Dark Christmas: Chapter 11

With a sigh, I push myself up. “I should probably go. I have to be at work early tomorrow.”

He smiles at me, understanding without a word, and shifts to get out of the bed, too. As much as I don’t want to leave, reality’s knocking, and I can’t hide here forever.

Still, when he leans in and kisses me again, soft but with that lingering heat that makes my body tingle, I almost change my mind. My legs go weak thinking about how easy it’d be to stay, but with my brain screaming at me to focus, I manage to pull away.

“Thank you for tonight,” I say, trying to sound casual, like what just happened wasn’t completely life changing.

“Anytime.”

I slip on my clothes, feeling his eyes on me the entire time. I glance over my shoulder and catch him watching me like I’m his favorite snack. His gaze makes me feel like he’s memorizing every inch of me.

As I bend down to put on my shoes, a sudden crash of glass breaks the silence. My head snaps up, and we both freeze. A door creaks open loudly from downstairs, the sound unmistakable.

I look at him, eyes wide, my heart starting to race. “Are you expecting company?” I whisper, barely able to get the words out. His entire expression changes in an instant, shifting from relaxed to razor-sharp.

He puts a finger to his lips, signaling me to stay quiet. My heart’s pounding so hard I’m sure whoever’s downstairs can hear it. I’m frozen in place and can barely dare to breathe as he reaches into his bedside table and pulls out a gun.

He slides out of bed and pulls his clothes back on, moving with an unnerving calmness as if he’s done this a million times before. I manage to find my voice, barely a whisper. “Why do you have that?”

He answers by pressing his finger to his lips again, then shoots me a look that silently tells me to stop asking questions.

“Stay here. Lock the door,” he whispers. His tone is firm and authoritative, leaving no room for argument.

Without another word, he slips out of the room, moving like a shadow. I’m left standing there, my mind racing a mile a minute.

What the actual fuck is going on?

I do what he says, locking the door behind him, but my pulse is pounding, a mix of fear and confusion taking over.

As time passes, the silence becomes suffocating. My fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, and my brain is spinning out, wondering if I should call the cops, though I don’t know if that would make things worse.

I press my ear against the door, straining to hear something, anything. But there’s nothing. His house is huge, and for all I know, he could be anywhere in it. After a few agonizing seconds, I unlock the door and crack it open, sliding out into the hallway as quietly as I can.

My bare feet move silently down the hall, the tension thick enough to choke me. When I reach the landing, I finally hear voices. Melor’s, and two others. The sound of their conversation makes my stomach twist into knots.

I inch closer, trying to stay hidden, but close enough to hear the exchange. One of the other men’s voices breaks the stillness, sharp and accusing.

‘You killed my brother.’

What? My heart skips a beat. Did he say killed?

Melor’s response is firm and composed. “I’m not a part of that life anymore.”

My mind is racing, trying to make sense of it all. I press myself against the wall, realizing I’ve become involved in something I never expected.

Who the hell is Mellor, and what did I just get myself into?

I creep closer, staying low as the conversation becomes clearer. I can barely breathe as I listen in, trying to make sense of what’s happening downstairs.

‘You killed Dimitri,’ one of the men growls, his voice dripping with anger.

‘Two years ago,” a second voice adds.

There’s a beat of silence before Melor speaks again, the tone of his voice sounding as if he’s not fazed at all.

“I don’t recall this Dimitri you speak of,” he says.

“Don’t recall?” the man replies incredulously. “You kill my goddamn brother, and you don’t even have the fucking respect to remember him?”

“I’ve had a busy career,” Melor says dismissively. “Faces… they have a way of blurring together after a while.”

“You… you’ll fucking pay for this.”

I can almost feel Melor’s apathy, the way he’s so unfazed by the threat hanging in the air. Then, suddenly, I hear grunts as a scuffle breaks out, the unmistakable sound of bodies slamming into walls, fists connecting with flesh. I can hear the heavy thuds of punches and furniture scraping across the floor. It sounds like a full-on brawl is going down.

