Dark Christmas: Chapter 17

Every noise in this damn house sounds like someone creeping up to get me.

I’m in the guest bedroom, lying on my back and staring up at the ceiling, every creak and gust of wind sounds like it’s my final warning.

The events of tonight are playing on repeat in my head like some twisted true crime episode I can’t turn off.

I’m scared.

Are there men out there right now looking for me? Stalking the streets, waiting for the perfect moment to swoop in and do who knows what? Are they watching my house? The thought makes my skin crawl, and no matter how many times I tell myself that Melor’s house is a fortress, that I’m safe here, I can’t shake the anxiety that is gnawing away at me.

I roll over, pulling the covers tightly around me, but sleep will not come. Not tonight. Not with all this uncertainty swirling around in my head.

I can’t just lie here, so I get up and make my way over to one of the windows that overlooks Melor’s garden, where rows of perfectly manicured bushes, flowers that probably cost more than my mortgage, and soft lights cast a ghostly glow over everything.

The second my eyes land on the garden, my mind betrays me. I flash back to the two of us out there earlier, and damn, it hits me like a truck. The way I’d ridden him hard, the rush of power, the heat between us. I close my eyes, letting myself slip back into that moment for just a second, how good it felt, how wild it was.

Before I can get too carried away, I shake my head, snapping back to reality. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with me? Here I am, my life literally on the line, dragged into some insane world I don’t understand, and all I can think about is sex?

I turn back to the room, the silver moonlight spilling across the floor. It’s quiet, too quiet, and all I can hear are my own thoughts spiraling. I’m starting to get it—my life is about to change forever. I can feel it hanging in the air, but it still hasn’t fully sunk in. Maybe it hasn’t hit me yet because it’s just too unreal, like I’m living in someone else’s twisted fantasy.

My thoughts turn to Claire and the bakery. I can’t just disappear and leave her to run everything by herself. She’s seven months pregnant and the holidays are rapidly approaching. I will not abandon her or our dream.

Out of nowhere, fatigue slams into me. I barely make it back to the bed and collapse onto it, too tired to even pull the covers up.

Just like that, sleep takes over.

I wake up feeling like no time has passed.

One second, I’m out cold, and the next, my eyes are wide open, the dim morning light filtering in through the tinted windows. It’s quiet, calm, almost cave-like. I check my phone. It’s nearly 9 a.m., and my stomach growls like it hasn’t been fed in days. I’m starving.

I drag myself out of bed, smoothing down the oversized shirt I slept in, and make my way downstairs. The smell of food cooking hits me before I even reach the kitchen, and it’s heavenly. Bacon, eggs, sausage—the works. My mouth is watering.

Melor’s standing at the stove, cooking like it’s just another Sunday morning, wearing a simple gray t-shirt that hugs his chest and arms, and dark jeans that grip his perfect ass.

He glances over his shoulder as I step into the kitchen. That crooked smile of his makes an appearance, and I feel it right in my chest.

“Morning,” he says, his voice chipper like we didn’t just go through hell a few hours ago.

I blink, momentarily thrown off by how normal this feels, standing here in his house, my stomach rumbling, while the most dangerous man I’ve ever met cooks me breakfast.

I slide into one of the bar chairs, still feeling like I’m in some kind of dream.

“How are you feeling?” he asks as he places a steaming mug of coffee in front of me.

I say nothing at first, my eyes drifting to the spot where the body had been last night. The floor’s spotless, like it never even happened. No blood, no evidence of the horror of just a few hours ago. But I can still feel the weird energy buzzing through the room, reminding me that something dark went down right here.

I sniff, picking up the faint scent of cleaner beneath the mouthwatering smell of bacon and eggs. My stomach churns, caught between hunger and nausea.

Melor catches me looking and walks over, blocking my view with his body. He takes my hand in his, squeezing it gently, and then, without a word, he lifts it to his lips and kisses the back of it.

“You’re safe,” he promises.

I stare at him, relishing the warmth of his touch, but I’m not sure I can believe him, not after what I’ve seen.

“It’s so surreal. There was a dead guy here and now we’re preparing to have breakfast.”

He nods in understanding. “It’s a shock to the system the first time you see something like that.”

Melor squeezes my hand one more time as he gives me that intense look of his before heading back to the stove to finish up breakfast. He sets it in front of me—crispy bacon, perfectly cooked eggs, sausage, and a slice of toast.

He smirks. “Not exactly the fancy baked goods you’re used to, but I like to keep things protein heavy.”

I snicker, grabbing a fork. “Yeah, not all of us are out here building muscle 24/7, Captain Gains.”

He chuckles, and I dig in, realizing I’m way hungrier than I thought. The food tastes as good as it smells, and I devour it like I haven’t eaten in days.

As I shovel in another bite, Melor leans against the counter, arms crossed. “You know,” he says casually, “you’re welcome to sleep in my bed. You don’t have to use the guest room if you don’t want to.”

I pause mid-chew, then swallow slowly, glancing up at him. The way he says it isn’t pushy, but there’s definitely a vibe there. I take a breath, wiping my mouth.

