Dark Christmas: Chapter 15

“I need answers.”

We’re back in the house, in bed, adrenaline still buzzing in my veins, and I’m trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

How did I go from fearing for my life to this?

I glance over at him, taking in the sight of his body, sculpted like he was born in a gym, all hard lines and muscle. My mind flashes back to earlier—how calm and collected he was during the home invasion. The man killed someone, and yet he’s acting as if nothing happened.

Who does that? And why am I not running for the hills right now?

He turns his head, eyes catching mine. “What kind of answers are you looking for?”

“You know what kind.”

He nods, ready to drop the real details now, and sits up. I do the same, turning and putting a little space between us so that I can face him directly. After everything he’s already told me, I’m bracing for some next-level shit. I now know that he was in the Bratva, the Russian Mafia. But whatever he’s about to say next feels even heavier.

He takes a deep breath. “My family wasn’t just involved with the Bratva. We ran it. My father and grandfather were leaders. I was born into it. I was supposed to succeed them, to run it one day.”

I blink, trying to wrap my head around what he’s telling me.

“I hated it,” he goes on. “The control, the way they made choices for me. So, I bailed. Got out as soon as I could.”

“That couldn’t have been easy,” I say softly.

“No. It wasn’t. My parents, my grandparents—they’re all dead,” he says, his voice flat. “I don’t have any family left in the U.S. anymore.”

I chew my lip, trying to process it all. “So, you left, just like that?”

He laughs, though it holds no humor. “Not quite. It was more complicated than that. But I’ve had nearly two years of relative peace. I haven’t had to face my past—until tonight.”

“How long do you think I’ll need to stay here? How long until it’s safe for me to go back to my house?”

Melor’s phone buzzes. He glances at it, his jaw tightening. “Hopefully not for too long,” he says as he gets up and pulls on his clothes.

While he buttons his shirt, he glances back at me. “Stay here. Don’t come down until I call for you.”

And just like that, he’s out the door, leaving me alone, brain still reeling from the chaos of the last few hours. I lean back against the pillows and stare up at the ceiling, still trying to process everything.

No way in hell am I sitting around like some damsel in distress. The second Melor’s out the door, I spring out of bed, grabbing my panties off the floor and yanking them on. I rummage through his dresser, finding an oversized shirt and tossing it on. The scent of him hits me, musky and woodsy, and I’m briefly distracted, inhaling deeply before snapping myself out of it.

I hurry to the window that overlooks the front of the house. My eyes widen as I spot three men heading up the steps, each carrying large duffel bags. The cleaners. Great. I’m officially part of a mob screenplay.

As I pull on my jeans, flashes of TV crime shows flood my mind and my stomach twists. They are literally cleaning up a murder scene on the floor below me.

I feel a wave of nausea hit me, and for a second, I think I’m going to hurl. The reality of what I’m mixed up in is a whole lot messier than I thought. This isn’t just some mysterious hot guy with a dangerous past. This is real. And I’m stuck right in the middle of it, with the scent of him still clinging to my skin.

Panic hits me like a freight train.

I crack open the door and listen, the sound of my heart pounding in my ears overshadowing what’s happening downstairs. I hear voices coming from the kitchen and then there’s a grunt, then a loud thud, like something heavy hitting the floor. After that, laughter.

I freeze, horrified. They’re laughing? These guys are cleaning up a murder, and they’re laughing like it’s just another day on the job?

My breath catches in my throat. Is Melor laughing with them? It’s hard to tell.

I lean farther out the door, straining to hear his voice. My mind’s racing, jumping between the image of him calmly killing that guy earlier and the idea of him now chilling—and laughing—with these psychopaths.

I seriously need to get the fuck out of here. No more standing around like an idiot, hoping things just magically work out. I step back into the bedroom and look for my shoes. I slip them on before grabbing my phone and shoving it in the back pocket of my jeans.

I tiptoe down the hall, my nerves on edge, every little creak of the floor making me want to crawl out of my skin. As I sneak toward the stairs, I freeze, hearing a voice getting louder. My stomach drops.

I flatten myself against the wall, heart hammering in my chest, watching the kitchen with absolute dread. I hold completely still like a deer caught in the headlights. I wait, but no one comes out. The voices stay where they are, and I slowly exhale.

So far, so good. Now, I just need to make it to the front door without getting caught.

I creep to the corner and peek around, trying to get a glimpse into the kitchen. Sure enough, there’s a team at work—three rough-looking dudes speaking rapid-fire Russian, with black beanies pulled low, tattoos snaking up their necks and across their hands.

They move with a calm efficiency; clearly, they’ve done this before. One guy’s unrolling a tarp on the floor and smoothing it out like he’s prepping for an art project. Another’s reaching into an open duffel bag, and I catch a glimpse of a hacksaw and some industrial-strength gloves inside.

The lifeless body still lies on the kitchen floor, blood pooled around the head like something straight out of a horror movie. My eyes dart to Melor, who’s standing nearby, not laughing with them, but also not looking one bit fazed. Just… cold.

I tear my eyes away before allowing myself to get sucked into this morbid trainwreck.

Focus, Amelia.

This is not the time to play detective.

I hurry to the front door, thankful that it’s been left open a crack, and slip through. The cool night air hits my face, and I can finally breathe again.

I sprint across the street, my heart feeling like it’s about to explode. Once I reach my house, I slam the door behind me, and collapse onto the couch. The tears hit hard and fast. The reality of all that happened tonight hits me full force, and I’m completely overwhelmed, my emotions all over the place.

I shake my head in an attempt to shove the feelings down deep. I can’t go there, not now.

I rush to the kitchen and pour myself a much-needed glass of wine. I slug it back in one go, the burn settling my nerves just a bit. Now it’s time to think.

Yes, the man that got away knows where I live. But I doubt he will actually be coming back for me. I’m just a side quest. A character with no real stake in the game. I’ll be fine if I just lay low for a bit.

I grab a duffel and start tossing clothes in. I’ll head to Claire’s, hide out for a few days, and figure it all out from there. It wouldn’t make sense for anyone to come after me, to involve more people.

To leave a longer trail of bodies.