I’m frozen in place, scared out of my mind but equally terrified for Melor’s safety. The sounds get louder—the grunting, the crashing—until a clicking noise cuts through all of it.

I’m shaking, my hands clammy as I press my body against the wall.

I can’t just sit here and do nothing, I tell myself, my heart hammering in my chest.

I need to call the cops.

I pat my jean pockets and feel nothing.

Shit.

My phone’s in the kitchen. Panic rises but then I remember—Melor left his phone on the table during dinner. I just need to get to it.

The sounds of the fight grow louder—more grunts, more crashing—and I’m terrified that at any second, I’m going to hear a gunshot. I force myself to move through the fear. I have to get to that phone.

I sneak down the stairs as quietly as I can, hoping to stay out of sight. My heart’s racing so fast it feels like it’s going to jump out of my chest. I inch closer to the bottom of the staircase, practically holding my breath.

But just as I reach the last step, a man rushes around the corner, grabbing my arm before I can react. I gasp, my heart dropping into my stomach as his grip tightens. His eyes are dark and furious, and I can feel the danger radiating off him.

Oh, fuck.

Totally by instinct, I pull back my hand and smack the guy hard across the face. The impact surprises both of us, but it’s enough for him to let go of my arm. I don’t think twice—I scramble back up the stairs as fast as I can, heart pounding out of control.

Behind me, I hear him swear in Russian, his voice dripping with rage.

Shit, shit, shit!

I desperately try to make it back to the bedroom, to lock the door and figure out a plan, but he’s too fast. His hand clamps around my ankle, yanking me down the stairs. My body slams against each step, the pain sharp and jarring, knocks the wind out of me. I barely have time to scream before he grabs my arm again, this time so hard it feels like he’s going to rip it right out of the socket.

I cry out, panic flooding my brain. I thrash and kick, trying to fight him off until cold metal presses against my throat.

“Stop,” he growls, his voice rough and menacing. I feel the unmistakable shape of a gun barrel digging into my skin. I stop struggling, my body trembling, breath shallow and quick.

“Little neighbor slut,” he sneers in my ear. My stomach twists in horror—he knows I’m Melor’s neighbor which means he likely knows exactly where I live.

I’m frozen, completely at his mercy and terrified of what’s going to happen next.

“Stop fighting or you are dead,” the man hisses in my ear, his heavy Russian accent making the threat sound even more intimidating. I’m shaking, heart pounding, as I try to stay as still as possible.

Suddenly, a gunshot rings out, sharp and deafening. My blood runs cold.

The man drags me into the kitchen. My feet stumble, and I’m desperately trying to keep my balance as my body tenses with fear. When we enter the kitchen, my eyes go wide—there’s a body on the floor.

But it’s not Melor.

A pool of blood is slowly spreading beneath the man lying motionless on the ground, his lifeless eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. My stomach churns, and I feel like I’m going to be sick. The metallic scent of blood fills the air, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the scene.

“Melor!” the man holding me shouts, his voice frantic now. “I’ve got your little whore. Come out now, or I’ll kill her!”

His grip tightens, his panic practically vibrating off of him. I can tell he’s losing control, and that terrifies me even more. He’s scared and desperate, which means he might actually do something crazy. My chest tightens as I struggle to stay calm, but the fear is overwhelming.

Finally, Melor steps into the room, his presence somehow both calm and sinister. He’s got his gun trained on the man holding me, blocking the only way out.

The man tightens his grip, yanking me closer and pressing the cold barrel of his gun harder into my neck. I wince, crying out as the metal digs into my skin.

“I’ll shoot her,” the man growls, his voice shaking a little now, his panic turning to desperation.

Melor’s eyes narrow, his jaw tight, like a predator sizing up his prey. “Think carefully. You know who I am,” he says. “I may be out of the life but trust me—I won’t forget this.”

The man behind me shifts nervously, the panic rising in his voice. “I’ll kill her, and then you!”

My pulse races and I can barely breathe. Melor doesn’t even flinch. His grip tightens on the gun, and I can see the tension in his muscles as he shifts his weight, like he’s getting ready to move.

Is he going to shoot?

I’m about to find out.