“Thanks, but, uh… I think I’ll stick to the guest room for now.”

He doesn’t argue. “That’s fine, though I hope you’ll change your mind in the next few days. In fact, I’m going to be doing my best to make sure that happens.”

I can’t help but smile a little. “We’ll see,” I reply, amused by how sweet that sounded coming from a guy like him.

I shift in my seat, loving the way Melor is all insistent but still respectful of my boundaries. It’s a delicate balance, and I’ve got to admit, he’s nailing it.

He glances over at me. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah,” I say, thinking back to how hard I crashed. “Considering.” I poke at the last bit of sausage on my plate. “I can’t remember the last time I slept past 8 a.m. Baker’s hours start at the crack of dawn.”

He gives me a small smile. “Sounds rough.”

“Brutal,” I say with a dramatic eye roll. “But, yeah, this is the first time in forever I’ve slept this late.”

I sit back, feeling a little more awake, when it suddenly hits me—I need to call Claire. I open my mouth to bring it up, but before I can even get the words out, Melor says, “You should call her.”

Damn, how does he read my mind like that?

I blink, surprised. “Yeah, I really should.”

“Finish your breakfast first. Get your bearings. You’ve been through a lot.”

I again glance over at the spot where the body was, my eyes lingering on the clean floor. “What’s going to happen to him?”

Melor smirks a little like he’s amused. “Whatever was going to happen already happened.”

“No, I mean the body. What are those guys going to do with it?”

His expression shifts, a little more serious now, but still casual. “You don’t need to worry about that, Amelia.”

I lean forward, not letting it go. “No. I’m a part of this now, right? Your world? I want to know how it works. I’m not going to be some clueless girl sitting in the dark while all this goes down around me.”

He studies me for a second then nods like he respects the pushback.

“Alright,” he says, leaning against the counter again. “There are a few ways they handle something like this. Sometimes they’ll dump the body somewhere remote, burn it, and make sure there’s nothing left to identify. Other times, they’ll bury it deep—far enough out of sight that no one stumbles on it. And then there’s the more creative approaches: acid, industrial tools, weighing it down and dropping it in water.”

I swallow, feeling the weight of every option he’s laid out, each one more horrifying than the last. “Okay, then. Good to know.”

‘These men are pros,’ Melor continues. ‘They’ve probably got a place where they dissolve the body down to nothing, leaving no trace behind.’

I flinch at the thought of a person just vanishing like that, erased from existence.

He catches my reaction, his brow knitting slightly. “Sorry,” he says, a little softer. “Didn’t mean to be so direct.”

“No, that’s what I wanted,” I reply quickly. I asked for the truth, and now I’ve got it. I glance down at my empty plate and mutter, “Glad I ate first, though.”

He chuckles, but it seems forced. “I’m going to do my best to make sure you never see anything like that again. I promise you.”

I look up at him, appreciating the sentiment, but a part of me wonders if he can really pull that off. No amount of promises can wipe that away. Still, I nod and offer a small, “Thanks.”

But my mind doesn’t stay on the violence for long; it drifts right back to Claire. What the hell am I going to tell her? Hey, bestie, don’t freak out, but Mr. Sexy Accountant turned out to be a Russian mobster who killed a dude after we had sex last night. I’m hiding out with him, so you need to cover my shifts, k?

Melor studies me for a second. “What’s on your mind?”

“Claire,” I admit. “I have no idea how I’m going to explain this to her without sounding like a complete maniac.”

He nods, thinking for a moment, then his face brightens with an idea. “Tell her I invited you on a trip for Thanksgiving. something spontaneous, and you said yes.”

I raise an eyebrow. “She’d never buy it. She’s known me since I was a kid. Besides, she knows I’d never leave her during our busiest time of the year for some dude I just met. No offense.”

He chuckles, making that low, rumbling sound that gets under my skin in all the right ways. “None taken.”

I think for another minute, then snap my fingers. “I think I’ve got an idea that would work. There’s a pastry class in LA I’ve been dying to take but they never have openings. I can tell her I got in on a last-minute cancellation.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Melor agrees.

I slip off the stool and call Claire, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue, especially as her excitement grows. “Oh my God, that’s awesome Am! You’ve been wanting to do this for a long time. It’ll help the business for sure.”

Great. I’m going to have to figure out a way to actually step up my skills. “I know it’s coming at the worst time,” I say apologetically.

“Nonsense. I’ll call Susie. She can cover for as long as we need her.”

“You’re the best, Claire,” I tell her, the guilt nearly eating me alive.

“Yeah, I know,” she giggles. “Now go learn some awesome shit.”

We hang up and I walk back into the kitchen, sighing as I put my phone on the counter.

“Everything okay?” Melor asks.

“Yeah. One of our friends from culinary school is going to help out while I’m gone. She helps us from time to time. I just feel so awful lying to my best friend.”

“It’s for the best,” Melor reminds me. “It protects Claire and you to keep her in the dark.”

I nod, knowing he’s right but hate every second of it.

Melor’s eyes flicker with something like another idea sparking. “Come with me,” he says, holding out his hand. “There’s something I want to show you.”