these assholes the phone,” Paul’s friend said from his spot on the floor. “This isn’t worth it.”

  “Gotta agree with your friend,” Zilla said. “Give us the phone.”

  Paul muttered and swore under his breath and then pulled open a drawer and grabbed an iPhone out of it. Zilla saw inside the drawer there were four other phones.

  “What’s on those other phones?” she asked.

  “None of your business.”

  “I think we’re making it our business,” Jacob said in his quiet voice.

  “Give me the rest of the phones,” Zilla said.

  Paul hesitated and she applied that good pressure Jacob taught her about and he cried out, fumbling for the other phones and handing them over.

  “You’re going to leave Angela alone,” Zilla told him. “In fact, every girl on these phones, you’re leaving them all alone.”

  “Fine.”

  “And you’re going to stay in this room for the next half hour,” Jacob said. “And when you leave you won’t be telling anyone about any of this.”

  She and Jacob applied just a little more pressure to the boys they were holding.

  “Whatever, man,” Paul cried. “Just take the cameras and go.”

  She heard Jacob open the door behind her and she let Paul go, only to have him jump up and shove her with the arm that he could still use. “Fuck you, bitch.”

  Jacob was on him in a millisecond. There was a punch, a muffled scream. “Touch her. Look at her. Think about her again. And I’ll kill you,” Jacob said over the boy’s body on the floor.

  Jacob stood there until Paul nodded and then Jacob turned and all but dragged her out of the room, her hands full of cell phones.

  “Oh my god,” Zilla whispered. “It worked. We got the phone.”

  They got down to the second floor and Zilla was trying to figure out where to put the phones when Jacob grabbed her and shoved her up against the wall.

  “Jacob, what—”

  “We should have been doing it your way all along,” Jacob said.

  “My way is fun, right?”

  “It’s not fun. It’s just…right. I’m going to take you home and fuck you,” he said and kissed her. Hard and wet. Tongue and his body up against hers. He was hot and she was on fire for him.

  “You can fuck me here,” she whispered.

  “I want to take you home. I want hours with you. Days.”

  “Years,” Zilla said and kissed him. Hard as she could. With all of her heart.

  Jacob grabbed the phones out of her hand, putting them in the pocket of his coat. And then tucked her hand into his elbow, like they were two partygoers. As they walked by a tray of champagne he grabbed a flute and handed it to her. A tray of little quiches went by and she grabbed two, one for him. One for her.

  “Zilla!”

  Poppy, her sister, her bright red hair hanging loose down her back in big waves, stood in the doorway to one of the rooms wearing a showstopping silver dress. “You came!”

  “I did,” she said, smiling thinking of Jacob up in that room, fucking her against the wall. A pulse of heat went through her. “But we have to go.”

  Ronan came up behind her, a dark and handsome and terrifying blade of a man. “Zilla,” he said, her name so different in his Irish accent. “What’s the craic?”

  “Jacob and I are leaving,” Zilla said.

  “You just got here!” Poppy cried but pulled Zilla into her arms anyway. “Are you okay?” Poppy whispered in her ear.

  “Does it always feel like this?” Zilla whispered in her sister’s ear.

  “What?”

  “Love.”

  “God,” Poppy said with a huge squeeze. “I really hope so.”

  “Zilla,” Jacob said, touching Zilla’s elbow. “We need to go.”

  “Is there a problem?” Ronan asked.

  “We took care of it,” Jacob answered and the two men shared a “we’re badass motherfuckers” nod.

  Zilla and Jacob turned out the door, ra
n down the steps. Jacob handed the valet the ticket for his car.

  “One second, sir,” the valet said and then he vanished. In the dark shadowy night, for the first time the silence between them was awkward. Strange.

  “Thank you,” Zilla said. “Jacob. Thank you for helping—”

  He put an arm around her back, bending her backwards, kissing her like they were on the cover of a romance novel. “I will always help you,” he said. “I will always be there for you. I will be behind you and in front of you and any other place you want me.”

  “Inside of me.”

  He laughed against her mouth. “I can do that.”

  She’d never had any assurances of tomorrow. Not as a kid. Not as a young woman. Tomorrow, for her, always had to take care of itself. But right here, with her Drummer Boy, she felt tomorrow like it was the answer to a prayer.

  “Let’s go home,” she whispered against his lips.

  * * *

  Thank you for reading LITTLE DRUMMER BOY?

  If you want to read the story of Zelda’s sister, Poppy, RUINED is out now!

  Outside a glittering party, I saw a man in the dark. I didn’t know then that he was an assassin. A hit man. A mercenary. Ronan radiated danger and beauty. Mercy and mystery.

  ONE CLICK RUINED NOW >

  “M. O’Keefe always delivers the best alphas, and RUINED is no different. Ronan is dark, dangerous, and dominating, and he owns me.”

  – New York Times bestselling author Laurelin Paige

  It Came Upon A Midnight Clear

  Jenika Snow

  Chapter One

  Galina

  I was in love with a killer.

  A Russian beast who reveled in death and destruction, who had blood on his hands even though he washed them clean.

  He wasn’t my knight in shining armor, wouldn’t rescue me with an honorable swordfight to ask for my hand in marriage after the battle. He’d offer me his enemy’s still beating heart, blood dripping down his arm, while he stared at me with eyes as dark and cold as his soul.

  He’d never promise me a happily ever after.

  And I was okay with that. Because all I wanted was him.

  Arlo maimed and tortured to keep me safe, killed men who would have used and abused me, beaten my body and tortured my soul. He’d cut off a man’s hand because he’d dared to touch me.